Saturday, March 13th was the culmination of 6 weeks of work with the Swimsuit Contest, I was co-producing. I received a text message from Big Brother urging me to contact him when I received the text. It was  . . . mmmmm . . .  9:30ish . . . BB never texts’ me. I call immediately. He laughs at the quick response then gets down to business. Our Mother is being LifeStar’d to Northwest Heart Hospital Emergency in Amarillo. I am thirteen hours away driving seventy miles per hour. I am told there is nothing I can do until RD (Mother’s husband of twenty years) calls from the hospital. My heart aches at the thought of him being left behind. He is eighty-five years old. Fortunately, I learn later, a concerned neighbor drove him to Amarillo. He is the VFD Chief and heard the call on his scanner. Before I leave for the event, I post “I’ve just learned my Mother was lifeflighted to Northwest Hospital in Amarillo. Please say a prayer,” on Facebook.

While the Harley-Davidson event is swirling around me, I keep checking my phone. I realize it is possible the next time my phone rings I could be told my Mother has died. I cannot concentrate, but duty calls. At 12:51 p.m. I receive a text from Big Brother saying, “Just talked to Mom. She is fine and no pain at all. Will be in hospital a few days for observation.” My brother’s way of getting me through the day. It is not until 8:00 p.m. Saturday night when I finally talk to RD that I find Mother has had a massive heart attack and she is in ICU. I am fortunate my son and his posse are in Corpus Christi for the contest and he props me up. The two of us stay up until 6:00 a.m. Sunday morning drinking beer and talking.

He wakes me Sunday morning and his crew needs to get on the road. I have one of the worst hangovers I have experienced in recent years. I start packing and making plans to head north. It takes me most of the day. I have no idea how long I will be gone and make plans for a friend to get the keys to The Flat. Thank goodness for this foresight. I arrive in Amarillo, having hit snow flurries in Spur, Texas with two pair of flip flops and my rain boots for foot apparel with only a light jacket.

I arrive in Amarillo Monday evening and check-in to the Amarillo Inn/Best Western, get Remy settled in our new digs and head to the hospital. Mom is receiving the first of three pints of blood. She looks fragile and has dark red circles around her eyes. She looks tired, but she is smiling. Bob looks exhausted. I have not slept in three days. I am running on pure adrenaline. I practically crawl into the bed with her. There are tubes running everywhere and I am afraid I will hurt her. She has a horrible hematoma on the top of her right hand running up to the elbow. It is ghastly looking.  

Then she shows me the cath site where they entered her body to place the stent in her left ventricle. This feels like a bad horror film.  The cath site bruise extends from her right hip bone across her pubic bone down her right thigh to the knee. This is where the blood is pooling, and why she needed three pints of blood. I think of lividity in a dead person. Tears well in my eyes. How can this be happening.

Tell Me About It . . .

Mom looks terrible. She has round, red circles around her eyes, she has tubes everywhere . . . and bruises. Horrible bruises. In this moment, I am so happy to see her, I cannot register what all of this means. She is in ICU, yet I walked right into her room. Through tears and laughter, I ask, “Mom, what happened?” She tells me, “We got up to pee around 8:00 o’clock and I decided to go back to bed for awhile.” She stumbles on the way back to bed and RD helps her. She considers taking a baby aspirin and goes back to the bathroom on her own. When she gets back into bed RD asks, “Can I do anything? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Mom responds, “I think you better call the ambulance.” She is experiencing a feeling of a million tiny needles in a circular area below her left shoulder blade and both shoulders ache. She feels as if she cannot move, yet she can. She is coherent. She is processing.

Les Leach, veteran Paramedic from Miami (pronounced My-am-ah) Texas, and twenty-four year-old Matt, are the First Responders. By the time they have her in the ambulance, performing the fourth EKG, Les makes the call to LifeStar, the emergency helicopter for the High Plains. Mom will not make it to Amarillo via I40. I learn three weeks later, LifeStar is already in flight to Shamrock for a burn victim and he is deemed less critical. LifeStar is diverted to the Mobeetie Road Side Park/Texas Historical Marker for Fort Elliott.  Welcome to the Panhandle . . . 

Mom is conscience the entire flight. She remembers being confused and having a difficult time remembering answers to basic questions. I am crying again. She is alive. I touch her again, kiss her forehead. I finally acknowledge RD. I give him a long hug. He seems frail. Fraught. I tell him everything will be okay. We talk about my trip, the price of gas . . . I cannot take my eyes off of Mom. I walk back to the bed. “Why are you so bruised?” I ask. Her right arm from her wrist to the elbow is purple. I wish my huge veins into her tiny body. She tells me her hip is bruised. I lift her gown and try not to gasp. From her right buttock across her pubic bone down through her labia and further still towards her right knee cap all I can see is bruising; purple, blue, green, yellow, dark, ugly bruising. There is a lump the size of two fingers running along her pubic/hip bone. This is the Angio-Seal site and it is larger than it should be. You can barely see the catheter site incision. I want pictures but now is not the time.

What do I think . . . ?

Les’s call to LifeStar sets in motion events which lead to Belgium born Dr. Marc Moreau waiting in an operating room at Northwest Heart Hospital in Amarillo. His team immediately inserts the cath, injects dye, discovers full blockage in her left ventricle and insert a stent. Mom cannot say the word “stent”; she says, “ . . . flint. No, that’s not right.” I tell her, “stent.” “Yes, yes,” she says; flustered. Mom is diagnosed with a Non-ST Elevation MI with 70% damage to her anterior wall. She has been in ICU for three full days. Orders are issued to remove her oxygen tubes. Her upper lip looks raw at the tube sites and she wishes for softer Kleenex rather than the cardboard-like product Georgia-Pacific sells in large quantities to hospitals everywhere. The nurse comes in to check the last pint of blood. I ask Mom if she had seen the doctor today. She tells me, “no.” Dr. Cardio shows up around 7:30 p.m. He says hello to each of us, shaking our hands in turn. Mother tells him who I am and where I have driven from. He asks me what I think. I am taken aback. He is asking me what I think. I want to tell him I have an English Degree, he is the Cardio Doctor. I quickly realize he is asking how she appears to me. I tell him she is floundering for words, something she has done for the past two years, perhaps longer, but it is worse. Other than this, I tell him, “to look at her, I would not know she had a massive heart attack three days ago. Dr. Cardio orders a Brain Scan in the morning to rule out the possibility of a stroke. He thinks the cognitive issues revolve around the blood pooling at the cath site and hopes to see improvement as the three pints of blood re-oxygenate her brain. He decides to consult with an Electro physiologist, Dr. Desai. Dr. Cardio appears to not be concerned, he wishes us a good evening, shaking each of our hands, telling us goodbye. I think of a thousand questions after he leaves.

I received an email from Holly Hoffman, WorkLoveLife, requesting a call for posts on Mentors. The deadline is today. I’m suffering from a sad heart today and not motivated to do much of anything except the necessities . . . pee, make coffee, walk Remy, feed us both. For a while this morning I wasted time with the mindless game of Solitaire, which I discovered, can make an hour disappear. Who knew? I remember a post I had started last week as a result of a long email to a friend and wanted to get it posted today. While I was finishing it and pressing the Publish button I realized I had another Post to work on (reason for my sad heart) and then I remembered Holly’s email. I swear, for every two steps I have taken forward in the past two years, there has been one GIANT step backwards. Right now, I am just trying to NOT crawl back under the covers. So I keep typing . . . . no doubt you are wondering what this has to do with Mentors per se and I think what is happening, in this moment, and most of yesterday, is I am mentoring myself through this break-up. Is this possible? I do not see a reason why not. I have certainly had my fair share of failed romances and broken hearts so why can I not drawn upon the wisdom of my past to help me with my future? I am sure I will think of a good reason why I should not be my own doctor before I finish this, but right now I am thinking I am a genius. And on top of all of this fluff, when I first read Holly’s email, I thought about my favorite education mentor, whom I lost touch with after we moved to Corpus Christi. I found her a week ago and a draft email waits to be finished.

In her email, Holly asks, “So, who are your mentors? What do you do when you outgrow a mentor? How do you find your mentors? What value is there in having a mentor? Do any of you think having a mentor is pointless? Are you a mentor to someone else?”

I am so muddled of mind right now, there are too many choices from which to jump off, and with each of her questions, I mentally add, “he dumped me.” I am telling myself to get over it, but it is fresh, too fresh, and I am so tenderhearted, so imaginative, too fragile, too in need to feel any feelings whatsoever that I cannot walk past this experience. I remind myself that this is about him, not me.

Oh, but this is about me. . . and mentors. And I cannot focus. I pick the black ball off the candle wick. I notice the time—12:03 p.m.—and think, “lunch.” I never eat lunch this early, but off to the kitchen I go thinking about my first mentor. Fifteen years ago I called her, “Sister” and today I call her, “Sister Friend.” I have known her since I was nineteen years old. She showed me the value of female friendships, she introduced me to in-your-face confrontation when my behavior disappointed her, she taught me to embrace my Native American roots and the pull I have always felt towards this culture, she taught me to embrace my authentic self when it came to spirituality, and she is now teaching me about being apart of something bigger than ourselves and owning my Pagan nature through her thoughtful creation honoring the 13 Moons of 2010.  Mary Mother of Jesus . . . I am like one of those facets of light in a crystal bouncing all over the wall. I am finding this reflection uncomfortable. I remember I taped the closing ceremonies of the Olympics and turn on the television. Now, it’s getting warm in The Flat and I need to open windows, is there time to smoke a cigarette before my early lunch has warmed up? Focus, Carol . . . you need to focus. This mentoring friendship came to an abrupt halt in the late 90’s when her behavior made me uncomfortable and I allowed ex#2 to add fuel to the fire and we stopped talking for over a decade. This lesson, while perhaps reeking of cliché, is, “Men come and go, Sisters are forever.” I am so fortunate we have found our way back to each other, and I no longer consider her my mentor. She is my sister friend and we are equals.

The next mentor that comes to mind is my college freshman and sophomore English Professor. It is because of her I have the confidence to write, and it is also because of her that I edit my work to the degree it takes me weeks to publish something that may have taken me two hours to write. I am excited I found her through Google and only wish her email was not sitting in my draft folder and I could report on our reunion. I wonder how she will feel towards my honoring her with mentor status?

As to people I have mentored, I look to the time I tutored English at my alma mater; five-paragraph papers, grammar, punctuation, understanding Shakespeare and all around general cheerleading. I loved seeing the light bulb go on when students would grasp a concept. I cherish these memories when they would return with a passing grade on the assignments and their acknowledgement of my support; sometimes chocolate, sometimes a thoughtful card. It was always my pleasure. This type of mentoring, unless you are a hardened soul, is hard, because you develop relationships and then the students move on and you have to say goodbye, good luck, Gawd Bless. And then a new semester starts and new students come seeking your advice and council and the cycle begins anew.

As to finding our mentors, I think this is a lot like love. They (it) presents themselves (itself) to you when you are in need OR, bigger than this, when we think we DON’T need a mentor (love).  Considering the past two days I have had, I am thinking my door bell or my phone should be ringing any minute now.

Author’s note: This is the first time I have written a blog and posted it the same day. It might not sound like a big deal to you, but it is huge in my world.

Monday night ~
Jilly calls me Sunday evening and invites me to dinner Monday night, and if the weather holds, we will run the dawgs. We head to Oso Bay around 6:30 p.m.  with wine, cell phones, a flash light and a 4 wheel drive Dodge Ram pickup truck with a Hemi. The City of Corpus Christi is building a new nature walk and the initial infrastructure makes for a great place to walk, and when appropriate, unleash the dawgs. We are 3/4′s of a mile into our walk and I see Remy 50 feet in front of us, rolling, thrashing really. It’s dusk and while we can still see well, shapes on the ground are just that. I shine my flashlight. I think it’s an empty bag of fertilizer. Jilly notices Jaws rolling on the opposite side of the path. Jaws has an interesting way of mimicking Remy, and, thankfully, halfheartedly. It’s another bag. I kick (BIG MISTAKE) the bag Remy rolled in and we see fish carcasses. There are more bags that we can see. Bastards. By now, I am gagging and crossing my legs trying not to pee with each gag reflex. Remy and Jaws are in stink heaven. Did I mention the temp is dropping and the wind is howling and I don’t have gloves or a hat (and thank Gawd, ’cause they would have been stinky, too)? As this is all happening, I notice a car off the trail and suggest we head back. It’s not flashlight time, but getting there. The dawgs are running around us, literally "stinking to high heaven." I’m gagging, which I normally DO NOT do. I can take blood, guts, vomit … whatever. I’m a Mother. I quickly make the decision that Remy will ride home in the back. Jaws is not trained for this and has to load up in the back seat. We roll the windows down. I’m grateful I poured us to-go glasses of wine. I light a cigarette.
We pull in the drive and Remy spots a cat. She minds and waits until I get the leash on and let the tailgate down, but when I do this, she freaks on the cat and I slosh wine all over the left side of my jacket.  Great. Off we go to the greenhouse for baths. I end up bathing Remy three times. We hose the wine off my fleece jacket and throw it in the washing machine.  <I am shaking my head and laughing at the memory> The smell is awful. When we get the two of them bathed, Rogelio pours us more wine and we go to the patio to smoke. I still smell the stink. Jilly thinks it’s in my nose . . . and then I smell my nylon jacket sleeve and almost puke! It’s on my jacket. It comes off and goes in the wash. I’m back on the patio. I still smell dead fish. I smell the leg of my yoga pants – contaminated, those come off very quickly . . . shoes and socks still on. I take off my shoes and socks while Jill gets me pants to put on. Then I smell my socks. Then shoes. All contaminated. By now, I am down to my panties, bra and shirt and we are laughing so hard. I am exhausted with laughter.
We eat dinner, watch a little of the Olympics and Remy comes up to touch base and I smell dead fish. I start sniffing. It’s her collar. And because I did not wash her collar, her neck needs to be washed again, so back out to the greenhouse we go. She is tail tucked and not happy. As I’m washing her and the collar, I realize her leash probably stinks too (it does) and wash it, as well. The last of the wine is poured, most of my clothes and tennis shoes are in the dryer by now and the dawgs are all laying in front of the fireplace . . . being dawgs.
It was one of those excellent drawn out comedies, and while the intent was to simply run the dawgs and have a  meal, which was delicious BTW, we will talk about this dawg run for months to come. Remy is blissfully snoring on the sofa as I type this.
Ahhhhhh . . . it is so rewarding to have a dawg daughter who achieves her ecstasy by thrashing about in ripe death. Bonus is all the clothes I was wearing needed washing and Remy needed a bath.  

Author’s Note: This short story started out as an email to a friend in Iowa who, apparently found it so deliciously funny (especially the part where I’m gagging and trying not to pee) he read it numerous times. His response was, “You have got to put this story somewhere. This is one of the funniest stories I have read in a long long time. I have read it three times and I still laugh when I read it.”

The first winker caught my eye. I looked at his profile and he had all the information filled out. He likes fishing, outdoor adventures, dancing, he is very tall and a retired professional cowboy. Oh my. Now, when you read that “Oh my” to yourself, I want you to say it like Susan Sarandon says it to Kevin Costner in Bull Durham, after he tells her,

“Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.”

Each day brings new winks, and with each wink I check out their profile, wink back or respond kindly with a yeah or nay. In these few short weeks, I have come to realize there are some messed up men out there, which begs the question, “what kind of messed up women raised these types of men”? The men that do not post pictures get little enthusiasm or consideration from me. Not that I am a “looks” gal, it makes me feel safer. The ones with profile characteristic 180 degrees from mine make me wonder why they wink. I specifically state I am looking for someone in the Corpus Christi area, but guys are winking from New York, Dallas, Houston, East Texas, West Texas, Indiana, Oklahoma and then there is this cowboy, who is daily writing me a little note, answering the questions I ask in a thoughtful, endearing way.

He tells me it is harvest time and his profession is 24/7 until the last grain has left the Port of Corpus Christi, but he has taken the time to be honest about his life and his desires. Very little bullshit. He lists his politics as Conservative, and I am arrogant enough, in the beginning, to suggest he is throwing darts. He reassures me.

“not throwing darts, I saw your profile, you were close and I wanted to know more. You didn’t really state much, didn’t know what you were lookin for….”

I immediately update my profile. This is serious. I have posted myself, with pictures, to an on-line dating web site! I consider removing some of the pictures.

I receive a message from one guy that starts out, “Hey, Sexy”. I check his profile. Not bad. I respond in a casual manner. His next message was a novel/confession and contained way too much information. The last I heard from him he wanted me to do something with my spam filter and was heading north to take care of some real estate. I delete him.

Then I had a wink from a guy that I had previously checked out, but when I read he has two large female dogs, I pass on him. Remy is the alpha queen bitch, no way she can deal with two “friendly and balanced” dogs. When he winks at me a few days later, I respond with the mentioned reason for passing. He responds he is a dog whisperer of sorts and would like to meet Remy. Leave it to me to go on a dating site and get a hookup for my dog. He gave me his phone numbers, but I think that message was deleted during my massive purge yesterday morning.

And the Cowboy Gets More Interesting

He says in his profile he is a “cowboy type”. I tell him I was raised by a cowboy “type” and want his view of what that statement means. This is what he writes to me.

“I call myself a Cowboy type, because that’s me. I used to be a Cowboy for a living, dressing nice to me is a . . . pair of Wranglers, a nice western shirt, and of course my hat. I don’t wear my spurs . . . since I don’t ride any more. I was raised Cowboy, and Cowboy I will remain till I die. It’s an attitude, a language of its own, we have a lot of stubborn pride, will fight for what we believe in, a little hard headed, but hearts, and smiles, as big as Texas. A Cowboy is not comfortable in fancy social settings, would rather be outdoors, doesn’t care for fluffy stuff, would rather have a cup of black coffee, bacon and eggs, than French toast and juice. Yes there are bad cowboys, just as there are bad people of any kind, but I like to think I’m not one of them.”

He totally has my attention. Spurs? Oh my. We start making plans to meet, but he is in full blown harvest and I am leaving town for a four day weekend. He keeps sending notes and making me laugh and I start wondering what his laugh sounds like. I send a message and tell him I will be passing within two miles of him on my road trip. Thursday is out, but Sunday starts looking good by Saturday night. Messages are flying back and forth from Washington County to Victoria County, into the early morning hours. By Sunday morning, the Cowboy has given me his cell phone number, and I am seriously considering breaking the number one dating rule for on-line daters: Meet in a public place. I have not placed much faith in my instincts and character judgments of late, but we have been chatting for two weeks. I am not sure why, but I am trusting my instincts. I feel good about this guy. He is a pure Texas Cowboy Big Rig Truck Driver, something I put stock in.  Someone my daddy would respect. A man that would not sound ridiculous saying, “Ah shucks, ma’am”.

To Google or Not to Google

Did I Google him? Briefly. Do I feel guilty? No. I simply check his name and location information. I stop there. A friend from Washington County emails me wanting to know his name. A co-worker’s daughter from Sinton once worked on the ranch where he lives. She wants to see if she can get any dish on him. I confirm the information he has given me and get the hell out of there. Not because I am not interested, but realize it can lead to obsessive behavior, and besides, I would rather learn his story from him, and maybe my girlfriends, not the internet.

As I near Victoria County Sunday afternoon, I realize I will be arriving at his home near supper time and it is now or never if I am going to, with a warning phone call, give him his requested time to jump in the shower. I take four full, deep breathes. Exhale. Tell Remy we are going to make a pit stop, then dial. He says, “hello”. Deep voice, slow drawl. I tell him I am coming and my thoughts on eating. He says he has the fixings for spaghetti. I tell him I will pick up the beer. My heart is pounding and I have to keep reminding myself to breathe. He assures me I will be safe.

I freshen up; chewing gum, some Gap Rain Check  spray mist, lip gloss and, “Oh, shit! We’re here!”. As Remy and I turn on the Farm to Market Road, life slows down. This is familiar territory. I am very comfortable on the back roads of Texas. I begin to pray I am not leading myself into slaughter. I see the grain silos up ahead and I pull into his circle drive. Four more deep breathes. A little rough on the outside, but nothing that would make me run. His rig is there, his pickup truck, his play truck on a trailer, which he uses to drive at speeds in excess of 70 mph and “trade paint” with other drivers, for fun.

Behind his home are Coastal Bend scrubland woods. He has told me of the deer, wild hogs, a panther and other mysteries that leave behind large tracks in the sand.. Remy leashes up and we get her pee break taken care of and before I know it, I am knocking on his front door. I am fearless. I am in my warrior stance and prepared to run should he have a rag of chloroform in his hand. A giant man opens the door. A giant man with a nice, friendly smile. We check each other out – I get nervous. This is up close. Is he disappointed? Am I? He invites me in and apologizes for the heat. His A/C is not keeping up with demand, but I am not judging. It is all good. He offers me a beer while he finishes cooking dinner. We laugh. I realize I am not prepared for Remy’s dinner and he makes her a fried hamburger patty, crumbled. I am impressed. Remy is in heaven. We take Remy for a walk in the woods, I meet a few of his neighbors and before I know it, it is time for me to go home.

I have plans to go to Port Aransas two days after returning from Washington County and we text the entire time I am there. He delights me with his Dirty Pirate speak:

“Would you shiver me timber and surrender your booty?”

and

“A warning to all ye wretched inhabitants of Port A. I shall be coming ashore soon. I will take no prisoners and leave no wench unmolested.”

I text back, “For real?”

He texts back, “I wish.”

We have our first date “date” Friday night at one of my favorite Corpus Christi on-the-bay restaurants and a great band is playing. He mentions our late into-the-night phone conversation from the previous night and I blush. I have a wonderful time. I think he enjoyed himself, too. He sure kissed me goodnight like he enjoyed himself.

The Dangerous Guy

And then there is the guy I blocked from my profile this morning who accused me of being “a bitter old woman” and using on-line dating sites to “boost” my “ego”. Actually, he accuses every woman, not just me. He complains no one ever responds to his winks or messages. I visualize the toxic waste he is dumping on me. I decide I will tell him I have not had time to respond to his first message and was considering chatting with him, until I got the second message, which raised the hair on the back of my neck. I wished him luck with his search for love, and suggest we are not a match.  His response hurts me at first, and then I recognize my feelings. Husband #2 . Classic passive/aggressive behavior. Not my first rodeo with that personality.  I delete him. Then I call the Cowboy.

I am not sure if this on-line dating service is for me. I feel compelled to respond to each man that takes the time to show interest, but it can be overwhelming. I may be too empathetic in nature to be a good on-line dater. I will admit I was initially flattered by all the winks and messages, but most of the men on this site are not my type. This morning I updated my profile striving to be as clear as possible. I guess I will give it a few more weeks. Meanwhile, I will look forward to my next date with the Cowboy, who can talk like a Dirty Pirate and has shown interest in taking me fishing this Fall when it cools off and we finally get some rain down here at the edge of the universe.

As I move my car to the edge of the road, I am dialing 911. People in the cars behind me are stopping to ask if I am calling the police – “Yes”, I answer. As the 911 dispatcher is answering, I see an elderly woman hurrying down the street towards the boy and she is trying to get him to come with her. I tell the dispatcher what I am seeing and explain that I am witnessing a young boy trying desperately to do himself harm. My heart is pounding. All it is going to take is one person in a vehicle driving towards the ferry not paying attention and this child is going to purposefully hurt himself. I am determined to prevent this.

As the dispatcher assures me he will report the call, the older woman has the boy cornered in a driveway and an older man is quickly walking in their direction. I leave my car running (Remy is with me) and cross the street. The young boy makes a break for it and the older man grabs him. As I get near the three of them, the young boy sees me and begins screaming at the top of his lungs, “someone help me, someone help me”. As he is struggling against the mans grasp, they fall to the ground and the man lands on top of him. As he rises, he places his knee in the boys back and pulls his arms behind him. I can tell it hurts and I also see he is in a sticker patch. When I finally get to them, I tell the young boy to please stop struggling, to sit down, I have called the police, they are on their way. If he will just sit down, calm down, take some deep breathes. When I have his full attention, I tell him I will not leave him. I will stay until the police arrive. The man and woman are not explaining to me why they are doing this and I am not asking. I am focused on the boy. The man is telling the boy he is not going to let go. I am so calm I am beginning to wonder what kind of Goddess is channeling through me.

I am looking up and down the street to flag down the responding officer and I see a contractor from one of the condos who has come to investigate and he kindly agrees to move my car from the other side of the road to a driveway. I explain I have given my word to this young boy that I am staying until the police arrive and if I get in my car he may fill like I am abandoning him.

I finally see a Constable car. He pulls into the Dairy Queen, gets out of his car, and goes in. I am not sure who is going to respond to the call or if anyone will.

A woman (the mother?) and young girl show up. The woman is pissed and telling the boy how embarrassed she is that he is doing this. She is his mother. The older woman tells Brian’s mother I have called the police. She glares at me. She tells me they are leaving. She asks me if I am going to stop them. I tell her what I told Brian. I am not leaving him until the police come. Period. She tells the older woman I cannot stop them. The mother is talking to Brian again, saying, “we’ve been having a good time, right. Why would you do this? What is wrong with you?” She is not mothering him. She is berating him. She is standing in front of him three feet away. The older man is still holding him on the ground. I look towards the Dairy Queen and the Constable is getting in his car. As he approaches Cotter, I realize he has not seen us, he is turning away from us. I wave my hand in the air and he sees me. This is almost over. A total of 15 minutes has passed. It is very hot and I feel like everything is in slow motion. The Constable pulls up in front of us. I step to the side. He asks Brian if he is okay, but before he can answer, his mother starts talking. I step further away. I want to hear what Brian has to say, but realize no one, including the Constable, is going to let him speak. The Constable seems satisfied that everything is okay. He does not seek me out as an eyewitness. He does not ask for any type of identification. He gets back in his car and drives off. While he is talking to the Mother, the older woman has walked back to the restaurant to get their vehicle. She pulls up next to me. She walks around her suburban to where I am standing. She is very upset and begins telling me Brian has been like this since he was a baby. They have had to put special locks on doors, she is crying. I hug her. Then I see Brian and he is walking towards me, saying, “I’m sorry.” I open my arms and he comes close to me. He lets me hug him and I quietly tell him how much he scared me. I tell him life is hard, but never so hard that we have to harm ourselves. He tells me again he is sorry and he thanks me for caring for him. As he pulls away from my embrace, I place my cupped palm on his chubby, tear-stained, right cheek, make sure he is listening and making eye contact, and then I ask him to “please do great things with your life. I can see you are special and I do care. Know that, Brian. I care.” And then he is gone and I drive to Casa Azul and mix a pitcher of Mango Margaritas. 

I had the brilliant idea while visiting friends in Nacogdoches during the Christmas 2004 holiday season. It was the perfect storm – Pat, a tattoo artist and friend, was available, alcohol was freely flowing, as it always seems to do in Nacogdoches, and ex #2’s birthday was looming. It was a spur of the moment decision, not a lot of thought behind it, just a blind pursuit to prove my love, permanently. In hindsight, I suppose my thought was I would be with this man for the rest of my life so what would be the harm in PERMANENTLY inking his name on my right hip. Never say never or forever and ever.

What man in his right mind would not love to be honored in this fashion? This was my declaration of undying love, but thinking back on the actually “unveiling” there was a lack of enthusiasm. Where I thought there would be applause and cheers, this small piece of ink art was coolly received. And since there was no pre-planning involved, I had a lot of ink transfer to my white panties – warning: if you are planning a tattoo stupid, wear loose clothing and be prepared to go naked for at least twelve hours after if the art is in an area where clothing will rub and irritate.

As I have continued to emotionally process the divorce – the move to The Flat, photographs for the last fifteen years, the memory boxes, and on and on and on – the last item to deal with was the tattoo. The tattoo was draining my energy. It had an “ownership” attached to it. Duh. It was time, well past time, to proactively address the ink and potential possibilities for modifying.

I started talking to tatted friends and acquaintances and Axis Tattoo in downtown Corpus Christi received the most thumbs up and last Wednesday evening, my neighbor, Richard, acting as my body guard, took me downtown to discuss the possibilities for tattoo stupid. I met with Joseph, a tall drink of water tattoo artist that seemed cool, confident, and had a pretty laid back attitude about the whole affair. After staring at my ass for twenty minutes, he made several suggestions and we made arrangements to meet again at 5:00 o’clock Saturday, July 4th. This would be my personal Independence Day.

OUCH!

It took Joseph less than thirty minutes to modify the original tattoo. And it hurt like hell. It truly felt like he was cutting the damn thing off of my skin, and it also felt like it was going to be twice the size of the original. Funny how our imagination runs away when we are in the dark. I could feel him drawing on my skin and when he finally offered me the mirror to approve the changes, I felt let down. Not because it was less than I expected, but because it felt like more when I could not see it. Seeing the changes in the mirror made me realize how simple this process would be. I nodded my head and said, “go for it.” Then I felt the first stab of pain, started panting like I was in labor, and wondered where I could get some lidocaine. I told Joseph I did not remember it hurting so badly when I initially got the tattoo – oh, yeah, I was stinking drunk, which obviously dulled the pain, and he tells me this area of the body is very delicate. No shit!

Last night while attending a 4th of July bar-be-que I went commando. It took me a while to find something to wear that did not irritate the area and this morning it is still a little tender and I have my shorts rolled down so nothing touches it. It was worth the pain, though. It is my tattoo now – there will always be the memory of it origin and the reason behind it, but now it belongs to me. And I thank Joseph for his understanding and talent. He took a tattoo stupid and gave me a piece of body art I do not have to explain should I get caught in the future with my pants down. Independence Day 2009!

If anything weird should happen, today (7/02/09) I have been having pulsing pain around my right ear. Not like a headache or allergy/sinus. It is intermittent, not constant, and has grown worse as the day has passed. It makes me wince and the area of pain seems to be growing larger, surrounding the right ear area.

I am not trying to be dramatic. I am thinking about Eugene Satani. I did not know him in person and only have second hand knowledge, but I did live, for a time, in the house where he died. My understanding is that Mr. Satani was a violinist for the Houston Symphony Orchestra in the 1980′s. I do not know if he was still performing when he died, but what I do know is the morning after moving in, my grandfather’s fiddle, which was packed in a box in its case, was laying on the dining room table. I questioned everyone involved in the move and no one owned the "joke". My son was old enough for a prank of this magnitude, but he was freaked out. I, on the other hand, was fascinated. Was his ghost lingering? I put the fiddle back in the case and never had anything of the sort happen again in the two years we lived in this home. I did, on occasion, pour an extra glass of wine and leave it for him, more in tribute rather than a serious feeling of him lurking.
So why am I telling you about Mr. Satani? He died alone, in the upstairs bath tub, and was not found for several days. He had a dog. The dog got hungry. Need I say more?
So while this pain in my head is growing worse, I wrote my note and then sat down for a serious conversation with dawg-daughter, Remy. In all seriousness, I asked her to please not eat me if I die in The Flat. We went over how to open her food container and, in this instance only, she has my dying permission to stand at the dining room window and raise holy hell.
I finally ended up taking four Advil and by the time I went to sleep last night, the pain had subsided, but as I sit here typing, I have noticed its return. Very mild, but still a painful pulse that concerns me enough to make note of it should anything occur.
It makes me realize, while there are many advantages, there are certain hazards to living alone and I need a plan.

In defense of my Dawg Daughter, Remy DuBois, she had a tragic beginning. Having made this statement, I am going to reveal one of her disgusting habits. Drum roll, please . . . . . . . . she will eat (almost) anything. She will NOT eat her own, or other dog, poop, and she will NOT eat anything dead unless it reeks to high heaven. Having said this, let us reflect on our Monday morning walk at Cole Park.

One of the things I love about The Flat’s location is its’ proximity to the park. Cole Park is one of the nicest outdoor venues in Corpus Christi hosting an amphitheatre where during the summer we enjoy live music on Thursday nights and movies on Friday’s. There is a skate park, a playground, a fishing pier, picnic tables, bar-be-que pits, wide sidewalks to cycle or roller skate, or walk the dog, and best of all, Corpus Christ Bay. On those rare, crystal, “Sparkling City By The Sea” days, you can see Sandpiper and Seagull Condominiums on Mustang Island. The only danger in this adventure involves crossing Ocean Drive.

Remy and I do not walk there every day and, in her mind, it is a special occasion when she chooses that direction and I relent. During the summer, transients sleep in the park and if it is early, I would rather avoid the opportunity to rouse these non-tax payers and let them know the police are on the way. Officer Ed checks most mornings around 7:30 a.m. But Monday morning, the day after Father’s Day, we headed to the park with a spring in our step and looking forward to starting our day on the bay. Yeah, right. Our walk turned in to a mine field of chicken and rib bones, I kid you not. Everywhere, every foot, every turn, another bone.

Since moving, Remy has become accustom to the leash and when she is about to eat something foul, and if I am paying absolute attention and catch her in time (she is sneaky, sneaky, sneaky), I give her leash a little jerk and try to move her on. This maneuver in not always successful, but more often effective than not. Our walk through the park was miserable. She so desperately wanted to clean up this Father’s Day mess and I knew she, and I, would pay in bowel movements to come if she had her way. Which begs the question, what is wrong with these people that are bringing food to the park and tossing it on the grass? There are trash bins everywhere. Everywhere! As Remy is choking down a chicken bone, I wonder who these citizens are. What do they think will happen to these scattered bones. Are they not aware we have a possum and raccoon problem along the bay and this will only encourage their attendance to the after party.  I am also wondering what I will do if she begins to choke on one of these bones. I am not squeamish and would not have a problem sticking my fingers down her throat in hopes of dislodging the bone, but if I had to pick her up, all 67 lbs. of sinewy muscle, and run to the house, crossing Ocean, to get her to the vet – let us pray this never happens. I will figure out a way to get your salvia from these bones and  . . . . . well, I guess I cannot print what I would want to do.

Bottom line is this: I pick up my dogs’ poop; my dog, my poop, pack out what you pack in. Come on citizens of Corpus Christi – please, stop trashing our park. It feels like you are coming into my backyard and disrespecting me, and you are littering and endangering my beloved family pet.  It will make Remy’s life less stressful, and as she ages, she deserves a stress free environment, and it is the right thing to do. 

This morning when I checked to see if my Request for Payment through the Texas Workforce Commission had been deposited to my debit card, I did some quick calculations on my remaining funds and I must find work and quickly.  President Obama, of you read this, if this post ends up in your Purple folder – could we discuss the aspect of extending my benefits due to the shell shock of the lay off and my depression. It has taken me a while to mentally and emotionally hitch my britches up. Like hundreds of thousands of my fellow Americans, I was not prepared to lose my job. I came out of an unwanted divorce the end of last July with a dog, furniture and a pickup truck. If not for my family, I am not sure where we would be right now and it is getting to the point of eyeing some of my treasures and wondering what they will fetch on eBay.

I know I need to revisit my local Workforce Solutions Center, but since the "registering for school" debacle, I have been very resistant. I know, you are thinking, "what ‘registering for school’ debacle”, right? I have been holding on to this story for way too long. Live and learn.

One of the requirements upon signing up for unemployment (this may only apply to Texas unemployment – not sure) you must attend an orientation at the "Solutions" center, which I dutifully did. During this orientation, the Workforce Investment Act (WIA) was presented and I fell under the "Dislocated Worker" category and, from all the information gleaned from the orientation, eligible for funding to return to school.

I must say, at some point, how dismayed I was when the presenter, who would become my counselor, took a personal cell phone call smack dab in the middle of the presentation to discuss lunch with his wife. There was a room full of the unemployed hanging on his every word and he takes a personal telephone call. He did it again during one of our one-on-one sessions – same scenario, his wife calling about his lunch. Cell phones in a professional setting are rude. Just plain rude. There is nothing more important during these meetings than ME, or YOU! Certainly not him! He has a job. A government funded position. My taxes . . . . blah, blah, blah.

After the orientation and filled with optimism, I began the process of getting my transcripts sent to Del Mar College, visiting the campus and talking with a counselor, checking career options, applying for the Pell Grant (denied, BTW), and, finally, selecting the "approved" RN program. While my background reflects nothing of this career choice, (I had dreams of a Ph.D. in Anthropology a few short years ago.) it is a two year program which I would graduate from with a nursing degree and some job and pay security, and I have an empathic nature which would lend itself to this profession.

The entire time I was working through this process – it took one month from the time of orientation to getting my acceptance letter from Del Mar College – Workforce Solutions piecemealed the process as if I could not grasp the whole concept or guidelines for the program. Well, guess what? They, or more specifically, he (my hold-all-the-strings counselor), could not grasp the process and communicate ALL the requirements in a thoughtful, intelligent manner. After being subjected to what amounted to eighth grade equivalence testing – DID YOU LOOK AT MY RESUME???? – getting my Letter of Acceptance from Del Mar, contacting the employer who laid me off and requesting a letter, addressed to me, stating the date and reason for my unemployment (this was an odd request and never explained to my satisfaction), locating my original birth certificate, my social security card, and a signed Degree Plan from the Department Chair, I was finally eligible to request my meeting with the "committee". I have no idea who this committee is, but they are apparently purse strings holders for the Nueces County WIA funding.

Finally, the call came and I was in queue for my committee meeting. I put on my business clothes and my game face and organized my folder with all the paperwork required prior to the committee meeting. I was very excited. Well, I did not even get past my counselor. First, he could not locate my application paperwork I had dropped off at the front desk the previous Thursday and suggested I fill it out again. Are you kidding me, I am thinking. It is a six page document requiring detailed monthly expenses, names, addresses, telephone numbers – none of which I had with me. It is minutes before my appointment and he is telling me that unless I have been accepted into the RN program, I cannot have my committee meeting. WHAT? This man knew from the beginning of the process that I have four prerequisites to take prior to applying to the program. He even commented to me that WIA would "probably" not pay for all four prerequisites, but perhaps two. So my counselor is denying me a meeting with the committee and suggesting I take a PowerPoint course instead. My throat is closing and my mouth is dry and I can feel tears welling in my eyes and as calmly as I can, tell him "no thank you. I am proficient in PowerPoint." This man is holding my fragile self esteem, my future career in his hands and he is offering me a Microsoft Office course. No apologies, just a six week course.

I am not sure if writing about this incident is cathartic or not – I am breathing hard and I feel irritated – but I also think it is important, for everyone that is looking for work solutions, in today’s economic climate, to be treated with respect, dignity and care. Is it too much to ask of my government employees to know their job, EVERY ASPECT, and be upfront with every piece of the puzzle. Withholding the fact that I needed to be accepted into the nursing program was a deal breaker. If this counselor was doing his job properly, then I would have reconsidered my options during the orientation. I can not afford my rent, let alone pay for books and tuition. I did consider, for several weeks, the option of paying for these prerequisites with my credit card, but decided, wisely, that this was not a good time to add $300.00 to $600.00 to the financed-out-the wahzoo charges that appear every month. No wonder my balance remains the same!

Thumbing through my WIA folder, I notice how often paperwork is duplicated, and taking the time to reprocess this event I recall the day I dropped off my final-before-the-committee-meeting-request paperwork and the front desk assistant asking me is I had everything in order. I answered, "Yes". She said, "tuition and book costs?" I shakily said, "Yes", knowing the answer to be “no”, but also knowing it would take less than one hour to obtain the information. Why had my counselor not informed me of this requirement? BECAUSE HE IS NOT DOING HIS JOB! What I learned from this process is this office of Workforce Solutions is an unorganized organization. The only one across the nation? Probably not.

Sorry . . . .  I am on my soap box and cannot stop now.

I mean, how could they lose my paperwork? You should see the stacks of paperwork on my (if I could fire him I would) counselor’s desk. No organization whatsoever – just piles and piles of the unemployed. Hello – ever hear of an A – Z accordion file? Oh, and the best part of this story – one hour after I left the Sunrise Mall Workforce Solutions Center, in tears, I received a voice mail telling me they had located my paperwork and to please call them. I did not return the call. I have no faith in their ability to assist me. The system let me down. I even went as far as finding out the name and telephone number of my counselor’s supervisor and was going to call and complain, but what would happen if that action bit me in the butt? I have learned a lot in the past four months of unemployment; never assume everyone is on your page; never stop questioning ridiculous, rude behavior; speak up – your question will give an answer to at least two people that are to shy to ask the question; and, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

It may be old school and cliché, but I have believe in karma, and from first hand knowledge, karma can be a bitch.

I began randomly and it turned out to be a middle-of-the-relationship Memory box. I had forgotten how many cards and notes husband number three had written through the years. Reading these loving missives I continued to ponder why our marriage ended. I mean, I know why it ended, but how did we get from those love notes to here? I, by choice, have not spoken with him since I hung up on him when he called at work, pre-lay off, to inquire about some recipes he wanted. What he really wanted was the 2008 tax information on the house we were forced to Short Sale because he wanted the divorce. Another live and learn story, but it is the boxes that have clogged my energy this past week, and considering those boxes held fifteen years of my life, no wonder I was hesitant.

I found many invitations to weddings, mostly my grown sons’ friends, too many funeral announcements, my friends, match books, swizzle sticks, wine corks, paper umbrellas from drinks at the Shady Grove in Austin. We used to say, “that is where we fell in love.” I found, what to me is, a precious photograph of my dearly departed Monroe, on the front porch of the Bungalow in Brenham.  Monroe came to Corpus Christi with us, but died in May of 2006. I still miss her. She was a really sweet, lovable cat that had a few hard knocks in her life, too. Like when we adopted Remy and she exiled herself to the attic at the farm for one entire year.

I found things that puzzled me – no idea why they were saved – those items went straight to recycling. I found a garter tossed at some wedding I attended. It meant so much to me I put it in the memory box, but I have NO idea who the bride was. I wore it the rest of the afternoon, high on my thigh, while I worked on the boxes.

I am still feeling the urge to go dig all the cards out of the recycling bin that I tossed. I read each of them. Weighed their content and pondered if they would be of any future use. I can be brutal when it comes to pitching stuff and I do not want to regret the purge in a week, month or year. Loving tributes. Many words of thanks for being so real, so honest, so loving, so open, so scared, so passionate, so me. Well, the me that was sitting on the bed touching each of these items, telling myself it will be less for my son to go through when I die, was experiencing feelings of anger, more than sadness. Angry that I thought this was a marriage for a lifetime. Truly. We would weather any storm. Ha. Jokes on you, Carol. He had his fingers crossed from the moment the wedding date was set. He loved me with conditions, and all of those cards and love notes were actions of a man that loved what he had, then set out to change it all.

I had to set aside all of the love notes. I could not, honestly, deal with those in the same day as the boxes. I did add some cards, with hand written notes, to the pile of notes and tied them up in a red ribbon. All of these are for another day – some future consideration, but I made terrific headway and I do feel lighter. He has no power over me any more. I never again have to do what he says he thinks I should be doing. All of his power is gone.  As long as I remember this when I have the time to address the final tidy little package. Maybe I’ll share, maybe they will find their way to the landfill, but I tackled the biggest part of the project and am no worse for wear.

Now to address the tattoo on my right hip which has a banner and his name . . . . . live and learn.