Gift-giving among friends can be tricky. I prefer not to exchange gifts with friends, rather to go out for a nice dinner and have a great time. I can't stand being forced to buy people gifts just for the sake of a holiday. I much prefer to find things throughout the year that suit the person and get and give them at that time.
So last Christmas, 2003, I had no intention of getting CL a gift of any kind. He had a girlfriend and is the kind of friend that disappears whenever he meets a new prospect. I can't blame him - most women don't want their men hanging out with their exes. I even encourage him to ditch me at those times. Anyhow, he was pretty consumed in that situation and I really didn't plan on any sort of holiday exchange until he called to see when I would be around so he could drop off my present. Oh crap, I thought. So I ran out and bought him a new crowbar - the one he had seen months back in a catalogue that was out of stock at the time. He is a mechanic, after all. Useful and something he wanted. Good enough, right?
He arrived at my house all smiles with a small gift box. I knew it was jewelry immediately. It turns out he had bought me the diamond and tanzanite necklace I had loved at a jewelry store when we went shopping together a month back. The necklace cost more than $400. The crowbar? $30. I told him to take it back, it was too much. He blathered on about what a great friend I am and how he wanted me to have something nice, blah, blah, blah. I pretended I was a nice Jewish girl and took it. He was disappointed in his crowbar and just said, "there's always next year." I disregarded the remark and admired my shiney new necklace. Oooh, pretty...
Flash forward to this Christmas season. CL called the day after Thanksgiving to announce he had outdone himself this year - that my gift was better than last year. Great, I thought, now I have to get him something nice.
Problem is that CL has recently proclaimed his love for me and determined I am his soul mate and that he will do whatever it takes to get me back. I have told him repeatedly that I am not interested and there is nothing he can do to change that. Alas, he has a thick skull and a pea brain.
So, rather than take the hard line and tell him to return whatever he got me, I decided to get him a cheap leather jacket. I knew he wouldn't know the difference and figured I could get a decent one on sale for less than $100 and he'd be pleased as punch. I didn't intend to get a super cheap one until I was at Kmart buying Christmas lights. Just so you know, I don't frequent Kmart but there is one by my office and I needed lights for the tree. I certainly don't buy clothing other than those lined flannel shirts there (my mom loves them).
Anyhow, as luck would have it, right as I walked in there was a display of cheap "genuine leather" men's jackets. Perfect, they were even half-price, $50. I thought I had scored. The jacket didn't look too bad. It wasn't high quality but it would work. It did seem cut a bit wide but I didn't think CL, the jeans and sweatshirt type, would mind. I bought it, took it home, and wrapped it nicely.
On Christmas Eve CL came over and gave me my annual necklace and this time complete with matching earrings. Nice stuff, diamonds and, again, tanzanite - this time in silver. In case you aren't aware, the world's supply of tanzanite is just about depleted so it's value has gone up and will continue to do so. It's a nice investment for the ladies in your life.
Anyhow, he opened his package and loved the jacket. Whew! Smelled like leather, felt nice. He exclaimed that he knew I would do something good this year to make up for the last year - that irritated me as I didn't want to do anything this year - just felt like I had to. Anyhow, he liked the jacket, took it out of the box, put it on, ran to the mirror, and frowned...it didn't look right. Damn, I thought. He said he didn't know if the style was right for him, that it was too loose. When did he become so fashion-conscious?!?! I tried to say it didn't look bad, made him look thinner, that baggy is in, etc. He wasn't buying it.
Then he said, "That's okay...you still have the receipt, right? Where did you get it? We can go exchange it for something else."
I stumbled on my words, said I wasn't sure, that I bought it in another town, that I would return it and we could go to the leather store in the local mall to get a replacement. I was backpedaling - I couldn't let him know I had bought a leather jacket at Kmart for him. He was so excited about it. I told him I would have to find the receipt and then we'd go together to get a new one.
So today I was rifling through my box of receipts and couldn't find the receipt. Now I'm stuck with a jacket I don't want and I have to go spend hundreds of dollars on CL.
Anyone interested in a cheap leather jacket, size large, cut loose? I can cut you a deal...
Friday, December 31, 2004
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Christmas with the C's
Eaaa...eaaa...eaaaa...
It's always nice to wake up to that disturbingly familiar alarm clock sound early on your day off. What's that? Oh yeah, it's Christmas and I am getting up early to cook for the C family. Well, due to dissolution, marriage and more dissolution we are no longer the C family, but I'll refer to us as the C family for the sake of time.
For the past five or so years I have hosted Christmas dinner/supper/late lunch/whatever at my house. I absolutely refuse to cook a traditional Christmas meal. It is my goal in life never to cook a turkey. It just appears to be too much effort for too little return. So each year I spend twice the time it would take to make a turkey making something different and creative. I don't know how those unique, non-conformist people do it every day because it's all I can do to be different just on Christmas. Last year was cajun food - jambalaya, blackened catfish, hush puppies, cornbread, black eyed peas. The year before Thai. This year was to be Chinese but I got lazy and did Italian instead...chicken cacciatore, spinach manicotti, bruschetta, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, salad, garlic bread, and calamari. It was more work than Chinese any day of the week.
Everyone has just left and the kitchen looks like Fallujah. No, there are no leftovers - my gracious family brings their own tupperware to abscond with anything not tied down or too dirty to bother.
Actually, Christmas was great. No family strife. My mother only cried once at the thought my brother put into my gift - a diamond to replace the one missing from the family heirloom ring. To be quite honest, knowing he doesn't read and all...I would have preferred he spend the money on next month's mortgage payment. Then again, that's probably just me being selfish because I would rather not pay his mortgage and wait a few months for the replacement diamond...And where the heck did he get the diamond? Some sort of drug trade, no doubt. I mean, really, who buys a single diamond - not in a setting or anything?
What you really want to know is what I got, right? Never fear, like any Mastercard moment, it is priceless...two miniature pygora goats, a rolling butcherblock from Ikea, a food processor, a diamond, and some lovely flannel pajamas. Not a bad take if I do say so myself. And I have come to the realization that by not having children, hence grandchildren for my parents, I get more stuff each year. Seems petty, and it is, but it is true. If I or my brother had children, neither of us would get the loot we get. We still get Santa sacks, for goodness sake! Thirty-two years old and I get a Santa sack from my parents. Yes, I will have to rethink my existence in the next year.
Well, I'm off to do the dishes and gorge on leftover snickerdoodles.
It's always nice to wake up to that disturbingly familiar alarm clock sound early on your day off. What's that? Oh yeah, it's Christmas and I am getting up early to cook for the C family. Well, due to dissolution, marriage and more dissolution we are no longer the C family, but I'll refer to us as the C family for the sake of time.
For the past five or so years I have hosted Christmas dinner/supper/late lunch/whatever at my house. I absolutely refuse to cook a traditional Christmas meal. It is my goal in life never to cook a turkey. It just appears to be too much effort for too little return. So each year I spend twice the time it would take to make a turkey making something different and creative. I don't know how those unique, non-conformist people do it every day because it's all I can do to be different just on Christmas. Last year was cajun food - jambalaya, blackened catfish, hush puppies, cornbread, black eyed peas. The year before Thai. This year was to be Chinese but I got lazy and did Italian instead...chicken cacciatore, spinach manicotti, bruschetta, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, salad, garlic bread, and calamari. It was more work than Chinese any day of the week.
Everyone has just left and the kitchen looks like Fallujah. No, there are no leftovers - my gracious family brings their own tupperware to abscond with anything not tied down or too dirty to bother.
Actually, Christmas was great. No family strife. My mother only cried once at the thought my brother put into my gift - a diamond to replace the one missing from the family heirloom ring. To be quite honest, knowing he doesn't read and all...I would have preferred he spend the money on next month's mortgage payment. Then again, that's probably just me being selfish because I would rather not pay his mortgage and wait a few months for the replacement diamond...And where the heck did he get the diamond? Some sort of drug trade, no doubt. I mean, really, who buys a single diamond - not in a setting or anything?
What you really want to know is what I got, right? Never fear, like any Mastercard moment, it is priceless...two miniature pygora goats, a rolling butcherblock from Ikea, a food processor, a diamond, and some lovely flannel pajamas. Not a bad take if I do say so myself. And I have come to the realization that by not having children, hence grandchildren for my parents, I get more stuff each year. Seems petty, and it is, but it is true. If I or my brother had children, neither of us would get the loot we get. We still get Santa sacks, for goodness sake! Thirty-two years old and I get a Santa sack from my parents. Yes, I will have to rethink my existence in the next year.
Well, I'm off to do the dishes and gorge on leftover snickerdoodles.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Rick Springfield's DNA Sample Available Now
While trying to stay awake at Sunday's Christmas party we ended up discussing our first concert experiences. Mine was as vivid as if had happened yesterday...
It was the summer of '85. I was 12 and my three best friends in the world were Karen, Llesena and Malaika. We were a perfect foursome...I loved Ricky Schroder, Llesena loved Adam Ant, Malaika loved Ralphie from New Edition, and Karen, sweet Karen, loved Rick Springfield.
For Karen's 13th birthday her parents had gotten tickets for the four of us to go see Rick's Cathode Ray Tour. Karen wore her I Heart Rick Springfield t-shirt - the homemade kind that you iron the fuzzy letters and hearts onto. At the concert, we somehow managed to fanagle our way to the front, near the stage. We were all dancing (as best you can to Rick Springfield) and having a great time as Rick sang his way into a frenzy. Then it happened, a huge ball of phlegm escaped Rick's mouth and headed in our general direction. Llesena, Malaika and I shrieked in horror and attempted to flee the path of the spit missile. Then we saw the flash that was Karen at top speed, heading directly for it. She studied the flight path and planted herself for the hit. The lougy (spelling?) hit her almost perfectly on the chest, right near the fuzzy heart on her shirt. She was so happy she was in tears. She exclaimed that Rick had spit on her and was thrilled at the thought of his phlegm was firmly embedded in the shirt. We all recoiled in disgust as she pointed to it and demanded no one touch it until it dried. All the way home from the concert she gushed about the spit wad she had gotten. She circled the spit location with a marker so everyone would know exactly where the DNA sample was to be found. She wore the shirt to school weekly, dousing it with cheap musk rather than washing it. It was the quintessential badge of preteen lust and she wore as if it were a Medal of Honor.
To this day I don't know if Karen ever washed the shirt. But in this day of eBay and cloning I am certain she could make a profit selling it. Then again, I don't know how many Rick Springfield's the world can handle...
It was the summer of '85. I was 12 and my three best friends in the world were Karen, Llesena and Malaika. We were a perfect foursome...I loved Ricky Schroder, Llesena loved Adam Ant, Malaika loved Ralphie from New Edition, and Karen, sweet Karen, loved Rick Springfield.
For Karen's 13th birthday her parents had gotten tickets for the four of us to go see Rick's Cathode Ray Tour. Karen wore her I Heart Rick Springfield t-shirt - the homemade kind that you iron the fuzzy letters and hearts onto. At the concert, we somehow managed to fanagle our way to the front, near the stage. We were all dancing (as best you can to Rick Springfield) and having a great time as Rick sang his way into a frenzy. Then it happened, a huge ball of phlegm escaped Rick's mouth and headed in our general direction. Llesena, Malaika and I shrieked in horror and attempted to flee the path of the spit missile. Then we saw the flash that was Karen at top speed, heading directly for it. She studied the flight path and planted herself for the hit. The lougy (spelling?) hit her almost perfectly on the chest, right near the fuzzy heart on her shirt. She was so happy she was in tears. She exclaimed that Rick had spit on her and was thrilled at the thought of his phlegm was firmly embedded in the shirt. We all recoiled in disgust as she pointed to it and demanded no one touch it until it dried. All the way home from the concert she gushed about the spit wad she had gotten. She circled the spit location with a marker so everyone would know exactly where the DNA sample was to be found. She wore the shirt to school weekly, dousing it with cheap musk rather than washing it. It was the quintessential badge of preteen lust and she wore as if it were a Medal of Honor.
To this day I don't know if Karen ever washed the shirt. But in this day of eBay and cloning I am certain she could make a profit selling it. Then again, I don't know how many Rick Springfield's the world can handle...
Monday, December 20, 2004
Cheese Pie and Canned Cherries
Everyone worries about single people at Christmas. Co-workers feign concern, family members fret, married friends attempt to include you, and the other singles rally and have parties for the similarly situated.
Last night L hosted one such party. It was to be the quintessential singles potluck in which there is always more wine than food, more small talk than meaningful conversation, and more likelihood of repeating the event in 12 months than meeting someone great at the party that you'll be able to spend the next Christmas with.
Hopeful that something blogworthy would come of it, I signed up to bring mashed potatoes and headed out. I brought along MM. I don't know why I brought him along but I was glad I did to at least have a witness to the series of non-events that was the party. Mashed potatoes in hand, I acted the part of potluck overachiever by making snickerdoodles as well. After all, who doesn't love a good snickerdoodle? Even if you don't like them, it's fun to say the name.
As we arrived R was pulling out of the driveway. R is a thirty-something, chain-smoking, large, insecure bleached blond with a bottom-of-the-line black 2001 Mustang whose personality traits include acute overreaction, self-absorbedness, scoffing at others, and accelerated offensibility. Her last relationship consisted of spending two years giving blow jobs to a married co-worker in a car during lunch hour. As we approached the door she cheerfully waved hello and said she had to get bread and would be right back. Truth be told, R was unhappy with her chosen outfit for the night and was racing home to change clothes before other guests arrive. You never know when you're going to meet Mr. Right...
That left MM and I as the first arrivals. Awkward moments in which L directs the mashed potato placement and then forces me to taste her stuffing. It was really mushy and I convinced her to put it in a pan in the oven to crisp it up. Another stuffing fiasco avoided.
Soon Mk and Mt, brothers from next door, arrived. They brought a few bottles of wine. Mi, L's roommate, finally emerged from her room to join the party. Meal preparations, small talk and table setting ensued. Mk had brought his dog, Pearl. L's dog Tammy was loose and did not like Pearl. Note to guest: if your dog is growling in another dog's house - take it home or put it in the car. Better yet, don't bring your pets to dinner parties unless invited. I imagined bringing Hogitha, my pet pig at a dinner party. Could be fun, especially if it's a non-pet person's party...
R returned and dinner commenced. R refused to sit at the table because she felt too cluttered. I later learned that she found Mt repulsive and smelly. He had similar comments about her, I am sure.
After everyone stuffed themselves the struggle for pleasant conversation began. Unfortunately, there was no common ground among the attendees and no one seemed interested in anyone else. The two dogs sat begging at the table, owners oblivious to the irritation it caused among the guests. Mk assumed the role of pompous, disinterested party-goer by repeatedly yawning and looking at his watch. L was well on her way after a few glasses of wine and began discussing Mk with his shirt off and then proceeded to tell tales from my life, which are far more interesting than tales from hers. Seizing the moment, R exclaimed it was time for her special dessert. I wasn't done with dinner yet but nevermind that, the masses needed their cheesecake.
What's that? It's not cheesecake - it's cheese pie? R had brought the cheese cake/pie/whatever and insisted on use of proper nomenclature by the party-goers. She then opened cans of blueberries and cherries in sugar slop from the 99 cent store to put on the cheese pie. So much preparation, how thoughtful. Fishing for compliments on the cheese pie. "It's cheese pie, not cheesecake, there is a difference", she kept repeating. No one listened. You say tomatoe, I say tomato, get over it. Upset at the collective refusal to call it cheese pie, or possibly needing to change clothes again, R left.
Mi left soon after - to go to a dinner party at a restaurant. She didn't have any money to buy food at the restaurant so it was just perfect that she could eat at the potluck and then go to the other dinner party. She didn't bring anything to the potluck either, other than her own diet coke. Gotta love the moochers.
That left the drunken L, quiet Mt, clock-watching Mk, bewildered MM, and bored me. The conversation reached its peak after a story about my good friend Karen being spit on by Rick Springfield at a concert years ago. We went on with our favorite colors, favorite cars, blah, blah, blah until I could take no more and announced the departure of MM and I.
The point of this post? It's cheese pie and some things just aren't even blogworthy.
Last night L hosted one such party. It was to be the quintessential singles potluck in which there is always more wine than food, more small talk than meaningful conversation, and more likelihood of repeating the event in 12 months than meeting someone great at the party that you'll be able to spend the next Christmas with.
Hopeful that something blogworthy would come of it, I signed up to bring mashed potatoes and headed out. I brought along MM. I don't know why I brought him along but I was glad I did to at least have a witness to the series of non-events that was the party. Mashed potatoes in hand, I acted the part of potluck overachiever by making snickerdoodles as well. After all, who doesn't love a good snickerdoodle? Even if you don't like them, it's fun to say the name.
As we arrived R was pulling out of the driveway. R is a thirty-something, chain-smoking, large, insecure bleached blond with a bottom-of-the-line black 2001 Mustang whose personality traits include acute overreaction, self-absorbedness, scoffing at others, and accelerated offensibility. Her last relationship consisted of spending two years giving blow jobs to a married co-worker in a car during lunch hour. As we approached the door she cheerfully waved hello and said she had to get bread and would be right back. Truth be told, R was unhappy with her chosen outfit for the night and was racing home to change clothes before other guests arrive. You never know when you're going to meet Mr. Right...
That left MM and I as the first arrivals. Awkward moments in which L directs the mashed potato placement and then forces me to taste her stuffing. It was really mushy and I convinced her to put it in a pan in the oven to crisp it up. Another stuffing fiasco avoided.
Soon Mk and Mt, brothers from next door, arrived. They brought a few bottles of wine. Mi, L's roommate, finally emerged from her room to join the party. Meal preparations, small talk and table setting ensued. Mk had brought his dog, Pearl. L's dog Tammy was loose and did not like Pearl. Note to guest: if your dog is growling in another dog's house - take it home or put it in the car. Better yet, don't bring your pets to dinner parties unless invited. I imagined bringing Hogitha, my pet pig at a dinner party. Could be fun, especially if it's a non-pet person's party...
R returned and dinner commenced. R refused to sit at the table because she felt too cluttered. I later learned that she found Mt repulsive and smelly. He had similar comments about her, I am sure.
After everyone stuffed themselves the struggle for pleasant conversation began. Unfortunately, there was no common ground among the attendees and no one seemed interested in anyone else. The two dogs sat begging at the table, owners oblivious to the irritation it caused among the guests. Mk assumed the role of pompous, disinterested party-goer by repeatedly yawning and looking at his watch. L was well on her way after a few glasses of wine and began discussing Mk with his shirt off and then proceeded to tell tales from my life, which are far more interesting than tales from hers. Seizing the moment, R exclaimed it was time for her special dessert. I wasn't done with dinner yet but nevermind that, the masses needed their cheesecake.
What's that? It's not cheesecake - it's cheese pie? R had brought the cheese cake/pie/whatever and insisted on use of proper nomenclature by the party-goers. She then opened cans of blueberries and cherries in sugar slop from the 99 cent store to put on the cheese pie. So much preparation, how thoughtful. Fishing for compliments on the cheese pie. "It's cheese pie, not cheesecake, there is a difference", she kept repeating. No one listened. You say tomatoe, I say tomato, get over it. Upset at the collective refusal to call it cheese pie, or possibly needing to change clothes again, R left.
Mi left soon after - to go to a dinner party at a restaurant. She didn't have any money to buy food at the restaurant so it was just perfect that she could eat at the potluck and then go to the other dinner party. She didn't bring anything to the potluck either, other than her own diet coke. Gotta love the moochers.
That left the drunken L, quiet Mt, clock-watching Mk, bewildered MM, and bored me. The conversation reached its peak after a story about my good friend Karen being spit on by Rick Springfield at a concert years ago. We went on with our favorite colors, favorite cars, blah, blah, blah until I could take no more and announced the departure of MM and I.
The point of this post? It's cheese pie and some things just aren't even blogworthy.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
'Tis the Season
For holiday parties and this weekend was no exception.
After the drama of Friday I cancelled plans with JP and opted to hermitize myself for the night. I ordered some Thai take-out, lit a fire in the old Ben Franklin stove, hunkered down with some hot cocoa, and watched the always-great claymation version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. You know, the one with the elf that wants to be a dentist and the big, bad abominable snowman. Great stuff - drama, humor, fright, life lessons, reindeer love, and clay. Add my dog and cat sitting on my lap on the sofa and it doesn't get much better than that.
Saturday was the Santa Barbara Hash House Harriers' Christmas run and party. Gifts were required for the gift exchange after the run so I met MM downtown before the run to peruse the adult store for something appropriately inappropriate. I was also to get something for JP who wouldn't dare sink to the lows of retail shopping. There were so many choices but I ended up with the timeless video 'Toilet Tramps' and some jumbo-sized, purple anal beads - Two gifts sure to delight anyone this Christmas. And delight they did at the gift exchange - people were actually fighting over them. There's nothing so entertaining as people chanting "toilet tramps" as two intoxicated women wrestle for jumbo anal beads in the background. Me? I ended up with an MC Hammer CD and a fuzzy hot pink and black leopard print jewelry box. Oh, and as a parting gift I was given a porn video that told the story of a prostitute who turned her life around by becoming a pro boxer. JP confiscated it so I'll never know if she found her way out of the streets.
The highlight of the run itself was the older gentleman out for a walk with his wife who saw me, dressed in tight red pants, a red tank top and santa hat, and began singing a song about a woman in red, then exclaimed that his Christmas wish had come early. I gave him an extra jiggle and trotted off. After all, it's all about spreading the cheer, isn't it?
After the drama of Friday I cancelled plans with JP and opted to hermitize myself for the night. I ordered some Thai take-out, lit a fire in the old Ben Franklin stove, hunkered down with some hot cocoa, and watched the always-great claymation version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. You know, the one with the elf that wants to be a dentist and the big, bad abominable snowman. Great stuff - drama, humor, fright, life lessons, reindeer love, and clay. Add my dog and cat sitting on my lap on the sofa and it doesn't get much better than that.
Saturday was the Santa Barbara Hash House Harriers' Christmas run and party. Gifts were required for the gift exchange after the run so I met MM downtown before the run to peruse the adult store for something appropriately inappropriate. I was also to get something for JP who wouldn't dare sink to the lows of retail shopping. There were so many choices but I ended up with the timeless video 'Toilet Tramps' and some jumbo-sized, purple anal beads - Two gifts sure to delight anyone this Christmas. And delight they did at the gift exchange - people were actually fighting over them. There's nothing so entertaining as people chanting "toilet tramps" as two intoxicated women wrestle for jumbo anal beads in the background. Me? I ended up with an MC Hammer CD and a fuzzy hot pink and black leopard print jewelry box. Oh, and as a parting gift I was given a porn video that told the story of a prostitute who turned her life around by becoming a pro boxer. JP confiscated it so I'll never know if she found her way out of the streets.
The highlight of the run itself was the older gentleman out for a walk with his wife who saw me, dressed in tight red pants, a red tank top and santa hat, and began singing a song about a woman in red, then exclaimed that his Christmas wish had come early. I gave him an extra jiggle and trotted off. After all, it's all about spreading the cheer, isn't it?
Friday, December 17, 2004
More Proof...
...that I was switched at birth...
Today at lunch I went and paid the $45,000 to get my brother out of foreclosure. Yeah, Merry Christmas Big Brother. I could have used that money on so many things for myself. It stings a bit thinking I'll now be paying on that until the house sells, as well as keeping the first mortgage current at a mere $2300 a month. Good thing my mortgage is only a grand a month and I have no personal debt or car payments. It does, however, mean I'll be strapped with close to $4,000 a month in payments - only a quarter of which are mine. Yes, I am a bit irritated at this but I hope it will be over by summer and my brother will be set up with a place he can afford to live and some inaccessible investments to insure he's not on the You-Too-Can-Live-Off-KC-For-Life-Without-Ever-Working-A-Day Retirement Program.
I returned to my office somewhat relieved that The Great Family Drama of 2004 was quelled before Christmas so everyone can pretend to be happy and act like they are doing well. It could have been worse - at least no one is dead or injured, right?
Oh, what's that? An urgent phone message from my aunt in Idaho? (Yes, my relatives live in Idaho, in trailer parks to boot!) Two messages? In the course of an hour, you say?
I immediately think something has happened to one of my grandparents. They are both living with cancer and in their 80's so any calls from the great north, with that urgency, make me think the worst. But why didn't my mother call me if it was urgent? Hmmm...maybe it's my parents? Insert dread music here. Flash of panic. Then the realization that the world has never actually ceased to exist due to bad news.
I don't like when people die or other bad things happen so I pretend I am too busy to return the calls and decide to wait until tonight to call my aunt back. Then she calls me again. Thankfully, it's not my grandparents - two very good people who spawned a brood of social miscreants. How many times have they wondered where they went wrong? Not my parents either.
Still, my aunt is very upset. M, a cousin, has just been arrested. Police came to her place of work (I am briefly impressed - she has a job? How unlike the northtern sect!). But arrested for what? And with the police coming to her work? Apparantly M has been dating a convicted child molester. Makes me cringe to think about it. Something fishy is going on with M helping him or something like that so the police picked her up. Rightfully so if she is in fact doing so much as breathing the same air as him. If it's true, I hope they keep her for felony stupidity.
The problem is that social services took L, M's 9 month old daughter. No, nobody knows who L's father is. At last count it could be any one of five men. The sixth was ruled out because the baby was too pale to be of that descent. Anyhow, my aunt called a lawyer about L but the lawyer actually wanted $2000 up front (to do what? Fill out a temporary guardianship form? I almost hurl up my law degree when I hear about things like this!). She makes about $8 an hour as a telemarketer. Yet another reason not to drop out of high school, folks. That and senior prom, of course. es, I'll make some calls and see what is going on. After all, that is why I went to law school, right?
First, I call social services. A form? Okay. My aunt can do it herself? Great. Free help filling it out? Excellent. Come down before 4:30 pm and they'll help? My aunt frets about leaving work two hours early to do this - she says maybe she should just get the lawyer. Losing $16 for two hours of her time as opposed to $2000 for the lawyer to do it? Some people just do not think. L should be with my aunt by tonight. Still not sure if that's better than child services but that's another story for another time...
Next, I call the DA in Idaho. It's not looking good. Federal offenses, state offenses. M is in deep. The guy she's been helping was convicted of raping an 11 year old girl. Eleven! I want to drive up there and shoot him myself. M will get a public defender. I want nothing to do with anything related to this one.
Come to think of it, I really don't want anything to do with anyone allegedly related to me.
Today at lunch I went and paid the $45,000 to get my brother out of foreclosure. Yeah, Merry Christmas Big Brother. I could have used that money on so many things for myself. It stings a bit thinking I'll now be paying on that until the house sells, as well as keeping the first mortgage current at a mere $2300 a month. Good thing my mortgage is only a grand a month and I have no personal debt or car payments. It does, however, mean I'll be strapped with close to $4,000 a month in payments - only a quarter of which are mine. Yes, I am a bit irritated at this but I hope it will be over by summer and my brother will be set up with a place he can afford to live and some inaccessible investments to insure he's not on the You-Too-Can-Live-Off-KC-For-Life-Without-Ever-Working-A-Day Retirement Program.
I returned to my office somewhat relieved that The Great Family Drama of 2004 was quelled before Christmas so everyone can pretend to be happy and act like they are doing well. It could have been worse - at least no one is dead or injured, right?
Oh, what's that? An urgent phone message from my aunt in Idaho? (Yes, my relatives live in Idaho, in trailer parks to boot!) Two messages? In the course of an hour, you say?
I immediately think something has happened to one of my grandparents. They are both living with cancer and in their 80's so any calls from the great north, with that urgency, make me think the worst. But why didn't my mother call me if it was urgent? Hmmm...maybe it's my parents? Insert dread music here. Flash of panic. Then the realization that the world has never actually ceased to exist due to bad news.
I don't like when people die or other bad things happen so I pretend I am too busy to return the calls and decide to wait until tonight to call my aunt back. Then she calls me again. Thankfully, it's not my grandparents - two very good people who spawned a brood of social miscreants. How many times have they wondered where they went wrong? Not my parents either.
Still, my aunt is very upset. M, a cousin, has just been arrested. Police came to her place of work (I am briefly impressed - she has a job? How unlike the northtern sect!). But arrested for what? And with the police coming to her work? Apparantly M has been dating a convicted child molester. Makes me cringe to think about it. Something fishy is going on with M helping him or something like that so the police picked her up. Rightfully so if she is in fact doing so much as breathing the same air as him. If it's true, I hope they keep her for felony stupidity.
The problem is that social services took L, M's 9 month old daughter. No, nobody knows who L's father is. At last count it could be any one of five men. The sixth was ruled out because the baby was too pale to be of that descent. Anyhow, my aunt called a lawyer about L but the lawyer actually wanted $2000 up front (to do what? Fill out a temporary guardianship form? I almost hurl up my law degree when I hear about things like this!). She makes about $8 an hour as a telemarketer. Yet another reason not to drop out of high school, folks. That and senior prom, of course. es, I'll make some calls and see what is going on. After all, that is why I went to law school, right?
First, I call social services. A form? Okay. My aunt can do it herself? Great. Free help filling it out? Excellent. Come down before 4:30 pm and they'll help? My aunt frets about leaving work two hours early to do this - she says maybe she should just get the lawyer. Losing $16 for two hours of her time as opposed to $2000 for the lawyer to do it? Some people just do not think. L should be with my aunt by tonight. Still not sure if that's better than child services but that's another story for another time...
Next, I call the DA in Idaho. It's not looking good. Federal offenses, state offenses. M is in deep. The guy she's been helping was convicted of raping an 11 year old girl. Eleven! I want to drive up there and shoot him myself. M will get a public defender. I want nothing to do with anything related to this one.
Come to think of it, I really don't want anything to do with anyone allegedly related to me.
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Sistership of the Ring?
MM called me the other night to discuss logistics for the Kwanzaa/Boxing Day/Day Late and Dollar Short Holiday Regift Run scheduled for December 26. We are supposed to be meeting at an undisclosed location this weekend to select a run route.
He called from his cell phone. Note that I do not have call waiting, will not answer call waiting, and cannot stand when someone puts me on hold to see if someone more interesting is trying to buzz in. No sooner are MM and I discussing the run location than the inevitable "boop boop" of an incoming call sounds. If I did have call waiting I would want mine to say "Incoming!" instead of trying to "boop" politely. Maybe I should patent that idea. Yeah, that's it...
Back to my story. I sat on cellular hold for all of 15 seconds and hung up. I have no patience for being on hold on my own time. On the client's time or my boss' time it's fine - but not when I'm in my sweats lounging around with nothing better to do than sit on hold.
A few minutes later he called back. Again, we began speaking. Boop boop. Another incoming. Once again, I hung up.
Finally, he calls a third time. It was his sister, both times. He and his older sister share an apartment and are pretty close. He said she called to tell him what to get her for Christmas. I admit, I am envious of her ability to do this as I am basically buying my brother's house for Christmas and expect nothing from him...but back to MM and his sister.
Apparantly she initially wanted a purse and was to show him which purse she wanted. I always find it a bit offensive when someone tells me exactly what they want as a gift and then expects that I will get it for them. Isn't the point of a gift to show you thought of the person at least a little?
Anyhow, MM's sister had been thinking and determined that this was the year she should receive not a purse, but her "Sister Ring" from him. Sister Ring? I have three siblings and have never heard of such an item. I googled it and the closest thing I came up with was this description of a Sister Ring given between sisters or women, stating "the bond two women share is like no other." MM- is there somehting you are not telling me? This doesn't appear to be something a man gives to his sister. I think I would be creeped out if any of my brothers, after the age of about three, gave me any sort of ring as a token of love and bonding. It's just a bit strange, isn't it? I really think MM's sister just wants some new jewelry and is playing on his manly ignorance of all things female-related to get a new ring because her lousy boyfriend won't cough one up. Women do work in mysterious and twisted ways.
Perhaps MM should consider putting the Twisted Sister Ring on his cell phone so he can avoid such future requests...
He called from his cell phone. Note that I do not have call waiting, will not answer call waiting, and cannot stand when someone puts me on hold to see if someone more interesting is trying to buzz in. No sooner are MM and I discussing the run location than the inevitable "boop boop" of an incoming call sounds. If I did have call waiting I would want mine to say "Incoming!" instead of trying to "boop" politely. Maybe I should patent that idea. Yeah, that's it...
Back to my story. I sat on cellular hold for all of 15 seconds and hung up. I have no patience for being on hold on my own time. On the client's time or my boss' time it's fine - but not when I'm in my sweats lounging around with nothing better to do than sit on hold.
A few minutes later he called back. Again, we began speaking. Boop boop. Another incoming. Once again, I hung up.
Finally, he calls a third time. It was his sister, both times. He and his older sister share an apartment and are pretty close. He said she called to tell him what to get her for Christmas. I admit, I am envious of her ability to do this as I am basically buying my brother's house for Christmas and expect nothing from him...but back to MM and his sister.
Apparantly she initially wanted a purse and was to show him which purse she wanted. I always find it a bit offensive when someone tells me exactly what they want as a gift and then expects that I will get it for them. Isn't the point of a gift to show you thought of the person at least a little?
Anyhow, MM's sister had been thinking and determined that this was the year she should receive not a purse, but her "Sister Ring" from him. Sister Ring? I have three siblings and have never heard of such an item. I googled it and the closest thing I came up with was this description of a Sister Ring given between sisters or women, stating "the bond two women share is like no other." MM- is there somehting you are not telling me? This doesn't appear to be something a man gives to his sister. I think I would be creeped out if any of my brothers, after the age of about three, gave me any sort of ring as a token of love and bonding. It's just a bit strange, isn't it? I really think MM's sister just wants some new jewelry and is playing on his manly ignorance of all things female-related to get a new ring because her lousy boyfriend won't cough one up. Women do work in mysterious and twisted ways.
Perhaps MM should consider putting the Twisted Sister Ring on his cell phone so he can avoid such future requests...
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Fertilizer Doesn't Necessarily Make It Greener...
I ventured out to a "Holly Jolly Holiday Party" Saturday night. I know, it doesn't sound like something I would do but every now and then I have to remind myself that the grass isn't any greener in the burbs'
My friend G and her husband C were the hosts. We are somewhat casual acquaintances and I was a bit surprised to even receive an invite. She later called to inform me that she had a friend she wanted me to meet. Oh dread, a holiday fix-up! Ah, but this one is perfect for me - an attorney and a black man all in one. For some reason G thinks I am one of those blond women who only dates black men. To set the record straight, I have only ever dated one black man and he is a Jamaican with a British accent and two PhD's...hardly the stereotype. Considering all the other races, creeds and colors I've been seen on dates with it always amazes me that I am pigeonholed into that particular class of blonds. Add to that the fact that I really don't like other lawyers and it's a wonder I went to the Holly Jolly thing at all.
The real reason I had to go was that G claimed to have many single women friends. I saw this as a perfect opportunity to set CL up and watch another train wreck. It's mean, but it is fun. That, and it was time to give myself a reality check by venturing into the world of the tract homes, surface marriages, 2.5 kids and three car garages again.
The party was to begin at 6:30 and include dinner, cocktails, games, and a gift exchange. These gift exchange parties are ridiculous because you never know who is going to get the gift and I know I always end up with something I later regift to someone I don't know. If people want to spend money on strangers, they should spend it on gifts for kids and donate to Toys-For-Tots. Hey, that's a good idea for you folks hosting parties - have your guests bring a favorite toy, put them all in a box, and then take it down to a collection center.
Alas, this party was for adults and I, of course brought the gift that keeps on giving, aThigh Master. This is the perfect gift for such occassions because nobody really knows what to do or say when they open it and you know they have secretly always wanted one. Besides, everyone can use some toning this time of year...
As I was saying, the party started at 6:30 so, of course, no one arrived until after 8:00. CL picked me up in his work truck, which is a Ford Ranger with blue flames on the front. I encouraged use of the truck because 1. I knew I would need some cocktails, and 2. I knew we were headed into the land of excess and keeping up with the Jones' - none of whom would dare put flames on their truck.
The cliche that is modern suburban living began when we arrived at the gate of the housing tract G and C live in. CL and I both come from good trailer stock. There are no security checkpoints to enter the trailer park, although there should be DUI checkpoints to get out but that's another story...Anyhow, G lives in a typical suburban housing tract in poorly planned Oxnard, California. For the mere cost of $900,000 you too can own a postage stamp lot with a gargantuan house that looks just like your neighbors'. What's that? No original decorating ideas? No worries, the homeowners association you pay an extra $350 a month to maintain that security shack will provide you with complete guidelines to be a proper member of the tract and as such, never express any individuality whatsoever. From what I can tell that means owning an SUV and a sedan, having two children, and owning oven mittens that match your dishtowels. No worries that your neighbor is similarly situated approximately six feet from your house because you invite them to participate in every event that you hold at your new abode and. And they will bring candied yams and veggie platters. The women will congregate in the kitchen to discuss the latest Pier One holiday theme and the men will be in the garage hovering around a Kegerator full of delectible Coors Light discussing sports.
This was exactly the scene CL and I stumbled upon. We first circled the housing tract and noted that the HOA must have approved one inflatable santa and two reindeer per lawn, along with all white light themes. We even spotted a couple strolling along in matching santa hats. Then we came upon C and G's house. Indeed, a handful of men were standing around in the garage, plastic cups full of pissy beer in hand, discussing the merits of living along golf course fairways. Cl sighed and said we could leave now and catch a movie. I almost agreed but we were spotted (as happens in a truck with flames on it) and summoned in.
We went to the open garage door but were promptly instructed to enter through the front door for our photo opportunity. After ringing the bell, which played a chorus of Jingle Bells, we were advised to place our gifts in a color-coordinated fashion under the tree, posed in front of the Martha Stuartesque tree, and told to smile for the camera. We found our way to the kitchen and CL began grazing. I hit the bar, which was located in the garage/man-space for a much-needed cocktail, leaving CL in the kitchen with the ladies. He was promptly introduced to M who was a single, late 30's city employee that proceeded to tell him her life story and not ask a single question of him. Meanwhile, in the garage, I met D, the lawyer. He was already two sheets to the wind and using poor humor in an attempt to overcompensate in front of the other boys. Saved by the call to dinner, CL and I met back in the family room, ate some excellent food, and compared war stories from our respective set-ups.
After diner I attempted conversations with several of the clones - I say that because every woman was wearing black pants and a red shirt, every man, khaki trousers and a green sweater. I think they all saw the same photo of holiday wear in the latest Macy's ad and modeled their own looks after it. Coversation for the evening revolved around who owned which model of tract home. The 'Golden Eagle' was supreme with five bedrooms and four bathrooms but still close enough to the Fledgling to hear any of the four toilets flush and know the daily routines of either inhabitant. The party-goers could not comprehend the size of my estate and asked whether or not I was scared living "out there all alone". Will somebody please remind me what I am supposed to be so scared of that I need a $7 an hour unarmed guard posted out front?
Thank goodness it was gift exchange time. The exchange consisted of one booze-related item after another, with the occassional poker gift set or card shuffling machine. Oh, and the ThighMaster. It actually went over quite well as the woman who selected it was in her late 60's and immediately removed it from the box and began doing the butterfly. I was fortunate enough to be standing next to her husband who was also pleased with the gift and considering mastering her thighs again himself. After all, a Thighmaster will do more for your sex life than a bottle of booze any day of the week.
The games were to begin after the gift exchange so CL and I made our escape. There was no way we could tolerate a moment more of the pretense that comes with Holly Jollyness in a group of sheep. Add to that the distinct smell of fertilizer that permeated the house due to the location of the tract - next to a strawberry field - and we were sufficiently nauseated for the night.
CL drove me home and when I got out of the flaming truck, I walked through my too-high grass, took a moment to breath in the crisp, clean air, looked up and appreciated the stars that come with living miles from any city lights, and headed in to my one-of-a-kind eyesore of the neighborhood home to find my fluffy little dog and retarded cat waiting for me. I then used actual wood to make a fire in my wood stove and decided my life is pretty damned good.
My friend G and her husband C were the hosts. We are somewhat casual acquaintances and I was a bit surprised to even receive an invite. She later called to inform me that she had a friend she wanted me to meet. Oh dread, a holiday fix-up! Ah, but this one is perfect for me - an attorney and a black man all in one. For some reason G thinks I am one of those blond women who only dates black men. To set the record straight, I have only ever dated one black man and he is a Jamaican with a British accent and two PhD's...hardly the stereotype. Considering all the other races, creeds and colors I've been seen on dates with it always amazes me that I am pigeonholed into that particular class of blonds. Add to that the fact that I really don't like other lawyers and it's a wonder I went to the Holly Jolly thing at all.
The real reason I had to go was that G claimed to have many single women friends. I saw this as a perfect opportunity to set CL up and watch another train wreck. It's mean, but it is fun. That, and it was time to give myself a reality check by venturing into the world of the tract homes, surface marriages, 2.5 kids and three car garages again.
The party was to begin at 6:30 and include dinner, cocktails, games, and a gift exchange. These gift exchange parties are ridiculous because you never know who is going to get the gift and I know I always end up with something I later regift to someone I don't know. If people want to spend money on strangers, they should spend it on gifts for kids and donate to Toys-For-Tots. Hey, that's a good idea for you folks hosting parties - have your guests bring a favorite toy, put them all in a box, and then take it down to a collection center.
Alas, this party was for adults and I, of course brought the gift that keeps on giving, aThigh Master. This is the perfect gift for such occassions because nobody really knows what to do or say when they open it and you know they have secretly always wanted one. Besides, everyone can use some toning this time of year...
As I was saying, the party started at 6:30 so, of course, no one arrived until after 8:00. CL picked me up in his work truck, which is a Ford Ranger with blue flames on the front. I encouraged use of the truck because 1. I knew I would need some cocktails, and 2. I knew we were headed into the land of excess and keeping up with the Jones' - none of whom would dare put flames on their truck.
The cliche that is modern suburban living began when we arrived at the gate of the housing tract G and C live in. CL and I both come from good trailer stock. There are no security checkpoints to enter the trailer park, although there should be DUI checkpoints to get out but that's another story...Anyhow, G lives in a typical suburban housing tract in poorly planned Oxnard, California. For the mere cost of $900,000 you too can own a postage stamp lot with a gargantuan house that looks just like your neighbors'. What's that? No original decorating ideas? No worries, the homeowners association you pay an extra $350 a month to maintain that security shack will provide you with complete guidelines to be a proper member of the tract and as such, never express any individuality whatsoever. From what I can tell that means owning an SUV and a sedan, having two children, and owning oven mittens that match your dishtowels. No worries that your neighbor is similarly situated approximately six feet from your house because you invite them to participate in every event that you hold at your new abode and. And they will bring candied yams and veggie platters. The women will congregate in the kitchen to discuss the latest Pier One holiday theme and the men will be in the garage hovering around a Kegerator full of delectible Coors Light discussing sports.
This was exactly the scene CL and I stumbled upon. We first circled the housing tract and noted that the HOA must have approved one inflatable santa and two reindeer per lawn, along with all white light themes. We even spotted a couple strolling along in matching santa hats. Then we came upon C and G's house. Indeed, a handful of men were standing around in the garage, plastic cups full of pissy beer in hand, discussing the merits of living along golf course fairways. Cl sighed and said we could leave now and catch a movie. I almost agreed but we were spotted (as happens in a truck with flames on it) and summoned in.
We went to the open garage door but were promptly instructed to enter through the front door for our photo opportunity. After ringing the bell, which played a chorus of Jingle Bells, we were advised to place our gifts in a color-coordinated fashion under the tree, posed in front of the Martha Stuartesque tree, and told to smile for the camera. We found our way to the kitchen and CL began grazing. I hit the bar, which was located in the garage/man-space for a much-needed cocktail, leaving CL in the kitchen with the ladies. He was promptly introduced to M who was a single, late 30's city employee that proceeded to tell him her life story and not ask a single question of him. Meanwhile, in the garage, I met D, the lawyer. He was already two sheets to the wind and using poor humor in an attempt to overcompensate in front of the other boys. Saved by the call to dinner, CL and I met back in the family room, ate some excellent food, and compared war stories from our respective set-ups.
After diner I attempted conversations with several of the clones - I say that because every woman was wearing black pants and a red shirt, every man, khaki trousers and a green sweater. I think they all saw the same photo of holiday wear in the latest Macy's ad and modeled their own looks after it. Coversation for the evening revolved around who owned which model of tract home. The 'Golden Eagle' was supreme with five bedrooms and four bathrooms but still close enough to the Fledgling to hear any of the four toilets flush and know the daily routines of either inhabitant. The party-goers could not comprehend the size of my estate and asked whether or not I was scared living "out there all alone". Will somebody please remind me what I am supposed to be so scared of that I need a $7 an hour unarmed guard posted out front?
Thank goodness it was gift exchange time. The exchange consisted of one booze-related item after another, with the occassional poker gift set or card shuffling machine. Oh, and the ThighMaster. It actually went over quite well as the woman who selected it was in her late 60's and immediately removed it from the box and began doing the butterfly. I was fortunate enough to be standing next to her husband who was also pleased with the gift and considering mastering her thighs again himself. After all, a Thighmaster will do more for your sex life than a bottle of booze any day of the week.
The games were to begin after the gift exchange so CL and I made our escape. There was no way we could tolerate a moment more of the pretense that comes with Holly Jollyness in a group of sheep. Add to that the distinct smell of fertilizer that permeated the house due to the location of the tract - next to a strawberry field - and we were sufficiently nauseated for the night.
CL drove me home and when I got out of the flaming truck, I walked through my too-high grass, took a moment to breath in the crisp, clean air, looked up and appreciated the stars that come with living miles from any city lights, and headed in to my one-of-a-kind eyesore of the neighborhood home to find my fluffy little dog and retarded cat waiting for me. I then used actual wood to make a fire in my wood stove and decided my life is pretty damned good.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Bottom Rung
Two years ago this week my good friend Sarah died unexpectedly at age 36. (Don't worry, this isn't a depressing post - we would never allow that at Glib Gibberish!)
Sarah and I met in law school and became fast friends. She was one of those people you meet who isn't perfect, and doesn't pretend to be, but is good. When I say good, I mean the kind of good you strive to be: never said a bad thing about anyone, always smiling, compassionate to others, nonjudgmental, giving, never petty or envious, and, of course, with a great sense of humor and appreciation for the comedy that is life.
In law school, Sarah wasn't the best student. She didn't have the need to be at the top of the class, in fact, she was proud to hold the bottom slot in the class so long as she got her ticket to practice law. She was like me and saw the night law school as a means to an end. She was also the only other person in my law school class that I could relate to with regard to loving the law and feeling like being lawyers was exactly what we were both meant to be. So many folks go through life and never know what they want to be when they grow up. We both knew and it formed a great bond between us. That, and our weekly sessions at the local steakhouse bar for a cocktail or two before class...
The day of her death was, ironically, the day of the last final exam of law school. I mean the last one, after it we were home free, done, never to study again (except for the bar exam). I had spoken to her the night before about the exam. When I got the call about her death that morning I closed my office door and cried for hours. I ended up taking the exam that night and then telling my classmates the news after the test. Ignorance is bliss, and it would have served no purpose whatsoever to tell people who were not that close to her on the very day we had all been looking forward to for nearly four years. People reacted dramatically, quietly, hysterically, and apathetically. I am still dealing with it but decided to make something positive come from it...
In keeping with Sarah's spirit and sense of humor, I started a scholarship at the law school. Initially, I wanted all of our classmates to donate $10-20 per year to be given to the lowest ranked student entering their final year of law school - as would have benefited Sarah. After all, the top students always get scholarships, why not the bottom? Sometimes it is that person who may have worked the hardest to stay in the game, right?
And so the Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship was born. Two years later, only one of her classmates other than myself has donated any money, yet the scholarship fund is alive and well thanks mostly to her family and friend. I personally try to take on one case I know bleeding heart Sarah would have taken each quarter and tell the client to donate whatever fees I've earned to the scholarship fund. Why? Because that's what Sarah would have done.
So, if any of the nine of you who haven't donated would like to make a donation to this unique and worthy cause, pull out your pocketbook, make a check for $25 or more out to The Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship Fund, and sent it to:
Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship
c/o Ventura County Community Foundation
1317 Del Norte Road, Suite 150
Camarillo, California 93010
It's legit and you get a receipt for taxes if your gift is more than $25. Here's the website for the Ventura County Community Foundation, in case you don't believe me.
Sarah and I met in law school and became fast friends. She was one of those people you meet who isn't perfect, and doesn't pretend to be, but is good. When I say good, I mean the kind of good you strive to be: never said a bad thing about anyone, always smiling, compassionate to others, nonjudgmental, giving, never petty or envious, and, of course, with a great sense of humor and appreciation for the comedy that is life.
In law school, Sarah wasn't the best student. She didn't have the need to be at the top of the class, in fact, she was proud to hold the bottom slot in the class so long as she got her ticket to practice law. She was like me and saw the night law school as a means to an end. She was also the only other person in my law school class that I could relate to with regard to loving the law and feeling like being lawyers was exactly what we were both meant to be. So many folks go through life and never know what they want to be when they grow up. We both knew and it formed a great bond between us. That, and our weekly sessions at the local steakhouse bar for a cocktail or two before class...
The day of her death was, ironically, the day of the last final exam of law school. I mean the last one, after it we were home free, done, never to study again (except for the bar exam). I had spoken to her the night before about the exam. When I got the call about her death that morning I closed my office door and cried for hours. I ended up taking the exam that night and then telling my classmates the news after the test. Ignorance is bliss, and it would have served no purpose whatsoever to tell people who were not that close to her on the very day we had all been looking forward to for nearly four years. People reacted dramatically, quietly, hysterically, and apathetically. I am still dealing with it but decided to make something positive come from it...
In keeping with Sarah's spirit and sense of humor, I started a scholarship at the law school. Initially, I wanted all of our classmates to donate $10-20 per year to be given to the lowest ranked student entering their final year of law school - as would have benefited Sarah. After all, the top students always get scholarships, why not the bottom? Sometimes it is that person who may have worked the hardest to stay in the game, right?
And so the Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship was born. Two years later, only one of her classmates other than myself has donated any money, yet the scholarship fund is alive and well thanks mostly to her family and friend. I personally try to take on one case I know bleeding heart Sarah would have taken each quarter and tell the client to donate whatever fees I've earned to the scholarship fund. Why? Because that's what Sarah would have done.
So, if any of the nine of you who haven't donated would like to make a donation to this unique and worthy cause, pull out your pocketbook, make a check for $25 or more out to The Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship Fund, and sent it to:
Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship
c/o Ventura County Community Foundation
1317 Del Norte Road, Suite 150
Camarillo, California 93010
It's legit and you get a receipt for taxes if your gift is more than $25. Here's the website for the Ventura County Community Foundation, in case you don't believe me.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Monday, December 06, 2004
Hoohoodilly
I received an e-mail from an old Navy buddy, Geno, today. As with most things, it sparked a memory that I deem blogworthy.
Geno is a character. He looks like a cross between the bald bouncer on the Jerry Springer show and the monster in Goonies. Add to that gangster-style clothes, an ability to chug countless pints of beer, and a penchant for running around in his boxers in public and there's really no way you can't love him.
We met a few years back on a project at the Red Lake Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota. There were about 20 of us Navy folks working to put in the water and sewer lines for new homes at the reservation. We worked long hours and lived in a local hotel in the megalopolis of Bemidji. Lucky for us there was a bar at the hotel where we would congregate every night for bar food and beer.
Thing is, the women are a little different in a small northern Minnesota town. Not to say better or worse, just different - and not aware of the ways of the west. Of course, that didn't stop Geno from his usual antics and within a couple of weeks he had swapped at least spit with the entire female gene pool of Bemidji, excluding women missing more than three teeth and one holdout. The omnipresent cute bartender. I can't even remember her name anymore, I only remember the four words she uttered one night in the bar...
That night Geno was in fine form. He had just dropped his pants and was sauntering around the pool table in his boxer shorts, trying to impress said bartender. We patrons were experiencing one of those rare moments of silence in the bar during which jukebox muted itself to change selections, the billiard balls stood still as the players chalked their cues, the chatter was hushed as imbibers chugged, and life progressed in a muted fashion. Geno was seen heading for the bar, presumably for another beer when suddenly, the stunned and shrill voice of the bartender broke the silence and exclaimed "I saw Geno's Hoohoodilly!"
She must have liked the hoohoodilly as she eventually fell prey to the charms of Geno and he added another Bemidji notch to his belt.
Geno is a character. He looks like a cross between the bald bouncer on the Jerry Springer show and the monster in Goonies. Add to that gangster-style clothes, an ability to chug countless pints of beer, and a penchant for running around in his boxers in public and there's really no way you can't love him.
We met a few years back on a project at the Red Lake Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota. There were about 20 of us Navy folks working to put in the water and sewer lines for new homes at the reservation. We worked long hours and lived in a local hotel in the megalopolis of Bemidji. Lucky for us there was a bar at the hotel where we would congregate every night for bar food and beer.
Thing is, the women are a little different in a small northern Minnesota town. Not to say better or worse, just different - and not aware of the ways of the west. Of course, that didn't stop Geno from his usual antics and within a couple of weeks he had swapped at least spit with the entire female gene pool of Bemidji, excluding women missing more than three teeth and one holdout. The omnipresent cute bartender. I can't even remember her name anymore, I only remember the four words she uttered one night in the bar...
That night Geno was in fine form. He had just dropped his pants and was sauntering around the pool table in his boxer shorts, trying to impress said bartender. We patrons were experiencing one of those rare moments of silence in the bar during which jukebox muted itself to change selections, the billiard balls stood still as the players chalked their cues, the chatter was hushed as imbibers chugged, and life progressed in a muted fashion. Geno was seen heading for the bar, presumably for another beer when suddenly, the stunned and shrill voice of the bartender broke the silence and exclaimed "I saw Geno's Hoohoodilly!"
She must have liked the hoohoodilly as she eventually fell prey to the charms of Geno and he added another Bemidji notch to his belt.
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