90 Minutes I Will Never Get Back

Every once in a while, Biggy will talk me into watching a movie with him against my better judgment--either a high-number sequel to a good movie (Saw) that was never equalled the second time, much less the sixth, or a terrible movie (Jackass) whose sequels cannot even be ranked against the original, or a movie that was so bad (The Waterboy, Team America: World Police), a sequel was never considered. I watch to be a good sport, to be his buddy, so he knows he can count on me even when things get unpleasant. And does he return the favor? No, he doesn't. He wouldn't go with me to watch Sex and the City, one or two; he refuses to watch Heartburn on TV, and he fell asleep during The Deer Hunter, which isn't even a chick flick.

So why did I let him talk me into THIS last night? Showers don't help; prayers don't work. My soul has been permanently damaged.


Never Goin' Back

Six years sober today, this from Karaoke Funeral:


I’m sitting on him in my living room chair,
his lap like a table where my bills pile up,
his lap a glossy stage I dance across,
and from it rises his big carpenter’s hand,
then down and into my shirt, he’s asking
if I’d have his child. Fat fucking chance,
I’m thinking. “I know all I need to know,”
he soothes as we’re watching PBS on the widespread
use of antidepressants; I’d rather pay a shrink
the hundred-plus dollars to whine about
my father’s floating penis, about that straw
perched on the lip of that tall drink, that olive
trembling in the bottom of a glass, and zombie dreams
starring my dead sister, grave-tight until twilight
when she appears, post-autopsy, offering up
odd pieces of herself. Here’s what Big Guy Lover
doesn’t know: Alcoholics take hostages.
He pulls my face up to his, his eyes deep
as disco, says, “Sweetie, I know you could never
be depressed, you smile too much.” I just grin
and shimmy over the hardwood, an unransomed
history aimed at his head.


First Day, Fifth Grade

Biggy, pretty much boohooing about how this was the last first day of elementary school, the first day of fifth grade, the first day of the last grade before middle school...got up extra early to make the instant pancakes, as always, which were not appreciated as much as they once were. Nor were the perfunctory snapshots for our cranky youngest child. The dogs, however, were as excited as ever to get to the bus stop.


New Sheriff in Town

So Lola spent yesterday afternoon at her Safety Patrol training session and came home sporting her new flair--cap, belt, giant binder (she's been upgraded from last year's clipboard). That's not all, though; they'll be getting their rain ponchos next week. Bright orange. She was just an ordinary patrol officer in fourth grade, but for fifth she's been promoted to Lieutenant; hence the binder.

Now she can issue warnings, citations, and detention hall slips, and she needs the larger ledger to keep track of the offending masses. She also has command over the lower officers, of course, and MUST hand out demerits if they forget any part of uniform or badge. She watched every episode of Mall Cops this summer, taking notes. School starts tomorrow, and we can all feel a little safer.


Convo with Georgia

Miss George is back in school, in Photography, let's just say VERY close to where I work, so she has occasion to pop into my office here and there to share what's on her mind. Yesterday, for instance:

Georgia: I really wish I didn't have to work tonight. I still have to shoot fruit--I'm thinking pomegranate, cut open all sloppy and gross looking, like awful lips-- sometime between when I get off tonight and six in the morning, when I'm meeting A to get sunrise shots.

TR: Rough schedule.

George (Brightening a bit): I did have time to get a Fit Shake, though.

TR(Obligatory question): How was it?

George: That GIRL made it. She's SUCH a bitch. They were out of big straws, only had little ones, which, of course, would sink down and get as lost as I am in Photoshop, and what good would that do me, so I asked if they had any more of the big ones, and she gave me a look like I was asking her to be my Maid of Honor. PLUS, she didn't fill the cup up. Terrible customer service. She should NOT be working with the public. I mean, neither should I, but if I'm not nice to people, I don't get tipped, and she's probably making about eight dollars an hour whether she's nice or not, and that inch in my cup that she didn't fill is the biggest part of the cup and that's significant. Fit Shakes cost over six bucks, and it should be mashed up against the lid. Oozing out even. It's not like she buys the acai herself.

TR: It's better when the guys make it. They usually blend too much and put the leftovers in a little cup for you to take with.

George: Exactly! And then I got out to my car and took a sip, and it wasn't even a Fit Shake. I don't know what it was, but I wasn't going to drink it. So I had to go BACK in and tell her. Then she screamed at the guy taking orders that he had PUT IT IN WRONG and glared at me while she made it again. NOW I have to go work the patio, and it's a hundred and twenty degrees out, so I'll be sweating like Fat Elvis.

TR: Come get a hug.

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