Fun with chemicals

During Tyoma's nap today, Mom helped me color my hair. It's less of an ordeal than when I do it myself . How sweet to have a loved one part your hair into tiny sections and squeeze thin  strips of bleach and dye onto it! I remembered the old days when Mom would color and occasionally perm my hair. One year we got a bad batch of perm so  the last six inches of my hair was fried. The post-haircut result was actually pretty cool. I had a totally bitchin' lion's mane for about four months. Another time a new brand of  "ash blonde" it turned green. I soaked my hair in castor oil for three hours to soak the color out. Worked great, smelled foul. Anyway, Mom's  meticulous nature is reflected in  her hair coloring practices. When Fontessa does my hair she whizzes through  like a frenetic chef demonstrating Ginsu knives at two a.m. She's an artist, working quickly,  you have to have mad skils to be a silk painter for the Bolshoi Theater. Mom is an engineer,  thoroughly inspecting sections for exact haircolor application, taking temperature, altitude and wind speed into consideration. Since I will be doing Mom's hair over the weekend, I wonder where I fit on the continuum. Heh. I already know.  I'd best go calibrate my altimeters and anemometers!!

A Face To Go With The Voice

I met with Olga today, liking her immediately. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, fresh faced and slavic featured, with long sandy hair pulled up in a bun. I hate to sterotype, but she did fit my idea of a Russian stong woman--sturdy, earthy and very sweet. Tyoma liked her immediately and got on well with her two daughters. Olga and her partner have one birth daughter apiece with the same father. The girls were sweet, but I confess that the four year old was quite a handful. If she can deal with Lizzie, Tyoma will be a peice of cake. We set up a schedule for a few times a week, two hours a day. We have our fingers crossed!

Poor Olga

I skipped Kindercare today to bring Tyoma to meet Olga and her two children. At 8:00 in the morning she called. Her mother had dangerously high blood pressure and was in the hospital, could we meet another time?

She was so genuine and refreshingly un-dramatic in an absolutely  terrfying situation. My affection for her grew.  Who wants to trust a drama queen with their kid? I took Tyoma out for Chick-Fil-a and looked longingly at the spring clothes at the mall. My butt is in that in-between size where the "comfy" clothes are too loose and the skinny clothes are circulation destroying.

The Phonecall

So, Sunday I worked up the nerve to call the Russian babysitter.

Originally, Tennisfiend was going to call (the message was posted in Russian, afterall), but he didn't feel comfortable talking to her. I argued that I didn't feel comfortable calling either. Then we had a laugh. No wonder Tyoma has social delays!

I was so nervous!!! I even wrote out a little script for the whole conversation. The only thing I didn't plan to ask her was the color of her parachute!!! I called.  I felt anxious and excited, pacing with my well thought-out list of twenty questions. Heh. When we chatted, I heard anxiety and excitement in her voice, too.

I crossed out fifteen questions on principle. Two questions later, I set up an appointment to meet her this Wednesday. Sometimes, you get a feeling from someone, a simpatico thing. Yeah. I liked her already. One thing mildly surprised me. When she first mentioned her "partner" I didn't get that she was gay. It took three more mentions before I understood.

The mild surprise? That I didn't get it in the first place. Probably because to me, such things don't matter. Which is cool. Actually, super cool for Tyoma since he gets lots of female nurturing--two moms, two daughters and a grandma!

Happy Birthday Mom, Here's Your Package (Not)

Picking out presents for my mom is crazy hard, but I feel proud of thinking of something good after three days of internet surfing. So, I order said presenent and arrange shipping so it reaches her on her birthday. In fact, the ups truck makes a stop, but no package is found on the front steps or anywhere around the house. My shipping info shows the package as delivered. If the package had been delivered to a neighbor, they would have dropped it off to her, unless, of course, they accidentally dropped it off at Irma's house.

Irma is in her eighties and (we think) has Alzhhiemers. It would be totally conceivable that she would accept the package and forget about it. Dad makes the neighborhood rounds and the package does not show up. I tell mom that I sent her a nice black leather purse and suggest she visit Irma and ask about it--Irma might have received it and thought it was for her. 

Mom visits Irma to ask if the package arrived by accident. Distress over the idea of a missing present,  Irma comes back to my mom's place three separate times, bringing my mom her old and worn purses. The forth time she comes over, Irma has a bloody nose from trying to crawl into her clothes dryer to look for mom's purse. Yikes. Mom wound up spending part of the afternoon calming Irma down.

Anyway, the present finally showed up. Someone stuffed it into my folks mailbox. Go figure!

ETA: For the next serveral weeks, Irma remembers the purse and makes random, wild eyed visits to my folks.

Aquarium Monday

We finally found a home for our aquarium!

E drove mom's disintegrating van to Robert's place to drop off our 55 gallon aquarium.  Mom's van is always full of ominous creaks, rattles and smells and driving without the A/C made the whole experience rather, unsettling.

Roberts place is a single wide trailer which he has gutted and plans to build anew.  Walls have been torn down and electronic fixtures dangle menacingly, giving the space a post-apocalypse feel. He plans to fit the floors and walls with lacquered plywood, stainless steel and glass for an ultra modern feel.  I wish him luck. This could take years.

But!  His home is on an acre of breathtaking land overlooking the mountains.  Personally, I think a few throw pillows and paper lanterns would suffice, his location is gorgeous!  Egor said if he even finished up half his space like he planned he could sell his place for a fortune.  I don't see it. Robert would host fabulous parties and everyone would come and worship him!

Snark?

 

Zonked Out

I was a big ole party pooper tonight. After shamelessly inviting myself to Ewbliette’s Friday night, I showed up, drank a glass of wine, gabbed halfheartedly and whizzed home. Earlier, I was so psyched to get out! I pretty much tossed the baby in the crib with one hand while picking up the car keys with the other. 

But the hot drive over made me drowsy, despite the blasting AC and blaring radio. After I arrived, I flopped down on the couch next to an overworked and exhausted Rodeyo. We mindlessly watched a re-run of Shrek on TBS, feeling sleepier by the second. Chuck joined us a few minutes later, enviably chipper. He sat between Rodeyo and me, making pleasant conversation. I perked up when I recognized that his manner of speaking was oddly familiar. He spoke with an uncommon clipped precision. His words were distinctly enunciated (especially the t’s and s’s) and the cadence of his speech strongly resembled--Crispin Glover! Joy!

I’ve run into Chuck about a half dozen times, but this was the first time that I really noticed him. A quiet, bespectacled member of the high IQ crowd (150), Chuck has genuine amber eyes that coordinate unexpectedly with his orange hair, which he wears braided tightly to the nape of his neck. He is lanky, mustachioed and dresses conservatively in chinos and a worn button-down shirts. Upon realizing that I was scrutinizing him, he became embarrassed and flustered. I quickly noted that his ancestors could have been Vikings, and politely moved my focus to the lovely glass of wine Ewbliette brought me.

With wine bottle in hand, Ewbliette and I retired to the back porch. She discussed her work as an accountant at NMSU, including the impending close of the fiscal year, complete with associated deadlines and psychotic co-worker reactions. Naturally, her work has been outrageously draining, and included several hours of additional work earlier this morning and afternoon. Poor tired girl!

Me, well, I was sooo zonked. The baby is teething and I am coping with the psychological effects the dual loss of our television (broken!) and my computer (Tennisfiend decided to host his Russian DVD festival on my computer)! Usually the hub of great conviviality, the back porch turned into a scene from Shaun of the Dead.

So, Ewbliette looked at me and I looked at her and we simultaneously decided to get together later, when we had more energy. Sometimes you just need to breathe the same air as your best friend and then go home and sleep. Ironically, we both perked up as she walked me to my truck, chatting amiably for several minutes. The subject of Chuck came up. She said “You know what surprised me about him? He’s only 21 years old!” To which I replied, “Whaa?!” Maybe it’s the mustache or slightly receding hairline, but I would have sworn he was in his early thirties. Whoa.

More Snow!

Yes, Virginia, it really does snow in Las Cruces! Photo compliments of AI Visions.

We woke up to about four inches of snow today, but didn't bother to take any pics. Please content yourself with this lovely picture of our friend A.K.'s upscale digs. He dragged himself out of bed early and assembled an impressive quantity of camera gear while the rest slept in and drank hot chocolate.

At about eleven o'clock this morning, our neighbor Sioux's mom, Peggy, dropped by. She house-sat while her daughter traveled on business for the weekend. Peg had locked her self out of the house while taking some photos of her own. Poor Peggy shivered in the cold , slushy rain or twenty minutes, turning over icy rocks, looking for the one with the key in it until she realized that her son was the one with the hidden key.

We wound up calling a locksmith, who took two hour to get here (busy day!). In the interim, I quizzed her about her life. What an interesting woman. Peg, an Australian, was a nurse in the (Korean?) war when she met her husband who was a wounded pilot. After they married, the two of them traveled just about everywhere--Sumatra, Saudi Arabia, China, Japan, and Fiji. I asked if the travel was military related, but she said no. I think her husband was a commercial pilot, so that accounts for most of the travel, Peg worked at a local hospital for fifteen years as a head nurse until she retired three years ago.

Since then she has been taking horticultural classes for pleasure at the university and plans acquire the title of "Master Gardener" via coursework and special certifications. She doesn't plan to open up a business or work, she simply enjoys gardening and I suspect that the prestige of being a "Master Gardener" tickles her pink. At last I understand why Sioux has the most velvety green lawn in sight.

Construction Worker Surprise

A few days ago I was torn away from work by the sound of Misty’s “Intruder!!!” bark. Stomping around importantly behind our property, two workmen measured and marked with stakes and flags. The attractive tall blond one noticed me and shouted incomprehensibly, waving. This drove Misty into a saliva-spaying apoplectic fit. While I held her back, the blond fellow continued to talk. Distracted by Misty’s writhing and snarling, I had to ask him to repeat himself, twice.

I finally realized that the poor fellow had a dreadful stammer. I did not want to embarrass him further, so I only half understood what was said. Someone was going to do something to our telephone pole this Saturday.

Saturday morning after Tennis Fiend left to conquer the scoundrels from Silver City in a charity tennis match, I put my hair up in hot rollers and made tea. At 9:20 the doorbell rang. Expecting a generic construction worker I nonchalantly answered the door. Apparently, El Paso Electric hires workmen based entirely on physical beauty. “Manny,” as his name tag read, was a dead ringer for Christian Bale.

He smiled warmly and said, “Miss, we need access to your back yard to…..” I don’t even remember what he said, except he called me “Miss.” It was my turn to stammer, “Uhnhh, sure. I-I-I’ll go unlock the, uhhhh, back gate.” Immediately I went to the bathroom and wiped off the three white dots of Oxy-10 speckling my face and tossed a towel over my rollers. Sheesh.

Our back yard was then invaded by the handsomest work crew I have ever seen. Tall, athletic, and graced with perfect teeth, Manny’s three co-workers smiled and smiled. They smiled at me, they smiled at my astonished neighbor Sioux and they even smiled at Misty, barking at the window. Aware of their effect on womankind, the quartet enjoyed their moment with panache. As they strutted about their business, I almost expected them to take off their shirts and do a little dance for us.

Twenty minutes later as I washed dishes, I heard Sioux laughing girlishly--she had made coffee for everyone and was chatting up Michael Vartan. The downside of the Electric Company visit was a day without power. I should lament our culture’s dependence on electricity and fossil fuel, or even my own unhealthy addiction to the internet and Comcast cable, but I haven’t the heart. Instead I reflect on how delightful and silly it is to be human.

SURPRISE!!!

Click on a photo for a larger view 
Rodoyo enhances Ewbliette's dignity with bunny ears.
Rodoyo stifles a laugh while enjoying his homemade desert pizza.
A fellow Werner Herzog fan, Klaus traditionally follows his Thanksgiving dinner with "Aguirre, Wrath of God."
Brad Dourif's long lost younger brother showed up for pizza, Kalua and a roll of flying paper towels.
Our Den Mother and reality check matron, Razzy.
Yours truly.Last night we threw a surprise birthday party for Ewbliette. Her sweetie, brotherkurt began party planning two weeks ago, delighting Rodoyo and I immeasurably. Shopping with him this Tuesday was a riot, I laughed so much my bladder is still weak. Big Lots will never be the same again.

After buying last minute decorations, I realized that mylar balloon manufacturers must have a perverted sense of humor. Strategically placed on the balloon’s abdomen, the air valve resembled a perky pastel penis. If the religious right finds out, my amateur photos might gain notoriety on Fox News as an example of the debauchery and godlessness amongst New Mexican partygoers.
Anyway, never underestimate the decorating powers of duct tape, wrapping paper, rocks and shiny ribbons. Guided by Rodoyo, our decorating squad transformed Brother Kurt’s home into a purple and silver paradise (sadly, my decoration pics never turn out.

We were so efficient that we finished decorating twenty minutes early. Then we theorized how to maximize the surprise factor for Ewbliette. But before we had a chance to take our shirts off and paint letters on our bellies, their car pulled up in the driveway, so we hid instead. I am pleased to report that we did more than surprise her; we managed to startle her into an involuntary terrified shriek.

I’ll leave the remaining exciting details for Ewbliette to recount (she will probably be incommunicado till Tuesday). So here’s a few snap shots, feel free to stir up trouble by alerting your local relgious fanatics.

Stomps and Goths

This is Friday’s entry. I’ve been having trouble posting on lj since then.

In November, some of my favorite people celebrate birthdays. Ewbliette birthday is next Friday and Clark-mas observes his birthday four days later. Today, I took my friend Jimmi(named after her father since her parents so wanted a boy) to lunch for her birthday. Our last get-together was this summer when she retold our story to a barnyard full of incredulous friends gathered to celebrate her Master’s Degree matriculation.

We first encountered each other when she began dating my unofficial brother, Louie, the boy next door. A nod and a handshake at his folk’s Saint Patrick’s Day Green Beer Party was the extent of our acquaintance. Back at high school we favored totally different cliques.
Jimmi was a “Stomp” (cowboy/cowgirl) whereas I was a “Goth.” We never socialized. In fact, our peers regarded each other with a mixture of distrust and disdain.

The only people our tiny Goth crowd scorned as much as the Jocks were the Stomps. Stomps were easier targets, so we mocked them whenever we could. A favorite activity included a synchronized and aptly timed humming of the Deliverance battling banjos theme. Our outrageous costumes and equally outrageous antics were a great source of hilarity for the Stomps, although we considered their humor to be lowbrow and uninspired.

Louie announced his engagement to Jimmi at a block party the summer after graduation. I attended sans make up and fishnets because it was HOT. I nodded and shook hands with her again.

Louie and Jimmi married that December, scandalizing everyone. Entire families prognosticated failure, despair and poverty since they married without attending college. I felt sorry for the couple, and hoped they would prove everyone wrong.

A year and a half later, I spotted Jimmi in my Chemistry Class. She sat in the very back row with a few Stomp buddies, and amiably joked with them about my paleness, wondering aloud if I was vitamin D deficient (I was flattered by her observation). I impassively stalked by her cowboy posse to the distant front row, where I sat with my two scruffy but exceptionally intelligent biker buddies, smirking since I blew the curve on our recent chemistry test.

That Saturday, Louie contacted me—Jimmi was failing Algebra for the third time in a row, and none of the tutors at the University Learning Center had been able to help her. Would I spend an hour tutoring her this Sunday? Sure. One hour turned into five as I realized that Timmy was dyslexic.

Since I am also dyslexic, I shared my problem solving strategies with her. It worked. Ecstatic, she called later that week to report that she received her first 80% on a math exam ever

For the next several Sundays I tutored her and her grades improved so dramatically that she was able to convince her instructor to let her retake her failed tests. Then one Thursday as I descended the stretch of steps to the front row in Chemistry class I heard a familiar voice wise-cracking, “She’s the last person who should be drinking a Diet Coke, get this woman a REAL Coke!” (I was then Kate Moss thin).

I turned around, and beamed a smile as white as my face, “Jimmi! Hey!” I waved and hesitated briefly before walking over. It took a moment for her to connect the voice of the Friendly Neighborhood Tutor to the features of the Spooky Goth Chick. As unbelievable as it seems, she had not realized that we were the same person. At our lessons I was fresh scrubbed with glasses and pigtails, at school I was painted black with stilettos and glam hair. I introduced myself to her stupefied buddies and shared a laugh with Jimmi, who was absolutely mortified over teasing me. Although amused by the situation, I didn’t gloat. Part of looking different means enduring taunts with dignity and a bit of pride.

Phone Service Down!

This week I’ve been very busy with work, so when the phone lines went down yesterday, I took a self –imposed break. Not that the internet is 100% of my work, but my current project involves research, which is more conveniently pursued online.

Regrettably, my brain remained in work mode so my favorite diversions seemed unappealing. Thus began the cleaning frenzy. I vacuumed every room. I vacuumed the window ledges, baseboards, corners and all the secret places where dust bunnies collect. I vacuumed ceiling fan blades, refrigerator coils and kitchen drawers. I was just about to drag my vacuum across the street to thoroughly clean Green Peace Lady’s house when the telephone repairman arrived.

I answered the door with a cheerful flourish. About twenty-two, with reddish hair and clear pale skin, the telephone repairman was a twin of the actor who played in Napoleon Dynamite (out of character). I was surprised by the similarity, and on the verge of saying something foolish, when I noticed he was blushing. Immediately, I assumed that I opened the door in my underwear and did a quick check (at times I am too unselfconscious for my own good). My tee shirt and shorts were intact, unstained and right-side out.

Still blushing and avoiding eye contact, the repairman left to spend the next two hours tracking down and repairing the problem--a broken line caused by construction behind us. Before I settled down to watch a taped marathon of Mummy Detectives, I checked myself in the bathroom mirror. No crusty dangling boogers or unnoticed enormous pimples. I certainly discounted the notion that the repairman was overcome by my stunning beauty, but I left the bathroom feeling slightly flattered.

Russian Karaoke

I love presents in the mail. This Thursday, we welcomed packages from Seattle and Russia. The Seattle package was mailed by my good buddy ; he sent me two DVD-Rs of splendid screen caps. Whee! I hope to reply in kind with some unusual screen-savers, non-blurry icons, or even a few screen-caps of my own. If I find a movie featuring toads, I will dispatch a DVD-R full of toad-caps, plus my most elegant toad inspired poetry and prose. Yay!

DVD title: Drunken Fun

The Russian package which arrived for contained three DVDs of Russian Karaoke hand picked by his mom. Tennis Fiend was as thrilled as a ten year old boy, complete with jumping and hand waving. He tore the wrapping off the most colorful DVD, popped it in the player and ratcheted up the volume. Immediately, I recalled the difference between American karaoke and Russian karaoke: accordions. DVD one was folk music, which primarily consisted of accordion music, with a balalaika (lap harp) and a synthesizer.

 Happily and heartily, E sang along. Misty accompanied him with her squeaky toy since accordions put her in a crazy killer-dog frenzy. Thirty minutes later, the dog exhausted herself and Tennis Fiend frowned at the television.

He paused the DVD and called me over, “Watch this.” The sad melody of a classic Russian song about a deadly winter quivered through the speakers. Lyrics describing endless despair and suffering flickered across the bottom of a screen featuring… a sandy beach and frolicking sunbathers! My jaw dropped. We spent the next twenty minutes searching for tragic songs and watching their cheerful accompanying video.

It was as if the video tech had a perverse sense of humor, deliberately showing couples as the lyrics expressed heartbreak and loneliness and pairing themes of wartime suffering with splendid Mediterranean villas. Eventually Tennis Fiend concluded that no such conspiracy existed, since the video was uniformly merry throughout all 120 karaoke songs. He theorized that the karaoke audience must be drunken middle-class Russians who frequent Mediterranean cruise ships while on vacation. Thus, tipsy revelers could enjoy their karaoke even more by shouting out, “I’ve been there!” when they identify a Greek island or “Hey, that’s me!” when they recognize their sunburned self at St. Tropez. Personally, I prefer believing that some wry, sardonic person is out there, poking a bit of fun at us all.

Nukestock Shots

I am pleasantly surprised that a few photos from Nukestock turned out. Unfortunately, I was unable to do justice to the spectacular decorations created by Robert, Delphine, Mukor and company. Enjoy!

Mukor (L), our host as Baby Cthulu and as the Dead C.

Lizard and Countessa Light.

's lovely fiancee, . What great hair! has requested her to be my future wig consultant.

with sparkler. I was so entranced by folks playing with sparklers that I took a dozen photos, but this is the only one that turned out. Despite the number of red wigs at the party, Nirik's locks are all natural (envy, envy!). BTW, he makes excellent mead.

Pastafarians unite! The Flying Spaghetti Monster has finally arrived!!

Chris, forlorn without his Romanian sweetheart.

Rrrraaawr! The Dead C is mighty pissed that I drank her Mimosa!

Yours truly as the Red C. I should actually call this the the Traveling Costume. The top traveled north, the skirt cruised towards the equator and the cape voyaged into the back of my red fishnet tights! Thank heavens for Ewbliette's sharp eyes!!!

Vacation: Avoiding the Crowd

Day One, After Dinner*
I love the intimacy of a bed and breakfast. The monstrous sameness and corporate efficiency of major hotels is depersonalizing and often the only choice for travel. When available, I prefer someone’s quaint residence to a decorated industrial cubicle, especially when prices are comparable.
However, drawbacks exist. I noticed that many people use bed and breakfasts as social vehicles. When I entered the living room to connect my laptop to the only available phone line, a wall of eyes greeted me. Glistening with anticipation, eight eyes followed me across the room. No one spoke, but I could feel that a few pairs of eyes were ready to have their owners re-arrange furniture so I could sit in on the "Hello, where are you from?" conversation.
On occasion, I love to hang out, be chatty, goofy and sociable with like-minded folk. Nevertheless, my internal introvert clock eventually sounds and I must escape and do about twelve crossword puzzles. I don’t dislike people; I just prefer them in limited doses. After a six-hour drive, I sought the comforting remoteness of the Internet, not in-your-face pleasantries. I imagine I will avoid the living room for the rest of our stay.
* Since we had no Internet hook up, and my entries are backlogged on paper I’ll post my trip entries in a screwed up chronology until I get caught up.

Uncle Leopold

Everyone has a clinically insane family member. I've had five. Today is the birthday of my favorite schizophrenic relative, Uncle Leopold. Ever seen Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory? Add guns, flying saucers and forty pounds and you have Uncle Leo.

Since he lived in New Mexico, he would visit us occasionally. Arriving unannounced to see mother while father was at work, he would be dressed in army fatigues and armed to the teeth. Mom always insisted he unload his guns during a visit. One time he refused. She quietly hustled me out the back door and sent me to a neighbor. Daddy came home early that day and had a quiet, brief talk with Uncle Leo. When I was summoned home, a weeping Uncle Leo apologized to me for making our home "a scary place."

I felt very sorry for him--a quiet talk with my Dad was much scarier to me than Uncle Leo and a boatload of guns. From then on, Uncle Leo usually called before visiting and never brought guns into the house. Despite my parent’s concerns, I unabashedly adored Uncle Leo. He always brought me strange gifts, like pretty polished stones with supernatural properties or odd homemade stuffed toys with intricately embroidered faces.

Nevertheless, the best part of an Uncle Leo visit was his stories. Amazing, bizarre and a little incomprehensible, his tales of adventure and persecution entranced me. My mother issued a disclaimer with every visit, stating that Uncle Leo’s stories were as fictional as Grandmam’s ghost stories. In my mind, his sincerity outweighed Grandmam's theatrics. My beloved Uncle Leo definitely laid the foundations for my own enduring love of eccentrics and peculiar characters.

When I was a teenager, Uncle Leo shot himself dead. He believed that the CIA had covertly broken into his home and infected him with cancer. By his bedside was a yellow legal pad, which logged his temperature and bodily functions. Other inscriptions related his final paranoid theories and resoluteness. His last despondent words were printed in black felt ink: "Cleansers not working. Will not suffer."

Sadly, the medical examiner said the vast quantities of "cleansers," (i.e. bone meal/vitamins) he took greatly contributed to the sickness he believed to be cancer. If only we knew. The first several weeks after Uncle Leo died, my parents spent their weekends sorting through the vast accumulation of junk in his home. They found an impressive variety of knives, firearms and ammunition.

It took three gun shows at bargain basement prices to sell off his stash. Uncle Leo's home had been intricately booby-trapped, resulting in a minimal clean-up effort after his suicide. My folks experienced many harrowing moments during their excavation of his property, including the disposal of a locked and chained refrigerator, which appeared to be wired for explosives.

Because the wires dead-ended in a closet, they used a mattress to protect themselves as they pried it open. Inside was a large steel firebox containing a single head of cabbage. The aftermath of Uncle Leo’s suicide reverberated through out house for almost a year.

My mother blamed herself for not recognizing his mental decline or foreseeing his suicide. My father, who had met my mother by being Uncle Leo’s roommate, sympathized with her greatly and carried his own burden of guilt.

I was numb for a month, and then I started demolishing things. My telephone was the first casualty, followed by old electronic stuff in the garage that my parents would never miss. I found peace the weekend my parents brought home the final truckload of his salvageable possessions. Tired and hassled, my mother instructed to me remove boxes of Uncle Leo’s vinyl collection from the U-Haul; I could either keep them or put them on the curb for the garbage-man.

Of course, I kept them. He had a comprehensive collection of baroque music and an assortment of authentic Tiki Lounge, including most of Yma Sumac’s albums. As I sorted through the records, I was amused and saddened by his printed commentary on the albums. He believed that Baroque music was curative and that Yma Sumac was a benevolent alien goddess (Oddly enough, I have reached similar conclusions). Playing a crackled version of Gluck’s Orpheo, some little mechanism turned inside me. I had reached the famous final stage of grief.

Mr. D. and Oxygen Tank Man

As I was frightening the koi with the leaf blower, the phone rang in the distance (I have the phone volume set on "startle" since I blast the stereo when E is not home). It was Ewbliette, who explained that she wasn’t feeling her best and a convenient scheduling change allowed her to get off work early--so I should come over now! We scrapped our movie plans and I stopped by the local gourmet store to purchase goodies. I picked up sushi, chocolate and two bottles of chocolate beer. Yep. Chocolate Beer--or "Stout," to be more accurate.

If you’ve never had Chocolate Stout, I warn you, it’s an acquired taste. Ewbliette took a sip, raised her eyebrows, and said, "Olives. It tastes like black olives." Have you ever realized how much enjoyment comes from the texture of a food? We love black olives. But fizzy, liquid black olives? Not so much.

The sushi was one step above the supermarket variety, very tasty but not delectable. We filled our little bowls with soy sauce and squeezed in generous helpings of vivid green wasabi paste. Yow. The two of us are natives of New Mexico--the "Chile Capitol of the World." We smirk at the hot on hot sauce bottles. We will not smirk at those who consume sushi with murky green soy sauce puddles. It was hot--so hot that the capillaries in my face burst and evaporated the tears streaming from my eyes. Yow.

Our only recourse was to dump massive quantities of Kikkoman into our wasabi bowls. After the third dousing, our bowls were brimming with liquid. Ewbliette laughed, and exclaimed, "Look, Wasabi Kool-Aid!" This cracked me up so completely, I’m still giggling.

We chased the sushi with real chocolate and fed the VCR The Nightmare Before Christmas. Since we’ve both seen it a thousand times, we can sing along with gusto, but I guess the wasabi ordeal exhausted us, so the singing was only half-hearted. After the movie, we parted, agreeing that tomorrow’s swimming party would be the most outrageous, energetic spectacle we’d enjoyed since we absconded overnight to Deming to view the August meteor showers.

Clarke-mas

>

Ewbliette and I have been friends since college when we met at an on-campus work study job. One overcast day, we were monotonously filing GRE scores when the subject of a mutual acquaintance’s suicide came up. The young woman ended her life by running a car in her mother’s garage. Since I was friendly with the girl before she switched to Ewbliette’s high school, I had a clear impression of her. She was a dramatic, but very popular person. So I asked Ewbliette, "God, where were her friends?"

Ewbliette replied, "Well, they certainly weren’t in her garage." Shocked by her own candor, her eyes widened (was she formulating an apology?). Before she could comment, I laughed. And laughed a little bit more. The world is too terrible to do anything but laugh when you can.

We became instant best buddies, now and then sneaking off early from work to drink mudslide cocktails behind A mountain. I wish I had a tape recorder--our afternoons were so hilarious. As a matter of fact, she is one of the funniest people I have ever met. She has more than mere wit, she has an uncanny knack for absurd observations and incongruous connections. Salvador Dali meets Mitch Hedberg.

I remember overnights at Ewbliette’s with great fondness. I lived at home (cheaper) and was therefore awed by the idea of having a place to yourself. The smell of her home was a mixture of "somebody might have smoked here once, long ago" and books. If you walked through her door, you would have the sensation that you were in a well loved but overlooked bookstore. The only thing missing was a string of bells on the door handle. Funny, even today I always leave her place with an armful of books. Old habits die hard.

After graduation, Ewbliette’s work relocated her several times throughout the country. Ultimately, she said, "Screw this," and returned to New Mexico. Once again, she lives in an awesome place--an authentic adobe home in a historic settlement just outside of city limits. As if that is not cool enough, her neighbors raise roosters. Roosters! I love, love, love, the racket they make! Perhaps I could attribute my affection to the countless pleasant evenings I’ve spent listening to them crow.

Aside from gobbling nachos and gabbing endlessly on her back porch, the two of us do the usual girl stuff--lunch, dinner, movies, and shop, shop, shop. In general, we get stares because we are too loud, too happy, and too silly. When we are not scandalizing various sales associates with our outrageous commentary or deafening fellow restaurant patrons, we cast runes, review tabloids, take long spontaneous drives, and discuss the evils of spiders. Everybody should have a friend like Ewbliette!

Patricia, AKA Ewbliette

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Ewbliette and I have been friends since college when we met at an on-campus work study job. One overcast day, we were monotonously filing GRE scores when the subject of a mutual acquaintance’s suicide came up. The young woman ended her life by running a car in her mother’s garage. Since I was friendly with the girl before she switched to Ewbliette’s high school, I had a clear impression of her. She was a dramatic, but very popular person. So I asked Ewbliette, "God, where were her friends?"

Ewbliette replied, "Well, they certainly weren’t in her garage." Shocked by her own candor, her eyes widened (was she formulating an apology?). Before she could comment, I laughed. And laughed a little bit more. The world is too terrible to do anything but laugh when you can.

We became instant best buddies, now and then sneaking off early from work to drink mudslide cocktails behind A mountain. I wish I had a tape recorder--our afternoons were so hilarious. As a matter of fact, she is one of the funniest people I have ever met. She has more than mere wit, she has an uncanny knack for absurd observations and incongruous connections. Salvador Dali meets Mitch Hedberg.

I remember overnights at Ewbliette’s with great fondness. I lived at home (cheaper) and was therefore awed by the idea of having a place to yourself. The smell of her home was a mixture of "somebody might have smoked here once, long ago" and books. If you walked through her door, you would have the sensation that you were in a well loved but overlooked bookstore. The only thing missing was a string of bells on the door handle. Funny, even today I always leave her place with an armful of books. Old habits die hard.

After graduation, Ewbliette’s work relocated her several times throughout the country. Ultimately, she said, "Screw this," and returned to New Mexico. Once again, she lives in an awesome place--an authentic adobe home in a historic settlement just outside of city limits. As if that is not cool enough, her neighbors raise roosters. Roosters! I love, love, love, the racket they make! Perhaps I could attribute my affection to the countless pleasant evenings I’ve spent listening to them crow.

Aside from gobbling nachos and gabbing endlessly on her back porch, the two of us do the usual girl stuff--lunch, dinner, movies, and shop, shop, shop. In general, we get stares because we are too loud, too happy, and too silly. When we are not scandalizing various sales associates with our outrageous commentary or deafening fellow restaurant patrons, we cast runes, review tabloids, take long spontaneous drives, and discuss the evils of spiders. Everybody should have a friend like Ewbliette!