One Year

A year ago today, I sat down at the computer and started writing a fun little family blog. I wanted something to string together far flung family and friends, and connect them to us. I wanted to take on Project 365, posting a picture a day. I wanted a little place to indulge my love of writing and, well, everyone has a blog, don't they?

Things didn't quite work out the way I'd planned. I changed directions a dozen times. I sucked at posting pictures. I found myself talking about my underwear and grief and things that had absolutely nothing, and absolutely everything, to do with our small lives. If I were to measure what I intended to do with what I actually did, then it's been a spectacular failure.

I couldn't be happier.

I have had more fun writing this blog, and (virtually) meeting so many interesting people, and being inspired to become a better writer, than maybe anything. Ever.

Thank you so much for your support. I am truly grateful.

And because I love you guys, here's a short story:

I used to travel extensively for work. I was in my very early 20's, childless, and The Husband was still The Boyfriend. It was a very long time ago.

(I start every story that involves illegal activity with that caveat.)

Sometimes, before a flight, I would catch a little buzz to make my in flight experience more pleasant. This would involve sitting in my car in the parking deck and smoking a little leafy green herb. It was my pre-pre-flight check. On this particular day, I toked it up, and by the time it was my turn to check in, I was feeling super mellow.

Until the woman asked, "Could you tell me what's in the tub?"

It was a large plastic bin, exactly the same one I had carried on a hundred other flights, containing exactly the same things it always did. None of which I could remember.

"Ummmmmmm." I said. "Ohhhhhhh."

"Ma'am? Could you tell me what's in the bin?"

"Yes. Sure. Yeah." I said. Just say something. Anything! "Ropes."

What the fuck? Did I just say ropes? She's going to think I'm some weirdo sex fiend, or a rock climber. Or a magician. Why did I say ropes?

But this was long before some woman stoned out of her mind and allegedly carrying a tub full of ropes would even raise an eyebrow. So she said "Okay." and handed me my boarding pass.

Here is a little fact about marijuana, if you're not familiar with the effects: everything is cool until something happens to harsh your mellow. And then it sucks. The whole ropes incident has made me paranoid. What if she knows that I am on drugs and is calling someone? What if I'm not supposed to be carrying ropes and they're searching my bags? What if they call my boss? What if they call my DAD?

By the time I reach the gate, I am almost in tears. The flight is full, and there are few seats available in the waiting area. I quickly sit down, determined to pull my shit together and get on the plane with no further incidents.

Until I notice the man. A seemingly normal businessman, reading the newspaper a few seats away from me. But, when I look up, he has folded the corner of the paper down and is looking at me. Intently. When he catches my eye, he does the most alarming thing - he winks.

There is only one explanation for this. I am being followed by the Feds. The airport authorities have alerted the FBI and I am under survellience. They've been waiting for years to pin something on me, ever since my ill fated volunteer efforts for Ross Perot, not to mention my Greenpeace sticker, or that picture of me and a Nelson Mandela cutout.

I go to the restroom, lock myself in a stall and pull out my cellular phone to call The Boyfriend. Do you remember when we called them 'cellular phones'? I carried it in my enormous purse, because it was the size of a small dog. I had to prop it up against the sanitary napkin trashcan to dial the numbers.

"Honey? I just want you to know that there might be trouble. It's the Feds. I told them I had ropes, and now they're watching me."

"Yeah. Did you smoke pot?" he yawned.

"Maybe a little. What should I do?"

"Don't be a dumbass, and stop smoking weed before you fly."

He never fails me.

A Ridiculous True Story With No Point or Moral.

When I was in the 5th grade, my Aunt Cookie, her husband D, and their Pekingese dogs, Moto and Toto, came to live with us. I still not sure the circumstances, but I was glad to have them there. Cookie was barely 5 feet, as round as she was tall, and wore an enormous red bouffant wig. She kept her wigs on styrofoam heads in her room, lined up on the dresser. Sometimes, she'd let me play with them. She'd also let me play with her extensive collection of notary embossers. It never occurred to me that it was unusual to have an extensive collection of notary embossers.

Her husband was a giant man, well over 6 feet, with Elton John glasses and questionable hygeine.

They were loud, they consistently showed bad judgment, and they drove my parents crazy.

I loved them.

During their brief stay with us, they convinced my mother to start a variety of home based businesses. She painted plaster statues of cowboys for awhile, stuff like this -

Then they bagged and sold peas. Was it peas? Maybe it was lima beans. I don't remember, but I do remember sitting at the kitchen table putting labels on bags. I'm not sure who bought them, or who would buy beans bagged in someone's kitchen by a 10 year old. Apparently, it wasn't a highly successful venture, as I'm not an heiress to a Legume Fortune.

They went through jobs like mad. The wig store. The Halloween store. The bean enterprise. And then, one day, they were just gone. My parents wouldn't answer questions, so I knew there had been a falling out. Several days later, Cookie and D showed up at my elementary school, to tell me they were sorry and they'd keep in touch.

I never saw them again.

A few weeks went by, and then the FBI started calling. Cookie and D had embezzled money from half a dozen companies from Oklahoma to North Carolina. The feds called every week, asking the same questions - have you seen them? Have you talked to them?

We had not.

The calls stopped and it wasn't until years later that we found out they'd been captured and sent to separate prisons in Texas.

When they were released, they found their way to Perkins, Oklahoma, and showed up unannounced at my Great Aunt's house. Family is family, even when they're criminals, so she invited them in for a meal. In the course of conversation, the subject of the Pekingese dogs came up. Poor Moto and Toto, it was revealed, has died within days of each other, while Cookie and D were incarcerated.

"Oh, that is too bad. I am so sorry." My auntie said.
"Yes, but they are always with us." Cookie replied.
"Of course, our dear pets are always in our hearts."
"No, Moto and Toto are always with us." and she pulled from her purse two small white boxes containing the cremated remains of the dogs.

That visit was the last time any of us heard from them.

If ever you are traveling through the Midwest and you run across a short, round woman with big red hair and the remains of two small dogs in her purse, tell her I said hello.

And in a completely unrelated note, my friend J. Rose from Cheeseblarg has a piece of her artwork being shown in New York City (New York City!), and is looking for sponsors to get her there. Watch her impassioned plea, and help her if you can, here:
Cheeseblarg Takes Manhattan