Define 'Extra'

          This past week, I received a text message from my sister of a dump truck with it's bed in the 'up' position, like it was actively dumping it's load.  I was wondering what purpose there was to sharing this with me, when I noticed there were power lines running across the windshield and a utility truck sitting in the road to the immediate right.
          Apparently, the driver of this truck was unaware his bucket (?) was still up when he drove through the bustling metropolis of Vega, Texas, taking with him most of the power lines and the one red light.  Yes, they just have the one.  And it's not a real red light; it just flashes letting you know there is a Dairy Queen and a Subway nearby, I guess.  I'm not sure why they even have it other than Vega is a town on Route 66, which was a big deal back in the day but hasn't really been relevant since the 1980s, somewhat like Steely Dan, Care Bears or Larry King.
          Consequently, the power was knocked out to the entire town, and by that I mean, the 25 houses and two churches, of which one is inhabited by The Dad.  Of course, I'm not talking about the church because he hasn't been to one of those since I bribed him with pancakes back in 2012 when he lived with me.  It was Presbyterian.  They weren't having a potluck lunch.  He has not returned.
          When my sister got to her house, she found The Dad sitting on the front porch, sweating like a field hand (because it's Texas and it's 138 degrees in the shade until sometime nearer Halloween) but smiling.  Knowing he had missed his lunch because the restaurant that makes the meals for Meals on Wheels had lost power and hesitant to engage with a hungry Dad, she said, "Whatcha doin' on the porch?"
          The Dad said, "Oh, some poor fella knocked out the power so I came outside.  I can't read in the dark."
          Still thinking he hadn't eaten she asked, "What did you eat for lunch?"
          He said, "That's the best part.  I got two lunches!"
          She questioned, "What do you mean, two lunches?"
          Looking at her like she was 'slow', he said, "Just what I said.  The Sheriff came by with a lunch and then the Meals on Wheels lady came by with lunch.   So I got two lunches today."
          She said, "Did you ask why they brought you two lunches?"
          He stared at her and said, "Why would I do that?  If somebody hands you food, you take it.  I don't care why they brought it."
          She called her friend Jaylie and found out that when the power went out and the restaurant that makes the lunches for Meals on Wheels and the prisoners at the county jail couldn't cook, the Sheriff drove to the next town and bought BBQ for the prisoners.  Because he knew the Meals on Wheels wouldn't have any food, he also bought food for their customers and delivered it.  Of course, he knew who got Meals on Wheels and who didn't as there are about 24 people in Vega, y'all.  For real.
          Meanwhile, the restaurant found that it had enough provisions to make sandwiches, with fruit and chips and, not knowing that the Sheriff was delivering food, completed their normal delivery route.  It was brought to their attention, not by The Dad, that the Sheriff had already brought meals, so The Dad got an extra lunch.
          My sister, thinking that he still had some of the food, said, "Well, good.  Since you have the extra lunch, I can eat that for supper and I won't have to cook."
          The Dad said, "I don't have any extra food.  What are you talking about?"
          She said, "The extra lunch.  I'll eat it for supper."
          The Dad stared at her and said, "They brought me two lunches so I ate two lunches.  It's what you do when somebody delivers lunch.  You eat it at lunch."
          She stared and said, "But they gave you two."
          He said, "I know.  I ate both of 'em.  For lunch."
         She laughed and said, "Well, you must be full."
         He patted his belly and said, "Yep.  It was a good lunch."
         She sat down in the chair beside him and after a few minutes he turned to her and asked, "What's for supper?"

Sprint Made Me Fat

          Recently, I have been searching for a new cell phone carrier.  I currently have Sprint and they are the absolute worst.  I have used AT&T and they are pricey and the rest of them are just about the same I can tell you.  I haven't been happy with cell service since AT&T bought Cingular in 20whatever.  Cingular used to be great.  I had cell reception with Cingular in the bathroom of my sister's house in the Hill Country of Texas, when she had to drive down the road a half-mile just to talk on her cell phone.  Seriously.
          The reason I am on the search is that Sprint's service is laughably bad.  I live in Long Beach, CA, a city of 500,000 people, in Los Angeles County which is the 2nd most populous place in America, y'all.  I am not in the boonies.  I am straight up in the city limits.  Seal Beach, CA is a fancy little town about 27 inches from Long Beach, literally starting at the order of Orange County.
           Whenever I am in Seal Beach bargain shopping at the Home Goods or Marshall's or simply trying to buy groceries and sundries at Target or Ralph's, which is their version of Piggly Wiggly, I am unable to make diet-conscious decisions because the cell reception is nil and I cannot access my Weight Watcher app, which shows me what foods I should and should not be eating.  I take my phone and use the camera as a scanner on the bar code and it gives me the info to make good choices, like knowing that the Whole Wheat Ritz Crackers are the least number of WW points, which makes sense because they are the least delicious.
           However, when I am standing in the parking lot of a shopping center in the city limits of Orange County, I get no signal.  Based on my cell reception, you would think I was in a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine with Clementine's Daddy; she of "Oh My Darlin'..." fame song.  Google it, youngsters.
          And I'm not talking about a weak signal, you know the one that messes with you, making you slowly move, twisting your body into weirder and more painful positions, while its showing one bar , then two bars, then one bar, then four bars, then one bar again, leaving you all twisted like a Cirque du Soleil dancer, who got stuck mid-performance.  I'm talking about no signal.  Where it literally shows on your phone, where the little bars should be, the statement "No Signal".
          How is that even possible?  I mean, Sprint is a nationwide company, with many customers.  Am I the only one with No Service in LA County?  I can sell you an overpriced phone and offer you no signal using the cooking utensils in my kitchen.  And I would do it for much less money.
          Plus, it's Sprint's fault that I'm fat, which is ironic because sprint is something that my old kick boxing coah used to try to make me do until I whooped him down during my last class.  And by whooped him down I mean, I lay on the floor, cried a little and then cancelled my gym membership.            And I need my WW app, y'all.  When I can't access my little 'getting skinny' app at the store, I end up buying things like Doritos and Oreos and Pumpkin Cream Cheese.  Are these things fattening?  Are they WW approved?  Who knows?  Well, my WW app knows, but I can't access it, so now I'm fat. All because of Sprint.
          So, I'm looking for advice on the best cell service to help me lose weight.  But only from the skinny people.  And by skinny, I mean, skinnier than me.
          Bless y'all.  Bless all y'all.    

Unfortunately They Charge Per Pound

          Ben and I are planning our honeymoon to the Philippines in November and we began the search for airline tickets.  Having no frame of reference for traveling in Southeast Asia, I had announced that I was flying Business Class at the minimum because I was not about to fly Coach for the 15-17 hours it takes to get from Los Angeles to Manila.  The exchange rate from pesos (Philippine currency) to dollars is 51:1, so at first I thought the prices were in pesos.  When I realized they were in dollars I was nonplussed, to say the least.  I won't tell you the price, but suffice it to say, that the cost of two round trip tickets would get you an acre of land in central Illinois or a 2010 Toyota Corolla, with high mileage.
         After drinking 64 oz. of Diet Snapple Peach Iced Tea, to get over my shock and dismay, I decided to check the price for Fed-Ex to mail us in the same, or if less expensive, separate boxes.  Unfortunately, they charge per pound, unlike those "If I Fits, It Ships" boxes from the Post Office.  Ben's box would have been very inexpensive as he is about as big as a minute.  On the other hand, the cost for my ample body (almost as many minutes as in that song from 'Rent') was on par with a Coach ticket and, although I do not relish the experience, I would rather be the one who decides how to abuse my body, as opposed to the unfulfilled, and therefore angry, shipping conglomerate employee.
         So, we are flying Coach with the tacky masses; meaning both poorly attired as well as sticky from Lord only knows what.  Therefore, I must invest in some sort of chemical combination to help me sleep the fourteen and a half hours it will take to fly non-stop from CA to Manila.  Anybody have suggestions for non-alcoholic, non-illegal, non-prescription methods to sleep while traveling?  Seems like my only options might be a combination of Melatonin, despair and/or airline snacks.  Can a Stroopwaffle act as a sedative?
         And like the Right Reverend Robert Tilton would say, Pray, send money or both.  Blessed be, y'all.

Like David and Goliath except with Quarters

               In the 1980s, there were times when I was poor.  To be fair, I was always poor, what with child labor laws in the America.  My parents were sometimes poor and sometimes well off, depending on the quirks of the oil business.  Regardless of our financial situation I was always taught to help people in a way that would minimize their embarrassment, should it come to that.

                I was in 7^th grade and as an active member of the Bogata Baptist Church Youth Group, I was all about Jesus-related Baptist activities, like eating and I loved, LOVed, LOVED to go on trips to eat somewhere besides the fellowship hall at the church or the Tip Top, which was the one restaurant in Bogata.  I rarely got to eat anywhere other than Waynette’s Kitchen, where you ate what the chef prepared because she was my Mom and wasn't having any backtalk, but the best food was that found in other cities, mostly because it required travel.  To my ‘have only lived in the boonies self” anywhere else was preferable to here, no matter where ‘here’ was located.  And curiosity was my primary motivator as my need to go everywhere overrode the fact that I was prone to carsickness when I wasn’t driving.  And at age 12, I wasn’t driving…on the highway.  Driving a hay truck in the fields was just something you did as long as you were old enough to reach the gas and clutch; whatever age that was.  For me, it had been 11; 9 for my extraordinarily tall cousin Jody.  

                This Sunday night trip was to a nearby larger town called Clarksville.  We were going to the Pizza Something (Inn, Hut, Shack, Lean-to, I don’t remember), and were to be chaperoned by our new Youth Minister and his wife.  I will not give their real names as they may still live in America and I don’t want to shame them with this true story, so let’s call them Stretch Armstrong and Ursula, based on the fact that he was, at the very least 6’ 12”, and she was as hateful as he was tall.  Imagine Ursula the Sea Witch except skinnier, with bangs and the ability to play the piano.  We felt certain her heart was black as the visible roots of her dyed kinda-sorta auburn hair, regardless of her husband’s calling to the ministry.  These folks were new to Bogata and I am unsure what his qualifications were but as far as we could tell, “enjoying spending time with teens” did not seem to be one of them.  We didn't really like them, but when you are a hungry, bored teenager, you will go eat pizza with anyone, up to and including John Wayne Gacy, I can assure you.

                I have a dim recollection of who it was, but someone was new to our church or visiting a relative but there was a stranger amongst us, and we effectively kidnapped them to come with us to eat pizza.  Southern Baptist teens filled to the brim with a potent combo of Southern Hospitality, The Love of Jesus, and leftover Sunday School Kool-Aid, will completely ignored any protestations of no money or other excuses.  We made sure we were entertaining angels all up and through Red River County, y’all.  Believe that. 

                We piled into the van with Stretch and Ursula and away we went.  It was a fun time.  We laughed and talked and ate pizza, without a care in the world.  It was the 80s in the middle of nowhere, about 26 miles from the buckle of the Bible Belt, what was there to worry about?  Once the pizza was gone and the bill arrived, we began the lengthy chore of divvying up who owed what.  It came to something like $3 per person.  It was at that time, our new Friend in Jesus, piped up to say that they did not have any money.  I mean, $3 is not much, but when you have $0, it might as well be $100.  Between us we came up with an extra $1, but having no frame of reference for how to pray extra money into existence, we did what teenagers do and went to the adults to fix the problem. 

                It was decided that I would approach Stretch, not Ursula, and explain that our friend had no money and we needed an additional $2 to cover the bill.  Expecting the Jesus (and Deacon) approved Christian Chaperone to smile and say, “No problem”, I was surprised and, frankly appalled, when Stretch looked irritated and said, “Fine, but you have to pay me back when we get to your house.”  I said, “Me?  It’s for Super Jesus Friend #1, not me.  I have my $3.”  He replied, icily, “Well you’re the one borrowing the money, so you have to pay it back.”  I was stunned into silence and went back to the group and said we had the money we needed.

                When we returned to the van and made our way home, I became more and more irritated.  I shared the story of what happened with The Twins (Carolyn and Sharon) who agreed that I had every right to be appalled and asked me what I planned to do about it.  I didn’t have a plan.  All I knew was I was 13 kinds of irritated.  Also, poor (see beginning of story).  I hoped I had enough change in my room at home.  It’s hard to take the high road when you’re broke, y’all.

                As my family lived the farthest in the boonies, we came to my house first on the way back to the church.  I got out and told Stretch to wait and I would retrieve the money from my parents.  That was a lie, but I needed him to stay so I could have the dramatic moment I was anticipating.  If he wanted to act inappropriately, I was ready and willing to match him pettiness for pettiness.  Keep in mind I am 12 and he is…well, I don’t know the age, but he was grown, y’all.   And tall.  That has to add at least 5 years to your age, right?  Let’s just say he was older than 12.  Old enough to be married.

               I went to my bedroom, not explaining what I was doing to my parents and retrieved the $2 in change from my piggy bank which was actually an inlaid wooden box with a horse and carriage motif that I had picked out at an estate sale when I was in 5^th grade in Oklahoma because that is how I have always rolled, people.  I was bougie before bougie was bougie, y’all. 

                My indignation increased with every step and my corduroy-clad thighs smoked as they rubbed together during my brisk walk of superiority.  I marched right back to the van and threw the tainted coins into Stretch’s lap, not caring if he was injured.  I sauntered back into my house and closed the door and immediately explained to my parents what happened.  My mother was appalled at both me and Stretch; luckily more at Stretch than me as I only had to suffer through one “Dustin Terryll, I didn’t raise you to act like that!”  The Dad thought it was funny. 

                To this day I am unsure of the repercussions, but what I do know is that I did not get in trouble at home or church and no one mentioned the event at any point, other than those who bore witness and even then only when no adults were around.   Just like David vs. Goliath, it was a win for the (metaphorical) little guy with Jesus on his side.

                Amen and Amen, y’all.

The Dad Said What?

          The Dad seems happy to be in The Boonies again.  He just had a minor outpatient procedure and I called my sister to find out how he was feeling.  When she said, "Well, he's been griping that the doctors don't know what they're doing" I knew he was feeling good.  When he feels bad he doesn't talk.  When he is telling somebody all about themselves, he is rarin' to go.
       
            I have been keeping notes, of late, of some of the things The Dad says when we have our weekend talk or when he calls me 72 times per day when he needs me to do something for him and he imagines I am paid to sit at work, waiting for him to call, because heaven help me if I don't answer on the first ring.  Here is a transcript of the last voicemail he left me.
         "Ah ha, yes!  This is the proud...pa...uh...pa...whatever...to the...uh...well, shit, I don't know what I was gonna say.  I was just gonna ask you a question.  Call me back.  Bye."
          When I did return his call, he told me, "That dog you bought me (for Father's Day, as an attempt to ease the loss of Lulu) is broken.  There's somethin' wrong with it."
          "What did it do?" I asked.
          "It won't go to the bathroom when I tell it to."  
          "Well maybe it didn't have to go."
          "It needs to sh!t when I tell it to."
          "Um...okay."

           Another call was about my sister.  He said, "Does your sister think I have lace on my panties?"  I said, "That's a lot of weird words strung together there, Pater."
           He said, 'Well she must think I do because she bought me some soap that smells like lavender."
           I was impressed he could discern 'lavender' as a scent.  I said, "Well you sure are fancy to know it was lavender."
         "It said 'lavender' on the wrapper, dumb butt."
         I said, "And here I thought you were getting fancy on me."

          This past weekend, he said, "You know I'm gonna die soon."
          I said, "Probably.  You are really old.  However, why are you thinking that today?"
          "Well, the doctor said if my stent didn't work, I might have to have open heart surgery."
          I said, "I thought the stent worked?  Aren't you already home from the hospital?"
          He said, "Yeah, but what if it doesn't work?"
          "But it did."
          "Yeah.  I guess so."
          I said, "Look, you've outlived anyone's expectations.  Seriously, you should have died long ago.  You've survived 8 heart attacks, what you call a mini-stroke, chronic diabetes and you've been overweight since the late 70s.  And, you smoked 4 packs a day for 60 years. Winston's.  Unfiltered.  Every day above ground is a gift, Old Man."
          He said, "Well, I guess you're right, JD.  I'm gonna hang up now.  My ear is startin' to sweat and I'm all outta talkin'.  Love you, Butt Wipe.  Bye."  

          I mean, what do you say to that?

So, I Married a Polyglot

               I married a polyglot.  My husband did not.   Ben is fluent in Tagalog (the national language of the Philippines), Cebuano (the dialect from his island) and English. He speaks passable, Arabic and Spanish.  I can speak English, enough American Sign Language to be considered a mildly communicative introvert and Spanish, but only to the extent that I can order food, ask for the bathroom and admire your statues, should you have any.

                I feel I need to learn Tagalog (pronounced Tuh-gah-log, not Tag-a-log Like I thought), if for no other reason than I want to understand my husband’s heritage.  Also, I want to be able to at least carry on a conversation with his family in their native tongue.  To do otherwise is arrogant and I am not trying to be that American, y’all.  

                Ben has been a patient teacher trying to help my Southern mouth wrap around the syllables and pronunciations of this unfamiliar language.  There are nasal tones and a lot of use of the back portion of the tongue on the roof of the mouth, which is difficult.  I’ve been practicing but there are times it feels like I’m making fun of Asian people because the words sound incorrect to my English ears.  At the same time, I am introducing Ben to some of the more relaxed vernacular of America, especially the South.

                There have been times where we’ve discussed the limitations of languages and how difficult it must be to a non-native speaker to learn English as there are so many quirky rules.  He feels Tagalog is a complete language, but I disagree.  There have been a number of times where Tagalog has been found lacking in its ability to translate all the phrases that pop out of my mouth on a frequent basis.  I have decided to share with you the Top Ten Phrases That Cannot be Translated in Tagalog.

1.       “That heifer needs to get somebody to fix this closet door!” Referring to our landlord.

2.       “All right, sister friend, you need to learn how to merge or get out of my way!” Referring to the ridiculous woman in front of us on The 405.  This was said with the window rolled up because I am not about to get shot, y’all.

3.       “That big donkey is 17 kinds of stupid!” Referring to so many people.

4.       “Do what now?”   The way I sometimes ask for clarification.

5.       “Your Mama didn’t raise you right!”  Referring, again, to so many people.

6.       “They are workin’ my last nerve, for real!”  See above.

7.       “My cousin is straight runnin’ crazy!”  You know who you are.

8.       “I’m-a pray for you, heathen!”  Often said with (self) righteous condemnation, like a good Evangelical.

9.       “Today put a whoopin’ on me like I stole money from it!”  Said at the end of a particularly rough day.

10.   “My bad, girl!”  Said more often than I care to admit, referring to both men and women.

You see, there are limits to Tagalog.  To be fair there are limits to English as well, since Redneck is not a recognized language, even though I speak it fluently.  We’ll keep working at it until we get it right.

Lyon lang ang sinasabi ko ngayon, y’all.  For real.

Notes on Marriage: Year One

              I have been married for a little over a year.  As I’ve reflected on Year One, I must say that I’ve learned so many of the oft hidden nuances of love and marriage with my best friend who likes to smooch.  One of those nuances is the feeling you get when you’ve demonstrated your love for your spouse, and they have no idea that you did, so they don’t quite understand your look of quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that you are a ‘giver’ and possibly ‘love them more’ than they love you.  It’s a selfless kind of smug superiority.  Allow me to explain. 

                Saturday morning my delightful husband woke up early and walked to our favorite local bakery and bought me a ham and cheese croissant, literally the same size as my face, which we all know is substantial.  It’s one of my favorite breakfasts.  I cut the croissant in half, deciding to save the rest for him to enjoy post-swim, as he immediately left for the gym to get his daily exercise.

                I was content with my portion and savoring each bite and drinking the Army-strong coffee, made perfectly sweet with enough cream and fake sugar to make my liver gently weep.  After a half-hour, I glanced at the remaining croissant and it beckoned.  No, I thought, I’m saving that for Ben.  He will enjoy it and be touched by my generosity and I will be the best husband in all the land.  But like James Bond taught us, Never Say Never.

                I held fast for about 15 minutes.  I swear to you, the croissant made an overt gesture, willing me to finish it.  I struggled to stay seated and attempted to look away, grabbing my Smithsonian magazine in a desperate attempt to find the cover article “Man on the Moon” more interesting than noshing on the remaining French delicacy.  I held myself in check for about 30 seconds and then, without a shred of self-control or shame, I enjoyed the other half of the croissant, assuaging my guilt by reminding myself that Ben is focused on his physique much more than I and probably wouldn’t want to eat the croissant anyway.  It worked.  Guilt was gone, y’all, and the croissant was devoured.

                When Ben came home, after more than an hour of swimming, looking all fit and trim, he was completely unaware that I had planned on saving him some of the croissant but hadn’t.  He asked for, and I made him, oatmeal with blueberries, which he consumed happily and heartily.  I sat across from him, self-satisfied and smiling, basking in the knowledge that I had literally (almost) sacrificed for him. I’m a good person, y’all.  Truly.