Stormy Minute Man

Anyone Care For A Dirty White Smelly T-Shirt?

My BFF, C., is 25 weeks pregnant. This, combined with my body's current refusal to responsibly handle its own insulin levels, leaves us out of the alcohol game.

Last week, we got together with C.'s little (and stunningly gorgeous, super smart and wicked funny) sister, J., for movie night. I brought the drinks.

Now, I'm certain I'm not the first one to combine these ingredients, but holy COW did we think I was a genius. These concoctions were DELIGHTFUL.

Even though they were non-alcoholic, we poured into martini glasses like big girls.

And C.'s 4 year-old twins, G. and N.? They drank from sippy cups, sans lids ... like big boys.

Sitting around eating bean dip and sipping our lemony goodnesses, I asked the boys what they thought we should name these fabulous new beverages.

N. puckered his little lips, glancing from his glass to my face and back.
"Dirty, white, thmelly t-shirts," came the authoritative answer.

And so they are.

Want one?

- 3 oz pre-made lemonade (I like Simply Lemonade, but if something else pre-made is on sale, do it!)
- 2 oz lemon-lime soda pop (we used Sierra Mist)
- splash o' grenadine

Mmmmm ... Dirty White Smelly T-Shirts. Cheers!

Library Card Upgrade

I could read by the time I started kindergarten. My older sister, J., had dyslexia (which I was quite careful about spelling just now), and our mother would read to her on the couch. It was there on a floral-print couch I started my book learnin'.

The summer between fourth and fifth grades, my Mom was a dispatcher for the Kingman Police Department, and she'd take me to work with her, where I would trundle across the street with my sack lunch ... to the public library.

A few weeks into this arrangement, I was out of books. I don't know that I read everything in the kids' stacks, but certainly everything that interested me. (I was stunned years later to find out that I had missed some Nancy Drew titles!)

Looking back, I realize the library staff must have been having some sort of meeting at the desk that morning. They were ALL there. The woman who wore the same gray pair of slacks every day ... the ones whose seams always seemed THIS close to bursting; the older lady with the magic hair-growing mole and glasses; and the younger gal who I only remember as "the younger gal" based on my back-then comparison to her ancient colleagues. (In hindsight, the oldest was probably 45--tops.)

As I came near, their conversation waned. Aunt Mole spoke up, "Yes, Laura? What is it you need?"

"I'm done with those."

"Done with what?"

"Those. The kids books," jerking a thumb over my shoulder to indicate the area decked out in Lilliputian furniture and posters in primary colors.

They looked from one to another in what seemed an eternity to me.

"Can I go over there?", pivoting in my sneakers to indicate with my torso the tall stacks, filled with volumes and volumes of mystery. "My mom lets me read Reader's Digest Condensed books at home."

A few moments of hushed conversation and a call was placed to my mother. And then magic: my card was swapped out for one that all the adults--and now a nine year-old carried. (I dearly wish I would have kept that card.)

I can still feel their eyes on me as I entered into new territory. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I knew that I'd best find something, or I'd look like a fool on top of having to revisit Beverly Cleary's version of elementary angst yet again.

Soon, though, I was lost.

Not literally, (this was small town Southwest, after all) but figuratively and willingly. The smells were richer, the volumes thicker and the pull stronger. I know it was then I fell in love. I allowed the lure of words, the telling of tales, to seduce me; to draw me in.

Time stood still. Or maybe it flew by. I have no way of knowing. It's a place, books, perfectly akin to good music. One in which I choose to stay, to forsake other experiences for. From that day forward, the perfect stories dwell in books rather than film or even stage.

How long it took me I can't say for sure, but I do remember choosing first one book, then hauling it around for a few more rows until I found the book that, to this day, remains my favorite.

Those ladies watched me the whole time. I lost that feeling of being observed as I inspected my new treasure trove of possibility, but have a distinct memory of all three of them staring intently into the aisle I was in and suddenly BLAM! looking quite busy when I emerged, novels in hand.

The books I chose? The Godfather by Mario Puzo and Alex Haley's Roots.

Both amazing works, both are stories of family, conviction and the creation of one's own freedom at any cost. 

I'll let you figure out which is the one I buy every five years, re-read and then loan out knowing it will not return to me, but go on to bless someone else's shelves. And to give you a hint? There's not a single beheaded horse in the bunch. 

Early Exposure: A Favor She May Not Even Know She Bestowed

I have a library in my head.

Now, don't be impressed -- it's fairly useless, poorly catalogued, and quite dusty in many areas. And ... it's comprised almost entirely of pop culture.

I am fully aware the day will likely never come wherein I save a busload of people from careening down a fiery ravine because I know that a meatball sub is Joey Tribbiani's favorite sandwich. I've accepted that. (Except, theoretically, during a particularly long, boring drive with no battery in the ol' iPod or discernable radio stations available. What? Boredom gives license to a vivid imagination.)

Where was I going with this? Oh, right ....

OK, so I know having useless trivial knowledge is, well ... generally useless, but a giant portion of this obscure wisdom falls firmly into the "music" class; a subject I could discuss endlessly.

I've been giving a lot of thought lately to the ideas I have, the beliefs I hold and the values I operate under. Not just what they are, but where they came from. Often, it traces back to my childhood, but sometimes all the way into my adolescent and teen years. For example, my disdain of the sight and even smell of black olives can be tied directly to a time of extreme economic challenge for my family, and my mother's inventiveness in creating something to fill our bellies with the waning contents of the pantry. Also, to this day, I'll let pretty much anyone lotion my feet because it was something my mother did to express love. Ah! And I just thought of another one -- I have a preternatural affinity for the Hoover Dam. "Whuh ..." you ask? Wait, wait, I totally know this one ... it's because for a great deal of my childhood, we had to cross the Dam to get to my grandmother's house. See? It all traces back.

And here we are at the subject for posting: music.

I was a seriously nerdy 7th grader, and my older sister, J., had just moved out of the family home. (In a bold and striking statement of independence, she moved into her friend's house next door.) It was a Saturday afternoon and I was rearranging our previously-shared space to be mine, ALL MINE. (BwuwahahaHA!)

Among her leavings was a putty-colored audio cassette displaying the K-Tel logo, provocatively proclaiming, " Danger: High Voltage".

"My God," I thought, my heart racing. What could possibly be on this tape? Profanity? Sexual references? Cold War secrets chanted by mysterious pop stars? I didn't care how naughty it was, I instinctively knew my world was about to expand and by gum, I was IN.

Practically tripping over myself to find a tape player, I settled in among the upheaval that can only happen in the room of two teenage girls and had myself a listen.

What I heard not only expanded my little universe, but flat-out ROCKED it.

Up to this point, my musical tastes mirrored that of my parents': Neil Diamond (rule #1: thou shall not disparage Mr. Diamond), Marty Robbins, The Statler Brothers, Jim Croce, James Taylor and anything that hit the folk charts in the 70's. A few years prior, J. had begun her high-school career as a pom-pon girl and because of that I'd heard a little bit of Prince, Madonna and The Go-Go's--the danceable pop one needs for a proper eight-count.

But this, well this was different. A few of these songs had something more. My heart beat faster, my head nodded almost on it's own accord and my toes took on a tapping life of their own accord. A discernable baseline, real drums up front, sometimes a throaty guitar and all in your face with a notable lack of well, sheer popiness.

Before you get your pop panties in a wad, let me just say that I LOVE me some pop: N'Sync, Britney, Huey Lewis AND his News, Wham!, the Material Girl; I love it all, but there was something about rock that dug deep and sunk in its claws. And I've never asked it to leave. Ah, who are we kidding? I still seek it out.

That one cassette was the nexus of a love that's gotten me up in the morning, bonded me with complete strangers in concert venues, pulled me through scores of relationships and turned into lullabies for a cranky infant some eighteen years past. (What? Hasn't everybody rocked an angry, crying, raisin while softly singing Kiss', "Beth" at two o'clock in the morning? Don't knock it--'worked like a CHARM.)

Over the next few years, before she moved to Europe with the military, J. left musical droppings for me pretty frequently. Bad Company (Val-uh-REEE!), Journey and Foreigner completed the base for a multi-layered, cross-generational catalog of songs and memories that still and will, I hope, forever pluck a visceral chord deep inside of me. And always, always, take me back to being a young teenage girl in Mohave County, Arizona.

Raise your coffee cups for a toast, y'all:

To Julia -- for forgetting music so I may play it loud.

Rock. On.

I Can't Bear To Look

Allegedly Speaking: Spell It

Vehicularly speaking, I was a late bloomer. I turned sixteen about a month into my junior year of high school, but didn't yet have so much as a driver's permit. I did, however, have an urge to ditch second and third periods to go shopping in a nearby town.

I asked my friend J. for the keys to her baby blue Ford Pinto. With the usual, "you'd best be careful!" speech, I grabbed a cute boy, D., and headed out in search of a place to spend my recent fast food paycheck.

Everything was going fine. 'Didn't find any clothes, but got some flirting accomplished. D. was blessed with black hair and blue eyes -- still a lethal combination in my book. With Richard Marx's "Angelina" playing in the cassette deck, we headed back to school through state-owned forest.

About half-way through the back-way home, on a two-lane hairpin curve (gotta see this comin', eh?) I was fiddling with the radio and not so much looking at the road. Probably speeding, I was fast approaching a hairy situation: a big truck and a car both heading in my direction, one in each lane. The decision went like this: Car? Truck? Tree? Tree.

We jump a ditch and hit a tree. In the Pinto.

I straight-arm the steering wheel, rupture the gas line, introduce the upper part of the steering wheel to my face and my knees to whatever lays beyond the dashboard.

We come to a rest against the decimated tree. D. looks around and sniffs the air out his now-open window. Mumbling something about gas, he reaches over and cuts the ignition. Richard stops singing.

We climb out. Shaky, we observed the damage. With the front end completely rumpled and humping a pine tree, gas puddling underneath, the windshield looking for all the world as though it had been vomited out the front of the car, it looks pretty danged bad.

A dark-haired older woman in a BMW slows down and mouths with her radish-red lips, "Do you need help? Should I call for help?"

I think I must have nodded yes, because she pulls out a giant Zach Morris phone. You remember the one -- about the size of a shoebox and putty colored? Yup, you DO remember, don't you? She's talking into the phone as she drives out of sight.

Hysterical and thinking only of myself, I ask D. to say he was driving. He won't. He can't -- his father is wildly abusive and this would surely spell out the seventh realm of hell for him if his dad knows he is ditching, much less has the idea that he is driving. He makes sure (as much as you can when you're sixteen and just got thrown into a windshield by a crazed female driver) I am okay (aka, "not dead") and hightails it for the woods as the sounds of emergency response teams sound in the far distance. (Let me just say, there is NOTHING better than the sound of sirens when you're hurt, having a hard time discerning up from down and don't know what to do about it.)

Alone, I sit down a few yards behind the car.

I'm not sure how much time passes, but the next thing I know, I'm on my back, staring up at a horde of firemen, paramedics and the gray, cloudy sky beyond them. They all look concerned. I decide to stay calm, especially since I don't want to worry them further by revealing exactly how dazed I am.

Someone is wiping blood from my face, trying to figure out where it's all coming from while someone else speaks to me, encouraging me to lie still and not move anything. I hear another voice announce, "Fire Captain's here!".

Crunching boot steps on gravel and a vaguely familiar face is gazing down at me from above; our faces upside-down to one another as he crouches down. Hands of paramedics are sliding a backboard under me, slipping a c-collar under my neck, getting things stabilized.

He slides his hands around my neck, assisting in the process, as he speaks to me.

"Hi, honey. Where's your purse?" Oh, good. This I know I can handle. Just questions. Not a problem.

"In my locker at school."

He shuffles his feet just a bit, shifting his weight. "Okay. Where's your license?"

"Oh, I don't have one of those." He shuffles again.

"Ohh-kay. Where's your permit?" His right eyebrow is starting to creep up his forehead.

"Uh, I don't have one of those either." Shuffle, shuffle, shift. And the left eyebrow is starting to join its friend's elevation.

"Sweetie, what's your name?" Nice words, meant to be comforting, but his tone and the shuffling feet tell me this man clearly mean business. It is time to implement my best behavior. Speak his language. The language I learned from my police officer Father and my judge pro tem Mother. You know, over in the next town.

"Laura," I manage to get out.

He blows a whoosh of warm, cinnamon-scented air over me.

"Spell it?" He's relaxing a little bit now. Thank God. That eyebrow-shuffle-thing was becoming worrisome.

"Lincoln Adam Union Robert Adam?" I search his eyes for approval, acceptance of some sort that it's all going to be okay. You know, because I know THE CODE.

"And your last name?" The shuffling feet has stopped. I seem to have his attention. He meets my gaze, nodding just a bit, as if to reassure me that this little granule of information will make it all better. Like maybe there will be ice cream involved.

"Slaughter."

That left eyebrow performs a dramatic drop as the right one shoots clear to his hairline. He cocks his head to one side like a quizzical Labrador, "Spell it?"

Gulp.

"Sam Lincoln Adam Union George Henry Tom Edward Robert?"

His jaw drops slightly.

"As in JOHN and MARY?!?"

"Yes."

"Oh, YOU," (he drops my head) " are in DEEP shit!"

________________________________________

I don't remember much after that. I was probably trying to figure out how to run away from it all. And I don't remember this part, either, but the medics told my Mom later that in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, I interrupted their clothing-removal long enough to bellow, "Cut up the seam! I already wrecked her car!". Turns out Captain Obvious nailed it on the head with his declaration of my current state: I was wearing J's pants that day, too.

A Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On

So I'm testing out mobile blogging. If you're a follower, don't be surprised if you get a notification and then it's gone by the time you get here.

I've got a mile-long list of things I want to do here and am diving in ... with or without any actual knowledge. (MuwahahahahaHA!)