Happy Birthday, Chris!

I can't believe I have been neglecting this blog for almost two months. Thank God you had a birthday so I could drop in and add a few words. And I do mean few. I have given up on offering "tributes" to friends and fans because I can hardly even call or email them, much less dwell on the positive impact they have had on my otherwise miserable life. If anyone wants to read about Chris, look in the archives for this date last year. I'm sure I could supplement it with more, but then everyone else would start hounding me for their own accolades. And frankly, I'm too busy trying to build up my own self-esteem. Be sure to look for a tribute to myself in April. Chris, I hope you have a year that's way better than you probably deserve. I love you, man.

Forgive me Heather, for I have Sinned.

When tardiness is inexcusable, there's no point in mentioning excuses; valid as they may be. This is unfortunate, because I have some really good ones. Not excuses so much as actual reasons. Really, really good reasons, but that's neither here nor there.

Not since I accidentally made the kids' cinnamon toast with cayenne pepper have I felt so guilty. As one of my favorite Tori Amos songs says, "I've got enough guilt to start my own religion." It has finally started keeping me up at night. Even though I tell people that I lost my conscience in law school, every once in awhile, it comes back to remind me that I'm not all bad.

See, almost a year ago, I made the mistake of offering up special birthday blog posts to honor the handful of my oldest and dearest friends who made the dangerous lifestyle choice to maintain contact with me. The first post was actually on time. The second one was eight days late. The third one was 12 days late. Well, this is the fourth and (thank God I don't have any more long-suffering friends) last. It comes 21 grueling days late. (And yes, I have had to keep changing that number for every day that passes without my finishing this tribute. And even as I type, it's almost midnight.) Now, I know that these past 21 days have been difficult, nay, harrowing for everyone involved. I can only hope that this offering will be so stellar that it will only be seen as well worth the wait--like a fine wine, or perhaps a clean rest stop on a long road trip.

One reason it has taken me so long to complete this is that I couldn't stop adding to my list of things I remember and things I love about Heather. Then there are all the things I learned from her. All of them good.

I met Heather in our 10th grade French class. She was the new girl from California. She wore bright blue mascara and a permanent gold chain around her waist. Immediately, I didn't just want to be her friend. I wanted to be her. We loved our French teacher, but I'm not sure the teacher knew that, seeing as how we were so disrespectful in class. I'm not quite sure why, but it had something to do with the way the sound of the language mixed with the two of us making eye contact. One day we laughed ourselves into tears in the middle of class at the simple question, "Quelle heure est-il?" We can still laugh at that and not really know why. It has no possible alternative dirty meaning that I can think of (believe me, I've tried), and nothing in it rhymes with the name of any part of human genitalia (even when you use colloquialisms or obscenities). I guess we just found that asking what time it is in French was one of the most hilarious things we had ever heard in the first 16 years of our lives.

In high school, Heather and I were known for a little book of pictures we put together. Some might have thought we were somewhat morbid, others may have said we were crying out for attention, but the rest probably described us as serial killers in the making. (God knows that kind of behavior would warrant some kind of official investigation these days.) See, it all started like this: I got my driver's license before Heather did, so I would pick her up on the way to school. One morning, on what was normally a virtually empty residential street, I found myself at the end of a long line of cars. There were no flashing lights up ahead; there were no cars pulled over to the side of the road; nor was there any construction or detour sign. As I approached, I noticed that drivers were steering around something to get by. I then discovered that the reason they were moving so slowly was not just to get by, but also to gawk in awe at a vision that would certainly haunt them the rest of the day, if not the rest of their lives. Like it has mine and probably Heather's. It was a hellaciously gigantic, cracked-open, on-its-back, dead armadillo.

Priceless. When I got to Heather's house I couldn't wait to tell her about it. We knew what we had to do. And that was, of course, to preserve it on film for eternity (or at least for the lifetime of a Polaroid picture.) I can't remember whether I just (ever-so-serendipitously) happened to have the camera in the back seat of my Volvo, or if we picked one up from Heather's house. After having read the previous sentence, I do hope it was Heather's camera, because there's just something not right about a 16-year-old girl with a Polaroid in the back seat of her car. (Maybe I wanted to be prepared in case of a UFO sighting. It could happen.) So anyway, that first picture led to a series of masterfully-photographed, multi-species roadkill in various stages of decomposition. I could spend another few paragraphs on the book that made us popular for all the wrong reasons, but I really need to move on.

Now, here are just a few of the favorite things I remember from our time in high school:

Her stepmonster who kept a carton of Marlboro Reds in the refrigerator; her Mickey Mouse phone we used to dial *69 on; smoking Swisher Sweets on our way to the gym in her red convertible VW beetle;
drinking lemonade and Southern Comfort
on our way to school while we sang Tom Petty songs at the tops of our lungs; and making a chocolate mousse for French class that turned out more like brownie batter because we overspiked it.

A few years ago when we got together, she pulled out a box of cards she has kept. She showed me a birthday card I gave her when she turned 16. I wrote something like, "We have at least ten more years of partying left in us!!!" When you're 16, ten years seems like a lot. Little did I know that we actually had more than 20 years of it left in us--depending upon your definition of "partying" of course.


This posting would not be complete without my mentioning that I have always harassed her about being a bit of a cat person. As some of you may know, I'm not fond of felines. I'm really not much of a canine person either, come to think of it. I thought about buying these items as birthday gifts for her, but frankly, even on clearance, they were too expensive.
Plus, she would have received them so late that she really wouldn't have appreciated them anyway. However, I'd like to show them here just to say that, it's really the thought that counts. Heather, if you would like to order these items, let me know and I can send you a link to the reputable catalogs I found them in.

I have also always given Heather a hard time about carrying the tiniest purse ever. Apparently, they call them "wristlets." (I actually know this, but I'm feigning ignorance so as to give the impression that I'm too cool to understand something so gay.) In fact, I like to refer to her "wristlet" as a "fanny pack." She doesn't see the humor in that at all. I'm really a little bit jealous of the fact that she can get by with only a wristlet. She's a minimalist. She needs no make-up. She carries maybe a driver's license, a credit card, a key, or a little cash. She has no need for the things I have to carry in my purse, like lipstick, a mirror, Altoids, and at least four bottles of prescription drugs.

She is beautiful inside and out. Especially on the outside, which really makes me sick. She never had any kids to tear up her body or wear out her mind or suck the very spirit out of her soul. She's a vegetarian. One of those healthy things I envy, but could never emulate. She makes the best guacamole I have ever tasted. And she taught me how to accept compliments. Before I learned from her how to be gracious, I would reject compliments because I felt that they were usually insincere and always undeserved. To this day, when someone offers a compliment, I simply say, "thank you," believe that it is sincere and deserved, and think of Heather. She is an amazing conversationalist, too. When you talk to her, you know she is listening, and not busy thinking about what she is going to say next. She will not only ask questions, but then she will ask follow-up questions. And she makes you think. Sometimes I feel like I'm being interviewed, and I like that. She's also great at stumping you with "would you rather..." type questions that other people could never dream up.


She makes amazing pieces of pottery. She gave these to me as birthday presents. And I received them right on time. Her thoughtfulness makes me feel even more unworthy and selfish and careless. And what really upsets me is that I bet she'll even forgive me, just like Jesus would.

Heather, I promise I'll never go so long without showing you how much I love and appreciate you. Unless of course you have already written me off.

Chi-Wa-Wa's, Doxens, Dollar Store Steaks, and so much more

These little gems have been taking up valuable real estate in my head, so to ease overcrowding in the lobby for all the new garbage clamoring for a seat beyond the velvet ropes, I offer up the following in hopes that it will not only relieve some pressure for me, but also satisfy your ravenous hunger for more of my priceless crap (if only for a precious moment).

Here they are in the order that they fell out of my mind or out of my file folder full of scribbled scraps:

First, just for the record, to carry on with the celebrity-death-trio thing I started last month, let me say that my money is on Patrick Swayze to be one of the next three.

Now on to more pressing matters.

Katy choked on a sip of water, and as she coughed, Luke said, "Watch out, Katy, that water's got a bit of a kick to it."

Katy was leisurely washing her hands in a public restroom when we were in a hurry to leave. I said, "Come on, it's not like you're going to perform surgery." She looked at me with the backs of her hands raised toward me like a surgeon and said, in all seriousness, "You never know."

Tonight Mike and I overheard Katy and a friend talking about how much they miss their bus driver and that they hope he'll be driving their bus again this year. We thought "Oh how sweet…" Then we heard Katy say, "Yeah, he was nice except for all that foul language…" So I asked what she was talking about, but she didn't want to say the words. I said, "It can't be any worse than what y'all have heard your dad and his friends say." She said, "Right, but hello? he's a bus driver." So she told us that one day he had yelled at them to get their "S-H-I-T" out of the aisle after he pulled the bus over to get up and check on a kid who he thought had been hurt. Good for him, I say.

During some light chatter after a serious conversation with a potential client and another attorney I work with, I noticed in the client's file that he had played clarinet in the Army band. I told him that I was a really bad clarinet player in junior high. Then my associate said, "I was a tromboner." I had to turn my head as he said, "Er… trombonist?"

In San Antonio (and I'm sure a lot of other big cities full of under-educated and irresponsible people) too many animals are having unprotected sex. This leads to signs like this: "4-Sell: Brown Chi-Wa-Wa's" and "Free Doxen puppy's." I swear I saw these signs in two different parts of town within the past few months. I would have taken pictures of them, but that's just the sort of obscenity I can't abide. I'll have porn on my phone before I'll carry around misspelled and mispunctuated words.

Not long ago, I noticed a sign in the window of an Academy store that warned of a recall on a certain brand of athletic cup. I wondered what was defective about them and what happened to the unfortunate athlete who discovered it. Luke asked me what I was chuckling about, and when I told him…well, he didn't think it was all that funny.

A sign in the window of a local Dollar General store proudly announced a special sale on steaks. I'm sorry. Call me a snob, but I would think twice before buying "sale" steak at a dollar store. Now if it were for sale at regular price, I might consider it, but "On Special"? No way.

When Margaritaville came on the radio, I mindlessly told the kids, "I had the 45 of this." Both, in unison, asked, "What's a 45?"

When Katy opened an envelope of disposable camera pictures, I told her to be careful with the negatives. I knew before the words had left my mouth that I would hear her ask, "What are negatives?"

Ethics question: Is it wrong to secretly borrow from a kid's allowance money to cover a tooth fairy visit?

This is how sweet my daughter is: "If I grew up in the olden days and I had slaves, I would be nice to them. Sure, I'd make them do all my chores, but I'd be nice to them."

This is what a dork I am: I heard music as Mike and I were leaving a restaurant. I said, "Oh, they're playing my favorite song." Then I noticed that the song was getting louder and coming from my purse. Mike goes, "It's your phone, you idiot!"

Actual voicemail I got from a veteran: "Miss Jill, I really need your help with my VA claim…Long story short, ma'am, they just kinda shitted on me real good. Now you have a blessed day."

That last one is one of my favorites.

This is all I can toss at you for now. Working full time at a real job along with working out with a trainer three days a week has not only made me feel like I'm living someone else's life, but it has also sucked out a lot of my blogging time. Sure, I still find time for facebook, but only because I don't have to think when I go there. As you can see from this latest oeuvre, I put a lot of thought into it.

News Flash--Correction to Last Post

Under Excuse Number Four, item (6) of the post below, I listed three famous people who died within a short time of one another. When I chose football player Steve McNair to round out my last list, it was only because he was the closest thing to a recently dead "famous" person. At that time I suggested that if a more famous person died within the next few weeks, McNair would have to be replaced. Well, as luck would have it, the list will look much better now with Walter Cronkite's name on it instead.

"The Most Trusted Man in America" has died within 19 days of Karl Malden and The OxiClean Guy. For Mr. OxiClean, this is quite an honor. On the other hand, were Walter or Karl to hear that the third member of their death cluster is a guy named Billy Mays who was a modern day snake oil salesman, they may feel a little slighted. Sorry Walter and Karl, I can't just go back and re-order my whole list now. Too much thought and effort and math went into it.

I'm not sure why I cried when I watched the news this morning and saw clips of Cronkite's broadcasts. I think it was his announcement of President Kennedy's death that really hit me. (I wonder who the other two in Kennedy's death trio were. I bet no one ever thought about that. And if they did, they had some serious issues.)

Sorry this is late, Ginger, but I have some great excuses.

First, some background. Back in November of last year, I made the mistake of posting a sort of happy birthday "eulogy" about my friend Chris. Well, it didn't take long for my three best girlfriends to make it clear that they expect equal time. So in March, I wrote one for my friend Kate. It was eight days late, mainly because it took me the first three days to remember the best highlights and lowlights from a friendship that is almost 30 years old, and the last five days to cut out all the stuff that might put our law licenses in jeopardy.

Now it's Ginger's turn, and her special birthday post is 12 days late. But like I said, I have some great excuses. So before we turn to the few Ginger stories that are fit for public consumption, let me digress:

Excuse number one: Ginger will be the first to tell you that my ability to keep in touch with friends is what she might describe as "heinous." (She likes that word, and I can't blame her. The fact that it rhymes with "anus" just makes it all the more, well, heinous.) I have lost count of the times she has accused me of being physically unable to dial a phone. (Not really. I never started counting.) She is also well aware that I am challenged when it comes to picking out the perfect card, scribbling some clever remark about getting old on it, putting it into the correct envelope, finding an address, writing the address on the envelope, affixing a return address label from the free sheet of them that I got from the cystic fibrosis society, finding a stamp with the appropriate amount of postage on it (I almost went online to see how much those "forever" stamps were worth), then transporting all that effort to a mailbox.

Excuse number two: Much to my utter dismay and unmitigated chagrin, Ginger did not acknowledge me whatsoever on any day on or around my birthday back in April. However, she did offer up a lame apology later, which I have yet to fully accept. So you may be asking yourselves if the tardiness of this most unique and special greeting is a sign of some sort of vengeful, passive-aggressive character flaw on my part. The answer, my friends, is: absolutely not. My faithful readers (Ginger included), know full well that my only flaw is abject and baseless narcissism.

Excuse number three: I started a new job that very day and was a little preoccupied. If Ginger would ever deign to join Facebook (which she won't now, just out of spite) she would have seen my updated status, and certainly would have understood that I was far too busy that day to acknowledge anyone but myself. (And my Facebook "friends.")

Excuse number four: I was also quite disturbed and distracted by all the recent celebrity deaths-- especially the two big ones that occurred on Ginger's birthday. After Farrah Fawcett ruined my morning and Michael Jackson put a damper on my afternoon, I started wondering who would be the third, or if Ed McMahon was the first of that trio. Then I thought what if Farrah was actually the third and Michael was starting up a new one? Then I wondered how big a celebrity they need to be to have the dubious honor of being included in this little pop culture superstition game. (For the most part, I am relying on my voice-activated software. If it knows who I'm talking about, then they're in.)

According to my past few minutes of exhaustive research, a lot of so-called celebrities have died so far this year. But I'm only counting the ones I'm familiar with or interested in. I intend no offense to the memory of any B, C, or D-list "stars" nor do I mean to show disrespect toward any 100-year-old silent film actors or any sports figures from the 1940's to the 1960's. So here are my unofficial results:

(1) Ricardo Montalban, Clint Ritchie (Clint Buchanan on One Life to Live), and Phil Carey (Asa Buchanan on One Life to Live)—I include these last two because I was addicted to that soap opera from 1984 to 1991 and again from 1996 to 1999. I can't remember whether Ginger watched it. (Not that that matters.) The other interesting thing I found was that Phil Carey was only 13 years older than the man who played his son. These three died within 23 days of each other. (Is there a time-frame we are shooting for?)

(2) James Whitmore, Paul Harvey, and Ron Silver. Now this is an odd mix. Their deaths cover a 37-day time span, so if we are going for a one-month window, I may need to relegate Whitmore and re-order this list.

(3) Natasha Richardson, porn star Marilyn Chambers, and Bea Arthur. While they are spread out (so to speak) over 38 days, I think I'll carve out an exemption simply because I like to see the name of a porn star next to Bea Arthur's. Sorry you have the misfortune of their company, Natasha. As if dying from a bump on the head wasn't bad enough.

(4) Jack Kemp, Dom DeLuise, and David Carradine. Here we have 34-day coverage. I'm starting to think the 30-day goal is a little too tight. Speaking of too tight, they find Grasshopper mysteriously bound and hanged in a Bangkok hotel room. Trust me folks, there's a Thai hooker out there who knows exactly what happened and how much he paid for it.

(5) Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. Yes, it was those three within three days just as we all figured. If Farrah had started a new set, she and MJ would have been in the Billy Mays group, and I'm sorry, the OxiClean guy's "celebrity" status would only add insult to injury. Or in this case, insult to death.

(6) Billy Mays, Karl Malden, and Steve McNair. How's that for a trio? (Only six days apart.) First, I thought Karl Malden was already dead. When I found out he wasn't, I couldn't believe he was 97. Ninety frickin' seven? No wonder I thought he was dead. As for McNair, I'm not sure he belongs on the list, bless his heart. If a more famous person dies within the next few weeks, they may have to take his place.

(By the way, for the record, my mom thinks Warren Beatty's number will be up soon.)

So those are my excuses. Now, back to the reason for my post.

Ginger and I met in 8th grade. (I just stared at that sentence in horror.) We were 13 or 14. That was 30 years ago. What? Honestly, she probably didn't really know who I was until a year or so later because, unbeknownst to her, she was chipping away at my soul daily as she shamelessly flirted with a boy named Dan Kuykendall. (Almost 20 years ago, I heard that he had been killed in a car accident, but that's neither here nor there. Other than to make me even more sad.) He was my reason for living, and she could not have cared less. I was too shy to even look at him, much less talk, or (God forbid) flirt. The hell of it is, they were just friends. She didn't love him madly like I did, but I didn't know that at the time, and I could not have been more jealous.

So ... one day, just to get all my feelings about her out, I took a purple marker and spewed the most vitriolic diatribe that a 14-year-old could write. I'm not sure which expletives I was able to muster, but you can bet that they were spelled correctly. I never intended for anyone to read that horrible note. (I've always done that. I scribble all kinds of things simply to clear them out of my head.) But this time, my parents found the note. And they grounded me for it. I can't remember how long I was grounded, or what exactly I was grounded from. I just remember that being grounded was not a good thing. The only time I remember actually missing something important because I was grounded was when I couldn't go to see The Who's "farewell" concert back in 1982. Little did I know they'd still be around (pretty much) almost 30 years later. Anyway, there I was in big trouble all because of her.

Once I figured out that she wasn't out to get me, we became friends. I think we connected because she was the rescuer type and I was always the one who needed rescuing. In high school, one of the many times that my smart mouth almost got me beat up, she appeared like Wonder Woman and wrapped her cape around my skinny ass as she pulled me to safety.

One of my favorite vague memories of a Ginger rescue comes from our college days when I was working for an attorney friend of my dad's. My boss took everyone from the office and several of his friends to the Fort Worth stock show and rodeo for an all-day outing. This must've been around 1985 or '86. So I was about 19 or 20. I remember my boss's friend showing off his "mobile" phone. It came in a briefcase that probably weighed a good 10 pounds or so. I think it had a coiled cord and a big honking antenna. He was Mr. Big Shot with that thing, and boy were we impressed. (There I go digressing again.) Anyway, I started drinking that morning and didn't stop until late that afternoon when I threw up in Mr. Big Shot's cowboy hat. They got me back to the office where I promptly passed out on my boss's couch. I awoke to Ginger's Gumby keychain swinging before my eyes. I can't remember whether I told them to call her for me, or whether I had already listed her as my emergency contact. I had a date that night at a Delt mixer with an unfortunate boy named Shawn. (I think that was his name.) Ginger took me to her house, cleaned me up, dressed me, put makeup on me to the point that I looked just like her, and propped me up at the front door just in time for him to pick me up. I think I ended up having a pretty good time that night.

Ginger and I were roommates for a brief time in college. We did have some good times, but let's just say that it wasn't always easy sharing an apartment. I have a vivid memory of her banging on my bedroom door and then slamming me in the face with a package of toilet paper. I can't remember why she did that, but probably because she was a real bitch back then.

I didn't want Ginger to marry her first husband and I made that pretty clear to her at the time. But she let me be her maid of honor anyway. I'm not sure if I ever said I told you so when it didn't work out. If I didn't, well, Ginger, I told you so.

She used to collect rhinos (rhinoceroses, rhinoceri?) so I always think of her when I see one. Not that I see them very often. Just like at the zoo or on Animal Planet or something. She used to be called Peaches. I think her dad gave her that nickname. She went by "Gini" in high school. One time a guy (who shall remain nameless because he knows who he is and I'm sure he's sorry now) wrote a sort of note/petition that slammed her mercilessly. I didn't know how to come to her rescue. In fact, I'm sure I stood by and did nothing. I don't think a person ever really gets over having their feelings hurt that badly during those teenage years.

Ginger and I have shared some of the wildest and saddest and scariest and happiest times of our lives. She has been remarried now for several years. I remember driving up from San Antonio in pouring down rain to get to her wedding. I was so happy for her, and I still am.

When I saw her daughter's high school graduation picture, I cried. I held that baby not long ago, and then there she was. Memories flooded my eyes. She looks so much like her mother.