Melissa's Birthday Self-Pitty Party

With "the big 5-0" looming larger than ever for me, I am reminded of when my friend/co-worker Melissa (that's Moe to me) turned fifty. As usual I had to write a milestone birthday poem. The morning of Moe's birthday we initiated a little departmental meeting. I began with a preface story, telling everyone that Moe had called me (crying and rambling) very late the night before. Our boss stopped me and asked if she was drunk at the time. (we all know Melissa doesn't drink) I answered by saying, "Well, two things quickly became apparent: 1. She had been drinking & 2. She had been reading Dr. Seuss." That brought a chuckle from the group, because they knew I was about to rip-off Dr. Seuss. Then I proceeded to tell them what Melissa had to say:

I do not like this "getting old."
Those horror truths that I've been told
Of graying hair and aches and wrinkles.
The frequent urges to make tinkles.

I do not like this thing called "aging."
Escaping thoughts and hormones raging.
I do not like it one little bit
And no one even gives a darn!

Everything sags and appears quite shoddy.
What has happened to my body?!?
Without a recourse to defend
Seems gravity is not my friend.

Don't call me silly. Don't say that I'm whiny.
I'm having a crisis with a droopy hiney!!!
You might think it's funny; you may even snicker
As I drown all my sorrow in this bottle of liquor.

This really stinks! It is so unfair
That I just soiled my underwear.
This "50" thing has me stuck in a rut.
So Father Time can KISS MY BUTT!!!

After the meeting I went to see if Moe was still speaking to me. She asked me to sign her poem and said, "That way, when you become famous, I'll have an original with a signature."
Hang on to that one, Moe! I'm sure it will net you a small fortune!

Diesel Fuel And a Stickey Clutch

So, it's 20 degrees here this morning and The Horseman sends me off to work in a truck that is showing almost no fuel in either tank. I'm the lucky one who gets to drive the low fuel truck, because I don't have the longer drive to work. Not sure if I would have enough fuel to actually make it to town I stop at the station just a mile from the house. My hands freezing to the pump handle I fill both tanks and mumble bad things about The Horseman.

In the short drive to the station it becomes apparent that the clutch is sticking at about half pedal forcing me to stomp down after each gear change to make it come all the way up. SHIT! Looks like I'll be calling Randy to see if I can bring it by and get it adjusted today before I burn the damn thing up! I'm pretty sure Randy wonders why we just don't buy a vehicle that's not a piece of junk, but he can just keep taking our money to keep that junk on the road.

Speaking of Randy. The last time I had let my truck go way too long in between oil changes this is how the conversation went:

Me: Randy, I'm way past due to have my truck serviced. I need my ass kicked.

Randy: Bring it in tomorrow and we'll get it serviced, but I'll have to charge extra for the ass-kicking.

(I love Randy)

Maybe Not A Poet

As you may have gathered by the web name on my blog I fancy myself a poet. The truth is I like to write poetry, but that does not a poet make. I've decided to share one of the poems that I wrote. This particular one was written for someone who was very special to me. Her name was Gail and we were the closest of friends. So close in fact, that I would often tell people that she knew me better than I knew myself.

Gail died of a heart attack while mowing her lawn on October 5, 2001. I'm quite sure that she was pushing that mower about 110 mph, which is exactly the speed that she went about everything in life. The poem was published in the local paper on the anniversary of her birthday following her death.

Gail Caloway

July 19, 1944 - October 5, 2001

Teardrops fell from mourners eyes

While sunshine poured through cloudless skies

A stark contrast to the sadness we were all feeling

On that October day

Denial of reality crowded my mind

I was certain from this nightmare I would wake to find

You were only a phone call away

But it does me no good now to reach for the phone

When longing for your voice while I'm all alone

And I'm left with so many things I'd like to say

I prefer writing humorous poems, because poems like this take a lot out of me. I guess it may have something to do with putting too much of myself out there and it's easier to hide behind humor rather than showing what's in my heart.

First Ride (not about horses)

For nine years I worked a second job at a Mom-n-Pops type convenience store in a rural area, where everyone knows each other. All in all it was a happy and laid-back atmosphere. (except for the time I was robbed at gunpoint...tune in again for that story) In that nine years I got to witness a lot of kids growing up. One of my favorites was Christopher, the friendliest and sweetest little red-headed boy you could ever meet. I guess he was about eight when I first went to work there. He and I got to be good friends.

One evening I was in the back of the store slicing a bunch of deli meat for a customer, when Stacey (Christopher's mother) poked her head around the corner and said, "We just went and got Christopher's car. He's outside and wants you to come and see it." I told her that it was going to take me a little while to finish the meat order. She said that she would just have to wait, because Christopher would be mad if I didn't see his car.

When I finally made my way outside the store, there at the gas pumps, was a sight to behold. Next to a red Dodge Neon (embellished with yellow flames) stood a boy wearing an ear-to-ear grin. The type of grin that, I suspected, couldn't be slapped off from his face. After making a really big deal over his new ride (well, because it was a Dodge Neon...WITH FLAMES!) I felt compelled to give the speech. You know the one....The Teenage Driver Speech. To Christopher it probably sounded something like: Blah, blah, blah....speeding... yak, yak, yak... insurance will go up...blah, yak, blah....kids think they're immortal. I concluded with, "If you wreck this car and kill yourself I will never speak to you again!" Christopher must be about twenty years old now, and I'm thinking that my threat about never speaking to him again made him a very conscientious driver.

For most of us learning to drive and actually getting a car of our own was a very big deal. Remember? My sister (Bonnie) taught me to drive (without our parents consent) when she was seventeen and I was eleven. She had a Ford Falcon which had belonged to our brother-in-law. It was a pretty blue color and had a "three-on-the-tree." Didn't I think I was something!?! Out of all of my friends I was the first to get to drive.

My first car was a '67 Chevelle, which happened to be blue and had a "three-on-the-tree." Once again, I am the bomb! That sweet ride only used three quarts of oil every sixty or seventy miles and it didn't stick in third gear every time. It didn't matter if the gear got stuck, because I was young and quick. In fact, I was so quick that I could (much to the amusement of other motorists) stop at a red light, turn the engine off, stomp down the emergency brake, jump out, yank up the hood, get the transmission out of gear, slam the hood, get back in the car, start the engine and pull the gear shift back down to first, ALL before the light turned green!!! You can ask Lauri, if you don't believe me. Too bad nobody from NASCAR was witness to my speed and agility. I'm sure I would have been offered a pit crew position.