Men.

If you know me at all you know that I do enjoy a good looking man. I have always appreciated men. I have appreciated some more than others, but that is a different story and my son is already cringing at this sentence. Point is I like guys, not girls. Let me follow that statement with I have some friend girls that just so happens to like other girls... not a problem for me at all. I love all my friend girls... who they like matters not to me, unless that person is mean to them, man or woman, then I take issue! I happen to have two friends who are going through a hard time due to the actions of people they trusted, they believed in, they had faith in the friendship that they had developed. I won't tell names, that is not important. What I will do is pose this question to the reader. When you hurt a friend, when you abandon a friend, when you use that friend as a whipping post do you really, really realize the pain you may be causing? If you are asking if I am writing about myself and my "friend" no it's not me. But I find myself asking me, have I hurt any of "my friends" in the way I have seen my two friends hurt. If I have, and you are reading this, I am so very sorry. But the title is "men". My one friend I have known for many years. I know her secrets, I know her brilliants, I know her heart. She is a good person, she is sometimes too smart for her own good, when she cares, she truly cares. She and I are alot alike other than she is much smarter, refined and taller! She is hurting because her friend, and he is really a friend, not one with "benefits" has all but turned on her. Why? Why does he find it funny to embarrass her after all the times of confiding in her, asking her advise, looking to her for strength. Why must he damage the importance he holds in her life. Why must he make her feel as if all the talks, the emotions, the concerns she has felt for him as a person were for nothing? I have felt the pain she is feeling, I have felt the lose of an important "friend" I have felt the sting of words that I could not understand. I have felt the confusion that this "friend" threw into my world. My friend was important to me, it did not matter that he was a man, just that he was my friend. My friend asks me why, why he would change in such a short time, why he would hurt her feelings in a way very few people can, why? I can only tell her that perhaps he, himself is so very unhappy. He has no out!!!! He has no one else to lash out at. Perhaps, like a small child coming home from school, all day he has to do what is right, what is expected, what he is told, until finally he returns home, returns to those he feels safe with. Only then can that child release the fears, the angers, the frustration the day created for him, only with those he loves can he let go. Perhaps? Maybe, he knows his life is set, through decisions that he did and did not make alone. Perhaps, he knows that the things she and he discussed have happened and he no longer knows where to turn? Perhaps, he is simply miserable, and as the saying goes misery loves company. I feel badly for both my friends. One has lost a confidant, the other friend has lost a running buddy. Real friends are rare, they take time to find, time to cultivate and time to trust. When we are young it seems as though our friends are everywhere. As we go through life, hopefully we learn friends are like lotto tickets... some tickets we immediately check and find they are not winners so we discard, some tickets we get when we are in a hurry so we tuck it away and check when we think about it, we take a chance at losing a prize, and some tickets we buy, we check them and know they are winners and we remember that ticket, that prize! Seldom do we get a winning ticket. If you are fortunate enough to have a few winning tickets, make sure you make the best of your prize. This diddy is simply a reminder of how we can help or hurt those who count on us, who do not need us for money, or because they "have" to be around us, but simply count on us because we are important to their hearts and their spirits, whether they be man or woman!!! later chicks and chicketts

My first and only...

By the time people are my age, being able to say "my first and only..." is a rare event. Yes, admit it most of my friends have tried alot of things, some being admittable some not so much! Especially me. I am a creature of severe habit. I seldom break my routine, how utterly boring. However, not too long ago I scurried outside my hole and tried something totally unheard of for me. As you may have figured out I have a tendency to tell on myself when writing on this blog. I show when I am sad, when I see humor, and when I am pissed! Well here's another true confession. I am both proud of the fact I attempted something so unheard of for me, and a little embarrassed. People hold on to your tuckus...here goes.
I had a PEDICURE. Oh you laugh now... those that know me well, know full well I hate having my tootsies even looked at, much less touched by a stranger.
My odyssey began on mother's day. I loving offered up to pay to have my mother, my sister, my niece and MY toe's remodeled...(clipped and painted, for the men). What in sweet Jesus's name possessed me to say those words. The listed ladies were overwhelmed with joy. Rexanne is having her toes done! I felt like Elvis giving out Cadillacs. Well, the day arrived much to my uneasiness. I put on my oh I love the family outing face. My sister was giving me tips on how to communicate with the orientals that will be touching my toes. Holly moley I didn't get this much advise when I was bout to give birth. We get there... and of course I don't understand 3/4 of what the little man was saying so I just followed my sister and the man's pointed finger. My sister loves to have her 10 little piggies pampered, my mother she can't feel her feet so she is in heaven also. But me... I sit in the what I perceive as the torture chair... the little non english speaking man is coming at me with a scalpel! He seems to be growing, he's not so little anymore with that weapon...where's a tazer when a girl needs one. He smiles a fiendish smile and asks me something. I look to my sister who is just chatting away... I have the look of a terrified grasshopper who is about to be eaten by the guy on Man vs. Wild. I ask her with the hell is he saying. Oh, he wants to know if the water is too hot. oops. Ahhh the water is wonderful, this ain't so bad... the bubbles, the warmth, the massaging chair. Then it happens... the moment I have dreaded, I think I am going to pass out. He reaches for my feet. I look again at my sister, who is caringly asking me if I am ok. I think the color was draining from my head to my endangered toe nails. She asks me if I need a tylenol PM or something to calm down. Seriously... I must have been pathetic. I suck it up, I shake my head no and I look at the little man. He is going to do what??? He wants to scrape under my toe nails with the chisel of a tool. Dear God, what have I done! I panic, I want to run, I want to gladly pay 25.00 for a foot soaking, to hell with the cleaning, scraping, remodeling, and painting. I can do that at home. My sister calms me. She reminds me that the following is why we all came. My mother is looking at me like I have lost my mind, and that she is uncertain how to help. Hell, she still doesn't realize her feet are in steaming water...some help. The little man sort of pulls back when he realizes I am about to karate chop his head off with the titanium reinforced leg with the semi-nice toe nails. He looks at my sister as if to say... is this lady crazy or what. I feel bad for the man, he speakaley little english and doesn't follow what I have been saying to my sister. He tells "it be ok, you want clean, you want rub?" Rub? ummm ok, lets see.. I have survived tazering, pepper spraying, childbirthing (natural), and a teenager... I can do this. All of this happens in a matter of minutes. He goes for the scraper thingy again. I take a breath and I hold on as if I am about to have my nails removed. He begins... I think I am going to puke... he grabs my piggy that usually goes to the market.. he could have pierced my left booby with a 10 penny nail and not have made me any queasier... my knuckles are white... my jaw is set and I am playing a game in my confused brain of .. what have I done to myself that is worse than this? My sister soothes me as if she is my labor coach. Finally, the dirty deed is done. Gees, why would anyone want to clean some toe nails, hell mine aren't even that bad. Anyway, after he puts that weapon away, he asks in his nicest broken english if I am ok. During my moments of unconsciousness my sister had explained that I have a very negative toe aversion. I HATE to have anyone even touch their own toes much less mine. I smile, and wipe the sweat from my forehead, or was that water someone splashed on me, to bring me back! The paint goes on, which by this time was a snap and a very lovely shade of hot pink. I look down at my little pigglets who have survived this grueling experience and think to myself, what a good little piggy am I. We girls finish up, I pay the people and run to the safety of my car, without smudging my beauties. This was one of those girls day out that I will always remember and cherish. Partly because my sister, mother and I shared my first time together, partly because we laughed so hard as my misery and partly because I was right, pedicures are really just a form of torture for me! To my sister, I love you, and as always you helped me through it.

And so it continues - Part 2

In part 1 I told yall that Jaime deserved to have her story told. You must be asking why I think Jaime is so special. What did she do to deserve any story. I think she would like people to know why she behaved, acted and reacted the she did during her life.
The beginning of the continued cycle really began before Jaime was even a thought. Jaime's mother was young, 16yrs old when she met and was whoo'd by a 42yrs. man. He promised her a better life than that of a very poor sharecropper's daughter. Her mother ran away with the older man, only to quickly experience out of the frying pan, into the fire. The man who was to save her, only used her to beat on, to sell to other men and in order to ensure she remained with him, he introduced this unhappy, scared, girl to the wonders of heroin. He taught her how to give herself the shots. In the 1950's, there was no hope for her escape. Soon this teenager girl was turning tricks to pay for her growing habit as well as for that of this leach of a human being who preyed on this helpless girl. He brought her to Texas, away from her family, her familiar surroundings, her only means of a possible escape. And so it continued, the cycle began. Eventually, Jaime was born, to a addict mother, and unknown John. Jaime's mother was useless to the old man by the time Jaime was born. He left her with a baby, a habit, and no hope. Jaime was born in the early 1980's. Times were better for a person to get help, but drug addicts were not considered top priority. I know this part of Jaime's life because she felt the need to tell me. She wanted me to understand why she made some of the choices she was making. Jaime continued to tell me... Jaime was never in one place too long, a junkie can't pay the rent, a landlord doesn't care about moving a junkie to the streets. Jaime says she remembered the first time an old man touched her, how he smelled, how his hands were dirty and rough, how he told her to shut up, how her mother asked Jaime to be a "good girl" and not be rude to the old man with the drug she was willing to give her daughter away for if not only a few minutes for. Jaime said she learned quickly as a little 4-5yrs girl to stay hidden, don't let the men see her, "don't expect momma to protect me" she said one of her first memories of her mother's drug problem was her mother sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing, sweating, rocking as she would her daughter is she knew how to be a mother. Jaime said she was frightened because her mother suddenly fell over, and began to shake violently. Jaime said she ran to the neighbors in the shanty apartment to get help for her sick mother. Jaime was too young to understand the effects of with drawls. This was the first time child services became involved in this little girl's nightmare. Jaime's momma got "well", and got Jaime back. Jaime to the last time I saw her swore her mother loved her. Jaime continues her story, even for me I find it hard not want to slap her mother to this very day. Jaime tells me not too long after her terrifying ordeal, her mother began to take her "medicine" again. Jaime was 6yrs. old the first time her mother decided Jaime was old enough to help her. Jaime was taught at 6yrs old to tie her mother's arm off, with anything available, to load the syringe and to shoot the liquid hell called heroin into her mother's arm. Her mother told Jaime if she didn't do it right, if she didn't help her mother with this ritual, her mother would die, and Jaime would have no where to go. For one moment shut your eyes and imagine your 6yrs, child, niece, grandson hearing those words, seeing the effects of the shot, seeing the blood come back through the syringe. We imagine for one moment, this was a huge part of Jaime's life. I asked Jaime how she felt, now that she is grown with babies of her own, tears came to her eyes, she hung her head, and she softly said "I hate her for that, why me?" My heart broke for her, I wanted to hug her and make the memories go away. But, it was too late. Jaime was taken way from the only person she had really known to love, several more times, each time the state would allow her to go home, and each time her mother would relapse often at the expense of her daughter. Jaime learned early how to cook for herself and her mother, how to hustle money from the old men without selling her body, how to survive in the roughest neighborhoods where she was the minority, where she was beat up for walking down the street, and being white. She learned that CPS was not one to help her, but to take her from the mother that needed her. Jaime was taken was when she was 14yrs. old from her mother yet again, but this time Jaime was pregnant. Jaime said she believed CPS would have to let her go, if she had a baby. Jaime's eye's lit up as she spoke about her baby girl. Jaime had her baby while she herself was in foster care. The day she had her baby the state allowed her to see her baby then they took her baby from her. Jaime said she cryed and screamed the day they took her baby girl who she named Allison. Jaime was resourceful, a life on the streets had taught her well, she knew how to work the system. She played the game so well, she convinced the social worker she would not run away from the foster home, she learned where her baby girl was, she had refused to sign her away. Allison was the one person in this world who would love her, and not hurt her. Jaime took the first opportunity, she ran, and she ran straight to her baby girl. Jaime took her baby and ran again. Jaime ran to her mother. Jaime's mother tried to help, tried to hide her, tried to tell the state she was not longer a danger to her daughter. They took Jaime's baby again, however, through time and effort Jaime had her baby returned to her, and she was taken out of the system. Jaime loved Allison, yet, Jaime had never been mothered, she had never been rocked, she had never known the safety of one home. Jaime kept Allison, and tried to share her with the baby's daddy, only to have the daddy critically hurt in an accident, and he has been and still is basically brain dead. Allison's father's sister,(aunt) would help Jaime with Allison, the aunt loved Allison, but Jaime could not bear to give her baby girl away.
Part 3 to follow.......

And so it continues..

This story is close to my heart, this story reminds me of all the good things I have had, and do have, this story keeps my life in perspective for me.
As some of you know I was not born into a June and Ward Clever household. I was born sick, which I heard about pretty regular, I was born poor, yet my father made good money, I was born into a war zone, yet we lived in Fort Worth. All these things because of alcohol. Yep, you guessed it, my father was a raging drunk and my mother tried to counter that by drownding her sorrows. Who paid the real price, just as kids before me, and after me, we kids did and so it continues. However, this story is not about me. I say the above to say this, I can understand why the girl I am writing about made alot of the choices she made. I will call this girl Jamie, not her real name but she deserves to have her story told. When I met Jamie was was about 19yrs. old. She was as most teens are peppy, her long reddish blonde hair shinned as it blew on that windy sunny day. Jamie was a cute girl. She had a big smile.
I knew about Jamie because she was the daughter-in-law to my very best friend. I had heard of the issues Jamie and my friend's son had. How they squandered their money, how they fought both emotionally and physically with each other. How they had produced two beautiful little boys, with very little time between births. My friend would call me crying asking what she could do to help, she knew the babies were not being cared for in a way she cared for her children. She knew the babies were seeing the fighting, the suspected drug use, the dirty house, the lack of parental stabiltiy. My friend could do nothing. I told my friend to tell Jamie if ever she was in desperate need to call me, I knew Jamie and Jason did not trust or like the police, but I had hoped that because I had known Jason from the time he was 3yrs old that would take precedence. On that sunny day that I met Jamie, she had her babies with her. The boys were about 18months and 3yrs. old. They were beautiful little boys. I watched Jamie with her boys. I could see that she loved them, they loved her. The boys would run to her and she would hug them and smile as a mother does, her eyes would gleam as she spoke of their milestones. Yet, the boys were ragged, they were dirty and Jamie was at her wits end. Jamie came to me to ask me to talk to Jason. She was tired of the physical abuse, she was tired of the no money, she was simply tired of everything. She wanted to keep her boys with her, yet she had no help. Jason paid no child support, her mother was a recovering drug addict with her own issues and her father was no where in sight. How could she work if she had no child care, yet no child care because she had no job. She was desperate enough to come to me. I offered her options, many of which she had tried, I bought her diapers, but this would not help her but for a brief time for just one of her problems. Jamie was in a very bad place in her life and she knew it.
While reading this some may ask why did she have the babies, does it really matter once the babies are here? Or perhaps why did she not give them up if she loved them? Jamie had her reason which I will explain later. Or perhaps why was she any different from so many other young mothers? That too I will explain later. The point is our system, our society let Jamie down. Not when Jamie was a young mother, We continue to pay money to women with 6 kids, women who continue to have children well into their late 20's (old enough to know better),we continue to allow women who have had their children taken away to procreate and continue to have more only to have them removed.
This is not about society issues, this is to be about Jamie and other's like her, and the saddness that she felt.
Part 1-to be continued.

The ugliness of humanity

Boys and girls.. I believe my memory has an image embedded upon it that I will never be able to totally erase. After so many years of seeing torn up bodies, blood, guts, chewed up to burned up bodies there is one memory that I truly shutter when it invades my thoughts. What you must be asking can be worse that seeing at least the crime scene pictures of who we will call her Betty Joe having been knawned on by her dogs for several days. Yep that was a nasty little scene. But this one I see in my mind’s eye is even more hideous. I was working the other day, just as I have done for so many days when Fort Worth PD was gracious enough to "bring" to us a prisoner that they had caught who had our warrants. Ummm, Fort Worth is never ever nice like this...ummm what's the deal. well good god almighty. The prisoner was the one that gave Officer Mason her black eye. Yes HER black eye. The fat idiot hit her when he was trying to get away when he was being arrested the first time. Any way, the goofy idiot.. thats his new name..goofy idiot gets in our jail and starts getting that age old jail house sickness... what a bambie..his tummy hurts.. I tell him with that gut how the heck does he know..I tell him, just can it. Nope, I want to go to the hospital. I tell goofy bastard, I don’t care if you tell them your nuts hurt and they turn out to be as big as your gut..I'm not turning you loose. Well, here comes the hideous part. Oh the agony he has put me through. As you have surmised he is a big fat goofy bastard... I handcuff him cause he needs to go to the hospital, I walk him to the ambulance's back door. I tell him to step up to get into the ambulance. Well of course he is tooo fat to do any of this.. I am trying to push him up with my pointer finger by putting my finger on his back. Gee's I don't want to touch that nasty goofy idiot... I tell the medics to grab him from the front cause he hasn't helped himself in years.. they pull, I push with my one finger... and the other young green officer, he's smarter than me..he doesn’t do anything.. then the unspeakable happens.. the thing that will stay in my memory for so very long I fear... his mother &*$% shorts fall down... I have goofy idiot's hairy butt, with bumps on it.. 4 inches from my face. Thank god he didn’t fart, I swear I would have stomped him to death. I start gagging, the other officer whom is fondly referred to as "brick" continues to just stare at that huge pimplely hairy ass. What the hell.. I tell him..do something don't just stand there!!! one of you guys pull his $#%$ damned shorts up before I accidently catch a glimpse of his tiny weenie. I shudder at the thought..for sure that would have been grounds for workers comp. I still can see that horrible goofy idiots butt... lord help me.

Oh my gosh.

This month (May) has been unbelievable hectic. Noel has had his shoulder rebuilt, and we know how men are when they are hurt. I missed 3 days of work to dote over him. Ummm, let me think, I didn’t get that much help when they broke my leg and shoved a titanium man’s knee joint in my bird leg. I did get a cold burrito and a watered down soda, which I was immensely grateful for, I think cause I am still being reminded of how “he took care of me” oh but I digress. I change his dressing, which means he has to sit down because he thinks he is going to faint. Faint I say!!! It’s two tiny cuts… oh my god how inconsiderate of me. I tell him that the two incisions will require two small bandaids.. I don’t think he hears me, cause he is about to seriously faint. What in the hell am I going to do with a 6’4 fainted guy in a tiny bathroom? I blow in his face, which almost turns him colors cause of my breath. He fusses at me, which hurts my feelings so I am not near as gentle with the application of the TWO bandaids. I have to fan him with the cool rag… back to my original statement.. triplets!!
Then I was hell bent on getting my eyelids reduced. Hell if insurance will pay for it why not! Let me tell you why not. Who knew that my eyebolla’s (Tonia’s term) would conspire to destroy what little looks I have. Oh I got the eyelids sucked and tucked alright. Mom’s eyelids didn’t rebel against the surgery she had. Not mine. I came home from the out patient surgery and rushed to see my lushious eyelids. “Oh shit!” was the only think I could think to say. I discover that I look like frankenstine instead of Flockhart. What the hell have I done! Again, my little angel is gone, he has dumped me off at home and off to where ever… what about the 3 days off I took? Bandaids, that’s it I’ll hide my stitches with bandaids. I am a smart girl, I think to myself. I sleep sitting up, no easy feat. I wake up to find that sleeping sitting up is harder than I thought. My eyebollas are swollen, and have a lovely shade of fire engine red around them. Nice!!! I have astronomy finals today. I am going to go and make the yellow toothed professor feel sorry for me. Bandaids!!! I put them on my poor little lids, only to have the bandaids stick to the stitches… what have I done? I get to school. Yep with sun glasses on. I think if I act just right maybe these younguns will think I am just totally cool. I am wearing a wornout tee shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. Cool. I make it to class, and remove my glasses. Laura and Tonia try to be nice, but the look on Laura’s face of squinty eyes and the sort of frown pretty much gives her away, then Tonia who always tries to find the nice… she says nothing, for a few, then asks me if it hurts. I just laugh until my stitches hurt. I still have stitches 1 week later. The huge black eye is better, and the swelling is better. I no longer get the “oh my god, who whipped your ass” reaction. I have to carry around these stitches for another week. This sucks. Would I do it again, well hell yes, I hate wrinkles and if that teeny tiny bit of fat is removed then it is worth it. Joan Rivers is my Idol!!!!!Pictures to follow.

HEART OF A FIGHTER This story is about a special friend of mine. As you read you will most likely notice quickly that I have left out the name of my friend. I do this for a purpose. My friend is so very special and dear to me. They will know who they are they read this. Just as with my other letters about my dear friends, I have such special memories of my friend. I remember when I met my friend about 8 ½ years ago. His voice was booming, his laughter was contagious and his heart was kind. I liked my friend immediately. He has a way of putting people at ease. I was a “rookie” officer, a female in a man’s world and if the truth be known now, I was scared to death. I had a small son to raise alone. Could I do this job, would I be able to keep this job, will I fit in with this department. Will I get hurt, killed? Who will raise my son, who will be there for him? These questions terrified me because I could not answer them. For those who know me well, you know how unadventuresome I am. I was determined to prove to myself and to those who doubted me that I could be a Police Officer, and I could be a good one! I wanted my son to be proud of me. He had no father to speak of, so I was again determined to be both to him. I was going to be strong and soft. I was so scared but more so I was so determined. So back to my friend. I worked patrol for a year. My god that was a hard year. I missed my little boy tremendously. The hours. But wait the hours. In the beginning I told the department I could not leave my son alone at night to work midnight shift. I had no sitter, and he was too young, even at 11yrs. Our house is old, and he was not going to suffer because I wanted to be a cop. My friend helped work out a deal that I would not have to work a midnight shift. After a year my friend put his name on the line, literally. He made some calls and accomplished the unheard of. I was to be the other DARE officer, within a year of working as an officer. My friend truly believed in me. He has argued a thousand words in my favor over the years. My friend has bought my lunch when I was too embarrassed to say I was broke, my friend has made me laugh when I was the maddest (and I have been fighting mad over the years), my friend has let me cry when my little boy caused me grief, he has put on black socks, the ugliest yellow shorts, and a white tee-shirt and jumped up and down on his hotel bed while we watched movies, just to make me laugh. God, I laughed!! Note: we were in at training and there were other friends there too..for the record, oh and the coor’s lite. It has not always been laughter and jokes, we have argued over the years, and I would sink with sadness when the anger would subside. He is my friend, he matters to me I would think to myself. He is a good man, a good husband, a good son and a good friend. He has a strong heart. Does he make mistakes, yes, does he cuss, yep, does he get angry, you bet. Does he always strive to do what he truly believes is right, absolutely. I mentioned my fear of something happening to me during the course of my job. Policemen get killed – children lose a parent. My son is grown now, he still needs me, but like that of a 12yrs little boy. I wrote a letter years ago, I put it away. I told my friend in the event of my death to “get the foot locker” well my friend thinks cause I have my journals in the foot locker..and I do..ohhh now that’s some reading… but actually, the letter inside asked my friend to watch over the most precious thing I have ever had in my life. The one thing I can say “I did and did well” to please watch over my little boy. I know my friend would have taken my pray to heart and he would have watched my son until his dying day. By the grace of God, my son is grown and I am still here. I trust my friend, I love him like a brother, I hurt for him when he hurts, I am angry for/with him when he is angry. I believe my friend feels the same way. I know even to this day, that my friend would be there for me, if I needed him badly enough, he would stop everything and walk to help me. He would even stop work, to come put my air conditioner in the window! He calls me kiddo, he makes me feel necessary and needed even when others around me do not. My friend and I are going through a difficult time with things around us. Yet, when I can no longer understand why, or control my temper or just need to be a girl and cry. I have my friend. He has me.I respect him because he has a heart of a fighter. I love my friend as I love my own brother. My friend, my confidant, my co-worker and sometimes my hero, GREG ARRINGTON. Love ya brother.