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.

Where's my girdle?

As you all are aware I work with an overwhelmingly majority of men. Yes, men, as much as I would like to say boys, I will respect them and call them men. Nee, I say superhero's just ask them. Well as I think back on my tenure with the Police Department and these fine, responsible, crime solving men my mind shoots back to a time of laughter, frustration, embarrassment and retaliation. Let me just begin my story and spare yall the verbs or whatever those describing words are... Several years ago I was assigned to the a unit we called "the CRU" crime resolution unit to be exact. This unit consisted of myself, two other detectives, school resource officer and Sgt. and Lt. A. he was the leader of the pack. We all worked very well together, we became friends, not only at work but in our everyday lives as well. I shared a small office with the two detectives who were to become two of my closest friends. As time went on, we shared jokes, some appropriate, most not, we talked of our home lives, and let me tell you with that boy of mine I had some home stories. The guys would laugh at me, they would tease me, they would say things that only men could appreciate. They mostly loved to tease me. My two grown, responsible, crime fighting, gun toting friends loved to tease me. I would see that smirk on one of their faces and know they were up to something. They huddled together like 1st graders on the school ground deciding on their next "funny". Usually, at my expense. I loved those guys. I have never laughed so hard in my life. One particular day, had started out somewhat differently. I had been summoned to County Court. Well hell, guess I have to dress up, no men's dockers and a polo for this event. I wiggled into a dress, and high heels and trotted off to court. What in the world was I thinking as I struggle to stay atop those high dollar high heels, my feet were squealing like piglets caught in the barn door. My ability to remember that a dress requires one to sit properly as opposed to flopping down, was painfully obvious as I noticed the baliff eyeball me as my dress crawled up my legs like a spider. That poor old man nearly fainted at just the thought of a gleapsy at my yams. Oh and the getting up, lets just say the 8 month pregnant woman had more grace, I resembled bambie on the ice. I manage to limit my humiliation to a few mishaps and take myself back to the office, where my co-workers wait. I walk in wearing the one dress I own, trying to have some sort of ego. My two office mates had never seen me in a dress. Well good god, the smirks, the giggles and the opinions began to fly. I just sat there, letting the girl's I mean superhero's have their moment. I decide, my pigglet feet can no longer survive in those harness's called shoes. I waltz myself to the bathroom to change into my usual look like one of the guy's outfit. Ahhh, I feel better and safer, t.v. is wrong, female cops can not run in the fashionable kicks made today. I smile and casually put my dress, my panty hose, my shoes and my girdle, under my desk. Now, ladies we all know that girdles are used to hold up our panty hose, not to hide the baby fat that we acquired 15yrs ago. Surely my stuff will be safe under here, I erroneously thought. I leave the room, only to find upon my return that my two friends have hung a donated pumpkin pinata on the ceiling of the office. I think to myself they certainly seem to be well behaved. They sit as if choir boys waiting for the next song. I stop and survey the room, last time they acted respectable they had scotched taped my earpiece on my phone receiver in a way that I could not hear anyone talking to me. I looked really stupid standing with the phone in my hand continually saying "hello" to some poor soul who thought I was an idiot, oh that was a funny all right! Anyway, the room looks safe, my phone works, but wait.... ummm...my stuff is moved from under my desk. Oh they did not.. those wienee's, surely not. I scurry to my desk. They sit silently watching me, they know the gig is up. The moment they have planned and waited for. I look like a poor woman at a Walmart 1.00 sale. I search through my pile of clothes. I will kill them..., in my uncontrolled, can't believe it, I am about to be so embarrassed voice, I turn as if possessed and with lips tight, and eyes squinted like Carol Burnett's Eunice talking to Momma, I say "Where's my girdle?" I see my one friend begin to shake with laughter, my other friend has his head thrown back and is wiping away his tears. They had held it in as long as two boys could. I tell them, this is not funny! Where is it, give it to me,now. Dear God, the thought of the other women knowing I wore a girdle and then the size, have these gooses lost their minds. I tell them I do not think this is funny and to give me the %$#@ girdle. How could they, they were stilling falling down laughing, the madder I got the funnier it was. As I looked around the room in horror, I demanded to know where my girdle was. One of the jokesters pointed outside, he managed to say it was on the antenna of one of the patrol cars. Ahh, shit, was all I could think. I was still recovering from knee replacement, so my stomping out of the room skill had not been reestablished. I limped outside looking frantically for a cream colored, size medium rubberband. Not there!!!! I turn and limp back inside only to find the boys sitting again quietly. I once again demand they return my secret weapon, and tell them I am furious, this is not funny, hahaa. The other jokester points to the ceiling. I look up only to see that orange, ugly, pumpkin pinata. What! My girdle is in the pinata, the pinata I can't reach. The tears are flowing again, as they laugh uncontrollably. I looked like a 5 yoa. cripple jumping for the candy. I try to find a stick, that would serve two purposes, one hit the pinata, two beat the guys. As I begin to tell the two that if they don't give me my rubberband, I am going to dump the shredded paper on the floor and while they pick the paper up, I'll get the pumpkin. Just as I am holding the trashcan full of shredded paper, and dumping on J.D.'s head and desk, the (previous administration)director of Public Service walks past. I am busted. He stops at the doorway, see's me with the can in mid air, J.D. acting innocent and K.D. laughing, he asks what we could possibly be doing. We stop, we look innocent, and J.D. announces that we are practicing for cinco de mayo, the paper was to be the candy. We are admonished for the horse play, I finally (almost in tears, from embarrassment)get my grubby fingers on that stupid pumpkin, I tuck it under my arm, I glare at the boys and limp my self out of the building, across that parking lot, with that pumpkin that swallowed my girdle! Man those were good times. later chicks and chicketts.

Ocean

I want to be at the ocean, this picture can only sustain me so much......Oh but wait Gustav and that other one has beat me...rats!!!!!!!

It's Done!

I did it. I set myself free. I am officially retired! I know everyone must be sick of hearing me whine. I feel like the 3 faces of Eve..(the movie)well some, no most of yall are too young to remember the movie, lets go with Sybil (I was called that by one of the guys and I thought we were going to fight! J.D.!). Anyway, one moment I am so very sad at the thought of leaving the job I had put so much effort into, and so many feelings and concerns for so many people in that nice little Payton Place town. Yet, I feel like I have broken free from a bad marriage, a crazy date, an abusive husband. Most of the people at the department were hard working, kind, sincere people just trying to make a living, raise their kids, and maybe cheat a little on the side (just kidding!). Those people I will miss terribly. The few, the 3-4 people who belittled my friends, screamed at them, said mean, unnecessary things to me. Those 2-3 that used their position to retaliate because I did not think like they wanted me to, because I was vocal about the inconsistencies, the fact I would not shut up and that I did not believe all people in our little Payton Place were drunks and losers. Someone else's words, not mine.I have paid a high price for the fact that I believe the peace at any price is simply not worth it. I loved my job, when I was able to do my job. I have said before, I was not hired to write tickets, or to knock on doors to tell someone to shut their dog up. I did those jobs, I paid my dues, a little known fact, I was Rookie of the Year my first year. I worked hard. My real reason to be an officer was to help those who can not or could not help themselves. I was the one who talked to the 13yrs. who had been molested by her daddy for 6 years, and she knew me and trusted me. She no longer lives with the horrible fear of him coming into her room. I did that!, I talked to the crazy lady who in her sick mind believed she was being stalked, and had been raped. Had she, no, she had not taken her meds. I helped her, in her mind she had been hurt, in her mind she deserved my help, in her mind, I was there for her. I helped her.. she got the meds, help she needed. I did that! I have told many a women about the shelters, I have told many a men, hit her again and I will find a way to put you in jail, with or without her help! I have colored with 3yrs. while officer's took pictures of momma's blackeye, I have changed diapers that I got from Walmart cause the woman left home too fast in fear of being hit again. I have taught over 5000 kids in our little town. I have hugged every single one of these kids, some of them numerous times, simply because they wanted one. Maybe it was the only one they got for that week. Yep, there really are kids out there who find their sactuary at school. My dare kids are starting to graduate now, and they still hug me, they would find me in the town and tell me of their impending marriages, their going away to war, their forthcoming baby. They go to effort to tell me these things. I care about these things. I have gotten baby clothes for the young teen mother, car seats for the mother of 3, diapers for the poor mother, and with all of this I did it in the best way I could to let the women know that everyone needs help sometimes, and that being helped does not and should not diminish her pride or her will to move forward. I tried to help in a way people could still hold their heads up, they could look at me, thank me because I cared enough to help, not because they got something free. The people I have worked with have been some of the best friends I will ever know, the people I worked to help and serve have been the most kindest, warmest, appreciative and supportive people that I could have ever hoped to have served. I love this little Payton Place. I loved the job of helping those who could not help themselves. But, because a wife felt I was unorganized ( the one time she really saw me work) and because I didn't fit the mold and because my loyalties were with a supervisor who felt our jobs were to serve more than to discipline I was removed from helping the kids and women. I was a good officer, just not the kind some thought our little town needed. At the end, I refused to do anything. I put a whooping 12 miles on my patrol car my last day. No one noticed my departure after 9yrs, no one really cared. I had been unhappy for awhile, guess they got sick of me.. thats ok. I will find my way, again, I will not be sad, I only hope someone will care enough to fill my spot and will truly care to help those who can't help themselves in my little town. I love the people in my little town. I find my happiness in the fact I did help a few, and there are many who will remember me long after I am gone. That no one can't take away. I will enjoy my time, and I will stop and smell the roses for a little while,, I will smile all day, then I will begin a new chapter helping those who can not help themselves. If you have any extra little prayers left over please spend one on me!
P.S. I promise this is the last one about poor me! Funny story on its way.

My Son

I have written about wrinkled toes, pink toe nails, sadness and issues. My favorite topic of all, is like most mother's my child. My son, he is everything I had dreamed of him being. I can remember the day I discovered I was pregnant. Me, pregnant!! Oh my god is this one of my good idea's or no? Too late now. As time progress's I realize that this making baby is not at all like on t.v. Somehow, I don't look as lovely as Lucy did on I Love Lucy, nor was I as chipper as Laura on Dick VanDyke. What the three of us had in common was the crying jags. My baby got here in record time. I suppose the falling down the stairs 10hrs earlier in the day, may have had something to do with him getting here. I remember the unbelievable pain, the no drugs, the fear when the doctor told me if I pushed with the pain, my son could die, the cord is tight around his neck. How can I not push. I begin my journey of protecting my baby fiercely. I don't push, and he is born screaming. My beautiful steamy baby boy. I can still hear his miraculous cry, his spread fingers and toes. I loved him, that very moment. Our love began. I was terrified as his father drove us home that rainy, cold day. I was afraid we would have a car wreck, I would not know how to get him out of the car seat, or worst what if I have no idea why he is crying. We made it through that first night, we made it until Christmas eve, my precious baby is 2 weeks old and perfect. Yet, why does it look as if he is turning blue? He is turning blue, this isn't right. My husband says I am being too cautious, nothing is wrong, I know there is! I don't care if there are visitors for Christmas. I call the Dr. and am told to rush my baby to the hospital. I am terrified. My baby, what is wrong, I can only imagine, and that my friends is my worst enemy at times. My baby spends his first Xmas not in his new santa jammies but in a hospital crib. I sit and watch him, I don't think I even blinked. I cryed and paced and prayed, yes prayed, I offered to die, if the Lord would just let me carry my son out of that hospital. The doctors said he simply would forget to breath, perhaps falling down those stairs started the process of birth, that my baby wasn't ready for. What had I done. The Lord allowed me to walk out of that hospital with my baby. To this very day, I hold true to the promise that I would willing die for my son. My son, was 7 months old when his father decided to leave. I once again cryed. What had I done to my baby. How will he grow to be a good man without a father. The day after his father left, I saw my precious baby boy reach for me, and smile. He wasn't afraid because I was there. I would not be afraid, I would not let him down. A love only a mother can know. Time passed, I watched my baby grow to a little boy. The day my son told me he loved me, he was just a baby, but those words were as if he had solved the problems of the world. All the doubts, fears and uncertainty of raising a baby alone faded that very moment. I knew I could and WOULD raise my son to be a good man. My little boy and I made sacrifices, for each other. I worked odd hours, I slept odd hours, I rushed to mother's day out, I rushed to kindergarten, I rushed to soccer games, he became use to my rushing, he knew momma went to work at night, he knew his momma didn't do what most momma's did, he learned to accept the fact I looked for bad guys, he learned to deal with worry. He learned that there were times I would have to work while other's had Thanksgiving with their momma's. But together we held strong. We were a family, a team, even if it was just the two of us, a family. He knew there would be thanksgiving dinner, even if it was a day early, there would always be a Christmas tree, and we would buy it together. We had traditions, the two of us. My son grew to be a good son. Little did I know that some of the fights he had in high school were because kids were teasing him about his mother being a cop, he has and will always be my champion. I would tell my son that people were not talking about his mother, they were talking about a cop, it didn't matter to him. He had a loyalty to me and to those officer's I called my friends. My son has grown to be tall, strong and smart. He has been my rock during times that I doubted myself,even as a child he knew how to say the words that would calm me, restore my drive and make me believe in myself again. Was my son easy to raise, nope, he was a hand full. My men friends would laugh at me, when I would be furious and crying cause of his stunts, or they would offer advice that I just could not do, and no he was and is not a momma's boy. He loves me, he respects me and he appreciates all the efforts I have put forth.
He says he is PROUD of me. Are there any greater words, other than "I love you momma." that a mother can hear.I love him, I am proud of him and he is everything I ever dreamed of in a beautiful, precious little boy (will always be in my heart)young man. NOEL, I LOVE YOU SON.

My Supper

I love this blog... the deal with it is that most of my stories are true, some are sort of true and some are just that stories. I hope to leave it up to the reader to decide which category a story belongs in. This story however, I will give you the answer is true. This story isn't sad, it isn't funny and witty but it is one of those times I will always remember.
Today was a hard day at work, not so much because it was hot and humid and I was in layers of black hot clothes, or because the department seems to be turmoil from my perspective but simply because I know I will be leaving soon, and I have to work at not allowing myself to be sad. This is quite a struggle for me. I came home to a not so clean or together house, my son and I had a disagreement, he's my rock right now and my dog had again pee'd on the floor, why the hell do I continue to buy those stupid puppy pads. Needless to say I was not at the top of my game. The word for it was "feeling sorry for myself". I decided to bring my jammie clad ed self to the computer and begin my long journey of spanish 2311, dear god. My son had called and asked if I wanted him to bring me my favorite from the restaurant he was at. I felt better instantly that he and I were not at odds. Seems I am at odds with everyone as of late, because of me, not them. As I sat looking at words that meant absolutely nothing to me, my mind began to wonder. I tell myself all will be fine, the unknown is sometimes good. As I sat at my computer staring at my ocean pictures I received a call on my land phone. Umm, only bill collectors call my land phone. I look anyway, well shucks it is my friend, he's the only one who "ever" calls my land phone. I answer.
His deep voice bellows "whatcha doin", I decide to forego the poor me answer. Nuthin. Have you eaten? Nope, but the son is bring me take out. Nevermind. Why do you ask, were you going to invite me to Texas DeBrazil? laughter.... No..to Poncho's. Poncho's I repeat. Yep, but since you have plans. I quickly tell him, not on your life, give me time to change and I'll be at the door. Ok.
He picks me up and off we go to our old neighborhood or at least the area.
Poncho's is like caviar, it's an acquired taste. It was where we would go on payday as a kid, the flag, the all you can eat, the same building... the memories. We get our food, we begin to talk. We talk about about our families, our work, our issue's. I talk about my kid, he talks of his closeness to his wife. I have to say I like his wife, she has class, and spunk, she can cuss someone out and still hold her little pinky up as she is doing it.(just a little sidebar). We laugh, I nearly cry. I stop for a brief moment and really look at my friend. I have known him for years, yet it seemed we had all the time in the world to be friends. Now things are changing, I am leaving, we will stay friends but it won't be the same. I see the kindness in his eyes, I see his mother in his eyes, I see that he too is tired. I take that moment to store that 45 minute meal into my memory bank. Strange what we chose to store as important memories. I needed him to be my friend, I needed to know someone understood my continual struggle against the sadness this change has brought. I needed to hear his laughter. He tells me of a very honorable position he holds. He tells me all will be ok. We laugh when the two year old drops her soda cup on the baby in the carrier. (the cup was closed) but it was funny seeing the dad jump up... not everyone would have laughed with me. I tell my friend I felt honored that he called me to go to Poncho's. I truly did. He is my friend, and only a hand full of friends can get me out of my jammies once I am in them!!!Tonite, he was the friend I needed. Things do have a way of working out, things will be ok. I already feel better, and soon I will have to find something else to "whine" about because this sadness over this issue will pass. I want to thank my friend for being there, and his wife for always allowing our friendship to be what it is. Thank you to both.I have not told who my friend is because that is part of what makes this memory "my memory".My supper was spectacular!!! later chickies and chicketts. :)

Wrinkled toes

My day today was less than exciting, however I have to admit today I was the wettest I have ever been in my career. I stood in knee deep flood water and told people who seemed to have no sense of if I am in knee deep water, or if they can't see my feet then perhaps they should not take their beetle car into the great watery unknown. I swear, I can understand teenagers, and old people, but grown adults. One lady who was trying to go around the barricades used to block the street because of high water... she goes through the bank parking lot, and "thinks" she sees the exit drive. Well what she saw was the cement culvert. She nose dived her old caddy right into that ditch. I get there, still wet from the last help me, help me.. and I just stand in the driving rain, with water running over, in, through my boots. I ask her.. just what were you thinking. She had some asinine reply. I look at the car, and there is her honey bunny man, sitting in the car, with two of the ugliest english bull dogs I have ever seen. She asks me to help her save the slobbery creatures... is she serious, can't dogs swim? She hasn't even mentioned the guy who is still sitting in the ever flooding vehicle. I tell her that she could go to jail, she begins to cry and tell me how she and her babies, are just at the end of their rope. Her and the dogs, or her and honey bunny? I tell her as much as I would like to feel sorry for her, she did a stupid thing and stupid things cost about 100.00 for the wrecker fee.
I manage through the rest of the day, wet socks, wet tee shirt, wet cold polyester pants, and my toes were as wrinkled as my fingers. What a miserable day, but at least no one was killed like in the past. Tomorrow will bring more rain, more wrinkled toes and a wait and see attitude. later yall.

Panty lines - Yes or No

We have all seen them. Those hideous panty lines. Yes hideous I say. Now let me tell you that I know of one guy who swears he loves to see panty lines. "Oh my gosh,your a sick man.." is the beginning of the conversation I have with him. How can you possibly find anything of beauty from panty lines? He smiles that smile that all men have when they have a secret, or when they have no answer at all. He tells me, it leads him to wonder what kind of panties she has on.
I wonder about his thought processing abilities.
From time to time I find myself parked in the Walmart parking lot, just watching, for what ever.. car burglars, people arguing (walmart in a small town is a hot spot for disturbances don't you know!) you get the idea. I notice that the vast majority of shoppers are indeed women. I am not one to "look" at women, far from that, but honestly the man looking possibility is extremely limited to say the least. I see one woman, who evokes a reaction of "lord I hope those threads are strong". I truly believed that had one single stitch failed in its assigned duty of saving the shorts from ripping, that lady would have injured a child with the pressure that the material would release upon the thread failing. I manage to forget about the safety issue and I begin to realize that she has other issues that seem to be even more pressing. Yep, those darn ole panty lines. Fat, skinny, broad, narrow, panty lines seem to go on forever. This poor lady must not have owned a single mirror. I know same old joke, but even that deaf, dumb and blind kid that plays a mean pinball, the pinball wizard could have figured out the depth of those hideous lines. She not only had lines across her expanding hips, but in other less writable places. Bike shorts were made for those who own a bike, or for those who own a mirror or for those who know that panties do not go with yellow bike shorts. I shuttered for this poor woman whose butt jiggled as if she had found 4 kittens and decided to house them in her stretchy outfit. I cringed with embarrassment for her because her panty lines were beginning to ride up her cheekies...the most uncomfortablist situation of all clothing mishaps. I hoped for her sake her small daughter would not continue to walk behind her, pointing at her mother's butt and saying as she went along, momma your shorts have bumps and lines drawn in them. Yes, out of the mouths of babes. Even with this outburst, the woman carried on in her quest for food as opposed to a mirror, t-backs and denim!

Potty on Duty

All of you I hope are aware that I am not one to point out the differences between myself and my counterparts (male officer) however, in this one instance I think pointing out the following difference warrants being written about.
As a rookie female officer I learned very quickly that I had to "pace" myself. I had to learn how much water was too much water, how much gatorade would have a disturbing effect or god forbid the soda effect.
Let me begin by explaining the ritual of the male officer potty break. This ritual will take very little time or typing. My counterpart announces proudly "It's my potty break" off he goes. Into the bathroom, any bathroom will do, from truck stop to the cleanest hospital bathroom. He has no sense of discretion. He enters into the room, looks the door, and takes his stance. I have found he uses various words to describe his next action, he unzips gently of course, haven't we all heard "those" unzip quick stories!! He may unfurl, unfold, gently, yank, grab, take out his most prized possession. He tinkles, he drips, he shakes and then he replaces his little baby, bald sparrow, with big black closed eyeballs into its nest, nestled gently back into its cushisy little place of warmth. Zip up, gently of course, open the door, check to make sure no dripplees and off to the next adventure. This takes a mire 3 minutes, Yep, I timed one of them. Strictly as a investigative piece of information. Now lets examine the ritual of a female officer.
I will use my own experience as an example, my stories seem to be about me.
Female officers start out working with inept equipment for the ritual we are speaking of. First the gun belt, it is made for male officers, it is stiff, (unbending) it sits on our hip bones, well it sits on Lt.,Sgt,officer Cankles hips, like it does mine... his ankles, hips and family jewels all look odd to me. Anyway, I have to wear two belts, drawers (girl drawers, not boxers like some girls do)tee shirt, bulletproof vest, work shirt, pants, and then the two belts held together with keepers. So you can see the technical aspect of this situation beginning to unfold. Because I failed to pace myself, I begin to realize that I may have to tinkle.. oh please anything but that, gas, indigestion, maybe even crumbly tummy, but not that bladder issue. I think of my failed relationships, my woman crazed son, my hurt knee, or even the death wrecks of days gone by. Nope, not working, still got to tinkle.. I tell everyone I work around, for god sake don't make me laugh, run or hickup. They find this a challenge at times. Need I tell them my bladder has had a baby sit on it, 15 beers poured into it and several years added to its inception! Oh they love to make me laugh, Lt. A and Sandy! My mind races.. where is the cleanest bathroom. One stop, nahhh, 7-11 maybe, JJ's heavens no... ok I'll just race to the police department, I call dispatch and explain to them the severity of the problem. I have waited till there is no room for error or calls. I speed to the bathroom, it's not much cleaner but its safe, I convince myself. I park my car, I get out rather slowly, although speed would be warranted in this case, it is difficult to walk fast when you have your knee's stuck together at the knobby as if they are made out of barbie doll material, and your kegeling as you walk. Please, please if there is a god, don't let me sneeze, poot or laugh or I will have to go home and change. I reach for the door knob, it is slow motion, I think to myself if Linda is in that damn bathroom I am going to use the men's room, they never sit anyway. Ahh, it's unoccupied. I jerk open the door, I scour the room looking for obvious signs of coodies.. girls you know what I am talking about. I then have to work a miracle. I decide that my baby girl gunbelt should not be put on the floor, but what do I do with that unbendable leather size 30 gun belt with all kinds of junk such as tazers, guns and radio that has to be left on during this entire process. I know I will put it in the sink. I wipe the sink down, I begin to do a little dance. Time is a tickin!!! I have to get these stupid keepers off. Why do I wear three of them? I am beginning to chunk the keepers, sink hell, floor is good. I check my radio.. all I need is to advertise my bladder condition. I am trying not to touch anything but me and mine. Coodies! Keepers off.. now got to get this 100lbs of pressure buckle unlatched. Now its critical. This stupid hook, I swear to god, I am going to explode, I begin to sweat. I talk to myself.. got to get this buckle unhooked, got to get.. ahh its unhooked, thank god again. Oh now, did I key up that radio, listen, what the hell, why are they calling 234 I told dispatch I am in the bathroom. They sound like they are snickering while calling me. I can't answer them, it will echo in here, wait till I get out of this coodie room. I bypass the sink idea, things will be worse if I take anymore time. I strip off that second belt, and then there are those three layers to wade through. I have that down to an art, but in the beginning I think I weewee'd on my tee shirt tail once or twice. I get to the important part of the drill. WAIT, as all women know, whether you are a dirty doper or a pristine prissy girl, never, never sit down. Great, now I have to keep my work shirt tail out of the toilet, my tee shirt from being drippled on and my drawers, well they have fallen to my tactical boots and I am in a half squadded position. I am trying to aim to the center, not fall onto the coodie potty, watch the door, listen to the dispatchers giggle and pray my radio mike is not getting a staph infection. I manage to manipulate all these factors. It is almost like a rush, when the big moment arrives and passes. Then I realize I missed a step in my ritual, .. where is the toilet paper, dear god, no toilet paper, there has got to be a paper towel or toilet paper. Where in this coodie room would you hide the paper. There on top of the girl products container... thank you sweet Jesus. I waddle to the new roll, its only 2 feet away, but one has to use caution, no dribblies.... Why must this be so hard. I finally, complete all the ritualistic steps. I now must bend over, pick up a 8lbs gun belt, hoist it onto the limited amount of hips, I poke my butt out, let the gun belt rest on my poked out butt, I move all the stuff around then have to cram all my beauty into all those layers, make sure all is tucked in straight, keep the second belt velcroded, and then that stupid buckle. 234, 234... copy call. Damn it, they are not snickering... I get the buckle connected, the zipper zipped, no slow zipper for me (I have worked 4 hrs, with an unzipped zipper, and that was with baby blue drawers..nice uhh)I wash my hands, although they touched nothing but toilet paper, I swipe at my radio mike and out the door I go, throwing the paper towel into the trash just before the door slams shut on my boot shoe string, I nearly break my neck. This ritual that takes my counterparts 3 minutes, has been fine tuned to a mire 6 minutes. Yes, 6 minutes, from start to finish, no rest for the weary. So, back to my original statement. Female officers learn early in their careers that a potty break on duty is a treacherous situation. Later chicks and chicketts

My friend is gone

Some may ask why anyone would put their thoughts and emotions out there for everyone to read. I ask myself that sometimes as I type the words that often seem to just flow without effort. I am no Hemingway but I can spell better than Patrick, (sponge bob or Bovea) I do it because for me it helps. Maybe because misery loves company, maybe because it helps to know other's have had or having the same feelings, good and bad. My last blog was funny, got to admit I was way off on that one. This one is more serious. I miss my friend. I have several friends both male and female that I know without a doubt they would be here for me if I truly needed help. I know they care about me even with my Roswell theories and my roulette thoughts. I am not one to be with my friends on Friday nite or to gather around the camp fire. Just having them is often enough for me. Yet, there was one friend. He was and will always be important to me. He was the one who knew me best. He knew my fears, my jokes, my pain and my love. He was a good man in a bad situation. He cared about me in his own way, the only way he felt he could. He had the capability to make me the happiest or the saddest I have ever been. He bought me the coolest gifts when it was gift giving time, otherwise that one was a money squeezer. I never wanted his money, only his time. He didn't have much of that to give and the world began to en fringe on our small little lives. I could no longer wait for my share of time, I could no longer watch him struggle to accommodate all that was expected from him. I would not continue to lose footing on that ladder of people. Do I doubt he cared or loved me, nope, he put up with alot from me, as I did in a different way from him. Did or do I love him, yes, I always will, he was my best friend, he believed in me when I didn't, couldn't believe in myself, he loved me for me and my cuss words as much as he disliked them. He was kind to me, patient with me and he was always nice about it! (inside joke)I miss him tonite. I pushed him away because it was time, our friendship had no space or time left, but the hurt is still there and the vacant place where once there were stories, phone calls and dreams seems so large tonite. I will cherish the memories I have of my friend and wonder why fate has a way of always having me just barely miss finding very own friend to keep. I have my very special friends and they make me feel better, and as greg says, sweetie it was just time, and he is right. Next blog will be about one of my other "odd" date, I will call one eyed wonder. later chicks and chickettes.

Half a foot

As many of you know I have been single most of my life. Yes, my baby has a daddy and we were married. So anyway my friend of many years must have felt sorry for me during one of my pitiful stories while he was checking my sinus's.. He tells me of his wife's cousin's friends uncle..I don't really remember but the point is I didn't find him myself which may be good or bad not sure. So I agree to meet the guy. Blind dates are not easy for anyone, and I am no exception. I meet the guy, I think we go to a restaurant, was a long time ago. He and I go to the lake just a few blocks from my home, we are sitting and looking at the lake,the snakes, and the moon, romantic right, well then it started. As we are sitting and talking and I am secretly watching my watch because as nice as he was, he wasn't MY nice guy. He turns to me and he says quietly, almost as if he is telling me a secret that he needs to tell me. My mind begins to do what it does best, stray.. I think to myself what the heck is he going to tell me on the first blind date that elicits such a strange beginning. I try to look at him like I care about what he is about to share. Again, we are sitting at the lake, in my car, in the dark..not the best place for a strange man to share his secret. So he says to me.." I have half a foot!" Well then my brain is spinning like the little ball does on the roulette game. What in the living shit does a woman say to a strange man in the park to the comment"I have half a foot." I quickly land on an answer and plan. In a nano second I decide that just my luck, this guy is a sex fiend and he is going to tell me about his "half a foot" then I jump to oh my gosh, he thinks I am a sex fiend and he thinks I CARE he has half a foot., and thennnn I think, if he plans on sharing that statement he won't have half a foot to tell about for much longer. He is staring at me, watching for my reaction. I make every attempt to look unalarmed, unamazed, unstartled, uninterested and to not tell him to get out and walk..who did he think he was, and what the heck did he think dinner gets a guy, not to mention..1/2 foot? was that a good thing or bad thing. So I tell him as nice as I can.."well that's good, that's not so bad, that's better than 5 inches." what does one say to that, I still don't know..I know one can laugh at certain points but this was not that point. He has a rather strange look on his face. He sits there for a minute, the frogs croak, the crickets crick, and my heart is pounding to get ready for that old fight or flight. Then I guess it registers with him what my response implied. He looks at me like I am an idiot..yes me the idiot. He continues and says..I have half a foot" I get it fella..half a foot..I don't care, get over it!!! He says finally "you don't understand" oh I understand. He says.. I was in a construction accident and half of my foot was chopped off..I have half a foot. I swear this is true. I look at him with an idiot look and again my faulty roulette brain has to say something..So I decide on two lifesaving questions: 1. How do you walk without falling down? 2. What do you do to keep your shoe from folding in half in the wrong place? His response "I put a sock in it, my shoe that is". I have never felt so stupid in my entire life. Needless to say the date ended quickly and I never heard from him, nor did my friend try to help again. My date with a man with half a foot.

HGTV is wrong!

So after my heart wrenching previous msg, and the boohooo of it all, now I have a new issue. Yep, of course I do, this blog is all about me!!! Seems, I have watched way too much HGTV, that darn David Bromstead, I think he's lite in the loafers but he has a nice smile, so who cares...anyway, He and the other's say "just paint, for a new, cost efficient way to redecorate, JUST PAINT!" rite. I took that 30minute show at its word. Should have considered that 18 people are working on a 15x15 room. Well at my house not so much. I now have what appears to be a white washed 3/4 painted 15x15 room, with a massive pinch of pink peeking through. What is that Kilz anyway? So Noel and I get started, paint drops on my hardwood floors, little white dots that lead to the hall way, much have been on my sockies, and the furniture, well.. I know me, so I took the bed down, and brought the recliner in. So I am currently sleeping on a full, cheap mattress on the floor, convincing myself if John Lennon and Yoko Ono could do it, so can I . However, seems my junk doesn't bend all that well. I step up 2" to get into my bed, then I have to roll to the floor, put my feet on the floor with my fanny up in the air, and at all times taking great care in not letting my top heavy stuff topple me over. Not a drop of dignity. I finally get straightened out and look around at my HGTV creation and think to myself... maybe this could be Noel's room. The more I type and read the more I think "God I am pathetic" but funny as hell sometimes. later friends..p.s. I am fine.

I DON'T WANT TO BE A %^$#$*& CLOWN!!!!!!

Since I have been invited to "contribute" to this little ole blog of Rexannes, I would like to tell one great story (there are many) about Rex that have given me so much joy over the years.

As a supervisor, good things, funny things, terrible things and down right ^&%$ed up things happen to you. I'm not so sure I know which category the following falls into, I will let you be the judge.

Rex had a Sergeant named Terry. They were both assigned to the "CREW" C.R.U. Crime Resolution Unit. One of many duties they had was of course community events and one of the community events was a kid fire safety program that the fire department had started.

The fire prevention program had the need for many things, someone to set up the shows, write the shows, schedule the shows with the Azle ISD, etc...etc.. and last but not least, be "an actor" in the show.

There were "straight" actors and then there were clown actors in the show. I, of course was a "straight" actor, meaning I would assist in the show, but as an officer in uniform to introduce skits, actors and play the part of the "serious" one.

We all had our roles and everything was working pretty good with the fire department when one of the main players in the FD left the department to go to another department. What were we going to do? We had a schedule, dates set in stone and a key "clown actor" had up and quit.

The show must go on...someone would have to step up to the plate but I was not involved in that "selection" process. As days pass, no one stepped up and we were going to have to re-write some of our plays...rehearsals were needed and things went from bad to worse. It was going to be difficult without that key player...

The next day Rex comes storming into my office crying her eyes out trying to tell me something. But between the snot coming out of her nose and the huffing and puffing trying to catch her breath I couldn't understand a word she was saying except for a couple of cuss words here and there. I thought something bad had happened, Noel screwed something up again?, the toilet in her house backed up?, surely she did not leave the gas station again the with gas pump hose hanging out of her patrol car..again...again????, I really did not know what was wrong.

Finally, I told her in my very cool supervisory way to shut the hell up, quit crying and cussing and tell me what was wrong..again..in a very very VERY COOL supervisory way.

So she begins to tell me how her Sergeant has gotten mad about the "script" and that she will have to become the "star" of the show...meaning she would have to play the clown...well I got news for you...that was NOT a good idea. She began crying again and couldn't talk...but I got this much...she was not going to be the clown...

We rewrote the script...and the show went on...and Rex did not play a clown...at least for that show.

Sadness abound

As I had said on the side of my blog... this is my way of letting go.. as much as I can. If ever you want to be taken off the list..please just let me know.. I won't be mad or hurt, I know that there are times I can beat a dead horse but like I said this is my outlet. So lets get with the topic that is making me crazy.
As most of you know I have worked for the Police Department for nearly 9 years... a long time when your my age!!! I have worked long hot hours, I have finger printed 100 kids in one event numerous times, I have had boogers smeared on my nice pressed duty shirt, I have had good times/memories, the kids are always precious, boogers and all...and I have the hurtful memories..
I have had mother's fight me to get to their dead children, and then faint in my arms, I have held a lifeless 1 month old baby boy while standing in the rain with the young mother begging me to save her baby, her screams I will never forget the look on her young face, the rain falling, the baby blue even in the dark, his little legs dangling, and me trying my best to breath life back into him... I sat with his little body in the hospital, I held him so he wouldn't be alone until his mother could bear the pain, I remember his little body wrapped in that white blanket, he was so small, so innocent, it was so painful. Lt. Arrington was the only one to ask me if I was ok...He really cares, but how can I be ok, if I were what kind of person am I? No one else cared that I held that poor baby, I felt the water come out of his nose into my mouth, I felt the coolness of his little body... dear god how do we do this. I went to the next call.. I went to the next day...You are an officer, that is all that mean man cares about as far as he is concerned with me. I fought the dreams, I often wonder how that young couple is coping with the loss of their infant son, What little I pray, I pray. When the mother asked me what she should tell her daughter, I tell her to say her baby brother was taken way to early...
I went on...
I remember my friend's daughter being mangled in that horrible car accident on 199. Strange thing, I guess to deal with the scene.. I still can feel that damn rain on my face again...I shut my eyes and see her beautiful red hair tangled in the wreckage, wet with blood and rain... her stunning blue eyes looking at the world, lifeless again. I see a penny that had fallen from her car...it was on the street, the blood running around it because the rain had thinned it so... All I could do was focus on that copper penny... dear god, she was so young, pretty, alive... on the way home from registering for college. I had a son her age, I could not survive such a lose.. to think my baby wrapped in the wreckage, alone, hurt, bleeding, in the rain, cold, gone, my baby... it is unimaginable for any parent at any age... yet someone called her mother, got to make sure mom gets to see the wreckage... Mom shows up, she doesn't believe it is her daughter.. I know it is her daughter, her driver's license show it is... Oh no, I know her mother... oh my god what am I going to say to this woman who will remember every horrible word I say to her. We are friends how do I help her, I do my job the best I can. My friend is not a weak woman, she is my size, but has the element of hurt and fear on her side. She begs me to tell her that it is not her baby girl. Her eyes are filled with absolute disbelief, her body is shaking, she is crying while we stand in that damn rain. I tell her the gentlest way I can..but there are no gentle words to tell someone their 19yrs. baby layes mangled in a car 75 feet away, covered by that dreaded symbolic white sheet. I assure you there is no way to "gently break" such news. I hang my head, I try desperately to hide my tears, I am a police officer, I have to stay in control, that is what I am told. I can't hide the tears. I tell her that she can not go to her daughter. She screams the most blood curdling scream I have ever heard. It has sunk in that I am telling her the horrible truth. I, Rexanne am destroying this woman's, my friend's world at that very moment. She begins to move towards the wreckage. I tell her she doesn't need to see her baby that way... She begs me, "Please, Rexanne, Please, I don't care, I'll do what you say, please she can't be down there alone. I can't just leave her alone there." I tell her again, I can't I just can't, you can't deal with it. She begins to fight me, she is a mother without her cub.. she is racked with pain, she doesn't see me anymore, only that of her child,who is within eye sight. I have to grab her, hold her, let her fight, let her scream, let her cry, let her collapse. I promise her that I will go be with her daughter. I will make sure she is treated as I would want someone to treat my baby boy. I tell her I will straighten her hair, I will make sure they are gentle when they place her on the gurney.. what can I do? My friend finds a very very small amount of comfort knowing that her "friend, Rexanne" is going to be with her daughter. My heart is broken, my spirit is low, what a waste, just like the infant boy.. so much life gone! I sit with the beautiful young lady, I quietly talk to her, I ask the medical examiner to take special care of her... he could care less, it's one more body, in the rain no less. I finally get sturn with him and tell him I know the young lady and I would appreciate a little compassion. He wraps her and takes her away... Penny and her husband leave with family to begin an unbelievably painful journey. Penny and I see each other from time to time and we still remember that day in the rain. I dream of that also, that red hair, blue eyes, and red rain water.
So this I know is a long blog... a sad blog... I am feeling sad. I am about to have to retire because meanness comes in all shapes and sizes. It seems the memories I have mean nothing, the kindness I truly tried to show doesn't matter, I have been told one too many times I am a weak officer, I need to...I need to quit trying to take the glory from the efforts of other officers. I am not worthy of a hello, or good enough for a little bit of credit for caring for the people of this town I have come to love. I will not be swayed by the thoughts of someone who has never held the dead baby and the mother, or know the fact that a child is scared because daddy beat mom the night before., I will not treat people like objects, I will not accept the comments that most of the parents in our small town are drunks and won't participate in helping their children, nor will I accept the continual mockery that I am a weak officer.
I have not hustled or asked for dates on duty,I have not damaged property, or brought shame on this town, nor have I tarnished this uniform I worked so hard to get to wear, and to have had the honor to wear.
My heart is sad, my tears are falling and my spirit is weak, but I will not let the meanness, insecurities of one situation change me. I no longer enjoy my job each day.. the people of our town deserve the best I can offer, and right now I have little to offer. I know there are those out there who appreciated then and will always remember my kindness, but for now the sorry situation wins, but I will rebound and I will find a way to win over this situation that has a title, that thinks it is allowed the privilege of lying to and about people, free rein on sarcasm and meanness. I will be called a disgruntled employee, a quitter, a bitch... all these I know are forthcoming. I don't care what some think, only what that of this town and my friends think, know, believe. Things to remember in past history there was someone with skinny lips, skinny build and a ugly moustache who believed he was building a perfect society at the expense of so many other good people. To my friends and family thank you for taking the time to listen maybe cry with me and to pray for me.

Pink toe nails

Ok so here's the deal.... I am required to dress like the men in the profession I am in, I have to be able to hold my own when we (men and I ) are in the "office" and cutting it up. I must say, I can be cruel..men have such strange/harsh ways of getting at each other. I can cuss as well as any man at work, and much to my chagrin better than some (not a brag, just a fact). I can shoot fairly well, haven't shot the upper brass..while at the range and that my friends is quite an accomplishment. I can drive a Dodge Charger at 100mph, read the address of where I am going, think about what I will do when I get there, and talk on the radio, all without breaking a sweat... I love my job!!! I can convince a 6' drunk man that I will run over him if he tries to escape, I can convince a small child not to cry when they see me... I can stare down a mad screaming woman and get her handcuffed without all of her "junk" falling out of her mini shorts..which by the way is often more junk than the shorts can take, do they not own a mirror??? I have found a mascara that won't run in the 104 heat, a perfume that smells better as it ferments under my vest and.... I have the lipstick that doesn't fade..oh my gosh I am set... So when I start to feel too much like one of the guys.. or I want people to remember I am still a girl... I just tell them and myself, I have pink toe nails!!!!