This past Christmas, she mentioned that she had invited Bart, an eccentric guy who drives an old teal-and-white Bel Air around town at 25 m.p.h., to come over and "hang out with" me.
I told her "Fine. And now you can just cancel the date," to which she replied "but he's had a crush on you ever since you worked together in the hospital cafeteria [in 1981], Medea."
Well yeehaw man! That's good enough for me. Let me just dump my lovely grrlfriend in the basement so I can hook up with the Bartman to ensure that my sister is comfortable with who I am.
Did I mention that this is the same little sister who speaks in tongues under duress (the latest piece of evidence that she has inherited my mother's paranoid schizophrenic diorder)? Or that she believes that women should not carry out the trash or use birth control or do whatever else her misogynistic "women should submit graciously to men" church tells her to believe?
Hard to parse this with her being a soldier, but she has managed to work that inconvenience out somehow.
This is the person who always asks to borrow money to pay off her credit card after using her paycheck to get pedicures and manicures, the same person who says that demons and angels talk to her and tell her what to do. And yes, she has access to AK-47s and could be in a war zone one day soon.
This certainly helps ME sleep at night ... and let's don't even TALK about how much her imminent deployment or the fact that she peppers her conversations with "well, if I die, Mama and Carmen will be set for life" is doing to keep my mother's paranoid tendencies in check or to keep my young niece from worrying instead of sleeping.
Oh yeah. And did I mention that she gave me a 2-CD gospel music set for Christmas? Yep. Gave it to a woman whose favorite holiday pastime is decapitating nativity scenes and leaving the plastic baby Jezus heads in the sheep's mouths.
But maybe I just have one too many bad associations with the Southern twitch Baptist church of my childhood to handle this very well.
Meanwhile, Keep The Faith delivered to my bulk mail folder today an email with the subject line Free Guardian Angel Bear—Because God Loves You.
I considered writing Mr. Keep The Faith to explain that creativity is my religion—it has saved me more than once—but, hey, we're talking about someone whose religion is on the level of stuffed bears.
Too bad the spam angel didn't tell him about dictionaries or the proper use of semicolons before he sent this little poem. My guess is the little thumb-sized thang has bent wings and ain't getting enough air down in this guy's stinky pocket.
Anyway, here's the precious poem:
ANGEL IN YOUR POCKET
I am a tiny angel
I'm smaller than your thumb;
I live in people's pockets
Thats where I have my fun.
I dont suppose you've seen me,
I'm too tiny to detect;
Though I'm with you all the time,
I doubt we've ever met.
Before I was an Angel
I was a fairy in a flower;
God, Himself, hand-picked me,
And gave me angel power.
Now God has many Angels
We become His special tools.
And because God is so busy,
With way too much to do;
He said my assinment
Is to keep close watch on you.
When He tucked me in your pocket
He bessed you with Angel care;
Then told me never to leave you,
And I vowed always th be there.
Huh. How quaint.
LISTENING TO: Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927" (they're trying to wash us away...)
READING: A New York Times article about the Simply Droog: 10 + 3 Years of Creating innovation and Discussion exhibit. Hope I can go.
SANG IN SHOWER: Lucinda Williams's "Blue" (perhaps because I had to return to work today)