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Three gobsmacking amazing thrilling things happened this week.

1. I got fired.

2. We found out we are Norwegian.

3. We found out we have a long-dead great uncle who was a beloved, notorious, GI-FUCKING-GANTIC Mayberry style flatfoot cop in Houston, Texas during the middle part of the last century.

(Just to forstall any sympathy notes about the firing, I will say that I’ve never been more relieved. I’m just glad I didn’t have to quit.)

Brother Harmon: If there is gun-shooting going on, I’m there. Tell me how I should regard my "piece"

Autumn! Thank you for reviving some Billie Jean Phillips talk. I’ve been obsessed with that case since it happened, though I hadn’t remembered the "sexual jet ski" metaphor until now. (Really, what IS that? I want one.) I grew up in Washington County and have been interested in crime and mysteries and conspiracies since I can remember, so having Madison County right next door has always been great for me. I remember driving through Huntsville during the 90s and seeing the billboard that Phillips’ family paid for, with a tip hot-line and a blurry photo of Billie Jean with bleached hair. She was screwing everybody, including the county prosecutor, at the time of her murder, so pretty much everyone had a motive. Her young son found her beaten to death, and I always thought how creepy it was that he walked out of the house and told his dad, "Mommy fell when she was painting." I also loved hearing about Ralph Baker when I was little, a lawless redneck sheriff running marijuana conspiracies all over the same backroads that we drove to get to swimming holes. I liked those "Ralph Cares" bumper stickers on old pickups and cars around town, it made me feel like I was in on something corrupt like you would find in a Third World kleptocracy. I was thrilled beyond belief when Ralph died suspiciously strapped into his car at a low water crossing. There is a book called "When Money Grew on Trees" that was written and vanity-published by Ralph’s (alleged) former drug-running partner (name?) that describes all the rascally shit they were up to for decades in Madison County. A couple of years ago the author of that book apparently stabbed himself to death while in police custody in the security room at the Wal-Mart Supercenter on MLK Blvd. They had arrested him for shoplifting. Funny thing is, the police themselves gave the statement to the Times that he had stabbed himself to death while in police custody, apparently in handcuffs. I hadn’t thought about that in awhile.

In other news…

This exchange happened last night, as I was driving my mother and stepdad home from the Chinese buffet on MLK:

Me: So earlier today I snapped and I was rude to this Christian fundie guy who was trying to give me a pamphlet about how the homosexual conspiracy is trying to recruit teenagers into being homosexual and all kinds of crap. He came up to my car window as I was trying to pull out of the bank, and when I saw what he had in his hand, I put my hand up to block him and said, "I REALLY can’t handle your brand of bullshit right now," and I drove away.

John: Oh, don’t let those guys get to you, they’re all over, you just have to let it go…

Camilla: Or you could be more Buddhist about it and just roll up your window when you see them coming. You’ll have to be that way in the city because you don’t know who could be violent and start punching you through the window.

Me: Yes, I know all those things, I get it, I’ve lived in cities before and around crazy street people and I know the fundies are just trying to figure things out in their crazy heads like the rest of us and I get that, but I just couldn’t take that shit today and I snapped. It was not how I normally react. I just get mad, because the anti-gay Christians spend more time thinking and talking about gay stuff and butt-fucking than anyone I know, and it’s curious.

John: You’re right! They do talk about it all the time! Kinda makes you wonder who wants to buttfuck more…

Me: Exactly. And you know how you always think about the best zinger comeback like 30 seconds too late? I thought I should have said, "You should put down the goddam Leviticus and be a little more Christ-like, don’t you think?"

John: No, you should have said, "Aww, I buttfuck all the time, it’s not so bad."

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"She was not quite what you would call refined. She was not quite what you would call unrefined. She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot."

–Mark Twain

"Passive suffering is not a good subject for literature."

–Matthew Arnold?

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My mother and I just had this conversation:

Camilla: *sigh* I just keep thinking about all of the micro-tragedies in the bird world.

Me: What…are you talking about?

C: Well, I just saw this big chunk of ice fall off a tree outside and I was thinking, ‘What if there was a little bird perched on the branch below?’ It would be like a miniature version of J.B. Hunt. (thoughtful pause) Except there wouldn’t be any tiny ambulance to come roaring up with little bird EMTs to put the little guy on a wee stretcher and rush him off to the hospital.

Me: Wow.

C: What would the bird hospital be called? Suet Memorial?

Me: Kinda flat.

C: Peckerwood General Hospital?

Me: I’m pretty sure that’s racist.

C: (defensively) What does Peckerwood mean?

Me: I can’t remember if it’s a black guy or a white guy. It’s on that Richard Pryor sketch.

C: It’s gotta mean a white guy, so then it’s not racist.

Me: *sigh* Whatever.

(This illustrates a glaring truth about my life. I must get the fuck out of here soon. I have a horrible glimpse of my future and it’s very Grey Gardens-y. I’m already more stylish than my mom.)

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Are we talking about wacky grandma names? I don’t get on here very much. Mine were Grandmama and Granddad until that young upstart Alana came along and changed them to Mammy and Dad-Dad. But I think Leigh Wood takes the cake with Bee-Bob and Daddy Rat.

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So, on the art of getting rid of things…I’ve never considered myself a hoarder, just a pack rat. Pack rat is the preferred, polite term in the hoarder community, I think. While my house is very navigable and sanitary and I don’t hoard trash or duct tape or kittens, I know I have too much shit and stuff. With the view of moving in the next few months, I might have to approach the task of streamlining my belongings with a more measured, rational outlook than I am normally comfortable with. I am my mother’s daughter in more ways than I’d like to admit. That said, I’m not living in a crazy fantasy world where I have no faults and constantly revise recent histories to suit my needs. I am less like my mother than I beat myself up about. The thing I am most afraid of is her being around during the streamlining process, her hovering over my shoulder shouting, "OH HONEY, NO!! Give me that! I want it!! Don’t get rid of that, don’t you dare!!" That scenario has played out more times than you can imagine. I have a limited number of things that I plan on giving her, that she really does need to keep (her father’s desert pastels, her modigliani bust, etc) but I need a way to keep her away from my process as much as possible. With as little drama as possible, because we sure can ratchet up the drama FAST together. Moving is stressful enough. Does anyone have any ideas? Tips on Mature Mother Management? Tips on eliminating too much shit and stuff before a move?

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