The Post In Which I Finally Meet Dante's Girlfriend

While in Kentucky, Dante and I visited the waterpark in town, one of the few things to actually do in that small town. So of course, everyone you know is going to be there. I usually try to avoid it, because I don't really like most of the people I know from back home.

This visit, though, was a nice surprise for Dante. His gradeschool girlfriend, Dasia was there (say it just like the continent, but with a D). I find a shady spot and a pull out my piece of pulp to waste the time, and Dante comes flying over to where I'm sitting.

She's here!! Don't tell her where I am!
Who's here? Why would I tell her anything?
Dasia!! Don't tell her I'm here!!

And he's off to haunt her, following the waves she leaves behind in the pool. It was one of the most hysterical spectacles I've ever witnessed. He would follow behind like a master spy at a safe distance. When she would turn around, he would submerge himself beneath the pool until she moved on. Once, he even made use of a floaty to hide his presence: he floated underneath it, coming up in the hole to breathe.

Finally, he decided he wanted to attract her attention. So he picked what must've seemed to be the proper distance to him, and then began enacting what I can only describe as a peacock mating dance. On acid. Some sort of wriggling out of the water while splashing and hooting. This went on for about 30 minutes. He'd do his dance, she'd move on, he'd pursue, submerging himself when necessary, only to shoot up out of the water and begin his hooting dance again.

He ran up to me afterwards, drenched, and hissed: Never trust her!! Apparently she dunked him a few times. What sort of relationship is this, anyway?

After a couple of hours of working around to playing together, they finally got down to the business of playing together.

She's a cutie. I can see why Dante likes her, because she's so vivacious.

On the walk home, Dante didn't say much. But then he sort of whispered it out:
I told you, Mama.
Told me what, baby?
I told you she was pretty. Wasn't she pretty?

Yep. She was pretty.

--Virgil

More Crazy Family

I had a good visit with Dante. Unfortunately, the ballgame was rained out, but I should get to see one next week. This was a bizzare weekend. We always go down on Memorial Day weekend, because our family reunion is on that Saturday. This time, it was rather subdued. No crazy fights over whose kid pushed who or who's telling the story correctly. They were all unnaturally quiet, because...

...my 84-year-old grandfather brought his 20 year old girlfriend to the party.

Ye gods. She has a brow ring and two-toned hair, and too much belly hanging over her jeans. And 2 kids. Now, I don't have anything against brow rings. Two-toned hair just looks bad, and I have nothing against bellies. Or kids, obviously. It was just surprising to say the least. I sat across from her (everyone else seemed to be avoiding them) and she said not two words the whole time. Not two. Just "Mmm-hmm"s every now and then.

Then it comes out that Papaw has not one, not two, but three girlfriends. Two of which are pregnant, one of which is carrying twins. Supposedly.

The whole story is starting to smell fishy. But Papaw won't deny anything, so who can tell? Maybe he just likes the attention.

God only knows what he could possibly be getting out of it at his age after all the treatments he's had. No, I don't want to know. He can keep that to Himself.

--Virgil

A Happy Trip

We are leaving Friday morning for Kentucky, and I will get to see one of Dante's baseball games for the first time that evening. I'm very excited, as I've not seen him in about 6 weeks, I guess.

Apparently he's been moved up to third batting position for his ability to knock the snot out of the ball. I know nothing about baseball, but I'm told by the few men in my life that third batting position is supposed to mean that he's the strongest batter. This doesn't mean much to Dante, who keeps insisting that they'll let him bat "first" tomorrow because I'll be there, and he can "show" his mother.

After a lecture from his father on why not to throw the ball around to your friends in the outfield when it "rolls in the grass," Dante surprisingly has picked up on the concept of trying to throw a runner out. During the game right after Daddy's lecture, he scooped up the ball and lobbed it to third base. He would've thrown the runner out, but the third baseman was so surprised that something was coming from the outfield that he fumbled and dropped the ball.

I have to triple check all the baseball incidents that Dante tells me about. I check first with my mother, who is usually there and tells me what goes on. Unfortunately, her knowledge of the game is pretty much limited to "he hit it, and then he followed the dirt path." So then I call and check with his father, who knows what actually went on. I get the technical lowdown. Then I compare it with Dante's story. I have to be extra cautious of any story that involves some kind of magic (ball/runners disappear, he disappears), superhuman ability (he becomes the bionic boy and/or stretches his entire body from one base to another), or trickery ("I hid behind the second baseman, and when she forgot about me, I popped out and put my foot on the base!"). Ri-ight.

At least tomorrow, I'll be able to see for myself. I'm a natural skeptic.

--Virgil

Who Falls For This Crap?

I've been getting over twenty emails a day that look something like this:

Dear partner,
In order to transfer out an ungodly amount of money from our bank here in Whereever, the owner of this account is Mr Somebody, a foreigner and the manager of something here in somewhere, blah, blah, blah, the man died, the amount involved is a billion gazillion dollars. I want to transfer this money into a safe foreign account abroad blah, blah, give me all your vital info, Thanks Mr David Nelson

Appealing to an atheist through your belief in God is probably going to get you nowhere. "Mr David Nelson" continues to send me this email 2-3 times a day.

But these are my favorites so far:

They all start with MY DEAR in the heading. Then the general formula is as follows,

I am the above named person from whatever country. I am married to Some Man who worked with Some Bizzaro Company in some Foreign Country for nine years before he died blah, blah, We had a child, He died after a brief illness. Before his death,we were both born again Christian.Since his death, I decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against.When my late husband was alive he left the sum of a gajillion billion dollars.

OK, then she blabs on about how she trusts me to use this money to help Christian children, blah, blah, blah and throws scriptures at me. What mailing list did a hard core atheist like me end up on??

All of the emails are spelled incorrectly and poorly worded. I was ignoring them, but now I'm pissed. So I hit reply and I usually put "How dare you scam people. I'm reporting you to the federal authorities. Fuck you with a hand grenade." And it makes me feel better, partly because I feel like I'm spamming them right back.

Has our country's climate changed so much that scammers are now appealing to fundies? Or is it that they think fundies are so very gullible? {snicker}

A Small Rant on Former Friends

I have a pet peeve with people who claim to be friends purposely falling off of the radar. It's not that I require people to keep me informed up to the minute every minute. My dearest friend and I speak every 6 weeks at best. But I know that she cares, and I know that she's busy. This is different.

I think this guy, who recently began attending an Ivy-league graduate school, has decided that he has a new hep set of friends that we don't fit into. Something more Ivy-league, better travelled and dressed, more up on the intellectual snobbery of the field. I can't help that I'm more proletariat in blue jeans. I can still debate with the best of them. And he isn't as intellectual as he thinks he is.

I do know that he's been a guest of my home, I've fed him and drank with him (and in the South, you're practically kin after that), talked out deep thoughts and smoked pot with him, we kept him right after Hurricane Katrina wiped his home out, and that we tried to contact him many times afterward. Through the grapevine he's doing his little Ivy league thing with a new crowd. We don't even get a response to a simple email. On top of him knowing what we've been going through as a family recently, well, that kind of behavior just sucks. Whatever.

True friends are precious and few and far between. I don't like feeling like a commodity. So, you're done being a werewolf, bud. R.I.P. Robin.

--Virgil

Iron Bars Do Not A Prison Make

This prison didn't even have a fence!

I volunteered today in the mock job fair held for prisoners in our local minimum security prison who were within a couple of months of release. Boy, was that an eye opener. Some thoughts, as usual always up for discussion:

* I'm serious about there not being a fence. Nor were there guards that I could turn around and point to. I guess the concept is that if you screw up here at the "resort" prison, you'll generally go to maximum security prison where it REALLY sucks, so don't screw up. That being said, it's not that I felt...unsafe or anything. But what if a riot went down? How the heck are the guards going to stop it quickly when I didn't even see one during my whole trip there? Only workers. I seriously doubt the prison was on the "honor system", and that kind of unnerved me.

* I refuse to believe that blacks are more likely to commit crimes than whites. They just get stiffer penalties. This prison was incredibly non-representative of the American population in general. I met a guy who was sentenced to one year and one day for a white collar crime specifically so he would serve the time in prison instead of jail, where people who are convicted for a year or less go. Now that's obviously done just for spite. How does that benefit society? Make this man turn harder so he has a more difficult time reassimilating. Good job, government. Also, mandatory minimum sentencing needs to go. It clogs up the jails and the crimes are often not comparative in terms of penalties handed down. The disparity between individual cases made my eyes bulge.

* Marijuana needs to be decriminalized. I'm not saying legalized, because I'm a pragmatist, and I don't believe that step is possible in our society especially in the current climate. But the system needs to decriminalize pot and make the penalties civil with the option of working out time in community service instead of jail.

* Prison food is good!! They fed us breakfast and lunch, and I was making cracks the whole time about bread and water for 90 days until I took my first bite. Delish! Not that I'd want to reserve a room, or anything...

* Going back into society is hard stuff. If you ran heroin and got 7 years for it, you're working with a stigma that even the white collar crime guy doesn't have to deal with. Within prison you can take advantage of a GED program, various technical skills like welding, etc. and other volunteer rehab programs. When you're out, you wear a bracelet on your ankle for a while and you meet with your probation officer. There's no real help for transitioning back into society.

I did my best to coach life skills with the people I had. My basic issue was, how are you going to show society proof that they shouldn't be afraid of you? How are you going to help an employer get over the hump of thinking you're going to just reoffend anyway, why bother with you?

I'm glad I don't have to come up with the answers to those questions.

--Virgil

The Needs of the Many...

Well, I spent my first Mother's Day sans child. Not my ideal situation, but I was prepared for it to happen. I went away to a conference until Saturday night, and I just couldn't afford to make the trip to Kentucky both timewise and dollarwise. I figured it would pan out that way, but I still cried some.

Mainly, I was crying because Dante's dad was crying. We were discussing the possiblity of Dante staying another year in Kentucky, and I posed the question of Dante coming back to West Virginia. There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and then a heartbreaking sadness that I really hadn't expected. I found out that his father has been waiting for years for the possibility of a "turn" at Dante staying with him. And that the past few months have been the happiest and most fulfilling time of his life. Dante has grown in leaps and bounds emotionally. He really did need this time with the menfolk.

Dante never asks me when can he come back, only when am I coming in for a visit. I don't mean to make it sound like he doesn't miss me, because he does. But it's clear that in the overall scale of human good, he's better off there than he is here. And his dad is better off with him there than I am with him here, no matter how much I miss him. And he keeps my mother in the present instead of in crazy fundy land when he's there. And he's happier overall there than he was here. It seems to boil down to this decision: have everything else ideally going your way but with your mother being a phone call, or have your mom and struggle through a lot of other things that don't exist in this other place.

It was a very emotional thirty minute discussion. But my son and his father have developed something very precious that feels wrong to split apart right now. And it's become very clear to me that in the overall human picture, my sacrifice is the only con to the arrangement. Everything else is a pro. How can I stand in the way of that?

So I whispered to his dad, "You can have him. You can keep him now." And so he stays. For good. And in my heart, I've prepared myself to let him stay for good. I've decided I'm not going to ask if he's ready to come back anymore. I know that if he is, he will tell me. But I have to find a new way to fit in now. This was a role I did not ever anticipate creating for myself. And, as usual, I'm blazing yet another new trail that I have no guide for to show me the way. Where is my Virgil?

--Virgil

Conference Chaos

I've been at the state Literacy Conference from Thursday to this evening. I had plenty of good rants prepared, and now I'm too tired to care.

The party consisted of me, director, the Malingerer, and the crazy whack job bus driver we hired. So it was guaranteed to be at least 50% hell most of the time. Just surviving the fit of nerves I had getting there was enough to set the stage. The Malingerer drove an SUV 80 mph in the pouring rain. I was sure she was going to send us all to the hospital just so we could have a little bonding time together.

This was the biggest clusterfuck of an event I've ever seen. And I've been to a lot of freaking conferences on a lot of different things. Somehow I managed to have a good fight with the State Director and several other Important Persons. I didn't know you were only supposed to agree. They were planning the conference at approximately 11 pm on the night before it was to take place. Brilliant.

I barely survived the first night, due to the Malingerer and director sawing down enough trees to wipe out the rainforest. I got no sleep the first night. When the sun hit my eyes--yes, right IN my eyes--at 5am, I just got up and took my shower. The second night I was smart enough to knock myself out with Tylenol PM.

The classes/meetings themselves proved to be everything I was warned about. As taking notes would be only for the truly masochistic, I instead devised my own categories to get me through the event. I will share these results with you, so that you, too, can be up to speed on the conference.

Oooh, Technology!!
This category got checked every time some new and fascinating aspect of technology was mentioned that didn't come from the Stone Age. You mean we can have a CD with this information on it to download instead of a freaking ream of transparencies?? Brilliant! I realize that some people run their programs off of their kitchen table on less than $2000. Guess what, you're not serving your county. How can you make sure people are computer literate if you don't even have a fucking email account? I would have a lot more sympathy if it weren't for the fact that FREE computers were offered through this parent organization and they were refused. Sadly, the ticks under the Oooh, Technology!! category are too embarassing to report. No wonder we have a fucking problem in this state.

Oooh, Shiny!!
Every time the conference was stopped due to someone's finding a penny, a plastic toy, or something else to stop the convention and share with the ENTIRE assembly, this category got a tick. Happily, as the monotony wore on, most people went comatose and stopped finding retarded things to drag the meeting on with.

Brain Trust
Every time a new fuck to add to the cluster happened, this category got ticked. Meeting at 11 pm to do a conference that starts at 8am? Brain trust at work. All those financial reports you needed to present but your dumb ass left in the car when you KNOW we only do this every two years? Brilliant. Poor management of time, so that the most important stuff you get done in 20 minutes worth of gloss? Your glorious leadership by example. The Brain Trust finally got so many ticks I quit counting.

Shut up, Myrtle!
Myrtle the Turtle was there, dominating with her retarded comments as usual. Never on point, always about three steps behind, doesn't believe in email, talks over the presenters, never positive, always snippy, SHUT UP, MYRTLE!! I ticked this box twelve times during the first board meeting.

So there you have it. Up to speed. Aren't ya glad you didn't have to go??

Nefarious Plastic Surgeons and a Deranged Conversation

I hate my mom's plastic surgeon. He's so skilled in his snake oil that he thinks other people don't notice the taste. His whole office really slathers it on thick.

I go in for a skin check. For skin cancer. The nice woman doctor who works in his office says about my boobs something to the effect of "Oh, I remember when I was that size." And chuckles. "I like it. Never had any problems." I respond. So she goes on to still fill my ears full of boob surgery info, most of which I know through research to be wrong.

I went with my mom for her final consultation and then to the appointment to have her brow lift. She didn't fully get what the "doctor" was talking about, and my attempts to clarify were met with irritation from him. His main concern with the brow lift was that her brow did not have a natural arch. Something my mother didn't care a flip to have. He then casually points to *my* brow line and says "Your daughter takes that after you." Implying that I'm going to need surgery eventually. Whatever.

She's not satisfied with the job. I knew she wouldn't be, because she's not satisfied with anything, why on earth would she be satisfied with this?

And yet she's going back for a face lift this summer. From the same doc that she's complaining about. I think it goes without saying that I'm doing my damndest to talk her out of it, but she's pretty dead set.

Mom,if you don't like the job he did on your brow, what makes you think you'll like your face lift?
Because if he makes a mistake, it'll be smaller because it'll be spread over a wider area.
????????????????????????This is me being utterly confused as the logic part of my brain just spun around and killed itself.
Why on earth would it be smaller?
Because your eyes are more of a focal point, you know.
Yes, as opposed to your entire face. Have you talked to anyone else who has had this procedure done by him?
Yes, his sister-in-law. She said it was great and she had no pain.
Yes, because she obviously has nothing to gain from the free plastic surgery he gives her. Very objective. Did you get to see a before and after book?
He doesn't have one.
Did you ask him how many touch ups he has to go back and do?
No.
And what the most likely area that he'll have to touch up would be?
No.
And how soon you could expect that to happen, if it will happen?
No.
Do you care about that? Does that scare you at all?
Well...I'm going to do it anyway.
Alrighty then.
Well, I'll ask him when I go back for my final consultation.
Like hell.
What??
There's the mail. Gotta go, Mom.

I consider her impending face lift to be the biggest code red emergency in my life right now. So much bad can come of this, not the least of which is going in debt to the tune of $6k over something that is likely not going to satisfy her and may only make her feel worse. Well, I have until June 6th to stop it. Dr. Frankenstein's office is going to have their hands full with me.

--Virgil

I Hate Plastic Surgery

OK, let me just give a disclaimer here before I start my rant, because some people who are very close to me have had plastic surgery. In no way does this make me think less of you, OK? I fully understood where you were coming from. I still hate plastic surgery. I've never had any, and I never plan to.

I know it's easy to say that at 28 because I haven't had to seriously address wrinkles and gray hair yet. Lines, yes. Wrinkles, not yet. But with the number of boob jobs out there, maybe it's not as easy to say as I think.

I hate plastic surgery for two main reasons. Women think they have to have it, and our culture encourages things that fester that idea, and women think their life will change afterwards. Like that little bit of cartilage or fat is the only thing standing in the way of complete happiness.

Now, I'm sure some people have had surgery and it upped their self esteem, and now they live successful lives. Whatever.

I could rant on any number of images in the media that are aimed at younger women, but here is my gripe for today. Older ladies, could you PLEEASE give us an example of aging gracefully?? I'm asking on behalf of the young girls who don't have any idea what wisdom and grace are. Please please please consider the lines in your face to be marks of character and a life lived to the fullest. Please don't fall victim to the modern American notion that when you get to a certain age you're not viable sexually anymore, and so you should disappear and become voiceless.

Please find other things to do with your money so that us younger women have something to hold up as a model for our lives in the future. Please stop trying to look like you're 25 when you're really 40 or 40 if you're really 60. Show us the power that comes with age, the fruits of the wisdom you've gathered over the years. Spearhead projects that help the community and foster relationships between generations of women. Help us bridge the communication gap between the young women and the older ones.

Please don't pay good money you've worked hard at a lesser wage for to get your brow/eyes looking like you're perpetually surprised. Don't get your ears cut off your face just to pull the skin back a bit. Don't put toxins in a hypodermic to freeze your brow line so you can't make an expression. Don't silence your own voice.

Don't waste money on fighting "aging". It is inevitable. Show us how to experience it with grace.

--Virgil

Family Scams in Three Parts: Part 3

OK. Last installment of my mom's scams. This one she's quite worked up about, as another member of the family is working on running this scam as well.

Seems as though someone recently sued Oakridge, TN's nuke plant because they claim it messed them up but good. This person got a couple of million dollars. Well, my aunt, who is always on the hunt for a good scam and is currently scamming HUD and the welfare office and any other number of related agencies knows some man (read is sleeping with) who worked at Oakridge as a security guard and is trying to cash in on the same ticket the actual *injured* person rode out on.

The man has worked there all of a week.

So Mom's wheels start spinning.
You know, Virgil, your grandfather worked at Oakridge for a few years during the war and he died of cancer.
He also smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, Mom.
Yes. And he did work there. And he did die of cancer.
He died of lung cancer, Mom, and he had emphysema. From the cigarettes.
Well, the money wouldn't go to me anyway, it would go to you and Sister. (I think this was supposed to make me interested in it.)
Mom, I just don't see how they can rule that Papa died of cancer from exposure at Oakridge when he worked there 60 years ago and he smoked two packs a day. And he had emphysema.
And you know, Grandma worked there for a little while, too!
And she lived into her 80s. And she didn't have cancer.
But she did work there.
Mom!
Well, when Aunt finds out it works, I told her to give me the number of the lawyer.

Sheesh. Why she suddenly wants more money when she's not in financial trouble or need I have no idea. My only guess is more plastic surgery. She probably doesn't want to take out another loan.

--Virgil

Family Scams in Three Parts: Part 2

OK. On to my mother's next scam, which is actually pulling a reverse scam. If you've ever watched wrestling (and good lord why would you and why would I confess that I have), there's a point where the good guy gets locked up in some choke hold or something and looks like he's about to pass out, etc. and then OH, look! He reverses the hold and has the bad guy on the ropes. Well, that's kind of what my mother wants to do here.

She got a letter from an International Clearing Commission House saying she'd won 3rd place in a sweepstakes and was entitled to $50,000. But first, she had to pay the costs to claim the prize, and so they had enclosed a check for her to cash and then write to them to pay the costs. Ri-ight.

One of those check-bounces-and-you're-left-holding-the-bag scams the post office went through recently. I googled it and came up with SCAM in about 5 seconds.

So she's decided that she wants to sue the Int'l CC House--not because they were trying to defraud her and should go to jail...

...but because they promised her $50,000. So show her the damn money already!

Mom, I told her, you don't get damages for prizes that you don't receive.
But they promised it to me, she says.
But it was FREE, Mom. You don't get reimbursed for "free".
But they promised it to me and I think they ought to pay it.
But you didn't suffer any damages. You never cashed the check and you aren't out anything.
Well, they promised it and I think they ought to pay up. That'll teach 'em to try to scam people.

Yeah, Mom. That'll teach 'em. She's contacting her lawyer later this week. Not to put them in jail, though, mind you.

She's suing for $50,000.

--Virgil

Family Scams in Three Parts: Part 1

I do not know what pod got hold of my mother's body and turned her into the creature she has become, but things are getting weirder by the day. Here lately she's been churning out get-rich-quick schemes on a near daily basis. The bad part? She actually believes there's a snow ball's chance in hell of these schemes working.

Exhibit A:

Mom is a genealogy nut. I used to care about family history. Now that I hear it everytime I turn around, I'm no longer interested in anyone who isn't living. I do not care if that old house was once lived in for three years by my great-great-great grandfather. I cared the first 20 times I was told. After that, I stopped caring.

In her quest to prove that our line was planted by someone other than the person we always thought was our great-grandfather, Mom has been poking around into other people's genealogies. She struck paydirt with one man who told her all sorts of interesting things about his family. One of those stories provided the source for one of her more outrageous let's-get-rich-quick schemes.

Apparently our illegitimate ancestor owned salt mines on his land. It was the only salt mine for miles and miles. The man was wealthy. During the Civil War, the Union Army came through and cannonballed the salt mines so the South wouldn't get any use of it. They wrote the man a note saying they were sorry and they would restore the value of the mine to him after the war. After the war, the man tried to claim the paper, and Congress told him, Sorry, we're sort of in the middle of a depression here, what with rebuilding all we destroyed. You'll have to wait. He never went back.

Mom's scheme is to go to Congress and demand the present day value of the mines to be divided up among the heirs of this man. She puts the value at 500 million dollars. She backs this number up with pie in the sky.

Yeah, good luck with that, Mom.

It would be funny if she weren't actually *serious* about this. After I heard the scheme run past me 5 times in about two hours, I said, "Mom, the only thing worth any money is that stinking paper from the army. As a historical document, you could auction it off and divide that up. But Congress isn't going to give you any money. We're trillions in the hole, in case you haven't noticed."

She just laughed. From what I understand, she and another cousin are still kicking this idea around with the present decendant of this man. Whenever they go to present their case, I haven't decided if I want to be there to laugh my ass off during the hearing, or if I'll hide and be glad my last name has changed.

--Virgil

"Shortstuff"

My son is playing baseball for the first time this year. He is in boy heaven.

His uniform is purple, and he plays or practices 4 days a week. He's had three games so far, and his team has won all three. So we haven't had to talk about losing yet, although I'm sure we will. I wonder how he'll take it?

He's not been struck out yet, although he has been thrown out a few times on base. Last night, according to reports, he ran home on somebody else's hit, leaving a dusty wake. His coach called his running "scary". He should've seen him as a toddler, running like a bull at Pamplona, head down, barreling away for all he was worth. Now THAT, sir, is scary.

I should be able to see a few games before his short season is over. According to his father, in some practices he and a little girl run around trying to put grass in each other's hair. According to Dante, it's just the little girl because she has a crush on him. In his games, he is apparently deadly serious.

I asked him what position he played. Silence. He has no clue. So I tried to describe it geographically--are you behind third base out in the grass??--and he says, "Well, in practice, I sort of stand behind second base and one of the coaches keeps calling me 'shortstuff'. I don't like that."

Ohhh. Shortstop. In real games, he's in the outfield with about 5 other kids, trying to keep out of the way of those that "know" how to play baseball, probably all giggling and trying to put grass in each other's hair.