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A streetlight doesn’t even come close.

Issue Date: Wednesday, Jan. 24, 2007

I ordered long johns yesterday.

Long johns.

Oh, and while I was at my parents’ house this weekend celebrating the National Holiday (aka, my sister’s birthday month) I got to see someone.

This weekend was very odd.

I told y’all (Trying to change the way I spell ya’ll. It’s a great cause, please donate. If not for me, then do it for the long johns.) that I was a step mom once upon a time right? I am sure that I have mentioned it at least once, or twice, or beat the hell out of that dead horse within my first year of this journal. But y’all know. Y’all know.

She turned seventeen in November and I got to see her this past weekend.

My ex step-daughter.

She is beautiful and brilliant and hugged me a lot and I kept touching her hair and telling her that I was proud of her and that I loved her. She skipped the second grade so she is graduating in May. Graduating. In MAY. My (almost mine) little baby, is graduating in May.

She text messaged me on Friday something about “Don’t [my parents’ names] live near [place they live near]?” So I texted back, and we went back and forth several times until my old ass and my nontexting ways just called her, “Hey, how long are you going to be there? When are you and your mother heading back home?” “In an hour or so, but I called [her boyfriend] and we don’t have anything going on tomorrow, would y’all mind if we came by to visit?” “I would love to see you…” and then I am sure I called her honey, baby, sweetie or poo. Yes, it is embarrassing, but it has been so long since I have squeezed her in a big hug or since I have seen her smile in person.

We talk via texting, on the phone and email pretty often, but I haven’t seen her in about four years.

Four years.

Dear Lord, that is a long time.

And to be honest with y’all, I didn’t want her to come with her boyfriend. I wanted her to come alone. Because… I am selfish. And I didn’t want to see her 21 year old (yes, 21.) boyfriend macking all over her because y’all know how kids are when they are that age. And they have been together for over a year, so they are all comfortable with each other and I was sure there was going to be a lounging issue.

Lounging Issue = I, at the tender age of seventeen, would be sitting on the couch with my boyfriend. If I wasn’t sitting ramrod straight with my hands in my lap or if I leaned on said boyfriend just to be touching him my father would say, “Sit up. Stop lounging.” And he sounded mad too. Like I was blowing said boyfriend right there in the family room.

Until I turned, well, I think I may have grown up a little around 27-30ish… so until I turned 30 I thought that my father was a big old meany who wanted me to be a nun or at least not date until I was 40. Now? I understand.

You (and by you, I totally mean me) don’t want to see that kind of familiarity between young lovers. Especially ones (or just the one) that you (yes, I mean me) used to tuck in and read night-night stories to, and shared the ugly green leather recliner with every evening and on Saturdays to watch The Babysitter’s Club with on Nickelodeon. Seriously. I don’t want to know if she is sexually active and if she is on birth control.

I have turned into my father.

When did that happen? At least I’m not bald.

Anyway. They came by at 1:30 pm and stayed for a few hours. R and S. She’s the R. He’s the S. And for some reason, I really did not want to like him. But? I did. He is sweet and tall and protective of her. Their hands automatically find each others when they are sitting on the couch, he rubs her neck while she is talking expressively with her hands, she beams when he says something about their future. And he lounged into her while she was talking to my mother and they just fit.

It’s awesome that she has found someone she is so in love with. Really, I am very happy for her. I just want… well, I want so much for her. I want her to go to college, have a career, get out of a small town atmosphere, live in a dorm, and decide what she wants without it being decided for her.

And y’all? I can see her mother in her. Her father. I can almost tell the future. And I said as much to my mother as I watched them pull away from my parents’ house with R seated firmly in the middle of the front seat of S’s truck.

self: “Momma?”
momma: “Yes, baby?”
self: “Think she’ll go to college?”
momma: “I certainly hope so… what do you think?”
self: “Well, he’s going with her isn’t he? Because her mother doesn’t want her to be alone.”
momma: “That’s what she said.”
self: “She’s not going to live in a dorm because she ‘needs her space, and a kitchen where S can cook’.”
momma: “Yes. She did say that.”
self: “I predict that she goes for a semester, misses her mother or home life so much that she drops out… or…”
momma: “Or?”
self: “They get married young, either because they want to or because they have to.”
momma: “Oh, honey, you really think so?”
self: “Her mother and father got married at 17 and 18.”
momma: “That’s right.”
self: “Yep…. So…”
momma: “Awwww… I hope not.”
self: “Hide and watch momma, hide and watch.”
momma: “She’s such a smart girl though…”
self: “But what else does she know? This is her life. She doesn’t know any different.”
momma: “I hope we are wrong.”
self: “Me too momma.”

We took pictures and they loved on my niece and nephew and R introduced herself as their “almost cousin”. And she introduced S to my father, brother in law and Mister as, “These are your ‘almost in-laws’.”

It was so wonderful to see her. She kept telling me that she thinks I have grown even taller. She’s tiny, 5’1” and still comes to my chest like she did when I was still in her life. I miss her so much, but I know that I made the best decision I could at the time when I left.

I hope her life turns out to be everything she deserves, because she deserves it all y’all. Every little bit.

Sunday night when Mister and I were coming home… actually, we were driving to his office to pick up his Tahoe. (That Friday before I went out to meet him at his office because it works out somehow to be 30 miles shorter of a distance from his office than from our home.) We were on 144, going West at the 183 overpass, just past Cowboys stadium and Mister had just said, “You have a nice little vehicle here missy.” And I was all, “I know, isn’t she the cutest?” When WHAM!

Mister was all, “What the FUCK WAS THAT!??!?!!!” And I pulled over to see.

I had hit a street light that had fallen into my lane after a stupid ass drunk driver hit the pole going the opposite direction. There was a woman in the other lane pulled over into the median (she hit it too) and I went to the back trunk area to get my little flashlight so I could asses the damage. I turned Samantha (my car, for those of you not in the know… please feel free to get caught up right over here.) off, left the hazards on and went around front to inspect her grill. (Heh. Grill.)

She was bucktoothed y’all. Her little front driver’s side fog light was knocked out, the fender was scraped up, there was a hunk out of the sidewall of the tire and the wheel well was all scratched up.


A cop pulled up behind us and he hopped out. “Did you hit that street light? I almost did and I knew that it was there from the call that came in.” The unsaid, but totally implied “SHIT!” was there.

A man had pulled over in the eastbound lane. He hopped the guardrail and bounded up to the cop, told him he saw everything and that it was a “drunk, Hispanic guy driving a truck on three wheels and one rim headed towards Dallas”.

I thought to myself, “Am I on an episode of Cops?”

Mister, visibly shaken, and cold hopped from one foot to the other and smoked like a chimney.

I was shaken up a bit, but I hit a cow a few years ago y’all. A streetlight doesn’t even come close.

Samantha is in the shop but I got great news from the repair guy today. Her alignment and her frame are both in perfect shape, he has the tire on order and the other parts are on backorder because she is so new. He’s going to get her in running condition and then give her back to me so that I don’t have to drive a rental until the parts come in for her new fog light and the fender… purely cosmetic stuff.

I can hear Jeff Foxworthy imitating his mother’s voice in my head right now, “We just can’t have nice things!”


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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