THE STORY OF O, PART III (read further down for parts I and II)

DISCLAIMER: This is not a happy-happy-joy-joy entry. If this bothers you, please skip today's blogging.

Hitch, James IO’s roomie, had just declared his affection for me. This was sort of a surprise, but sort of not, you know what I mean? We’ve all been there. We’ve sensed when someone is attracted to us, but they’re not saying anything simply because it would be inappropriate to do so, and they’re morally and ethically decent people and just wouldn’t do that. (Can I get a witness?) Hitch was a gentleman and waited for what he thought was an appropriate time. I appreciated this trait in him.

So, as wonderful as Hitch was (he was a fine man, indeed), I told him that this was probably not a good point in my life to add another man into the mix. We promised to keep in touch, and went our separate ways.

James, for his part, was upset, and understandably so. I had responded to his proposal for marriage with a "Yes," followed by a "No," and all on his birthday. I was being a complete shrew, albeit unintentionally.

A few days later, to clear his head, James decided to go to Louisiana to visit his parents for a spell. His brother, David, also was there, and he loved David more than Jesus loved the apostles, I believe. Sincerely, there was a deep bond between them.

So David was working in a field on their parents’ property one day, and James was helping him, while they commisserated about life, women and the universe in general. It was time to burn a pile of brush, and David, not knowing how much fuel it takes to burn such a mass of twigs, threw a cup of gasoline into the fire. The tragedy you’re imaging right now, in your head, happened.

David was engulfed by flames. James dove into the fire with the left side of his body leading, grabbed his brother, snatched him out of the fire, and put the flames out. This is all I know of the story until the brothers arrived at the hospital.

The only identification James was carrying listed his Houston phone number as "home," so Hitch received the phone call from the small-town-hospital. (The parents lived in a rural area of Louisiana). David’s ID, of course, had been incinerated. Hitch got the call, then called me, said he thought I’d like to know, and gave me the number to the hospital. My emotions were all over the map, as you can imagine; and guilt was riding heaviest. It still does, to an extent, when I remember this story.

I called the hospital, and got a very backwoods-sounding nurse. She assured me that they were both alive, and were soon being transferred to a burn unit in either Shreveport or Baton Rouge. David was, of course, the worst off, and she told me she had no idea how he’d do. I asked about James, and her reply made me freeze in place for a very long time. I’m not making this up, this is what she really said.

"Oh, honey. Did you know him when he had his face?"

To be continued...

THE STORY OF IO, PART II

"Will you marry me?" James had asked, while on one knee in front of me, as I sat in his desk chair.

"Yes!" was my instant reply. (Surprised, aren’t you?) He was so overcome with joy, he wept. I’d never seen him cry before, and he wasn’t exactly sobbing; he just had tears spring into his eyes. He immediately started making plans about our wedding, and our life together, and our children...

Fear overtook me. I looked at him, happily bounding about the room, chattering on about how blissful the next 50 years would be. "What was I thinking?" I asked myself. "What on earth was I thinking?" Perhaps I had lost my mind. Something had to be done, and quickly.

"James," I said softly. "James." I quietly explained that perhaps my "yes" had been premature, and that I’d like to rescind that immediate affirmative. How do you tell someone this politely? I was quite sure at this point I was going to hell for what I was doing, but I figured it would be worse to do it months or years down the road. The milk had been spilt, and I needed to quickly clean it up. I apologized time and again for leading him in the wrong direction.

Did I mention it was his 21st birthday?

Well, James took it as well as a person could. He said he really wasn’t in much of a mood to drive me home, and that I could find my own way. I didn’t blame him. Hitch, the roommate, took me back to my place on a tense, revealing ride. See, Hitch decided this was a fine opportunity to confess that he, too, was in love with me.

Really, I wasn’t all that. What the heck was going on?

To be continued...

THE STORY OF IO

Once, I had a boyfriend named James. With beautiful emerald-colored eyes and a sly smile, I was instantly attracted to him. He was clever and extraordinarily funny, at least in my opinion. Collecting recipes was his hobby, and he was nearly obsessive about it. I found this charming, as he was indeed a good cook. He preferred Cajun dishes; he and his roommate, Hitch, were from New Orleans. James had also lived in Detroit, and I was from Detroit, and here we were, connecting in Houston, Texas. That created a kind of bond, as well.

James used the name "James IO" for nearly everything, and never told anyone what it meant. We all guessed "in/out" as some kind of childish sexual thing, but he swore that wasn't it. Well, hell, he was entitled to a secret or two.

He sometimes accused me of using him as a "good-looking boy toy" on whose arm to appear at public functions. "A simple prop to occupy your time," he called himself, quoting a popular song lyric. I denied this vehemently. I certainly did not want to be a person that would use someone in this fashion. I wanted him to believe I adored him for who he was, but I wasn’t even sure myself if that was true. I did enjoy his company, and the sex was fabulous. A creative lover is a wonderful thing.

SIDEBAR: I’m one of those rare women that enjoys sex more than most men. I have never, ever found a man that, for any longer than a few months, could keep up with my sexual appetite. It’s a curse, I promise. END SIDEBAR

Not all my friends were enamored of James, though. I remember Hitch and another friend, Paul, once sitting on my couch while I was in the bedroom with James. "Here we are, nice, decent, honest guys, and James is a jerk," they said. "But James is in the bedroom, and where do nice guys end up? ON THE COUCH!"

Paul especially thought James was less-than-bright. One Sunday, they handed him the comics from the Sunday paper and said "Here’s the comics, James… we’ll read them to you later." Hmph.

Paul also remembers the time we had to explain to James that Paul McCartney was once in a band before Wings... well, anyway.

We really had fun times together, though, James and I. There's something to be learned from everyone, and I really believed that James had the potential to be wonderful. So we stayed together for some time, enjoying life, making wonderful, addictive love, and having a generally good time.

Then one day, James and I were at his apartment, and the unthinkable happened. He dropped to one knee, and said…

"Will you marry me?"

To be continued…

AM I CRAZY?

As I've prattled on about before, I look at medical reports all day. If I see a report that seems particularly, well, rough, am I nuts to send a positive thought or say a brief prayer for the patient, even though I don't know them?

A few minutes ago, I read a report about a man who had his hand crushed in a printing press, and he lost 3 1/2 fingers from one hand. Well, that seems like a hell of a thing, doesn't it? So I said a short prayer for him. Am I nuts? I don't know this man, and I'll almost definitely never meet him. But still... do you think it helps?

NOTE: Ther person on the left is Jim.

Jim has busy summers. Among other trips, for the last two years he’s enrolled in three-week-long university summer classes for people his age at a college in Missouri. Conveniently, my mother also works at this university.

His flight to Kansas City from Austin, Texas left this morning. I had thought his flight left at 7:40, but when I double-checked (and a good thing I did), 7:40 was his switcheroo time in Memphis; the flight left Austin at 6:00 AM! What was I thinking when I booked that? That meant we had to be at the airport at 5:00 AM, and had to get up at 4:00. I discovered this at about midnight. Well, foo, no point in going to sleep then, I decided.

So off we went to our local airport, way before the crack of dawn. "Northwest," Jim mused. "I’ve never flown them before. This should be interesting." I’d heard them called "Northworst," but I had no idea. None at all.

In fairness, it’s really my fault. I’d made a mental note to say that Jim was 15, rather than 14, to avoid their "Unaccompanied Minor" rules and fees. The reservation was made long ago, though, and we just forgot.

So there we stood, ready to check in. I’m not sure if this picture shows it accurately, but Jim is about 6 feet tall, confident, handsome and articulate. He’s intelligent with a blistering wit, and the high SAT scores are what got him into the academy. (I apologize for sounding like an IQ snob; I’m really not. I’m just trying to get Jim’s persona across.) The attendant asked for his ID, and he presented last year’s college ID.

She said curtly, "Sir. I need your drivers’ license."

Jim answered, "I don’t drive. I’m 14."

I nodded. "No driving. He’s 14."

She looked him up and down, back and forth, and tilted her head. "YOU are FOURTEEN. You."

We agreed in unison. Fourteen, yes.

Suddenly, in a motion that rivaled Lance Armstrong’s speed in the Tour de France, she whipped out a stack of brand new forms. "In that case, you’ll need to pay the unaccompanied minor fee, and fill out these forms."

Wham-bam-zammo, it came back to me. I leaned over and mumbled "We were supposed to pretend you’re 15 today. I forgot."

"SHIT," curses Jim.

The attendant stared. "You’re 14?"

"Yes, and I said ‘SHIT’."

I burst into song. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Look, he’s 15!" (Keep in mind, I was sleep deprived). Jim found this wonderfully amusing, but the attendant did not. We wrangled and argued, glared and sneered, and determined that they were not going to believe my song and dance, and that we would have to pay $75.00 for an "Unaccompanied Minor" fee. I, of course, had a total of $5 on me.

Jim had his $80 spending money (for laundry at the university, etc.), so we used that. I donated my $5 to the cause, reassuring him that grandma would bring him more money at the dorm. He was quite unhappy, but knew he needed to get on the plane one way or another.

He asks Ms. Cranky Attendant, "I'm paying $75 for WHAT, exactly?"

"An escort when you switch planes in Memphis."

He snickered. "An escort, eh? What kinda escort we talkin', winkwink nudgenudge?" Keep in mind, he's been traveling alone since he was freakin’ FIVE. Also keep in mind that I’m a little bad at directions, and he’s usually directing ME through airports, rather than the other way around.

So, I assured Jim again that grandma would bring him some more spending money. He had his $5 change from the fee and my $5, which might be enough to get a hot dog and a Coke on the trip from Kansas City to the university (a 3 hour drive).

The airline made him wear a little kid’s sticker and sit with the children. "Great, I get to sit with people playing Nintendos and talking about Pokemon. I kinda doubt you serve cappuccino and have the New York Times in the kiddy section." Ooooo, he was mad. He hasn't been treated like a child in a long time.

We paid the $75. Next, they said I had to know the name of the person picking him up, or they wouldn’t let him on the plane. Heck, I don’t know; they send a guy from the university in a van. The name of the academy he goes to is Joseph Baldwin Academy. They insisted on a name, or no plane ride.

Fine. I wrote "Joseph Baldwin" in the slot.

It was time to go through the metal detector beeper things to get to the gates. I carried Jim’s capuccino and muffin, he carried his carry-on bag. After I passed through, Security Woman says "I’ll need you to open that drink." Well, ok. Then, "I’ll need you to take a sip of it." Well, double dog dangit, almond capuccino isn’t my thing, but I took one for the home team, and had a sip. ICK! She studied my face and determined that "Well, I GUESS it’s not poison."

Then we get to the gate, and the attendant there (a stern fellow called Al) escorts my only child to the children’s section. Jim had had a reservation for a window seat because he really wanted to watch the sunrise while on a plane. Al comes back from escorting him onto the plane, and I said to him, "Man, I'm never flying Northwest again."

Al responds, "Considering your son just called me an ass for sitting him in the kids’ section, I hope you don't." I laughed. Out loud. I couldn't help it.

Then Al told me I had to stand there until the plane left the ground.

**INTERLUDE** This is not such a bad idea. Last year, on his way to the same academy, Jim was boarding the plane when it was determined there was a hole in the thing, and we had to race to find another flight. Good thing I hadn’t left him then. **END INTERLUDE**

So while I was waiting, I started to feel bad about ol’ Al, and the cussing teenager. Really, there’s no need for a bright boy to swear like that. So I explained, "Sir, I apologize for him calling you an ass. We've just had a real bad morning. And I'm going crazy trying to figure out why you look familiar to me."

"You look familiar to me, too. Softball?" Nope, no softball here.

"Did you work at Radian?" I asked. He said nope.

I stared out the window, hoping the plane would soon roll down the runway. Al worked. After a time, I turned around and said "Where do you go to church?"

"I used to go to North Austin Community Church."

North Austin Community Church is where I went for 6 years. The church was instrumental in where I am in my current spiritual life. I met my husband there. This church had a Big Factor in my life. I said "I married that long-haired keyboard player 5 years ago and we moved way south."

Big smile, and a nod. "So, how you doin'?"

HELPFUL HINT

If you find yourself hanging out with a 14 year old boy, do NOT let him convince you that going to see Scary Movie II is a good idea.

WELCOME TO AUSTIN!

Xanga Gia's Weblog 7/3/2001 details why she hates Austin.  I've lived in this town for 11 years, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to post a rebuttal.  But first, some background.

I was born just outside of Detroit.  I've lived in the suburbs all over Detroit, in northern Michigan (nearly Canada), in Kentucky, in Missouri, in Houston and here in Austin.  I hope to never leave Austin.

When I lived in Houston, my boyfriend and I visited Austin for a friend's wedding.  We drove up and down, all around, and said "Why do we live in Houston?"  We couldn't remember, so in 1990 we packed up and moved to Austin with $1000 and a U-Haul.  Best move I've ever made.

Now, about Gia:

 "1. First you must learn to pronounce the city name.  It is AWS-TUN and it does not matter how people pronounce it in other places.

I'm going to have to call "bullshit" on this. In my 11 years here, I don't think I've ever heard anyone pronounce it in a hickish manner.

 2. Forget the traffic rules you learned elsewhere.  Austin has its own traffic rules. There's no book about them.  You've just got to get in your car and hope you survive long enough to learn them.

Yes, erveryone thinks their town has the WORST traffic. Ho hum. Ever been in a really big city, like Houston or New York?

 3. All directions start with, "Go down Mopac...cause you don't want to get on 35."

How interesting. Part of my business involves a delivery driver cruising all over town. I travel I-35 daily. It's not that bad. Don't drive during rush hour, and you're fine. Again, check out a really big town, and you'll laugh at whiners here.

 4. Burnet Rd., Braker Ln., and Lamar Blvd. have no beginning and no end.

This is a problem how? #5, 6, 7, 9 and 11 all deal with traffic rants. Ho hum. You have a problem with a highway having a name and a number? Houston has 59, which is the Southwest Freeway. It has 610, which is the Loop. It has 45, which is Southwest Freeway. This is not an Austin phenomenon.

8. If you like being an individual, don't even think of working for Dell. You'll be branded like cattle and made to walk all over town with your "Dell tag" around your neck or clipped on your belt loop. 98% of the people within a 200-mile radius work for Dell. When someone says, "Michael Dell", Dell employees are trained to face Round Rock (the main Dell location), hit their knees, put their face to the ground, weep, and rock back and forth.

Finally, a valid rant. Why move to a hippie, individualistic town and work for this company? Just say no.

12. Keep in mind that the sloppily dressed "hippie" in sandals and earrings is probably the latest IPO millionaire around here.

I would think you'd see this as a GOOD thing. Unless, of course, you think everyone should be like cattle and wear the button-up shirt and tie thing... but wait, you dissed Dell for that attitude. I'm confused.

13. Stay away from the Congress Bridge at sundown if you do not like the thought of being in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

HAHAHA! The bats are fabulous. At sundown, gazillions of bats fly out from underneath the Congress Avenue bridge. It's a wondrous site, a beauty of nature. We've named our minor league hockey team after the bats, and constructed a statue downtown. We LIKE them.

14. And, yes, we all know that's a man in a teddy and tiara on a bike downtown. It's Leslie and he probably makes more money than you do. My brother and his friends were once completely embarassed by this man. We were driving down a residential area in prolly mid-December, and Leslie here was wearing a mid-calf fur coat, pantyhose and spiked heels. They wolf whistled out the window and commented how hot she was.

Anyone that's embarrassed by essentrics should not, under any circumstances, live in Austin. We're mostly a town of hippies, politicians, students, musicians and computer geeks. These groups defy the usual cookie cutter molds, which most people enjoy. It gives our lives FLAVOR. If you want mayonaisse, move to Houston or Dallas. If you like a little spice in life, welcome to Austin.

You left out what a fabulous music town this is. On any given night, you can find over 100 live bands playing around Austin. You left sooo much out... it's a wonderful place, with hills and trees and air and water. We love it.

The Austin Chronicle is a great resourse for discovering Austin. Check it out.

I own a medical transcription company.  It's a fun little job, and people ask me all the time what led me down this path.  So, in my very best http://www.xanga.com/verymodern form, I'll attempt to tell how it came to be.

As I've rambled on about before, I used to work in a hospital emergency room.  When I wasn't being entertained by people bleeding and vomiting on my desk and children harassing patients in wheelchairs, I would sort through reports that magically appeared on the printer at hourly intervals.  They were reports the doctors dictated regarding each patient's visit. 

As I purused these reports, I found horrible errors.  Not spelling errors, mind you... those would be caught in your basic spell checker program thingy.  These were things like:

"A 70-year-old man was coming home from the Senior's dance, and dripped over a speed bump."  (Oops, they meant "tripped.")

"The patient is a 4-year-old pregnant female..."  (Shoot-darn, she's 24.)

I said to myself, "Self, even YOU can do better than THAT."  I type very fast, I'm pretty bright and I'd been hanging out in medical facilities for years.  I thought a good idea would be to check with medical transcription companies in town and see if they'd hire someone part-time, and I could see if I liked that type of work, without having to quit my nifty ER job.

I flipped through the phone book, and got an interview at a medical transcription company.  I got a funky vibe as soon as I wandered in the door... no one looked happy to be there, and the owner was secluded in an office, looking more pissed-off than the rest, if that's possible.  I sat in front of her for our little talk, and she began by asking what made me want to get into this field.  I explained that I worked at that certain ER, and told her about the incredible errors.  A long pause ensued.

"We type that hospital's ER reports," she said.

I didn't get the job.

Instead, I whipped up some postcard-type fliers, check around for what the going price was in town and undershot it, and did oodles of research.  A lovely man that believed in me invested a few thousand dollars to upgrade my computer and buy me some transcription equipment, and I was in business.

My first client was a very patient plastic surgeon from West Texas who barely used medical language.  He tended to say things like "The patient cut himself with one of them there box cutter things."  He liked me, I liked him, and he told his doctor friends about me. 

Now I rent office space, have employees, and life is good.  I'm very fortunate to do something I think is fun every day, and I get to be the Queen, to boot.  Life is good.

Process Of Elminiation

Hee hee.  In the photo below, some folks guessed I was the sweet-looking blonde, second from the right ("D").  No, I'm not her.

"D" is a woman who, throughout the course of this weekend wedding, thought it important to make passes at a 14-year-old usher, even after she found out his age. She grabbed his butt repeatedly and tried to get him to become physically involved with her; he found her frightening and declined.

When http://www.xanga.com/verymodern said there was a lot of energy in this picture, she was right... it was mostly all of us trying not to kill "D".  For whatever reason, we just don't find pedophiles funny.

I'm adding my very first picture!  I am one of the women in this photo.  Please pick whichever one you find loveliest, and in your mind, I'll be her.  Let's name them (from left to right) A, B, C, D and E... let me know which you picked, if you want!