September 11, 2012

I didn't smell a single rose today, I didn't hold any one's hand for comfort or strength and I didn't help a single person on their life's path like I'm sworn to do. Today, I simply remembered.

All day, memories of 9/11 were close to my heart and I allowed just a little bit of animosity and hate to bubble up within me. Although it didn't help me to feel any better, I did it anyway.

Tomorrow there may be forgiveness, but eleven years later, I'm still mad as hell.

"Luckiest Girl Ever!"

Okay, so maybe I am extremely fortunate...I run into famous people and somehow squeeze into photos with them. But before you get to feeling jealous about my good-fortune, let me explain that there is a sad side to this photo op. It is my belief that this TRUE STORY will pull at your heart strings, who knows...you may actually think I'm an unfortunate soul. 

 

 

You see, when I ran into Vince Gill in the Nashville airport this past week, he was trying to give a lady back a pair of eye glasses that he had seen her drop. Star-struck, the woman stood staring at Vince not trusting her voice to speak. She neither took the glasses nor responded with anything but bug-eyes and an open mouth as the country music superstar stood holding her glasses out to her.

 

I chuckled under my breath while watching her obvious discomfort. She realized who was trying to return her eye glasses to her, but she was at a complete loss for words. She recognized his voice about the same time I did. We both had turned when he said, "Excuse me, Ma'am," in his beautiful, tenor voice.  After the woman's husband began to coach her to take the glasses that Vince Gill offered, she finally took them.

 

I outright laughed as her shaky voice asked for his identity by simply asking, "You aren't...?" To which Vince just smiled his sweetest smile and cast his humble, sea-green eyes downward, "Yes, Ma'am...I am.

 

Introductions were made then with nervous laughter and many "Thank you's" said. Finally, the Grammy Award winner walked away to disappear into the crowd of people waiting to board a plane. It was obvious that he wished to quietly and anonymously sit in the gate area unnoticed. I was still silently judging the awe-struck woman and her bumbling acceptance of her glasses she had dropped. I would never be such a dork! I thought with a smirk of arrogance.

 

I quickly called a buddy of mine that I know is a childhood friend of Vince Gill's. When I got Rick on the phone I quickly gave him the low-down and asked if he would text or call Vince and ask if I could get a picture made with him. Rick insisted that I simply approach the country music legend and ask myself, but at my insistence, offered to stay on the phone and assist me with my introductions. I wasn't a bit nervous as I approached the now sitting Vince Gill. I stood in front of him and did as Rick suggested.

 

"Excuse me, sir," I began. My heart was beating fast, maybe I was more nervous than I thought. "Do you know Rick Buchanan?"

 

Vince laughed at my question and started shaking his head up and down while he said, "Yes, we are life-long friends."

 

I told him that Rick was on the phone and did he want to speak to him, I asked. He held his hand out for my phone and I placed it in his hand. My good pal, Rick, introduced me before Vince gave me back the phone. I thanked Rick and hung up so that I could spend a moment speaking with Vince before we had our photo made together as promised. I continued to stand as we exchanged pleasantries and stories about Rick Buchanan and how we both knew him. Vince, being the consummate gentlemen, asked for me to sit next to him and cleared off a seat for me to sit down. I grabbed my bags from a few chairs away and nestled into the seat beside him as we continued to talk.

 

A lady that sat opposite us asked if I wanted her to take our photo so I took my Blackberry out of its holster and held it in front of me as I looked down at it, getting the camera portion of the phone ready. That's when I noticed IT...the zipper on my pants. It was completely unzipped!

 

I had been walking around the airport for 20 minutes, standing in front of and then sitting next to Vince Gill all with on open fly. Everyone close to gate 2, terminal D in the Nashville airport that day knew what color of undergarments I was wearing, especially the guy sitting to my right...Country Music Hall of Fame inductee-Vince Gill.

 

The amount of instant blood loss to my brain from embarrassment had me nearly passing out. If it were possible to (poof) disappear...this would be the appropriate time and I most certainly would have done it. Being without magical powers, I simply slugged Vince on the arm. I did the only thing a girl can do in a situation like that...blame the guy! It had to be ALL his fault.

 

"What kind of a friend are you anyway to let me walk around the airport with my fly undone!" I demanded.

 

He laughed and laughed as I zipped up my zipper and tried to restore the normal color to my cheeks. The heat of my embarrassment still surging through my face could be felt all over my body.

 

With the now infamous photo taken, we casually visited between other photo ops with our fellow travelers who, by now, knew who I sat next to. 

 

I don't know, maybe Vince will remember the goof ball woman who flashed him in the Nashville airport. I'll certainly never forget our first meeting. It was extremely memorable for me...and to think, you called me, "lucky!"

His Voice

I sat at the Grand Ole Opry a couple of nights ago listening to the various voices of country music singers as they belted out familiar tunes of the past and present. Tenor voices, bass, baritone, raspy, wheezy and clear voices. It got me to thinking about how unique our voices are to us and how unique Christ's voice is. You know the passage in the Bible where it says, "My sheep shall hear my voice..."

Maybe you don't look to the heavens when you contemplate speaking to the Creator, but I always do. When I see the clouds with their billowing overlapping shades of white and blue, I think of Jesus's voice and wonder what reaction my heart will have when I hear it for the first time.

 Can I be honest with you for a moment? I'd like you to know of a younger version of me that believed of the things I'm telling you now, but didn't really understand the relationship part of Christianity. I often felt confused, lonely and isolated from God, even while serving Him.

In my advanced age, I often have days of such clarity about my beliefs and am so secure in my relationship with my Saviour that I feel compelled to fall to my knees and praise Him.  I doubt my human self could withstand knowing any more about God than He is willing to show me at any one given time.

I know He wants me to search for Him, to pursue Him.

The funny thing is, when I least expect it, that's when I feel myself rolling on the floor from what can only be described as a punch of instant knowledge of God as it nearly knocks me off my feet.

That was me a couple of nights ago, one minute listening to various voices sing honky tonk tunes and out of nowhere I felt myself yearning to know the pitch, cadence and sound of Jesus's voice. My heart raced as I contemplated hearing Him say my name...and then I realized...

Even though I can not explain it to you and I don't know why He wanted to me to be certain, my heart already knows the sound of His voice.

You Think About That, Sir!

I may seem fine to you now, but if you'd seen me this time last week, you would know how close I came to kissing this world goodbye. A bout with heat exhaustion is nothing to sneeze at. It's taken me a complete week to regain the use of my right arm and leg (just teasing.) Cheating death, now a past-time, I consider who's life now hangs in the balance...

The record hot temperature (of 113 degrees) was nothing compared to the heat coming off of Interstate 35 as I stood in the roadway waving traffic to move to the left as I shut down the east bound on-ramp to the Turner Turnpike as fires raged across the already sun-scorched state.

For over an hour, I flapped my bingo-wings (arms) in the excruciating heat furnace we call Oklahoma summertime. Cars, trucks and semis passed, their speed not stirring any cooling breezes my direction. With the sweat no longer pouring and the rhythmic sounds of my heartbeat increasing in my eardrums, I began to feel light-headed, dizzy and confused. I knew I was over-heating, but dedication to duty had me hunching over and guarding my post. Projectile vomiting soon followed. Tomato basil soup and garden salad (with apple vinaigrette dressing) covered the interstate. Yes, I was still standing in the roadway. Did I turn away so no one saw my retching? Nope, if I'm suffering, everybody's suffering...

A quick trip to Mercy Hospital, four bags of intravenous fluids, numerous embarrassing moments where friends, coworkers and strangers saw me in various stages of undress and distress and I was discharged. The only thing I remember clearly about the entire harrowing ordeal was the moment the paramedic untied my Gortex boots and began removing them, then started pulling on my holy socks...

Panic stricken, gasping for air, stomach heaving/cramping and all I could think about was my toes. MY TOES! That was the near death experience.

For those of you with beautiful feet, I hate you.

You can never understand the agony that is the ever-present curse of a person with hideous, monkey toes in summer time. You in your colorful flip-flops, cute sandals with beads and intricate designs, open-toed heels, flats, sneakers of all sorts and colors...you make me sick! You, with your colorful toenails painted red, blue, yellow, florescent pink...you make me want to puke!

When those boots came off and everyone saw my famous curly, "you can hang her in the closet by them feet" toes...a collective shriek was heard. High above the highway noise, louder than the gagging sounds coming from my aching throat, still louder than all the radios squelching at the same time, was the piercing cry of the on-lookers who saw, "The Toes!"

A friend, that shall go unnamed, said he was getting me a pedicure for "them feet" (as a gift I suppose.)

Go on, laugh at my pain. That's fine. I can take it, but know this...somewhere tonight an innocent, unsuspecting pedicurist's life threatens to be forever altered by my unnamed friend's generosity. Consider that the next time you frivolously threaten someone with a pedicure. You think about that, sir.

Keep your hands where I can see them...

I've been meaning to post this story for quite awhile now. Some of my fellow gun-slingers may have heard this tale before. If you're one of them, please allow me the artistic liberty of embellishing the story for entertainment purposes...here goes...

      A couple of years ago, while working as a road trooper in Logan County, Oklahoma (the Guthrie area), I stopped a guy in his 50's for failure to wear a safety belt. As I approached the suspect's vehicle on the passenger side, I noticed the man favoring the left side of his body. He leaned close to the steering wheel and turned only his head to speak with me, but hid his left arm
and hand on the left side of his body.

As I spoke to him about why I'd stopped him and asked him about his seat belt usage (or lack thereof), my eyes scanned for threats while my gun hand slid to the pistol grip of my Sig Sauer .357. A cautious thumb unsnapped the leather hammer restraint securing my weapon in the holster that lay against my right hip.

"Sir, I'd like to see your left hand," I said with authority. I pulled on my pistol and had it coming up out of the holster when he just stared at me, not budging.

"Sir," I repeated, this time with heat, "I want to see your left hand, now!"

I had "cleared leather" (pulled the weapon out of the holster) and was ready to use it, when he finally spoke up.

"Ma'am," he began with a slow southern drawl as if he had performed this routine many times before, "I'd like to see my left hand too, I haven't seen that hand since 1976," he said, laughing. He brought both arms up slowly and stuck them high in the air as he spoke. Obviously pleased with embarrassing me.

Appalling seconds passed as I stood there unsure of how to reply as I looked at the stump on the man's left arm. The hand was completely gone, it had been severed just below the wrist.

I didn't ask why, I didnt' ask what happened or even attempt to apologize, I just asked for his driver license and insurance and stomped back to my patrol car, cursing him and his missing hand as I went. When I returned to the one-handed man's car, I HANDED him the citation for his
seat belt violation and instructed him on how to take care of the $20 citation. Before clearing the traffic stop, I reminded him to, "buckle up." I stood waiting to see if he would comply.

Silently, I fumed as I watched him struggle for several minutes with the shoulder harness and then the seat belt buckle. I couldn't tell if he was really having a difficult time or if he was jacking with me some more. With a smile on my face and maybe just a teeny weeny bit of meanness I asked, "need a hand?"

THE END
 

Pink Guns and Phony Religion

I sat there, tears dripping on my shirt as I watched the news about the massacre in Aurora, Colorado. My fingernails dug into my palms as I balled my fists tightly, wishing I could hit something or someone. I didn't trust my voice to speak for this burning lump in my throat. What was there to say anyway? Turning the TV off, I sighed. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw my husband's reaction to the news perching in the corners of his sad green eyes. He was hurt and pissed too, he just shook his head.

The next day he comes home, riding a big orange Harley with something wrapped in white rags and slung over his shoulder like the Terminator. Carefully, he unwrapped his parcel and studied my face as he gingerly presented me with something he said he thought I needed. I smiled at the pink camouflage Smith and Wesson .22  model M&P15-22 rifle with the collapsible stock. I rubbed my thumb across the engraving that said, "Made in the U.S.A." and pride surged through me, I felt my shoulders square as I stood taller to raise the rifle and look through the sights.

Do I wish purchasing a gun were harder for law-abiding Americans to do? Hell, no!
Do I wish bad things didn't happen to innocent people? Absolutely!
Do I wish we could shoot people in the head right on the spot instead of letting them surrender after they go on shooting sprees? You better believe it!

We can not limit or eliminate freedoms based on the evil puppets of Satan and his angels. I don't have the answers to all the world's problems, but I know who does. The Bible says that we must all humble ourselves, fall on our knees and beg God for His forgiveness, we must seek God's face; turn from our wickedness, then He will hear us and He will heal our land, (II Chronicles 7:14.)

Aside from that, folks, we have no hope. Our world will continue on its death spiral as we cling to our pink guns and our phony religion.

The Next Hell...

I know I'm not the only person in the world who's suffering, but on days like today - I feel completely alone, detached from the living, disassociated from the planet...all because of a migraine.

Maybe you've had a bad headache before, you remember the dull ache like an unwelcome dinner guest. You take a few aspirin or acetaminophen and in a little while all is well in your world again. That's not the kind of headache I'm talking about. Excuse me as I wallow in self pity a moment, but the need to express my profound pain and absolute weariness of it has driven me to this cliff of despair. I feel defeated.

For 25 years I have experienced something akin to a stroke several times a month. For the last 18 of those years I have taken prescription pills, nasal sprays, oral disintegrating tablets and finally, painful shots to relieve the massive pain that whispers its desire to take my life. This excruciating pain that lies deep in my head, often behind one eye ball or the other, mocks me. Tsunami-like waves of nausea accompany violent episodes of retching with painful attempts at speaking, breathing or seeing. Hearing, smelling, seeing; all torturous senses to a person with a migraine. The slightest touch or sound has me cursing life and begging for a quick end that never comes.

Even after administering the searing shot in my thigh, the pain intensifies the stroke-like episode for another 15 horrifying minutes or so. I can feel the burning sensation that is the cerebral vascular constrictor medication coursing through every vein, artery and blood vessel in my body. Only then can my clinched fists relax, only then can sweet sleep finally take me.

Several hours later, I'll stir, but I'm never the same. For somewhere in the misery that is a migraine, part of me has been stolen. Little pieces of my soul are sliced away with each episode and with it, my peace, my happiness and my hope. What's left of me is an empty, hollow shell that can't make a complete sentence and feels fragile, used-up and weary.

With no strength to cry, I sit. Already dreading the next hell within.