With all dude respect… (I invented a better version of this phrase…)
With All Du(d)e Respect
All posts by X Teri
Five Dollar Finger
This morning, I put the assorted nonsense I use during the day in my pocket. For some reason, I had a $5 bill and put that in my right pocket too. I never do that, especially since I would usually drag it out accidentally and lose it.
After eating lunch/supper, I drove back toward the house. I waited at the light on Emma and Butterfield Coach. It’s challenging to get good visibility on the left, an issue exacerbated by people pretending they’re racing in the Indy 500 as they come around the long curve. An SUV crossed the intersection doing at least 70. I waited, craning my neck to check again. Before you say anything, waiting until the light turns green IS an option. Still, it is just as likely to get you killed – and for two reasons: people have no patience waiting on someone to legally and safely turn, and a red light is often just encouragement to speed through an intersection illegally. I forgot to mention that East Springdale’s residents are less likely to have both a driver’s license and insurance at any given moment. It’s one of the many reasons I advocate that the city uses the actual roads for the annual Demolition Derby.
As it turned out, my light turned green, and I pulled out quickly. (That’s what she said. My apologies. That was a reflex TWSS there.) A couple of seconds later, I looked in my rearview mirror. A cobalt blue Hyundai was coming up behind me exceedingly fast, probably going 75 mph. As they passed, I noted that the car had five younger people in it, two of whom shoved their arms out the window, using their middle fingers to wave hello.
I concluded that I had interfered with their driving progress for zero seconds while they sped and failed to stop at a red light. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information.
The blue car, of course, caught up with a throng of traffic. A throng, whatever that is. So I followed them up Butterfield to Friendship. I turned left as they did. At this point, their guilty conscience probably convinced them I was angry about getting flipped off. I wasn’t. I was amused. They passed my normal turn into the neighborhood I live. A block further on, they turned into one of the dirt driveways on the side. The other side of the road isn’t part of Springdale city limits – and it shows. The high class you’d normally associate with Springdale diminishes considerably on that side of the road. (I apologize for the snark there, Rodeo fans.)
I stopped across from their driveway. I got out of my absurdly blue car and walked across. The driver’s eyes widened. Yes, it’s true someone could have shot me. I can think of no better way to die than by pranking someone in East Springdale unless it is to be shot by a jealous husband in bed. I handed the guy in the passenger rear seat a $5 bill and said, “Get yourself a 6-pack. And stop driving like pansies.” I laughed.
Someone inside the Hyundai said, “Dude, what the f—?” in a high-pitched voice.
I drove away, smiling like an idiot.
I like to think that this merry band of miscreants will be flipping off MORE people, expecting others to tip them for the honor.
Begin… Or End
“To get something you never had, you have to do something you’ve never done.”
The message continued: “These are not my words. But they are my mantra. You’re going to be scared. You’re going to be uncomfortable. And even when you did everything safe, you always ran the risk of total, absolute failure, losing everyone and everything you’ve ever had. Even though you already lost everything once, you allowed your mind to buffer you away from those considerations. The risk was real. You just didn’t consider it. You said, ‘Life is for the living.’ And whatever new thing you do today or tomorrow carries that same risk. Get over it. You could do everything right and still fall in a well. Now imagine that you turn back from new actions, new thoughts, and new habits because it’s safer. And you fail, playing it safe. I promise you that you will be filled with regret and self-anger. You told us to tell you when we see that you’ve forgotten this lesson. The point is that there are no guarantees, other than one day sooner than later, you will be dead. People will say whatever they’re going to say, and they’re going to write histories about you that are wildly inaccurate. But if you proceed with confidence, there is a guarantee that you’ve changed your outcome despite your fear. Whether it results in a better life or not, it roots itself in a positive decision. X, I’m counting on you to show me that it’s worth all the effort. If you fail, how can I expect to succeed?”
Well, sh!t.
I suspect that’s about the best calling-out I could imagine.
I wasn’t going to share this.
What’s the worst possible outcome, though?
Someone will read this and find something with which they identify.
Others will read it and feel uncomfortable.
I hope that discomfort focuses them to look for a purposeful life.
Love, X
Money-Making Mugshot Idea
The Washington County Sheriff wasn’t too happy with my emailed plan to save money: offer professional mugshots/headshots at the jail. It’s so stupid that I guarantee people would pay for it. Yes, I’m ‘people.’ Please, take my money for this idea.
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P.S. You know you’re in trouble when you write a joke like the one above and legitimately fear that friends and family are going to get pissed about it. I mean no disrespect. We all have our struggles and I don’t judge. Unless you were arrested for something stupid, like putting your bag of weed in the metal detector bin before getting scanned. . Love, X.
Silence Protects No One
Of my many mistakes, concern with being judged or misunderstood has been one of my worst follies.
He Who Enjoys It, Owns It
“He who enjoys it, owns it.”
Such was the case today. Mr. Taco Loco was closed, so I managed to score my high-volume dose of pico de gallo elsewhere. Given that the day was perfect, I got my food to go, and I visited one of my favorite places. Because I love y’all, I’ll share it with you. It’s hidden in plain sight, along Huntsville and Shiloh in Springdale. While it is on the property belonging to the Methodist Church I infrequently attend, no one will mind if you visit the pair of picnic tables I’ve grown accustomed to visiting. Just leave the place better than you found it, which is practical advice for so much of our lives.
When I sit under the shade tree, there are times that it feels like I’ve been covered in an opaque and silencing membrane. ‘Languid’ might be an excellent word to approximate the sensation. I’ve also sat under the tree with the wind howling and rain dotting my head. Whether the spot initially made me feel peaceful, I can’t recall – it might be that the sensation came to me later, and I’ve trained my mind to find it soothing.
One reason I love this little spot is that it is perfectly shaded for most of the day. Such was the case today. A squirrel and several birds kept me company as I spread my meal across the picnic table. Because I had an entire case of PopChips I’d bought earlier, I used the tortilla chips included with the TexMex meal to offer the animals. The breeze occasionally threatened to take away pieces of my packaging, but not so violently as to make it challenging to eat in peace. Sitting at the picnic table, you can watch the traffic speed by, even if you spend other seconds tossing the animals morsels, alternated with bites for yourself. Usually, I eat quickly. When I visit this little spot, I find myself slowing my pace. I spent forty-five minutes eating. Once the birds and squirrel finished their respective McMeals, I looked carefully at pictures of one of my friend’s lovesakes. (Lovesakes are keepsakes given in moments of unconditional love and appreciation.)
Before leaving, I spent a few minutes experimenting with my Seek app, vainly attempting to get the app to identify a strange insect that had landed on my salsa. I used a chip to remove it and place it on the table before discarding the salsa. I jokingly named the insect the “Salsapillar.”
As I got in my car and drove away, I felt the languid membrane of this little park slip away from me. The volume of the day, my tasks, and my to-dos once again echoed and billowed in my head.
If you’re in the mood to experience a little slice of Springdale a bit differently, pick up food from one of the eateries scattered nearby and bring it to this little bitty park. Enjoy the shade. And if you have a friend, bring them and discover if you both agree that, although it’s just a piece of land, it has a dusting of calming magic about it.
Sun Red Memories of Fire
I leaned over the railing, watching the red-orange sun as it dropped below the trees in the distance. Seeing familiar sights in new surroundings is a sublime pleasure. Even if you wouldn’t know it by looking at me, I’m inevitably introspective when I recognize such truths. Below, excited kids and one unsupervised Dad continued to bend and light an array of fireworks. Some of the pyrotechnics were small, others were cacophonous grenades, ones which exploded with such force that the l-shape of the building almost bent with the sound waves produced. Occasional squeals and constant happy commentary punctuated the evening. The air was permeated with the pungent and welcomed clouds of gunpowder smoke. The hybrid mix of sight, sound, and scent took me back to many of my youthful days and nights with fireworks. As is the case in so many Southern families, even those populated with violence and addiction, fireworks were a common denominator that brought many of us happiness. The possibility of losing a finger or an eye was no greater than the risk of simply being part of the family. As I watched the kids participate on the cooling cement below, I hoped they’d one day remember this. Several of the kids had dangerously clambered up on the back of a minivan, their legs dangling and kicking. Whether anyone of us realized it or not, we’d formed an impromptu community, one flung together by the beauty and violence of fireworks. When I looked back toward the horizon where the sun hid, I found that night had fallen, surreptitiously and totally. I breathed deeply and inoculated myself against loneliness by filling my lungs with the acrid smoke filling the air. I could get used to this, knowing that life can be a kick in the shins but also a present for the moment if you’re receptive. It’s impossible to know who is making new memories, even as they blink away the unhelpful past that tells us we don’t deserve more moments. I took mine with me and even now, trying to express my love for the moment, I feel the acrid scent of fire in my lungs.
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Too Much Blue
Saturday, I was driving on 412 East, near the airport. Because I hadn’t eaten much, I pulled out a bag of sea salt PopChips, and ravenously and enthusiastically began eating them. (As if there’s any other way to eat these!) I noticed something in my peripheral vision to the right. I turned my head and found myself stopped in traffic alongside one of the toughest-looking Latinos I’ve ever seen, as if Danny Trejo woke me up by sticking a shotgun in my mustache. I probably froze for a second. The Latino turned his head to his right. A second later, the woman in the passenger seat leaned forward and craned her neck to see around her huge boyfriend/husband/kidnapper. And laughed. The Latino driver then laughed and pointed at my car. He then gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up and grinned ear to ear. I laughed, gave him the thumbs-up in return, and kept eating my PopChips. I briefly considered challenging him to a race but opted to leave him with his dignity.
A Personal Update
This is a personal post, so scroll past if you’re not interested in learning new and terrible things about me. I’m always one for transparency, even when it’s complicated. Especially when it’s difficult. I’ve not been silent out of apprehension or shame. I always feel free to tell my own story – because I own it. Being compassionate, I also realize that other people don’t want a rock dropped on their heads simply because their story overlaps with mine. I’ve waited to say anything specific out of deference to the other people involved. It’s my story now, though.
I’m getting divorced. Because people need to assign blame or frame such things in their heads, you can place the responsibility for the divorce directly on me. Of course, there’s more to the story – but it would be wrong for me to evade the finger pointed at me. Adding explanatory caveats would be equivalent to ruining an apology by offering excuses. Those who know me well know the story. When my marriage faltered, I turned my attention to another woman. While I did not consummate the relationship, I fell in love with her. That’s entirely on me. Not that anyone is entitled to know the details. But I’m not so stupid as to think that people don’t know. It’s human nature, and whispers travel faster and more loudly than headlines.
For the lurkers who are tempted to write something snarky, go ahead, but please take a moment to be creative in your attempt. I don’t mind contempt or passive-aggressive tomfoolery so long as it’s both authentic and distinctive. I can get run-of-the-mill snideness from several sources. Chance are your two cents won’t affect me. I’ve already paid the price for my choices; a few words can’t possibly inflame anything medieval lurking in my heart.
In so many ways, I failed and succeeded simultaneously over the last year. I hurt people who shouldn’t have been. I realize that my intentions are meaningless and irrelevant when compared to the consequences of my choices. I’ll try to take the successes and amplify them. Whether I’ll learn anything from my adventures and misadventures is always the critical question.
My wife is keeping the house. Evidently, homes and property should remain in the hands of responsible people. I’m not sure where I will end up. I much prefer having a roommate, but so far, that has been a bust. You wouldn’t know it, but I’m not nearly as crazy in person as you might think. (Admittedly, though, there is a disproportionate likelihood of tomfoolery.) If I move from Springdale, I’ll miss it terribly. I’ve grown to know it very well, especially during the pandemic. Barring something surprising, I will probably get an apartment in Fayetteville that’s too expensive for me, primarily because of work – and probably without a roommate or someone I know. I’d rather not live alone, even if doing so might be beneficial to me somehow. I’ve somehow managed to stay in the same job for 16 years without one of my co-workers murdering me. To be clear, I’m pretty sure there have been discussions, but luckily, no assassin has been hired, at least not that I know of.
As tough as things have been, I’m glad I had counseling. I was lucky. I put the pin back in before I made my life worse, as well as learning how to sleep again. Counseling didn’t fix all of my problems, of course, but it might have saved me.
My story isn’t particularly original and certainly not so during the pandemic.
There’s no need to react or comment if you don’t want to or don’t quite know ‘how’ to do so. This isn’t something you see on social media very frequently. It’s certainly something that happens all the time, though. By posting this, I’m removing the taboo of openly talking about it.
Love, X
Idiot Foot
As my eyesight slowly required reading glasses, I sewed less. Threading a needle is equivalent to playing Operation after drinking 42 cups of coffee while undergoing a prostate exam. A friend wanted me to sew him a custom ripshirt which will necessitate at least 100 threadings. Yes, although it seems unlikely, both of those facts are true: I do have a friend, and he requested that I hand-sew him a custom ripshirt. It seems as unlikely as Bigfoot at the McDonald’s drive-thru, and not just because Squatch prefers Wendy’s for burgers and Sonic for food poisoning. What’s the old cliché? “Truth is stranger than fiction, and typing is better than diction.” Yes, I think that’s it.
The preamble to the story notwithstanding, I find myself using longer and longer threads to avoid threading the needle needlessly. A few minutes ago, I started another thread, one about 18″ long. I knocked my notary stamp off the desk. I’d placed it there to remember to take it with me tomorrow. I leaned over to retrieve it… and though it paints me in a reckless and risky light, the needle in my left hand stuck me in the face, not too far below my left eye. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who might be curious about the sensations such a stupid act elicits. (Unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case: it hurts worse than accidentally sitting on a seatless bicycle.)
I angrily looked at the needle as if it were at fault.
After this exaggerated brush with death, I decided to choose another activity until such time as my good senses return. 2027 will probably be safe. I cut the last run of stitching, tied it, and then set the needle on the desk. Or thought I did. I got up, left the room, and returned. It was then I realized I had dropped the needle on the carpet. Somewhere. I couldn’t find it, even with a directed lamp bright enough to rival a middle-aged bald man’s head in the middle of the summer. At that point, I did what any unreasonable person would do: I used my socked foot to rub the surface of the carpet. In 15-16 swipes, my food did manage to “find” the needle. The stabbing pain that I’d experienced on my left cheek repeated itself on the side of my left foot.
I will need to get a gun safe to store my needles.
Meanwhile, for my next act, I’m going to slice vegetables, blindfolded, after drinking a vodka sour.
I see no issues with this plan. Vodka is a tried-and-true numbing agent in the right volume, and a blindfold will ensure I don’t faint at the sight of blood. Since I can sew, I can stitch up my hand as easily as a shirt.
PS I apologize in advance to all the foot fetishists. My feet did appear in Foot Magazine, Dec 2019 issue.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 