Coyotes in Area. Pets are at Risk.
My foot strikes the gravel powered by my matchless spirit and invincible attitude of overachievement. My stride is fast and confident. I feel great. I glance down at my watch. Mile one completed in six minutes, twenty seconds. Woo hoo! I continue my sprint rather pleased with oneself. I pass a sign that reads: Coyotes in area. Pets are risky. Really? Once, I had a staring competition with a coyote on this very trail. That was intense. Ah, just around the bend, the house that President George Bush grew up in. Isn’t that cute! A little further down the path I cross a bridge I like to call, Blueberry Bridge. The scene of an unfortunate and unwelcome re-visitation of my blueberry waffles on a previous morning run. And that’s how you know you are in Odessa… Then it hits me. One point four miles into the middle of the desert. You know, sometimes I just don’t know what goes on in this tiny little pea brain. Do not; I repeat DO NOT drink Triple X Vitamin water before participating in a cardio workout. Triple X Vitamin water is water fortified with antioxidants. No further explanation is needed. Hmm…short run.
In Other News.
Well kids, here’s the diddy. I failed. I failed. I failed. Apparently, I suck at this blogging regularly concept. Several indicators fed this failure into abundance. One, I overcommitted. Two, I have been in hiding. The truth is I spent the first month transitioning into life in Odessa in misery. Self inflicted of course. I now confess and own this failure on my part, but I am also very happy to announce that I have found acceptance and even happiness in this somewhat unpleasant alteration. I have found my groove at the present I am excited for what is to come in the next six months I am to spend here. Highlights/realizations of the past four weeks in consolidation are as follows:
• Chasing boys is a very stupid idea.
• There are lots of things I have to do in this life that I just don’t want to, but I do it anyway, and that will never change.
• Why can’t MY car be a Transformer?
• Training for my race has been challenging, but I have finally hit a sweet spot. Shaved a minute off my time last week! Boom.
• I miss Anna. If you were a lawn, I’d be a gnome. If you were a mortgage, I’d be a home.
• I would eat the cherry sauce at Dairy Queen used for cherry dipped cones by the spoonful if appropriate.
• I experienced my first body building show and liked it, although, it made me feel dirty.
• Compelling realities move us to action.
• Hebrews 5:7-10
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
a new right of passage.
One. I am attending summer school to complete my cosmetology licensure. Two. I am training to qualify for the Boston marathon. Three. I am blogging on a daily basis about these two ventures. Please read my journaling as I expedite this summer
Within the first two days upon my return to the desert, I have managed to land myself in the hospital, appear in Big D magazine, lose a tooth, and get locked out of the house. It’s true. Buckle that safety belt, because its going to be quiet the ride.
I also included an archive of old myspace and facebook blog posts so that you might get kick of what my writing style is like. For those of you that followed me on that string, blogger will be my new home. Spread the word beloveds.
Within the first two days upon my return to the desert, I have managed to land myself in the hospital, appear in Big D magazine, lose a tooth, and get locked out of the house. It’s true. Buckle that safety belt, because its going to be quiet the ride.
I also included an archive of old myspace and facebook blog posts so that you might get kick of what my writing style is like. For those of you that followed me on that string, blogger will be my new home. Spread the word beloveds.
untitled two.
It seems as though this two part chronicle on my Matthew may turn into a bit more. As I sit to write about him and this incident, much more emerges than I expect. So I’m just gonna go with it, and I apologize in advance for what may partially be word vomit.
This somewhat unpleasant story is not written with the intent to make you disconsolate or to make you feel uncomfortable. And indeed, looking for sympathy I am not. But because possibly, if you have ever experienced a deep loss or heaven forbid encounter something comparable forthcoming, hopefully this will help make some sense of it. So… I have this sixth sense. Unfortunately, I do not see dead people. I kind of wish that’s what it was, because I think that would be really cool. But I do however; have an inexplicable ability to tap into premonitions. Renderings, intuitions, gut feelings, omens, whatever you may call them. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I can never escape these hunches that periodically rest upon this soul. In due time I learned to stop trying to depress this ability, and instead I embrace it. I can confidently tell you that I felt as if God was preparing me for this loss for a long time. Matt passed in October of 2005, and it was in the fall of 2004 I began to feel as if I might encounter a great sadness within my family. For whatever reason I sensed that my family was going to experience some tragedy or crisis involving one of my brothers. As strange and morbid as that sounds it was one of my unexplainable premonitions. So, if that was what was to come, I began to pray for peace, guidance, and understanding. I believe I was able to handle Matt’s death with much more constancy seeing that my heart was prepared for such a befalling.
On this particular day I have a lingering sense of impending doom that I just can not shake. Late in the afternoon I receive a phone call from Scott W (my ex) while at my office. A police officer just left the house. He was asking me about your brother Matt. He asked if I had seen him or talked to him lately and then if I knew about him having any involvement with drugs? The first thought to drift thru my mind is, oh Matthew, what have you gotten into this time? You see, my family had already gone thru many years of drug and alcohol addictions, arrests, mental illness, and glaciers of rebellious behavior with Matt. So regrettably, I make the assumption he is up to no good. I hang up with Scott W and call my dad at his office. I explain to him what Scott W had told me about the cop dropping by. I should inform you that we had not been able to get a hold of Matt by phone for several days. We planned a birthday dinner for him and my brother Scott B the week prior, but he did not show. No one thought too much of it at first because this was normal behavior for Matt. He regularly just appeared and disappeared as he felt. Within an hour I receive a phone call back from my dad. He too had been visited by the police at his work. I quickly begin to understand that this might be something greater than I initially suspected. Police officers don’t just spend all day joyriding through the city, visiting family members individually trying to track someone down for delight.
I unsuccessfully shake the feeling of worry, finish up with work, and head to a dance rehearsal. Scott W and I make plans for a late dinner out. I pull up to the house and leave the car running. I figure I would just run in and grab Scott W, but he meets me outside at the door. Immediately I become aware of the police car parked on the street. The look on his face is hesitant. There is a police man inside with Kyle (a pastor from our church) and your parents. “They found a body, and they think it might be your brother’s.” These words haunt me. I knew this. I knew this moment was coming. I immediately go into caretaker mode. Has anyone told Scott B (my oldest brother)? No? I have to tell him. I dial my brother. I tell him. What? He manages to mumble. Just come over, I tell him. We walk inside. The room is surprisingly calm, but very serious. The facts. A body has been found in a Juarez, Mexico. The description matches Matt’s but his identity can not be confirmed at this time. The detective conveys to my parents they are 98% sure it is him. As to not leave much interval for false hope. Sleep was not an option on this night.
The media was quick to snatch a hold of the story. I don’t suppose I will ever be able to forget the image of my brother’s body rested in a body bag on a stretcher flashing on the screen as it is permanently etched into my minds eye. Never imagined it could be painful to watch an episode of CSI, but as of late, I hate shows like that. The next day we get confirmation that the body found was Matthew’s. As we thought things couldn’t possibly be any more unsettling, we are informed that the authorities in Juarez will not release the body to us unless we travel to Mexico to fly him back ourselves. After much negotiation and havoc between borders they agree to release Matt. Once the nightmare of fighting to have him back home for a funeral was over, there was the incessant flow of visitors to the house, funeral arrangements, condolences, etc. I go numb. I go into autopilot. You dress because you have to wear clothes. You eat because there’s food, everywhere from all of the visitors. I think I washed my hair like once that week… I listen to mom cry herself into a restless sleep every evening.
After the initial chaos of that first week slowed, we learned a bit more of the particulars. Matt had packed up everything he owned into his truck and took off. Apparently spent some time in El Paso and then Juarez. His truck along with all of his belongings never surfaced. Autopsy results confirmed the cause of death was from contusions to the thoracic area. Among the bruising he suffered a black eye, and multiple broken bones and cuts. There was also the presence of drugs in his system. We can only assume that he was involved in a fight, or was hit by a car that threw him over into the ravine. Either way, someone left him for dead. This should enrage me. But oddly, it doesn’t. I know my God is just. Revenge is not mine to seek. If foul play was implicated, then I pray for the souls involved with the death of my brother. I desire that they too might one day know the God that I cherish, that forgives, and we should meet in eternity one day.
It’s wonderful the way someone’s life can unfold long after they are gone. For many individuals’ popularity or greatness, pursues them in death more so than in life. This was the case with my brother. One of my favorite movies, Big Fish quotes, “That was my father's final joke, I guess. A man tells his stories so many times that he becomes the stories. They live on after him. And in that way he becomes immortal. “My brother has been made immortal by the stories of his friends and family. And by the fingerprints he left behind on hearts. My spirit is warmed by these stories, which are brought forth from others. I have come to find that he had intense impact on many. His life’s purposes fulfilled, thru the people he influenced, unknown to him I am sure. I now can see how something extraordinary can emerge from tragedy. How God can use transgression for purpose and something ultimately greater. Currently, I am reading, The Shack. This book addresses exactly that. “Who wants to worship a God who can be fully comprehended, eh? Not much mystery in that. There are millions of reasons to allow pain and hurt and suffering rather than to eradicate them, but most of these reasons can only be understood within each person’s story. I am not evil. You are the ones who embrace fear and pain and power and rights so readily in your relationships. But your choices are not stronger than my purposes, and I will use every choice you make for the ultimate good and the most loving outcome. Mack, if anything matters than everything matters. Because you are important, everything you do is important. Every time you forgive, the universe changes; every time you reach out and touch a heart or a life, the world changes; with every kindness and service, seen or unseen, my purposes are accomplished and nothing will ever be the same again”
I recollect Scott B inquiring if I think Matt is still near, or if I think he still implicated within our lives. Absolutely, I replied. He’s not gone. During one of my marathons last December, I heard his voice from behind cheering me on just as I was about ready to slow my pace. I felt a slight sensation as if someone had placed their hand upon my back and was gently helping me on my way with a slight shove forward. I know it was Matt. Its experiences like that that let me know his soul is still lively. When I was going through a tough time coping with the remnants of divorce, I came across Matthew chapter five while reading my bible. Matthew chapter five is one of two passages of scripture which comprise the beatitudes. (Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth, etc…) Matthew 5:8-12 found me wanting. How it reminded me of my brother. And it addressed me exactly were I was standing. "You're blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.” I cling tight to this truth. So much so, that I recently had Matthew five tattooed on my wrist. A constant reminder of this divine scripture and my dear brother, and well, I just happen to like scripted tattoos as well...
“When Matt’s life ended, the world stopped, but my life had finally begun.” Because of Matt’s death, I was able to gain perspective. I see this life in such a different light than how I use to. So temporary it is. When you grasp an inkling of the idea that you could be on this earth ultimately a measly one hundred years, and then eternity begins, your worldview just might change. I realize now, there is nothing to fear. Not even fear! Great freedom comes when you acknowledge this truth and embrace people and life itself. “My life seems like it has been so long and so short at the same time. People speak of a will to live. They rarely speak of a will to die. Because people are afraid of death. Death is dark and unknown and frightening. But not for me. It is not the end." -- Garth Stein
This somewhat unpleasant story is not written with the intent to make you disconsolate or to make you feel uncomfortable. And indeed, looking for sympathy I am not. But because possibly, if you have ever experienced a deep loss or heaven forbid encounter something comparable forthcoming, hopefully this will help make some sense of it. So… I have this sixth sense. Unfortunately, I do not see dead people. I kind of wish that’s what it was, because I think that would be really cool. But I do however; have an inexplicable ability to tap into premonitions. Renderings, intuitions, gut feelings, omens, whatever you may call them. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I can never escape these hunches that periodically rest upon this soul. In due time I learned to stop trying to depress this ability, and instead I embrace it. I can confidently tell you that I felt as if God was preparing me for this loss for a long time. Matt passed in October of 2005, and it was in the fall of 2004 I began to feel as if I might encounter a great sadness within my family. For whatever reason I sensed that my family was going to experience some tragedy or crisis involving one of my brothers. As strange and morbid as that sounds it was one of my unexplainable premonitions. So, if that was what was to come, I began to pray for peace, guidance, and understanding. I believe I was able to handle Matt’s death with much more constancy seeing that my heart was prepared for such a befalling.
On this particular day I have a lingering sense of impending doom that I just can not shake. Late in the afternoon I receive a phone call from Scott W (my ex) while at my office. A police officer just left the house. He was asking me about your brother Matt. He asked if I had seen him or talked to him lately and then if I knew about him having any involvement with drugs? The first thought to drift thru my mind is, oh Matthew, what have you gotten into this time? You see, my family had already gone thru many years of drug and alcohol addictions, arrests, mental illness, and glaciers of rebellious behavior with Matt. So regrettably, I make the assumption he is up to no good. I hang up with Scott W and call my dad at his office. I explain to him what Scott W had told me about the cop dropping by. I should inform you that we had not been able to get a hold of Matt by phone for several days. We planned a birthday dinner for him and my brother Scott B the week prior, but he did not show. No one thought too much of it at first because this was normal behavior for Matt. He regularly just appeared and disappeared as he felt. Within an hour I receive a phone call back from my dad. He too had been visited by the police at his work. I quickly begin to understand that this might be something greater than I initially suspected. Police officers don’t just spend all day joyriding through the city, visiting family members individually trying to track someone down for delight.
I unsuccessfully shake the feeling of worry, finish up with work, and head to a dance rehearsal. Scott W and I make plans for a late dinner out. I pull up to the house and leave the car running. I figure I would just run in and grab Scott W, but he meets me outside at the door. Immediately I become aware of the police car parked on the street. The look on his face is hesitant. There is a police man inside with Kyle (a pastor from our church) and your parents. “They found a body, and they think it might be your brother’s.” These words haunt me. I knew this. I knew this moment was coming. I immediately go into caretaker mode. Has anyone told Scott B (my oldest brother)? No? I have to tell him. I dial my brother. I tell him. What? He manages to mumble. Just come over, I tell him. We walk inside. The room is surprisingly calm, but very serious. The facts. A body has been found in a Juarez, Mexico. The description matches Matt’s but his identity can not be confirmed at this time. The detective conveys to my parents they are 98% sure it is him. As to not leave much interval for false hope. Sleep was not an option on this night.
The media was quick to snatch a hold of the story. I don’t suppose I will ever be able to forget the image of my brother’s body rested in a body bag on a stretcher flashing on the screen as it is permanently etched into my minds eye. Never imagined it could be painful to watch an episode of CSI, but as of late, I hate shows like that. The next day we get confirmation that the body found was Matthew’s. As we thought things couldn’t possibly be any more unsettling, we are informed that the authorities in Juarez will not release the body to us unless we travel to Mexico to fly him back ourselves. After much negotiation and havoc between borders they agree to release Matt. Once the nightmare of fighting to have him back home for a funeral was over, there was the incessant flow of visitors to the house, funeral arrangements, condolences, etc. I go numb. I go into autopilot. You dress because you have to wear clothes. You eat because there’s food, everywhere from all of the visitors. I think I washed my hair like once that week… I listen to mom cry herself into a restless sleep every evening.
After the initial chaos of that first week slowed, we learned a bit more of the particulars. Matt had packed up everything he owned into his truck and took off. Apparently spent some time in El Paso and then Juarez. His truck along with all of his belongings never surfaced. Autopsy results confirmed the cause of death was from contusions to the thoracic area. Among the bruising he suffered a black eye, and multiple broken bones and cuts. There was also the presence of drugs in his system. We can only assume that he was involved in a fight, or was hit by a car that threw him over into the ravine. Either way, someone left him for dead. This should enrage me. But oddly, it doesn’t. I know my God is just. Revenge is not mine to seek. If foul play was implicated, then I pray for the souls involved with the death of my brother. I desire that they too might one day know the God that I cherish, that forgives, and we should meet in eternity one day.
It’s wonderful the way someone’s life can unfold long after they are gone. For many individuals’ popularity or greatness, pursues them in death more so than in life. This was the case with my brother. One of my favorite movies, Big Fish quotes, “That was my father's final joke, I guess. A man tells his stories so many times that he becomes the stories. They live on after him. And in that way he becomes immortal. “My brother has been made immortal by the stories of his friends and family. And by the fingerprints he left behind on hearts. My spirit is warmed by these stories, which are brought forth from others. I have come to find that he had intense impact on many. His life’s purposes fulfilled, thru the people he influenced, unknown to him I am sure. I now can see how something extraordinary can emerge from tragedy. How God can use transgression for purpose and something ultimately greater. Currently, I am reading, The Shack. This book addresses exactly that. “Who wants to worship a God who can be fully comprehended, eh? Not much mystery in that. There are millions of reasons to allow pain and hurt and suffering rather than to eradicate them, but most of these reasons can only be understood within each person’s story. I am not evil. You are the ones who embrace fear and pain and power and rights so readily in your relationships. But your choices are not stronger than my purposes, and I will use every choice you make for the ultimate good and the most loving outcome. Mack, if anything matters than everything matters. Because you are important, everything you do is important. Every time you forgive, the universe changes; every time you reach out and touch a heart or a life, the world changes; with every kindness and service, seen or unseen, my purposes are accomplished and nothing will ever be the same again”
I recollect Scott B inquiring if I think Matt is still near, or if I think he still implicated within our lives. Absolutely, I replied. He’s not gone. During one of my marathons last December, I heard his voice from behind cheering me on just as I was about ready to slow my pace. I felt a slight sensation as if someone had placed their hand upon my back and was gently helping me on my way with a slight shove forward. I know it was Matt. Its experiences like that that let me know his soul is still lively. When I was going through a tough time coping with the remnants of divorce, I came across Matthew chapter five while reading my bible. Matthew chapter five is one of two passages of scripture which comprise the beatitudes. (Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth, etc…) Matthew 5:8-12 found me wanting. How it reminded me of my brother. And it addressed me exactly were I was standing. "You're blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.” I cling tight to this truth. So much so, that I recently had Matthew five tattooed on my wrist. A constant reminder of this divine scripture and my dear brother, and well, I just happen to like scripted tattoos as well...
“When Matt’s life ended, the world stopped, but my life had finally begun.” Because of Matt’s death, I was able to gain perspective. I see this life in such a different light than how I use to. So temporary it is. When you grasp an inkling of the idea that you could be on this earth ultimately a measly one hundred years, and then eternity begins, your worldview just might change. I realize now, there is nothing to fear. Not even fear! Great freedom comes when you acknowledge this truth and embrace people and life itself. “My life seems like it has been so long and so short at the same time. People speak of a will to live. They rarely speak of a will to die. Because people are afraid of death. Death is dark and unknown and frightening. But not for me. It is not the end." -- Garth Stein
untitled.
I have put off writing this account for quiet some time. Until encountering something that brought my procrastination to a halt. I’ve been unsure of how to attack this one. Those things which I put off in writing, tend to be the most difficult to devise but end up as the best renderings. We’re going to go two rounds with this piece seeing that, it was just too overwhelming and exposing to compile into one whole. And I am well aware that I have yet to post parts three and four of “It Takes Time to Extract Joy from Life.” Don’t worry, their in the works!
The setting is anachronistic. My late brother, Matt, is seated at a cast iron patio table of sorts. Two steaming mugs of coffee sit atop the table. I approach without hesitation and sit. We smile at one another. And he begins to speak. It was as if nothing had ever changed. As if no time had lapsed. We express how much we have missed one another. Small talk. Sip coffee. I think we even smoked a couple of cigarettes. Then he says to me, you need to write about me. You need to tell my story. But I don’t what to write about that! That’s greatly involved and much too difficult! Penny, you have to. It has nothing to do with you, or me. People should hear my story. I waver to agree because I fear that my words can only meagerly mirror his life story. Reluctantly I assured him I would do my best to convey what I know, and then I woke up.
Oh there you are brother! I affirm to myself with a bend at the knee as I tilt my head to the side to catch a glimpse of the Matthew I know. There was to be a closed casket at the funeral seeing that he had been so badly beat, he was hardly recognizable. The immediate family was gathered for an intimate one time only viewing. Which might I say, a fan of this I am not. So archaic the practices of death. Side note: Cremation please, for penny. No one needs to view my gradually decaying corpse. My God, how I will miss that corky smile, sly cut of the eye, and those beautiful hands. Gifted hands. Matt was a musician. I loved to watch the way his hands moved as he formed chords with his fingers and strummed the guitars strings. I would even catch myself studying the movement of his hands in the simplest of daily activities, in the dialing of a number, in the creation of a sandwich, or as he signed his name on a receipt. There is something so much more graceful in the movements of an artist than the rest of us whom find ourselves gifted in other areas.
Growing up with Matthew Reginald Baker was quiet the adventure. Never really knew when I might be struggling to separate him from a fist fight, joining him in the out running of a hive of bees, or accompanying him in the basement paper ball war on Barbie terror. Explaining to my friends why he threw their bike into the ditch or explaining to the neighbors why their prize sun flower that they were growing for over a year was taken down by that of a baseball bat was always fun. Somewhere along the way, I think I embraced the logic, if you can’t beat em, join em. And so I did! After all, Matt was the only one who would let me sleep in his room when I had awakened from bad nightmares, or who would join me in festivities such as heating bubble gum and bologna in the microwave, just to see what might happen... Scott is the oldest, and then there was Matt, then me. Two years of age between the each of us. Impeccable planning parental units! My dad would… From baseball card collecting, trips to the local creamery, and ample amounts of Nintendo and neighborhood biking time, my brothers and I had somewhat of a post card picture perfect childhood. Some of my fondest Matthew memories include, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles club, that’s right, we had a club. And uncontrollably laughing while watching cartoons, especially Tom and Jerry and Cow and Chicken…um, while at home on break…from college.
His soul was passionate, yet gentle. He was gifted for seeing past someone’s exterior, and into their heart. The most non-judgmental individual I have ever encountered in my life. I always admired him for that. He knew no stranger and befriended the outcasts or those the world has deemed as “undesirable.” Matt was a collector; of movies, music, rocks, cards, fish, looks, you name it; he probably had a collection of it at some time. He was hypersensitive to the spiritual realm. He loved the Lord. Never knew what day it was or what time it was, but never cared that he didn’t know. Showed extreme talent in the arts. And always somewhat socially retarded…God love him. Addiction was Matt’s greatest adversary. Drugs and alcohol were his opponents. Causing much torment in the latter part of his life, from his teens until his last day here he battled within. Some might assume that these obstacles claimed victory over him. I see it much differently than that. Sometimes our greatest adversaries, failures, tragedies, are only tiny fractals in a much, much larger pattern or scheme than we cannot even begin to identify or comprehend. For right now anyway.
More to follow, very soon…
The setting is anachronistic. My late brother, Matt, is seated at a cast iron patio table of sorts. Two steaming mugs of coffee sit atop the table. I approach without hesitation and sit. We smile at one another. And he begins to speak. It was as if nothing had ever changed. As if no time had lapsed. We express how much we have missed one another. Small talk. Sip coffee. I think we even smoked a couple of cigarettes. Then he says to me, you need to write about me. You need to tell my story. But I don’t what to write about that! That’s greatly involved and much too difficult! Penny, you have to. It has nothing to do with you, or me. People should hear my story. I waver to agree because I fear that my words can only meagerly mirror his life story. Reluctantly I assured him I would do my best to convey what I know, and then I woke up.
Oh there you are brother! I affirm to myself with a bend at the knee as I tilt my head to the side to catch a glimpse of the Matthew I know. There was to be a closed casket at the funeral seeing that he had been so badly beat, he was hardly recognizable. The immediate family was gathered for an intimate one time only viewing. Which might I say, a fan of this I am not. So archaic the practices of death. Side note: Cremation please, for penny. No one needs to view my gradually decaying corpse. My God, how I will miss that corky smile, sly cut of the eye, and those beautiful hands. Gifted hands. Matt was a musician. I loved to watch the way his hands moved as he formed chords with his fingers and strummed the guitars strings. I would even catch myself studying the movement of his hands in the simplest of daily activities, in the dialing of a number, in the creation of a sandwich, or as he signed his name on a receipt. There is something so much more graceful in the movements of an artist than the rest of us whom find ourselves gifted in other areas.
Growing up with Matthew Reginald Baker was quiet the adventure. Never really knew when I might be struggling to separate him from a fist fight, joining him in the out running of a hive of bees, or accompanying him in the basement paper ball war on Barbie terror. Explaining to my friends why he threw their bike into the ditch or explaining to the neighbors why their prize sun flower that they were growing for over a year was taken down by that of a baseball bat was always fun. Somewhere along the way, I think I embraced the logic, if you can’t beat em, join em. And so I did! After all, Matt was the only one who would let me sleep in his room when I had awakened from bad nightmares, or who would join me in festivities such as heating bubble gum and bologna in the microwave, just to see what might happen... Scott is the oldest, and then there was Matt, then me. Two years of age between the each of us. Impeccable planning parental units! My dad would… From baseball card collecting, trips to the local creamery, and ample amounts of Nintendo and neighborhood biking time, my brothers and I had somewhat of a post card picture perfect childhood. Some of my fondest Matthew memories include, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles club, that’s right, we had a club. And uncontrollably laughing while watching cartoons, especially Tom and Jerry and Cow and Chicken…um, while at home on break…from college.
His soul was passionate, yet gentle. He was gifted for seeing past someone’s exterior, and into their heart. The most non-judgmental individual I have ever encountered in my life. I always admired him for that. He knew no stranger and befriended the outcasts or those the world has deemed as “undesirable.” Matt was a collector; of movies, music, rocks, cards, fish, looks, you name it; he probably had a collection of it at some time. He was hypersensitive to the spiritual realm. He loved the Lord. Never knew what day it was or what time it was, but never cared that he didn’t know. Showed extreme talent in the arts. And always somewhat socially retarded…God love him. Addiction was Matt’s greatest adversary. Drugs and alcohol were his opponents. Causing much torment in the latter part of his life, from his teens until his last day here he battled within. Some might assume that these obstacles claimed victory over him. I see it much differently than that. Sometimes our greatest adversaries, failures, tragedies, are only tiny fractals in a much, much larger pattern or scheme than we cannot even begin to identify or comprehend. For right now anyway.
More to follow, very soon…
let me tell you about today.
After snoozing my alarm six times, I managed to amputate myself from the bed and get ready, and have enough time to spare for a Starbucks run. My girl, Amy at Starbucks rings me up for the usual. I hand her my check card to pay, as per usual, but it doesn’t go thru. Amy tries a second time. Declined. Sigh. This is the third place I tried to use my card in the last two days and it did not work. Amy throws me a wink and tells me not to worry about it, she has me covered. A little embarrassed am I, but also happy seeing that my faithfulness to the Mecca of Starbucks has its rewards. Off to work with me. As I pull into the parking garage at the Fletch I roll down my window to swipe my card for entrance. I press the button to roll my window back up. It doesn’t move. It is stuck. All the way rolled down. Its thirty-eight degrees outside and raining. I mean, why wouldn’t it be? So I park. I lock my door as I exit, and then pause for a laugh. You know, locks on the doors really don’t do a damn thing when your window is open. Here’s to hoping no one steals the Pengmobil!
Tonya is out on vacation so I am to cover for her in her absence. I spend the morning running around like a three year old with a bad attitude. Sam and I make plans for lunch and I did not want a repeat of Starbucks, so I decide to give the bank a call to find out what the heck is going on with my card. They tell me that my card has been canceled, due to misuse. What does that even mean? They instruct me to go to my local branch to sort things out. So I cancel lunch plans and drive to bank instead, in my car, in the rain, with the window rolled down. I just decided to start waving at everyone who looked at me as if I was a fool. It was a bit comical. So I get to the bank and the gist of it is that, Penny got screwed. Someone hacked my account. Spent a lovely sum of nine-hundred dollars, and I am left with the mess. The bank will only remove over-draft charges for me. Thank you, Wells Fargo, for that which is very thoughtful of you. I am so glad I don’t have to pay a hundred and seventy-five dollars in fees and only the nine-hundred dollars that was stolen from me. I am especially pleased with the courteous call I received to tell me that my account was being closed. I may or may not be acting a little facetious… I suppose I could keep a closer account of my…account? Needless to say, I ended business with the Farg and I am open to any recommendations as to where to bank in the future. You know, when I actually have some money to put into a bank. Somewhere that will not drag me through bull shit would be ideal. I walk out with one hundred-fifty dollars to my name. Its ramen noodles and one-dollar menus for the duration of the next two weeks. I am soooo excited.
I decide I am hungry. At the present, I don’t care that it is going to make a dent into my measly fund. I resolve to drown my sorrows in Bueno. I order a combination burrito; add sour cream and chips and queso. Down to one hundred forty-four dollars. Awesome. I head back to work. I sit down to enjoy some much needed nourishment. All I have in my Bueno sack is a combination burrito, no sour cream, and no chips and queso. Shocking. I probably should have checked my order in the car before I drove off. Maybe I didn’t because I was being assaulted by Mother Nature thru my window. Other than all of that, it has been a rather glorious Friday! If anyone wants to hang out soon, I will be at home, watching every movie I own, eating mac and cheese. Come over at anytime. I will be there. Unless of course it is between the hours of 2a.m. and 4a.m. I will be selling my body for money on a dark street corner somewhere. Xoxo, Penny
Tonya is out on vacation so I am to cover for her in her absence. I spend the morning running around like a three year old with a bad attitude. Sam and I make plans for lunch and I did not want a repeat of Starbucks, so I decide to give the bank a call to find out what the heck is going on with my card. They tell me that my card has been canceled, due to misuse. What does that even mean? They instruct me to go to my local branch to sort things out. So I cancel lunch plans and drive to bank instead, in my car, in the rain, with the window rolled down. I just decided to start waving at everyone who looked at me as if I was a fool. It was a bit comical. So I get to the bank and the gist of it is that, Penny got screwed. Someone hacked my account. Spent a lovely sum of nine-hundred dollars, and I am left with the mess. The bank will only remove over-draft charges for me. Thank you, Wells Fargo, for that which is very thoughtful of you. I am so glad I don’t have to pay a hundred and seventy-five dollars in fees and only the nine-hundred dollars that was stolen from me. I am especially pleased with the courteous call I received to tell me that my account was being closed. I may or may not be acting a little facetious… I suppose I could keep a closer account of my…account? Needless to say, I ended business with the Farg and I am open to any recommendations as to where to bank in the future. You know, when I actually have some money to put into a bank. Somewhere that will not drag me through bull shit would be ideal. I walk out with one hundred-fifty dollars to my name. Its ramen noodles and one-dollar menus for the duration of the next two weeks. I am soooo excited.
I decide I am hungry. At the present, I don’t care that it is going to make a dent into my measly fund. I resolve to drown my sorrows in Bueno. I order a combination burrito; add sour cream and chips and queso. Down to one hundred forty-four dollars. Awesome. I head back to work. I sit down to enjoy some much needed nourishment. All I have in my Bueno sack is a combination burrito, no sour cream, and no chips and queso. Shocking. I probably should have checked my order in the car before I drove off. Maybe I didn’t because I was being assaulted by Mother Nature thru my window. Other than all of that, it has been a rather glorious Friday! If anyone wants to hang out soon, I will be at home, watching every movie I own, eating mac and cheese. Come over at anytime. I will be there. Unless of course it is between the hours of 2a.m. and 4a.m. I will be selling my body for money on a dark street corner somewhere. Xoxo, Penny
sixsixsix.
My daddy asked me to write a guest blog on his blogspot. Here it is. I am not a very good reporter, but I did my best to take note of the events as they happened. The older and wiser I get, like really, really wise, the more I am beginning to understand that much of the way that I am, is because of the parental units. Bakers do not believe in bad luck. However, we tend to often find ourselves invaded with a series of unfortunate events from time to time, or like, everyday. I have inherited this “curse” if you will. No big. Onward march.
Mom and and dad are coming for a visit. Exciting right? That’s questionable. The last two times they came to visit, someone bit the dust just as they arrived and they immediately had to turn around and go back home. So we all were excited yet somewhat apprehensive about trip attempt number three. Mom and dad would drive in late Thursday night. Doctors appointment for mom and play time on Friday. Pops and I would run the Cowtown Saturday, and we all would head to Odessa together for the remainder of the weekend. This was the plan. Nothing would derail with THE PLAN.
THURSDAY: Pam and Reggie depart roughly an hour behind schedule. Shortly after leaving they encounter near death experience when cut-off on the highway, by “one of those” drivers. Stop One. Popeye’s. Big Spring, Texas. Dinner time. Park next to suspicious couple and chihuahua in an old, junker Sudan. Odd. Moving on… Food is ordered. Call number order is 666. Hmm… They wait. They sit. No food. They wait. They sit. No food. Deondra, the extremely friendly Popeye’s employee (equivalent to Bon Qui Qui at King Burger…youtube it.)continues to call out that a two piece and a five piece meal are ready at the counter. Pam and Reggie ordered two, two-piece meals. As this order of food sits, and gets cold, I am told it was also molested by a rather hairy man in a dirty, cut off t-shirt as he leaned over the counter in reach of some condiment. Mmm… (The basketball scene from along came Polly should be running thru your mind at the present.) After Reggie decided to ask about order #666, she points to the food on the counter and says that is it. No, that is not what we ordered. And that food is a bit contaminated with belly hair. Deondra lovingly refills the order, wrong again, but who cares. Return to car, suspicious couple, chihuahua, crappy Sudan, all still there. Watching a movie? Strange. On the road again. Pam begins to get sick from Popeye’s. (I’m calling food poisoning, compliments of Deondra.) Reggie pulls over for Pam to puke. Stop two. Mc Donald’s. Eastland, Texas. All Reggie wants is a cup of coffee. We are nearing twelve a.m. here… no coffee for Reg at Mickey D’s. How about a shake then? No shake for you. We already cleaned the machine, don’t want to have to get out the ice cream, mix up cookies, and press a bunch of buttons…nope. Next door the drive-thru light of Starbucks glows brightly, with a promise of salvation. Pam and Reggie mosey over to the Starbucks. Oh wait, just kidding. They didn’t mean to leave that light on. Near the hour of one a.m., Pam and Reg pull up to the Cabochon, home of their beautiful, talented, angelic, witty, rich, really, really, really popular daughter.
FRIDAY: The rents decide to kick start their day with a delicious, hot breakfast from Road Trip gas station. Wait, what? Really mom and dad? You are in freaking Dallas and you get breakfast from a gas station? That’s right; a crusty chicken biscuit sandwich serves you right! Ha-ha. Doctors office. Pam gets shots in the knee. OUCH! Drive to Fort Worth for race packet pick up. Mayhem. Golly, I love race expos. Dinnertime. Reservations are pushed back an hour because Maggianos is just “really, really busy.” After a tasty, late, dinner Reggie goes to bed with much indigestion. Not so good on the eve of a race… not much sleep is happening. Then, at the hour of two a.m., the mystery calls start rolling in. Prank calls? Pocket calls? Whatever it was, someone wanted to talk to Reggie in the wee hours of the night. Nice. Pam has nightmares and wakes up screaming, twice. Don’t worry, Reggie is awake. He is talking to mystery caller on the phone. Indigestion continues, well into the morning.
SATURDAY: Race day begins with the toilet. Poor, poor Pops. No more late night carbo loading for you. Ha-ha. We depart for the race on schedule. We sit in traffic for thirty minutes…gun shot, race starts…we sit in traffic for twenty more minutes. Unfortunately we forgot our quilting needles. We totally could have gotten thru a good five or six quilt squares. Penny jumps out and begins run thirty minutes after gunshot. Alone. For miles. Reggie parks and begins race forty minutes after gunshot. Fantastic. Temperature: thirty-five degrees. Wind chill: somewhere around fifteen. It was quiet the physical/mental battle for sure, but the promise of pancakes at the finish line is always encouraging. That and, the fact that if I didn’t finish this race, I would have to give charity money back to people. And that would just be uncomfortable. Wait, what is this? Time to pack up and head for Odessa? The plan resided intact! I proudly let the parental units smell me all the way down I20 as we drove back to Odessa. I didn’t have time to shower… oops. Should have reserved more time for that in THE PLAN. Pam and Reggie are now at completion of Dallas trip number three, and although there were some slightly annoying, and somewhat odd undertakings, they had in fact stayed for the whole duration of the trip. Sweet, sweet success.
Now let’s make note of what was great about this mess we call “vacation.” Dad and I raised a substantial amount of money for charities in our race, and we also ran it in honor of our loved ones now gone. Matt, Elaine, and Jason. It was also Pop and I’s first race together and we both had rock star times. Oh and how could I forget Masen was able to save San Francisco from a terrorist attack! This was a very memorable insert from dinner at Maggianos with my dear friend Masen whom is a nurse in the ER. Apparently that afternoon, some dude strolled in with a knife protruding from his neck, and he was claiming that he had to kill himself, because his brain was programmed to detonate a bomb in San Francisco. Thousands would die if he did not kill himself before the bomb was activated. I am soooo glad Masen was there to intercept. San Francisco is in grave debt. and I’m just gonna put it out there and say, if you ever receive the call #666 for anything, just put the number down, and walk away… Some misfortunate mishaps, yes, but all in all, a great weekend. Baker style.
Mom and and dad are coming for a visit. Exciting right? That’s questionable. The last two times they came to visit, someone bit the dust just as they arrived and they immediately had to turn around and go back home. So we all were excited yet somewhat apprehensive about trip attempt number three. Mom and dad would drive in late Thursday night. Doctors appointment for mom and play time on Friday. Pops and I would run the Cowtown Saturday, and we all would head to Odessa together for the remainder of the weekend. This was the plan. Nothing would derail with THE PLAN.
THURSDAY: Pam and Reggie depart roughly an hour behind schedule. Shortly after leaving they encounter near death experience when cut-off on the highway, by “one of those” drivers. Stop One. Popeye’s. Big Spring, Texas. Dinner time. Park next to suspicious couple and chihuahua in an old, junker Sudan. Odd. Moving on… Food is ordered. Call number order is 666. Hmm… They wait. They sit. No food. They wait. They sit. No food. Deondra, the extremely friendly Popeye’s employee (equivalent to Bon Qui Qui at King Burger…youtube it.)continues to call out that a two piece and a five piece meal are ready at the counter. Pam and Reggie ordered two, two-piece meals. As this order of food sits, and gets cold, I am told it was also molested by a rather hairy man in a dirty, cut off t-shirt as he leaned over the counter in reach of some condiment. Mmm… (The basketball scene from along came Polly should be running thru your mind at the present.) After Reggie decided to ask about order #666, she points to the food on the counter and says that is it. No, that is not what we ordered. And that food is a bit contaminated with belly hair. Deondra lovingly refills the order, wrong again, but who cares. Return to car, suspicious couple, chihuahua, crappy Sudan, all still there. Watching a movie? Strange. On the road again. Pam begins to get sick from Popeye’s. (I’m calling food poisoning, compliments of Deondra.) Reggie pulls over for Pam to puke. Stop two. Mc Donald’s. Eastland, Texas. All Reggie wants is a cup of coffee. We are nearing twelve a.m. here… no coffee for Reg at Mickey D’s. How about a shake then? No shake for you. We already cleaned the machine, don’t want to have to get out the ice cream, mix up cookies, and press a bunch of buttons…nope. Next door the drive-thru light of Starbucks glows brightly, with a promise of salvation. Pam and Reggie mosey over to the Starbucks. Oh wait, just kidding. They didn’t mean to leave that light on. Near the hour of one a.m., Pam and Reg pull up to the Cabochon, home of their beautiful, talented, angelic, witty, rich, really, really, really popular daughter.
FRIDAY: The rents decide to kick start their day with a delicious, hot breakfast from Road Trip gas station. Wait, what? Really mom and dad? You are in freaking Dallas and you get breakfast from a gas station? That’s right; a crusty chicken biscuit sandwich serves you right! Ha-ha. Doctors office. Pam gets shots in the knee. OUCH! Drive to Fort Worth for race packet pick up. Mayhem. Golly, I love race expos. Dinnertime. Reservations are pushed back an hour because Maggianos is just “really, really busy.” After a tasty, late, dinner Reggie goes to bed with much indigestion. Not so good on the eve of a race… not much sleep is happening. Then, at the hour of two a.m., the mystery calls start rolling in. Prank calls? Pocket calls? Whatever it was, someone wanted to talk to Reggie in the wee hours of the night. Nice. Pam has nightmares and wakes up screaming, twice. Don’t worry, Reggie is awake. He is talking to mystery caller on the phone. Indigestion continues, well into the morning.
SATURDAY: Race day begins with the toilet. Poor, poor Pops. No more late night carbo loading for you. Ha-ha. We depart for the race on schedule. We sit in traffic for thirty minutes…gun shot, race starts…we sit in traffic for twenty more minutes. Unfortunately we forgot our quilting needles. We totally could have gotten thru a good five or six quilt squares. Penny jumps out and begins run thirty minutes after gunshot. Alone. For miles. Reggie parks and begins race forty minutes after gunshot. Fantastic. Temperature: thirty-five degrees. Wind chill: somewhere around fifteen. It was quiet the physical/mental battle for sure, but the promise of pancakes at the finish line is always encouraging. That and, the fact that if I didn’t finish this race, I would have to give charity money back to people. And that would just be uncomfortable. Wait, what is this? Time to pack up and head for Odessa? The plan resided intact! I proudly let the parental units smell me all the way down I20 as we drove back to Odessa. I didn’t have time to shower… oops. Should have reserved more time for that in THE PLAN. Pam and Reggie are now at completion of Dallas trip number three, and although there were some slightly annoying, and somewhat odd undertakings, they had in fact stayed for the whole duration of the trip. Sweet, sweet success.
Now let’s make note of what was great about this mess we call “vacation.” Dad and I raised a substantial amount of money for charities in our race, and we also ran it in honor of our loved ones now gone. Matt, Elaine, and Jason. It was also Pop and I’s first race together and we both had rock star times. Oh and how could I forget Masen was able to save San Francisco from a terrorist attack! This was a very memorable insert from dinner at Maggianos with my dear friend Masen whom is a nurse in the ER. Apparently that afternoon, some dude strolled in with a knife protruding from his neck, and he was claiming that he had to kill himself, because his brain was programmed to detonate a bomb in San Francisco. Thousands would die if he did not kill himself before the bomb was activated. I am soooo glad Masen was there to intercept. San Francisco is in grave debt. and I’m just gonna put it out there and say, if you ever receive the call #666 for anything, just put the number down, and walk away… Some misfortunate mishaps, yes, but all in all, a great weekend. Baker style.
running shoes.
Why do companies that supply running shoes insist upon manufacturing female running shoes in the most ridiculous colors possible? I am well aware of the fact that you can create your own shoes on nike.com, but what if you don’t wear Nikes? Why is it that because I am a female I am forced to wear pink, teal, purple or baby blue on my feet every time I go for a run? Boo I say.
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