Nincompoop Nation

A local rib joint was invaded last night by the elite middle management of a well respected school district and it did not go quietly into that good night. C., bless his heart, bought out a party store of their entire stock of beads for us to celebrate “Looney Gras”. I was next to last to arrive and I heard them in the parking lot. I walked in and they all had so many beads on they looked liked they were wearing life jackets. They also had these hand clappers and I received a loud ovation, probably louder than if I had pulled my shirt up. The Nincompoops. You gotta love em. It is hard to believe that this psychedelic crew in business attire could be seen on any given day conducting interviews, facilitating trainings, and calming parents. But last night is when I love them best because I get to see that dichotomy. C. in his Hawaiin shirt, R. in his business suit, with his tie tucked in under the beads so as not to get rib sauce on it, C and S with their beautiful hair and smiles, R with her unforgettable laugh, and J who flew in at the last minute, sent back her appletini because it was the wrong color, and then regaled us with stories about the insanity of the Nincompoop Nation that spawned us all.

There is no way that many would believe the daily occurrences that happen. An abused wife would have similar stories to tell. After she gets a right hook to the jaw, he sends her flowers. So here’s how it usually goes. Someone gets a bug up their butt, or gets a phone call from one community member, and decides to make overreaching policy changes. In this instance, everyone is on red alert to check ID tags, even though there are tons of visitors every day that walk through the building and we have no idea who they are, but people who have worked there since the year of the flood, are stopped and asked for tags. Then, people are told they are not to take a break and leave their desks or they will be penalized. So, what do you think the next email says. “Join us for the Valentine contest.” They wanted staff to guess how many valentine candies are in the jar on the desk of, ironically, the ID enforcer. Like anyone wants to go near there. Like we can pretend it is such a fun place to work. And then they thank one of the Kool-Aid drinkers for suggesting this game idea. Wow. How on earth did she think of something that creative. Our counteroffer was guessing how many ID’s of the people who went in the “Poof Machine” would fit in that jar.

The “PM” is a device that is rumored to be housed in human resources and it’s where administrators go when they are no longer wanted. It’s very magical, because one day you see this hapless person at their desk, albeit twitching and sweating and staying late, and the next day, “Poof”. No one knows where they went and then their job is posted. The Poof Machine is so top secret that sometimes, no one can speak the employee’s name, as in the case of employee # 65487. We vaguely remember what he looked like, but they are hell bent on erasing him from the annals of “ever having worked here” and responding “who?” if anyone dares mention his name.
In any event, C. gets the writing credit for Nincompoops, and a large round of clapping clappers for her. Our next outing is the bowling alley, and already people are petulant about putting rented shoes on their feet. There will be some retail therapy going on before the end of March.

The Trim Package

I'm glad I have a snow plow but I hate starting the damn thing, which is why my driveway is yet unplowed after last night's blizzard. And I keep thinking about my ailing car in the garage. 180,000 miles on an Infiniti they no longer make and to which I am extremely loyal. But today, I cheated on it, in my heart and on the internet....someone said the magic word, "lease" and suddenly the smell of new car leather, the promise of being able to listen to my Ipod in the car, and the GPS in the dash, became intoxicating. I created a new folder of favorites and visited, just visited, Nissan, Mazda, Lexus, Toyota Prius, and then spiraled into greedy little sojourns to BMW, Lexus, Mercedes and Jag-U-ahr. My head is spinning and I am salivating to the point that should my car problem turn out to be a very fixable and inexpensive venture, I may still opt to go out and lease my new flame.

C. was sweet enough to offer her car for me to take to teach class this week, should I have NO wheels at all, and I love her for that...it took a lot of pressure off. Now all I have to do is get out of my driveway and to the dealer/hospital. I think I have troubles and then I hear that Dick Cheney shot someone....I'm surprised it took so long. Well, off to watch the Olympics where they don't seem to mind snow as much as I do.

If you want a happy ending, it depends on where you stop your story

Nice quote from Orson Welles. If you stopped my story 3 summers ago on the Outer Banks, where the bar was the entire kitchen island and the house was filled with inflatable palm trees and funny fish, and my very best extended family was there, the kind of friends and family with whom you can be your "authentic self" (whatever that is) . We shot pool, hot tubbed, had cocktails from a cooler jug at the beach in late afternoon, and had some of the best laughs -the kind where we doubled over with "stop it" pain. What is it about those times that you think nothing can ever break this bond, that there is nowhere else in the world you would want to be than with these people, all quirky and complicated and each essential to the chemistry of the group. That you all are invincible, so clever and powerful and always having each other's back.

And nothing any of us did broke the magic of that time. A tsunami called fate swept my sister away despite how superhumanly hard we held onto her. It's been a year since she left us and it is true we will never be the same. We get together when we can, and so much is unspoken. We still laugh and drink and try to remember her at her best, but there are only two of us who can actually talk about how much we miss her. Thank you, M. That is how we deal and the others deal their way and I thank them too for their comforts, which are many.

"And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic
which took a whole life to develop and market----
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage..."

John Updike, "Perfection Wasted"