The six days I spent in or getting to and from Utah are the six days the heavens opened over both Lubbock and Roswell and dumped enough rain to
relieve the drought help farmers flood any and all depressions, turn streets into rivers and rivers into, well, rivers and jump the gun on the big Memorial Day opening for all the area pools.
One of the many, many flood photos on social media this weekend was the Roswell cemetery. It was covered with water. There was concern that gravestones could have sunk. So Mom and I walked over this morning to see if Dad got a little wet.
Now, to preface the rest of this story, you should know that I have one phobia (besides failure, the dark, cockroaches, all of the beasts that live in Australia, ghosts, monsters, ice storms, getting stuck in a car whose radio is playing "Call Me Maybe" on endless repeat, going all day with my skirt tucked into my underwear with no one telling me, drowning, being the last person to find out big news, Voldemort, people thinking I'm stupid, waking up one day and liking baseball and one day being told by a doctor that I can't eat sugar anymore), and that phobia is dead people coming back to life.
Well, I now know how they're going to dig out of their graves. How does this horror movie start, you ask? It starts when a cemetery floods. I kid you not, my friends. Graves had sunk in more than a foot in some cases. We could see under the gravestones. I had to haul my mother away from a few sites in which my overactive imagination was seeing coffins. (You could not see coffins.) All these casket-shaped holes in the ground made it impossible to forget that there are dead people there. It was, for a chicken such as myself, a really terrifying yet oddly fascinating experience. It's also an argument for cremation.
Dad's grave was fine. He's always been pretty solid.
Turning donuts into dogs
I have mentioned before that I have a stunted sense of direction. What I haven't made sufficiently clear is that you should never follow me, ever. Nor should you ever take directions from me. It's just a bad idea. You'll end up in Canada when you were trying to go to the movies.
Dog bathing OR An allegory for repentance
When I picked up Pippi after she got spayed, the vet tech told me not to bathe her for two weeks, as long as her stitches were in. No problem. When she got the stitches out, the first thing the vet tech said to me was, "You can give her a bath now."
I think that was nice person code for, "Your dog stinks."
Today, before I left Roswell and the comfort of my mother's many years of dog washing, I gave Pippi a bath.
Unfortunately, because my mom was doing the pouring, she was unable to video the moment when, out of other options, I simply held Pippi on my lap like a baby while my mom just poured a bucket of water on both of us. It's unclear who was more wet by the end.
Voting for transients
I almost didn't get to vote today. I do not have a Texas driver's license. Texas' new voter ID law requires a picture ID issued by the state of Texas, a law which, based on my limited experience, is enforced exactly one-half of the time. This law was passed to prevent voter fraud. Now, with my Utah driver's license, I can open a credit card, get a loan, buy a house -- all processes in which fraud happens frequently and destructively. But Texas is not worried about that. No, Texas is moving forward, guns blazing, to prevent the very real non-problem of rogue voters coming from other states, registering to vote and unfairly affecting Texas elections.
By the way, if I was going to do that, wouldn't I be a plant from liberal New England or the environmentally friendly Pacific Northwest, not the only state more conservative than Texas?
Still here? I'll leave you with two thoughts from the weekend's California shooting: a father rejects sympathy and asks for change in the gun culture instead, and a man discusses men's roles in the #YesAllWomen movement. My favorite point in the second one -- women know all men aren't killers, rapists, creepers, harassers or feel like they're entitled to whatever they want. We just don't know, in the moment, into which camp the man in front of us falls.