...And Then I Met TT.

If y’all know me or pay attention at all, you know there is one thing in my life that I am absolutely passionate about...and it’s my job.

Leaving the advertising/design/bullshit job that I’d wasted away at for 10 years of my life was the biggest, scariest decision that I’d ever made. It takes special people with special hearts to do what we do here; some people can do it and some just can’t. To be quite honest, I wasn’t real sure that I could do it, not even a little bit sure. But I took that leap of faith, made the decision, and walked myself in the front doors determined to at least give it a good effort. My intentions were only to work here until my non-compete contract was up, and then go back into the field I’d been in since my junior year of high school.

...after my first shift, I went home and cried.

...after my second shift, I went home and cried some more.

After some encouragement from a lifelong friend who had actually helped get me the job here, I decided that I wouldn’t make any rash decisions until I’d given it a solid week.

...during that first week, I met the man who called himself "TT".  

...the second week, I was absolutely in love and knew that I’d never leave this place.

TT single-handedly changed my life for the better in more ways than I can possibly tell you. But I will tell you that my relationship with TT didn’t start out on the best of terms. Although he had aged and wasn’t quite the firecracker he’d been in his younger days...ol’ TT was still a handful.

...It was nothing to see me hauling ass off the suite with a gallon of milk, or a tub of butter, or a pitcher of red kool-Aid flying at my head.

...It was nothing to see me bobbin’ and weavin’ to avoid getting hit with a cup of hot coffee in the kitchen, or a soiled brief in the bathroom.

...It was nothing to see me trying to rationalize with him when his mind was made up on something that I couldn’t allow, to see him shaking me by my arms and throwing a tantrum because he was mad at me when he couldn’t get his way.

...or to see me trying to convince him with a straight face that it was not appropriate to yell, “I SHIT!” in the middle of chapel services on Sunday, because as hilarious as it may have been, I couldn’t condone or encourage that behavior.   

I’ll never forget the day our relationship changed for the better. I’d been told time and time again to not underestimate him, to always keep my guard up, to never ever let him fully get a hold of me - those who knew him in his prime, well...they knew him well and knew what he was capable of. I always kept those warnings in the back of my mind and I did well for quite a while...but then the day came when I slipped, and I let that guard down. He suddenly snatched me up by my head...one hand on each side of my face, and started squeezing my poor brain. I knew at that point that I had messed up, that he had me - and my heart sank.

But TT, unpredictable as he was, pulled my head in close to his, kissed me on the forehead, and then he gently let me go. My heart, that was still at my feet, damn near exploded.

I always say that TT was the one that broke me in, and what I mean when I say that, is this:

...TT was the one that stole my heart first.

...TT gave me this passion.

...TT convinced me to stay here, humbled me, wrapped me around that little crooked finger.

...TT was the one that made me.

...they say you always fall for the bad ones, and that’s absolutely right.

After that, he very quickly became one of my best friends. He would do things for me, that he’d never do for others. We spent a solid 40 hours a week together for over a year, my whole first year here. With conversations full of “Yuh!” and “Get up!” and “Shut Up!” and “Ca-Ca!” and the best, that was the hardest to get out of him...was when I tucked him at night, laid on the edge of the bed beside him, and refused to get up until he told me “Na-Night!”

My favorite thing in the whole wide world quickly became his laugh. And I did every silly thing I could think of to make him belly laugh at least once a day. I would tickle him, I would grab and shake his funny little toes while he was in the bathtub and tell him how cute they were, pretend to fall off the couch and throw myself out in the floor as dramatic as possible...whatever it took to hear that laugh, I didn’t mind doing it.

For my whole first year, I sat beside him at dinner every evening, I gave him his bath every night, I tucked him into bed every night...and all the time in between, I loved him to the very best of my ability.

And yesterday y’all.... I lost TT.

A lot of us...we lost our TT.

I always knew that “big bo” had made me, and I always knew one day, that “big bo” would break me.

And it’s happened.

And on top of broken, I feel shitty.

I feel shitty because I didn’t make it to the hospital in time to say goodbye...but more-so because I never got to thank him for allowing me the opportunity to be his friend, for accepting me no matter what, for loving me unconditionally...for not breaking my neck the day I let my guard down.

...I didn’t get to thank him for changing me that day.

Today, I am sitting here riding a roller-coaster of my own emotions, surrounded by a hurricane of everyone else’s emotions...trying to keep it all the way together and be tough about it because that’s what I do.

...and it’s hard y’all. It’s real damn hard.

And I didn’t tell y’all this because I want sympathy from you, because I don’t. And really, I appreciate all the kind words but that’s not what I’m after either. I told y’all this because I want you to learn from my personal experience, that it really sucks when you wait too long and miss the opportunity to tell someone what they mean to you.

If there is someone out there that has made a difference in your life, someone you owe a thank you to, or just deserves a high-five of appreciation...dude, take care of that shit today. As a matter of fact, do it as soon as you possibly can - do it right now.

...because I promise you that missing the opportunity to do so, is something you’re gonna regret for the rest of your life.

-- rest easy, my buddha baby. you know who I love, bub. And I hope that right now, as I’m sitting here sad as hell, that you’re drinking a nice hot cup of damn good coffee out of a golden styrofoam cup...and I also hope that you are belly laughing at me for continuing to be a total train wreck in your absence.  

...did you just shit your pants?!

Okay, okay...don’t start bitchin’ about my lack of blog activity as of late - I am aware that I’ve been starving the chronicles for exactly a year and I know that I should do better. Sometimes, I just don’t feel like writing. Sometimes, I’m uninspired. Sometimes, I just don’t fuckin’ wanna. But my biggest issue is that I feel like something big has to happen for me to write about it; I realize that there are lots of small things that happen that are definitely good material and would make nice short stories to provide quality entertainment for you fuckers, but my big brain forgets that sometimes. I’m working on that. However, this story I’m about to tell you here, smdh....it’s a big one.

Starting with a little back story.

This summer, I’ve acquired myself a fishin’ buddy. He’s a pretty reliable fishin’ buddy too, as in he’s always down to catch some fishy-fishies. It could be cold outside or scorching hot, a sunny day or a rainy one, early in the day or late at night....it makes no difference. If there is time to spend by some water with a pole, that’s how he wants to spend it. And that works well for my Pisces life.

So two Sundays ago, me and said fishin’ buddy are chillen down by the river in our Walmart camping chairs, drinking on some cold beers, slinging livers and Texas jumbo shrimps around, simultaneously looking for Bigfoot. (You saw the picture of that river monster we snagged from the lock wall, right? Yeah, that was the day.) So as we sat there in the sunshine, draining what was left of my phone battery on some random tunes, we get on the subject of Journey. I said to him, common knowledge to most but not so much to him yet, “Randaddy HATES journey. He says Journey is what will be playing in hell when he gets there.” And my fishin’ buddy, being a music man, tells me that he likes the Journey from before yada-yada-something-something that I know nothing about happened...the details escape me and for that I apologize. The conversation then continues, “He hates Journey but he loves the Eagles, says the Eagles are his guilty pleasure.” My fishin’ buddy replies, “well hell, there’s an Eagles tribute band playing at the winery this Saturday, you should tell him about it. A few of us from work are going.” I say, as my phone battery takes a shit for the day, “You’ll have to remind me, the communicator is officially dead.” And so, we go on about our fishing adventure, and ultimately, tag-team that river monster that I mentioned a second ago. (But did you see it? Really?)

I think it’s like Tuesday before I remember to mention the event to Randaddy, and I think it’s like Thursday before I get a solid response. Because my parents are very much “on the fly” people, and I’m very much a “plan everything in advance” person...it gives me anxiety. 

Late Thursday, I see that the winery had posted on Facebook that the tickets were going fast and there were only about 30 left. In a panic, I check my bank account. I see that I’ve got the money to cover our tickets because my phone bill hadn’t auto paid itself yet, and I shoot my fishin’ buddy a message and tell him to hurry and get their tickets too. He asked me to get his with ours because he didn’t get paid until midnight, and I scurry on over to the website and secure 4 of the remaining 30 tickets. After midnight, all the tickets were sold, and I was glad that I saw the Facebook post before I fell asleep because that would have been a total bummer.

Fast forward to Saturday now, the day of the event, add in a fall weather bullshit chest cold and a few double shots of mucinex....I’m in the Navigator and on my way to pick up my fishin’ buddy who had been left stranded by an episode of bad luck the day before.

I allow myself plenty of time to pick him up and meet the parentals back at my house at 5:30 pm, I figured that I’d pass his house up at least 3 times before I found it because I’d only been there once and I’m certain that I was kicked back eating Queso Ruffles in the passenger side floorboard of his Ranger because my fishin’ buddy doesn’t believe in having a passenger seat...seriously, you can’t make this shit up. (It was pretty comfy tho, except for when the floorboard got hot and burned my ass cheeks....) Anyhow, I’m cruising down 202 smoking a Marlboro Ultra-Light (because my best friend ruined my non-smokin’ life...) and I get stuck behind a tractor pulling a silage wagon, and a big ass bad daddy brand new ford truck, less than a mile from my house.

Following behind tractors and shit is nothing new on 202; just a part of the country life that one must endure on the regular. You can’t even worry about it.

We get to the only place between my house and New Castle where it’s moderately safe to pass another vehicle, and the big ass bad daddy brand new ford truck goes around the tractor and the silage wagon. When he makes it around safely, I follow suit and direction.

So I’m cruising about 35-40 mph in the opposite lane, get right beside the silage wagon and the front wheel of that motherfucker broke off. And it didn’t just break off; it broke THE FUCK off.

Not a blowout, not a tire came off the wheel, not a donut sized tire, not even a car sized tire...A FLOTATION TIRE. AND A STEEL WHEEL. BROKE. THE FUCK OFF. THE SILAGE WAGON.

I hear the god awful sound of the hub hitting and gouging the road, I see the silage wagon jerk toward me, and then out of the corner of my eye I see said steel wheel & flotation tire as they come bouncing toward me ....and then slam into the front of the Navigator.

Talk about a holy shit moment. Actually, it was more of a Jesus take BOTH the wheels moment. A what the fuck just happened in my life moment. Oh, but it didn’t end there.

I didn’t even get a chance to breathe it out and recover before the whole ass end of the Navigator came up off the road. Waaaaay up off the road. At least three feet up off the road. Or however high you can imagine a vehicle would go if it ramped a fuckin’ FLOTATION TIRE at 40 mph.

So there I am, still on the wrong side of the road, just cruising on the front two wheels of a 6000 pound, aerodynamic as a fuckin’ brick Navigator that isn’t the most reliable of all vehicles by any means, and all I can think to myself is...my god, this big motherfucker is gonna land HARD.

So I brace for impact and get ready to be slung into the ditch, or thrown into the tractor, or into the mailbox or the light pole or the wooden fence or any number of obstacles in my close vicinity....still smoking on my Marlboro Ultra-Light, mind you...and my whole life flashes before my eyes - I prepare to meet my maker. 

I think about my puppies. I think about my Madre. I think about my incarcerated best friend who I’m never gonna see again. I think about how I’m about to miss the fuckin’ Eagles tribute band, and how fuckin’ stupid it is that the crow is about to be taken out by a fuckin’ FLOTATION TIRE. Of all things!

And as I prepare to close to my eyes, tighten up and take what the fuck I’ve got coming to me....that sketchy at best, unreliable, 6000 pound aerodynamic as a fuckin’ brick Navigator lands back on all four wheels just as graceful and elegant as a fuckin’ swan...not only did it stay on the road, it even stayed in the wrong lane...didn’t jar me, didn’t throw me, didn’t even fuckin’ knock the ashes off my Marlboro Ultra-Light.

And then I peed a little.

I pulled into the next driveway, because I’m thinking I’ve got tires about to deflate, the oil pan is probably behind me in the road with my life that just escaped me...probably got a busted radiator...I mean, the Navigator has GOT to be fucked up right now. Reflex makes me grab my phone and call Madre...because when you almost die, you always want your mom, right? But she didn’t answer! (She says she was in the shower, but I know it was because she was listening to that ring tone she has set for me, that’s a kid screamin’ for their mom to answer the phone. Pretty ironic if you ask me, but never-the-less, there was no answer.) So I put the phone down and got out to survey the damage...

But there wasn’t any.

The tires, all properly inflated. Oil pressure, still good. Engine temperature, still normal. Grille, busted but that was existing damage. No dents. Nothing hanging. Nothing dragging. But how does it drive?

I back out of the driveway and head back toward the farmer and the tractor and the silage wagon. AND THE FLOTATION TIRE. The Navigator drives fine! I stop, brakes work fine! The farmer, who’s name was Derrick, walks up to my window, seemingly more shaken than me, and says...

“Did you just shit your pants? Because I just shit my pants. Are you all okay?” And he looks in the back window of the Navigator into the back seat...

And I’m thinking, “All? It’s just me in here...what the hell is he talking about?” And then I look in the back seat.

And you already know my ride or die is back there, strapped in.

Yep, the outlaw...in all his glory.

The badass himself, Harry Allan Coe.

From the woods.

In his “Fuck Off, I’m Taken.” tank top.

And the bandana strapped to his head.

And his stunna shades on.

And his sheriff badge.

And his ‘royal guild of drunks” button.

Just posted up and along for the ride, like always. 

....And I secretly wonder if he had shit HIS pants.

Farmer Derrick shakes his head like he’d just hallucinated, but he didn't ask. He just said, “...you are one lucky son of a bitch.”

And I reply, “Oh my god, I know! If this had happened two days ago, I would have been in a PT Loser and I would have died.”

And he says, “Yeah, this big ass vehicle just saved your life...if you had been in a car, it would have been a completely different situation.”

So Farmer Derrick does a walk around the Navigator and lays down in the road and looks under it to see if anything is leaking or fucked up, gets back up and says... “There’s a scuff on the front bumper, but surprisingly, everything else looks good....” He gave me his number, told me to call him if I had any problems. And it was at this point that I used my shakey ass hand to finally put out that Marlboro Ultra-Light in the ash tray.

Farmer Derrick apologized very sincerely at the sight of me shaking uncontrollably, and I realized that even though he obviously traveled my road a lot with shitty equipment in tow....he really was a nice guy.

Afterwards, while I was back to gettin’ where I was gettin’ to, I couldn’t help but think about how Randaddy has always told me to go big, to drive big...so I could “slam into shit and limp away....” For once in my life, this was a lesson that I didn’t choose to learn the hard way.

13.5 miles per gallon for the fuckin’ win, y'all!

And in case you were wondering, watching the Eagles Tribute band and drinking wine a mile from my house with the parentals and my fishin' buddy, seeing the dancing man in Jesus sandals that had the “spirit moving his feet” and the “devil’s lubricant” moving the rest....it was all totally worth the wild ride it took to get me there.

...but here’s to not having anymore final destination bullshit happen for a good long while, the crow has NO more time allotted for shitting herself, or for heart arrhythmia.

#cheersfuckers

#freejdale