Category: where I come from

I’ve got concerns.

First, read this brief article from the ABQjournal:

(edited for length)

“Someone stole a Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Department patrol car early Wednesday and apparently took it for a joy ride.

But the fun may not have stopped there for the bandit who took the patrol car from a county storage yard. Police are looking into the possibility the thief impersonated a sheriff’s deputy while using the stolen car to make traffic stops— while drunk.

The New Mexico State Police— which has taken over the investigation— is looking into a report the driver then used the car to make at least one traffic stop in Chimayó. A woman called State Police and told them that a man in a sheriff’s vehicle had stopped her and that he also seemed drunk.”

Ok so…questions and observations:

1) What size cajones does it take to steal a Sherffi’s car from the county lot? Or maybe not cajones, perhaps this is better measured in liters, or pints or….whatever measurement Mad Dog comes in.

2) Who hasn’t had, if even for a brief moment, the odd dream of making a stop in a patrol car. Blue and whites flashing. Sauntering up to the driver’s window, double knit beige polyester pants whiffing as you walk, mirrored aviator glasses in place. You utter something like, “Do you know how fast you were going?”

Someone was actually drunk enough to pull it off…and get away with it (so far).

3) How freaked out must the woman have been when she was stopped? WTF must THAT encounter have been like?

4) “(Santa Fe County sheriff’s Capt. Robert) Riggs said that in his 20 years as a cop, he hasn’t seen anything like this before.” You gotta work REAL hard to show a cop something he hasn’t seen before. Even in Santa Fe.

5) Is it wrong that I’m rooting, just a little, for the guy to not get caught? I know, I know, just because a crime is dadgum funny doesn’t make it any less a crime.

6) Once again, I’m ever so proud of where I come from. Go on Oh Fair New Mexico. Most other states take themselves WAY too seriously. We’ve still got the comedic edge. And that makes us special.

(Yes, yes, theft and drunken driving aren’t funny. But ya gotta admit, this guy had some flair.)

Just missing the ways of where I come from, for better and for worse.

Good news is I get to visit pretty soon.

Countin’ the days…

Memories, dancing demons and lost fragments of thoughts

There’s a lot going on in my head. None of it related to work. But here I sit at my pressed wood cubicle shelf desk-like device absorbing EMF’s from my monitor…and pondering.

If I tip my head up a bit, I can look over the top of my monitor and see the actual outside.

Here it is:

That photo doesn’t tell the tale. There is an oppressive haze hanging over tree tops.

I say haze, it’s really smoke. The heavy winds have brought a taste of the fires up this way.

Taste, as in literally. If you go outside your eyes and nose sting and you get that campfire flavor in the back of your throat.

It was weird, when I arrived at work this morning, I opened my car door and took in the first inhale of this dirty air, you know what it reminded me of?

New Mexico.

Yeah. Odd huh? But for the people who live(d) there, you’ll be able to relate.

You know how when the first cold of fall sets in and people start using their fireplaces and wood burning stoves? The smell of burning cedar and piñon is distinctive. You can taste it. The cold crisp to the air and that smell permeates.

So odd, that the smell of burning forest made me homesick.

I’m reading “Curse of the Chupacabra” by Rudolfo Anaya right now. Last night as I was reading, the main character was back home in Santa Fe and talking about being outside and smelling that distinct wood smoke.

Must have been in my brain then, this morning.

Me and Rudolofo, same page today.

That’s the magic of a really good author. You and he are there together, touching across space and time in that moment you read the words. You find a common ground. Anaya is one of my favorite authors, so that synchronicity is cool.

Inspired by something really tough, a raging fire.

Memorial Weekend lies ahead. Memories. I know this weekend is about remembering military veterans, and I do.

Maybe it’s also about airing out old memories of all sorts. Spring cleaning for the closets of the soul.

Been thinking a lot about old things. Old hurts. Old scars.

The woo-woo minded among us would suggest that this is due to Mercury going retrograde on Monday.

I’d say it’s because I’m the kind of girl who likes to shake up her thoughts like specks in a snow globe just to see where they land.

The Good Man said I might be entering the water hazard known as “middle life crisis”.

Whatever.

Either way, I’m thoughtful.

Ah well, off to a holiday weekend. Three days off sounds like a little slice of heaven to me today.

To all, Happy Memorial Day. Enjoy the weekend, be safe and remember those you love!

Oh, you knew it was gonna happen

Wednesday’s ABQjournal has a story that was, in my opinion, inevitable.

Suspects Held In Diesel, Gas Theft

Yup. Gas prices are so crazy. Recession is on. People have taken to stealing gas.

Are you surprised? Didn’t think so.

“Mark Hogan would park his box trailer over gas stations’ underground tanks, open a secret compartment and pump thousands of gallons of gas out of the ground.

Police say he then sold the fuel for $1.75 a gallon for unleaded and $2.50 for diesel.”

Hoo, a good deal!! Bet it sells like hotcakes, too.

Dude sold it mostly to his friends and used the money to fuel his meth habit.

Nice.

“The New Mexico Petroleum Marketers Association reported that 500,000 gallons of gas and diesel had been stolen from about 30 (Albuquerque) metro stations this year.”

And at $4 a gallon….I’m sure the $2M out of the coffers is but a blip on the petroleum screen…but I’m sure I know who will pay for this.

If you listen closely you can hear my wallet scream.

Remember back in the 70’s when people used to “pump and run”? That in response to gas shortages and high prices.

Oh well, these days you have to slide a card to get the pump to work anyway, so this is just the next “workaround”.

*sigh*

You, sir…

…are no tortilla soup.

Look at this! Just look at this abomination!

This is what the cafeteria at work calls “tortilla soup”!

I. Don’t. Think. So.

Where’s the green chile? Where’s the tender pieces of potato? Where’s the juicy chunks of chicken?

This is an insult to a good girl from New Mexico.

However, this is what I’m having for lunch. The other soup choice was “vegan minestrone”, which, normally, I’m quite happy with.

Until I ladled it up. It was a sickly, pale looking soup. Not only has my cafeteria insulted Hispanics everywhere, they’ve also done a job on the Italians.

It’s not ok

It took only a brief Google search to net a photo of the deliciousness that is REAL tortilla soup.

Somewhere in the world, someone is having a piping bowl of this…and that knowledge will get me through this day…

Old habits die hard.

Today as I meandered my way over to the shuttle bus to take me to the train, I picked my way through the parking lot at work. “Picked my way” because there is heavy construction going on at the building next door to mine.

Sitting there, by itself, in the lot, was an empty wooden wire spool. You know the type. Found at most construction areas.

Wanna know my first thought? “Man, should I take that?”

You know, it’s been some fifteen years since I graduated college. While I personally never had a wooden spool table, many friends did. I dated a few guys who did. I think the wooden spool furniture sensation is mainly a guy thing. Along with bookshelves made of cinder blocks and plywood.

It’s the same feeling I get when I see empty milk crates. I used many a purloined milk crate in my collegiate career. Good bookshelves, storage devices, and even a bedside table.

I think I still have some of those indestructible blue plastic things in my basement (all apologies to Price’s Dairy from, you know, fifteen years ago. What is the statute of limitations on absconding with a milk crate?).

Oh, is also happens when I see wooden pallets. Back then they were made from a pretty dense wood and if, say, a friend filled up the back of his pickup with a bunch of stolen pallets, piled them up by the river, poured diesel fuel on them and lit a match, you’d not only have a nice roaring fire, you’d have a long lasting warm, bright fire by which to socialize with friends.

For some reason, this old scrounging habit dies hard. The “making it work” when you have no money, and what little you do have must be saved to buy beer phenomenon still lives deep within me on a cellular level.

Despite the fact that I have a real job now and can buy beer, you know, pretty much whenever, I still have that moment of “I could take that…” and think about how it could be made useful.

I seriously considered how to get that spool out of there.

Then remembered a) I don’t need a table. I have one. A nice one. And 2) even if I didn’t have one, I could go to Ikea and buy a nice one. I don’t have to settle for a splintery wood spool.

So I’m still a scrounger from way back. But I refuse to eat Ramen noodles anymore.

Some habits you just gotta leave behind.