You Can't Always Get What You Want -- The Rolling Stones

When I think back, there are so many cow stories I could tell you, but we'll just stick to this one, it has a moral.

When I was younger, about your age, I lived on a farm with my rents and brother and two sisters. One day, Dad came home with a new cow. He put him in a pen right by the pond, next to...hmmm...barn A. It was a Jersey I believe, and he'd eat anything you held out in your cupped hand--including M&Ms and the small amount of Dr. Pepper you could keep in your palm. We named him M&M. You could pet him. In fact, he seemed to like the attention. And the snacks we had to offer. Even if it was just his water, hay and feed he was friendly, and a pretty docile cow, really. Not like some mean-ass bulls we've had over the years.

Dinner time at our house meant, at the end of the day, we all sat down together at the kitchen table and talked. One particular evening someone remarked that M&M was gone and where was he?

"You know that delicious steak you had the other night? Well..." Those probably weren't his actual words, but I could ask him. I'm sure we'll talk.

I felt wretched. But the steak was good. I'd be haunted forever thinking I was eating a fucking cow that I knew. I hadn't had any qualms about eating it before I knew this important bit of information. I wondered how Dad felt, after all, he was the one feeding him every day. It didn't seem to bother him. It bothered us, though. It bothered me.

We discussed pigs as well. Bacon is a big hurdle for anyone who's trying to swear off eating meat. It was a topic that we discussed several times. Where did we think the meat we ate came from? The eggs, the butter, the yogurt, the cheese...the list goes on. 

My Mom grew up on a farm. They milked the cows, had chickens and fresh eggs...grew crops and tended the orchard. A farm.

Tell me, won't you?, how you feel about steak--and bacon.

P.S. Some jackass on the interwebs said that dairies (dairy workers) rape (Artificially Inseminate) the cows to get them to produce milk. I have never--ever--heard anything about anybody raping any cows to get them to produce milk. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

Remind me next time and I'll tell you another cow story: Beth and Sarah Save Black Widow.

People Are Strange -- The Doors

Last night I had the weirdest dream. We were at a ball game. We had gone to the concession stand before finding seats. I led the way up the bleachers juggling drinks and popcorn, and trailing two girls and Mom. As we began to take our seats near the other girl scout/ dance team/ cheerleaders moms, they give me this look and Candy stage whispers, "You told us your Mom was dead."

I looked at her for a second, trying to understand. I looked over my shoulder at Mom, and she shrugged and smiled. I gave her a look that said, "Mom! what are you doing here!? I told them all you were dead. Now they think I'm some kind of pathological liar!"

But she just smiled at me, her hair was short and her face was plump and young, just like a picture in a photo album.

Good Times, Bad Times -- Led Zeppelin

So everybody wants to know what happened to the car. Well, let's just say "It's bad. Really bad," those words tumbled from Jamie's terse lips, and he looked mad as he came back through the front door. He motioned for me to follow, and I walked behind him out the front door. Barry* was mumbling something about being sorry. My first thought was that a dye pack from a bank robbery exploded inside my car. From the sidewalk that runs in front of the house to the driveway I could just see that the windows were darker, opaque. A few more steps and I could see, leaning to see around Barry, my open passenger door. And it was fucking melted like a bad Salvador Dali dream. And so was the seat. A pile of ash and a wire binding was all that was left of the Union Stewards rights book that Daniel had lent to Jamie when he first became a steward. In the pocket of the passenger door was where he'd tucked it after that last meeting when he spoke to the company reps about a grievance. One glance at my ruined car and I went back inside.

Jamie asked Barry if perhaps he'd dropped the fire out of his cigarette when the went to speedway around 7/8 PM the night before. Barry said that he had, indeed, but he thought it went out, and that's why he didn't say anything.

Let me just attempt to explain Barry at this point...When I was maybe a freshman, my brother and sister, the twins, were juniors in high school. We rode the bus, for whatever reason, maybe the car was messed up, anyway, there was a boy about their age who rode the bus too. he had just moved to our area. When we asked him what his name was he said, "Barry." And when we asked what his middle name was, "Barry." And when we asked what his last name was he also said, "Barry." Barry was a UK fan who wore jeans with giant bleach stains and holes all over them. We realized that he was special needs, and possibly needy on top of it, and for Christmas that year, my sis and her friend cooked a big meal,  turkey and dressing green beans and potatoes and my brother gave him an extra UK ball cap that he had received (regift) and dad sent an extra Christmas box with nuts, fruits, ham, etc. that he buys for employees and neighbors for the holidays. We took all this to his house, walked in and his dad and step mom were in recliners across from a big screen tv. We pretty much put the food in the kitchen, said Happy Holidays and split. Awkward.

Anyway, our parents were proud that we had tried to help this boy, only to find out that he wasn't quite as needy as we'd thought him to be. What he really needed was friends. And we tried.

I would find out that Jamie had sort of taken Barry under his wing after Barry graduated high school. But I didn't find this out until much later.

So, fast forward to present day. Jamie posts his number on a friend's wall on Facebook (where he just so happens to be friends with Barry). Barry gets his number, and begins calling Jamie no less than 7 times a day. Every day. And sends him countless messages. So Jamie talks to him every now and then.

Anyway, Barry is living in the same city as us now, and really really wants to hang out. Jamie finally relented and told Barry (after he'd learned our address somehow and decide he was coming over "Wednesday, December 31st") that he could meet him at Kroger down the street and bring him over to our house.

I was apprehensive and angry. I threw a fit, "What do you mean he's coming here? I thought we would just meet him and go bowling, and take him home later! What do you mean he knows our address? How can you just invite yourself over without asking if we had plans? What if we were out of town for New Year's?"  But I finally resigned myself to the fact that it was happening and I could do nothing to stop it.

Barry's wife (idk, don't ask) put him out of her car down the street from our house with his garbage bag of stuff (extra clothes, sprites and cigarettes I guess) and Jamie went and got him and went on to get some potatoes and onions at the grocery for the roast I was cooking. I figured the roast could be cooking while we were bowling. But when I asked Jamie, he said we'd just stay home and have family game night like the girls planned initially (bowling was a surprise).

my reaction: Okay, fine. I'm gonna pop the cork on my champagne and drink it. Sometime around seven or eight Jamie and Barry went to the speedway down the street for drinks and chips, and the rest is history. While we were playing scrabble and having a good time, my car was on fire. Too bad it was dark, or maybe the neighbors would have come knocking or something. If I had run out of toilet paper that night, instead of the next, maybe I would have been out there and discovered what was happening. Coulda shoulda, woulda.

I had a bad feeling about this, but I chalked it up to anxiety and having to have a veritable stranger at my house. I can't change the past, and it still sucks.

After the initial shock, I texted my brother who'd stopped by before we discovered my burnt car to bring some presents that got mixed up with his kids'. I told him, begged him, please just come and take him home, I'll never ask you for anything else, I promise.

And guess who hasn't called Jamie--not once--since my brother took him home? Barry.

*Name has been changed.