PJC, strange but true

Yesterday I was up at the c.o.d. (crack o dawn) sitting in a creepy little low-ceilinged, wood paneled room with every other redneck smoker who got caught in the speed-trap in Marion, NC. If you blink you will miss it and "it" isn't much. The big, brightly colored wooden sign reads, "Welcome to Marion, a friendly, progressive city."  Sure, it's cute in a 70's kind of way but there's not much going on. I'd wager that making out and ingesting anything one can get his or her hands (or nose as the case may be) on are the top two forms of entertainment.  The "historic" downtown area has a plethora of "loves me, loves me not" type businesses. Half of them are open and have bizarre sounding names that have nothing to do with what's inside. The other half have worse names and are abandoned, the for sale OR rent sign reminiscent of hooker offering $5 blow-jobs for the last two hours on her corner. 
But when it comes to raising money in this pit-stop of a place, I must admit, they've got it down.  It goes something like this:


1. Set speed traps and post meanest, most un-feeling cops behind trees, shacks etc.
2. Relentlessly pull over anyone who you didn't grow up with, especially those who look 
    vulnerable
3. Issue citation, stop at nothing, not even baby's head hanging out of vagina is cause to 
    be sympathetic. She was speeding after all, or at least you think so and it's her word 
    against yours
4. Have all your "lawyer" "friends" send out scary letters describing in great detail the 
    horrors of going to court without counsel. Obviously charge double.
5. For those illiterate/lazy or hung-over enough not to be smart and use "lawyer"
    make court small, hot, late, stinky and very early in the morning in order to charge
    very large amount of money for any and everything


Lather. Rinse. Repeat and suddenly Marion, NC, if you look at it in just the right light, looks a bit more friendly and progressive than you had once imagined. You crack your window and sniff the air...it smells like something familiar, something you remember from your past...Oh! It's MONEY. And as we all know, money is pretty damn sexy no matter how you slice it.


But I, genius/queen o the shortbussers that I am, found a crazy-ass (only in NC!) loop-hole.
A loop-hole so good the "lawyers" highly advise you NOT to use it. "We can't tell you why, but believe us, it's NOT a good choice. After all, WE are the "lawyers" right?"
It's called PJC (Prayer for Judgement Continued) and when I Googled it I was in awe. Surely this couldn't be real. I double checked that I wasn't on the Sesame Street website (one of these things...doesn't belong) but no, there it was, PJC. A plea that may be used by a family or individual who hasn't had a violation in the last 3 years. I read and read and only got more confused. Did it wipe you clean? Did you have to pray in court? Were there still fees involved?
It's finally my turn and by good karma or an act of God, the court is comprised of women. All of them from the court reporter to the judge. I stand at the front of the room, alone, the asthmatic breaths of the rednecks behind me strangely comforting. 
"Whatchu wanna do?" Asks the curvaceous bleach-blonde DA. I am momentarily blinded by her Sparkle City Pink lipstick but recover and say, "What are my options?"
She rambles off pleading guilty and paying the (large) fines, going to traffic school (large fines PLUS the fee of school PLUS having to come back to Marion and hang out for hours with my new compatriots.  She pauses and looks me in the eye...(wait for it wait for it).
The fact that I am not rambling on and negating my choices is only because I haven't had coffee yet.  Because really, who wants to be sitting in court, dying to take a crap? Not me.
She sighs, cocks her head slightly and says, "There is the PJC...." I smile and say, "I think I'll take that."  I realize that no one in their right mind would say yes to a thing they had never heard of or sounded so stupid it couldn't be right.
But all of a sudden she's whispering to the judge and they wave me to the lady who writes something on a green piece of paper.  She hands it to me and I thank her a little to profusely. I turn to the judge and the DA, I smile like Miss Fucking America and do my little lightbulb unscrewing hand motion. I mouth the words, "thank you."
And I'm out.
I still had to pay but it was $120 not $250. 
And yes, I also had to pray. "Dear God/Mary/Jesus/Buddha/All those other Guys," Thank you for my PJC. I don't know exactly what it is and I'm pretty sure it's a complete crock but still, if you wanna pretend, I will too."  Amen. 

so sayeth the lord

Baked Blessings

Of course it erupted during the holidays, those oh so stressful times when there's never enough money, always too much alcohol and the emergence of every family issue that ever happened, is currently happening or ever will happen.

The "it" I refer to was a lip shanker. A big, blistery sore that slowly (very VERY slowly) healed in a cosmic joke sort of way where the "better" it got, the more scabby and disgusting it looked.

Being a white girl with blonde hair and Snow White rosebud lips didn't help at all and the scab, which I swear turned almost black and was situated just to the left of the center of my bottom lip, looked like I had Superglued on an old, extra dried up raisin. It stuck out from my lip as if to say, "Hey, get me off of here, I have other plans." But short of biting the damn thing off (gross yes, but it softens after brushing, lip licking etc. allowing a slight, band-aid removing maneuver to render you instantly more socially acceptable). The major problem was that actually doing this immediately caused a brand new shiny open wound. And what are wounds supposed to do? If you said heal then you're correct. And what exactly does healing involve? That's right, a scab!

Usually a bigger, better, crustier version, one that might be thinking, Try biting me off this time, bitch!

How many times did I go through this process you ask? One or two? Try three to five.

Lame, I know, but c'mon, it's the HOLIDAY SEASON and people have parties and get-togethers, there are presents to buy and groceries to stock up on, there are dogs that suddenly need to go to the vet.

Due to short and long term memory loss, I kept forgetting it was there and no matter how many "You look fines" I got from my family (well, most of them, my youngest son had a habit of staring intently at my scab then saying something like, "Sorry, it's just so gross I can't really hear what you're saying"). Oh the mouths of babes. I truly had no desire to be in public.

This handicap started somewhere around early December, when sister #2 came to visit and we spent our time together as we always do, drinking, gossiping, crying and fighting. This time had the extra element of her current relationship issues which we discussed in great detail, necessary but very stressful for both of us. When I waved good-bye to her at the tiny airport,watching her walk away from me, missing her already, I felt the first tinglings of my new lip friend.

Ice, Abreva, blow-drying and nail polish remover (damn internet!) did nothing to stop its intensity and 5+ scab/sore cycles later I sat on the couch in the dim light, completely relating to hibernating bears, housebound morbidly obese women and cave-hiding terrorists. But I was learning to accept my ogreous looks and though there was no way to hide it, not clothing or hats or lipstick or glasses, it was becoming a part of me.

I snuggled deeper into the couch then perked up like a dog when I heard the ding of the oven timer. "Hey G, go get the cookies, will ya?"

He's the nicest kid I've ever had (or ever met for that matter) so when he didn't respond I was a bit dismayed. But he was ahead of me and had already de-ovened and plated the freshly baked, warm, soft chocolate chip lovelies.

Now he was back on his own couch, lovingly cradling the cookies in his lap. "You want one?" He asked with a sly grin, knowing I'd tackle him and eat them all if he didn't share.

He hucked one to (at) me. He was a good 16-18 feet away and while he's quite coordinated, it would have taken some skill and concentration, especially in the low, light for him to nail a target the size of a dime. But he was spot on. The spot being my lip scab of course, the fifth one that was hanging on like a leech, the one I was forcing myself not to bite off, to let heal naturally, even if it took a fucking year. The cookie

didn't just hit my lip, which would have been quite painful, it SLICED it off. It was a round razor blade, flying at top speed, its only mission to extricate my scab as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Gabe and I looked at each other, with eyes equally wide. He started to laugh and I was gonna join him till I felt the gush of wet, warm blood spurt Monty Python-like from my wound. It ran down my lip, down and under my chin and settling into my cleavage. The amount and intensity of blood that came from that tiny area was incredible. I went to the bathroom, bloody cookie in hand, and looked into the mirror where I beheld my bloody teeth, lip, face, neck, chin and chest. Not sure exactly what to do for a lip, I treated it like any other bleed and applied pressure, then ice. The ice I fished from my drink and had the added benefit of the antibacterial agent known as Gin.

The next day I awoke and shuffled to the bathroom to gaze upon the beginnings of scab #6. I was shocked to see that my lip looked completely normal. I chalked it up to time and checked it every hour but still, no scab...in fact, no wound, no scar, my GOD! How can this be? I allowed myself exactly 17 minutes to ruminate on the wonders of the world, how and why things happen the way they do and why we are here after all. Of course it all applied to my lip incident. At minute 18 I broke out my sad and lonely scarlet colored lipstick and lavishly applied it. Sighing deeply I had no choice but to accept it for what it was. A miracle, plain and true. A chocolate chip cookie miracle.