That Time My Husband Bought Me a Gun Safety Class

   Before we embark, my people, a few facts:
   *I am a teacher, that is true.
   *My politics are nobody's business, my students will also tell you that.
   *When said students "walked out" for gun safety, they asked me my opinion. I answered as I always do "My husband is a Texan."
    *I have, in my life, fired a gun one time. When Jim and I were dating, he tried to teach me to shoot while we were camping. I aimed at the creek, pulled the trigger, and promptly dropped the gun.
    * I tried to go to a shooting range back in November. The woman in the booth next to me had an assault rifle. I tried to focus on my target, she fired at her target, and I set my gun down and left the building. No muss, no fuss, I just left and waited in the car. The panic attack that ensued was like nothing I had felt before.
    * I am nobody's bitch, certainly not Anxiety's.
    *I'm still not telling you my politics on anything, just enjoy my story.

       Due to a suicide in 2010, I have a noose "trigger". I banned all ropes and nooses from the theatre, and the students were accommodating and kind without asking a lot of questions. This year, when we began The Last Days of Judas Iscariot, I knew it was my last chance to just get over it. I told the set designer to hang a noose over Judas. He quietly went about the task, checking in with me several times to make sure it was OK. I told him "I will not be a trigger's bitch.  Hang the thing."
     He did. The show was beautiful, and I swear it was partly because that noose was allowed.
    Trigger #1:0 , Kryssi:1.
     It felt fantastic to finally let go of that one fear, and I decided to take on the two that remain. I truly have only three triggers. I banished all of my fears this last school year, but triggers are different than fears. A noose could lock me up, I'd freeze and start to shake. What the hell? I was tired of it, and the opportunity to bust it myself was not going to present itself again.

    Without really knowing he was doing it, Jim took on my next trigger, by purchasing me a gun safety and shooting class at our local shooting range. He did it primarily because he shoots, and he would like somebody to go to the range with, and I'm married to him so that makes me the natural choice since my personality has run off most of his friends.
    I spent today dreading the class, hoping it might get cancelled. Jim had gone to some trouble to sign me up for a women's only class taught by a female instructor, and he seemed excited about it. He packed up a .22 Ruger, ammo and noise canceling headphones into a tackle box marked "Zombie Ammunition". How could I not go, he was so excited to give me this gift.
    So I arrive at the training center, and stand in line behind seven other women, all over the age of 30. They were signed up for the class and choosing their weapons. I watched quietly, waiting my turn. Then the clerk (who turned out to be our instructor) looked at me she said "Are you here for the class?"
     "Yes," I replied too perkily. "And my husband packed me a gun," I held up the Zombie tackle box, much to the delight of my fellow classmates. Apparently I'm hilarious. Now, part of my issue these last two years has been wrestling with Who I Am.  I have always been a theatre kid, and for 14 years I taught theatre. Those two things no longer match, what I do and who I am are different, and that's thrown me for a loop. I have no idea who I am anymore, and if I don't know and I'm in an uncomfortable situation well...you don't know which personality is going to emerge. Tonight would prove that they are all present and accounted for, as the first into the spotlight was Quirky Kryssi with her funny Zombie tackle box.
      We adjourned to the classroom, where were sat for two hours and learned about guns, gun safety, stances and ammo. But first, unfortunately, there was a Get To Know You portion of the evening.
      God I hate these. I don't make my students do it, either, I think it's cheesy and I don't need you to tell me what I can see by your demeanor. Of the eight of us, I was last to speak. My companions were varying degrees of "I shoot for fun" to "I want to kill a mountain lion in my backyard" to "My husband taught me, I'm here to see if he did it right." Clearly, as someone who does not shoot for fun, or have any interest in shooting any animal, ever, I was out of my element. So Neurotic Kryssi chose to step into the light and speak.
       "My husband is from Texas.I'm having  a panic attack right now. I tried to go to a shooting range a few months ago, but someone next to me had an AR (all the women cringed and there was a general sense that those with AR's should not be at an indoor range), I kinda came apart. I'm here to face my fear."
      OK, so looking back at writing that, am I really just Neurotic Kryssi? Maybe the Real Kryssi is Neurotic Kryssi. That'd suck.
      Halfway through  the class we took a break, and the woman who had been seated next to me, the one who wanted to shoot the mountain lion in her backyard to keep it from getting her dogs, and who also had a revolver instead of a pistol, decided to start talking to me.
       "My husband is certified in DM*, and he is qualified to comfort you with a butterfly hug...."
       "What?"
       "I have acrophobia and I had to kiss a blarney stone, have you ever been there? It's really high and I had to look down and he grabbed me and now I don't have agoraphobia **."
        "What?"
        "He's coming in before they close, I can have him help you. He's qualified to butterfly hug."
       "I'm fine. I will do this on my own. And the last thing your husband wants to do is be the stranger who tries to bear hug me from behind at a shooting range." Bitch Kryssi, enter  stage right.
        "Oh..."
       "It's great that you're all better from your AgadarA Phobia and everything, that's awesome. I'm walking into the bathroom now."
       As I entered, a quiet woman watching me carefully whispered "I like your pants," like she was afraid I might punch her, or cry, both of which would have been magnificent choices, but I really had to pee so I just said "Thank you."
      Now that we've established three personalities, we are coming to the "get on your feet and do the thing" portion of the evening.
       It might be worth noting that I had no idea what Jim packed in the Zombie case. For all I knew it was a chicken salad sandwich. I just hoped some of the parts resembled those in the class power point.
       I opened the box to find a pair of pink noise canceling headphones, a package of bullets, a magazine and a purple .22 Ruger, items I can only identify because of the previously mentioned power point. Kudos to Instructor Cindy, she taught me something.
      I have never loaded a gun in my life. So I stood quietly staring at the pieces and contemplated bursting into tears.
     The instructor walked me through loading bullets into the magazine, which I was holding upside down and backwards. I had to wait for her assistance before loading it into the gun, which I was pretty sure I was also going to do backwards. The power point and class had instructed us to "slam" the magazine into the gun, which I did and promptly jammed the gun. I knew I did it right, because I have been watching Hicks teach Ripley how to replace a magazine at least twice a year for over twenty years, and he says to slam it in there. But this particular gun, either by design or operator, is  delicate. There is not a need to slam anything, you just push it in. I also did not load the barrel  right, you are to pull back and release the slidey thing, and I was pulling it back and pushing it forward. Which causes it to be a "dead battery", which is ridiculous as there are no batteries involved whatsoever. Once the instructor spent most of her time with me, it was time to ready, up,  squeeze the trigger--not pull, you are to squeeze. So I readied, I upped, I squeezed the trigger...and nothing happened. I set the, gun down to my left as instructed and waited patiently for my new friend Cindy,who realized I had not fired. "Is the safety off?" she asked, and I smiled pleasantly back at her, as Lenny smiles at George, because it was probably on, but I had no idea where it was located. I'm sure it was covered in the power point, but there was so much with the bullet has to face this way in the magazine, and the magazine goes this way, and hitchhike your thumb and finger off the trigger and dominant eye and I again considered bursting in to tears. She switched off the safety. Then she asked me if I was doing OK, which I realize now was due to the fact that I jumped every time someone fired and I may have looked like I was going to start bawling any minute.
     This is how it went every time we loaded and fired, for 45 minutes, minus the safety being on.
     I hit the head of my target instead of the chest only twice, and the numbers every time I fired. I even nailed the target right between the eyes.
     Move over, Neurotic Kryssi, Make My Day Kryssi has arrived.
     Trigger #2:0 Kryssi: 2
 



* I don't remember the initials, who cares.
**She said two types of 'phobia', only the first of which was actually a fear of heights.
***Also calling guns a trigger issue seems silly, but it is what it is.

Chicago

 I teach at a high school in Littleton, Colorado. It is not a high school in Littleton in which there was a shooting. I have to tell people that all the time when I travel.
  "Where do you teach?"
   "Littleton, Colorado."
    They freeze, afraid to ask but dying to know. Depending on how annoyed I am I will wait several seconds. "There are several high schools and two districts in Littleton. It's not like there are only the two high schools that everyone knows. I teach at one of the several." I'm only six years into my teaching career, and I suspect I won't make it six more. It's turned ugly, principals behave like Brian Dennehey in Silverado--which is a simile I use on a regular basis, and people think I'm older because of it. Didn't everyone's dad love Silverado and make them watch it once a year? When I use that allusion, I imagine that all teachers are Kevin Kline, torn between survival and doing the right thing. Beyond that, I don't know that the comparison makes sense, although I've met a few theatre teachers who are Kevin Costner, "Jake", just trying to have fun and have the nerve to be surprised when they end up in trouble. AP's are Jeff Goldblum, playing both sides....OK, I guess I could make this work, turns out I have thought about this.
     Sometimes I just want to talk to another educator without having the conversation turn to gun laws and school lock downs. I just want to relax and talk about literature, new books, the ridiculousness of a literature approval procedure and where is good to eat in the city we are visiting.
      This week it is  Chicago. Our training coincided with the gathering of post secondary teachers, some of which work at community colleges. My new best friend is teaching at a CC in Kansas City. She has two kids under the age of five and her husband is an electrician. She and I have been planning our future city adventures once we're done with our respective meetings tonight. I'm waiting for her at the hotel bar.
      There is a new work opening at Steppenwolf this weekend, I'm dying to go. I read the description online and it is described as an "international farce". I'm a sucker for new work, and I usually attend theatres alone. However my new friend did theatre in high school and loved it and she wants to see the show. I have discovered that without fail, if you mention theatre at an educational training event, everyone will tell you they took theatre in high school and loved it. None of these people went into theatre, nor to they teach theatre, but they all took a class and loved it.
     The bartender knows me from my previous post class evenings and sets a bottle of Fat Tire in front of me. You know you aren't in Colorado any more when there are no local brews on the tap.  She asks what I'm up to tonight.
      "We're going to Steppenwolf," I say, not expecting her to really care.
      "Doppleganger? It opens tonight, you got tickets to opening night?"
      "I bought them online two months ago, I knew I'd be here." I had purchased two, as is my habit, always hopeful I will meet a fellow thespian.
       "John Malkovich still stays here when he's in town," the bartender ventures. I crease my brow at her, as she can't be old enough to bartend, let alone know the history of Steppenwolf. She laughs at my expression "I know, but I'm a Chicago native, and my mom's a theatre teacher. So I probably know more about Steppenwolf than most." She pauses and leans on the bar "Did you make it to Second City?"
        I shake my head. "I only have tonight free, unfortunately, I had to choose between the two."
       "Come back and do Second City. You won't be sorry."
       "Are you in school...or an actor....?" I step lightly as it's rude to assume a bartender is anything besides a bartender, and God Knows I've offended many in my life by asking what else they do. Except in New York. In New York if you ask your waiter what else they do, they give you a resume. She just seems to light up at the topic, as opposed to standard bartender chatty knowledge.
        "I go to CIA, I'm a painter. But I do improv classes too and I love the whole scene. This town is always alive with art stuff, you know? The weather keeps a lot of people away, but those of us who stay, man, we're hard core. We know each other, we support each other. Is it like that in Denver? I've never been there."
        "If Chicago is where art comes to grow and thrive, Denver is where it goes to die."
        "Damn. Harsh."
        I shrug. "The truth hurts. The theatre teachers in my district all train their kids to leave Colorado. After this visit, I'm going to encourage them to come here. It vibrates here. There's theatre everywhere, and you people support it. I see everything from Steppenwolf's original plays, to the previews for the musical Pretty Woman, to small hole in the walls, storefronts and Second City. And it's all packed."
        "It's not like this there?"
         I shake my head and drink my beer. "Pot and craft beer do well. We do have a couple of college kids who thought to combine, they do Shakespare in a pub."
         "We have that here, but it's not craft beer, clearly. Just small pubs willing to have theatre happen. I've done two of those, they're so much fun. They don't pay us, but we drink for free. Makes for an interesting production."
         My new best friend arrives and plops on the stool next to me. "Do I have time for a drink before we go down?"
            I look at my phone for the time, "Yep. Wanna uber over?"
            "Cab's cheaper," the bartender chimes in."Not by much, but still."
            My friend orders her beer. "God that was a waste of my time."
           "Which class was today?"
           "It was the last one, so we had to do group exercises creating a poster explaining all that we covered, blah blah blah...."
            "I hate that shit. Stop pulling the same crap we pull on kids on us. We're teachers for a reason, I have no interest in doing group work." We clink glasses in agreement.
            "So what are we seeing? Someone asked me during class today, I couldn't remember the title."
           "Doppelganger. It's an 'international  farce' according to the website. 'Dwight' from The Office is in it."
           "Oh, cool, I'll know an actor! I love that, I love seeing someone I've seen on TV on stage. We don't get that in Kansas."
           "We don't get it in Denver, either."
           "Does he live here?"
           "Who?" I ask
           "Dwight."
            "His name is Rainn Wilson."
            "He must live here if he's doing the show, right?"
            I shrug, "Maybe. It's an original piece, so I assume he's been here workshopping for a while."
            "If it's opening and original, doesn't that mean they can still change the script?"
            I nod, but the bartender answers. "Yep, that's part of what is so exciting. You're seeing a show before it's been finalized! Is there a talkback after?"
            "Yes, it was listed on the website."
            "Then you get to give your input on the show. There will probably be several people with yellow pads taking notes as well, that's the creative team. I have a friend doing that tonight. She's on audience reactions, tracking where the laughs and groans are."
            "You sound like you'd like to see it."
            "They sold out fast the first two weekends, my friend is getting me in later."
            I look at my friend "Do you want to stay after?"
            "Let's see how good the show is. I do not want to stay if it sucks, what will I say?"
            "Fair," I finish my beer as she swallows the last of hers. "Cabs are lined up outside, there will be alcohol at the theatre. Ready?"
             My new best friend's phone rings. She holds up her finger for me to wait.
             "Her husband is struggling," I say to the bartender. "They're going to die without her I think. Kids have high fevers or won't go to bed or ran away or Timmy fell down a well or something.Good thing she's going back tomorrow."
             The bartender smiles "You have kids?"
             "God no."
              "Me either, they're the worst."
              "Right? Every horror movie or action movie, ever, it's the dumb ass kids that ruin everything."
             My new best friend waves at me to follow her to the cab. I hope she ends the conversation before curtain.
             The bartender smiles and shrugs as we move toward the cab, my  new best friend still on her phone.
             We are about to get into the cab when my new best  friend stops cold. "Ok, look, I'll call, maybe I can get on stand by."
              I wave off the cab and turn back to the bar, my new annoying friend trailing behind, waving her arms and rolling her eyes. She looks at me "I'm sorry, I need to try and go back sooner, I have to call the airport."
             "Did Timmy fall down a well?" I ask, because I know she isn't listening. I was right, she's on the elevator redialing the airport. I wave lamely "'kay, 'bye."
             I turn to get a cab for myself, and then at the last minute I return to the bar. The bartender had said earlier that she was filling in for the after convention rush, but it has quieted down considerably.
            "Hey, can you get off?" I ask, trying not to sound creepy. "I mean, my friend bailed and I have that extra ticket----" before I can finish, she has ripped off her apron and is around the bar. "Cool! Let's go!"
             And that is the story of how I met my New new best friend, my real best friend.
                                                                                                                                                                     

Mother's Day 2018

  The week before Mother's Day is Teacher Appreciation week, so you could say we teacher moms are spoiled. You could also say we're exhausted, and if we are trying the keto diet, we are grumpy that everything in the teacher's lounge this week is bread based.
   Every year a teacher or two will have their kids write a thank you note to one of their teachers this week.  Since these are my actual, last moments as the theatre teacher and possibly my last weeks at LHS ( but the kids don't know that), I think I received more notes this year than in past years. Or that's hyperbole because I'm all Emotionally Unstable and such. Also these bifocals suck. I wore those gradual bifocals that transition for three years and they were never quite right. I would still remove my glasses to read, there was no such thing as a "sweet spot" from which I could comfortably read. I bitched about it for three years, and Harper decided she'd had enough and bullied me into going to a different eye doctor. The prescription this time seems to be better, but the transition lenses are $150 more than the lined lenses, and with job stuff in the air, we need to save money. So I opted for the lined biofocals, how much different can they be?
   Well...my lang arts kids think I'm both drunk and old, because I can't find the proper distance that will work for the computer, so reading their google.doc essays and entering their grades has become a circus act entitled "Watch The Crazy Old Lady Try To Navigate Basic Technology". I have to hold my glasses with one hand at the proper distance while navigating infinite campus with the other. The movement makes me dizzy and disoriented, so in addition to my regular issues with tracking the stupid teeny tiny boxes in IC and forgetting names because I can't remember to take the Ginko that helps memory, and the remaining effects of a major concussion three years ago when I wrecked  my motorcycle and gave my already addled little grey cells serious damage causing headaches and light sensitivity and don't tell me concussions aren't real ...what was I saying?
 
   My first thirty minutes of Mother's Day this year began with Genoa calling me from Durango where she is house/dog/child sitting for her former prof who is in NYC. The dachshund of the house was pooing blood and G was, of course, freaking out. She called me in a panic after calling the emergency vet line, her former prof and another prof in Durango who did not answer the phone.

    "Mom, I'm freaking out. She pooped straight blood and is hiding under the couch. I tried to get her and she bit me."
     "Okay, that sucks."

  This is the kind of stellar help my children receive from me, which earns me such high accolades on Mother's Day. Based on this short snapshot, you can only imagine how successful I am as a teacher.
  So when I do receive a note of thanks, I am a bit confused, as the above exchange is pretty much how I handle things at school:

  Lang Arts "Can I turn it in late?"     
                    "Nope."

  Theatre     "I don't know my lines."
                   "That sucks."

  These are the responses that have managed to not earn me any titles, such as Mother Of The Year or Teacher Of The Year. Yet I have the nerve to be incensed with I am not thrown a parade, unable to get to my office due to the bushels of roses left in my path or flown to New York for a week of Just Theatre by my loving and rich family.

   Instead, the massive dog that supposedly belongs to G but is here and not in Durango is sighing deeply on the floor, his breath expelled at my foot like the steam from a train smokestack because he is beyond bored. Marty is jumping everywhere and refusing to go outside because he will not pee in the rain, a quirk of his that is not cute. Indie is upside down on the couch, awaiting his morning gnawing from Zippy, who is instead bored and sighing. The day does not begin until someone says "Zippy, drop it" which also means "Stop chewing on Indie". No other humans are up, and the cats all came in, scarfed their food and fell asleep. Gatos Diablos are not very active when it's rainy. So,  I'm alone in the living room, trying to type with one hand because you know, bifocals, but occasionally able to adjust to the end of my nose so I can actually type, drinking coffee and choosing to spend this day avoiding the rest of my life, which is waiting for me tomorrow, crouched at the edge of my addled concussion brain and shattered heart like the clawed spider monster from A Quiet Place.

    It's fine, I'm find, stop looking at me I'm fine.

Fahrenheit

     "...so I went to Australia instead of New Zealand because I needed to be somewhere that they speak English, you know?"
      I'm standing, mouth agape, unaware of the stack of hardbacks that are becoming heavier the longer I stand here with my new employee.
       "I get it, you're well traveled," I manage after a moment. "Will you grab the ladder?"
       She turns her body around in a full circle two times, ostensibly trying to locate the ladder directly behind her.

        I never traveled. I made my choices early on and none of them involved being born into money. I have managed to move from bookstore to bookstore, closing each one and escaping as print becomes extinct. I found this niche a few years ago, on what was a dank corner of South Broadway, but since I bought the store my neighbors have been run out by trendy restaurants and brew pubs. It's just me and Joe, my friend across the street with the tattoo shop.  We outlasted the onslought. Lucky for him, Trendies like their tattoos. Lucky for me, Trendies like browsing used bookstores. Lucky for him and I, we like brew pubs. The one next door makes a killer amber. Although last month, a few of the pubs decided to all brew the same beer, some sort of solidarity thing. If there was another bookstore still alive, I'd love to partner with them and do something cool like that. Not brew, clearly, but something that would unite us and give us strength. Anyway, there were six pubs who all decided to brew this heinous banana beer that tasted like Laffy Taffy. Mike- the pub owner- talked me into trying it. All I had to say after making a face was "The hell...?" He laughed. "The kids love it,".
          "You're not supposed to be serving children," I smiled and pushed the beer back toward him. Joe,  who was sitting across from me,  took one sip, rose form his seat with the beer, walked behind the bar and poured it down the sink.
            I surveyed the pub. At capacity it holds-maybe- 50 people. There were about 20 of us that Saturday afternoon, and we're all within ten years of Mike's age, which I know to be 50 because we threw him a birthday party.

           I am still standing in my shop, staring at my new employee, wondering again how I managed to hire her.
           For all the millions of bodies cramming my native state over the last two years, the quality of my applicants has not increased. The number has not increased, either, which makes me wonder what all these people do for a living. They aren't working in used book stores, that's for sure. But they sure can stand to drive the property values and rents so sky high that the homeless population in the parking lot behind the shop has increased exponentially. They built a new apartment building three blocks away, and built a skate park next to it. There are three permanent homeless residents in the skate park, two of whom used to work in the Antique Mall that stood where the apartments now are.
             If you go north seven blocks, there is a theatre that lives in a renovated church. They have also managed to hang on through all of this, doing primarily regional premieres and no musicals. Occasionally they produce local playwrights, which is kind. How they are hanging on without doing musicals, which is what everybody wants to see,  is beyond me. The three of us are a weird Trifecta: Tattoos, Used Books and Theatre. We meet on Sunday afternoons at the pub. I find books for the Artistic Director, he buys me wine when I come to the shows. We have tattoos.
            I realize I'm just staring at my new employee as I wool gather.
            "What language do they speak in New Zealand?" I ask earnestly.
            "New Zealander I guess. I don't know I didn't go there."
            "Where did you say you went to college?"
             "CU Boulder," she says it like a valley girl, reminding me that she moved here from California.
               "That's right, " I say casually. "My alma mater."
               She looks at me silently. I smile. She continues the blank stare.
              "Which word is tripping you up?"
              "What?" Blink. Blink.
               Sigh. I can't, it's too easy.
              "The ladder? Behind you."
               She shakes her head as if she's trying to clear it after an all nighter at the Sorority house. She then turns in two full circles, again, and locates the ladder which has not moved on its own. It is still directly behind her.
                "These ladders are so cool. I saw them in this library in Italy."
                "You were in a library in Italy?"
                "Ugh, my grandmother insisted we keep going inside to all these buildings. There was nothing but books and paintings in most of them."
                  "Also, nobody speaks English," I volunteer helpfully.
                  "Exactly. How hard is it? It's the international language."
                  I can run this place on my own, really. I open at ten am -ish, and close around six pm, Most of my business these days is online, finding rare or out of print books for the chains who managed to survive, or book dealers or individuals who just love books. But it's nice to occasionally have someone else to talk to. Joe will come by if he's bored. He has better luck hiring than I do. He has a couple kids working for him who went to art school, and are very serious about this tattooing stuff. As the shop owner and Head Tattoo artist, he only does work if someone has the money to pay twice what his kids will charge. It's a prestige thing, to say your tattoo was done by "Uncle Joe". This girl won't last long, I'll run her off like I run them all off. God forbid anyone should be expected to Do Things for a paycheck. In the meantime, I can have a little fun.
                    "So, like, you're the only female shop owner down here, aren't you?"
                     I'm startled by her grasp of the obvious. "Yep."
                     "How come?"
                     "Sorry?" I heard her, I just can't believe she laid it out like that.
                     "How come you're the only female shop owner? Are you married? Do you have kids?"
                     "That's a little personal, we just met. At least buy me a beer before you ask such things."
                      The look she gives me makes it worth it.  I laugh out loud, reminded of an episode of Friends when Joey is teaching acting and demonstrates  the "Smell The Fart" technique. Her face is a duplicate of his in that moment. Hilarious.
                      "I love books. I love dealing with people who love books. I've been working in bookstores in some capacity since high school and all through college. I like the smell."
                      Mike comes in and heads straight for the stacks on the middle table. He nods at me and doesn't acknowledge my newest employee. He starts picking up books and looking at them, feeling their heft.
                    "Mike, this is Emily," I say.
                     Mike looks up briefly, makes eye contact with me, smiles. He looks at me as he speaks.
  "Hello Emily, welcome to the block." He chooses a book, winks at me, and leaves.
                     "Is that the guy from the pub?"
                      I nod.
                     "My boyfriend and I go there, we live down the street. He has this great banana beer. It is soooo good."
______________________________________________________________________________

                     I closed early today, so  Joe and I are sitting at the bar with our beers. It's Tuesday, and really slow. I like my ambers, he's a stout kind of guy. Stouts, ugh. Like drinking flat soda. Gross. He mocks my ambers saying they're too hoppy. I tell him beer is not a frog. We are not quite 50 yet, but we behave as if we are in our 70's, sitting at the bar grumbling about those damned Trendies ruining our neighborhood, and the potheads ruining our state. We say it loudly, as is our tradition, as Jason and Sharon are next to us at the bar. They own the pot shop two doors down from my bookstore. It was a nail salon, then it was a trendy second hand store, then it was medical marijuana until a few years ago. All they had to do was remove the green cross, and bam, business was booming. They are now rolling in it, but still maintain their same lifestyle. Both of their kids are in college, they own their house within walking distance.
                     Sharon smiles "Useless bookworms. Who even reads any more?"
                     "If you read maybe you'd have a better job description than "Pot Dealer".
                     All four of us do our standard Ed McMahon "Wo-ahhhhh", toast our glasses and drink. Some kids we've never seen before shuffle in and find a table.
                     "Mike, card them. Card them! They're twelve!"
                      Mike sends Brenda over to get their order. He doesn't like to leave the bar much, it's like he wears the bar as an apron.
                       Sharon turns to me "We're coming Friday night."
                       "You don't have to, you know."
                        Jason stops mid slurp. "We know."
                       "I saw it last week. You missed your true calling," Mike looks directly at me. This is an old conversation. One we've had for years: here at the pub, on vacation, in bed.
                       "I missed nothing. I'm doing it."
                        I turn to the table that the Trendies are at and tilt my head at the book under the leg, keeping the table even.
                     "You can't even buy tables that function properly. Run your own life."
                      He is silent and waits for me to continue. "It's a tiny local theatre, I'm not going anywhere. Playwriting is a dying art, like everything else written on paper with words."
                       Emily, my new employee, bounces in dragging a lanky, befuddled looking young man behind her. She makes a bee line for me at the bar. Great.
                      "Mark, this is my new boss at the bookstore! This is Mark." I shake his hand, he  doesn't make eye contact.
                       "We had to come in because we were watching the news and there was this thing on about an original play that is premiering here in Denver, and they said the name of the playwright and showed a picture and it was YOU! And I started screaming and Mark was like 'The hell is your deal?' and I said 'That's my new boss at the bookstore! I bet she's at the pub, let's go see, you can meet her because she's a playwright! I had no idea!'" Without even taking a breath she holds out her hand to Joe "Hi. I'm Emily. I live down the street, the apartments, the ones called "The AQ".
                        "That used to be a cool Antique Mall. They tore it down," Jason grumbles into his beer.
                         "Isn't there a show tonight? Don't you have to be there?" Emily's eyes are so wide I can see Death Valley.
                          "Nope and nope," I answer.
                           Mark has wandered over to the newly leveled table and joined the group there.
                           Emily looks at Mike  "Do you still have that banana beer?"
                           "No, sorry."
                          "That's OK, can we get two of those great Mile High Lagers then?"
                           I sigh and turn to what is now called, in my head, the Table of Trendies. If I squint, I can make out the title of the book Mike has shoved under the table in order to level it.
                           Four Plays by Sam Shepard.
                         
                       
                       

-------------14 May 2017 Kryssi Martin
                words 1,932

UGH

 We spent the entire day yesterday, my only free Saturday in years, cleaning up the yard and mopping the floors.
   Two hours after beginning to vacuum and mop, I sat down with a cup of coffee and  said "Maids are good, can we afford a maid?"
   Later, as I was knee deep in pine needles and dog poo, I shouted at Jim "Aren't there pooper scoopers we can hire?"
  Thus we arrive at the core of our issue, which is that kryssi cannot keep up with three dogs and five cats and two children.
   They aren't my cats, or my dogs, but they are my children. And the animals are owned by the children.
   Welcome to Colorado, where nobody can afford to move out. Technically, we should be empty nesters. Both girls have post secondary diplomas, both are functioning at jobs. They work at jobs that don't pay enough to keep up with the skyrocketing rents, even down in Durango, Genoa has to stay on a friend's couch. If I had known legalizing pot would rob me of my Empty Nester years, I would definitely have voted NO.
    But I foolishly voted my conscience and my heart, believing it's silly to have made pot illegal in the first place. I didn't even care that they told us that legalizing it would benefit schools, that the public schools would get pot money. If you figure that in, then I've been duped TWICE, because I teach public school and we've seen nothing that indicates we received any pot money. Or teacher raises. Which are not connected, pot money was never promised as teacher wages, that was for students: books, roofs that don't leak, etc. I'm saying that neither appeared, which is insanity when you gauge the way our cost of living expenses exploded.
    We did receive increased rents, a rush to build in open spaces, overcrowded roads, Asshats clogging up the hiking trails, Rudes actually damaging and defacing our beloved nature and a frightening increase in the homeless population. So we've got that going for us.
    So, my yard is trashed, my house is filled and difficult to keep up, but hey, I can sit in the mess and blaze up and pretend it's all fine.
     It's a shame I don't smoke pot.
     My preferred depressant is alcohol. Specifically a craft amber which is my weekly intake of allowed calories.
     I actually don't make enough money, as a public school teacher, to hire a maid or a pooper scooper. I do make enough to sit at the pub on Friday night and down a few ambers whilst listening to my dad mumble his way through vague explanations.  For example, this week's installment is about why my 70-Banana year old father has a roommate in his tiny, one bedroom trailer. I simply asked "How'd you end up with this guy as a roommate?" His entire answer is below.
           "Well, you remember Pat and Dave (*names changed), well Pat died and her daughter lives out here and they have a fifth wheel. So he had the fifth wheel but it needed to be fixed, so he's going to be here until June, now, I guess he rolls his eyes. I thought he'd be gone by now, but he can still put in your floor if you want him to,he's waiting on the fifth wheel. He said the divorce was final but then yesterday he said he had to sign some paperwork so I don't know what. He's from Portugal, I guess he's not legal or something I don't know."
       At this point, I stop him. "Dad. Why Is He Living With You? Who is he to you? He's not related to us."
             "He was married to Pat's daughter, he's from Portugal. I guess they got divorced and he had the fifth wheel, but it broke down."
     Sadly, I am able to piece together exactly what he means and I just nod and drink my amber.
     This is what I look forward to becoming. Super excited. I already forget names and leave my phone and occasionally begin a sentence in my head and finish it on facebook. I am an amateur compared to my dad.
 
      And so, in conclusion, all in all, to sum up. Stop Moving Here. You're hurting us. Clearly, as demonstrated in this post, I am fractured.
      Legalized marijuana and craft beer may be the only reasons Colorado is not in full rebellion.

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