New Office

My boss, along with the Ruffinista and the LLC has moved our office to Shreveport.  My truck crossed over into a new rut for my daily drive.  It's gone from a 5 minute drive to a 35 minute drive.  However, I love being in civilization.  There are actually people here.  No longer am I prisoned in the palatial offices of the law office.  Now, instead of the back of the old post office and the little log courthouse on Madison, my window view is the atrium of Pierremont Office Park second floor.  Morning sun, pleasant fountain, lots of palms, glass elevators.  I feel like I've died and gone to heaven.

We're right behind Brookshire's Uptown on Line Avenue, the flagship of the grocery chain, along with several shops and restaurants.  And on the other side of us is the fabulous Cuban Liquor (the Waldorf Astoria of liquor stores-wines galore.)

I've spent the last couple of days with movers, communications people and computer techs getting us up and running.  With the exception of a few gliches, we are back in the JRG LLC business. 

And the neighbors stop by and say hello.  Something that is so foreign to me.  At the old office, my only co-workers were AM talk radio.  I have actually met three of my office neighbors and on a first name basis with the maintenance man and the building manager. 

You forget the good things in life until someone forces you out of your rut and you wake up.  Thank you Mr. G, hello Shreveport.

OK the Neighbors

I live in a neighborhood of 24 houses (in a U shape) in a rural area surrounded by hundreds of acres of cow pastures owned by one Billy Ray Bedsole.  However, he is deceased and his wife and kids own it all now.  So just about all of the homes (except for the 8 or so in the middle of the U shape) have barbed wire fencing at the back of each of our lots.  And the cows stick their heads through the barbed wire and  eat our grass occassionally.

I have a rich conglomeration of neighbors.  You know the best neighbors are the ones you don't know.  We all know each other not well at all, which is good. 

Our next door neighbors to the west are a nice couple around our age.  However, his name is Bubba and although he is a very nice person it totally disqualifies him in the bff category.  He spends alot of his free time shooting at the coyotes in the woods, day and night.  We hear a rifle crack and know Bubba is got a bead on Wiley Coyote.

Our next door neighbors to the east are a young couple of girls (thirty-somethings).  Lesbians, actually (not that there's anything wrong with that.)  They spend a lot of their time in their backyard above ground pool suntanning.  The glare off of their bodies was so great that a couple of years ago I had to plant bridal wreath on the side perimeter.  This is the first year the glare has lessened.

Across the street is the 85 year old neighbor who is lovely.  But she can talk...and talk...and talk.  She'll keep you for an hour talking (no kidding).  Sometimes I have to sprint in the house with a shout out to her if she's in her yard.  During the autumn she spends enormous amounts of time across the street from our dining room window pretend-raking her yard and watching us have adult beverages in the evening.

Across the street and catty corner down a little lives an extremely religious couple.  Their kids are grown.  His name is Baba pronounced like yabba.  When we moved in the neighborhood 13 years ago he confronted my then 10 year old at the time in the backyard and screamed at him, "Do you know God?!"  Scared the crap out of Clif. 

Then there's the Henry's and the Ebarbs down the street that call the cops on each other all the time.  Boundary disputes.  Parking trailers and SUVs across property lines, whatever.  Then one of the sheriff's deputies from De Soto Parish comes out, usually Bubba's son (not to be confused with Baba) to separate them.

And then there's the Kumquat's across and down the street that cut the beautiful 20 year old magnolia tree down last summer to make room for the Direct TV satellite.

And what about cousin Jean that dances in the moonlight on her patio?  Just kidding Jean.

Or Nash the wrecker driver that brings his work home with him?

But guess who's the most obnoxious neighbor in the hood?  Those damn Ruffins with that tirebiter that chases cars up and down the block.

Say Anything Again Susan

I live in time-out with Blogher.  My pictures are too big or I don't post often enough.  So I decided to just put my name and age up top.  I always have good ideas for posts but never get around to them and then either forget them or they become irrelevant due to time passing.  The "Say Anything" post is desperation.

We went to Rayburn again for Labor Day and had a great time.  However, I had to wear my old bathing suit because I could not find my new one.  Catalina (the cleaning lady) put away all of my clothes last week after washing and drying them.  Jim goes crazy the day after she comes because he thinks she hides his stuff.  Catalina (her family is in Mexico) is so sweet and is about 4 feet, 6 inches tall and weighs no more than a fly (however, whenever she empties the diswasher she somehow manages to put everything essential in the cabinet above the refrigerator-go figure.)

She is a God-send.  I love to come into my house after she's been there.  It's sparkling clean.  It smells so good.  And I get very angry with Jim if he's the first one to set foot on the fluffy carpet.  The first month she cleaned my oven without my asking and I dropped the oven door blinded by the bright, clean inside.  Aside from everything else, she sweeps the patio and garage, cleans the windows and plows the north forty.  Well maybe not the plowing.

Why bring all of this up, you ask?  The nightmares.  The nightmares I've had three days in a row now.  It seems I'm in some sort of club or casino and my boss is Don Imus (I listen to him at 5:00 a.m. every morning) and his wife is this 4 feet, 6 inches tall woman who looks suspiciously like Catalina.  And I am working for them and I have to wear my bathing suit to serve drinks at work.  Everyone else is dressed in street clothes and Catalina keeps chasing me through the club in circles with a mop in her hand (she previously used a string mop but last week I insisted she use my Swiffer).  And the nightmare is never ending and I'm really tired...

Why am I hoping that next week she does not hide my underwear?