The Houston Saga

I was still a bit fuzzy headed when I went to Joe’s ring to whisper to the clerk that my cat wasn’t ready for the ring. I thought maybe I would be able to slink back to my kitties, regroup and get them ready. No. Nope. Not going to happen.

My dear Bengal friends had to rag on me. I think it was Mark who started it, but my hand had given me a concussion, so I’m not really clear on the details at that point.

“I have to ask,” he said with that wicked Mark grin, “How?”

How indeed. I was compelled to demonstrate. “I was reaching for my i-Phone…”

In the first place, I really, really did not want to get out of bed that morning. So I didn’t. (*raspberry) Oak season has begun. I felt like crap and still had a ton of stuff to do to get to the show. I stayed in bed and thought about all the excuses I could come up with for not going. Next time, my excuse will be: “Remember what happened last time.”

It’s not that I didn’t want to be at the show. I wanted to be at the show. I’d been looking forward to it for months. I just didn’t want to do what it took to get there. Like get out of bed.

Finally, I got up. I was at that point running an hour late from my 1:30 arrival goal to set up the kissing booth and everything. The Booman’s kissing booth was already in the back of my nephew’s 15 year old F-150. The night before, I had a half hour lecture on how to treat his truck (they are the same age). I was trading my Jeep for the truck. He asked if I had any instructions for him. “Love of my life before Uncle Spencer. Don’t break it.” (Ohhh…I appreciate my little Jeep soo much now!)

I got everything packed, including Spudly, and went to find the Booman. He had been helping me pack, crawling all over the back of the truck, until the moment I needed to put him in that box. He knew. He hates the box.

So I got on the road with an estimated arrival time of 2:50. And you know what? I made it. No. Really. I did. I got off the freeway at the appropriate time and was following the Westin Galleria’s directions and was going to be there almost in time. The directions sucked. I was running out of fuel in this diesel truck the same age as my nephew. Spencer called me. I was trying to pay attention to the directions and talk to him. I do not talk on the phone and drive at the same time, except when I have to. I told him I had to drive and we hung up. After I’d followed the Westin Galleria’s directions and wound up at the gym by Spec’s, I called him back to tell him I was lost. We had an unproductive conversation full of confusion. “What?” I would say. “I’m nowhere near there. That was five minutes ago.” I was becoming frustrated. Becoming? Hmmm. I do have a long fuse, but watch out when I blow.

I finally found my way to the hotel and passed it. No way I was going to pull up to the hotel valet in a 15 year old mud covered truck sporting a bumper sticker that said “Support Beef: Run Over a Chicken.” I was circling around the block to return to the parking garage when I ran out of fuel at a stop light. The tears welled up. Oh great. Oh crap.

There I sat at a major intersection in the Houston Galleria area with no way to move. Out of fuel.

We are saved at the moment we need it most. I saw the front/rear switch, remembered there were two tanks and flipped it. Several tries later, just after the light turned green, the engine started. Woohoo! I was on Westheimer, so I just had to turn back onto Sage and circle back to Alabama and the hotel. I decided to call Spencer and tell him that I still hate Houston.

That was the karma catalyst, I’m sure.

The phone was not in my bag. After it had fallen behind the seat earlier in the day, and I’d retrieved it, I’d been sure to put it in my bag. After the last frustrated call, I guess I didn’t. So, sitting at the corner of Westheimer and Sage waiting on the left hand turn signal, I reached for my phone. That’s normally no big deal. There is a good gap between the seat and the back in this bench seat. A nice hole in the conjunction that accommodates the largest hand.

I couldn’t feel the phone. Lots of empty pop bottles. No phone. I reached farther back and thought I felt it. I stretched a bit more. No phone. So I pulled back. Well, make that I tried to pull back. I could not move my wrist. The light was still red. I took a breath and pulled harder. No movement; just pain.

“Oh shit! Oh crap!” The tears spilled. Only I could do this. I knew I had to get my hand out of there before it swelled and there was no way to retrieve it. I pulled again. I had flashbacks to being stuck under the sliding glass door poised like a guillotine on my neck. This was not fun, either.

The signal changed. I had to drive. So I did. One hand on the steering wheel and one twisted behind me. I saw buildings and a parking lot on the right and thought, “I need to park and get it out before it swells so much it never will.” I also thought about going to the Westin, but if I wasn’t going to pull in just because of the truck, you can bet there was no way in hell I was going to the valets with my hand stuck in the seat. So I pulled into a parking lot and parked in the middle. I reached for the seat middle console thingy to put it down so I could ease my hand out, but just reaching for it caused excruciating pain. I tried to reach for my seat belt: same result. I tried everything I could think of to no good end.

By this time, I was doing the hysterics thing. I started honking the horn and yelling. People looked. No one came to help.

Hmmm. What a surprise. A hysterical woman in an old pick-up truck screaming and honking in the middle of Houston’s Galleria area. Yeah. I’d run right up and help. Wouldn’t you? No. Scary.

Around this time, I realized that if I didn’t get my hand out soon, I’d lose it. My hand. I knew there was no circulation and just like frostbite, I could lose it. Faster than frostbite, maybe. Heck of a lot faster.

I saw cars parked closer to the buildings and decided to seek help there. I drove around the parking lot and saw an unfortunate woman getting into her SUV. I stopped behind her so she couldn’t move her vehicle and pleaded “Can you help me please?”

I saw her mind: you didn’t have to be psychic for that. Crazy woman in an old truck asking for money.

“Please,” I pleaded. “My hand is stuck.” (Say all that while having an asthma attack; I dare you!) I had to repeat several times.

I watched her think about it. “I can go get someone to help you,” she said, and she went back into the spa she’d come out of. So much for her relaxation. A lady in a white coat and a Middle Eastern gentleman came out to see what was going on. They tried to help. She tried. I pulled into several parking spaces so the nice lady who got me some help could leave. I think she needs a new spa treatment soon.

The spa lady in the white coat set Boo’s carrier on the ground, but she could not get my arm out. The gentleman called the fire department. I looked at his phone and thought about Spencer.

“Could you call my husband?” I asked. “He’s at the Westin.”

So Spencer and all the folks who were waiting to give me directions to the hotel I could see if I would just pick up my phone found out that I was stuck. Not as in ran out of gas, but really and truly stuck. I don’t know what I told him, but Spencer jogged over to me.

In the mean time, the fire department showed up. You have no idea what a relief it is to hear sirens until you know they are coming to save you.

I thought they were very friendly, grinning from ear to ear. The Captain rode along and spoke to me. Such sweet firemen. Not as serious as the Conroe crew who freed me from the sliding glass door. Very jovial, this crew. They did manage to get my dented arm free without dismantling my nephew’s truck by doing what I thought of trying in the first place but was too stuck to do.

The Captain, still grinning, asked, “Is there anything else we can do for you, Ma’am?”

What is a person supposed to say to that? “Pose for my personal calendar?”

“Thank you, no,” I mumbled. “Don’t I get a bill?” (I got a big bill for the head through the sliding glass door.)

“No,” he grinned. “No charge.”

Considering everything they have to deal with, I’m thinking now that I was quite the treat. So about the time they were leaving, Spencer jogged up. I handed him the keys. We made it, just missing two rings in the end. No biggie. We made it. And I can type.

So I thought that was the end of the fun.

No. My name is Bobbi Jean Fickle, and I am here to make you laugh. My cats even cooperate.

Got my kitties together, got myself somewhat together, and later we wound up in Ring Five with John who claimed that at his age “nothing flames.” Hmmm. Nothing except my cat. I could not believe it. He was licking himself. Well, cats do that. What cats normally do not share with people is an ejaculation. I hid my face. OMG. My cat masturbated to fruition in a show ring. Did anyone see it? Yep. Everyone except Mark and the judge.

There was a videographer in the hall at that ring. His camera was not on. He said, “Thank goodness. We don’t want any kitty porn.” And his friends said, “What are you talking about? America’s Funniest Animals.” He came to our next ring and set his camera on the tripod aiming at my cat.

Someone told him, “You should come get this cat over here; it’s really cute.”

“No,” he said, “I’m doing 208.”

I told him, “He’s already had his cigarette.” Sure enough, no repeat on film.

The next day when I wondered why everyone was watching my cat, Janet said, “It was hard to miss. We thought he was having a seizure.”

And then Spudster did it again. Same ring, same cage. In the next ring, we were laughing, and Sharron said, “What happens in ring five stays in ring five.” Apparently not. Harley said, “Oh yeah, I heard about that at dinner last night.”

Oh Sunday, he was in the same ring, same cage. I’m not sure if anyone paid much attention to the judge’s table.