Target Practice
Yesterday was a beautiful day. Lots of sunshine and fresh air. C and I had lunch outside then sat on our back patio drinking mimosas looking through photo albums. Hmmm! Sounds innocent enough but those mimosas mixed with the four or five we already drank at lunch thus becoming much more of problem. At 5:30 we met friends for dinner and since we were at a Mexican food restaurant that doesn’t serve mimosas we switched to vodka. At this point the mimosas and vodka introduced themselves to each other and decided that impairing my better judgment was in order because after we left dinner we went for “one more” drink. You’ve been there and know how this works. People only say “one more” when they can no longer count how many they’ve had up to that point.
So, a bit late for a work night we dragged ourselves upstairs and promptly “fell asleep” (a.k.a. passed out). If you know me you know that I have a case of OCD when it comes to going to sleep without asking C if she set the alarm. I ask every night. Most of the times she will roll her eyes and answer in the affirmative but when she is feeling particularly evil she will say no then laugh as I squirm for five minutes. When I have had all I can take I get out of bed and walk to her side to confirm the alarm is set. Last night however my OCD was temporarily medicated and the alarm remained unset.
At 7:45, fifteen minutes before C has to be at work, the cat started screaming to be fed. Thank God, I thought. He is a hero. Or he was for all of fifteen minutes. C rushed out the door and I went back to sleep. Back to sleep that is until the cat decided I should get up NOW and feed him. He stood in our doorway meowing with everything he has. I tried screaming NOOOO but to no avail. The high pitched kitty speak continued.
Drastic times call for drastic measures. The first time he meowed after I told him NOOOO I threw a pair of C’s jeans at him that were on the bed. He curled up on them and continued to meow. The second time I threw a stuffed animal that for some reason has been in my nightstand since we won it at the rodeo carnival last year. He used it as a pillow and continued to meow. The third time I threw a book of matches at him. These he took as a toy, rolling over on his back, biting them and kicking with his back feet. Not wanting to admit I was awake at this point I put my head back down comfortable in the knowledge that the book of matches would keep him busy while I grabbed five more minutes. Not a chance. He meowed again and this time I threw a tube of chapstick right at his ass. Realizing he was in the direct line of fire for the remaining contents of my nightstand he hurriedly exited our bedroom and began screaming from the hall.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
American Idol
I had my shot. I did. The year was 1978 and Grease was playing in the theaters. My friend Doots and I had seen it at least fourteen times (That is a Freyism but what can I say? In my mind it was no less than fourteen times). We sat for hours next to the record player listening to the soundtrack, opening up the cover to stare at the photos inside, wishing we were Sandy dancing in Danny’s arms at the carnival. We hated Rizzo with a passion except for her solo Look at Me I’m Sandra Dee. We belted out the words “Hey, fungu, I’m Sandra Dee!” without ever realizing their meaning. We belted out all of the words and committed ourselves to imitating the casts every move. Skipping around the living room singing Summer Nights as if we were right there eating lunch outside Rydell High.
Sure that our talent should be shared with the world, we decided to put on Grease LIVE for our apartment complex. Doots was older and therefore trumped me when it came to picking her character. She had long blond hair (like Sandy). My mother kept my hair in a sort of dirty blond mushroom so it would be easier to grease back (like Danny). Eventually, I agreed to my role in the show but not before some very heated arguments.
What to wear? I wore jeans, rolled up at the ankle, a short sleeve t-shirt that I rolled up very Danny-like to show off my biceps and my father’s jacket. In my mind I was a T-Bird. In reality I was a scrawny, greased down mushroom hair, girl trying my best to look like a badass and failing miserably. Doots wore an outfit as close to Sandy’s dirty girl, hood outfit as we could find. I had these dress up shoes that used to be my aunt’s that I begrudgingly let her wear for the performance. The had a solid cork heal with two read cloth straps that crisscrossed each other on the top of the foot. Sexy, disco shoes!
Where to set up the stage? You know what they say, location, location, location. We decided the grassy yard adjacent to the pool would probably afford us the largest audience as people could watch from their lounge chairs through the iron metal fence. The upside. If they ran they would need to leave the pool area. Poor unsuspecting souls just wanted a tan.
Sadly the show closed after only one performance but I would bet if you asked anyone who lived in Tiger Plaza back then that happened to be walking their dog, or attempting to get some peace and quiet by the pool, they would tell you that we rocked. We were karaoke when karaoke wasn’t cool. Oh, how I miss that lack of embarrassment. These days it takes me three glasses of wine to sing You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma before a room full of geriatrics at the neighborhood steak house.
I had my shot. I did. The year was 1978 and Grease was playing in the theaters. My friend Doots and I had seen it at least fourteen times (That is a Freyism but what can I say? In my mind it was no less than fourteen times). We sat for hours next to the record player listening to the soundtrack, opening up the cover to stare at the photos inside, wishing we were Sandy dancing in Danny’s arms at the carnival. We hated Rizzo with a passion except for her solo Look at Me I’m Sandra Dee. We belted out the words “Hey, fungu, I’m Sandra Dee!” without ever realizing their meaning. We belted out all of the words and committed ourselves to imitating the casts every move. Skipping around the living room singing Summer Nights as if we were right there eating lunch outside Rydell High.
Sure that our talent should be shared with the world, we decided to put on Grease LIVE for our apartment complex. Doots was older and therefore trumped me when it came to picking her character. She had long blond hair (like Sandy). My mother kept my hair in a sort of dirty blond mushroom so it would be easier to grease back (like Danny). Eventually, I agreed to my role in the show but not before some very heated arguments.
What to wear? I wore jeans, rolled up at the ankle, a short sleeve t-shirt that I rolled up very Danny-like to show off my biceps and my father’s jacket. In my mind I was a T-Bird. In reality I was a scrawny, greased down mushroom hair, girl trying my best to look like a badass and failing miserably. Doots wore an outfit as close to Sandy’s dirty girl, hood outfit as we could find. I had these dress up shoes that used to be my aunt’s that I begrudgingly let her wear for the performance. The had a solid cork heal with two read cloth straps that crisscrossed each other on the top of the foot. Sexy, disco shoes!
Where to set up the stage? You know what they say, location, location, location. We decided the grassy yard adjacent to the pool would probably afford us the largest audience as people could watch from their lounge chairs through the iron metal fence. The upside. If they ran they would need to leave the pool area. Poor unsuspecting souls just wanted a tan.
Sadly the show closed after only one performance but I would bet if you asked anyone who lived in Tiger Plaza back then that happened to be walking their dog, or attempting to get some peace and quiet by the pool, they would tell you that we rocked. We were karaoke when karaoke wasn’t cool. Oh, how I miss that lack of embarrassment. These days it takes me three glasses of wine to sing You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma before a room full of geriatrics at the neighborhood steak house.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
No Place To Go But Up
When I moved to Lubbock I knew it would be an adjustment. I had very few friends with the exception of those I met through the girl I was dating at the time. All were soccer players so I volunteered as a team manager. I managed to sit on the sidelines of every practice and game reading or studying, making half hearted attempts at learning the rules of a game that I can say today I am no more knowledgeable about than I was then. Never playing sports in high school I didn’t understand the whole team camaraderie element so when I was included in the plan to pierce our noses before Thanksgiving break I jumped at the chance. At least we weren’t shaving our heads.
We piled into the goalie’s SUV and headed to the tattoo parlor in town. It was nothing like where I got my tattoos in Houston. There was no Westheimer in front carrying car loads of people out on the town on any given night. There were no characters hanging around; street kids, bikers and punk rock queens. No, this place was D-E-A-D. We were the only customers. This, as it turns out, served to limit my humiliation to only those who would bear witness to my cowardice of the night.
I didn’t want to go first so as girl after girl got her nose pierced I watched intently for signs of pain. A few winced. I saw a few tears collect in their eyes but all in all they all treated it as a non-event. When it came my turn, my heart raced and my palms began to sweat. I thought, “I can do this. My ears are pierced. TWO PLACES.” I remembered the gun when you got your ears pierced at cheap accessory shops in the mall. The POP of the gun then the whole ear lobe getting hot. Seconds later it would start throbbing so hard that I was sure if I looked in the mirror it would look like my heart left my chest for higher ground and settled in my ear lobe. How when it was over I always breathed a sigh of relief and thought to myself that wasn’t such a big deal after all.
I sat down on the black metal chair prepared for a similar piercing experience. Problem number one: they do not use guns to pierce your nose. They use a needle. Yep, that’s it. I could pierce my nose and fix a hem with one instrument. Problem Two: It hurts like hell! So much so that I promptly fell faint right out of the chair the second he pushed the needle through my nose. Coming to lying on the floor of a tattoo parlor in Lubbock, TX with a needle hanging out of my nose and a 500 pound biker named Ozzy peering over me I knew my life had hit a low the likes of which it had never seen.
I thought happiness was Lubbock Texas in my rear view mirror…
But memories like this just get nearer and dearer.
When I moved to Lubbock I knew it would be an adjustment. I had very few friends with the exception of those I met through the girl I was dating at the time. All were soccer players so I volunteered as a team manager. I managed to sit on the sidelines of every practice and game reading or studying, making half hearted attempts at learning the rules of a game that I can say today I am no more knowledgeable about than I was then. Never playing sports in high school I didn’t understand the whole team camaraderie element so when I was included in the plan to pierce our noses before Thanksgiving break I jumped at the chance. At least we weren’t shaving our heads.
We piled into the goalie’s SUV and headed to the tattoo parlor in town. It was nothing like where I got my tattoos in Houston. There was no Westheimer in front carrying car loads of people out on the town on any given night. There were no characters hanging around; street kids, bikers and punk rock queens. No, this place was D-E-A-D. We were the only customers. This, as it turns out, served to limit my humiliation to only those who would bear witness to my cowardice of the night.
I didn’t want to go first so as girl after girl got her nose pierced I watched intently for signs of pain. A few winced. I saw a few tears collect in their eyes but all in all they all treated it as a non-event. When it came my turn, my heart raced and my palms began to sweat. I thought, “I can do this. My ears are pierced. TWO PLACES.” I remembered the gun when you got your ears pierced at cheap accessory shops in the mall. The POP of the gun then the whole ear lobe getting hot. Seconds later it would start throbbing so hard that I was sure if I looked in the mirror it would look like my heart left my chest for higher ground and settled in my ear lobe. How when it was over I always breathed a sigh of relief and thought to myself that wasn’t such a big deal after all.
I sat down on the black metal chair prepared for a similar piercing experience. Problem number one: they do not use guns to pierce your nose. They use a needle. Yep, that’s it. I could pierce my nose and fix a hem with one instrument. Problem Two: It hurts like hell! So much so that I promptly fell faint right out of the chair the second he pushed the needle through my nose. Coming to lying on the floor of a tattoo parlor in Lubbock, TX with a needle hanging out of my nose and a 500 pound biker named Ozzy peering over me I knew my life had hit a low the likes of which it had never seen.
I thought happiness was Lubbock Texas in my rear view mirror…
But memories like this just get nearer and dearer.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Lovin' Labs
On our weekly trips to Yorktown, I have been reading Marley & Me by John Grogan aloud to C. We have laughed and cried at his experiences with his self proclaimed “world’s worst dog.” At once bonding with a fellow lab owner who sums up so well how they convey emotion, make you laugh, cry and comfort you. So many times we thought of Maggie who we lost just before we moved into our new house and couldn’t help but think that was a tiny blessing that she never had to brave our stairs.
In the backseat, head perched just behind my seat, staring longingly at C is our own little comedian, terror, and empathizer Isaac. Every now and then we read something in the book that makes us look back and ask him if he remembers when he did this or that.
Does he remember chewing? Do you remember eating your dog beds boy? Do you remember the time you squeezed your nose through the bars of your crate and ate right through the sheet rock? How about the first time we left you out of your crate? The teeth marks still ingrained in the wooden knob on the bed that told us you weren’t quite ready. The endless bags of charcoal you stole from beneath the barbeque pit? We were lucky with this one; he never really ate anything that couldn’t be replaced. C says we are due for a terror the next time.
For now however we’ll enjoy our time with a big lug of a canine who will let us dress him in anything, displays the greatest appreciation for any morsel of food you give him, sits right in front of you when you cry with the most worried look on his face, and when you yell at him will actually pout until you end up offering a heartfelt apology.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Go to Hell, I'm Reading
Yesterday at lunch C gave me a very big surprise. It seems her mother had read in the paper that an author I like, Greg Iles, would be signing his latest book at Murder By the Book and C agreed to take me. A book signing you say? The last signing I attended was when Ernest Gaines came to town and I thoroughly embarrassed myself. There he was this great writer of Southern African American literature, right in front of me, and all I could think to say was “Your wife’s dress is pretty.” Humiliating? Sure, but I think it made an impression.
So, on our way to the signing I tell C how excited I am and thank her for doing this which is surely not nearly as fun for her as watching football with one thousand strangers in a smoky sports bar. In return, and to ease the pain, I suggested we eat at a Cuban restaurant that we both love but is usually too far away from home to get the early bird blue haired special. That got her thinking maybe this artsy fartsy book stuff wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
My excitement level grew as we got closer. I wondered out loud if I would be able to see him clearly? Would we have to wait in line a long time before getting our book signed?
She looked at me like with this worried expression that betrayed her outer calm and says “Do you think there will be that many people here?”
“What did you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You and maybe ten or so people. Maybe just you.”
Insert eye roll non-verbal response here.
The evening went great and I walked out of that book store feeling like I had just attended an Aerosmith concert.
Yesterday at lunch C gave me a very big surprise. It seems her mother had read in the paper that an author I like, Greg Iles, would be signing his latest book at Murder By the Book and C agreed to take me. A book signing you say? The last signing I attended was when Ernest Gaines came to town and I thoroughly embarrassed myself. There he was this great writer of Southern African American literature, right in front of me, and all I could think to say was “Your wife’s dress is pretty.” Humiliating? Sure, but I think it made an impression.
So, on our way to the signing I tell C how excited I am and thank her for doing this which is surely not nearly as fun for her as watching football with one thousand strangers in a smoky sports bar. In return, and to ease the pain, I suggested we eat at a Cuban restaurant that we both love but is usually too far away from home to get the early bird blue haired special. That got her thinking maybe this artsy fartsy book stuff wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
My excitement level grew as we got closer. I wondered out loud if I would be able to see him clearly? Would we have to wait in line a long time before getting our book signed?
She looked at me like with this worried expression that betrayed her outer calm and says “Do you think there will be that many people here?”
“What did you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You and maybe ten or so people. Maybe just you.”
Insert eye roll non-verbal response here.
The evening went great and I walked out of that book store feeling like I had just attended an Aerosmith concert.
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