Round One:
Dog 1 ~ Dog Whisperer 0

It’s true that all of our friends call C the dog whisperer. When we go to people’s homes, dogs flock to her like cats in a room with someone they somehow know is allergic to them. She has an affinity for making dogs mind her and love her with little effort on her part. Sadly her reputation is now at stake. We are babysitting our friend’s puppy for the next four days while they toast margaritas in Cabo soaking up their sunny puppy free environment.

Yesterday was day one and it gave us just a taste of what’s to come in the next week. Sort of like tasting milk that expired in December. When we both got home from work it looked like the sunroom had been ransacked, the kind of Law and Order job where the perp is desperately looking for the one thing that could put him away for life. Not an inch of the floor was toy free. Okay, we can handle him playing all day if that exhausts some of his energy. It doesn’t.

Plan B: We’ll take him for a walk and expend just a little bit more of that energy. We took turns RUNNING with him on the walk. By the end of the second block C and I are panting messes where as he of boundless energy is just gearing up. Back at home after our walk and feeling pretty good about himself he took the opportunity to relieve himself on the sunroom floor. A pretty good size puddle I might add. It left us both asking; “What was wrong with the hundred trees we passed?” Water bowl picked up and clean up crew to the rescue and again we settle in for the night.

Or so we thought. When we moved into our house we babysat another friend’s dog who took it upon himself to claim our bed as his own with a hike of the leg and a little squirt. Well, you know the story one dog smells another dog and MUST reclaim the property in question as his own. So, we brought him downstairs to sleep in the room that he felt comfortable with ALL DAY LONG. A room free of other dogs previous markings. Turns out he only likes that room when we are gone. When we are home he doesn’t want to be in that room. He told us in no uncertain barking terms that either one of us was going to spend the night downstairs or he was coming up. Consequently while my dog and my girlfriend collapsed in exhaustion upstairs, I laid on the couch until said puppy went to sleep.

This morning when I would normally be loading up on coffee and cigarettes doing the crossword puzzle, I was out walking him again. Again his energy is no match for my sedentary self, but at least I tried. Who knows I may lose a pound or two this week. Tonight we revert to Plan C which is play ‘til he drops. Maybe at the very least we can even the score.

7 Years 363 Days

C and I are a mere 48 hours away from celebrating our 8th anniversary. Up to now my relationships all seemed to follow a three year plan. The first year spent in the throes of honeymoon bliss. The second year in a state of utter complacency and the third year spent in a variation of the old Coyote Ugly metaphor where you would chew your own arm off just to get out.

This relationship has been different in every way. They say timing is everything and it is true. C and I met in 1992. Unfortunately at the time she wasn’t single. More unfortunate is the fact that when she was finally single I wasn’t. So, it took us 6 years but at last the timing was right.

A psychologist that spoke at our conference last week said every couple has 12 chronic unresolved issues at all times. I couldn’t help thinking is that 12 each? Because if you were to ask me to list my issues and ask C the same thing I am pretty sure we could come up with 24 easily. The trick however is to get past things like leaving your shoes under the coffee table despite the near death heart attack it causes when your partner sees them. The trick is laughter. If you don’t have a healthy dose of humor in your relationship I truly feel it will never work.

I think you know when something is right when 7 years and 363 days after you made a commitment you can still look at someone and be blown away by the love you feel for them. You want to go to lunch everyday, you want to fall asleep next to them every night and you can’t imagine a day when you won’t want these things.

I have always thought the term “soul mate” was a bit too hippy and touchy-feely for my taste but I can honestly say I have met mine. We don’t always like each other but we do always love each other. Eight years down and an infinite number to go!

When Sally Met Chinatown

I have always been a picky eater. I see nothing wrong with dressing on the side, no beans, rice with a side of rice, no veggies, is there broccoli in that because I don't want broccoli, and so on. I despise most waiters who don't write down my order because if I'm ordering you can bet I've changed something and if you don't write it down odds are I'm going to be sending it back.

I also have weird ideas on cross contamination. Although I have been told that our mothers would wash a chicken in the same sink as the veggies and we all lived, I am sure that salmonella and e-coli are at all times lurking in my kitchen waiting to strike. One of the greatest inventions are those little Clorox wipes that kill 99.99% of germs.

On a recent business trip to Philadelphia, I went sightseeing with a co-worker through Chinatown. First it was this:

Now, what is so disturbing about this is not the Peking duck hanging in the window. It is the RAW duck hanging there contaminating the rest of the ducks. One might as well walk in and order up a plate of salmonella.

And if you're not in the mood for salmonella try the seafood.

I have no idea what some of this stuff is but apparently if it comes from the sea and it can be caught, you can buy it at this market. The creepy elephant clam thingy in the right back bin made my toes curl.





We didn't eat in Chinatown that night. Thankfully. I'm afraid I'd still be there ordering.

"Peking duck please and if you wouldn't mind can I have one that was far from the raw duck. I'd also like one with extra crispy skin. A brown sauce but I want it on the side. No broccoli. No bamboo shoots. No water chesnuts. No peas or carrots. Extra spicy. And an order of steamed rice. Are you writing this down?"

Paul Tagliabue Where are You?

Dear Paul,

First let me say congrats on your retirement! I know you’re worried about who will be running the ship when you’re gone so I thought I might make a suggestion, Condoleeza Rice. Stop laughing, I’m serious. I know she has said publicly that this opening came around at the wrong time but I think you should really consider making the push. She has everything the NFL is looking for in a commissioner including a cool nickname, “warrior princess”. That ought to scare TO straight.

Now, I read somewhere that in 2004 only about half of your players had a college education. Condoleeza graduated with a degree in political science at the tender young age of 19. When she assumes the helm perhaps the NFL could start actively encouraging players to get their college education first as something to fall back on when their careers end in their twenties or thirties and they’ve blown every dime on fancy cars and women. Great idea huh?

You’re thinking no way, she’s a woman. Paul, 43% of your fan base are women. You add some of that Mrs. Munster, I’ll eat your heart out with a big gap toothed smile Conleeza style to the NFL and I’m seeing millions more in merchandising. It’ll be the greatest thing since the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.

Paul, come on, take one for the team. Team America! Get this woman out of the white house before she is on every news station defending the fact that we’re at war with the rest of the world.

Thanks,
Team America

World Traveler

In May, 1994 I did something so uncharacteristic it truly amazed everyone that knows what a wimp I am, I enrolled in a student exchange program in Campeche, Mexico. Below are excerpts from a journal I kept while in Mexico that only recently resurfaced when my mother (cold hearted space hog that she is) decided at thirty-five I really shouldn’t be storing stuff at her house any longer.

Regarding the shower in my room: “It took me ten minutes to get it working because there are four knobs and two have to be on, one off, then when you turn the other water comes out.”

In reference to being a passenger in the car: “No one must take drivers ed around here because riding in the car is terrifying.”

The bathroom again: “I tried working the bidet. Not a good idea to turn it on while bending over it.”

Later in the trip, lowering our standards or perhaps just getting used to a different way to describe full service hotel: “We went to a hotel in Ticul which looked great from the outside. The rooms were painted bright turquoise. The bathroom had no toilet seat or shower curtain but there was hot water- a plus!”

Rocking the palapa bar: “They had four American cd’s Def Leopard, Bryan Adams, Ace of Base (of course) and The Mutant Ninja Turtle soundtrack. Steve, Cindy, Kim and I danced on the small dance floor.” (I wish I could remember which of this wide array of music we danced to but alas the memory died at an early age of consumption)

From my follow up entry titled aptly “Things I forgot until now”:

Should have practiced Spanish before going: “The family kept calling me “Linda”. I thought they didn’t know my name but it means beautiful in Spanish.”

Disco dancing: “The disco had a ship theme with wooden columns, a small dance floor, 350 pesos for a bottle of champagne.” (Note to reader: on two previous occasions before our last night at the disco I had called my parents requesting additional funds. The fact that I was spending 350 pesos a pop for a bottle of champagne shames my adult heart but truth be told I’d do it again. I girl has to have priorities.)

How the other half lived: “Kay’s neighbors had pigs, chickens and goats. Mary Lou’s shower was in the middle of the room and the toilet was hidden from view by a curtain that blew up with the wind.”

At last the sun sets on Campeche: “Our last night before going to the disco we got a six pack and sat on the malacon for awhile, while we doing so a rat ran up from the ocean.”

Would you like to sample our new scent?

Sitting at my desk this afternoon I have laughed aloud several times at a little secret that has recently come out about one of our near and dear friends. She is a sample queen. Entering a department store she heads straight for the perfume counter and begins spraying not one, but multiple scents on herself. This alone was cause for laughter but it is the image of her ripping open the perfume sample inserted in a magazine and rubbing it vigorously on her neck and wrists that has me laughing like a loon. I love the innocence of it and how it reminds me of how excited I would get when my mother would give me the samples from a shopping trip. How I would horde the tiny glass tubes in my cheap vinyl purses using them sparingly lest I run out before our next trip to the mall.

I remember my first bottle of perfume. A whole bottle?! You could fit at least a hundred of those glass tubes in this sucker. It was Charlie, no doubt purchased at the local drugstore. I have actually sniffed at a bottle or two when buying mascara or something at Walgreens. Ugh! My poor parents having to smell that scent all day every day. It wasn’t until adulthood I was told a good three or four squirts on your neck, wrists, and chest were not necessary. I was a toxic cloud of cheap perfume roaming the halls of junior high leaving my peers to gasp for air when I walked by.

Oh, and then there was Tea Rose. My mother actually gagged every time I wore the stuff. I thought it made me more feminine and again applied it like a fresh coat of paint leaving no body part uncovered. For her own part my mother to this day wears four ounces of perfume every day. She doesn’t stop there either. She buys the box sets. Perfume, lotion and bath powder. Après shower it is lotion, powder then perfume. If you hug her at 10:00 a.m. you will still smell like her at 10:00 p.m. (the next day). That is actually one of my pet peeves. If I wanted to smell like someone else’s perfume I would buy it myself. Then again I could just subscribe to a few more magazines and be set.

Rockin' at the Rodeo

Carnival Tickets: $20.00
Blue Furry Hat: $15.00
Program with over 1,000 Photos: $15.00
Pink T-Shirt: $30.00
Funnel Cake, Bottled Water, Souvenir Beer and a Hot Dog: $20.00
Finding out Hillary Duff is a HOTTIE and having a legitimate excuse to be at her concert: Priceless

64,999 Screaming 8 Year Olds and Me

I have a serious case of the guilts today. My grandmother called and very sneakily during the conversation managed to slip in that my stepmother is going out of town tomorrow so she will not be able to take my sister to see Hillary Duff at the rodeo. I was aware of all of this information as the topic arose during my father and stepmother’s birthday dinner and my grandmother knew that when she mentioned it again. There was a time she would have stepped in to take Morgan herself, like the time she took me to see Flashdance because no one else was interested, but those days are long gone. So, I am left to weigh my options.

On the one hand I would score BIG points with my father, my stepmother and my sister. I would be the hero, the big sister who is fun and cool. It might be fun to take her to the carnival and torture her with rides that scare the sequined jeans right off her. At least I would have someone there that has the same insane passion for junk food that I do. This is a girl who dips her Thanksgiving turkey in ketchup! Also I took off from work the day after the concert so it really isn’t that big a deal if I stay out late.

On the other hand, Hillary Duff doesn’t have a ton of fans my age. I picture me and thousands of other mothers walking back to our cars with the glazed eyes of the living dead, our eardrums still ringing from the shrill cries of joy at seeing the anti-Britney. Would I show my age if I wore my bright pink foam earplugs? Is there anything worse than going to a concert where you don’t know one word from one song the artist is performing?

I just can’t get the picture out of my mind of Morgan going with my father who doesn’t even like music let alone preteen pop music. Decisions, decisions. I’ll let you know how the concert goes.

White Shoes, White Rabbits and White Chocolate

As a kid I looked forward to Easter with an excitement normally reserved for bigger holidays. To my mother’s dismay it had less to do with the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost as it did with clothes, a visit from the Easter bunny and chocolate.

Weeks before Easter we would hit the shops for a new dress. Something frilly with satin ribbons around the waist. White tights that by the end of the day would poke out at the knees, permanently stretched beyond their original form. The real prize was the pair of new white Patten leather shoes. The first scuff was like a dagger to the heart. Not to worry it’s nothing a squirt of Windex can’t fix. No Easter would be complete without a big, white floppy hat, preferably with the same color satin ribbon accenting the brim. At last I looked like a piece of chalk carrying a wicker basket in one hand and a stuffed bunny in the other.

Friends who joined us for Easter brunch at my grandmother’s house were always a little leery of the deviled eggs. My grandmother would always dye eggs before Easter but they were not your ordinary half one color half another color eggs. She would get the cups of dye ready, the kitchen smelling of vinegar and natural gas, then light a white candle. She would dip the blunt end of a stick pin in the wax and create intricate designs on the eggs before dipping them into the dye. I would do this with her but never with the same detailed results. My eggs had wax smears, my flowers and paisleys lopsided. Never one to waste food, she would peel and serve the dyed eggs at brunch as deviled eggs. There is something not quite right about eating a pink egg and the apprehension showed on every friend's face.

My father gave Easter Eve a sort of “too excited to sleep” kind of atmosphere. Before going to bed we would sprinkle white baby powder outside the front and back doors. That way he said we would be sure to know if the Easter Bunny visited because we would see his tracks. Once I was sleeping soundly, he would make potato stamps of bunny prints and arrange the tracks going in one door and out the other. Like rushing to see what’s under the Christmas tree, I would rush to the door to see if the Easter Bunny had visited. Once confirmation was made the search was on. I don’t know if most parents hid their children’s baskets but mine did. Would it be behind the curtains, inside my toy box, or maybe underneath the dining room table? A world of chocolate awaited me and I was not about to give up until I found my treasure.

I am thirty five years old now but sitting upstairs in a storage closet is an Easter basket my mother gave me last year. Only difference between this one and those of my childhood is I didn’t need to hunt for it, but don’t be fooled I would have done it in an instant.

Rawhide

A couple of years ago before C’s dad relinquished season tickets to the rodeo, this time of the year represented a sort of a drunken hell week. We waited patiently for the performers to be announced then snapped up the performances that seemed promising and in an instant our calendars were filled. Our daily routine went something like this:

Wake up go to work
Rush home from work to change
Rush to rodeo
Visit main Chorral Club for a few handfuls of Spanish peanuts and stale popcorn to wash down the drinks
Head off to the Chute Club for more drinks (no snacks this time thanks to full blown buzz)
Watch entire rodeo from Chute Club
Run to seats to see performance
Stop on way home for a night cap (or two)
Go to sleep (a.k.a. passout)
Next day do it all over again

One night somewhere between number eight and nine, C and another friend of ours decided we should go to the hideout for night caps. I protested. They whined and nagged. I protested. I really didn’t want to go. They whined and nagged me into submission, but a funny thing happened on the way to the hideout and I can only look back and call it KARMA.

Walking through the carnival, C decided to empty her Vodka filled bladder in a Port-O-Potty. Although some are in well lit areas so the already creepy, germ infested inside is not quite as scary, this one was not. There she stood, squatting over the smelly abyss wondering why there was no splash. As she tells it, she thought the thing was so full it might overflow at any moment. Alas, it wasn’t too full. Someone had left the lid down.

When she emerged from the Blue Palace her camel colored pants betrayed the stream that had run down the lid and filled the seat of her pants. Where once there was nothing a BIG dark spot covered her backside. I could have been understanding, but what sweet revenge after the whining and nagging. Instead I bought a book of carnival tickets to ride the greatest ride in the world The Scrambler. Unfortunately Karma wasn’t through with us yet because before the carnie could close the gate and start the car a’spinnin, a nice gentleman gave C his ride pass. There is nothing like being stuck in a two-seater glittery car slinging back and forth on someone else’s pee.

Tag (or a version thereof)

Duly Inspired tagged me as a reminder that there is no point having a blog if you don't post. Only problem is she sent me this musical exercise which leaves me to do one of two things; play along and out myself as Captain and Tenille's biggest fan or change this little exercise to a less embarrassing pursuit. I have chosen the latter. So Duly Inspired my answers are as follows:

1. Name an author: Stephen King
2. Are you male/female? The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon
3. Describe yourself: Firestarter
4. How do you feel about yourself? Desperation
5. Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend: Misery
6. Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend: Carrie
7. Describe where you want to be: Children of the Corn
8. Describe how you live: Everything's Eventual
9. Describe how you love: Storm of the Century
10. What would you ask if you had just one wish? Thinner
11. Share a few words of wisdom: Sometimes They Come Back
12. Now say goodbye: Quitters, Inc.

Probably not what you were expecting but I had a fun time doing it nonetheless.

Growing Pains

My eight year old sister has been learning a few of life’s less appealing lessons lately. It started with her fencing tournament this weekend (Thank you Lindsey Lohan in Parent Trap for making fencing so appealing to eight year olds. Let’s hope she doesn’t find your bout with anorexia as appealing). The organization that runs her fencing school has allowed a boy who JUST TURNED 9 to compete in the 8 and under group. When my sister found out she went nuts with indignation. She began planning what she would say if he won. How she would point out the unfairness of it all. As my father put it he couldn’t wait to see all of “her inbred, genetic aversion to injustice” kick in and hoped the guy was wearing a cup when it happened. As it turns out lesson number one is life isn’t fair.

She fenced the 9 year old who, again as my father put it, “whupped her ass”. Well this threw her off for the entire day, screwing with her confidence in every other match. In the end it was left to my father to let her know that life isn’t fair and that if the rules let him compete in her age group she will just need to deal with that fact. This particular lesson resulted in a lot of crying which the rest of us are not supposed to know. Realistically, did he expect anything less from an 8 year old? C, I can hear your response and no, I don’t want another lecture on sportsmanlike conduct. In this family we like to win and if we don’t we like to cry. Have I ever let you get away with one game of Skip Bow or Scrabble if you win the first?

To add insult to injury, my sister came home yesterday upset because a boy had hit her at school. She said he just kicked and punched her for no reason. Knowing the unlikelihood of an out of the blue ambush, my father asked for the whole story. As it turns out the boy and some of his friends were making fun of her because she had made a mistake during a soccer game. What really got her is one of the boys was her friend and even he laughed. So she kicked the boy who started it all and he hit back. Lesson two: boys do not hit girls.

My father agreed with her that boys do not hit girls under any circumstance. In fact, he told her, when he was young he once went on a trip up North to visit some cousins. At this time my father wore his hair in a white blond buzz cut just like every other boy in his hometown. He was introduced to his cousin Carey who proceeded to repeatedly beat the crap out of my father. Knowing that he could not hit her back, he went to my grandmother for some advice on what to do about the girl who kept hitting on him. My grandmother’s reply “That’s not a girl”. It seems my father didn’t know any other boys who wore their hair longer than a quarter inch and therefore assumed this cousin was a girl. Poor little Carey got his in the end.

In a way these stories make me smile and reflect on the hard learned lessons of my own childhood. In another sense it makes me sad to know that soon enough she’ll learn the bigger lessons; that life is unfair a lot more than you think. Today it’s a fencing match tomorrow it will be a boyfriend, a job, or something else just as heartbreaking to lose. That although boys aren’t supposed to hit girls, many of them aren’t taught that and become men who hit women. Hopefully she will carry this lesson around and if it ever happens she’ll have the courage to walk away. After kicking his ass.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

PWT

When I was seventeen I entered what would be the first of five colleges I would end up attending. My days were filled with backgammon, soap operas, and smoking cigarette after cigarette in a room the size of a prison cell. Evenings often involved driving the winding rural roads surrounding San Marcos listening to Guns-n-Roses drinking beer. Sometime during this year of freedom to exercise stupidity, I decided to get my first tattoo.

It was Christmas break and for the life of me I don’t remember what brought us to the seedy Montrose area that night. I remember drinking a bottle of cheap champagne (a habit I unfortunately have not kicked since that first year of college) then the next thing I know I have my leg hiked up on a stool while a fat man in leather shoots ink under my skin with a needle. I would love to tell you it was something cool, or at the very least something people would recognize, but alas my first permanent marking was nothing but the infinity sign. Yes, a sideways figure eight smack dab on my ankle that matched the one my girlfriend at the time put on her ankle. At least it wasn’t a name!

A year later when infinity ended and the relationship took a sharp turn in the downward direction, I attempted to cover the infinity sign with a shark. Why a shark you ask? It was on a model’s ankle in a magazine. The entire shot was of her ankle so I am not even sure what product the ad was for but boy did that tattoo speak to me. It said “you are a beach bunny with sandy blonde hair that glistens in the sun as you frolic in the waves on white sand beaches.” Truth be told, even after the tattoo I sadly remained a bleach blond, beer drinking, flunking out college student. A girl can dream.

After the tattoo, I wore socks whenever I was around my parents. Willing to fight the independence fight when it came to my curfew (“But I don’t have a curfew at the dorm”) but not yet willing to fight the doing the same stupid thing everyone is doing fight (“All my friends are getting them”). One day driving in the car with my father I had forgotten the all important socks. It took awhile but he noticed and asked, “What is that on your ankle?” I replied “A tattoo” with all the confidence I could muster. His response was “Congratulations, you have finally graduated to poor white trash”. Oh, but if he only knew what I did when I was twenty-one.

Ghosts of Christmas Present

Well, we survived another Christmas…barely. Christmas morning I woke up (unknowingly) next to Scrooge. Gone was my girlfriend and in her place was this mean spirited, bad mood, Scrooge. She even threatened to leave the house while everyone was over. She just needed a little reminder that if I stay she stays. Like the Marines we leave no man behind. This rule applies even more when twelve family members are going to descend upon our house in four hours. So Scrooge pulled it together and we were able to have all but the turkey and crab cakes ready when the nut house stopped the bus in front of our house and released its wards to our care for the afternoon.

Immediately following their entrance, our family members congregated not in the living room, not in the sunroom (both rooms with sufficient seating where nothing was going on) but in the kitchen. Not even the flames rising from the skillet could drive them away (the fire was minor and did not spread). When all food had finally reached the table everyone grabbed their plate and started filling up like we were running an all you can eat Chinese buffet.

My sister however exercised some restraint putting just two items on her plate; turkey and my grandmother’s spinach salad. Scrooge made it a point to sarcastically state that she was really branching out putting spinach on her plate at which point Morgan exclaimed “Spinach!! You mean there is spinach in this salad”. If I were my parents I would have called the private tutor and asked for my money back. This is the “spinach” salad served at every special occasion. We don’t call it “grandmother’s special salad” or “mandarin orange salad” it is always referred to as “spinach salad”. Throughout the meal Morgan shot side glances at everyone around her trying desperately to have someone, anyone, verify that there was in fact NO spinach on her plate.

After lunch we exchanged gifts then everyone packed up to head home with one exception, my aunt’s boyfriend who had been sleeping upstairs on our guest bed since arriving. Presents were in the car and he had not yet resurfaced. Scrooge and I dropped subtle hints then finally leaned in to ask my father if maybe someone had forgotten Ed upstairs. Seizing the opportunity to throw me into a panic he started telling everyone to hurry up and leave. In the end we did end up getting rid of Ed but not before I followed my aunt out to the car to verify that she would be taking him with her.

In the end it was a Christmas filled with family, good food, and lots of laughter but if the mother ship insists on giving me Scrooge again next year I may hop the bus back to the loony bin.

Nectar of the Gods

My grandmother recently advised me that if I had enough wine at Christmas dinner everything would be fine. This was in response to certain family members who will remain nameless (my father) that think 1:00 is too early for Christmas dinner. My grandmother doesn’t even drink that much wine anymore but back in the days that woman was a wino.

One year for a birthday we went to eat at a quaint Italian restaurant. It wasn’t too froo froo but it wasn’t plastic red and white checkered table cloths either. Most of us had a fabulous meal. My grandmother drank her meal and proceeded to get schnockered at the table so when my mother commented on how much she liked the breadsticks she began throwing them at her saying “Put them in your purse. You paid for them. They’re not going to serve them again. Put them in your purse!” I thought my grandfather would drop dead right then and there. My mother not knowing what to do began stuffing her purse full of bread so my grandmother would stop yelling. She had to vacuum the thing out when she got home to get rid of the bread crumbs.

For years most of the family would not lift a finger to help her clean the table. She would retreat to the kitchen alone. Well not alone. She had her wine. We could always tell when her buzz was kicking in because her singing and whistling would increase to deafening volumes. “You say toe-may-toe! I say toe-mah-toe! Oooooo, let’s call the whole thing off!” Hey, whatever made her happy washing a million dirty dishes. Who were we to break up the party?

Grandmother has stopped drinking as much but if you go to her house the telltale signs of her wine days are everywhere. She drinks Ernest & Julio Gallo Chablis… in a screw top jug. She has recycled countless jugs by propagating ivy vines in them then placing them strategically in every room of the house. If anything happens to her I am giving them to Christo and Jeanne-Claude. They could line them up along I-10 from one side of Texas to the other and call it art.