Too bad it wasn’t a prayer chain.
I’m not sure how James Carville and Mary Matalin do it but I’ll bet it can’t be easy. In our house I am the bald little man with the crazy eyebrows screaming that The Conservative Movement is RUINING THE WORLD. Only I’m not bald or a man. I take great pleasure in repeating newscasters (aloud for the Compassionate Conservative in the red leather chair next to me) when they report Bush’s approval ratings at an all time low. Dick Cheney does remind me of Darth Vader and I will not call Condi anything less than Condosleeza.
C for her part is partially to blame for all that ails the world or at least that is what I tell her when I remind her who she voted for in the past two elections. I say you’ve got to learn from your mistakes or all is naught. She either disagrees or it was too late to take back that second one. I have most of our friends on my side of the fence but not all. One friend in particular has been the target of many, many, many drunken political rages of mine. In the beginning it was a bleeding heart Liberal's dream come true, a real live person that will fight back while you bleed all over her. Not so anymore. I must have made the mistake once of giving up too soon and as they say an elephant never forgets because these days it’s harder and harder to get her to bite when I really need a good political bloodletting.
Today it was me with the hook in my mouth swimming in a sea of hell. C forwarded an e-mail to me and Duly Inspired . They were both Duly Inspired to Make Me Crazy. I could feel the shared glee they took in raising my blood pressure. Just so you both know you have bought yourselves a very long night listening to why that e-mail was all wrong. Duly Inspired this does not replace your grand prize of a good slap.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Suburban Cowgirl
For awhile when I lived with my father he insisted on hiring live-in housekeepers through an agency. The first go round was a very sweet lady from Brazil who I liked enough, with the exception of her insistence on trying to read me the Bible every night, in Spanish. He left it up to my stepmother the second go round and she hired a sweet, elderly woman named Esther. Her theory must have been that an old Southern woman would cook dishes for my father more reminiscent of what he was used to instead of the fried tofu he was turning his nose up to when she would cook. Esther did try to cook but her toast always ended up looking like a freshly polished black loafer.
Once (and only once) on her night off, Esther decided to drive from my father’s house in Katy all the way to Gilley’s for a hair raising good time. It must have been a doosy because at around 3:00 a.m. my father awoke to our neighbor, one that he had been feuding with for years, pounding on our door. Esther who had been in the house all of three seconds came running down the stairs screaming “It wasn’t me. He’s a liar!” Note to readers: Wait until you are accused to deny.
It seems our neighbor, who hears everything, (The feud was because he claimed to actually hear my cat walking around on his roof at night. So much so that he installed a tiny electric fence where the roof eave was close enough for Kitty to jump from the fence) claimed he heard a crash and that when he looked outside his white brick mailbox was gone. Esther was then seen fleeing her car for the safety of our house. My father calmly asked Esther if she had in fact run over the neighbor’s mailbox. Again Esther denied any involvement. It was then that the neighbor asked my father to step outside. Upon doing so he was faced with Esther’s brown, wood paneled station wagon parked in our driveway. The hood and roof were covered in brick and mortar.
Esther left us shortly after that night. She has probably since left this world for the big honky tonk in the sky. It is a shame she will never know just how much secret satisfaction we got out of her running over that mean man’s mailbox.
For awhile when I lived with my father he insisted on hiring live-in housekeepers through an agency. The first go round was a very sweet lady from Brazil who I liked enough, with the exception of her insistence on trying to read me the Bible every night, in Spanish. He left it up to my stepmother the second go round and she hired a sweet, elderly woman named Esther. Her theory must have been that an old Southern woman would cook dishes for my father more reminiscent of what he was used to instead of the fried tofu he was turning his nose up to when she would cook. Esther did try to cook but her toast always ended up looking like a freshly polished black loafer.
Once (and only once) on her night off, Esther decided to drive from my father’s house in Katy all the way to Gilley’s for a hair raising good time. It must have been a doosy because at around 3:00 a.m. my father awoke to our neighbor, one that he had been feuding with for years, pounding on our door. Esther who had been in the house all of three seconds came running down the stairs screaming “It wasn’t me. He’s a liar!” Note to readers: Wait until you are accused to deny.
It seems our neighbor, who hears everything, (The feud was because he claimed to actually hear my cat walking around on his roof at night. So much so that he installed a tiny electric fence where the roof eave was close enough for Kitty to jump from the fence) claimed he heard a crash and that when he looked outside his white brick mailbox was gone. Esther was then seen fleeing her car for the safety of our house. My father calmly asked Esther if she had in fact run over the neighbor’s mailbox. Again Esther denied any involvement. It was then that the neighbor asked my father to step outside. Upon doing so he was faced with Esther’s brown, wood paneled station wagon parked in our driveway. The hood and roof were covered in brick and mortar.
Esther left us shortly after that night. She has probably since left this world for the big honky tonk in the sky. It is a shame she will never know just how much secret satisfaction we got out of her running over that mean man’s mailbox.
Friday, April 21, 2006
April Showers
After our flaming mishap at the ranch last weekend I vowed I would find the Patron Saint of Rain. Well that's him, Saint Isidore of Madrid. His picture has been my desktop background for a week and every morning I've said a little prayer that he bless us with some rain. This morning the little guy answered my prayers and we woke up to thunder, lightening and a pouring rain. It didn't last long but beggars can't be choosers and I am just down right giddy over the storm. The ranch got an inch and a half last night. Let the green grass grow! Now, today I think I'll search for the Patron Saint of Weight Loss.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Stop, Drop and Cry
I am not good in a crisis. That is to say that during a crisis my normal reaction is to drop to the fetal position and cry. Actually it is one, the other, or a combination of both. Now, so as not to confuse you, I deem a “crisis” anything remotely unpleasant. My definition ranges from cutting my finger to funerals. It is my Scarlett O’Hara syndrome and I have had it for as long as I can remember.
When I was seven or eight, my father took a night job to make ends meet. During the day he would sleep late then attend classes at LSU while my mother worked all day. I cannot remember why I was home with him one day, but can only assume it was spring break or teacher's in service. My mother had left for work and my father was sleeping in. I had the brilliant idea to clean the house. Not wanting to waste any time, I stuck a couple of barrettes in my hair to keep both sides of the mushroom back and rolled up my nightgown sleeves.
I decided to start with the dishes. Seemed easy enough since all this really requires is a good rinse, load said dish in the dishwasher, throw in some soap and push a button. Simple really. But we were out of soap. Thinking back I thought I recalled that this had happened once before and my mother used laundry soap. Considering the results, I think I probably made that memory up to spread some of the blame. I loaded the entire little door thingy with laundry soap then for good measure filled up that little cup next to the one with the door for really tough baked on dirt.
Dishwasher loaded and turned on I went about dusting the living room the entire time patting myself on the back. I was the perfect daughter. I was letting my father sleep after a hard nights work and helping my poor overworked mother at the same time. I was definitely in the running for special treat. Maybe my parents would buy me a Wonder Woman comic book or give me chocolate pudding for dessert. My mother would tell all of her co-workers the next day who would have no choice but to ooh and aah at what a great daughter Connie has. Yes, in my mind I was a star. That is when I noticed the four inches of white foamy bubbles escaping from the kitchen.
A person without the proclivity to freak out at the slightest bump in the road would have waded into the bubbles and shut off the dishwasher. I am not that person. Not even a shadow of someone that sane. No, I ran crying out the door, nightgown flying behind me, mushroom hair bouncing with every desperate step I took to find our apartment maintenance man. Who, by the way, upon accessing the situation, waded through the bubbles and shut off the dishwasher. My father was awakened from a dead sleep to the sight of his daughter staring into a kitchen buried two feet deep in bubbles, crying. For his part, he shook his head, and told me I could have just woken him up. Clearly I did not get my penchant for drama from him.
I am not good in a crisis. That is to say that during a crisis my normal reaction is to drop to the fetal position and cry. Actually it is one, the other, or a combination of both. Now, so as not to confuse you, I deem a “crisis” anything remotely unpleasant. My definition ranges from cutting my finger to funerals. It is my Scarlett O’Hara syndrome and I have had it for as long as I can remember.
When I was seven or eight, my father took a night job to make ends meet. During the day he would sleep late then attend classes at LSU while my mother worked all day. I cannot remember why I was home with him one day, but can only assume it was spring break or teacher's in service. My mother had left for work and my father was sleeping in. I had the brilliant idea to clean the house. Not wanting to waste any time, I stuck a couple of barrettes in my hair to keep both sides of the mushroom back and rolled up my nightgown sleeves.
I decided to start with the dishes. Seemed easy enough since all this really requires is a good rinse, load said dish in the dishwasher, throw in some soap and push a button. Simple really. But we were out of soap. Thinking back I thought I recalled that this had happened once before and my mother used laundry soap. Considering the results, I think I probably made that memory up to spread some of the blame. I loaded the entire little door thingy with laundry soap then for good measure filled up that little cup next to the one with the door for really tough baked on dirt.
Dishwasher loaded and turned on I went about dusting the living room the entire time patting myself on the back. I was the perfect daughter. I was letting my father sleep after a hard nights work and helping my poor overworked mother at the same time. I was definitely in the running for special treat. Maybe my parents would buy me a Wonder Woman comic book or give me chocolate pudding for dessert. My mother would tell all of her co-workers the next day who would have no choice but to ooh and aah at what a great daughter Connie has. Yes, in my mind I was a star. That is when I noticed the four inches of white foamy bubbles escaping from the kitchen.
A person without the proclivity to freak out at the slightest bump in the road would have waded into the bubbles and shut off the dishwasher. I am not that person. Not even a shadow of someone that sane. No, I ran crying out the door, nightgown flying behind me, mushroom hair bouncing with every desperate step I took to find our apartment maintenance man. Who, by the way, upon accessing the situation, waded through the bubbles and shut off the dishwasher. My father was awakened from a dead sleep to the sight of his daughter staring into a kitchen buried two feet deep in bubbles, crying. For his part, he shook his head, and told me I could have just woken him up. Clearly I did not get my penchant for drama from him.
Monday, April 17, 2006
There's nothing you can do about it Sugar!
The last time it rained in Yorktown was last Memorial Day. We had spent the afternoon following a cow in labor through the pastures waiting for her to lie down and calve. Thunderheads rolled in from the South and gray sheets of rain began falling. We watched from the front porch as the cows huddled in the pasture against the stinging rain.
Next month it will be one year since that storm. One year since any rain has blessed this part of the country. We are obsessed with news of this historic drought. Three months ago we watched a grass fire on the horizon. Yellow smoke filled the air like a thick curtain. The volunteer fire department's siren echoed through our pasture as men were called from their daily duties to offer assistance. Later, we prayed that they were able to contain the fire before it destroyed too much land. We prayed that whoever's pasture had burned did not lose livestock. Sadly it turned out he had.
Today Fate's wheel stopped and it was our turn. We had spent the early afternoon parked under an Oak tree in the back pasture taking photos of the cows. We sat with the wind whipping through the field and watched the new calves sleeping or playing. After awhile I said I smelled smoke but we didn't see any on the horizon so it was just a fleeting thought. A forgotten comment that later comes back to haunt you. How could we forget that "where there's smoke there's fire".
We were up at the house around thirty minutes later when the phone rang and a neighbor asked C's father what he was burning in the back pasture. Knowing there is a burn ban in effect and taking into consideration the strong wind, she couldn't fathom what he would be burning back there. As it turns out the catylitic converter on C's Suburban had ignited the grass underneath it and that was what we had smelled earlier. C's father called 911 while C and I raced to the back to make sure the cows were out of harms way. I have read articles on ranchers who lost cattle to fires. I always assumed it was because they had been trapped by a rapidly moving fire. Not so. When we arrived in the back pasture two of our favorite cows were standing less than three feet from flames that were rising two feet off the ground sniffing at it as if it were food.
C went into Mario Andretti mode as she did donuts in the pasture herding the cattle out of the gate with her car. I was running behind them screaming, waving my arms like a mad woman. We were able to get everyone we could see out of the pasture but until the fire was under control there was no way we could be sure we had moved everyone.
I can name at least three country songs that poke fun of the VFD but until the day comes that you need them you have no idea how dedicated these men are to do such a selfless job. In less than fifteen minutes three trucks were on the property fighting the fire. One man must have been out shopping for Easter Sunday because his wife and kids were in the car as he sped past me (having my first of a few miny breakdowns that day) to fight a fire on someone else's land. In addition to the volunteer fire department, two neighbors immediately came to help on their tractors, churning the fire line to dirt that wouldn't burn. This is what we lack inside the city limits. It is a sense of community where any one man's tragedy is a communal tragedy and therefore the community goes to all lengths to help.
In the end approximately fifteen acres burned. The fire department was able to extinguish the fire in two or so hours. We didn't lose any cattle. Now if it would just rain that patch will be the greenest reminder of a day that while traumatic taught me a very imprtant lesson. On the porch that evening still shaken from the day's events, I commented to C's father that he had kept amazing composure while this was all going on. He looked at me in all honesty and said "It's part of life. There's nothing you can do about it Sugar."
The last time it rained in Yorktown was last Memorial Day. We had spent the afternoon following a cow in labor through the pastures waiting for her to lie down and calve. Thunderheads rolled in from the South and gray sheets of rain began falling. We watched from the front porch as the cows huddled in the pasture against the stinging rain.
Next month it will be one year since that storm. One year since any rain has blessed this part of the country. We are obsessed with news of this historic drought. Three months ago we watched a grass fire on the horizon. Yellow smoke filled the air like a thick curtain. The volunteer fire department's siren echoed through our pasture as men were called from their daily duties to offer assistance. Later, we prayed that they were able to contain the fire before it destroyed too much land. We prayed that whoever's pasture had burned did not lose livestock. Sadly it turned out he had.
Today Fate's wheel stopped and it was our turn. We had spent the early afternoon parked under an Oak tree in the back pasture taking photos of the cows. We sat with the wind whipping through the field and watched the new calves sleeping or playing. After awhile I said I smelled smoke but we didn't see any on the horizon so it was just a fleeting thought. A forgotten comment that later comes back to haunt you. How could we forget that "where there's smoke there's fire".
We were up at the house around thirty minutes later when the phone rang and a neighbor asked C's father what he was burning in the back pasture. Knowing there is a burn ban in effect and taking into consideration the strong wind, she couldn't fathom what he would be burning back there. As it turns out the catylitic converter on C's Suburban had ignited the grass underneath it and that was what we had smelled earlier. C's father called 911 while C and I raced to the back to make sure the cows were out of harms way. I have read articles on ranchers who lost cattle to fires. I always assumed it was because they had been trapped by a rapidly moving fire. Not so. When we arrived in the back pasture two of our favorite cows were standing less than three feet from flames that were rising two feet off the ground sniffing at it as if it were food.
C went into Mario Andretti mode as she did donuts in the pasture herding the cattle out of the gate with her car. I was running behind them screaming, waving my arms like a mad woman. We were able to get everyone we could see out of the pasture but until the fire was under control there was no way we could be sure we had moved everyone.
I can name at least three country songs that poke fun of the VFD but until the day comes that you need them you have no idea how dedicated these men are to do such a selfless job. In less than fifteen minutes three trucks were on the property fighting the fire. One man must have been out shopping for Easter Sunday because his wife and kids were in the car as he sped past me (having my first of a few miny breakdowns that day) to fight a fire on someone else's land. In addition to the volunteer fire department, two neighbors immediately came to help on their tractors, churning the fire line to dirt that wouldn't burn. This is what we lack inside the city limits. It is a sense of community where any one man's tragedy is a communal tragedy and therefore the community goes to all lengths to help.
In the end approximately fifteen acres burned. The fire department was able to extinguish the fire in two or so hours. We didn't lose any cattle. Now if it would just rain that patch will be the greenest reminder of a day that while traumatic taught me a very imprtant lesson. On the porch that evening still shaken from the day's events, I commented to C's father that he had kept amazing composure while this was all going on. He looked at me in all honesty and said "It's part of life. There's nothing you can do about it Sugar."
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Rounds 2-4
Beaten but Not Broken
Ah, two days later. Tuesday started out on the right foot. A walk in the morning for the Tasmanian devil then off to work. He and Isaac spent the first part of the day lazing in the sunshine in the backyard. Not a stick, pool cushion, garden glove, dog brush, or plant was chewed. No one escaped and we were pretty pleased with ourselves when we got home. After work it was time for another brisk walk then C and I went to dinner.
Now, a friend in need is a friend indeed, but a friend in need with a big backyard is the greatest! After dinner we went to a friend’s house around the corner dogs in tow to sit outside, solve the world’s problems, and let the dogs play. All was well until we got home. One second C was on her way up the garage stairs the next she was flying backwards, rolling down the concrete steps. It seems in his rush to get in the door for some more play time, crazy man clipped her just right. She hobbled up to bed while I sat downstairs waiting for him to go to sleep before I tiptoed up to our bedroom for some much needed rest.
With C injured it was up to me yesterday to run the ship. Dogs get breakfast, cats get breakfast, play time, then off to work. I was home early but too exhausted for an early walk so he of boundless energy was forced to wait until after dinner when we once again headed out the door. Me and my shin splints hobbling along, this big brown bouncing puppy taking a walk that was sure to make him sleepy. Not so. He laid down for a total of five seconds when we returned home then promptly picked up a tennis ball and began throwing it at me. Back to our friend’s house for more backyard ball play.
Again, when it was time for lights out I curled up on the couch as if I would be sleeping right there by him and waited for his breathing to become a slow, soothing rhythm. I think his sleeping from 10:00 p.m. to almost 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday had made me overly confident that last night would be much of the same. All went well until around 4:00 a.m. when the cat decided he would walk right up to the back door and meow at the dog through the glass. Lots of barking and whining later (on his part and mine) we again settled down with me back on the couch and him on his bed keeping a close eye on the porch through the door.
I should have just fallen back asleep but I’ll be damned if I didn’t need to go to the bathroom. Choosing to step over the dog bed to go to the bathroom in the sunroom, I felt all of this rubbery stuff under my feet. Again, if you find yourself in this position just go back to sleep. Do not turn on the light. Because if you do you will find you are walking on what is left of your girlfriend’s favorite sandals. You will want to spend the next two hours gluing tiny pieces of rubber back together because when she wakes up in a bad mood over her broken rib you don’t want to be the one to tell her that she can wear the sandals but only one heel will have something separating it from the ground.
There is a bright side to all of this. First, the sandals cost $9.99 a pair. Second, C has a couple of pairs. Third, it is only fair that their dog went after C’s shoes because when Isaac was a puppy he chewed a MUCH more expensive pair of loafers of said puppy’s mother. Fourth, tomorrow we will be heading down to the ranch, puppy and worry free.
Beaten but Not Broken
Ah, two days later. Tuesday started out on the right foot. A walk in the morning for the Tasmanian devil then off to work. He and Isaac spent the first part of the day lazing in the sunshine in the backyard. Not a stick, pool cushion, garden glove, dog brush, or plant was chewed. No one escaped and we were pretty pleased with ourselves when we got home. After work it was time for another brisk walk then C and I went to dinner.
Now, a friend in need is a friend indeed, but a friend in need with a big backyard is the greatest! After dinner we went to a friend’s house around the corner dogs in tow to sit outside, solve the world’s problems, and let the dogs play. All was well until we got home. One second C was on her way up the garage stairs the next she was flying backwards, rolling down the concrete steps. It seems in his rush to get in the door for some more play time, crazy man clipped her just right. She hobbled up to bed while I sat downstairs waiting for him to go to sleep before I tiptoed up to our bedroom for some much needed rest.
With C injured it was up to me yesterday to run the ship. Dogs get breakfast, cats get breakfast, play time, then off to work. I was home early but too exhausted for an early walk so he of boundless energy was forced to wait until after dinner when we once again headed out the door. Me and my shin splints hobbling along, this big brown bouncing puppy taking a walk that was sure to make him sleepy. Not so. He laid down for a total of five seconds when we returned home then promptly picked up a tennis ball and began throwing it at me. Back to our friend’s house for more backyard ball play.
Again, when it was time for lights out I curled up on the couch as if I would be sleeping right there by him and waited for his breathing to become a slow, soothing rhythm. I think his sleeping from 10:00 p.m. to almost 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday had made me overly confident that last night would be much of the same. All went well until around 4:00 a.m. when the cat decided he would walk right up to the back door and meow at the dog through the glass. Lots of barking and whining later (on his part and mine) we again settled down with me back on the couch and him on his bed keeping a close eye on the porch through the door.
I should have just fallen back asleep but I’ll be damned if I didn’t need to go to the bathroom. Choosing to step over the dog bed to go to the bathroom in the sunroom, I felt all of this rubbery stuff under my feet. Again, if you find yourself in this position just go back to sleep. Do not turn on the light. Because if you do you will find you are walking on what is left of your girlfriend’s favorite sandals. You will want to spend the next two hours gluing tiny pieces of rubber back together because when she wakes up in a bad mood over her broken rib you don’t want to be the one to tell her that she can wear the sandals but only one heel will have something separating it from the ground.
There is a bright side to all of this. First, the sandals cost $9.99 a pair. Second, C has a couple of pairs. Third, it is only fair that their dog went after C’s shoes because when Isaac was a puppy he chewed a MUCH more expensive pair of loafers of said puppy’s mother. Fourth, tomorrow we will be heading down to the ranch, puppy and worry free.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
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!
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!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
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:
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?"
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
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
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
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
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.”
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.”
Monday, March 20, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, February 27, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, January 30, 2006
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.
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.
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.
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