so we pretty much live out in the sticks. we've got our wal-mart and our home depot and an entire antique shopping district but as far as "real" shopping goes, well, we've got to drive all the way in to san antonio.
and as we do, we pass by the evil "bass pro shops" empire.
now, i'm not saying there's anything intrinsically "wrong" with bass pro shops ... i don't want to get their CEO all riled up or anything ... it's just that being married to the guy i'm married to we rarely pass BY the bass pro shops where we don't GO IN TO the bass pro shops.
and that's just not my kind of shopping.
camouflage bedding.
beef jerky.
fishing boats.
turkey jerky.
guns.
alligator jerky.
did i mention that this bass pro shops it's absolutely HUGE? and that they carry jerky?
which means i can lose john in about 10 seconds flat only to find him 2 hours later caressing a 12 foot long smoker/grill you can actually hook up to a trailer hitch and cart around town. now that's what i call "meals on wheels".
it's enough to make me curl up underneath the stuffed elk and cry. you know the stuffed elk over by the indoor fish pond stocked with thousand pound catfish that terrify my 4 year old. actually, i find them kinda scary too. what kind of mutant fish has whiskers?
you may have seen us going in to bass pro shops before. i'm the 43 year old adult splayed out on the million degree asphalt kicking and screaming. that tantrum-throwing adult? yep, that's me.
but 11 year old daughter and i discovered a little somethin' somethin' way up on the second floor the other day, right behind the "bow hunting" department.
they carry women's shoes ....
and not just the hip-wader-slogging-through-the-swamp-frog-gigging kind of shoes but REAL shoes. girly shoes.
you know, the kind where your toenails show.
so daughter and i proceeded to go to town trying on shoes while john and "his" son were downstairs, lost somewhere in the bait aisle.
and that's when i realized my daughter, my precious little 11 year old daughter, has surpassed me in shoe size.
in fact, nothing in the bass pro shops inventory fit her.
yep, she's already a size 11+.
so we went toe-to-toe and it appears her big toe, the boss of all the other toes, is the culprit.
he's huge.
he's the goliath of big toes in the big toe world.
even in a pair of flip flops* her big toe hangs over the edge like a cliff diver eyeing the rocks below.
*sidebar: we used to call these "thongs" but daughter informs me that today's proper use of the word "thong" implies fabric being crammed up your fanny crack and therefore it's not appropriate to announce in the middle of the bass pro shop shoe department that we're intersted in TRYING ON THOSE THONGS. which, of course, give me license to stand there saying "thongs thongs thongs thongs" over and over again thereby driving 11 year old daughter in to a pre-teen humiliated frenzy.
now, i have to admit, my first unspoken thought as we're standing in the bass pro shop shoe department was "oh dang, she's outgrown everything i'm going to be able to buy off the rack ... she's going to require custom-made italian shoes for everything ..."
and then i was overcome with the "she's only 11 ... how BIG ARE HER FEET GOING TO BE?"
and then i looked over and realize this sweet little 11 year old girl also understood the unspoken - all the cute shoes she sees in nordstrom and macy's and neiman marcus and sometimes target aren't going to fit her.
and she's sad.
but in a flash of brilliance she looks at me with a little grin and says this:
"at least when someone tells me to 'act my age, not my shoe size' i can tell them I AM .... hahahahahahahahahahahahahahha"
and she cracks herself up.
and i'm relieved 'cause she's let me off the hook ... i don't have to justify marrying and procreating with a 6'7" man who is the carrier of the "huge foot" gene.
and i don't have to pull something out of my "mommy bag of tricks" to make her feel better about her giant feet.
she just figured it out all by herself ... her feet are what her feet are ... nothing we can do about how big they are or how big they might be so we might as well have a good laugh along the way.
last night we were "chatting" about the completion (or lack thereof) of her household chores and she looked at me, serious as can be, and told me to "stop messing with the sasquatch" ...
sasquatch? did she just call herself a sasquatch?
"awesome!" i told her. "that's one less halloween costume i have to figure out!"
and so it goes ...
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
crap, it's almost halloween ...
at least it feels like it around here. day after day the catalogs roll in. fancy costumes that cost a fortune and fall apart while my kids are still standing in the driveway.
yes, i've bought them.
yes, i'll continue to buy them.
why? genetics.
you see, in spite of the fact that i do consider myself a fairly creative person, i inherited "costume-block" from my mom.
i just don't see it: how to take a relatively normal-looking person and transform them via wildly creative, innovative and inexpensive measures in to something akin to a mardi gras float.
my mom couldn't pull it off when we were kids and, so far, i haven't managed to overcome this disability either.
so, i resort to buying them.
one year i did manage to recycle riley's dalmatian costume by stuffing wyatt in to it and then dressing riley up like cruella deville. that was pretty cute and maybe my highest score yet.
but this year, dangit, the superhero thing just won't go away.
and now the catalogs have gotten greedy ... they're including costumes for EVERYONE ... including mom, dad and the dog.
so, picture this: one big happy family, all dressed up from "The Wizard of Oz", heading out for an evening of group trick or treating.
this is the subliminal message i hear: "if you love your kids you and john will dress up like a big dorks and walk around in the dark asking for candy from your brand new neighbors who still, at this time, are under the assumption you're relatively normal. that assumption, of course, will be dashed into a million tiny pieces when they spot a 6'7" transvestite named dorothy on their front porch."
so wyatt's been hauling around his library of costume catalogs and our recent conversations are going something like this:
wyatt: "i want to be spiderman for halloween."
me: "yeah, buddy, you just told me that 200 times while i was buckling your carseat."
wyatt: "oh, well i want YOU, mommy, to wear THAT (pointing at the wonderwoman costume)"
me: "wow. i'm not dressing up like wonderwoman. i gave birth to your giant 10 pound 4 ounce head. that gets me out of halloween costumes forever. it's in the rule book."
wyatt: "well, can aunt bea be "spiderdog" then?
me: "i don't know how to make a "spiderdog" costume, buddy."
wyatt: "you don't have to you can just buy it right here."
and sure enough, there it is: the "spiderdog" costume.
i don't know, it'd be pretty cute. a little boy and his dog. spider-buddies.
plus, it'd be pretty good revenge on aunt bea for all the chewing she's been doing. "fine, you want to chew up my patio furniture? then you're going in to "spiderdog" timeout. wear this for a while and let's just see how badly you want to chew on my stuff."
as for riley, my sweet little innocent girl who can't bear for my bra strap to slip out and expose itself because it's "inappropriate" ... well, she wants to be "bad sandy" from the end of "Grease", not "sandy in the stupid skirt" from the beginning. nooooo, she wants to be tight-black-pants-cigarette-smoking-red-lipstick-wearing-shimmying-on-the-carnival-ride-in-johntravolta's-face sandy.
like i said before ... crap, it's almost halloween.
yes, i've bought them.
yes, i'll continue to buy them.
why? genetics.
you see, in spite of the fact that i do consider myself a fairly creative person, i inherited "costume-block" from my mom.
i just don't see it: how to take a relatively normal-looking person and transform them via wildly creative, innovative and inexpensive measures in to something akin to a mardi gras float.
my mom couldn't pull it off when we were kids and, so far, i haven't managed to overcome this disability either.
so, i resort to buying them.
one year i did manage to recycle riley's dalmatian costume by stuffing wyatt in to it and then dressing riley up like cruella deville. that was pretty cute and maybe my highest score yet.
but this year, dangit, the superhero thing just won't go away.
and now the catalogs have gotten greedy ... they're including costumes for EVERYONE ... including mom, dad and the dog.
so, picture this: one big happy family, all dressed up from "The Wizard of Oz", heading out for an evening of group trick or treating.
this is the subliminal message i hear: "if you love your kids you and john will dress up like a big dorks and walk around in the dark asking for candy from your brand new neighbors who still, at this time, are under the assumption you're relatively normal. that assumption, of course, will be dashed into a million tiny pieces when they spot a 6'7" transvestite named dorothy on their front porch."
so wyatt's been hauling around his library of costume catalogs and our recent conversations are going something like this:
wyatt: "i want to be spiderman for halloween."
me: "yeah, buddy, you just told me that 200 times while i was buckling your carseat."
wyatt: "oh, well i want YOU, mommy, to wear THAT (pointing at the wonderwoman costume)"
me: "wow. i'm not dressing up like wonderwoman. i gave birth to your giant 10 pound 4 ounce head. that gets me out of halloween costumes forever. it's in the rule book."
wyatt: "well, can aunt bea be "spiderdog" then?
me: "i don't know how to make a "spiderdog" costume, buddy."
wyatt: "you don't have to you can just buy it right here."
and sure enough, there it is: the "spiderdog" costume.
i don't know, it'd be pretty cute. a little boy and his dog. spider-buddies.
plus, it'd be pretty good revenge on aunt bea for all the chewing she's been doing. "fine, you want to chew up my patio furniture? then you're going in to "spiderdog" timeout. wear this for a while and let's just see how badly you want to chew on my stuff."
as for riley, my sweet little innocent girl who can't bear for my bra strap to slip out and expose itself because it's "inappropriate" ... well, she wants to be "bad sandy" from the end of "Grease", not "sandy in the stupid skirt" from the beginning. nooooo, she wants to be tight-black-pants-cigarette-smoking-red-lipstick-wearing-shimmying-on-the-carnival-ride-in-johntravolta's-face sandy.
like i said before ... crap, it's almost halloween.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
would it be wrong to have my dog stuffed?
i'm just wondering 'cause aunt bea is in "killer bea" mode right now.
she's chewing up the backyard at a rate of about $100 a day.
today it was the brand new grill cover and the hose to the "creepy crawly" pool cleaner.
so, i'm wondering, really, if the kids would notice if i took her down to the taxidermist and had her stuffed and mounted on wheels.
the kids could roll her around the neighborhood.
riley wouldn't have to pick up poop.
wyatt could still ride her around.
i love the dog. i really do. but the chewing thing ... well, if she survives the night i'm considering one of those hannibal lector masks from silence of the lambs. 'cause i suspect she could chew a standard dog muzzle right off her face.
i guess that's what 11 month old lab puppies do.
john went out this morning and yelled at her when he discovered she'd targeted his grill.
now, it's personal. a man and his grill.
then he stomped back in to the kitchen with wet feet and proceeded to slip and fall on his butt right there on the tile floor.
bad dog karma.
i love you john for yelling at our dog and taking the fall for me 'cause i was in more of a mindset of "wanna eat the grill cover? really? well, let's just see you eat the entire grill cover right here. right now. go on you big tough grill-cover-eatin' dog."
speaking of taxidermists ... my stepbrother once went on a "corporate hunting trip" down at the king ranch (that's the kind of thing you do when you work for a big oil company).
he shot a turkey and as part of the boondoggle trip his hosts offered to have it mounted for him and shipped to chicago, where he was living at the time.
about a month later a freight delivery truck shows up with an enormous crate.
yep, it's the turkey. he'd failed to realize as it was laying there dead on the ground that it had a wingspan of, like, 8 feet and the taxidermist had mounted it in full flight.
it was HUGE and being a man and all, he actually hung that thing from his ceiling. obviously, this happened back in his bachelor days when it was actually an option to display dead stuff in his house without getting divorced.
oh, another taxidermy thought ... grandma cox (the wayne newton-loving grandma cox who is turning 90 next april somebody PLEASE HELP ME get a birthday greeting from wayne!) once got riley a cute little stuffed kitty to put on her bed.
except that cute little stuffed kitty caused the same allergic reaction as the cute little live kitty we'd had to get rid of when riley's face swelled shut the day we brought the cat home. that and the cute little stuffed kitty was actually mounted on a board and looked so lifelife riley's babysitter wouldn't go into her bedroom 'cause it gave her the "creeps".
so, i ask grandma "where'd ya get the cute little stuffed kitty?" and she proceeds to tell me she found the greatest store that had all these stuffed animals that were "so incredibly lifelike".
ewwwwwwwwwww.
yep, we've already owned a stuffed cat ... a stuffed dog can't be too far behind.
she's chewing up the backyard at a rate of about $100 a day.
today it was the brand new grill cover and the hose to the "creepy crawly" pool cleaner.
so, i'm wondering, really, if the kids would notice if i took her down to the taxidermist and had her stuffed and mounted on wheels.
the kids could roll her around the neighborhood.
riley wouldn't have to pick up poop.
wyatt could still ride her around.
i love the dog. i really do. but the chewing thing ... well, if she survives the night i'm considering one of those hannibal lector masks from silence of the lambs. 'cause i suspect she could chew a standard dog muzzle right off her face.
i guess that's what 11 month old lab puppies do.
john went out this morning and yelled at her when he discovered she'd targeted his grill.
now, it's personal. a man and his grill.
then he stomped back in to the kitchen with wet feet and proceeded to slip and fall on his butt right there on the tile floor.
bad dog karma.
i love you john for yelling at our dog and taking the fall for me 'cause i was in more of a mindset of "wanna eat the grill cover? really? well, let's just see you eat the entire grill cover right here. right now. go on you big tough grill-cover-eatin' dog."
speaking of taxidermists ... my stepbrother once went on a "corporate hunting trip" down at the king ranch (that's the kind of thing you do when you work for a big oil company).
he shot a turkey and as part of the boondoggle trip his hosts offered to have it mounted for him and shipped to chicago, where he was living at the time.
about a month later a freight delivery truck shows up with an enormous crate.
yep, it's the turkey. he'd failed to realize as it was laying there dead on the ground that it had a wingspan of, like, 8 feet and the taxidermist had mounted it in full flight.
it was HUGE and being a man and all, he actually hung that thing from his ceiling. obviously, this happened back in his bachelor days when it was actually an option to display dead stuff in his house without getting divorced.
oh, another taxidermy thought ... grandma cox (the wayne newton-loving grandma cox who is turning 90 next april somebody PLEASE HELP ME get a birthday greeting from wayne!) once got riley a cute little stuffed kitty to put on her bed.
except that cute little stuffed kitty caused the same allergic reaction as the cute little live kitty we'd had to get rid of when riley's face swelled shut the day we brought the cat home. that and the cute little stuffed kitty was actually mounted on a board and looked so lifelife riley's babysitter wouldn't go into her bedroom 'cause it gave her the "creeps".
so, i ask grandma "where'd ya get the cute little stuffed kitty?" and she proceeds to tell me she found the greatest store that had all these stuffed animals that were "so incredibly lifelike".
ewwwwwwwwwww.
yep, we've already owned a stuffed cat ... a stuffed dog can't be too far behind.
The September 10th Manifesto
so, this is a "re-blog" ... something i wrote last year around my birthday ...
it was a good blog and i'll tell you how i know. most days i can't remember if i've showered or not. but i remember this blog because it made a difference for me when i had the "a ha" moment that precipitated it.
obviously some of the details have changed ... my writing style has changed a bit but here it is ... my "September 10th" manifesto ...
enjoy.
***
Sunday was my birthday. September 10. I don’t say that in order to solicit a bunch of belated birthday greetings. Although expensive gifts are always welcomed. Ha! No, I bring it up because I used to love my birthday. Growing up it usually meant I had the first birthday of the school year so my parties were bashes, with my entire class invited and I, of course, was the Queen in a paper hat – the center of attention - for those couple of hours.
During our annual “back to school clothes” shopping trips my mom would inevitably not purchase some of my favorite selections, to my disappointment, only to have them appear weeks later in birthday gifts. Sweet. I didn’t even mind that milestone 30th birthday, a “couple” of years past.
But they stopped being fun in 2001. The eve of 9/11.
We were in Texas, visiting my family, when the planes hit and we knew our life here in the U.S. would not feel “normal” again for a long, long time. For some reason we didn’t have my official birthday celebration on the 10th that year. We were waiting for some more family to fly in and join us. Of course all air travel was suspended for days that morning so they didn’t get there but we did manage to tear ourselves away from FOX and CNN later that evening to go eat some Mexican food. But it was a melancholy celebration, with our conversations entirely focused on the differences between my grandmother’s childhood and the world my daughter had been born in to. That day I could not see the possibility of optimism anywhere.
And ever since I’ve gotten into a little non-age-related funk around my birthday.
Until Sunday. We celebrated with grown-up friends on Saturday night so my entire birthday actually revolved around our family - me, my husband, and our children. And we did exactly as we pleased on Sunday. We got up early and hit the Castle Rock Arts Festival. Because we got there early, we were able to strike up a conversation with an amazing oil painter, Katherine McNeill http://www.katherinemcneill.com/ . John (an extremely talented artist for those of you who haven’t seen his work) engaged Ms. McNeill in a conversation about technique and before we knew it she’d pulled out a painting-in-progress and we all enjoyed a significant chunk of her time, with the kids actually getting to work on the painting with her. It was fun and creative and inspiring and priceless. Then on Sunday night we gathered around the island in our kitchen with boiled shrimp, fresh French bread, brie, grapes and chocolate cake ... my requested birthday dinner menu. We cranked up the iPod sound system and let the kids take turns spinning the tunes (everything from “Hillary Duff” to “Queen” to “Monty Python’s ‘The Galaxy Song’”) and we danced.
Sunday was a perfect day.
I didn’t get caught up in anything but hanging out with the people I love most in the world, celebrating and doing things that make my heart sing.
September 10, 2001. The last full day over 3,000 people spent with their friends, family and loved ones before their lives were suddenly and unexpectedly extinguished.
There were a lot of sweet, precious memories created that day. A lot of last photographs. A lot of last laughs. “Live every day as if it’s your last.” I’ve heard that phrase a thousand times, but remembering September 10, 2001 reminds me, again, how “serious” we should be taking that advice. Because for those people who boarded planes the next morning and went to work in tall buildings and reported for duty in secure buildings, September 10, 2001 was their last day on this earth. And the best way I can honor them, any and all politics and memorials and 21 gun salutes aside, is to live my life to the fullest every day without squandering one precious minute – it’s called living a life of intention. And I believe in my heart, if those 3,000 were to speak to those of us who remain, that would be their message.
So the birthday funk is over. I now choose to see September 10 as a day of celebration and life. It’s a reminder to me that tomorrow is NEVER guaranteed ... that all I have is right now ... and right now ... and right now ... It’s a day to celebrate the lives of those who didn’t live to see September 12, 2001 and to honor them by playing full out while living my one fabulous, extraordinary, precious life here on this earth!
Happy September 10th Everybody!"
it was a good blog and i'll tell you how i know. most days i can't remember if i've showered or not. but i remember this blog because it made a difference for me when i had the "a ha" moment that precipitated it.
obviously some of the details have changed ... my writing style has changed a bit but here it is ... my "September 10th" manifesto ...
enjoy.
***
Sunday was my birthday. September 10. I don’t say that in order to solicit a bunch of belated birthday greetings. Although expensive gifts are always welcomed. Ha! No, I bring it up because I used to love my birthday. Growing up it usually meant I had the first birthday of the school year so my parties were bashes, with my entire class invited and I, of course, was the Queen in a paper hat – the center of attention - for those couple of hours.
During our annual “back to school clothes” shopping trips my mom would inevitably not purchase some of my favorite selections, to my disappointment, only to have them appear weeks later in birthday gifts. Sweet. I didn’t even mind that milestone 30th birthday, a “couple” of years past.
But they stopped being fun in 2001. The eve of 9/11.
We were in Texas, visiting my family, when the planes hit and we knew our life here in the U.S. would not feel “normal” again for a long, long time. For some reason we didn’t have my official birthday celebration on the 10th that year. We were waiting for some more family to fly in and join us. Of course all air travel was suspended for days that morning so they didn’t get there but we did manage to tear ourselves away from FOX and CNN later that evening to go eat some Mexican food. But it was a melancholy celebration, with our conversations entirely focused on the differences between my grandmother’s childhood and the world my daughter had been born in to. That day I could not see the possibility of optimism anywhere.
And ever since I’ve gotten into a little non-age-related funk around my birthday.
Until Sunday. We celebrated with grown-up friends on Saturday night so my entire birthday actually revolved around our family - me, my husband, and our children. And we did exactly as we pleased on Sunday. We got up early and hit the Castle Rock Arts Festival. Because we got there early, we were able to strike up a conversation with an amazing oil painter, Katherine McNeill http://www.katherinemcneill.com/ . John (an extremely talented artist for those of you who haven’t seen his work) engaged Ms. McNeill in a conversation about technique and before we knew it she’d pulled out a painting-in-progress and we all enjoyed a significant chunk of her time, with the kids actually getting to work on the painting with her. It was fun and creative and inspiring and priceless. Then on Sunday night we gathered around the island in our kitchen with boiled shrimp, fresh French bread, brie, grapes and chocolate cake ... my requested birthday dinner menu. We cranked up the iPod sound system and let the kids take turns spinning the tunes (everything from “Hillary Duff” to “Queen” to “Monty Python’s ‘The Galaxy Song’”) and we danced.
Sunday was a perfect day.
I didn’t get caught up in anything but hanging out with the people I love most in the world, celebrating and doing things that make my heart sing.
September 10, 2001. The last full day over 3,000 people spent with their friends, family and loved ones before their lives were suddenly and unexpectedly extinguished.
There were a lot of sweet, precious memories created that day. A lot of last photographs. A lot of last laughs. “Live every day as if it’s your last.” I’ve heard that phrase a thousand times, but remembering September 10, 2001 reminds me, again, how “serious” we should be taking that advice. Because for those people who boarded planes the next morning and went to work in tall buildings and reported for duty in secure buildings, September 10, 2001 was their last day on this earth. And the best way I can honor them, any and all politics and memorials and 21 gun salutes aside, is to live my life to the fullest every day without squandering one precious minute – it’s called living a life of intention. And I believe in my heart, if those 3,000 were to speak to those of us who remain, that would be their message.
So the birthday funk is over. I now choose to see September 10 as a day of celebration and life. It’s a reminder to me that tomorrow is NEVER guaranteed ... that all I have is right now ... and right now ... and right now ... It’s a day to celebrate the lives of those who didn’t live to see September 12, 2001 and to honor them by playing full out while living my one fabulous, extraordinary, precious life here on this earth!
Happy September 10th Everybody!"
Saturday, September 08, 2007
anything but fondue
we went over to my mom's house the other night for my early birthday dinner.
it's been a long time since she's put on a home-cooked birthday meal like the kind she pulled off so effortlessly when we were kids.
a couple of weeks ago she asked me what i'd like to have her cook for my birthday and before i could answer she quickly qualified her offer with "ANYTHING BUT FONDUE".
dang.
see, when we were kids, fondue was THE birthday meal. and my brother steven, being born just a week before me - albeit three years later, always wanted the same menu.
for a month our lives revolved around fondue.
now, we didn't do any sissy "warm cheese/melted chocolate" fondue. sure that was there too but the centerpiece of our fondue experience was like something out of a medieval horror show.
vats of boiling oil on the table, platters of raw meat we picked up with our fingers and stabbed on to forks long enough to poke your brother's eye out without even leaning over.
we loved it.
mom was always a complete basket case on "fondue night".
i mean, really, i've got two kids and on the rare occasion we fry up some bacon they won't step in to the kitchen without their swim goggles on, just in case there happens to be a wild smattering of grease aimed right for their eyes.
three kids and boiling oil at the dinner table? if someone banged their knee on the table leg we all dove for cover as the oil splashed around in the fondue pots like the tide was rolling in.
then, of course, there were the "fondue fork sword fights" - with or without the meat on the fork you can still pin your brother's scrawny little hand to the table. trust me, i've done it.
not long after we were married john and i went to a fondue restaurant in denver. "the melting pot", i believe it was. i was in heaven and john's summary of the evening went something like this:
"that's a lot of money to pay to cook your own food."
oh, he missed the heart of the culinary experience. see, i think it's something about the element of danger involved: there could be permanent disfigurements. multiple stabbings. all in the name of fine dining.
danger mixed with cheese and chocolate. yum.
a couple of years ago i dreamed up a saturday night live skit about a drive-thru fondue restaurant that would have definitely aired if only i'd had access to will farrell and lorne michaels. alas, their telephone numbers had fallen out of my rolodex.
so this little skit remains un-skitted.
who knows, maybe someone will forward my little blog on to someone in the know and weeks later we'll see some presidential candidate who's hosting SNL, perhaps obama or thompson, in my little drive-thru fondue skit.
and then someone will send me a million bucks for my brilliant creativity.
anyway, there's something about texas that makes me believe a drive-thru fondue restaurant could become a reality. one thing i've noticed percolating right under the surface out here, under the big and bright stars, is texans as a general rule have high regard for radical personal responsibility.
"listen, if you're dumb enough to pull up to a drive-thru window and place a styrofoam cup full of boiling oil between your legs so that you can cook your raw chicken with a 4 foot long pitchfork and then place that scalding piece of meat in your mouth while sitting in bumper to bumper traffic, GO RIGHT AHEAD. when you burn your tongue right out of your mouth and your noggin gets pinned to the headrest with your fork, you've got no one else to blame."
i love it.
texans are like the neighborhood dad you used to hate.
the "it's always fun 'till someone gets hurt" dad.
once i caught the vibe some peculiarities around here started to make sense.
bridges, or the lack of them: i have to drive through water to get in and out of my neighborhood. there's no fricking bridge. there's a low water crossing with a little flood gauge on the right hand side of the road. i have no idea at what level i shouldn't attempt to cross the river in my SUV. it's my choice as to whether or not i'm going to risk driving through 6 inches of water or 3 feet of water.
in "texan" it sounds something like this: we ain't putting up a bridge. if you drive through water and you drown, then you're a moron. too bad you chose to be a moron.
and then there's the firework's "safe zones": so up the road, right up next to the Interstate, sits a fenced in "firework's safe zone". cool. in colorado you can't set them off anywhere. down here in texas there's a fireworks stand on every corner. so we loaded up our car on the 4th of July to "safely" set off our $2,000 bag of fireworks.
we arrived and it looked like normandy beach in "saving private ryan". i do believe this was the scene francis scott key was referring to when he wrote the "star spangled banner" and referred to the rockets red glare. except maybe he didn't envision that red glare being a bottle rocket aimed at your head by a guy standing 2 feet away in a wifebeater tank top who's dodging the roman candle someone over by the fence is shooting at his buddy who's running our direction in order to avoid getting his big, giant baggy pants burned off.
in "texan" it sounds something like this: if you're dumb enough to go in there with 5,000 people playing with fire you deserved to get your panties blown off. next year, stay home.
buying a house: in colorado everything is a negotiation ... your inspection deadline, your inspection agreement deadline, etc. it's a "feel good" experience. but here in texas, you put in an offer on a home and you've got 10 days to get the house inspected and agree on who's gonna fix what. if you don't get it all done in 10 days, you pretty much own yourself an un-inspected home, or you lose your earnest money. you could have termites as big as your head spitting sawdust in your face and the house is still yours.
in "texan" it sounds something like this: get it done or quit crying about it.
yield signs: evidently a "yield" sign in texas means "slow down and let the other car in if you're feeling generous." that feeling, apparently, doesn't move over folks very often as we've determined you've got like a 50/50 chance the car coming down the frontage road is gonna take the sign serious enough to yield to you.
in "texan" it sounds something like this: if we were committed to folks on the frontage road stopping, we'd have put in a stop sign. a yield sign is more of a, um, "suggestion". if you want to avoid getting t-boned by a teenager in a pickup truck with a gun rack you should always assume they're on the "give it some gas!" side of the 50/50 equation. in other words, if you want to be sure you're not in a wreck, you gotta be the one doing the yielding.
so, the way i figure it, texas is a great place to open my dream drive-thru fondue restaurant. there's little chance i'll get sued when someone renders themselves infertile as they drive away with the "meat lovers super sized #9 combo meal with a side order of flaming wesson oil" pinched between their legs.
by the way, in case you're wondering, my dream fondue restaurant has a name ... it's called ...
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEat"!
it's been a long time since she's put on a home-cooked birthday meal like the kind she pulled off so effortlessly when we were kids.
a couple of weeks ago she asked me what i'd like to have her cook for my birthday and before i could answer she quickly qualified her offer with "ANYTHING BUT FONDUE".
dang.
see, when we were kids, fondue was THE birthday meal. and my brother steven, being born just a week before me - albeit three years later, always wanted the same menu.
for a month our lives revolved around fondue.
now, we didn't do any sissy "warm cheese/melted chocolate" fondue. sure that was there too but the centerpiece of our fondue experience was like something out of a medieval horror show.
vats of boiling oil on the table, platters of raw meat we picked up with our fingers and stabbed on to forks long enough to poke your brother's eye out without even leaning over.
we loved it.
mom was always a complete basket case on "fondue night".
i mean, really, i've got two kids and on the rare occasion we fry up some bacon they won't step in to the kitchen without their swim goggles on, just in case there happens to be a wild smattering of grease aimed right for their eyes.
three kids and boiling oil at the dinner table? if someone banged their knee on the table leg we all dove for cover as the oil splashed around in the fondue pots like the tide was rolling in.
then, of course, there were the "fondue fork sword fights" - with or without the meat on the fork you can still pin your brother's scrawny little hand to the table. trust me, i've done it.
not long after we were married john and i went to a fondue restaurant in denver. "the melting pot", i believe it was. i was in heaven and john's summary of the evening went something like this:
"that's a lot of money to pay to cook your own food."
oh, he missed the heart of the culinary experience. see, i think it's something about the element of danger involved: there could be permanent disfigurements. multiple stabbings. all in the name of fine dining.
danger mixed with cheese and chocolate. yum.
a couple of years ago i dreamed up a saturday night live skit about a drive-thru fondue restaurant that would have definitely aired if only i'd had access to will farrell and lorne michaels. alas, their telephone numbers had fallen out of my rolodex.
so this little skit remains un-skitted.
who knows, maybe someone will forward my little blog on to someone in the know and weeks later we'll see some presidential candidate who's hosting SNL, perhaps obama or thompson, in my little drive-thru fondue skit.
and then someone will send me a million bucks for my brilliant creativity.
anyway, there's something about texas that makes me believe a drive-thru fondue restaurant could become a reality. one thing i've noticed percolating right under the surface out here, under the big and bright stars, is texans as a general rule have high regard for radical personal responsibility.
"listen, if you're dumb enough to pull up to a drive-thru window and place a styrofoam cup full of boiling oil between your legs so that you can cook your raw chicken with a 4 foot long pitchfork and then place that scalding piece of meat in your mouth while sitting in bumper to bumper traffic, GO RIGHT AHEAD. when you burn your tongue right out of your mouth and your noggin gets pinned to the headrest with your fork, you've got no one else to blame."
i love it.
texans are like the neighborhood dad you used to hate.
the "it's always fun 'till someone gets hurt" dad.
once i caught the vibe some peculiarities around here started to make sense.
bridges, or the lack of them: i have to drive through water to get in and out of my neighborhood. there's no fricking bridge. there's a low water crossing with a little flood gauge on the right hand side of the road. i have no idea at what level i shouldn't attempt to cross the river in my SUV. it's my choice as to whether or not i'm going to risk driving through 6 inches of water or 3 feet of water.
in "texan" it sounds something like this: we ain't putting up a bridge. if you drive through water and you drown, then you're a moron. too bad you chose to be a moron.
and then there's the firework's "safe zones": so up the road, right up next to the Interstate, sits a fenced in "firework's safe zone". cool. in colorado you can't set them off anywhere. down here in texas there's a fireworks stand on every corner. so we loaded up our car on the 4th of July to "safely" set off our $2,000 bag of fireworks.
we arrived and it looked like normandy beach in "saving private ryan". i do believe this was the scene francis scott key was referring to when he wrote the "star spangled banner" and referred to the rockets red glare. except maybe he didn't envision that red glare being a bottle rocket aimed at your head by a guy standing 2 feet away in a wifebeater tank top who's dodging the roman candle someone over by the fence is shooting at his buddy who's running our direction in order to avoid getting his big, giant baggy pants burned off.
in "texan" it sounds something like this: if you're dumb enough to go in there with 5,000 people playing with fire you deserved to get your panties blown off. next year, stay home.
buying a house: in colorado everything is a negotiation ... your inspection deadline, your inspection agreement deadline, etc. it's a "feel good" experience. but here in texas, you put in an offer on a home and you've got 10 days to get the house inspected and agree on who's gonna fix what. if you don't get it all done in 10 days, you pretty much own yourself an un-inspected home, or you lose your earnest money. you could have termites as big as your head spitting sawdust in your face and the house is still yours.
in "texan" it sounds something like this: get it done or quit crying about it.
yield signs: evidently a "yield" sign in texas means "slow down and let the other car in if you're feeling generous." that feeling, apparently, doesn't move over folks very often as we've determined you've got like a 50/50 chance the car coming down the frontage road is gonna take the sign serious enough to yield to you.
in "texan" it sounds something like this: if we were committed to folks on the frontage road stopping, we'd have put in a stop sign. a yield sign is more of a, um, "suggestion". if you want to avoid getting t-boned by a teenager in a pickup truck with a gun rack you should always assume they're on the "give it some gas!" side of the 50/50 equation. in other words, if you want to be sure you're not in a wreck, you gotta be the one doing the yielding.
so, the way i figure it, texas is a great place to open my dream drive-thru fondue restaurant. there's little chance i'll get sued when someone renders themselves infertile as they drive away with the "meat lovers super sized #9 combo meal with a side order of flaming wesson oil" pinched between their legs.
by the way, in case you're wondering, my dream fondue restaurant has a name ... it's called ...
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEat"!
Friday, September 07, 2007
honey bea or killer bea?
so here's the disclaimer for today ... i work at home.
lots of days i don't shower until i get ready for bed.
sometimes i stay in my pajamas all day. some days it's a wet swimsuit.
i happened to be on a business call when i potty trained my little guy. he did the "big job" for the first time when i was on the phone with frank from texas.
you try balancing a phone on your shoulder, a toddler holding his ankles, a wad of toilet paper, and a chocolate kiss (as in "you poop in the toilet and i'll give you a piece of candy") all while carrying on a "professional" conversation. mercifully i did remember to mute out before telling wyatt WHAT A GOOD BOY HE IS POOPING LIKE A BIG BOY. frank has no idea how close he came to getting an ear-full of that.
i was chatting with my friend lisa the other day about the cycle of goal setting and goal getting.
several years ago we were both in the same situation: we had new babies at home and husbands who worked all the time. we didn't want to go back out in to the traditional workforce and we didn't want our husbands to go there either.
we wanted to have our cake and eat it too.
and we both pulled it off.
we set outrageous goals for ourselves and we got them. but then there's this little mechanism that kicks in ... "what's next?"
lisa reminded me that "what's next?" doesn't necessarily have to be anything new, or bigger or better. it might just be living the dream of working at home with my husband and my kids every day.
you gotta sell yourself every day on the dream.
be grateful for it. be grateful for what you've got.
so these posts ... well, they're not filled with profound revelations or office drama. just my life, for which i'm extremely grateful.
occasionally i DO have a profound revelation or two, but the most drama we get around here is usually generated by aunt bea, the dog, who has recently taken to acting out "baywatch for amphibians" as she frantically rescues frogs from our pool.
that dog, that sweet sweet aunt bea who rescues helpless creatures and lets wyatt ride her like a bull, well, we call her "the honey bea".
but this past week, her evil alter ego has emerged. we'll call her "killer bea".
you see, when she was just a puppy i trained her to fetch the newspaper in the mornings and bring it in to the house in exchange for a "pupcorn" treat.
when you get 80 inches of snow in one season and you have a near vertical driveway, as we did in colorado, a newspaper-retrieving dog comes in handy.
and she takes this job very seriously.
sure, there's food involved, but she brings that paper in every morning looking like a clydesdale. very proud of herself.
but this past week, killer bea has been taking this job WAY to seriously.
she's been "asking" to be let out at about 4am. you know the way they let you know they need out ... paw paw paw to the face.
so, rather than wake up to a steaming pile on my brand new carpeting, i obliged.
and, conveniently, she returned with the paper after doing her business.
we trade the paper for a pupcorn and got back to bed.
but last night i happened to already be awake at 4am and, hearing the paper delivery car drive past our house, realized that's when the paper gets delivered ... just in time to get the paw to the face.
sure enough, she trotted out, picked the paper up and came right back in without even so much as a decoy squat.
killer bea. bad bad wakin-me-up-way-too-early-just-to-get-the-paper-and-faking-the-potty-thing dog.
now, i could go the doggy door route, but that which lets the doggy out can also let the armadillo in. i do not like armadilloes in my yard and i do not want them in my house. imagine stubbing your toe on one of those bad boys in the middle of the night.
so tonight i will ignore the paw paw paw alert telling me THE PAPER IS HERE THE PAPER IS HERE. as much i enjoy the police blotter published in our little small town paper ... (actual post)
"Dispatch received a call at 3:02 pm by a man out on 'Hollerin Woman Creek Road' reporting that some teenagers were talking too loud. When he confronted them one young male pulled his shorts down to his ankles. Including his undershorts. There were some teenage girls there and they laughed. Also, one of them had on too short shorts."
now WHO doesn't want to wake up to that! i mean, really, that's enough to make you shoot coffee straight out of your nose and then i'm really really grateful i'm still in my pajamas ...
ahhh, life is good. really, really good.
even with killer bea.
lots of days i don't shower until i get ready for bed.
sometimes i stay in my pajamas all day. some days it's a wet swimsuit.
i happened to be on a business call when i potty trained my little guy. he did the "big job" for the first time when i was on the phone with frank from texas.
you try balancing a phone on your shoulder, a toddler holding his ankles, a wad of toilet paper, and a chocolate kiss (as in "you poop in the toilet and i'll give you a piece of candy") all while carrying on a "professional" conversation. mercifully i did remember to mute out before telling wyatt WHAT A GOOD BOY HE IS POOPING LIKE A BIG BOY. frank has no idea how close he came to getting an ear-full of that.
i was chatting with my friend lisa the other day about the cycle of goal setting and goal getting.
several years ago we were both in the same situation: we had new babies at home and husbands who worked all the time. we didn't want to go back out in to the traditional workforce and we didn't want our husbands to go there either.
we wanted to have our cake and eat it too.
and we both pulled it off.
we set outrageous goals for ourselves and we got them. but then there's this little mechanism that kicks in ... "what's next?"
lisa reminded me that "what's next?" doesn't necessarily have to be anything new, or bigger or better. it might just be living the dream of working at home with my husband and my kids every day.
you gotta sell yourself every day on the dream.
be grateful for it. be grateful for what you've got.
so these posts ... well, they're not filled with profound revelations or office drama. just my life, for which i'm extremely grateful.
occasionally i DO have a profound revelation or two, but the most drama we get around here is usually generated by aunt bea, the dog, who has recently taken to acting out "baywatch for amphibians" as she frantically rescues frogs from our pool.
that dog, that sweet sweet aunt bea who rescues helpless creatures and lets wyatt ride her like a bull, well, we call her "the honey bea".
but this past week, her evil alter ego has emerged. we'll call her "killer bea".
you see, when she was just a puppy i trained her to fetch the newspaper in the mornings and bring it in to the house in exchange for a "pupcorn" treat.
when you get 80 inches of snow in one season and you have a near vertical driveway, as we did in colorado, a newspaper-retrieving dog comes in handy.
and she takes this job very seriously.
sure, there's food involved, but she brings that paper in every morning looking like a clydesdale. very proud of herself.
but this past week, killer bea has been taking this job WAY to seriously.
she's been "asking" to be let out at about 4am. you know the way they let you know they need out ... paw paw paw to the face.
so, rather than wake up to a steaming pile on my brand new carpeting, i obliged.
and, conveniently, she returned with the paper after doing her business.
we trade the paper for a pupcorn and got back to bed.
but last night i happened to already be awake at 4am and, hearing the paper delivery car drive past our house, realized that's when the paper gets delivered ... just in time to get the paw to the face.
sure enough, she trotted out, picked the paper up and came right back in without even so much as a decoy squat.
killer bea. bad bad wakin-me-up-way-too-early-just-to-get-the-paper-and-faking-the-potty-thing dog.
now, i could go the doggy door route, but that which lets the doggy out can also let the armadillo in. i do not like armadilloes in my yard and i do not want them in my house. imagine stubbing your toe on one of those bad boys in the middle of the night.
so tonight i will ignore the paw paw paw alert telling me THE PAPER IS HERE THE PAPER IS HERE. as much i enjoy the police blotter published in our little small town paper ... (actual post)
"Dispatch received a call at 3:02 pm by a man out on 'Hollerin Woman Creek Road' reporting that some teenagers were talking too loud. When he confronted them one young male pulled his shorts down to his ankles. Including his undershorts. There were some teenage girls there and they laughed. Also, one of them had on too short shorts."
now WHO doesn't want to wake up to that! i mean, really, that's enough to make you shoot coffee straight out of your nose and then i'm really really grateful i'm still in my pajamas ...
ahhh, life is good. really, really good.
even with killer bea.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
bat-man-panties
we were in wal-mart yesterday, collecting the final items on our "back to school" shopping list.
ick.
it's always those last couple of items that every store runs out of that gives me headaches.
this year, it's the "kindermat" - the little vinyl fold-up mat for preschool naps.
they're allllllll gone. bye bye. not a one to be found.
so i bought a yoga mat, thinking it might suffice. it doesn't, by the way, so don't attempt to slide one past your preschool director as i did ... evidently it MUST be vinyl. that way the kids won't attempt to get up and walk around during their naps as the electrical conductivity of vinyl against 4 year old skin causes an abundance of sweat, thereby adhering their little bodies TO THE MAT, making locomotion impossible. i think they grab them by their shoes and rip them off the mat at the end of naptime, like a big giant bandaid.
i digress.
so we're in wal-mart, in the toy aisle, looking for the vinyl mat.
and what wyatt really wants to do is shop for toys.
of course! i don't blame the guy. there's a zillion other things i'd rather shop for than vinyl mats.
but i'm on a mission to find THE MAT and failed to honor my little guy with at least a little stop by the superhero display.
by the time we head back to the front of the store with our non-compliant yoga mat (which got returned this morning, by the way) he's sporting "THE BIG LIP".
you know what i'm talking about.
the big giant bottom lip that creeps out when your 4 year old is caught in the throes of utter superhero disappointment.
"all i wanted to do was visit batman, mom"
so this is the problem with superheros around our house: the dog likes them better than the kids.
if you are stuffed, or 4 inches tall and plastic, your days are numbered in the jackson household 'cause aunt bea will sneak in to your room and find you in the middle of the night and chew your head off.
and i simply can't take another "teenage mutant ninja turtle" funeral around here. i really can't.
but superhero underwear? that i can do. the dog thinks they taste yucky.
so we detour off to the superhero underwear aisle and my big guy snags himself a 3 pack of batman "glow in the dark"* underwear.
*yeah, right, i pulled those suckers right over my head last night and popped in to wyatt's pitch dark room to give him a little "glow in the dark" thrill ... he didn't see a danged thing except his mom stretching out his brand new underwear. he darn near tore my pearl earrings out of my lobes yanking them off my head in disgust.
now, they package underwear a little different these days ... the come in a little plastic shell with a plastic hook which makes displaying them at 4-year-old eye level a snap. in my walmart they're hanging right next to the "fruit loops", "lucky charms", "count chocula" and the goldfish. as in the live kind.
wyatt discovered very quickly that this little hook fit nicely over his belt loop so he proudly wore his underwear around the store, through the checkout, out to the car, in to his carseat and back home.
so i was wondering, when did i lose the enthusiasm for lingerie that i would never consider just strapping on a brand new bra in nordstrom and wearing it out, over my clothes, to my car, all proud of my new purchase?
"looky looky", i'd say to the stranger who just parked 2 inches from my car door, "it's got UNDERWIRES! wanna feel 'em?"
but then mall security would probably get involved and i just don't fancy trying to explain why i'm all "lifted and separated" out in the parking lot.
so, the lesson for today is, always, always be grateful when your underwear don't glow in the dark ... or maybe it's to be grateful you don't stick to your mattress ...
i don't know ... you decide.
ick.
it's always those last couple of items that every store runs out of that gives me headaches.
this year, it's the "kindermat" - the little vinyl fold-up mat for preschool naps.
they're allllllll gone. bye bye. not a one to be found.
so i bought a yoga mat, thinking it might suffice. it doesn't, by the way, so don't attempt to slide one past your preschool director as i did ... evidently it MUST be vinyl. that way the kids won't attempt to get up and walk around during their naps as the electrical conductivity of vinyl against 4 year old skin causes an abundance of sweat, thereby adhering their little bodies TO THE MAT, making locomotion impossible. i think they grab them by their shoes and rip them off the mat at the end of naptime, like a big giant bandaid.
i digress.
so we're in wal-mart, in the toy aisle, looking for the vinyl mat.
and what wyatt really wants to do is shop for toys.
of course! i don't blame the guy. there's a zillion other things i'd rather shop for than vinyl mats.
but i'm on a mission to find THE MAT and failed to honor my little guy with at least a little stop by the superhero display.
by the time we head back to the front of the store with our non-compliant yoga mat (which got returned this morning, by the way) he's sporting "THE BIG LIP".
you know what i'm talking about.
the big giant bottom lip that creeps out when your 4 year old is caught in the throes of utter superhero disappointment.
"all i wanted to do was visit batman, mom"
so this is the problem with superheros around our house: the dog likes them better than the kids.
if you are stuffed, or 4 inches tall and plastic, your days are numbered in the jackson household 'cause aunt bea will sneak in to your room and find you in the middle of the night and chew your head off.
and i simply can't take another "teenage mutant ninja turtle" funeral around here. i really can't.
but superhero underwear? that i can do. the dog thinks they taste yucky.
so we detour off to the superhero underwear aisle and my big guy snags himself a 3 pack of batman "glow in the dark"* underwear.
*yeah, right, i pulled those suckers right over my head last night and popped in to wyatt's pitch dark room to give him a little "glow in the dark" thrill ... he didn't see a danged thing except his mom stretching out his brand new underwear. he darn near tore my pearl earrings out of my lobes yanking them off my head in disgust.
now, they package underwear a little different these days ... the come in a little plastic shell with a plastic hook which makes displaying them at 4-year-old eye level a snap. in my walmart they're hanging right next to the "fruit loops", "lucky charms", "count chocula" and the goldfish. as in the live kind.
wyatt discovered very quickly that this little hook fit nicely over his belt loop so he proudly wore his underwear around the store, through the checkout, out to the car, in to his carseat and back home.
so i was wondering, when did i lose the enthusiasm for lingerie that i would never consider just strapping on a brand new bra in nordstrom and wearing it out, over my clothes, to my car, all proud of my new purchase?
"looky looky", i'd say to the stranger who just parked 2 inches from my car door, "it's got UNDERWIRES! wanna feel 'em?"
but then mall security would probably get involved and i just don't fancy trying to explain why i'm all "lifted and separated" out in the parking lot.
so, the lesson for today is, always, always be grateful when your underwear don't glow in the dark ... or maybe it's to be grateful you don't stick to your mattress ...
i don't know ... you decide.
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