High drama

Life has really been passing at light-speed lately! Smithville has been perculating with events, particularly since last weekend.

The first Saturday in December marked the annual Festival of Lights which, this year, featured the dedication of the cookie sheet we used to create the World's Largest Gingerbread Man (as certified by the folks at Guinness...see page 124 of the 2009 Guinness Book) into a monument under which all future generations can take campy photos. Don't get me wrong, I love the big lug, but it reminds me of National Lampoon's Vacation where Clark implores his family to see the second largest ball of twine in the world. Physically, he reminds me of the StayPuft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters with his eternally jolly expression. Let's just hope some apocolyptic event doesn't occur in which he comes to life and summarily levels our historic downtown buildings.

The high point of the day for me was the finale of High School Musical as performed by the budding thespians of Smithville High School. My daughter was credited as 'Wildcat cheer leader'...not a huge stretch for her seeing as how she's been a cheer leader for a team with a feline mascot for three years now. Challenge or not, she was divine as was the rest of the cast. We laughed...we cried (well, we didn't cry but we cringed a couple of times as the inevitable goofs popped up but rejoiced in the flawless recovery from said goofs)....we felt a range of emotions. (They did a fantastic job!) One of the emotions I felt was disappointment in the fact that we were not allowed to take still photos or videotape the performance without the express written consent of Major League Baseball...I mean Disney. I don't care what they say about their love of families and all things good, when it comes to their precious pocketbooks, you might as well forget all that. As if we're going to take the videotape and dupe it a million times onto blank DVDs and sell them on the street corner of the area that's considered Chinatown in the closest major city....

Other than these events, it's been Christmas prep 24-7. Decorating, shopping, office partying (which is typically the most interesting kind of partying).

Neal and I had a very productive day of shopping yesterday in Austin. One of my stops was Ulta, where Neal refused to accompany me inside. I think he thought he would have to check his manhood at the door. Plus, someone in there could have taken a picture of him with their cellphone and posted it all over Facebook. He could never live that down. Instead, he chose to play with the kitties at the pet adoption day at PetSmart next door, a much more manly undertaking. (To be fair, he split time between the dogs and the cats but I did catch him making goo-goo eyes at a kitty when I came out of Ulta).

But...back to Ulta. I arrived totally stocked with numerous coupons and "buy-this-get-that-free" offers. I was so prepared you would have thought I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express the night before. I was no-nonsense in my mission, visiting only the displays that I absolutely had to visit to fulfill my list. I was intimately familiar with the exclusions and rules of usage for all my coupons and was prepared to split my items into multiple transactions in order to get maximum impact savings. I approached the register and started organizing my items into piles when the cashier stopped me mid-sentence and said "That's OK...we'll combine it all into one purchase." I thought "Wow....I think I may have stumbled upon a seasonal employee who doesn't care about the bottom-line and just wants to get through her shift with as little static as possible....YES!" She then scanned each item, scanned the three coupons I intended to use, then flipped over the catalog I brought and said "Did you want to use this coupon too? It's a mascara buy-one-get-one..." I think I fled the register to retrieve another mascara before she even finished the sentence. I arrived back to discover that she had entertained herself by flipping through and finding yet another coupon for an additional $5 off the entire purchase. I knew of the existence of this coupon but would never have had the intestinal fortitude to ask if I could use it in conjunction with the others. That would just be pushing the limits under normal circumstances -- but not with a seasonal employee.

I realized the extent of my good fortune when I overheard the customer at the register next to me try to utilize her coupons in the same manner only to be rebuffed by a stern-looking woman who appeared to be a manager of some type. She broke the news to the unlucky patron "Ma'am, I'm sorry but you can't use this coupon for this item...and this discount only applies to this type of make-up." I knew right away I needed to make a clean getaway before that customer divulged my good fortunes to the mean cashier lady. As I waited for what seemed like an eternity for my credit card to process, I locked eyes with my cashier. We communicated in an unspoken language that said "You better get out of here, fast." I scribbled a completely illegible signature onto the screen, threw down the stylus, and grabbed my bag as if I were robbing the place. "Have a good holiday!", screamed my cashier toward my back as I was halfway out the door. "You too!" I yelled over my shoulder.

You just never know where you'll run into good fortune. Sometimes the little things really make a difference and you are in the right place at the right time with the right answers. It reminds me of an incident in Sunday School this morning. Trent's class was taking a quiz and the instructor posed the question "What was Jesus' first miracle?" Trent knew right away and answered proudly that Jesus' first miracle was turning water into wine. I think maybe the other kids in his class were taken aback briefly since it was Trent's first day in that class and especially since he is the youngest student in there. Then, Trent added "That's from an Iron Maiden song."

Oh well, just goes to show....

A turkey of a pre-Thanksgiving task

Here I sit, just days before Thanksgiving, and I'm trying to organize my thoughts. Obviously, this requires a new blog entry.

As I gather my mental "to do " list, my mind keeps creeping back to this morning's task which was to remove all the shoe polish from the downtown merchants' windows that the cheerleaders so enthusiastically slathered onto the glass homecoming weekend. That means that the shoe polish has baked in the sun for about 2.5 months, and therefore was dangerously close to being a permanent display. With Festival of Lights quickly approaching (Dec. 6), it would be completely inappropriate to keep our football references visible. It's like having your Christmas lights up in July except even more tacky. Don't get me wrong -- the spirit slogans were very upbeat and everything was spelled correctly, but no one wants to be inundated with tiger paws and megaphones as they try to imagine themselves in a winter wonderland. Even if this is Texas.

Why was I charged with this mission, you ask? Because I am an employee of the Chamber of Commerce (who hosts Festival of Lights) and a cheer mom. There are zero degrees of separation. My daughter needed the community service hours (she has to perform 15 hours for cheerleading and probably some for student council...can't wait to find out what that will entail!) so she earned exactly two hours of credit before she had to be at theatre rehearsal this weekend and last weekend. So that left little ole me scrubbing the windows with vinegar and water plus a dash of Windex. (It makes for a tantalizing scent...in fact, that's why my mind keeps drifting back to this morning. I keep catching a whiff of myself.) So I was left with a dilemma...do I wait for her to help me finish this job or just go ahead and complete it myself?

Well, let's think it through. We're up against the clock (Dec 6). I don't feel like listening to her complain with every stroke of the towel she makes across the window. I can't very well leave a window half-done so that it reads "We are" when it previously read "We are #1". That's just an open invitation for some juvenile reprobate to complete that sentence with his own brand of vulgar humor. So...I concluded it would be best to just embrace this project as my own.

As I stood alone on Main Street, scraping and scrubbing away the Tiger Spirit, passerbys would comment to me such things as "What did you do to deserve this?" and "That looks like fun". Then, it occurred to me that they probably thought I was performing court-ordered community service. I was so embarrased by the prospect of being confused with a thug of some sort that I worked extra briskly just to get out of public view. Humiliation is always a good motivator.

At one point, the shoe-polish writing was so high up on the window that I marveled at how the cheerleaders were able to reach that height. Were they performing stunts as they decorated? It amazed me much like one would be amazed by Stonehenge or the pyramids. With the limited amount of tools and implements that were available to them, how did this result? Was it divine intervention of some sort? Alien involvement? Once I got past the initial amazement, it occurred to me that I too would have to reach radical heights to erase these markings. Crap.

The shop upon whose windows these markings appeared just happened to be open this morning for a few hours so they were kind enough to lend me a chair to stand on. Upon closing time, they repossessed their chair and I was left to my own devices. The window ledge was a good 6 inches, so I hoisted myself right up and began scrubbing. I felt like Spiderman. Then, I laughed as I imagined someone walking by while I screamed "Stay away from me or I'll jump!" That thought, in turn, made me chuckle and I lost my balance, plummeting three feet to the concrete surface below. Like a cat, I landed on my feet and was unphased but I quickly looked around to make sure no one witnessed this event.

Speaking of witnessing events, the four of us plus four of my daughter's friends went to see "Twilight" last night and I have to say I don't get all the fuss. I'm sure it's because I was the only person above the age of 12 who hadn't read the book prior to viewing the film. Half of the trip home from Austin last night was spent discussing what was wrong with the sequence of events and who was completely miscast in the movie. The girls' conversation made me more interested in reading the book than the movie did.

Forget Thanksgiving planning....I'm gonna veg out with Twilight. Then, when we go to the theater to see the sequal, I can wear an Edward t-shirt and audibly swoon when he appears on screen like the 6th grade girls in the row behind us did last night.

Computer gremlins and Halloween goblins

I logged on to find cobwebs collecting on this blog. Sorry for the extended vacay, but there's so much to be said that I can't succintly yet adequately express myself. I'll just hit the high points.

First, we all know the outcome of the election. May I refer you to the South Park episode that wraps it up so nicely like a Food Saver? It really captures the extremes on both sides with hilarity plus an Ocean's Eleven twist.

We lost one of our computers this past week, although temporarily. It's "in the shop" for an undetermined period and we have found it necessary to coordinate our computer usage among the members of our household. We even resorted to taking turns and using our computer time efficiently! (Body shiver) It was like living at the library except there are children talking loudly and other various distracting background noises. (So in other words, it's like living at the Smithville library.) Anyway, that could not stand for long. Neal quickly rushed to Best Buy and ushered in the newest member of our family, a bright red laptop. Its main stated purpose is for the new EMR system at the hospital but right now, it's used purely for entertainment. We all felt a little more normal when the person-to-computer ratio was restored to its previous level.

Halloween was awesome this year. Neal dressed like a beer and I as a beer waitress. The weather cooperated so we were not forced to cover our outrageously-priced costumes with jackets. My daughter went dressed as a Greek goddess and my son had a dual Halloween....he went to school dressed as a space commando -- until that high-priced, low-quality garment ripped at the waist, exposing his midsection. (Good thing he wasn't authentically "commando" if you know what I mean.) Therefore, we were pressed to compose a new, homemade costume just an hour prior to the commencement of trick-or-treating. We threw together elements of previously worn costumes plus old clothes and he emerged as a nerd. (I should try out for "Project Runway".) The best part was that he hardly broke character all night as we combed the town for candy. He would tell strangers "Did you do your geometry homework?...Because I did mine five times!" and then kind of snort-laugh. He also talked about Star Trek conventions and Lord of the Rings quite a bit. He was so convincing. I wonder where he picked up all that nerd culture? Hmmm....

Football season reached fever pitch after Smithville's first victory over La Grange in a decade but then quickly declined as we failed to capture another win for the remainder of the season. The team played better than anyone can remember and had a couple of close games that could easily have gone our way. Hopefully, we will at least shed automatic "whipping boy" status in our district. That will be measured by how many of our "away" games are the home team's "homecoming" games.

This past weekend, Neal and his 2007 first-place cookoff team attempted to defend their title at "Cookoff on the Colorado". Last year, Neal's ribs placed 7th overall and his team's chicken was unabashedly proclaimed #1 by the judges, helping to catapult them to the team title. This year, not so much. They didn't have an entry that placed in the top 20 for any category. It was deflating to say the least. Oh well, any day spent sitting around drinking beer, eating meat, and watching football is a day well spent no matter the outcome. Even if the Aggies gave up more points than ever in the history of Kyle Field. (Aggie Football -- breaking new records every week!)

We got more bugs than Windows Vista

Last week was not one fit for scrapbooking. The stomach bug overstepped its bounds and found its way into every muscle in my body. I was sicker than a new skateboard trick.

The thing that really bothers me about it all is that it hit every other member of my family and they weathered it much better than I did. It really leads me to question my commitment to fitness.

For Neal, "the bug" arrived weeks ago and was a prelude to what the rest of us could expect. He came out of it relatively unscathed after 24 short hours. When the remainder of us appeared healthy almost two weeks later, we thought we had dodged a bullet.

Not so. For my son, it reared its pukey head two Fridays ago, in the middle of the night. We had all attended the varsity football game just hours before the inaugural spew, and my son participated in his normal fourth-grade activities. He and his "gang" of friends roamed the stadium, alternately shoveling nachos and Skittles into their mouths, and playing pick-up games of tackle football behind the concession stand. He was warned numerous times by his father that those superfluous snacks would come back to haunt him at a later time but to no avail.

So, hours later as we slept peacefully in our beds, my son left his and stood in the doorway of our bedroom to proclaim his nausea and impending vomit episode. Then, the dam broke. It was as if his words were in a foot race with the digested contents of his stomach to see which one could leave his mouth the fastest.

I'll make this observation: nothing awakens you like the sound of wretching followed by liquid hitting concrete. I shot up out of bed and tried to tell my son to move the show into the bathroom but all I could manage to say was "Ahhhhhhh! Ahhhhh!" Neal went directly into "medical student internship" mode. He was absolutely on autopilot as he calmly walked into the kitchen to get the cleaning supplies and led our son by the arm into the bathroom. No words were uttered...he just took command of the situation.

I can hardly blame myself for my lack of coping skills. Neal has a clear advantage based on all those years he slept lightly on a cot at Texas Childrens Hospital, subconciously awaiting disaster to strike. The most experience I can claim is being mentally on-call for whatever my college roommate's friends would bring to our apartment at any and all hours (two situations in particular come to mind...one involves me being locked inside our upstairs apartment on a Saturday while D and her other friends went tubing down the Comal and the other involves an incident that was covered by the local news. Good times, huh D?) I learned to be on my toes during the course of those years but much like my tolerance for alcohol, it has gone by the wayside.

But I digress.....

My son made a brilliant and speedy recovery the next day, even trying to convince me that he was well enough to accompany his friend to Austin for some Halloween costume shopping. We argued briefly but I think even he knew that it was not a good idea to be in the middle of a crowded Party City in the event that hurling should re-ensue. Luckily, it never did.

Things remained relatively calm until Wednesday morning when I awoke being repulsed by the idea of a bowl of cereal. On any normal day, the kitchen is my second destination after getting out of bed but not that day. I waved the white flag and camped out in our bedroom for the next 24 hours. One thought haunted me throughout the day -- my daughter had sipped from my Coke Zero the day before.

Predictably, my daughter was complaining of nausea before she even made it through the school day on Wednesday. Of course, since she is such a confident individual, she was positive she could combat it with a magical combination of Tylenol, Ondansitron, and a good solid night of sleep and still make it to school on Thursday.

Needless to say, she slept from 9:00 pm Wednesday night until 1:00 pm on Thursday. (When I arrived in her room that morning to wake her up for school, she barely acknowledged my existence.)

Friday she was well enough to go to school and cheer in the pep rally. I was still dragging booty, however, and still am to some degree. At this point, I'm brimming with resentment. It's not like I want everyone else to be miserable -- I just want some healing parity.

The one bright spot is that I finally got rid of those last couple of pounds I've been struggling with. (Yes!)

Things are changing....'my friends"

Where did September go??? I know it's a tired cliche, but true nonetheless.

I think the alarm sounded when this dichotomous weather set in. I go to bed at night toasty as a Quizno's sub and wake up feeling like I'm in a cheap hotel room with an overzealous air conditioner because Neal is committed to sleeping with the windows open. As if I didn't have enough trouble getting out of bed as it was....now, it requires psychological prep. Anyone who knows me knows how much I hate to be cold. There's a reason I tolerate Texas summers...to benefit from Texas winters. It's the only investment I can bank on right now.

To all of you who have donated to my son's Walk for Diabetes fund, I'm giving you a cyber-hug. This is such an important disease to conquer because of the long-term damage it does to the body. My son's doctor is confident that a cure can be found within the next decade if a dedicated effort is made to follow up on recent developments. Again, thank you to all who have either donated or have kids who are raising money as well.

Beyond this, I've been lost in the political haze. I'm just flat-out disgusted at this point. I can't believe these two clowns topping the major party tickets are the best this country can do. I'm still waiting for the guy (or gal!) to come along who will actually follow the Constitution as intended. These two candidates have the depth of paper dolls. Obviously, I have my preference but please don't mistake it for a ringing endorsement. Even if my candidate gets elected, the American public will have to continue to play defense against his decisions.

Since it's politically incorrect to point out Obama's flaws, we have no comic relief other than what SNL has produced about Palin which I admit is pretty funny. The funniest thing I heard was when a talk radio station recently played a mock-commercial for McCain's latest "album" of songs about his "friends". The announcer would say "It contains all your favorites such as this classic..." and then they would play "I get by with a little help from my friends" by the Beatles where they would insert McCain's voice saying "my friends". I was laughing so hard, I nearly ran off the road when I heard it. Then, I went to pick up my daughter and re-enacted it for her...she agreed it was equally hilarious and made me promise not to sing it while she was drinking her Sprite. The only reason I refrained from doing so was because I didn't want to clean the Sprite/spit/snot mixture that would have been spread across the dashboard. Then, it turned into a game where we were trying to come up with other songs that contained "my friends" and doing a McCain voice. The funniest one we came up with was the Spice Girls ("If you wanna be my lover, you got to get with 'my friends').

Seriously, McCain needs to drop the words "my friends" from his vocabulary. It's just too distracting and there's no way he can get his message across with that phrase popping in every 10 seconds. (Hmmm...then again, maybe he should continue to do it for that very reason especially when talking about buying up people's mortgages.) Plus, if he keeps it up, we're going to have some raging alcoholics in this country after the next debate.

You just gotta laugh at it. That's the only survival tactic left....my friends.

Campy fun!

Guess who spent Saturday night "roughing it" (and by that, I mean not having internet access) AND sleeping in a tent? Not me, silly!

Neal took our son to what our local state park calls the "Texas Outdoor Families" program, which should be tag-lined "Camping for neophytes." They spent the day mimicking a park ranger in activities ranging the spectrum from tent-pitching to fire-starting to hook-baiting to properly cleaning/butchering a human carcass for consumption should the need arise (just kidding about the last one but Neal's medical training should suffice in that case).

Their first lesson was learned quickly...that would be to secure all food at the campsite before leaving it. Upon returning from the lake, Neal recovered a bag of gnawed-open marshmallows that had been left on the table. Apparently the critter who had worked so diligently to open that plastic bag and pry a marshamallow out of the outstretched corner was supremely disappointed by the taste and texture of the chewy confection, leaving it whole but looking as if a vampire had attacked it. Other than teethmarks on a few of them, the marshmallows were otherwise unscathed. After weighing the possible dangers, Neal determined that the marshmallows at the unopened end of the bag were still edible. Ewww. He did lay out an effective argument, namely that any cooties would be killed in the heat of the fire. I remained unconvinced -- not because he was scientifically incorrect, but because I couldn't get past it mentally.

My little boy spent the day fishing, kayaking, and geocaching with his dad, enhancing that all-important father-son relationship. By the end of the day, Neal was ready to talk to another adult so he called me with a dinner invitation, adding that I should bring Remington. I'm surprised the laptop computer didn't score an invitation but much to my surprise, Neal wasn't going through the DTs when I arrived. He was competent in his newfound skills, relaxed, and totally connected with nature...and an ice-cold beer.

Neal cooked the requisite meat-and-potatoes dinner which was actually quite delicious. While he was manning the grill, our son was escorting Remi throughout the campsite area which resulted in a Pied-Piper scenario.

Just prior to dinner, the "neighbors" brought a couple of ears of roasted corn over to our campsite. The man who walked them over looked surprised to see me, as I believe he assumed that Neal was a single dad since he was sans wedding ring and wearing mismatched clothes. The corn came off as a bit of a pity offering (a juicy, delicious pity offering). Little did he know that Neal was not lacking a partner in his life, just an uncooperative partner when it comes to sleeping among bugs I can't even identify.

Remi and I accompanied Neal and the boy to the "Sounds of nature" presentation after the meal, completing the "dinner and a show" package for the evening. The park rangers played the nighttime sounds that campers were likely to confront in the overnight hours and then explained why it would be downright silly for us to be scared! Duh! Remi was particularly interested in the animal sounds, providing his own responses including ear-perking, woofing, and whining under his breath. At a minimum, everyone present learned what a confused chocolate lab sounds like.

Driving out of the park that night was like taking a ride through a Disney movie. In the span of less than a mile, I passed a deer, a rabbit, and a raccoon. I can only assume that once everyone settled in for the night, they circled around the fairest girl in the park, draped her in a white cape, and placed a tiara made of berries on her head.

The park rangers didn't tell us exactly what that would sound like but I think we would recognize it when we hear it.

Is your refrigerator STILL running?

Anyone remember how much fun prank calling was? If you were a child of the 80s (or prior), I know you share those fond memories. I wonder how many hours my friends and I dedicated to the feckless torture of strangers and friends alike. I'd estimate our stranger-to-friend target ratio was about 2:1.

Strangers were always on the receiving end of a scenario where I, Sunshine McGee (my prank-call name), was calling from some fake airline to confirm their reservation to Australia. Endless hilarity ensued. Reactions ranged from light-hearted incredulity to hardcore resistance. It was like a box of chocolates...well, you know how the saying goes.

Friends (and more commonly "frenemies"), would be confronted with the magically-random opportunity to answer a trivia question for a pair of movie tickets. Nevermind that we claimed to be calling from a radio station in Dallas (which is a two-and-a-half hour drive from the kids we were punking) and frequently had to ask their parents for them by name if we didn't recognize their voices when the phone was answered. There were several occasions in which the victim would correctly answer the trivia question and we would tell them that they had an hour to come to the station to pick up their prize. Invariably, this would lead to whining, begging, and sometimes an argument in which we were sometimes forced to revoke the prize due to insubordination. Frequently, the call was cut short when the architects of this telephonic teasing (us) would start laughing uncontrollably.

But then caller ID came along and ruined everything. With all the conveniences technology has brought us, it sure has managed to take the fun out of some things. Now the closest thing to prank calling is to crash a stranger's blog and leave a tacky comment. That's kind of pointless since you don't get the instant gratification of witnessing the reaction first-hand.

There are some people I would love to prank-call. Bill O'Reilly tops my list. Given the right set of circumstances and a good back-story, I bet I could get a cuss word out of him within two minutes. Alce Baldwin is a close second (if he calls his own daughter a "selfish little pig", imagine the insults he reserves for a stranger....from Texas, no less) and Rosie O'Donnell rounds out my top three. All three of them take themselves WAAAAY too seriously and need to be brought down a few notches.

I have better things to do now....or so society dictates. Seriously, I do have a house I'm trying to unload. It appears that there aren't hoards of people out there waiting for five acres and a cat. (Actually, the cat is not included on the listing but everything is negotiable).

I'm not quite ready for "support hose" and a "Hover-round" yet

As I peek over the horizon toward my 20th high school reunion (a mere 2 years away), I really don't feel that old but outward signs are pointing otherwise.

Maybe it's because I missed that post-college period that most people go through where they get their first job out of college and although they are gainfully employed, they are still acclimating themselves from the college lifestyle. In other words, they show up to work hung over and nap in their car at lunch. I totally skipped that segment of life so perhaps I feel that I am aging prematurely. I don't feel deprived in any way; I just "fast-forwarded"a bit.

I'm deeply in denial about the fact that in four years, I'll go from being an Aggie grad to being an "Aggie Mom" (just don't expect to see me wearing a rhinestone-swathed visor with an "Aggie Mom" t-shirt tucked into elastic-waisted shorts and sensible shoes). My denial has such a deep-reaching effect that it prevents me from shopping in the Misses section at any given department store -- yep, that's me in the Junior's section trying to look inconspicuous. Unfortunately, the clothes in Juniors are starting to make me look ridiculous. This leaves me with the rather unappetizing choice of wearing jeans that barely cover my rear or head over to the Misses section and buy some jeans that come up to my armpits. No thanks.

Then there's the issue of music. I vividly recall a conversation I had with my own mother recently about how crappy the popular songs are 'nowadays' (I can't believe I said 'nowadays'...I'm now adopting the vernacular of an 80-year-old.) She properly pointed out that I sounded like an "old lady" which made my blood instantly run cold. However, I promptly pointed out that my own children agree with me on the state of today's music (or what passes as music). It would have been a good bet that I just properly brainwashed them except that I have uncovered a couple of pieces of evidence that support my argument.

Ladies and gentlemen, I submit for your consideration, Guitar Hero and Rock Band. You don't find but a handful of songs on each version of those games that were recorded after the mid-90s. Consider the target demographic for those games: kids from age 10 - 18, college students, beer-swilling unemployed losers, plus the occasional medical professional. You know darn well if there was a plethora of good rock songs out there right now, the record companies would be jumping at the chance to get them on these games. A decent new rock song is about as common as a Bigfoot sighting.

Exhibit B -- a list that I saw on Yahoo! today titled "Greatest Number One Songs" from the 60s to today. I read the comments (what a great use of my time) and most of them agreed with me that quality took a stark nosedive after 1990. Either Yahoo! commentary is almost entirely dominated by Gen X-ers or other people out there can properly identify trash when they hear it. I'm putting my money on the latter.

I think I've made my case rather convincingly. Of course, none of this changes the fact that I don't know how to text....but that's more an issue of laziness on my part. After all, you can teach an old dog new tricks. Or in my case, a near-middle-aged dog -- but only if she's willing.

Until then, I'll sit for a spell and watch the investing shows on Fox News on Saturday mornings and laugh at their witty Wall Street jokes. When I'm ready to learn to text, I'll let my daughter know.

Wait...you can't text on those "Jitterbug" phones, can you? Aw, foot!

Displaying model behavior

Spoiler alert! If you're an avid reader of "Southern Living" and joyously devour each issue as soon as it hits your mailbox/local newstand and you absolutely relish the element of surprise, do not read further.


For all others, please note that our little town of Smithville and its resident fashion house, Patricia Wolf Designs, will be featured in an upcoming spring 2009 issue. This morning, we hosted a photographer from this literary staple of the South (which ranks above "National Geographic" and "The New England Journal of Medicine" in terms of influence, at least in my estimation) as she snapped photos of myself and two others cavorting on Second Street clad from head-to-toe in Patricia Wolf pieces.


Allow me to be perfectly clear: While I still think Tyra Banks is certainly not smarter than a fifth grader, she does have a shred of my respect now. Modeling shoots are tedious, uncomfortable, and really bring every ounce of insecurity you ever had right out there for the world to see.

I was wearing a turquoise ankle-length skirt and long-sleeved shirt made of a silky synthetic blend that, trust me, did not allow the skin to breathe in a Texas summer, although I would appreciate its insulating properties on a crisp autumn evening. Layered over that was a gorgeous chocolate-brown suede jacket. To complete this lovely but seasonally-incompatible ensemble, I wore turquoise cowboy boots that were a half-size too small.


Despite the discomfort, I actually had a great time! The photographer was easy to please and encouraging, my fellow models were delightful, and the designer was very appreciative of our efforts. Having said all that, my photos could very well end up on the editing room floor...if so, at the very minimum I scored a sweet pair of jeans out of the deal which really makes me stoked since I'm all about bartering whenever possible.


In other news, it's homecoming week! The varsity team played tonight since it appears that Hurricane Ike will be making an uninvited appearance tomorrow night. Just when I thought I left the stress of hurricane season in my rearview mirror when we moved out of Houston, I didn't consider how the evacuation traffic patterns could really shut down our region. Personally, I'm getting a good chuckle watching Geraldo Rivera reporting from the seawall in Galveston...he's getting pummeled by waves every five minutes. For a guy in his 50s (60s, perhaps?...I haven't looked him up on Wikipedia), he's very agile as he is accustomed to dodging punches and airborne furniture. So although he hasn't lost his footing yet, it's just a matter of time. I'll wait it out.

And by the way, the Smithville Tigers are now 3-0...their best record since at least 1998. Since the Aggies and the Texans are going to have supremely disappointing records this year, this is the last shred of joy I will find in this football season.

Move over, Sarah Palin!

The signs, the bumper stickers, the hyperbole and rhetoric....I love election season!

Well, at the local level it seems we have our own female/phenom candidate in-house. My daughter ran (successfully) as treasurer of her class. The returns came in yesterday, supporting the informal polling data she had collected in the hallways and classrooms. Although she has never been the mayor of a small town or a community organizer (she's a school organizer, perhaps?), she has prepared by surrounding herself with qualified support-staff (that would be me with my accounting degree, who can show her how to balance a checking account and budget).

We funded our own campaign, which came out to a total of about $12. That included five posterboards, two smelly black markers, and an array of Sharpies in striking colors. We labored meticulously, scouring the internet for catchy slogans like "Put your money where my math is!" and "FREE MONEY...(Now that I have your attention, vote for me for treasurer!)" We sketched, colored, and decorated each poster with love. Too bad that she never got to hang them up. Apparently, due to some campaign ugliness in years past, all campaign materials must be approved by "the man." (Two men, actually...and she didn't get her posters through all the channels of authority in a timely fashion).

She has also managed to avoid an uncomfortable vote. In the race for class secretary, she had a couple of candidates that she wanted to support so she effectively voted "present" in that contest, displaying no preference at all.

I probably shouldn't be posting this on the internet because it's definitely fodder for anyone who plans to challenge her in the future. Can you just hear it now: "She says she's a decisive candidate...but did you know that she didn't even vote for a secretary candidate in her own class elections? Does she really care about who is taking minutes at the meetings?"

Then, there's this gem: "She says she's efficient with money, but did you know about her wasteful campaign spending in the 2008 election? She spent $12 of her family's money on posters she didn't...even...use."

It all sounds so silly when you put it in the context of school elections, but it's a microcosm of what's going on at the national level right now. A small part of me wishes the election were held today so we could get back to watching the new season of "The Office" or some such. It's like I have a meth addiction and I'm secretly begging for someone to set up an intervention but in the meantime, I'm compelled to turn on the TV first thing in the morning to check the scandal meter for my "fix". It's a cycle of futility.

Someone call Dr. Phil.

Mum's the word

The 2008-09 school year has arrived and not a moment too soon! Actually, it arrived prematurely with the community-wide pep rally that went down at the football stadium last night. This is deliciously quintessential small town Texas at its best.

Aside from all the parents being appauled at the music used for the cheerleading dance (try living with a cheerleader who has to play it over and over and over while she rehearses!), the pre-season rally was smoother than Bill Clinton in a deposition. The weather was threatening prior to the event but soon gave way to clear skies under which the cheer squad performed to the musical talents(?) of one "Lil' Mama" who assured us via her lyrics that "my lip gloss is poppin'....my lip gloss is cool...the boys stop at my locker...they chase me after school" (actually, not 'school', but 'skoo'). At the very least, the positive side of this is that the artist is portraying herself as a student who is not practicing truancy as evidenced by the many suitors that accost her in the hallway during school hours. On the flip side, if said artist could learn to say "no" every once in a while, she wouldn't be in the quandry of being a "Lil' Mama" in the first place. Does that constitute a link between lip gloss and teenage pregnancy? Yours for the pondering.

However, for all its musical moral ambiguity, this event does foreshadow the impending arrival of homecoming. And with it comes the parade of mums, some so large they resemble medieval breastplates, bursting with ribbons, bells, whistles, baubles, and glitter that shroud the wearer in glory. Anyone who wonders where the cliche "everything is bigger in Texas" came from, the homecoming mum tradition may very well be the source.

The competition for the biggest and the best is on, people! Traditionally, a girl's homecoming date would be responsible for purchasing this monstrosity but the problem with that is two-fold. First of all, no one trusts their boyfriend to pick out an acceptable mum (translation: he's a cheapskate). Secondly, even if he goes to the local florist and lays out a bundle of cash, there is no guarantee that the mum won't resemble every other girl's mum in school. To quote Supernanny: "That's un-assep-TI-bul".

My daughter and I spent over an hour in Hobby Lobby just picking out the supplies. Ribbons were fondled...silk mums were closely examined for flaws and color-continuity...math was even utilized in calculating the black-to-orange ratio. In the process, hard decisions were made. Some supplies were "voted off the island", others retained for their suppleness, glittery properties, and/or noise-making potential. Hobby Lobby was clearly prepared, staffing the best personnel in the mum section. A clerk happened to pass our shopping cart and within three seconds of examing the contents, was able to identify what school we were representing. This man (yes, a man!) was clearly an expert in his field and I immediately put all trust in him. He led us straight over to a "hidden" display of goodies previously undiscovered by us. We gasped as he pointed to a cart full of ribbons that were printed with our school's name and mascot. My daughter and I were like Lewis and Clark and this clerk was like our Native American host, sharing his riches with us. We seized upon the cart with the enthusiasm normally reserved for Krispy Kreme donuts.

We left Hobby Lobby like a couple of grizzly bears on the verge of hibernation....with plenty of reserves on hand (we bought extra for next year) but physically exhausted. After some excessive shopping (we were already in Austin, so why not?), we headed back home and cleared the dining room table to give priority to the mum supplies. The table was borderline-sanitized to ensure that no food particles would make contact with our sublime ribbons. We gathered the instruments as if we were preparing to perform surgery. Scissors, check....glue gun, check...stapler, check. We were ready.

After hours of meticulous cutting, gluing, stapling, arranging, folding, curling, and tying, it was at last complete. It was full and glorious without being overdone and gawdy. It had depth and drama without taking itself too seriously. This thing should run for president.

My daughter shall wear it with pride. And I shall sport the blisters from the glue gun....with pride.

Confusion, weirdness, and coincidence

Wow! I've left everyone hanging in suspense for a whole week! Has your life been disrupted by frequent trips to the computer to see if I've posted recently? ....No?.....OK.

My tiling skills took a beating this week when I discovered how difficult it is to tile around obstructions; in this case, a sink. According to the guy who wrote my home improvement book, you need a glass cutter and a pair of tile nippers. According to the guys at Home Depot, you need something called a wet saw and protective eyewear. That's quite a stark contrast. I feel like a gymnast from one of those former Soviet-bloc nations that has to follow the little 12-year-old Chinese gymnast (who they swear is 16) who just got through mesmerizing the crowd with her never-before-attempted feats of skill. In other words, I thought I knew what I was doing but was left feeling a bit deflated before the big show. (In this analogy, I don't have a leotard wedgie, though.)

Anyway, with the use of different-sized tiles and creative placement, I was able to avoid using cutting implements in a manner to which I was not accustomed -- that is, trimming 90-degree angles. I would like to take this opportunity to thank my mother (as if this were akin to an Academy Award) for not giving up on me. She provided moral support and shared her superior bank of knowledge acquired from being a loyal viewer of HGTV (I believe she falls into their main demographic audience, in fact.) Also, thank you to Neal for giving his stamp of approval on the finished product. My level of job satisfaction is rather high.

Switching gears to other news, something really weird happened this week. I was sitting at my desk when a man walked into our office and approached me. He asked me if I wanted to see something as he reached into his pocket. Needless to say, my mind started to scramble wildly. No....please! No! No!

Initially, relief swept over me when he pulled out a wad of napkins. Then, as he unfolded the layers of said napkin, terror set in once again. What could it contain? A severed finger? A freakish bug autopsy? I sat speechless as I mentally hatched an escape plan in case it was anthrax.

Alas, it was a few strips of beef brisket. He presented it to me and explained that he had bought it "up the street" and offered me a sample. At first, I thought it had to be a joke. Who would partake of pocket brisket from a total stranger? If the meat had been in different surroundings, such as a plate from which brisket is normally served, it would have been difficult to turn down as it appeared to have been delicious at some point. The point right before it went into his pocket in a mound of napkins, to be exact. On the upside, he found a way to keep it warm, I suppose. I declined his invitation and he wrapped the meat back into its napkin surroundings and returned it to his pocket, completely undaunted by the look of horror on my face. If they ever hire this guy to give out samples at Costco, they might want to explain to him that the food looks much more appetizing when it is distributed in those little sample cups as opposed to his pants.

Although that story can be filed under the "yuk" weird category, other things have happened to me that go into the "wow" weird category. One example is how some friends in Houston offered us Astros tickets out of the blue one day years ago. They couldn't go at the last minute and the seats were crazy-good, so we totally pounced on the chance to go. We went and had a great time and our kids were even featured on the Jumbotron screen.

As we were leaving the game, my cell phone rang. I picked it up and it was my sister. She says "Where are you?" and I told her we were leaving the Astros game. She says "Me too" and I thought I didn't hear her correctly until she explained that she and a friend went to the game at the last minute just completely on a whim. She then went on to say that she was sitting there enjoying the game when she sees my daughter on the screen and exclaimed to the people in her section "That's my niece!"...then as they panned over to my son, she screamed "And that's my nephew!" She tried to call me right then but I couldn't hear my cell phone over the game and crowd noise. Wow....what are the odds? Both of us were at Minute Maid Park for the first time ever...both were last-minute decisions...and she sees my kids on the Jumbotron. (Twilight Zone music here). Just goes to show, if you cheat on your spouse, don't take your date to an Astros game.

I'll just build the next house myself

My prolonged absence has probably led you to believe I'm dead, or worse, suffering from a debilitating case of writer's block. It might surprise you all to learn that I have been super-busy getting our house ready to dive right into that glowing real estate market!

It's nothing against our house, of course (a lovely Austin stone 3/2.5/2 with stained concrete floors located on five gorgeous acres complete with horse facilities -- e-mail me for a showing!). Neal and I just finally reached the point where we are both ready to move into town so that the kids are closer to their friends and numerous activities.

Trust me, I've been working like an illegal immigrant to get this house in impeccable shape. It basically needs a coat of paint here and there plus a deep cleaning and de-cluttering. Perhaps the biggest hurdle in front of me was how to handle the tile that Neal cracked on the laundry room countertop. The conversation in my head went something like this: "Hey, I can drive a stick-shift...I can make a hell of a homecoming mum...isn't the next logical progression retiling my countertops?" I've seen stupider people than me accomplish the same feat. If you don't believe me, tune in to HGTV on any given Saturday.

I pulled the never-been-opened home improvement manual down from the top shelf of the study. After sneezing for fifteen minutes from inhaling the layer of dust on it, I was able to locate the tab titled "Tiling and Masonry" (By the way, anyone else find the "Masons" mysterious? Aren't they part of an alleged one-world-government, black helicopters, tin foil hats conspiracy? That's something to look up on Wikipedia later...)

The most difficult step of the whole process was the trip to Home Depot to pick up the supplies. I started to make a separate list of my own from the lists in the book but paused and thought "Who am I kidding? I'm gonna need photos." I could just picture myself wandering the aisles of the store, trying to make eye contact with anyone clad in an orange vest only to be shunned while they pretend to have a conversation with someone on their two-way radios. All this because I don't know what an "awl" looks like.

So my son and I ventured to the Home Depot, fortified with the knowledge contained on those book pages. Between the two of us, we were able to identify the tools by photo as if we were at a police station lineup ("Well, it looks kind of like that one but it's pointier...).

We arrived home and promptly put the tools to work. I discovered I'm a huge fan of the tile cutter. I also learned that I have a knack for grouting. Within days, I declared victory. The finished product was sublime. I should add this to my resume -- even if it has no bearing on my accounting skills and knowledge, I just want to brag a little bit.

So although Neal and my son and I are all in agreement about moving the ol' family homestead into town, it took some convincing for my daughter to get on board with it. Well, more like bribing than convincing. Neal told her that if we move back into town, she can get another beagle -- a dog for which she has longed for two years. It's all pretty ironic considering the fact that we bribed her with a horse to get her out here to our current house. If we keep this up, we're going to have quite a menagerie.

Speaking of animals, my friend Lori sent me this link today which had me nearly falling out of my chair laughing. Like she said, apparently everything is on the internet! Enjoy! http://kittywigs.com/index.html

The end (of summer) is near

The conclusion of cheer camp yesterday marks the beginning of the end of summer. If you see me sporting an unusually chipper attitude on August 26th, it's because school starts that day. If you see me reverse course completely on August 27th, it's because homework and extra-curriculars have kicked in.

Cheer camp was everything I expected and more....the "more" being the parking ticket that was waiting on my windshield for me when I arrived back at the car three hours later, struggling with an armload of my daughter's bedding. Just when I thought I was thrilled to go back to my alma mater, they managed to douse my enthusiasm with paper admonishment. I guess it's karma getting even with me for squeezing out of that license plate debacle unscathed just days ago. Oh well, at least my money is going into the pockets of Texas A&M, even if it's going to the Parking Nazis.

When I arrived at 9 am, the squads were getting ready to perform their cheers and "extreme routines" (panned by my husband in a previous post). I can attest it was adequately annoying, especially when repeated a hundred times. The highlight of the day (aside from seeing our squads perform) was finally seeing the facility that I was forced to fund while in college but never actually got to use.

My daughter and I went shopping at the local mall (if you can call it that) once we were done with lunch. It was truly depressing to walk through once-proud Post Oak Mall. The quality stores that once lined the building were nowhere to be found, only to be replaced by the likes of "Lucca Fashion Boutique" and the always-popular "Pink Zebra". I guess since it houses a "Spencer's Gifts", it automatically qualifies for mall-status. I was really disappointed with the picked-over selection (or lack thereof) and disorganization at Dillard's, akin to shopping in Russia.

While we picked through the sparcity at Post Oak Mall, my daughter provided entertainment in the form of anecdotes from camp. One in particular got my attention -- the dust-up between our squad and the squad from my husband's high school alma mater, Taylor High School. My daughter described the fracas which originated from a complaint lodged by our girls to their girls regarding the volume of their music in the dorms. According to my daughter, our girls "politely" requested that the Taylor girls cool it with the Hannah Montana nonsense (Really?..Hannah Montana? Really?). Apparently, that set off a chain of events the world hasn't seen since the Paris Hilton/Nicole Richie conflict, except this one didn't play out in the tabloids.

You would have thought they could have settled things the old-fashioned way, with a hearty round of "We've got spirit, yes we do....we've got spirit! How bout you?" Obviously, this was something that only childish smears and full-out ugliness were going to solve. Plus, turning the music up even louder. My daughter and her bunkmates tried to retaliate but were only armed with a clock radio. It was just no contest against the muscled-up ampage blaring from next door.

When we got home, my daughter settled on the couch for a record-shattering 12 hours, even sleeping through a few episodes of "24" that were playing on the TV just 5 feet from her head. I guess if you can learn to sleep through Hannah Montana, you can sleep through anything.

Hot topics

Is there a worse time to lose your home's air conditioning than August in Texas? Naturally, it happened to us late yesterday and I'm starting to develop a sheen of perspiration on my skin already this morning. All the windows are open and the fans are whirring. The only one enjoying this is dear old Dually because now he can meow right into the house for instant attention.

I'd like to concentrate on more pleasant things but I'm in a bit of a funk and this loss of cool air is not helping. I have to admit, we're pretty lucky that this event coincided with Tropical Storm Eduoard (which I always want to call "Eduardo" like my favorite character on Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends). It's only supposed to get in the low 90s today as compared to the triple-digit temps we've been subjected to recently. Also, last night wasn't as unpleasant as one might think. I think it stayed in the seventies throughout the night for the most part and I slept well until the birds woke me up at 6:00 with their never-ending chirping. This is why I don't camp, folks...I have no urge to be closer to nature. I certainly don't want it serenading me in fits of squawking before sunrise.

Otherwise, it's been very low-key this week with my daughter being away at cheerleading camp. I'm going to pick her up tomorrow which happens to be Neal's birthday. He will be taking the day off from work but the best present I could give him is a pass on attending the last day of cheer camp. In his estimation, it's about the most annoying thing one can endure. If he were president, he would advocate subjecting our enemy combatants to throngs of peppy girls chanting and performing their "extreme pom routine" as the most effective form of torture.

On a lighter note, he gets to go stand in line at the DPS to renew his driver's license before it expires tomorrow. Normally, this would not be an event to look forward to but at least they'll have air conditioning there. In addition, he's excited that he'll get the stigma of "vision correction required" removed from his license. He had lasik surgery several years ago but has always renewed his license by mail until now. This year....watch out, DPS! He's coming in and owning your vision test! (Plus, as a bonus, he's thinner now than he has been in years so it's a perfect time to have a picture retake.) Whenever he gets pulled over in the future, the lady cops will look at his license and say "Oh, you're that hottie with the eagle-eye vision....I'll let you off with a warning this time."

Neal and I decided that the time has come for him to make his mark in cyberspace with his own blog. His blog will focus on pediatric issues (stuff like not giving your infant water, not sending toddlers to bed with juice, how to conquer diaper rash...all the hot-button issues) Stay tuned for more details and prepare to be dazzled (but not "bedazzled"....that's another cardinal rule -- Don't let your toddler play with a Bedazzler. The results could be either tragic or fabulous).

In memoriam

Folks, it was so hot this weekend in Texas. (You chime in "How hot is it?"). Well, it was so hot that the glass top on our patio table spontaneously combusted.

I was on the phone yesterday late morning, and as usual, multitasking. Neal and our daughter were horseback riding so my son and I were alone when suddenly he claimed to hear a smashing noise. I must have heard it too on some level because I peeked out the back door for no obvious reason(just as he was alerting me from the other room) and noticed a sea of brilliant shards on the patio where my table once proudly stood.

As is my normal reflex when I see destruction of which the origin is not immediately discernible, I called out to my son. He came running to me asking "What happened to the table?" I ruled him out as a suspect when I saw that he didn't leave bloody footprints in his wake. He looked genuinely puzzled and right away started theorizing as to how such an event could have unfolded.

I ended my phone call and threw on some flip-flops to examine the accident site more closely. I could hardly bear to look at it directly because the spectrum of light coming from this pile of rubble was almost blinding. There was no evidence of a living creature toying with it which made me glad we moved the cat's feeding station from that table to the front porch over a month ago. At least he didn't set in motion the jolting that could potentially have caused a disaster like this. (But let's face it...it would have been kind of funny to see. As long as he wasn't hurt, of course.)

My son's theories included such far-fetched notions as the neighbor's horses jumping their fence and running into our patio table OR a bird landing on it with too much vigor. At the moment though, with no clues as to what compromised the integrity of the glass surface, those theories were just as good as any. I halfway expected Criss Angel to pop out of a tree and admit that he destroyed it with a wave of his hand. We were flabbergasted.

I was concerned about my basil plant surviving a three-foot fall but it sustained the crash very well. Basil is always gonna survive. It's the heartiest of the herbs, after all.

I fished my basil plant out of the wreckage as I wondered how and where I would dispose of this hot mess (literally). Lukily, the recycling pile was lousy with cardboard boxes, so much so that it appeared to be electing officers and taking over the garage. I grabbed a box and started transferring the rubble into it. I knew right away that I would not be able to utilize the full capacity of the box as it would be impossible to lift but I really tried to maximize it nonetheless. Let's just say that I put that box's durability to the test. It was obvious that reinforcements were going to be needed, so I reached for the packing tape. I figured that if my son relies on packing tape to meet over half the needs of his everyday life, I should start falling back on it too.

After forty-five minutes of sweeping and several loads of glass in the trash receptable, it was all a faint memory. All that remained was the metal skeleton, stripped of its utility. I suppose it couldn't have happened at a better time now that all the patio furniture is going into clearance soon.

Let us never forget the good times we had with the patio table. It saw us through countless parties and outdoor meals. It supported turkey fryers and even accommodated a small crawfish boil. For two years, it was Dually's headquarters -- a place where he could grab a drink of water, enjoy some kibble, and strategize about his next kill.

Patio table: 2004 - 2008. R.I.P.

Close encounters of the law enforcement kind

I was all prepared to write something spectacular today when I was returning home from the grocery store. I was in deep thought when flashing lights suddenly appeared in my rearview mirror. Knowing full well I wasn't speeding, my mind starting ticking off the checkpoints in my head. I was wearing my seat belt. I didn't pass anyone in a no-passing zone. I wasn't even on the phone or checking my make-up....

As the officer approached the window, I thought I had an idea about what it might be. I rolled down the window and gave him my documentation. Then, I coyly asked "Was I speeding....?" the same way someone asks a baby "Who's the sweetest baby....?" right before they blow a raspberry on the baby's bare midriff. For effect, I cocked my head to the side and made a pitiful face. (I learned that strategy from Remi. It usually elicits plenty of sympathy from me and he's normally able to score a table scrap.)

He then confirmed my suspicions...he was stopping me because the front license plate of the car was missing. Son of a *****!! I immediately started cursing myself but managed to flash a winning smile to mask the inner turmoil. I calmly explained to him that someone had backed into the front of the car, prying the front license plate right off the front bumper. It was actually a true story and I told it with great conviction, so much so that he got the feeling that I was completely sincere in my pledge to rectify the situation as soon as humanly possible. And I fully intend for Neal to do so.

This officer and I had quite a rapport. I mean, we didn't swap recipes or anything, but he knew that I was keenly aware of his ability to ruin my day. He excused himself back to his car to grab the clipboard of doom. I can't even recall what I was thinking in the interim except that I was pretty certain I couldn't take defensive driving for this type of offense. Then, I looked up and could have sworn I saw someone I know from my neighborhood driving past this sorry scene. Oh, the humiliation....

However, the humiliation quickly turned into elation as the officer handed me a piece of paper to sign as he said "I'm going to let you off with a warning this time but you really need to correct that as soon as possible." Right then and there, I pledged my eternal gratitude to the traffic gods.

Yes! I could enjoy my weekend without my thoughts periodically turning to an expensive vehicular violation.

Now we have to figure out how to reattach the license plate since it was completely ripped out from its very essence. This might involve some Mighty Putty. Or Gak.

Happy birthday to me?

I used to love the fact that my birthday was in the summertime because I never had to go to school that day. Now that I have kids that are home with me all summer, I'm getting payback. So far, I've had to referee fights today regarding the existence of zombies, the meaning of the second amendment and how the Supreme Court's recent ruling affects it, and who is responsible for chewing on one of the Wii remotes.



I did get a lovely flower arrangement from Neal and several e-cards and phone calls. That's about all it takes for me these days. Remember when birthdays were hotly and eagerly anticipated (prior to approximately your 25th birthday)? As children, it was the opportunity to wield considerable power in determining who was fit enough to have the privilege of attending your party, usually at a skating rink or a McDonalds (if you were born in the early 70s). Or, as a young adult, it was a money-hemorrhaging contest among your friends to see who could buy you the most drinks.

As cliche as it sounds, my 21st birthday was the most memorable. My mother was kind enough (and apparently crazy enough) to send myself, Neal, my college roommate (to protect her anonymity, we'll call her "D"), and her boyfriend (subsequently, "J") to New Orleans for a long weekend. It started off quite dicey on Friday night as we were lost in a bad neighborhood due to taking a wrong exit off the highway. (I shudder to think back to the days before GPS or even Mapquest!) At every turn, there were folks who appeared to be "working" the streets. In a panic, we pulled over and started trying to consult a map when an ambulance pulled up behind us. One of the EMTs, in a voice that completely mimicked Harry Connick Jr.'s, said "What the h*** are y'all doing in this neighborhood?" Could we have looked any more out of place after dark in D's shiny Toyota Camry, Texas license plates, and interior car light illuminating our vulnerable faces as we wrestled with a map? Luckily, this guy correctly sensed we were in big trouble and offered to guide us out. Good save. We checked into our hotel moments later without incident.

The next day, we did the obligatory touristy stuff like the Aquarium and the N.O. version of the Riverwalk, but obviously, the bulk of our Saturday was spent on Bourbon Street where we bar-hopped with reckless abandon. There was one bar in particular where Neal and J were targets for the affections of a pre-op "lady". As soon as D and I excused ourselves to the bathroom, this person made "her" move on our guys. Before we knew it, J was pounding on the bathroom door, demanding that we reclaim him and Neal from the amorous admirer. So what did D and I do? We came out and took a picture of the three of them, arms interlocked. I even scrapbooked it years later with delight.

Next, the four of us appeared onstage at The Kats Meow, performing our rendition of "You Never Even Called Me By My Name" by David Allan Coe. We were like a 90s redneck version of Abba except intoxicated and donning Aggie t-shirts and shorts instead of sequined vests and bell-bottoms.

Our final stop was Pat O's. We waited for over an hour to get into the piano bar and as usual, it was well worth it. Eddie was in full force that night (those of you who have been to Pat O's know exactly who Eddie is...those of you who don't....I pity you. I wonder if he's still alive and performing?) Anyway, D had split from us by then. She retired to the hotel room to study (yes, I said "study") for a big Monday exam and to get some rest to drive us back to Texas the next day. Neal, J, and I brought the house down at Pat O's, let me assure you. (As I said, I have photographic proof. Exhibit "A" would be the photos of us with straws sticking out of our ears, noses, and mouths. Really dumb stuff that seemed hilarious at the time.) Finally, the management kicked us out at 4:45 am. We were the last ones there, still fully engaged in our own merriment. I believe the guy's words were "You gotta go now. We have to clean up and get ready to re-open in a few hours."

We trudged out and walked back to the hotel. It must have been a lengthy walk because I remember the sun was starting to peek out as we stepped into the lobby. I know we paused to take pictures along the way -- mainly photos where statues were prominently featured as accessories to our buffoonery.

After napping for a few hours, we arose to consume massive amounts of beignets at Cafe DuMonde and we were ready to hit the road back to College Station. For some reason, Neal was all hopped up and volunteered to drive. As I was sleeping in the passenger seat, I distinctly remember being awakened by a series of thuds. I squinted and told Neal to get the car off the shoulder and back onto the smooth part of the road. As he calmly ignored my demands and brought the car to a halt, he diagnosed it as a flat tire.

So picture this little scenario: D and I had pulled all the suitcases out of the trunk and onto the shoulder of I-10 where we had converted them into furniture. We sat and observed as Neal and J were practically sprawled out on the hot asphalt in 100 degree temperatures, inches away from 18-wheelers whooshing past. I felt bad for the boys but part of me was wondering how rude it would be if I just decided to get back into the car, crank up the A/C, and recline the seat until they were done installing the spare tire. After all, I was the birthday girl here...shouldn't I get a pass from the suffering?

I concluded that dismissing their lack of safety and comfort for my own selfish purposes was just bad form. Besides, if a trucker coming off his No-Doz were to veer off to the side and clip them, someone would need to be available to scream "Watch out!"

A long, strange journey

My little boy is back from camp and I'm glad to report that he had a great week and can't wait to go back next year. He also managed to return with all the clothes he left with PLUS someone else's beach towel (BONUS!). For a reason that completely escapes me, our family has always been a magnet for other people's beach towels.

The day started out rather bleak with the alarm blaring at us at 5:10 a.m. We were out the door by 5:40 thanks to my preparation ritual the previous night.

About a quarter of the way into the trip, I notified Neal that a stop at the next clean gas station would be neccessary in order to drain the ol' bladder. He promptly complied and treated himself to a coffee refill and a pair of cheap, non-descript black sunglasses. The sun was starting to creep into the sky and, per his usual habit, he forgot his shades in his other car. Well, God forbid he suffer any consequences for forgetting/losing his sunglasses yet again! Neal buys sunglasses at the same frequency that most people buy gum.

I was still a little ticked off at the notion of more sunglasses occupying space in my life when I realized that I too had forgotten something: the checklist naming the items I had packed into the suitcase so that I could verify the presence of every item that left the house with my son. It was one of those moments where I had to stop and think about how important it really is in the grand scheme of life that he not lose a pair of shorts. It wasn't worth the effort of worrying about. (Besides, if I stopped thinking about how in the world I managed to go off without the list, I might be able to recreate it in my head, right?)

I was mentally tallying his boxer shorts when we suddenly emerged into the Texas hill country. If you're not expecting it, it's possible to just glance out the passenger window and get a good bout of vertigo. What made it even more frightening was that Neal was driving like he was in a rented car. I was immediately thankful that he invested the $6.99 on substitute shades because I can't imagine him driving in that fashion while blinded by the sun. After incessant hyperventilating and squeals of anguish on my part, he let up on the accelerator a bit.

We finally arrived at camp at about 8:20 a.m. The outdoor amphitheatre was almost completely open in terms of seating so we grabbed seats on the aisle for easy exiting after the show. We were treated to pulsating music from the speakers behind us playing timeless hits such as "Peanut Butter Jelly Time", "Hot Buttered Popcorn" and "The Hamster Dance." It was almost as if the counselors were exacting their revenge on us for dumping our kids on them for a week. The music could not possibly have been more annoying. Then, as if someone had summoned Batman to handle the situation, a real song came on..."Don't Stop Believing" by Journey. There was a huge gasp of relief among the primarily Gen-X audience members as the opening chords radiated from the speakers. Some parents even started singing along.

Finally, the kids filed in and did their team cheers and songs. Awards were given and gratitude was the theme of the day. What I found completely unbelievable was the energy level of the counselors. They were jumping up and down like Jack Russell terriers on meth. I guess they were just that glad to see the parents.

After the closing ceremonies, the parents were filed into an auditorium for two hours (yes, two hours!) of diabetes updates. The doctor who is the medical director of the camp stood up on the stage with a Power Point presentation chock full of graphs, charts, and objectionable pictures of infected infusion sites. I was able to digest the first hour or so and then BAM! The headache set in! I had no ibuprofen on me and my last line of defense, Diet Dr. Pepper, did not make a dent in it. Neal said it was probably because I had low blood sugar since I had not eaten since 5:40 a.m. (and that was just a granola bar). Then, we laughed at the irony of me suffering from hypoglycemia at the hands of a diabetes expert. I was finally able to diffuse my symptoms by playing solitaire on Neal's phone.

We were eventually dismissed and allowed to claim our son. The counselors had nothing but complimentary things to say about him. He entertained us with his tales of adventure featuring archery, horseback riding, swimming, and rock climbing. He was also carrying a goopy white substance he called "Gak", which if I'm not mistaken, was the name of a Dr. Suess character. He said he made it from glue and starch. I recognized it as the creation of Satan, sent to earth to torture parents like me. We put his luggage in the trunk and he threw the Gak in next to it.

I'm not sure if it was because of the lack of sleep or the low blood glucose, but I didn't catch the fact that he placed the Gak in the trunk right away. As we were cruising down the road, my mind started drifting to the Gak. I'm not a Gak expert, but I'm willing to bet that it's incompatible with a hot car trunk.

When we stopped to adjust the GPS to find an eatery, I commanded Neal to "pop the trunk" and made a mad dash back there to see where it had oozed. Luckily, I caught it before it did any serious damage. It had created a puddle on its cardboard tray next to the suitase and was starting to make inroads with the fabric on the luggage handle. I took the whole cardboard piece out of the trunk and carried it like it was a nuke. I gave it to my son who tried to defend its honor but I would not hear his well-thought-out plea. This had been a long day and I was ready to put Gak out of my life.

We stopped to eat lunch and then had a quiet drive home. Later, I thought to ask my son if he had made anything for his sister's birthday. He initially answered "no" and I made a mental note to buy something on his behalf.

Later, when we got home, he showed me a brown cardboard box that was not wrapped but was tied in blue curly-ribbon. On it was a handmade card wishing his sister a happy birthday.

Inside the box...you guessed it....Gak!

Location, location, location!

I returned unscathed from my ladies' retreat in Navasota this past weekend. Sleep-deprived but unscathed. I learned a couple of things over the course of our 48-hour gabfest: how to make an incredible Fresca, Crown, and Lime (is there an official name for that?) and how to flush a toilet when the handle collapses. I also learned that I'm incredibly intuitive when it comes to guessing charades.

Speaking of charades, I'm sitting here brainstorming on the next photo shoot I can do with my family. You know, one of those deals where you coordinate everyone's wardrobe, go to a location where you meet with a photographer and her staff, and pretend you are there just having a good time when the photog appears out of nowhere like the paparazzi and starts snapping photos of you and your family pretending to have fun. It's a complete charade, and a pricey one at that! I can't wait too much longer to do another one because my daughter is approaching the age where she doesn't want to pantomime a good time with her parents and brother just to please me.

Let's see...we've already tackled the traditional locations. First, there was the field blanketed with wildflowers where we all wore white shirts and pretended we had nothing better to do on a suffocatingly hot day but sit in the middle of the field cuddling one another. Yeah, that's realistic. Then, there was the frolicking beach getaway which was in Galveston and therefore had to be shot in black-and-white to be convincing as a tropical paradise. (We broke out the white clothes for that occasion as well.) I must admit, those are my favorite because Neal and my son took a great photo that looks like a J.Crew ad.

So what are our remaining options? Texas' lack of diverse topography has put our photographic location options in a headlock. Do we consider canyon photos? River photos? Six Flags or Sea World photos? (Wait, we have those...but they aren't frame-worthy.) Your suggestions are welcome.

Camp in the 2Ks...beyond canoes and insect repellant

Today is the first day in quite some time that I don't have "stuff I gotta get done". So of course, that means that there is very little fodder for this blog. I see a juicy subject on the horizon, however...

My son leaves for sleepaway camp on Sunday. He'll be gone for an entire week. (Of course, my daughter is giddy over this.) Neal and I are wondering how this will play out since my son has never been away from home for more than one night without being with us or his grandparents. I'm expecting a woeful phone call no later than Tuesday. Neal, the eternal optimist, thinks he'll hold out until Wednesday. Regardless, he's going to need to employ his rapid maturation abilities (which we know lie right beneath his nine-year-old psychological surface just waiting to be summoned) because there's not many opportunities for diabetic kids to experience traditional summer camp.

Our daughter, on the other hand, just returned from a three-week stint at academic camp in College Station. It took her two-and-a-half weeks before she remembered she even still had a family that she wanted to return to. (I'm totally kidding, but the phone calls we got from her were first of all, sporadic, and secondly, lacking substantial content. It was mostly stuff like "Did you do your laundry?"...pause and some shuffling in the background, then "Huh?", then me re-asking the question. Then, her response, "Yeah".) It was like listening to an undercover police sting tape.

It wasn't until she returned home that the floodgates of information opened as she shared her camp experiences. I felt as if we should have gone outside, built a campfire, and stuck a wire hangar through a hot dog as we listened to the recounting of innumerable short-lived camp romances (none involving her although her girlfriends made it known that she had an admirer), silly activities such as approaching strangers with wild requests in the course of a scavenger hunt, and counselors who would frequently blur the lines between serious graduate student and exhuberant participant in shaving cream fights (or some such).

Her experience resulted in exposure to various areas of pop culture previously unknown to her. For instance, she discussed the fact that at all the dances, they would conclude the events by playing the same set of songs including "Time Warp". She was curious of the origin of the song, so that led to the disclosure of my "Rocky Horror Picture Show" experience in college. She is fascinated by many facets of Americana with this being no exception so perhaps I will have to divert her attention until I feel she is ready to truly understand RHPS. She's just too innocent to delve deeper at this point.

Not only did she gain pop culture wisdom, she shared it as well. At "80s Night", she was the only student there who knew all the songs. She proudly proclaimed to her newfound buds that this was the result of hours of VH1 viewership.

We're so proud....

Shark Tacos, anyone??

After cleaning up the remnants of Dually's latest victim in the absence of the boys, I fully expected there would be some reward. Their abandonment of duties needed justification, particularly some freshly-caught red snapper or amberjack straight from the murky waters of Galveston.

They rolled into the house at around 10:00 pm Sunday night looking like burnt heaps of salty flesh. I could almost feel the heat radiating off their skin and smell the fishy aura of Galveston as they walked past me. As they brought the Igloo cooler into the house, my pulse began to pick up a bit. I had been forewarned by telephone that only the sharks were biting that day but I figured since they make fish sticks out of shark meat, it can't be too bad, right? Mmmm....

Neal opened the cooler and presented me with 2 gallon-sized baggies full of filleted shark meat.....wait, that's it? I think they should have kept the shark alive instead! That's one pet we don't have yet. We could really distinguish ourselves with something like that. What a great conversation starter that would be! I'd change my blog name to "Five Acres and a Shark". But on the bright side, at least I didn't have to make a difficult decision on whether to sacrifice frozen hot dog buns in order to gain freezer space for this weekend's catch. I hate throwing stuff out.

In other news, Neal is super-stoked about the release of the playlist for Rock Band 2. So much so that he made it a point to e-mail it to me and our daughter from his office. Unfortunately, it doesn't start shipping until November so his spandex pants-wearing rock star fantasies will have to be satisfied by the latest release from Guitar Hero, which is the Aerosmith version.

I avoid Guitar Hero like the plague because it makes me feel inadequate. Neal, on the other hand, is so skilled that he has created an alter-ego associated with it. He gets that Eddie Van Halen grimace on his face and occasionally his tongue will stick out when he's really concentrating. My favorite part is when he's done because he's just so delighted by his own pseudo-guitar skills. (He's self-taught, you know. I'm not even sure he took the tutorial offered on the game.) He drives that video crowd wild.

Rightly so.

I could really use some of that yellow police "crime scene" tape

I did something really bad while my husband was away from home overnight. This is something that he has warned me countless times against doing and now something bad happened as a result of my carelessness. And I had only hours to rectify the situation.


See, my husband recently spent the better part of a Saturday cleaning our garage. He removed everything from it and set it all in the driveway. Then, he swept and reorganized and even brought in some implements from the local Home Depot to assist him in his task. In his mind, this was the equivalent of setting up a baby's nursery. The reason? It houses his newest baby, a Mustang GT convertible he recently purchased.


In the process, he managed to score points with me since I had been repeatedly requesting this chore be done for the previous two months.


Anyway, in exchange for his intense labor, he made me pledge that I would keep the garage door closed anytime that I'm not out there. This is a bad habit of mine, I'll admit. Almost as bad as leaving my shoes all over the house (but that's for another post). For sure, I hate opening it every time I take a trash bag from the house out to the main trash bin.

He makes a litany of great argument in favor of keeping it closed: saving on utility bills, keeping the dirt from blowing in , keeping critters from waltzing in and establishing homes, keeping Dually from walking all over the vehicles (although I personally happen to love those cute pawmarks he leaves on the car...it's like he's saying "hi" a hundred times).


So Neal and our son left yesterday afternoon to spend the night in Houston in preparation for an early-morning deep-sea fishing trip which means he wasn't around last night to check the garage door before bedtime to make sure I was in compliance with the new rule. Well, don't you know that I opened the door from the house to the garage this morning and saw that the garage door had been open all night! I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and I could hear Neal's voice ringing in my head, although he's so nice (even when he nags) that I feel badly more out of knowing he would be disappointed that I forgot than actually committing the deed itself.


I could have easily gotten over the guilt after watching a couple of episodes of The Soup that were saved on DVR but alas, there was physical proof as well. As my eyes were scanning the garage, terror set in. I saw something that resembled a submission to "Germany's Most Disturbing Home Videos" (an SNL reference for ya there!). There were three items of interest lying on the garage floor right where Neal's car is normally parked, and each one was swarming with ants. As I approached the scene, I realized that Dually decided to prove his manhood yet again by dismembering and disemboweling what appeared at one time to be a rat.


The first part was definitely a tail. An ugly, flesh-colored, scaly rat tail, that is.


The second part was the bottom half of a rat's head, namely the lower jaw and part of the neck.


The final chapter in this bloodbath (which gets progrssively creepier) was certainly internal organs of some type, perhaps an intestine?

Good grief, this rat must have really given him a hard time because I have never seen him expend so much energy into hunting. He normally leaves his victims intact and neatly presented on the porch as if he would like us to take it to the taxidermist for him.

Frankly, I was as horrified as the ants were delighted. Sure, I was happy that Dually was earning his keep but why did he have to do it when Neal (or better yet my son because he relishes doing "manly" jobs) is not here to clean it up?

Then it hit me. This was a sign from God. A disgusting sign but a sign nonetheless. I learned several lessons here, the least of which is to keep the freaking garage door closed! I also learned that pouring corn starch over animal guts helps greatly in the clean-up process.


If I had made the same mistake while Neal's convertible was in the garage with the top down, Dually could have left his trophy right there in the driver's seat! Neal's car has red leather seats which could possibly have rendered the bloody guts undetectible! Can you imagine?


So this Sunday, as I reflect on lessons learned, I say, "Thank you, Jesus, for the message received in the midst of what could have been a terrible tragedy had my husband sat on those innards. And also, thank you for eliminating another rat from the world. Amen."

What happened to common sense?

Is it just me, or is the divide between smart people and stupid people becoming greater? How is it possible that there are people out there who don't know who fought in the Civil War, much less what it was about? For God's sake, the answer to "who" is right there in the title! Talk about a "spoiler"!

Here's a good example of what I'm talking about: Dr. Phil's entire TV career! Does anyone else notice themselves shouting the same advice to the imbeciles on his show that he eventually disperses to them after exhaustive repitition of Texas colloquialisms? My question is...how do I profit from this imparting of so-called "wisdom" to the dumb masses? (Ha-ha...sounds like I said "dumb asses"...that's a Beavis & Butt-head moment.)

I'm starting to think that the participants on the "Jaywalking" segment of "The Tonight Show" are the rule rather than the exception. Recently, I got a dose of collassal ignorance hurled in my lap while listening to The Neal Boortz Show. He was discussing a "man on the street" item in the Atlanta newspaper in which the reporter was asking passerby "Do you think the government should start paying for x?" (Substitute any number of things for x -- I have to admit that I was so shocked by the answer given that I can't even remember what service was mentioned in the question.) One man actually said -- get ready for this -- "Yes, because if the government doesn't start paying for it, the taxpayers will." (Crickets chirping here.)

I felt all the emotions -- anger, resentment (at the fact that this guy probably gets to vote), shock, incredulousness. Is this the best we can do? This guy probably thought he was giving a thoughtful, measured answer that would cause people to go "Wow...he's right! I never thought of it that way before!" I wonder how hard the reporter was laughing at the guy...or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he's part of the dumbing-down conspiracy. After all, if you read it in the paper it must be true, right?

Carafe Hunting

Well, it finally happened. We lost our carafe in an awful early-morning incident. (For those who aren't avid coffee-drinkers, the carafe is the glass pitcher that goes with your coffeemaker. It just sounds more sophisticated, and technically correct, to refer to it as a 'carafe'. In Texas, it's pronounced "ku-RAF-ee").

Anyway, it was already chipped from a previous incident in which I overestimated the leftover content from the previous day's brew (Yeah, I know it's gross to let it sit overnight...just like office coffee. Mind you, we wouldn't dare drink the overnight contents; we're just too lazy to clean it until we get ready to make a new batch the next day). So anyway, it's about 6:45 am and I'm barely functioning and trudge over to the coffeemaker. I glance at the carafe without my eyes being able to focus properly and grab the handle, using entirely too much force. Inevitably, it crashes into the bottom of the basket that holds the coffee filter much like when you grab a huge jug of milk and pull up really hard and crash it into the roof of the fridge. Just like that, boom! A chip is missing from the glass and a precarious hairline fracture forms. Still functional, though. Being the cheapskate I am, I decide it's worth it to risk the possibility of one of us eventually consuming a small shard of glass that continues to chip away from the sight of the accident. I'll just be really careful...(as I always am at 6:45 am, thus the accident.)

Fast-forward three months or so. Neal is on coffee-making duty and is trying to clean the carafe without slitting his wrist on the sharp, exposed edges. He then starts to fill the carafe with clean, soap-free water to make a batch of caffeine goodness when the carafe just decides it's time to end it. The fracture rapidly developed and the glass pieces parted like the Red Sea. The resulting crash was like a prelude to the way the rest of the day would play out. We then spent the next 10 minutes pulling glass out of the sink and the garbage disposal (Here's a hint if it happens to you: Oreck makes a great hand-held vacuum whose attachments fit perfectly into the drain).

Once the diversion of picking up broken glass was past us, sheer panic set in. Where would this morning's coffee come from? Was there any other glass container in the house that would be a formidable substitute? After all, we're 20 minutes away from the nearest Starbucks. We eventually settled for convenience store coffee but knew in our hearts that this could not continue.

Being as we live in the country, there's no practical option for replacing this thing in a reasonable amount of time. Neal immediately hit the internet, scouring it for any sign of a replacement carafe. Bed, Bath, and Beyond turned out to be the best option -- unfortunately, that's a 45 minute drive minimum. As luck would have it, we would be going on vacation the next day and relying on the free market to handle our coffee needs for the immediate future. But looming in the backs of our minds was the stark reality that our old, craggly friend would be sorely missed upon our return home.

The worst part of it was that our flight left at 7:10 am, meaning we would need to leave the house at 5:15 am to ensure we would make it onto the plane. Of all the situations where we needed a caffeine kick, this one ranked in the top five. But with sheer determination and teamwork, we would manage until we arrived at the airport Starbucks.

Vacation whirred past, full of $4 non-fat mochas. Upon our return, we traveled to Dallas to reclaim our son from his grandmother. The Dallas metroplex is chock full of Bed, Bath, and Beyonds! This should be no problem at all!

We get to the store and as soon as we get to the coffee maker aisle, we realize they don't have the brand that's compatible with our brewer. Those dirty, online liars posting their seductive carafe photos! Suddenly, it became really scary and confusing. It was like trying to replace your kid's dead hamster...Is this one the right size? Does this one resemble our old friend? Can this one handle our needs?

Neal and I mildly bickered but then reached a concensus based on the ergonomic handle and the similar capacity of the old carafe. Victory was ours, if only for a little while.

Upon our return home, we didn't wait until the next morning to find out if this thing was going to cut it. We whipped that sucker out of the box like a kid ripping open an X Box. Then, our hopes were quickly dashed. It was too tall!! We tried slightly lifting the top part of the unit to make it fit but it was blunt force like that which brought the demise of our previous receptacle. But perhaps if we removed the lid....YES! That was the answer! We would just forgo the lid!

Thank God we went to college.