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!"
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
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....
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....
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
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?
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."
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."
Saturday, July 12, 2008
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?
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?
Friday, July 11, 2008
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
