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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
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).
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).
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, September 5, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
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.
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.
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