Author: Big Mama

All up in the grill

Yesterday was one of those days that didn’t start off that great and didn’t end up much better. Caroline has VBS all this week and I actually had to wake her up at 8:05 a.m. so we could make it in time. You don’t know how it grieved me to wake a sleeping child, especially my child who tends to pop out of bed by 7:00 a.m. almost every morning of her life.

By the time I picked her up at noon, she was exhausted and the backseat of my car basically turned into a scene out of a Greek tragedy. Except I don’t know any Greek tragedies with a plot involving a mean mother who won’t let her child eat only french fries for lunch and develop scurvy. I guess Sophocles couldn’t imagine that anyone would have to endure that level of cruelty.

We walked in the back door and I told her to go rest on the couch while I fixed lunch. After a ham sandwich, some Scooby-Doo, and a little rest, she seemed to be ready to face the world again so we went to the pool for the afternoon.

Let’s just say that before it was all said and done I had to say, “No, we are not staying five more minutes and we are not eating dinner here. If you ask me one more time then we’re not coming back to the pool for another week.” And then drama and chaos ensued.

Note to self: Do not threaten actions that create entirely unrealistic scenarios. It’s 168 degrees outside. If we don’t go to the pool for a week, we will all certainly perish from a bad combination of heat and the stir-crazy.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy eating dinner at the pool on occasion. In fact, I find their chicken fingers to be delightful on the days they aren’t totally burned to a crisp. Not to mention, the cheeseburgers are divine but there are only so many days you can sit around in your bathing suit and eat a cheeseburger. It breaks about six laws of nature.

At the beginning of the summer, Gulley and I noticed that the pool had added popcorn shrimp to the menu. We both agreed it sounded good in theory, but worried a little bit about the care and maintenance of said shrimp. It seemed like a recipe for potential food poisoning, and heaven knows that no one is going to feel sorry for you if you get food poisoning from eating shrimp at a pool grill prepared and handled by sixteen-year-old chefs who don’t even have the sense to empty the trashcans before they become a haven for every bee in a twenty mile radius.

But then one day my friend Julie made a bold move and ordered the shrimp. P decided it looked good so he ordered some too and he and Caroline ate their shrimp while I whispered silent prayers in hopes of exorcising any salmonella demons lurking within. There were no repercussions from the shrimp and it has since become Caroline’s favorite meal at the pool.

Then I noticed the other day they’ve added salmon to their menu. It’s not like I’m a food snob. I’ve eaten my fair share of meals at Long John Silver’s and I come from a mother who has been known to eat nachos from the snackbar at Target. I just think serving salmon is asking for trouble. It’s like the pool grill is trying to be a little too big for its non-gourmet britches.

I mean this is the same dining establishment where I ordered a grilled chicken pasta salad served with a piece of ciabatta bread and got pasta mixed with Italian dressing served with half a buttered hamburger bun. Those sixteen-year-olds think they are so clever, but I know ciabatta bread when I see it and it doesn’t look like the top of a sesame seed hamburger bun.

I think they should stick to the classics; cheeseburgers, chicken fingers, hot dogs, chalupas. Leave the grilled salmon to restaurants that actually have to abide by some sort of health code. Serving fish products is a disaster waiting to happen.

Of course so is taking an exhausted five-year-old to the pool after a long day, so what do I know?
The good news is that salsa and I have never been closer

Before I ramble on and on about the weekend, I’d just like to say how proud I am that I have written things here that cause people to find my site when they google “My dog has a big, stinky glob on his teeth”. If that isn’t a sure sign that I’m cranking out some fine literary material, then I don’t know what is. I feel certain that Hemingway is rolling in his grave from the envy.

It is with deep regret and sadness that I inform you that I have now been without a Diet Coke for five days. And it’s with even more sadness that I tell you that it’s made all the difference in the world. The constant burning I had in my throat for over a month has been totally gone since Saturday. I believe that the Diet Coke and I have been in a dysfunctional relationship for the last four years. I have loved it with all my heart and soul while it has been trying to take down my esophagus. It’s the classic tale of heartbreak.

Girl meets beverage. Girl loves beverage. Beverage breaks girls heart and stomps it into a million pieces.

Fortunately as I strolled the aisles at HEB on Friday in a desperate quest for a rebound beverage, something caught my eye, Lipton Green Tea Mixed Berry flavor. It whispered in my ear and vowed it would never leave me broken-hearted like the Diet Coke, so I took it home with me and we’ll see what happens. As of this writing, I find it to be delightful and refreshing.

I even mentioned to a friend that I felt kind of healthy drinking Green Tea because it has so many health benefits. Her comment was that it was healthy when brewed the way the Chinese do it, but now that Lipton has gotten a hold of it there are no guarantees. Whatever. It totally says something about antioxidants on the label so I’m going with it.

Anyway, I’m just thankful that I found a new source of caffeine on Friday because I had no idea how much I was going to need it before the day was over. Our church hosts the occasional family movie night during the summer and this past Friday night was the first one. P took Caroline and her friend S out to eat dinner and then to movie night. Since they weren’t going to be home until about 9:00, I called S’s mom to see if she could spend the night which was the cause of many squeals of delight from the girls.

They got home around 9:15 all jacked up on movie candy and the sheer exhilaration that only comes from watching an overweight panda do some sweet Kung-Fu moves. The next thing I knew my living room had been transformed into some sort of beauty salon/horse stable for their American Girl dolls.

In truth, Caroline doesn’t actually have a real American Girl doll but rather the Our Generation knock-off doll from Target because when she asked for an American Girl doll last year for her birthday I didn’t believe that she’d actually ever play with any kind of doll and certainly wasn’t going to bet $100 on it. It’s a decision that I have been proud of because that doll had laid half-clothed and isolated in some semblance of purgatory for dolls for the better part of eleven months before Friday night. Not to mention, Caroline doesn’t know the difference.

Although the day is rapidly approaching when she’ll be able to read the “OUR GENERATION” tag that sticks out of Jenny’s torso.

Really she has only herself to blame because Santa got totally burned by the pink Pottery Barn Kitchen that he spent way too much money on about three years ago only to have her play with it approximately two times, one of which was the other day when I threatened to sell it. Poor Santa, he was just so naive and enthusiastic about shopping for a little girl who, as it turns out, would rather have her very own hot pink rifle.

The girls were having so much fun that I didn’t have the heart to make them go to bed. I loved sitting on the couch and listening to all their little conversations that began with “Let’s pretend that…”

“Let’s pretend that Jenny is going to help Ruthie brush her horse.”

“Let’s pretend that the horse is going to the beauty shop for horses.”

“Let’s pretend that Ruthie wants to get her hair cut really short.”

“Let’s pretend that Diet Coke isn’t some sort of toxic substance.”

Actually, I think that last one was mine.
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I have nothing to say, yet here I am

I wish I had something terribly brilliant and creative to write about, perhaps something that doesn’t pertain to any health issues or other equally boring topics. Unfortunately, we spent the entire day at the pool yesterday and I believe that the 100 degree heat combined with my cold turkey approach to my Diet Coke addiction has completely melted any original thought I had in my brain.

Just imagine what will happen later today when it’s supposed to hit 103 degrees.

103 degrees in June with no ice cold Diet Coke.

That’s just eight kinds of wrong.

So due to the fact that I can’t put together any kind of paragraph about anything, I’m resorting to a list of things that may or may not (leaning heavily toward “may not”) be interesting to anyone.

1. I have recently discovered the show “Mad Men” and finished watching Season 1 last night. My plan was to make it my summer show, but unfortunately Season 2 doesn’t come out on DVD until July. How am I supposed to wait three weeks to see what happens next?

Anyone have any good recommendations for a summer T.V. show? Because if it’s going to be 103 degrees all summer long, I’m going to need something to do that merely requires lying on the couch in the air-conditioning.

2. Over the years I have tried many a candle in search of the perfect scent. My taste tends to vary depending on the season, but I recently rediscovered Trapp Candles in Guava/Mango. It’s like a little piece of summer in a cute glass jar.

3. When Caroline got out of Sunday School last Sunday, I noticed they’d learned about Jesus feeding the five thousand. That night at dinner I asked her what they learned about because I wanted to hear her version. She told us some little boy brought some bread and fish to see Jesus, then two angry men tried to take it from him, and ultimately Jesus told them it wasn’t enough and went to a bakery to get more.

They must be using a different translation of the Bible in her Sunday School class.

4. Sophie is in Pittsburgh this weekend at Living Proof Live. She’s working behind the scenes with the event team and will be posting updates on LifeWay AllAccess throughout the weekend.

I’m a little sad I’m not there because what if Beth has a question about the Bible and needs me to answer it for her? For instance, does she know about the bakery that baked all that bread for 5,000 people without the benefit of a modern day industrial oven?

5. I wish I had something else, but I’m out.

Y’all have a great weekend.
Yet another tale of woe

Yesterday morning I had a doctor’s appointment because I’ve had a sore throat on and off for about the last month. It’s the only real symptom I’ve had, but if you google “chronic sore throat” enough times it’s easy to become convinced that death is imminent and now would be a good time to stop doing the 30-Day Shred because what’s the point? Everyone knows there will be no swimsuits in heaven.

It didn’t help matters that I’m in the throes of a particularly foul case of PMS which has a tendency to heighten my already heightened sense of paranoia.

The ENT looked, appropriately enough, at my ears, nose and throat and declared that I have acid reflux. This is particularly disturbing because P has been telling me for years that I have acid reflux and I’ve repeatedly told him that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s totally normal to cough for thirty minutes when I lay down to go to sleep at night, I’ve been doing it for years.

It just dawned on me that I’ve written about skin cancer, multiple doctor visits, and acid reflux all in one week. When did this turn into a letter from your Ma-Maw? Next thing you know I’ll be giving reports on how bad the food was at the last funeral I attended.

On a positive note, my rheumatism has hardly bothered me at all and my dentures finally quit rubbing the inside of my gums.

Anyway, I happened to sell medication for acid reflux back in my drug rep days so I knew exactly what he was about to tell me. Avoid spicy foods, red wine, tomato sauces, and coffee. Also, chocolate.

Sure, that’s going to happen.

When I’m dead.

And then just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he asked, “Do you drink a lot of Diet Coke?”

“Well, usually just one a day.”

(That sometimes turns into two or six depending on the proximity of a Sonic)

“You should definitely cut that out. It’s about the worst thing for you.”

“Okay, I guess so.”

But what I wanted to say was “Why don’t you just cut off my arm instead? It would be less painful.”

How am I supposed to quit you, Diet Coke?

More importantly, how am I going to survive the summer without you?
The spirit of Old Mexico with a little big city panache

Monday night I went to bed determined to wake up the next day and begin the search for the perfect urban sombrero for P. And when you live in San Antonio and find yourself in need of a big dang hat, where else would you go but to El Mercado?

That’s “The Market” for those of you who don’t possess my vast knowledge of the Spanish language. I can also tell you how to ask “how much for the donkey?” in case you ever find yourself in need of that particular phrase. Those eight years of Spanish really paid off.

I hadn’t been to El Mercado in years because it’s a touristy thing to do and I generally try to avoid all touristy activities because I have an aversion to being in crowds of people wearing socks with sandals, but I thought Caroline might think it was fun. I mean, how many places can you go these days that sell bullwhips and combs that look like switchblades all under one roof?

Not nearly enough is the correct answer.

We walked through the market as Caroline’s eyes got bigger and bigger. She had never seen so much useless, yet beautiful, stuff under one roof, which is saying a lot because we go to Target at least once a week. She’d pick up various things and ask “Is this Mexican?” And I’d say, “No baby, that was made in China because it wouldn’t be fair if Mexico cornered the market on making junk. It’s part of the Free Trade Agreement.”

She did manage to score an embroidered Mexican tunic and a darling headband, both of which she insisted on wearing immediately. I couldn’t bring myself to look closely at the labels because I didn’t want to know if they were made in China. The pain and disillusionment would be too great. It was disheartening enough when I recently discovered that the group Menudo was actually from Puerto Rico and not Mexico. Next thing you know I’ll learn that cheese enchiladas were originally made in Taiwan.

Finally, we got down to business and begin looking for the perfect hat. Oh, and we did find it.

Ladies and Gentlemen (as if I have more than two male readers), I present to you the Urban Sombrero.

It can provide you and your six closest friends with plenty of shade.

In the end I decided it was probably a little bit more of a statement than P is looking to make, unless it were to become his trademark and we renamed our business Big Dang Hat Landscaping, which doesn’t seem like a likely scenario. We sacrificed our desire to purchase the biggest hat in the place for a more understated, tasteful version.

And then we went to Mi Tierra, ate fresh flour tortillas and drank Shirley Temples.

Or as they’d say in Mexico, El Shirley Temples.