Author: Big Mama

  • What about prom, Blaine?

    I mentioned in my last post that Gulley and I spent all day shopping on Saturday. What I didn’t mention is that after a long day of trying on clothes, laughing, talking and drinking Mocha Frappuccinos (because we’re sophisticated now, y’all! No more Big Gulps for us), we went to one of our favorite Italian restaurants to drink a little wine and eat some dinner.

    But mainly to drink a little wine.

    Then, as if a day of shopping with your best friend isn’t enough, God bestowed upon us the most perfect blessing. Sitting at the table next to us in the restaurant was a whole pack of high school kids on their way to the prom.

    We clapped our hands and laughed out loud at our incredibly good fortune and said a prayer of gratitude that we hadn’t decided on Mexican food instead.

    Gulley kept talking about how young they looked and finally decided that she thought they must be in junior high, not high school. I had to point out the boy on the end and ask how many boys in her 7th grade class had sideburns that looked like that? And she realized that yes, they did indeed look very young, but it’s because we are so very old.

    However, one of the girls had braces just like mine, which really bolstered my self esteem.

    As various members of the prom group arrived, we sat back and enjoyed the squealing and the hugging and the whispering because after all, we realized they probably hadn’t seen each other in like two hours and omigosh there was so much to catch up on and they all LYLAS and are BFF. We also agreed that there isn’t enough cash money in all of the world to make us go back to high school.

    The best part, which makes me wish that I could have done a live audio blog, was when we took our own trip down prom memory lane and discussed our fashion choices and our dates.

    Apparently, Gulley’s sophomore year in high school, fate smiled on her and she was able to borrow a peach lame’ number from a friend. She said she knew she had never looked as fine as she did in that peach lame’ dress with the spaghetti straps and huge rosette on the side holding the fabric as it gathered. After all, what says class and elegance and 1986 like peach lame’? Especially if you’ve had your hair styled to look like Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam.

    I told her the story of my prom heartbreak, which happened my sophomore year in high school. I had been dating the same boy, who was a senior, all throughout the school year and had already bought my prom dress. Sadly, he broke up with me two weeks before the prom. And before y’all feel too bad for me, let me clarify that it was because I kissed another boy.

    It was a scandal of the epic, dramatic proportions that can only be achieved by teenagers who have watched Pretty in Pink and The Breakfast Club way too many times.

    In my defense, this other boy and I had been asked to serve as chaperones for a 7th grade dance, because that’s who you really want watching your 12 year olds dance…a couple of mature and brilliant 15 year olds, and I guess we got carried away while dancing as Madonna sang “Crazy for You”. Due to my strong 15 year old character, I was ready to take the kiss to my grave, but he felt guilty, confessed to his girlfriend and we all ended up breaking up over it.

    That Madonna has always been bad news.

    Anyway, I was stuck with a beautiful, burgundy colored strapless floor length dress with shoes dyed to match (CLASSY!) and no date. I was so heartbroken that even when my mama offered to take me to dinner at Casa Ole’, I turned it down. Life without my boyfriend and thoughts of not going to prom could NOT be cured, even with the incredible, green avocado salsa at Casa Ole’.

    That was back before I realized that most of the world’s problems can, indeed, be solved by eating Mexican food.

    Then, a nice senior boy in my Spanish class asked me to be his date to the prom. I accepted and we were having a great time until we actually arrived at the prom. And while waiting in the party pic line, the song “Lady in Red” came on and I saw my ex-boyfriend dancing with his date. I was so sad because I knew it should have been us dancing and I would be the “lady in red”. Except in burgundy.

    I hoped maybe the night would end with him realizing how much he missed me and wanted me back. It would be a moment worthy of even the best John Hughes’ movie.

    Yeah, that didn’t happen.

    My junior year, I was dating a sophomore boy. I asked him to my junior/senior prom and I wore the most fabulous dress. It was black with small white polka dots, sleeveless and had a short skirt that was…wait for it…a bubble skirt.

    I wore it with black hose, black high heels and hair that can only be described as needing its own zip code. Looking back, someone should have told me to step away from the teasing comb. Everyone told me I looked just like Jody Watley (remember “I’m looking for a new love baby, a new love, yeah, yeah, yeah) and that was just about the greatest compliment ever. EVER.

    Anyway, as we sat and told our stories, Gulley and I were able to see some real prom drama unfold. There were two girls who kept going in and out of the restaurant, and I don’t know what was going on but there were lots of tears and hugging and general unhappiness.

    We wondered if we should tell those girls not to worry about it because someday a miserable prom experience will make for some great stories that will cause your best friend to snort wine out of her nose, but decided against it because they’d never believe us. After all, high school is EVERYTHING. Does life even matter after high school?

    So, we walked out of the restaurant, gave the girls a smile and headed home.

    After I came in the house and put on my pajamas. I turned on the T.V. and as if God hadn’t already sent showers of blessings my way, He gave me one more.

    Pretty in Pink was on T.V.

    “What about prom, Blaine? WHAT ABOUT PROM?”

    So I sat, watched it for the 585th time and thought about its deep meaning and how glad I am that at the end those two crazy kids got back together because you know that if they were able to survive all the prom drama, the rest of their lives will be a cakewalk.

    How about y’all? Let me hear some prom stories.

  • Just add basic sales skills

    Today, Gulley and I got to spend the whole day shopping without our children. For the last 17 years, we have always dedicated the first weekend in December to an entire girls’ weekend to complete all of our Christmas shopping and present wrapping. Then, last year, we decided this uninterrupted shopping and talking marathon should happen more than once a year, so we created a spring shopping weekend, which is really just a Saturday. But if we close our eyes and pretend, it feels like a whole weekend.

    We shopped all day long with our primary goal being to find Gulley a swimsuit for the summer. I didn’t need to shop for a swimsuit because I already have two from last summer that will suffice, and really a person should only have to survive the injustice of seeing themselves in so little clothing under the harsh, unforgiving glare of flourescent lights once every few years.

    And here’s a tip for the salesgirl at Just Add Water, in case she’s reading (yeah, right). If two potential buyers are browsing through a group of swimsuits in the store, it would probably benefit your sales numbers not to pointedly look them up and down and then say, “This section is for C, D, and DD cups”, in a tone of voice that clearly conveys you think they have gotten lost in a land where they deserve no passport.

    I helped Gulley pick out a few swimsuits to try on and then we headed to the dressing room. And let me tell y’all what they now have in the dressing rooms at Just Add Water.

    Disposable thongs.

    That’s right. They supply you with disposable thongs so that you can get a better idea of what a swimsuit will look like without having your underwear all bunched up inside the bottoms and hanging out, perhaps making you think those swim bottoms offer more extensive coverage than they actually do.

    Gulley took one look at those disposable thongs and said, “You’ve got to believe that the only thing worse than seeing yourself in a pair of swimsuit bottoms after a long winter, is seeing yourself in a disposable thong while looking in a three way mirror.”

    I couldn’t agree more.

    Anyway, she had success and made a swimsuit purchase.

    And for those of y’all who have been on the edge of your seats all weekend, I took back the Ann Taylor dress because I found my receipt and knew that I could get my full purchase price refunded. It was like a huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. The weight of that shirtdress was just wearing me down.

    The salesgirl asked why I was returning it and I told her, “I tried it on 411 times and just couldn’t decide, until my husband told me I looked like a librarian.”

    Blank stare.

    And then she checked the box that said, “Changed mind.”

    I guess it was more information than she actually needed. Just like seeing yourself in a disposable thong.

  • If only Ward Cleaver had been this witty

    A few weeks ago, I went shopping at Ann Taylor Loft and one of the salesgirls was wearing this darling, chocolate brown shirt dress. I thought it was so cute and then realized, it was right there in the store and available for purchase.

    Imagine that.

    So, I took the dress into the dressing room and tried it on. The fit was reminiscent of the type of dress June Cleaver wore to vacuum her living room back in the 50’s complete with a belt at the waist, and it was not necessarily the type of thing I would normally wear (and by not necessarily, I mean never in a million years), but thinking about how cute that salesgirl looked convinced me that I needed to have this dress in my wardrobe.

    I brought it home and it’s been hanging in my closet ever since. I’ve tried it on more times than I can admit without being committed to some sort of indecisiveness therapy, trying to decide if I really liked it or not. Actually, that’s not correct. I liked the dress, I just wasn’t sure I liked it on me.

    It seemed like I might need a different life to go with the dress. A life filled with 3 hot, homecooked meals a day, membership in a gardening club, and a child that doesn’t consider Target to be the epitome of civilization.

    I kept wavering between feeling cute as a button or like something out of The Stepford Wives. I tried it on once with a strand of pearls, and when I looked at my reflection in the mirror, it actually startled me.

    Anyway, I finally decided that I was going to keep it because, in all honesty, I realized I probably threw away the receipt at about the same time I was trying the dress on for the 411th time. Which should serve as another reminder that my life doesn’t go with this dress.

    This morning, I put the dress on.

    I walked into the kitchen where P was drinking his morning coffee. I could feel his eyes on me, and briefly wondered what he was thinking since he had missed the other 410 times I’d tried the dress on. The great thing about being married to P is he never leaves me wondering for long before he states his feelings.

    Today was no exception.

    I was putting some things in my purse when he says, “Ma’am, could you tell me where the card catalogue is located and teach me about the Dewey Decimal System?”

    As God is my witness, I am tearing apart my closet tomorrow, looking for that receipt. The dress is going back to the store so that it can find a more suitable owner.

    June Cleaver is one thing, but a librarian…that’s an entirely different matter.

    ***Updated to show y’all a picture of the dress. Remember, I didn’t say it isn’t cute, I just feel like I’m playing the part of someone else when I have it on. And no, that’s not me in the dress, it’s from the Ann Taylor Loft website.

  • No one will ever have to tell because I’ll never ask

    Last week, Gulley attended a Kindergarten roundup thing since her oldest son will be starting Kindergarten in the fall. It was basically an orientation type thing. My question is do they call it a roundup because we’re in Texas or is it called a roundup in places like Connecticut also?

    My guess is no.

    Anyway, the evening consisted of parents and their kids meeting all the teachers, seeing the school, and touring the individual classrooms. At the beginning or maybe it was at the end, (details! I’m all about details!) there was a question and answer portion to the roundup.

    As Gulley was telling me about the question and answer session, she mentioned that she didn’t ask any questions because she realizes that she has a tendency to zone out and there is a good chance that whatever question she decided to ask, would have already been answered.

    This led to a discussion of our shared fear of asking questions out loud in group settings, because here’s a little information that may save some of y’all time and embarrassment. Remember how growing up teachers and parents would always say things like, “There is no such thing as a dumb question”?

    They lied.

    Yes, Virginia. There is such thing as a dumb question.

    If you don’t believe me, then may I tell you how sorry I am that the batteries in your hearing aid have given out.

    I will be the first to admit that I tend to run out of patience for people who feel the need to ask all the questions with all of their what ifs and why nots, but lets be honest, if you’ve stopped for dinner at Church’s Fried Chicken, does it really matter what kind of oil the chicken is fried in?

    The kind that clogs your arteries and will cause you to die, unless counterbalanced with some type of cholesterol medication.

    When I call my company’s tech support line and tell the guy on the line that my computer died, does he really need to ask me if I’ve tried to turn it back on?

    Apparently so.

    And don’t get me wrong. I’m guilty. I have been known to ask the dumb question. Repeatedly. In fact, while Gulley and I were having our discussion about our fear of public questions, I told her a story that made me a legend in my high school youth group.

    My sophomore year in high school, my youth group was having a lock in. For those of y’all who may not know (and now are afraid to ask) a lock in is basically an all night slumber party but without the sleep. Ours usually consisted of all night basketball games, hide and seek, and movies like Rocky III being shown in various Sunday School classrooms.

    And drama. Lots of drama. You can’t lock in 25 high school girls and 15 high school boys without dealing with the emotional ramifications of all the relationship crises that can occur in a 12 hour time period.

    Anyway, the Wednesday night before the lock in, our youth group leader was giving us information about the event. He said, “If your name starts with A-M, bring Cokes and if your name starts with N-Z, bring a bag of chips.” My hand shot up like a canon and I asked, “Is that first name or last?”

    Now y’all may be thinking that’s not a dumb question and no, no it is not. Unless, your first name and last name start with the same letter which, of course, mine did. A fact that our youth leader quickly pointed out to me.

    It was the day I lost my innocence and realized that yes, the dumb question does exist. For the next three years, anytime those chip bringing instructions were given, all eyes would turn to me and say “First name or last?”

    So now, I refrain from the question portion of any event. It’s just better that way.

    It will save Caroline and me a lot of embarrassment in the future, although she has the benefit of having a first name and last name that don’t start with the same letter.

    I’m all about creating a better future for my child.

  • Carolina ballerina

    When I was pregnant with Caroline and went in for my 20 week sonogram, P and I absolutely knew we wanted to know the sex of our baby. I had already conducted the very scientific Drano crystals test, which told me I was having a girl, but for some reason P wanted more conclusive evidence before he let me order the pink fabric and paint for the nursery.

    He just doesn’t have the aptitude for science that I do.

    Sure enough, the sonogram revealed that we were having a girl and truth be told, I was more than a little relieved because first of all, I know girls because well, I am a girl, and secondly, because Gulley and I had gone out and bought a darling, pink fur trimmed jacket for the baby based on the results of the Drano test.

    And, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start planning Caroline’s future in ballet lessons while she was still in utero.

    It’s not that I’m some crazy, obsessed stage mother, it’s just that there is really not much cuter on this earth than little girls in tutus and precious, tiny pink ballet slippers. If y’all think I’m wrong, then just go window shop at the Deck the Walls in your local mall and look at how many different prints are available that feature tiny ballerinas.

    Art doesn’t lie.

    I couldn’t wait for the day that my daughter could follow in my dancing footsteps and begin lessons of her own. And some of y’all may be thinking “Wow, I didn’t know Big Mama was a dancer!” and actually, I’m not, unless you count a year of lessons when I was three and another year or two when I was 9 or 10. By following in my footsteps, I just meant that there are some cute childhood photos of me in a dance costume. I like to think I’m a pretty good package, but rhythm isn’t so much a part of it.

    Well, unless I’ve had a few margaritas and then, I’ve got some moves. Oh yes ma’am.

    Finally, last summer I signed Caroline up for ballet lesson 2 days a week for 4 weeks. She really loved it and although she spent the majority of the time just admiring herself in the huge, floorlength mirrors, she did it with impeccable grace and style. I took it as a sign that we were ready for a long term commitment to dance lessons and in the fall, signed her up for the whole year.

    What was I thinking? I should have gone to Walmart, paid $9.99 for a full length mirror, put it in her room and she could have stared at herself all day long for free.

    And to further prove that I was hypnotized by how adorable she looked in her little pink leotard with those precious, pink ballet slippers, I signed her up for a class that meets Monday afternoons at 4:00, because it makes complete sense to schedule an activity that requires me to force her into Danskin tights during a time of day where she would whine about having to live in a chocolate castle and eat M&M’s and brownies all day long.

    We have spent a grueling eight months persevering through dance class. Every Monday she says “Mama, I don’t want to go to dance” and I couldn’t agree more.

    Why do we go?

    Well, I’ll tell y’all the truth. It’s all about the recital. This is a crafty little dance studio and they schedule the recital for the very end of the year, but they make you pay for your costume and your recital fee at the very beginning of the year, because they have been doing this long enough to know that if they wait until the end of the year to collect that money, no one would do it. So they reel you in while you’re still giddy from buying the tiniest, cutest little tap shoes you’ve ever seen.

    A RECITAL! HOW EXCITING! Of course we’ll pay! There’s no way we wouldn’t be a part of the recital!

    I cannot tell y’all how tempted I have been to cut my losses and just get the costume, take it home and call it the most expensive game of dress up ever in the history of the world.

    This past Monday, Caroline finally revolted to what I’m afraid may be the point of no return. We arrived at dance lessons, I wedged her feet in her almost too small tap shoes (because I refuse to buy a brand new pair of tap shoes for what is, most certainly, the end of her dancing career), took her to the bathroom for the 4th time because nothing makes her need to pee like being encased in tights and a leotard, and then walked her to her classroom where she refused to go in.

    SHE REFUSED.

    It was a dance mutiny. A ballerina rebellion. A tapdancing coup.

    And what’s more, two other little girls from her class noticed that she had staged a walk out and decided to join her in the lobby so they could join arms in solidarity and say ENOUGH. NO MORE DANCING.

    I was in a pickle. I mean, honestly, I couldn’t care less about any of it at this point, but it seems like it’s the principle of teaching her that we follow through on commitments and we’ve committed to be in the recital. It’s the same reason I always eat a whole bag of Sour Patch Kids at one sitting. I’ve committed.

    I finally convinced her that she needed to go dance and with a flounce of her tutu and a flip of her ponytail, she headed into the studio. With that kind of attitude, it’s no wonder those Drano crystals were so sure she was a girl.

    May God have mercy on me.

  • Sudafed…the new gateway drug

    I spent most of the weekend suffering from cough due to cold or maybe just allergies. Either way, my nose alternates between running like a faucet or being completely stopped up, making my voice so deep that when I call Caroline from the other room, she answers, “What Daddy?”

    I’ve sneezed until I felt like my head was about to come off and honestly, wouldn’t care if it went flying across the room if it would just make the congestion stop.

    Thursday night before bed, I knew the time had come to medicate myself. I don’t really take any kind of medication on a regular basis, unlike P who pops the Zyrtec D like it grows on little antihistamine trees in our backyard.

    I thought about pilfering one of his Zyrtec D’s, but remembered there is way too much pseudoephedrine in them and if I took one before bed, not only would I not sleep, but I would have enough nervous, medicated energy to obsess all night about important issues like global warming.

    So, I rummaged through our medicine cabinet looking for just plain Sudafed, so that I could take my dose of choice, 30 mg, because I’m a girl that knows my cold medicine limits.

    Alas, we were out. I settled for taking one Benadryl, which still has me feeling sleepy and incoherent 5 days later.

    Friday afternoon, I headed to Walgreens to purchase some Sudafed. Wonderful Sudafed. Nothing else relieves the pressure in my head like those little red pills chock full of miraculous, healing properties.

    In case y’all don’t know this, it is no longer possible to just walk in to a pharmacy, grab your box of Sudafed, and head home to enjoy a head that no longer weighs 23 pounds. Oh no. They try to fool you with the identical boxes of Sudafed PE and Walfed PE, but don’t be confused, dear internet friends. PE is the poor man’s decongestant substitute. The only advantage it has over the original Sudafed is, apparently, you can’t make crystal meth out of it.

    See how I just threw out crystal meth like I’m all street savvy, when in reality, the only way I have this information is because I saw it on 20/20, which means I was home at 8:00 on a Friday night with nothing better to do than watch Barbara Walters.

    Anyway, to buy the original, miracle working Sudafed, you have to take the display card up to the pharmacist’s counter. I grabbed the card, walked over to the pharmacist and slid it across the counter so that we could make the exchange. The pharmacist looked me up and down, obviously trying to deduce if I was indeed, in the business of manufacturing crystal meth, and yes, I looked the part in my “He Hunts, I Shop” t-shirt, yoga pants and running shoes while clutching my kleenex tightly in my hand and saying, “Please, sir. I must have the Sudafed.”

    I guess he decided I was okay because he asked me to hand over my drivers’ license so he could enter my name in the computer database to determine if I was out buying boxes of Sudafed at every store in town. Finally, I signed something to the effect that I realized I was purchasing Sudafed, was aware that it contained pseudoephedrine and I could be accused of running a crystal meth operation and eventually, lose my home and all other earthly possessions.

    Ironically, in the past, when I’ve gotten prescriptions for major narcotics filled after such things as childbirth and P’s back surgeries, all they do is hand me the little bag with the potent, mind altering drugs and tell me to “Have a nice day!” to which I reply, “Do you know what you just gave me? How could it not be a nice day?”

    What they don’t understand is when I’m suffering from this kind of congestion, all I want is the congestion reducing benefits of real Sudafed.

    If I wanted to get high, I’d just take another Benadryl.