Another day

Before I say anything else today, I believe my feelings about y’all are best summed up in the words of the immortal Coca-Cola commercial:

I’d like to teach the internet to sing
In perfect harmony
I’d like to buy the internet a Coke
And keep it company

Y’all are the best. Group hug.

About two years ago, Gulley decided it was time to enroll Will into a preschool program. She knew that I adored Caroline’s preschool, but was a little apprehensive about signing him up to attend that same school. Her reason can be summed up in three words: SHOEBOX FIESTA FLOAT.

(Is shoebox one word? If not, her reason can be summed up in four words: SHOE BOX FIESTA FLOAT)

She had been witness to her best friend turning into some sort of lunatic who called various McDonalds restaurants and begged them to hold Happy Meal toys. She saw my dark side. It was kind of like when Obi Wan Kenobi had proof that Anakin had darkness under the surface.

Actually, I don’t know if it was like that at all because I have very limited knowledge of anything related to Star Wars. I just wanted to throw that out there. Plus, I am trying to expand my Star Wars horizons because the other day I was volunteering in Caroline’s classroom and a little boy asked me some question like “Do you know what the Prince Commander of Blah-Blah-Blah and Rebel Force Blah-Blah-Blah when Blah-Blah-Blah?” I honestly had absolutely no clue what kind of answer he was looking for so I just answered “TWO?”

Have you ever had a five-year-old look at you like they pity you? Yeah, me too.

Anyway, because I have some pride issues involving my ability to make shoebox fiesta floats, I promised Gulley that when the day came that Will had to take part in the shoebox float parade, I would help her make the float.

That day arrived two weeks ago.

Gulley received the note from school informing her that it was time for the kids to make their floats. She called me up so we could schedule a day to hit Michael’s for the necessary supplies and then go back to my house to assemble the whole thing. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little excited to have the chance to use my hot glue gun.

Wow. I’m so embarrassed that I just admitted that.

The goods news is that Gulley had the float theme all thought out. Her sister’s in-laws had brought her boys the entire Happy Meal collection of “Madagascar” animals over Thanksgiving (with the exception of Gloria because they must be anti-hippo) and she’d been saving them for such a time as this. I have never been more proud to call her my friend.

Last Tuesday we met for Starbucks and then headed to Michael’s. We purchased ribbon, glitter paper, and other various float materials. It never occurred to either one of us that maybe we should purchase some sort of life.

We went back to my house and began to work on the float, stopping only for lunch and the occasional Diet Coke. At one point it did occur to us that maybe it was a little bizarre that we were spending our entire day working on a float for a four-year-old who would have been just as happy, if not happier, if we handed him a shoebox with a Whoopie Cushion glued to the top, but then the hot glue gun began to burn my fingers and I forgot what I was talking about.

Anyway, by the time Gulley left to pick up Will from school, my living room floor was covered in glitter and we had most of the float finished. I instructed Gulley to go home and let Will glue on the rest of the tissue paper flowers because, after all, it’s his float. It’s not like we were going to do the WHOLE thing for him.

Sure, some people may say the zebra-print arch with “I like to move it” is a little over the top considering that most four-year-olds can’t even read, but to those people I say that you’ve never experienced having your Barbie Island Princess float put to shame by a float that’s pulled by an actual battery-operated horse.

I put my heart, soul, and the tips of my fingers that were burnt by the hot glue gun into that float and I was proud. After all, it would be my only opportunity to put my OCD tendencies on display this year since Caroline’s Kindergarten doesn’t do floats.

Or so I thought.

Two days later Caroline came home from school and I was going through her take home folder. Inside was a note letting parents know that the Fiesta Shoebox Float parade was next Thursday and all floats needed to be turned in by Tuesday, April 21.

I was caught totally unprepared.

There had been no hording of Happy Meal toys, no planning, no envisioning what type of theme would make a great float. How am I supposed to work under those conditions? I asked Caroline what type of float she wanted to make and I could hear the passion in her voice as she said, “I don’t care.”

I scoured our playroom in a desperate attempt to figure out some sort of plan using something we had on hand, but a float with the theme of “Dried-Out Playdough” has been done to death. Finally, I noticed the Little Mermaid Ariel Barbie smirking at me from the top of the Barbie bin. We’ll see who’s smirking after I hot glue her bottom to a shoebox.

Caroline loved the idea of a mermaid float. We went to Michael’s to buy yet more craft supplies and then came home and got to work.

Here is the finished mermaid float.

You will notice that Ariel is kind of reclining back on her hands. It’s not that she’s really that relaxed, but rather that I had to hot glue her hands to the float to get her to stay since that big flipper tends to make her a little bottom heavy.

Caroline brought the float to school yesterday and I have to say I struggled with my float pride as I watched her carry it into school until I saw a little girl walking behind her who was carrying a float with an entire log cabin built on top from what appeared to be real wood.

Five dollars says it’s the same kid that had the battery-operated horse last year.

Show off.

As I briefly mentioned, before I took my blogging sabbatical, I’d spent the weekend in New Orleans. And by weekend, I mean I was there for about twenty-four hours. Six of which were spent in the Louis Armstrong Airport.

Sophie and I were there to blog for Allaccess and after the first part of the Living Proof Live event ended on Friday night, we felt like we needed something to eat in spite of the fact that I’d eaten a crawfish po-boy that was bigger than my head only a few hours earlier.

So we did what most people do when they’re in a city that’s world renowned for its cuisine; we went to Domino’s Pizza.

We originally debated just ordering room service, but $26.00 seemed a little pricey for a cheese plate, even if it did promise homemade pecan bread and various cheeses from around the world. Instead, we ventured outside the hotel but were too exhausted to find a real restaurant. Our choices boiled down to a Quik Mart that offered four-day-old fried chicken kept warm by a thirty-watt lightbulb or Domino’s.

Several people were already waiting for their orders in the Domino’s waiting area and I immediately sensed they’d been waiting for their pizzas for a long time. I have an intuition about these types of things or maybe it was the fact that one customer had curled up and fallen asleep on the bench. I’m not sure.

The girl behind the counter was on the phone when we walked up to the order window and she looked up long enough to ROLL her eyes at the very nerve of us interrupting her personal conversation to order a pizza. What did we think this was? A pizza place?

She put the receiver to her chest, adjusted her Domino’s visor, and said, “Mmhe melo hou?”

“Um. Sorry to bother you. Can you tell us how long it would take to get a pizza?”

“Shnme melm.”

“Beg your pardon?”

Big eye roll.

She put down the phone, glanced back towards the kitchen that contained no indication that anyone was actually making pizzas, and said what I believed to be “Fifteen minutes”.

“Okay. Then we’d like the four for $4.00 special with pepperoni!”

Hooray for optimism.

We paid for our pizza and I could tell as we faced the waiting room crowd that we’d made a huge mistake. Why didn’t anyone tell us that it was too late for them but we should save ourselves? It was as if they were all bound by some unwritten code of Domino’s Pizza silence.

For the next hour we watched people give up on their cheesy breadsticks and Philly Cheesesteak pizzas and go back from whence they came. But not us.

Oh no ma’am, we were prepared to die on that Domino mountain or uncomfortable bench or whatever. We’d shelled out $16.00 for our pizzas, we’d invested the time, and we were going to get us a pepperoni pizza if it killed us. There was no going back to the comfort and safety of the hotel and settling for a $28.00 plate of global cheese.

The Domino’s patrons were looking sketchier by the minute and that’s when I began to wonder if I was going to meet my demise in an establishment that serves mediocre pizza at best.

About that time, one of the other customers decided to impress those of us still waiting for any semblance of food. He got on his cell phone and proceeded to call everyone he knew to tell them about the party he’d just left and the party he was headed to after he got his pizza. And how awesome all the parties were and how he didn’t put up with anything from anyone.

Well, except for maybe the folks at Domino’s who had kept him waiting for over an hour for his pizza.

It was fascinating.

At some point during his fifth cell phone call, he realized all his party plans were failing to draw us in. I hated to tell him that he was dealing with two mamas in their late 30’s. The only party we’re looking for at this point in our lives is a comfortable couch and some sort of reality show marathon on Bravo, preferably involving Rachel Zoe.

So he got off the phone and began to tell us his Domino’s Pizza conspiracy theory. According to him, they purposely make you wait so you’ll leave without your food and they’ll keep your money. Apparently it’s how they make a profit. I don’t really give that theory any credit because it doesn’t make any sense and, also, because I heard it from a drunk guy in New Orleans.

After spending an hour watching the girl at the counter repeatedly gaze into the kitchen and tell prospective customers that it would be “about fifteen minutes”, we finally heard her call out, “Joikobnse”. I wasn’t totally sure it was us, but it looked close enough. We grabbed it and ran back to the hotel.

It was one of the best pepperoni pizzas I’ve had in at least a week.

In fact, I’d like to say it was worth the wait.

But that would be a lie.

However, you have to believe that it was better than four-day-old chicken.

I realize that some of you are still hunkered down trying desperately to survive the bitterly cold winter armed with only your Snuggies and gas fireplaces, much like the Ingalls family in “The Long Winter”. However, here in South Texas, I do believe winter is officially over.

We did have some cold weather over the weekend and I tried to take full advantage by making Caroline wear this darling corduroy jumper to church on Sunday since I know it won’t fit her next year. She agreed to the jumper, but when I suggested she wear it with her fur boots she told me, “I’m just not feeling the boots.”

Okay, Rachel Zoe.

You mark my words, there will come a day this summer when she will have a fit to wear those dang fur boots with her swimsuit to the pool and I’ll have to launch into my time-honored lecture on seasonally appropriate clothing. You can bet Caroline Ingalls never had to deal with this kind of stuff. Her girls were just grateful to have some new calico for a dress.

Why am I rambling? I think the steady stream of reality t.v. this week has reduced my I.Q. by at least 45 points. Points I can’t spare, by the way.

Anyway, my point is that winter is over. In fact, this is how we spent the afternoon yesterday.

(Please ignore the paint spills on the steps. Some hack just recently painted our backhouse.)

Actually, before we started in on the popsicles we gave the dogs a bath because they were beginning to stink up the whole neighborhood. P took them to the ranch on Tuesday and Scout, in particular, has never met any type of excrement that he doesn’t want to roll in.

I couldn’t find the dog shampoo but, thanks to Pantene, their coats have never looked so lustrous and shiny.

After the dog baths, we enjoyed some popsicles and played some tee-ball until Caroline fell on our sidewalk and then launched into a twenty-minute rant about how we needed to have those sidewalks removed. She DOES NOT LIKE those sidewalks! Why did Daddy put those sidewalks in our yard? It’s all HIS FAULT.

Or maybe it’s her fault for not looking where she was running. But I didn’t point that out because, good grief, don’t anger it any further.

While I was out in the backyard, I finally remembered to take a picture of the completed backhouse. And by completed, I mean that everything is now painted that you actually see and the rest is hidden by the landscaping so what’s the point?

(Please ignore Scout licking himself. It’s who he is.)

(Also, I don’t know why that window is open. Totally ruins the picture.)

I am just so relieved that I finally finished the project, even if it did bring me to the edge of sanity and reason. It just goes to show that if you work really hard, go to college, and earn a degree, that someday you can grow up to paint your own garage. God bless America.

So now that I’m finished with the backhouse, I have another home improvement project on tap. This one doesn’t involve any sort of manual labor because, NEVER AGAIN. It’s more of a home decor issue and I could use some decorating input.

Like most of the free world, we own a coffee table. It’s the same coffee table we’ve owned for the last ten years and I have no complaints about the table itself. It’s perfectly lovely and functional.

At one time, prior to Caroline’s birth, the coffee table used to have some actual decor-type items on it. But then I had to put those items away because most child-rearing manuals will tell you it’s not a good idea to let an 18-month-old walk around carrying wrought iron candlesticks.

I replaced what was on the table with two stacks of various coffee table books because apparently I am very literal about them being called “coffee table” books. The problem is that P likes to prop his feet up on the coffee table and would push the books off EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. Then we’d end up having the same discussion EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, which was basically “WHY DO YOU WANT TO MAKE MY LIFE SO HARD?”

Finally, I gave up and moved the books off the table because my blood pressure can only go so high.

Which brings us to how the table looks as of today.

Granted, if your decor is supposed to reflect your lifestyle, then I think we’re doing a pretty good job. Classy, elegant and filled with processed sugar and Disney Princess light-up wands.

Am I wrong to want more out of a coffee table? Is there any hope for me?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. The only criteria is that whatever I use as decor needs to be cheap, and, by cheap, I mean free.

Muchas gracias.

Oh my gosh, she totally licked the knife.

I don’t know how I missed it considering that it’s the first thing you see when the video starts, but that may be a clue as to why a career with the CIA would have never worked out for me. I mean, along with the fact that I couldn’t fight my way out of wet paper bag or stop myself from telling people, “I AM TOTALLY A SUPER-COOL SPY JUST LIKE SYDNEY BRISTOW!”

On a different note, I promise I will post pictures of the backhouse at some point, but I really want to wait until I get the door painted because right now it still looks pretty ghetto. Granted, it looks less ghetto than it did a week ago, but it’s ghetto nonetheless. My plan is to get the door painted before the weekend is over. It will be like a little Valentines Day present to myself.

And for those of y’all who are having a hard time sleeping at night for all the wondering about what a backhouse is, you can read a post I wrote about it if you click here. Pour yourself a cup of something with a lot of caffeine because it’s fascinating stuff.

So let me tell y’all what I did yesterday.

I sat in a high school classroom from 9 a.m. until 1:50 p.m. Why? Why would I do that? Because in a fit of enthusiasm, peer pressure and school district loyalty, I signed up to be part of a Strategic Planning Committee on making character a priority in our district.

It’s almost like I forgot everything I know about myself when I volunteered for this assignment, such as the part of my personality that hates meetings and agendas and research. In college I was that girl that you didn’t want in your small group project because I’d look for any excuse to not attend a meeting. There may have even been one instance in 1992 when I had Gulley call the house (no cell phones in ’92) where my group was meeting and tell me I needed to come home because there was a problem with our dog.

We didn’t have a dog.

So, technically, that could have been the problem.

I was all about semantics in the early 1990’s.

Anyway, the problem with finding yourself on a committee with the intent of character development is that you can’t exactly quit just because you’ve decided that it’s a whole lot of meetings and you might rather be painting the door of your backhouse. Oh no, you have to persevere, even though you are probably known as that girl who showed up thirty minutes late to the first meeting with a fresh Route 44 Diet Coke in your hand.

In my defense, I thought the meeting started at 1:30 and purposely left my house early so that I’d have time to stop at Sonic for a Route 44 to sustain me. Unfortunately the meeting started at 1:00 so when I breezed through the door at 1:27, I was more than a little conspicuous. Plus I was holding that dang Diet Coke so everyone knew it wasn’t like I’d just come from an emergency vet appointment with my dog because, CLEARLY, I’d just been to the Sonic.

I wanted to tell the entire room that I’d written the time down wrong and wasn’t trying to make a mockery of character and integrity with my laissez-faire attitude and Route 44 Diet Coke, but instead I just took my walk of shame to the back of the room while managing to knock someone’s very important research papers off their desk.

Since that time I have made it my personal goal to be the best committee member ever. I show up promptly to all the meetings and only leave early when I have something legitimate to do, such as going to get a pedicure.

Today, I left the meeting an hour early to be at the house when Caroline got home from school and we needed to finish her Valentines for the class party on Friday. After an hour of helping her cut, paste and write her classmates’ names somewhat legibly, I was whipped.

But I’d also come up with a brilliant solution.

If we want to build character in the older students in the district, all we need to do is put them in a room for a couple of hours a week with Kindergartners, construction paper, scissors, magic markers, and some glue.

Because patience? It is a virtue.