Another day

The road to College Station and back was paved with good intentions

Ay Carambe. Muchas fiestas this weekend.

See how those four semesters of college-level Spanish are the gift that keeps giving?

Despite my best efforts I have only made it through half of the Fiesta so far.

Ayudame.

That means help me in Spanish. I actually learned that from “Go Diego Go”, not Spanish class.

But if I haven’t made it to your fiesta, I will. And I’ll also announce the winner of the new blog header around noon central time.

The main reason that I haven’t made it through all the fiestas yet is because Gulley and I loaded up the kids on Saturday morning and headed to College Station to take in a little Aggie baseball.

Caroline had been so excited for this trip that I truly thought her head was going to explode by Friday night and it would have been so tragic that after days of repeatedly asking, “IS TODAY SATURDAY? ARE WE LEAVING TODAY? CAN WE LEAVE TODAY?”, that she would have missed the trip due to head explosion.

It’s about a three hour drive from San Antonio to College Station if you make the drive without any children in the car. For us, it took about the same amount of time it took the Ingalls’ family to make it across the Northwestern plains in the dead of winter as they fought wolves, Indians, and the bitter cold.

At the halfway point we stopped at McDonalds so the kids could use the bathroom and order a Happy Meal so they could all have a free toy and eat a combined half a Chicken McNugget and four paper cups filled with ketchup.

Gulley and I decided we couldn’t stomach another meal at McDonalds. We are grown women. We needed something a little more sophisticated, a little more refined.

We made a run for the border.

Which for us is a true delicacy because Taco Bells are next to non-existent when you live in San Antonio, TX, home to over eight hundred and fifty-two Mexican restaurants.

In spite of the easy access to some of the best Mexican food in the world, Gulley and I still crave Taco Bell from time to time. Which just goes to show you can take the girl out of East Texas, but you can’t take the East Texas out of the girl.

We finally arrived at Gulley’s mama’s house with just enough time to change clothes and head to Olsen Field for the game.

Will really wasn’t up for the photo op. He’s a complex fellow and needs his space.

Poor Will. Why can’t we all just leave him alone?

He sent us a clear signal that he wanted to distance himself from the pack when he insisted he sit in a booth behind us at McDonalds, not with us. Because the age of three is filled with emotional turmoil. He needed a few moments alone to journal his thoughts on the side of his Happy Meal bag.

Anyway, once we arrived at Olsen, we bought about $150 worth of cotton candy, popcorn and snowcones and settled into our seats. For about five minutes. And then someone had to go to the bathroom.

But in between the trips to the bathroom, we saw a few fights on the field, three coaches get ejected, and an OU team that liked to meet on the pitcher’s mound and talk more than any other team I have ever seen. At one point Gulley yelled, “Take it to Starbucks, Ladies. We’re here to play some baseball.”

Because we are delicate flowers at sporting events.

In the end all that chit-chatting didn’t pay off because we completely demolished them.

It was a good night.

Until the kids realized they were exhausted and then muchas meltdowns ensued.

But Gulley told me to quit crying and get Caroline in her pajamas and put her to bed.

The next morning, we woke up to a veritable carbohydrate heaven consisting of Shipley’s donuts and kolaches courtesy of Honey and Big.

And just like that, it was time to turn around for the long drive home.

I would tell y’all about it, but I don’t like to use profanity.

All I can say is if our drive was any indication of what Ma and Pa Ingalls went through then I wouldn’t have been surprised if The Little House books contained this phrase, “…and then Pa kicked us out of the wagon, left us on the prairie and said ‘Good Luck’.”
I’d really just like to say “This…is CNN”

Okay, can we discuss a few things before I get to whatever point I’m going to make or not make in this post?

First, do not be afraid of the Fashion Fiesta. It’s supposed to be fun and comical. A light-hearted look at how mamas really dress when they aren’t being featured on Oprah’s makeover shows.

So, show us your yoga pants and t-shirts and we’ll all be united in peace and yoga-pant loving harmony.

And if you think your closet it too boring to share? Here’s a secret.

Me too.

I just don’t let that stop me.

True confession. At this very moment I am wearing some cutoff olive green cargo shorts from Old Navy circa 2002 and a UCLA baseball t-shirt that says PAC-6, when clearly the PAC-6 has been the PAC-10 for many, many years now.

Needless to say it’s a hot look pulled right from the pages of “Hobo Weekly”.

So, no stress on showing us some incredible closet full of coordinated, up-to-the-minute ensembles with perfect accessories. Mine will be more along the lines of a hall of shame.

Secondly, I saw Lara Flynn Boyle in the HEB on Monday.

I wish there were more to the story, like that we talked all about what it was like to date Jack Nicholson and if he ever takes off his sunglasses, but there’s not.

She was headed to the produce department. I was headed to the cereal aisle. I thought she looked familiar and couldn’t place where I knew someone who was 4’11’ and weighed 76 pounds, unless it was someone from Caroline’s Pre-K class.

Then I realized it was Lara Flynn Boyle.

And she had on some cool red shoes and a Mexican-style embroidered top.

It kills me that there isn’t more to the story.

I even had my camera with me. But what was I going to do? Take a picture of her picking out a bunch of grapes?

I totally should have taken a picture of her picking out a bunch of grapes.

Dang.

Okay, so yesterday I drove to the Outlet Mall in San Marcos to meet my friend Vicki. Because although we have talked numerous times on the phone and through email, we’ve never met in person. And since she’s in Austin and I’m in San Antonio, it was a natural choice to meet at the little slice of heaven known as the Outlet Mall.

We met at Johnny Rockets for lunch because there is no firmer foundation for a friendship than cheese fries. Or really any type of cheese product.

We had just ordered our Diet Cokes when her cell phone rang and she excused herself to answer it. She came back to the table, apologized profusely, and explained that she needed to head back to Austin because she had been asked to be on CNN for a segment on The Glenn Beck Show.

Well, sure.

If I had a dime for every time one of my friends has had to leave a lunch date to go be on CNN, then I guess I would now have one dime.

So, I told Vicki to run, run like the wind, and get to Austin because if there is anything more important than cheese fries and shopping, then it’s being on national television.

Oh I kid.

Nothing is more important than shopping.

However, national television appearances are a very close second.

Anyway, she left and I found myself all alone at Johnny Rocket’s staring out the window at a J.Crew outlet store. And since I would have hated to make the drive for no reason, especially with gas prices being what they are, I decided to stay and shop.

Gulley was watching Caroline for me and I had to be back by 2:30, so there was a critical time factor. However, I have been blessed with the gift of fashion discernment. I can scan the interior of a store for 2.7 seconds and intuitively know if there is anything in there worth trying on.

My gift served me well yesterday because I was able to hit about twenty-eight different stores, while wearing wedge heel shoes no less, in about an hour and a half.

And you know what I bought?

A pair of green flip-flops for Gulley.

And while I am so happy that I found some flip-flops for my friend who has been in need of bargain-priced green shoes, I cannot express my disappointment in the overall fashion selection.

I’d like the opportunity to go on CNN and discuss it.

I wonder if Vicki can hook me up?

Or maybe I could ask Lara Flynn Boyle next time I see her at HEB.
This could be the Yaz talking

Yesterday, I picked Caroline up from school and we headed to a local ice cream shop because I promised her that if she didn’t get her name written on the board for talking during nap time then we could get a treat after school.

Bribery. It works for me.

We pulled up to the ice cream place and it was closed. Needless to say there was great angst over the ice cream that was not to be, but then she looked across the street and saw a huge sign that pictured chocolate-covered strawberries.

“OH MAMA! CAN I GET CHOCOLATE-COVERED STRAWBERRIES?”

I agreed and we drove across the street. They were some of the biggest strawberries I’ve ever seen and I told her she could have two. The nice man at the counter rang up our purchase and told me that would be $8.10.

For two strawberries.

$4.05 a piece.

Dipped in chocolate, not gold.

And at that moment it totally paid off that I have just one child because otherwise I would have ended up shelling out $16.20 for four strawberries. See how economical the only child is?

Granted, if I had two kids I probably wouldn’t take them to get chocolate-covered strawberries because anytime they asked me for anything I’d remind them that I gave them a sibling and that should be more than enough.

That’s just one reason I go back and forth on the second child thing, the other is that we’re going to need someone to wash dishes while Caroline mows the lawn.

Oh I kid because judging by the emails and comments y’all have some opinions on the only child vs. multiple children thing.

And I’m serious when I say that I appreciate all your words and thoughts on the whole matter. It’s part of the reason I corner every only child I meet and do a battery of psychological tests to make sure they seem to be reasonably normal and well-adjusted.

The thing is that I’m totally okay with whatever God has planned for our family. And really, it’s kind of funny that I spend so much time on the internal second child debate as if it’s totally up to me, because there’s no guarantee I’d even get pregnant again. If He wants us to have another child we will. It’s not like He’s up in heaven wringing his hands over the fact that I’m on birth control pills. Last I checked He’s more powerful than the hormonal manipulation of the Yaz.

Plus, having one child is so simple. Think of what we’ll save on college education. Not to mention the time we’ll save by only having one adult child to call each week and ask why she never calls or comes home to visit.

And we’ll know with all certainty who we have to bribe with good Christmas gifts to ensure that we’re placed in a quality retirement community.

Truth be told, I always assumed we would have two kids because it’s the thing to do. You get married, get a dog so that you can practice keeping something alive, have your two kids, and then make the dog start sleeping outside.

We’re at a point where we have friends popping out babies like they’re Tic-Tacs and I love to visit them, hold the little bundle of sweetness, then hand them back while thinking “Yeah, good luck with that. If you need me, I’ll be sleeping for eight hours.”

But yet there is a part of me that would love the whole experience of having another child, except with an epidural before I dilate to 10 centimeters. It’s such an amazing thing to watch something that weighs 5 1/2 pounds, has no eyelashes, and bears more than a slight resemblance to a baby frog become a beautiful little girl with pigtails that says things and has opinions.

Would we have a boy? Would it be another girl? Is there a chance it would sleep through the night at two weeks and potty train itself?

Because that would be golden.

I even have some great names picked out that may end up being used on a new puppy instead.

And I’m okay with that because who wouldn’t want a puppy named Isabelle?

Or even Cookie, which is what Caroline would like to name a new baby sister.

The truth is that I adore being a mother. I especially adore being Caroline’s mother because, well, she’s mine and that’s how it should be. And while I know I wouldn’t regret having another one, that doesn’t mean it’s the right thing for us.

I can’t have another one just so Caroline will have a sibling, although I might do it for the blog material.

I just know that whatever happens, God is in control. He knows our situation and what is ultimately best for our family. If that’s another baby at some point, great.

And if it’s not, then we’re already more than blessed.
The hormones have run amuck

Yesterday I went to see my ob/gyn. Of course, since I’m not pregnant, I guess he’s just my gyn. The ob part of his duties have been fulfilled.

Although truth be told he wasn’t on call the night Caroline was born and his partner was busy with an emergency c-section so she literally had her hands full. Satan was my nurse and refused to give me the epidural because she wasn’t convinced I was in labor which, at that point, was the equivalent of saying she wasn’t sure if I was pregnant.

But, really, I’m over it.

I certainly don’t mention it to him every time I see him. And, hypothetically speaking, if I do mention it every time I see him it’s only because I’m waiting for some kind of plaque or even a small trophy rewarding my heroic efforts for getting to ten centimeters without the aid of an epidural when my original birth plan clearly stated I’d like the epidural two weeks prior to delivery.

It was a monumental feat for someone who begins to hyperventilate at the mere mention of having blood drawn or having to go on a week-long vacation with only one suitcase.

Anyway, I scheduled an appointment a few weeks ago when I looked in the mirror and discovered my hormones were under the impression that I was thirteen years old. Not only was my chin completely in need of some Clearasil, but I started to cry when I realized we were out of Smart Start. And then I wrote a note to P asking if he still liked me and to check yes or no.

I explained all this to my ob/gyn and he agreed that something had definitely shifted. Thankfully he did not tell me I was in some kind of early menopause because I would have started screaming for an epidural. Instead he thought we should change my birth control pills.

If we could make a clear decision about whether or not to have another baby, I wouldn’t be stuck in this pill purgatory. But, alas, I have a hard time making decisions about what type of potato chips to buy at HEB so, clearly, I can’t be expected to make a decision as monumental as bringing another human into the world.

Another baby? Not another baby?

Cheetos? Doritos?

It’s enough to make my head explode.

So, I took my first Yaz pill last night even though I have a problem with Yaz because of their commercials that make it appear that when women are out with our friends we sit around and casually talk about the side effects of birth control pills.

“Remember Suzie, you shouldn’t use an MAO Inhibitor if you are currently taking Yaz. Also, it may increase your chances of headaches, stroke, or having mind-numbing conversations with your girlfriends who wish you’d shut your trap about the pharmacodynamics of Yaz.”

At this moment I have a hormonal headache, slight nausea and an overwhelming urge to throw a toaster oven through the kitchen window.

In other words, I’m totally back to normal.

Obviously, it’s going to take a few days to adjust to my new hormonal regimen.

In the meantime, I’m stocking up on Sea Breeze astringent because it totally cleared my face up back in 1986.

Let’s hope it can work a similar miracle twenty-two years later.

By the way, P checked yes. I totally knew he liked me.
Bowling, it’s not just for bowlers

Caroline woke up last Thursday and, per her quaint and annoying custom, asked what we were doing for the day before I could even manage to get my eyes open.

“Umm, I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Not to mention I’m not sure where I am or what day it is.

“I KNOW! LET’S GO BOWLING-BALLING.”

And because I made the mistake of smiling at the way she said “bowling-balling”, she misinterpreted it as an agreement.

I keep a mental list of things I don’t want to think about before 10 a.m. It includes such things as global warming, the presidential elections, the stock market, and going bowling.

I can’t commit to bowling, or even bowling-balling, before noon.

So I told her we had plans to meet Bops for lunch and several errands to run. If we got everything done, we’d see about going bowling.

And everyone knows “we’ll see” is mama code for I’m going to put this off and hope she’ll forget about it by 2:00 p.m.

We met Bops at China Sea, which has a buffet that defies the laws of gastrointestinal science. Does anyone really want to eat a spring roll on the same plate as some Cajun-style crawfish and sweet-n-sour chicken with some canned pears thrown in for good measure?

After lunch, we stopped by the elementary school to turn in all her Kindergarten registration paperwork. It wasn’t heart-wrenching at all and the office staff didn’t even seem to mind that I launched into a rendition of “Sunrise, Sunset” while I sobbed and held Caroline tight.

I bet they can’t wait for the first day of school in the fall. That’s when I’ll wow them with my performance of “Circle of Life”.

There were a few more errands to run, but I decided we might as well do a little bowling-balling.

After the whole Kindergarten registration thing, I realized she’ll be leaving for college in about two weeks. And she’ll drive off in some type of electric car while I lament the fact that we didn’t spend enough time at the bowling alley.

Because isn’t that the regret of every parent? Not enough bowling.

We ran by the house to pick up the necessary socks to ensure that neither of us contracted HORRENDOUS FOOT FUNGUS OF DEATH BY BOWLING SHOE, then picked up her cousin Benjamin because I knew she’d have more fun with a friend.

Once we arrived at the bowling alley, I paid for our games and got the kids some rental shoes. I figured I’d just let them bowl while I sat back and offered helpful bowling strategies, such as how to push the button to get someone to bring you snacks from the snack bar.

I had to drag them away from the arcade games because LOOK! we can bowl. They have bowling here! Remember that thing that you’ve been begging to do all day?

So, they bowled. And, in spite of the bumpers, they both managed to roll a gutter ball, which I think takes a tremendous amount of skill. I could tell the bowling staff was highly impressed at what we brought to the game, especially when I took off my shoes and tried to walk barefoot down the lane to retrieve the ball stuck between the gutter and the bumper.

And I decided that an afternoon at the bowling alley isn’t a terribly horrendous way to spend a few hours, except for the fact that they only serve Pepsi products. However, they make a delightful giant pretzel that is equal parts buttery and salty goodness.

Plus, the music at the bowling alley totally rocks. In fact, I may start hanging out there just for the pretzels and the 80’s music. In the time we were there they played “Oh Mickey”, “Fight for Your Right to Party”, “Love is a Battlefield” and “Smooth Criminal”. Any playlist that includes the Beastie Boys and some vintage Michael Jackson is right up my alley.

Do you see what I did there with the reference to the alley?

All cylinders today, my friends. All cylinders.

You’ve been hit by, you’ve been struck by, a smooth criminal.

We were almost finished with our game when an elderly couple came in and started bowling a few lanes down from us. They were easily in their 80’s and were clearly veteran bowlers because they owned their own bowling balls complete with monogrammed bowling ball bags. They were precious. And it made me hope that P and I still bowl together when we’re in our 80’s because it just seemed so sweet.

Then I remembered that we don’t bowl together now. In fact, I don’t know that we’ve ever bowled together. But as God is my witness we’re going to start sometime in the next forty years.

If for no other reason than the pretzels.

And the music.
Because cleanliness is next to impossible

I dropped Caroline off at school yesterday morning and came straight home. I was a woman on a mission. A mission to clean my entire house. ALL AT ONCE.

It has almost been a year ago that I became officially unemployed by the pharmaceutical industry. With that decision came a few changes. No phenomenal health insurance. No bi-weekly direct deposits into the checking account. No 401K program. And, most importantly, no housekeeper.

I’d like to say that I was most concerned about no longer contributing to a retirement plan and thus, leaving my financial future up in the air. But the truth is what I was most afraid of was having to clean my own house. Clearly, my priorities are in order.

And since that time, I have risen to the challenge. We have managed to live in a relatively clean house. I have become acquainted with Soft Scrub cleanser and the miraculous hard-water-deposit-eliminating power of vinegar. I mean it’s not like I had never cleaned a house before, I had just never cleaned a house with a child constantly underfoot.

I may not be that bright but I understand that Small Child + Deadly Cleaning Chemicals = bad combination.

All summer long I kept saying that once Caroline went back to school I was going to clean the entire house. But then school started and I found better uses of my time such as looking for funky, retro shoes at Target or staring in the mirror trying to figure out what is going on with my complexion. See? PRIORITIES.

But finally, I could stand it no longer. I mean the house had been clean, but I never made the time commitment to have it all clean at the same time. I’d clean a bathroom and vacuum the living room one day. And then I’d dust the dining room and clean the kitchen windows on another day and by then the bathroom would be dirty again and the living room rug would once again be covered in unknown crumbly substances ranging from Chex Mix to ground up Crayons.

So, with the fervor that can only be achieved by a woman high on LimeAway fumes, I scrubbed, I scoured, I vacuumed and I dusted. I even used a toothbrush to clean hard to reach areas. I moved rugs and cleaned underneath them, and, interestingly enough, found an old SweetTart under the living room rug that had to have been there for the better part of four years.

Unless there are small elves that burrow under our living room rug at night to enjoy a snack of SweetTarts. Which is probably the more likely scenario.

It took me all day and by the time I was done it was time to go pick up Caroline. We went to HEB for a few quick grocery type items and then came home.

Since I was hosting Bible Study, I decided I should bake something and Caroline wanted to help. I hated to defile my pristine kitchen, but I thought we could manage to bake with minimal mess. As we poured the two cups of flour into the bowl, I told Caroline, “Don’t touch the flour. Don’t stir it. Just leave it alone.”

I turned to pour the brown sugar and butter into the mixer, then turned back around in time to see Caroline put her face right over the bowl of flour and BLOW as hard as she could.

Yes, she did.

And, literally, my clean kitchen went up in a puff of smoke.

However, in the spirit of turning my misfortune into something bright and happy and shiny, later today I’ll post the recipe for the Chocolate Chip Brownies we finally made after we survived The Flour Fiasco of ’08, also known as That Time I Almost Lost My Mind. While the mental breakdown wasn’t so great, the brownies were delicious.