Another day

  • Purple haze

    John Boy Walton breaking up with his girlfriend at my dining room table

    Lime green Calphalon cookware with polka-dots

    Rhett Butler moving in next door

    Dale Earnhardt, Jr. shopping at our neighborhood Gap store

    Purple hippos dressed in butterfly costumes

    Paula Deen hosting a cooking show on my back porch

    What do all these things have in common?

    They have all been the subjects of feverish, hallucinatory dreams I’ve had while taking my prescription cough medicine.

    And, if this is any example of what is floating around in my subconscious, WOW.

    It’s a little disturbing.

    I spent the better part of the weekend lying in bed trying to find the will to live or at least the will to get up to go to the bathroom. I don’t know that I’ve ever been as sick as I’ve been the last few days, except for maybe the day I found out that Dr. Phil was getting his own talk show.

    Mimi took Caroline most of the day Thursday and Thursday night. P had her during the day on Friday and then she went back to Mimi and Bop’s to spend the night Friday night. Unfortunately, no good deed goes unpunished and Mimi succumbed to the plague on Saturday morning, so P picked up Caroline and they headed to the ranch.

    In the meantime, I was trying to keep my lungs from seceding from my chest cavity and attempting to breathe through my nose. Both efforts proved mostly futile.

    However, Saturday afternoon, just as I didn’t know if I could go on living, I turned on CMT and “Urban Cowboy” was on. It was better than any prescription medicine. If you haven’t layed around half-drugged, watching Bud and Sissy fall in love, fight, break up, fall in love again, and put their matching license plates back up in the window of his truck, then you’ve missed out on one of the finer things in life.

    But seriously, the scene where Bud describes how you know when your hand “gits broke” is a timeless piece of American cinema. It sustained me in my darkest, cough-filled hour on Saturday.

    I woke up Sunday morning with my head a little clearer, although concerned about why I dreamed about John Boy Walton and his relationship troubles, and discovered that my people were gone. And judging by the fact that “Max and Ruby” was still playing on the T.V. and breakfast was still on the table, it looked like they left in a hurry.

    I was right. They left in a mad dash. Otherwise known as trying to get to church on time when you have a four year old who likes to dress herself.

    I climbed back in bed with the Sunday paper and fell back asleep while checking to make sure my name wasn’t in the obituaries. A short while later I heard P and Caroline walk in the back door, home from church.

    She walked into the bedroom, shirt on backwards, hair unbrushed, mismatched socks, and a jumper that was in desperate need of ironing. God love her.

    And God bless P for just letting her go with it, although I’m a little concerned that her Sunday School teacher may think her Mama’s on drugs.

    Which, I guess technically speaking, I am.

  • According to the “experts” I don’t have the Black Plague

    I finally felt so bad yesterday that I decided I needed to go to the doctor. I called my doctor at 9:00 a.m. and left an urgent message with his nurse letting her know I was pretty sure I had the Black Plague.

    Shortly after leaving that message, I turned on “Gone with the Wind” and slipped in and out of consciousness while watching Rhett and Scarlett. If I didn’t feel so terrible, it would have been like a vacation.

    Around 2:30 p.m. I came back to life and realized the nurse at my regular doctor’s office didn’t feel it was important to call me back, so I decided to go to the Minor Emergency Clinic around the corner.

    I walked in and they asked me what the problem was. I let them know I was pretty sure I had Black Plague and they were all, “Black Plague hasn’t been around since the 14th century”, and I was all, “maybe I’m bringing it back”.

    Anyway, turns out it’s the flu. A very bad case of the flu. But GOOD NEWS. I should feel better in 5-7 days which, with a 4 year old, isn’t inconvenient at all.

    While I was at the doctor waiting for my Black Plague test to come back negative, I found out some disturbing news while reading the Wall Street Journal. Burt Reynolds is 71. SEVENTY-ONE. The Bandit is receiving social security.

    And probably wouldn’t look nearly as cute driving a black Trans-am these days.

    Which, if you think about it, is probably true of most of the population.

    So, yeah. Having the flu stinks and I ache all over. But on the bright side, I have no appetite.

    In fact, last night I made myself the comfort food of my people. Frito Pie made with Hormel chili in a can. Because, canned meat, YUM. And I couldn’t even eat 1/4 of it.

    Flu, BAD. Jump start to losing holiday weight, GOOD.

    It’s all about the silver lining.

    Although P and Caroline did bring me a 14 oz. package of Sour Patch Kids to make me feel better. And if any of y’all want to lecture me about sugar and my immune system, you can save it. Because all I’m going to hear is BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

    And, finally, one last bright note. Good drugs. I’m about to take them by the multiple spoonfuls to knock myself out for the next 12 hours or so.

    Later, internet.

  • Greetings from the infirmary

    Oh, internet.

    Look away. I am hideous.

    There will be no Fashion Friday today because, well, I have the Black Plague.

    But here’s a fashion tip from Caroline.

    Santa brought her those shoes.

    Christmas morning she took one look at them, slipped them on her feet, and said, “Now that is fashion.”

    I’ll be back when my lungs are no longer engaged in full-fledged mutiny.

    In the meantime, I wouldn’t get too close to your monitor. The Black Plague is highly contagious.

  • O traffic jam, o traffic jam

    Okay, so I can’t stay away. I thought I could step away for a few days but, apparently, I HAVE AN ADDICTION, SIR.

    On Friday night we took Caroline down to the FAMOUS San Antonio Riverwalk to walk amongst the Christmas lights. What we did not factor in was the amount of traffic downtown due to the state 5A finals and, oh yeah, CHRISTMAS.

    We ate dinner and then attempted to drive closer to the river to find a place to park. P was driving and Bops was in the backseat with Mimi and Caroline. The traffic was backed up for what seemed like miles and we kept watching the light change from green back to red while we never moved an inch.

    I believe it’s what the big city folk call gridlock.

    We could see that people kept pulling up and blocking the intersection, thereby inhibiting our traffic progress. Bops, in a fit of Christmas cheer and goodwill toward men, said, “They ought to have policeman in these intersections with sticks of dynamite. If there’s a car in the middle of the intersection after the light’s changed, they should just blow it up. Tell the driver they have 10 seconds to get out, but the car is history.”

    If any of y’all thought that he was going to say perhaps the policemen should just hand out tickets, as opposed to sticks of dynamite, you’re not alone.

    We finally made our way to a parking garage where we watched the attendant let the car ahead of us in and then, very rudely, tell us it was full. For about five seconds I thought Caroline was about to learn some new colorful descriptions, courtesy of Bops and P, but they both caught themselves in time.

    That would have been the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.

    Caroline was equally frustrated with the traffic and repeatedly yelled, “GO GRANDMA!! JUST GO!!”

    I have no idea where she learned that.

    Road rage is part of our family legacy.

    After the futile parking attempt that nearly resulted in Bops getting out of the car to experience Christmas joy in the form of telling off a parking attendant, we found a place and headed down to the river. It was totally worth it even though Caroline’s goal for the evening was to give me a heart attack by seeing how close she could get to the water while looking up at the lights.

    Because here’s something I’d never noticed about the Riverwalk before, there is nothing separating the water from the walkways. You’re just one or six margaritas away from just falling on in, depending on your alcohol tolerance. I have no doubt this is a strategic move on the part of the city because it’s a $250 fine if you fall in.

    Bars serving alcohol + Narrow walkways + River = SERIOUS COIN for the city

    I spent the rest of the weekend in a cooking frenzy. For the first time ever, I am cooking the entire holiday meal. I am so excited to use my china that I actually went ahead and set the table.

    Look! Christmas plates that have never seen the light of day until now.

    I also made my famous eggnog, complete with the most essential item for a stress-free Christmas.

    Oh I kid. We all know that’s not enough bourbon to make Christmas stress-free.

    Especially not if you’re heading down to the Riverwalk to look at the lights.

  • Lights, camera, and…nothing

    Last Thursday, we finally managed to get our outdoor lights up. And, really, there is nothing as rewarding as knowing you’re putting all that time and effort into something that will be irrelevant in less than two weeks.

    Lucky for us, we have a four year old that we can put to work.

    She acted like she wasn’t going to climb up the extension ladder and we had to remind her the lights weren’t going to hang themselves.

    Seriously kid, there is no way you’re going to get those eaves lit up if you don’t get your little behind on that ladder.

    We don’t tolerate slackers.

    After all, the whole reason we put the lights up is to ensure she has the BEST CHILDHOOD MEMORIES EVER.

    And that’s a lot of responsibility for a parent.

    In all honesty, P and I decided hey! let’s spend the afternoon doing something that has the potential to put us on the fast track to marital counseling.

    Hanging the outdoor lights seemed like the most obvious choice.

    I made the executive decision to buy all new colored lights this year because Caroline enjoys the colored light, and I really wanted to go retro with the lights of ye olden days, otherwise known as my childhood.

    I showed P the boxes of lights I purchased and he began to spend precious minutes, minutes that could be spent illuminating our home, reading the instructions.

    Seriously.

    I didn’t even know Christmas lights came with instructions.

    He said, “It says that you can only string 60 lights together at one time, that means only two strands can be connected.”

    Me: “And?”

    Him: “Well, that means to do the house the way you want it done, we’re going to need about 11 extension cords.”

    Me: “And the problem with that is?”

    Him: “To do that we’d need to go buy 8 new extension cords.”

    Me: “Those directions don’t know what they’re talking about. All the boxes say that. It’s just a suggestion. A GUIDELINE, if you will.”

    Him: Looks at me skeptically and begins hanging lights.

    Pretty soon he got into the whole spirit of proper outdoor illumination. The beauty of lighting your home with Christmas lights is to have the moment of flipping the switch a la Clark Griswold, then basking in the glow of maximum wattage feeling the sense of pride from a job well done.

    And knowing your lights are so much better than your neighbor’s.

    That’s the true spirit of Christmas.

    The moment isn’t the same if it involves plugging in 11 different extension cords.

    So, we climbed ladders and hung lights until, finally, the moment arrived. We plugged in those bad boys, flipped the switch and they all came on.

    For about two minutes.

    And then this is what we saw.

    Apparently, they are not kidding about the whole 60 lights maximum thing.

    So we did the only thing that could be done, went inside and ordered sushi.

    The next day P found some extension cords, revamped our lighting system, and lo and behold, we have this.

    Best of all, we get to enjoy it for a WHOLE WEEK.

  • Gingerbread and sudafed

    P woke me up yesterday morning with the news that my car had been broken into during the night. It seems some social deviants had smashed out my passenger side window so that they could steal…well, nothing.

    Fortunately, the only thing of any value I had in my car were my CD’s. And they remained sitting in their case on the front seat.

    Which proves what P has always said. No self-respecting thief would steal my CD collection.

    It seems there isn’t really a huge black market for The Carpenters Greatest Hits.

    But we still had to deal with the hassle of getting the window replaced, which required me to drive around in the cold drizzle without sufficient coverage from the elements. It was a joy.

    Merry Christmas, Social Deviants. Hope you enjoy the big pile of nothing you got out of my car.

    And thanks for the bonus of having to spend $250 to replace a window at Christmas time.

    Since it was a cold, rainy day, I knew I better have some sort of afterschool activity planned for Caroline, so I lifted my self-imposed Target ban and purchased a Gingerbread House Kit.

    Needless to say, Martha Stewart does not live here.

    However, the Gingerbread House Kit achieved its purpose and kept Caroline entertained for the better part of five minutes.

    Five minutes that didn’t cause me to twitch at all due to the misplacement of gumdrops and peppermint candies.

    And there was certainly no voice in my head was yelling, “THE GUMDROPS ARE CROOKED. THE GUMDROP PATH IS NOT STRAIGHT. FOR THE LOVE OF GINGERBREAD MEN EVERYWHERE, STRAIGHTEN THE CANDY CANE.”

    I rewarded our dogs for scaring off the burglars before they took off with my Carpenters CD the night before (why else would they not take it?), and let them in the house to join us while we made our Gingerbread house.

    Bruiser kept his eye on the Gingerbread snowman, possibly because he looks so creepy with his red candy eyes.

    Scout, however, is a dreamer.

    Clearly, I am all hyped up on the sugar and the cold medicine.