Just for fun

I’m sitting here in front of the fire this evening thinking that Al Gore is full of crap. Global warming? What a joke.

Obviously, he’s never had the experience of digging for wool tights for his daughter to wear with her darling, halter style Easter sundress that will be a total waste, due to the fact that it will be completely covered by a brown wool coat.

And don’t even get me started on my fresh, new Easter pedicure that involved having my toes painted a bright, springtime shade called Cha-Ching Cherry. These toes won’t see the light of day tomorrow. They’ll be in wool socks from dawn til dusk.

Mr. Gore, here are some pictures of our beautiful roses. I look forward to these roses all year. Our yard never looks as pretty as it does in the spring. By tomorrow, these roses will be gone with the sleet filled wind.

It was nice while it lasted.

Hope everyone has a lovely Easter filled with wool coats, warm socks, a fire in the fireplace, and Reeses peanut butter cups. You know, the Easter essentials.

And remember, He is risen.

When I heard the news last night that Billy Gillispie was flying to Kentucky to “talk” with their Athletic Director, I got a pit in my stomach that wouldn’t go away. I went to bed praying for an Easter miracle. A miracle that could become part of Aggie lore about how our coach was offered one of the most elite positions in college basketball and turned it down to stay at Texas A&M.

And yes, I am often delusional and live in my own fantasy world.

I mean really, who can blame him? I’m sure that for a self admitted workaholic basketball coach, this opportunity is a dream come true. It would be like someone offering me a book deal complete with bags of money and me turning it down because I’d prefer to blog for free.

Had Billy Clyde chosen to stay at Texas A&M, he could have become a legend. In fact, just by getting us to the Sweet 16 this year, he was well on his way. Eventually, he would have had statues erected in his honor and the Billy Clyde Arena would have one day sat proudly on the campus.

Granted, it would have been hard for him to make ends meet on the paltry 1.8 million that we offered him, but if he really budgeted, he could have made it work.

At Kentucky, yes, he could become a legend, but it will take a lot more than just trips to the Sweet 16. It will take multiple Final Fours and National Championships, otherwise, he’ll find himself following in the footsteps of Tubby and getting out before you’re thrown out. The Kentucky fans are fanatical about their basketball, just like Aggie fans are fanatical about football.

And ultimately, that was the problem.

So, with all sincerity, I wish Billy Clyde all the best. Thanks for helping Aggies believe in basketball again.

Friday morning, we woke up all packed and ready to head to Houston on a little road trip. Caroline and I were supposed to pick up Mimi and Bops around 8:30, so that we could hit the road and get there in plenty of time for all of our planned activities. What we didn’t plan on was a torrential rain storm.

Our driveway is located about half an acre from our back door, which isn’t a problem on normal days, but when you’re trying to load suitcases, portable DVD players, and a 3 year old into a car during a rainstorm, it proves a little more troublesome.

I made several trips back and forth to the car with umbrella in hand, while Caroline stood on the back porch and cheered me on. She kept saying “Stay calm, Mama!, Stay calm!” (oh, she knows me) and those words came in handy as I was closing the hatchback and stepped backwards into a four foot puddle of water that soaked me to my knees.

Of course, as soon as we were in the car, the rain stopped because God thinks He’s all funny like that.

We picked up Mimi and Bops, fought traffic getting on the freeway since, due to the rain, everyone was driving 10 mph, and finally, hit I-10. We were on our way.

The great thing about the drive from San Antonio to Houston is it’s just hour after hour of open fields filled with cows and an occasional Dairy Queen. Nothing makes the time fly by faster than playing “I Spy the Dairy Queen” at random 45 minute intervals.

If y’all think I’m kidding, then you haven’t made the drive. It would have a chronic insomniac begging for a blanket and a pillow.

Fortunately, Caroline is a decent traveler, especially with a DVD player. Peter Pan saved us all from pulling out our hair somewhere between the 204th field of cattle and the third Dairy Queen. In addition to the DVD watching, she also likes to play a game I call, The Grand Inquisition.

“What’s that, Mama?”

“Why did he do that, Mama?”

“Why is the sky blue?”

“Why are those flowers yellow?”

“Why do those cows stand in those fields?”

“What do those cows eat?”

“Where is the next Dairy Queen?”

“Why do we wear shoes?”

“How do birds fly?”

“What makes the car go?”

“What is the square root of 445 divided by the sum of the number of hydrogen particles in an atom?”

And then my head begins to succumb to the pressure caused by oak pollen and ALL. THE. QUESTIONS.

When we arrived in Houston, we went straight to the Museum of Natural Science. The first thing we were going to see was the Butterfly Exhibit. We had been before when Caroline was really little, but it is so incredible that we wanted to go back. It’s a tropical rainforest full of the most amazing butterflies you have ever seen.

And we thought we were excited, until we saw the lady wearing the butterfly shirt with the butterfly visor with the butterfly pins clipped to her shoelaces carrying a tote bag that read “I heart butterflies”. Obviously, she’s a fan.

Anyway, we bought our tickets and as we walked towards the entrance to the exhibit, we passed the McDonalds. That’s right, friends. There is a McDonalds in the Museum of Natural Science. Someday they can turn it into part of an exhibit entitled “PURE MARKETING GENIUS”.

Once we saw the McDonald’s, Caroline had to have a Happy Meal because she was starving and needed a miniature Madame Alexander Dorothy doll. Heaven knows we need another Happy Meal toy floating around in the backseat of my car. So, we stopped and ate our fries while enjoying the lovely ambiance that is created by being surrounded by hordes of 5th graders on a field trip.

Then, off to the butterflies.

After the butterflies, we went to see the dinosaurs. It’s amazing to me that archaeologists spend years digging up these bones and then painstakingly reassemble them. Truth be told, if I were digging in my backyard and found a bone, I’d say, “OH GROSS. A bone.” And I’d throw it out.

Which probably explains why I’m not an archaeologist or on CSI.

Caroline liked the dinosaurs, but the part of the museum that fascinated her the most was the Energy Hall, which is comprised of all kinds of different chemistry exhibits and has one whole wall that is the Periodic Table of Elements. Don’t even get me going on the Periodic Table of Elements. It was the bane of my existence in 9th grade and if I ever thought about it, would be the bane of my existence today.

I don’t care for chemistry (unless it’s on Grey’s Anatomy). To me, chemistry equals math. They’re all related with all their fancy x and y’s and abbreviations that don’t make sense. I don’t trust anything that says Q proves that R is the sum of K+D. It’s just not natural.

If you want to abbreviate sodium, why use NA? Why not just write sod.? Or potassium is K? Why not pot.?

Don’t try to get all fancy. It’s just science.

Anyway, I watched my daughter look at all these chemistry exhibits and was completely astounded. I know I gave birth to her. I was there. But science? Really?

Am I going to find myself one day attending Mathlete competitions and wearing a t-shirt that says “My daughter is a bad mathajama”?

Will she figure out by 2nd grade that Mama can’t help her with her math homework?

When we finally dragged her away from all the atoms and molecules, we went to the gift shop. And what did I spy, but these.

That’s right. Benjamin Franklin and Albert Einstein action figures.

I showed my dad and we laughed and made fun of poor, little nerds everywhere that have an Albert Einstein action figure. And then, Dad saw some nerd glasses and on the back of the package they had a quiz on how to know if you’re a nerd. I was laughing about all the questions, until we came to this one.

“Do you have a blog?”

“Do strangers read your blog?”

And I had to deal with the fact that maybe I am a nerd.

I hope it’s not too late to learn the Periodic Table of Elements or I’ll never fit in.

I know some of y’all are probably tired of the basketball talk, and I don’t blame you. However, I have had a week where I’ve been accused of being pregnant and having facial hair. I can talk about whatever I want.

The big news in college basketball for the past week or so, has revolved around coaching positions opening up at two big time basketball schools; the University of Kentucky and the University of Arkansas. This has caused no small amount of stress within the Aggie nation, because rumors were flying that our coach, Billy Gillispie, was being considered for these positions.

I know that many of y’all don’t understand this, but Billy Gillispie has brought Aggie basketball back from the dead. It died a sad, slow, painful death over the last twenty years or so. Granted, Texas A&M is first and foremost, a football school, but in case y’all haven’t noticed, our football program has been struggling. The basketball team has served as a shining, beacon of hope for what our new athletic director can do with great heaps of alumni donated funds.

So, Gulley and I have been obsessed with the possible departure of Billy Gillispie. We have followed the news on the Aggie message boards, scoured the various sports pages for any indication of whether he would stay or go, and had numerous phone conversations talking about why we think he’ll stay in Aggieland. We’ve researched him to the point of finding out that, due to the fact he is a workaholic bachelor, his refrigerator is never stocked and he starts his day by buying peanut butter crackers and a Dr. Pepper at a convenience store.

It was that nugget of information that let us know he’s our kind of guy.

Gulley and I lived on the convenience store diet throughout college. We would stop at 7-11 on the way to class in the morning and start our day with a Big Gulp. Dr. Pepper for her. Real Coke for me. Most days we would each buy a package of powdered donuts to go with our 72 oz. beverage.

After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

We’d head to our Intercultural Communication class and daintily sip our carbonated drinks and eat our powdered donuts while we listened to Professor Gonzales lecture about you know, culture and communication. Obviously, all that sugar and caffeine was causing my brain to short circuit, because I actually made a 13 on a test in that class.

A 13.

I’ll never forget that he was about to pass out the graded tests and gave some lecture about how most people did pretty well, but there was one person who made a 13. Gulley laughed and wrote a note on my paper that said, “Maybe it was you. Ha. Ha.”

It was me.

Ha. Ha.

And after I got that test back, I gathered up my donuts and industrial size beverage and headed to my academic advisor’s office to let her know I was dropping the class. I mean, let’s be honest, you can’t recover from a 13.

Anyway, after a hard morning of academic achievement, we would drive back to our apartment and then go back to 7-11 with our roommates to get another Big Gulp. Everyone needs a little afternoon pick me up and what says pick me up better than 144 oz. of caffeine and sugar?

As we talked about our Big Gulp consumption, I had a few thoughts.

1. Did I drink even a sip of water throughout my college career?

2. Why could I not figure out that maybe part of what was contributing to my ever increasing weight was the fact that I was easily consuming 2000 calories a day in beverage alone?

And that’s not counting the Zima.

3. Do college students still drink Big Gulps or have they become extinct with the advent of the Grande Mocha Latte with extra whip?

4. It’s interesting that these days, unless I’m on a road trip, it would never even occur to me to drive to a convenience store for the sole purpose of purchasing something to drink. Sonic, yes. QuikMart, no.

I realize I have rambled enough about this entire subject, but during our Big Gulp conversation, Gulley brought up a memory that I had long forgotten.

Big shock there.

During my first senior year in college and Gulley’s junior year, we lived in a duplex right around the corner from a Quikmart. Needless to say, we were frequent customers making around 4-5 visits a day. It was our standard stop. We even knew all the cashiers.

One night, Gulley’s mama called and asked her, “Do you know somebody named Al?”

Gulley thought about it and said, “No, I don’t think so.”

Her mama said, “Well someone named Al called here looking for you and said he knows you from the Quikmart.”

It was then that we realized that Al was one of the cashiers at our favorite stop. It seems he had gotten Gulley’s phone number off of one of her checks and wanted to ask her out. And no, Al wasn’t exactly date material for a variety of reasons, but first and foremost because he was about 35 which, of course, is ancient. Fortunately, the number on her check was her parent’s home phone number, not ours.

As were laughing about this story this week, I made the comment that, looking back, it’s kind of scary that Al got her phone number off her check.

And Gulley said, “I’m not sure what’s scarier, that he got my number off my check or that I wrote a check for 94 cents to pay for a Big Gulp.”

Hope y’all have a lovely weekend.

I have always been a huge fan of painted toenails. It is my personal belief that if you are a woman, there is no good reason why your toes shouldn’t be used to accessorize an outfit if you’re wearing open toe shoes.

If God had intended for toenails to be bare, He wouldn’t have invented nail polish or the strappy sandal.

I won’t even get into my feelings about men’s feet because it will only serve to confirm that I have some serious quirks. But let me just say, nothing will cause me to lose my appetite faster than seeing a man, with unkempt feet showcased in sandals, walking into a restaurant. I don’t like to see bare male toes, unless they belong to someone I love, and even then, I can’t look too closely.

Due to all these issues, I spend a great deal of time trying to avoid looking at the ground during the spring and summer months. I am too afraid of seeing hairy, exposed men toes.

And I’m sure all of your husbands and loved ones have perfectly nice feet. I just don’t want to see them, which is why I don’t look down. It’s my issue. I own it.

So, while obviously I am not qualified to work as a pedicure technician at a salon, I am a huge fan of the pedicure. I realize there is huge irony to be found in my total willingness to let someone else work on my feet, when I can barely look at other people’s feet.

But my thought is, if you’ve made the choice to be a pedicure technician, then you knew what the job entailed when you signed on. It’s not like you’ve been blindsided by the job requirements, like I was during my first job at Sound Castle Music when I was informed that in addition to selling cassette tapes, I was also expected to vacuum the store every night.

Talk about high pressure.

Anyway, the other day I decided to treat myself to both a pedicure and a manicure. I don’t always get manicures because I have nails that are the consistency of tissue paper, so there isn’t much point. I keep my fingernails short and unpainted, because as strongly as I feel about painted toenails, for me personally, I believe just as strongly in unpainted fingernails. My nails are short and unappealing, there is no need to highlight their shortcomings with a color called Cancun Fiesta.

There is no fiesta happening at the ends of my fingers. Just short, weak sadness.

Anyway, the lady gave me my pedicure first, and then we moved over to her manicure table, where she started my manicure by telling me to soak my sad, little nubs of nail in warm, soapy water. As she started to apply cuticle cream, she stopped, looked at me and asked, “Would you like me to wax your mustache while you’re here?”

I don’t know lady, would you like me to flush your tip down the toilet?

You can’t tell me she doesn’t have some anger issues due to working on people’s feet all day.