Memories

Big Mama for President or you know…not

I’ve never been an extremely politically minded person. I mean I vote in every election and I definitely have my political thoughts and beliefs that I feel strongly about, but I’ve never been one to want to run for any kind of office or even volunteer hours of my time at a campaign headquarters.

Even in high school, I was content to be just a member of Student Council because after all, there were very important issues to be decided, such as prom theme and the various dress up days for Homecoming week. Serious, serious stuff and I didn’t want to be left out of these crucial decisions. But as far as making some poster board signs and pins that said “Big Mama for President. A vote for Big Mama is a vote for Pajama Day and Enchantment Under the Sea Prom theme”?

No, not for me. Way too much pressure. I couldn’t have the final decisions regarding prom and what everyone would wear the week of Homecoming hanging solely on my significantly padded shoulders (remember it was the 80’s).

In college, I was a member of COSGA which stands for something like Conference on Student Government Associations (shout out to Hite who interviewed me which started our lifelong friendship), but that wasn’t about school politics for me. It was about meeting really cool and potentially cute young politicos from other college campuses around the nation.

And oh yeah, it wouldn’t look bad on a resume. I could put it right under “Diamond Darling for the Aggie Baseball Team” so that potential interviewers could see that they were dealing with a serious, academically driven candidate. Right.

I guess I’m saying that I personally don’t understand why anyone would want to be a politician. I mean someone has to do it and I’m glad they do, but I get stressed about having to get to the grocery store and then Target in the same morning, so do I really need to be making decisions about what to do with North Korea or the federal deficit?

However, I will be waiting in line at the polls today because I do believe that we should take our right to vote seriously. In my opinion, if you don’t vote then you can’t complain about the state of the Union and since I like to be able to complain, I will vote. It’s not just about politics, it’s about democracy and freedom of speech. It’s about the ability to have a voice in the whole big system. Our founding fathers and our veterans fought way too hard for our freedom for me to not use my voice.

Heaven knows that if I lived in North Korea, there is no way Big Mama would be able to write as freely as I do. I’m proud to be an American, even if the votes don’t go the way I would like today.

From now on, I’m buying knockoffs

I’m not sure at what point in my life I became aware of designer labels, but since I am a child of the 70’s, there were some crucial, foundation building years of my life that came about during the advent of Gloria Vanderbilt putting her family name on every bottom in America. I’m just saying, it could’ve influenced me.

I remember the day that I graduated from wearing Garanimals to Luv-its. Oh you know y’all remember Luv-its. My favorite pair had an ice cream cone stitched on the back pocket and let’s just say that I thought I was IT at Magic Skate wearing my sweet, sweet Luv-its and my white skates with green pom-poms. Look out world because here I come and I’ve got dessert embroidered on my booty.

In time the Luv-its became just a little passe. It was all about Gloria Vanderbilt and that swan. I had to have a pair. My Mema came through and bought me a pair of aqua (I would say turquoise, but we all know it was the 70’s and aqua is more appropriate) Gloria Vanderbilt jeans with a matching aqua Gloria Vanderbilt top complete with elastic waist band. Oh yes ma’am, I was going to take 5th grade by storm.

Then, tragedy struck. I can still picture the whole scene. I was sitting in our living room wearing my new Gloria Vanderbilt ensemble while changing the batteries on my 8-track player (could that sentence even apply to any other decade than the 70’s?) when I looked down and realized that I had gotten battery acid on my aqua jeans. They were ruined. To say that I was upset is an understatement. It was a display of prepubescent hormones that could serve as a warning label to anyone who will ever come in contact with a 10 year old girl.

Fortunately for me, Jordache jeans came in style shortly thereafter and I moved on. There is no better school picture of me than my 5th grade picture complete with Jordache jeans, royal blue Izod shirt, and winged hair that was shellacked to my head by an inordinate amount of Flex hairspray.

Throughout my teenage years, I pined for Polo shirts, complete outfits by Esprit, Guess overalls, Laura Ashlely dresses, and Dooney and Bourke purses to name just a few.

Then, one Christmas while I was in college, this boy I was dating bought me a real Fendi purse. I don’t even want to think about what he paid for it. I adored this Fendi purse. I carried it everywhere and it lasted much longer than the relationship with the guy that bought it for me in the first place. Even after we broke up, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the Fendi. It just looked too good with everything I owned and it would be wrong to lose a nice handbag because of a bad boyfriend.

I’m not saying I am proud, I am just being honest.

Anyway, I carried that Fendi for about a year and a half before the leather on the drawstring began to completely erode away. I couldn’t believe that such a nice purse was falling apart after a measly year and a half. So, one day I was in Houston, shopping at The Galleria and noticed the Fendi store.

I marched in there with my purse just knowing that it gave me instant credibility. I explained that my purse was about a year and a half old and the leather was falling apart. The saleswoman took my purse, looked it (and me) up and down and then in a snooty, faux french accent said “Well, this is obviously just a department store Fendi.” It was like I had handed her a dead possum in Fendi clothing. She then said “Our Fendis are not meant for everyday use, so there is nothing that can be done.”

Oh right, because why would you pay an exorbitant amount for a purse that you were actually going to use?

I hadn’t thought of this story in years, but this week my friend Hite sent me an ad for a Fendi purse with a note asking about the department store Fendi. I can’t believe he remembered, but he’s probably spent years being embarrassed that he associated himself with someone who was using a designer handbag from a department store for everyday use. How tacky.

I’ll be alone, dancing you know it baby

Yesterday I had a little time to do some shopping, so I headed out to our fancy new shopping center here in town. I’ve already discussed at length the return of 80’s fashions, so I won’t bore y’all by repeating my thoughts on the subject.

Consider it a public service announcement when I tell you that the 80’s fashion is out in full force. I saw leggings, I saw vests, and I am not lying when I say that I saw knickers. I went in Forever 21 to get a good look at what these crazy kids are wearing and it was like a flashback to my closet in junior high and high school.

I got in my car and I promise y’all that Don’t You Forget About Me was on the radio. I was thrown full force into a huge bout of 80’s nostalgia. Added to this recipe for a walk down memory lane is the fact that I currently have braces on my teeth. I am one Junior/Senior prom drama and bad perm away from fully reliving my teen years.

Hearing Simple Minds belting out their 80’s anthem, took me back to the days of crying over my 8th grade crush. His name was Kendall and why, oh why didn’t he like me back? Never mind that he was 15 and a sophomore and I was a mere 13 year old 8th grader. Did he not see how cute I looked in my splatter paint pants with my oversize yellow sweater and matching yellow flats? Did he not appreciate the fact that I could make my hair three times the size of my head? Why couldn’t it work out for us the way it did for Andi and Blaine in Pretty in Pink? Why couldn’t he be waiting outside a church for me leaning against his red porsche like Jake Ryan did for Samantha? Why? WHY? (other than the fact that he drove a ’82 blue Toyota Camry)

Then, fate stepped in and we saw each other at a church lock-in. We held hands during a compelling viewing of Rocky III. I went and bought the soundtrack because it was “our movie”. And then…he moved away. It took like a week and a half of listening to Air Supply and REO Speedwagon before I was able to move on.

I don’t know why I’m telling y’all all this, maybe because the pair of skinny jeans I may or may not have tried on yesterday completely cut off the circulation to my brain.

Y’all have a great weekend!

I love you tomorrow, you’re only a day away

I haven’t even told y’all about the biggest excitement in my week. Tomorrow I get to go see the Aggies play. They’re playing Army right here in town and Gulley’s stepdad, Big Roy, got tickets for all of us. Even better, they’re on the 50 yard line.

P can’t go because he’s having Lasik eye surgery today and will be wearing goggles for the next 24 hours, but being the concerned wife that I am I made sure that his surgery wouldn’t interfere with me getting to see the Aggies. His doctor assured us he’ll be fine, so I’m going to the game with Gulley and family.

It is going to be big fun. One of our other best friends from college, Meredith, is driving in from Shreveport with her husband and they’ll be tailgating with his family so we’re going to go up early and hang out with them for awhile. This alone will provide more entertainment than should be allowed. We spent many years in college tailgating with Gene’s family and sufficed to say when Gene’s dad, Leo, gets the pit going there is barbecue and fun aplenty.

I brought Caroline over to Gulley’s house the other day so that she and Jackson could play for awhile. While the kids were busy playing, Gulley’s husband (we’ll call him J) came home from work and we started talking about all the things we were looking forward to about the game. Watching the Aggie band and the Corps march in, seeing old friends that we haven’t seen in a long time, and most importantly watching the Ags beat the hell outta Army. We were having a great time laughing about different college football memories.

As if on cue, Gulley’s youngest who we call “brother” came toddling into the room and started dancing to some music. He was bobbing and twirling and all of a sudden just fell over. I said “Hey, I think I did that same move once at Hurricane Harry’s (which is a bar we used to frequent at A&M).” And then Gulley brought up a college memory that has made me laugh out loud every time I have thought about it this week.

One night we were at Hurricane Harry’s hanging out and Gulley decided to have a seat so she put her bottom on the edge of a barstool so that she could hoist herself up. She gave a powerful hoist only to come to the startling revelation that what she had actually done was hoist herself into a trash can. There was Gulley with arms and legs askew hanging out of what had to be a filthy trash can. Being the good friends that we are, I immediately offered her assistance.

I am sorry, that’s a complete lie. I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t stand up and had tears running down my face. It was a good 3-4 minutes before anyone in the crowd gained enough composure to help her out of the can.

As she was retelling this story, her husband J was just looking at her shaking his head and said, “That’s one of the things I love about you. Your grace and delicate nature.”

There is going to be alot of that grace and delicate nature on display tomorrow as we’re yelling our heads off on the 50 yard line. Good times to be had by all. Gig ’em Ags!

Continuing on with posts of a Cajun nature

Apparently today is Cajun day here at Big Mama’s. Y’all never know what you’re gonna get, do you?

I read a WFMW earlier that was about blogging and one piece of advice it gave was to stick to a theme on your blog, so for today I’m sticking to a theme. As for the rest of the time…y’all can just file me under miscellaneous.

A few weeks ago, my friend Hite discovered Big Mama. Actually, I had sent him an email with my “website” address (and website is in quotes because I’m not really sure that’s what it’s called. Thanks Boomama.) and I think he read one post and never came back again. Until, during his phone call to wish me Happy Birthday, I informed him that Big Mama updates her “website” everyday and I try to keep it mildly entertaining and filled with a variety of topics (try and do are two totally different things). I am proud to say that Hite has now made Big Mama his homepage.

So since Hite has mentioned that he’d love to read a story about some college adventures, I will oblige him. After all, he has made Big Mama his HOMEPAGE.

I haven’t been sure which anecdote to share and since I’m trying to be family friendly it has taken a while. But when I looked at the Aggie football schedule and realized we were playing the Ragin’ Cajuns, I knew I had a story.

Back in the fall of ’91, the Ragin’ Cajuns were coming to Kyle Field. This was back in the height of Aggie football glory so everyone knew that they didn’t have a prayer of beating us. It was a magical time.

The Monday before the game I was sitting in class avidly listening to the fascinating lecture on the ins and outs of Political Science and taking furious notes about libel being a tort…I’m totally kidding, I was reading The Battalion which is the student newspaper. Obviously I was an extremely conscientious student evidenced by the fact that when my dad came to visit, I pointed out the completely wrong building and told him it was the library. And because he loves me, he kept paying my tuition anyway.

So, I am reading The Batt when I notice an open letter to the student body from a professor named Dr. Abraham at USL, Home of the Ragin’ Cajuns. The letter was hysterical and I wish I had a copy, but basically it was an invitation for a select number of Aggie students to join him and some other Ragin’ Cajuns for a pre-game tailgate party complete with complimentary food and drink Cajun style. He said that the first twenty or so people to call him would be invited and he included his phone number.

I waited patiently until class was over…I’m kidding again. I left class immediately and sped home to tell my roommates and see if they were game. We called him and left a message saying that we had seen his letter and would love to join them for the tailgate party and by the way, we were Diamond Darlings for the baseball team. Gulley and I thought that fact might give us an edge and I am embarrassed to say that we probably said it with the importance reserved for statements like “I’m an ambassador to China and in my spare time I volunteer in orphanages”.

He called us back, said we were in and to show up Saturday on the George Bush Drive side of Kyle Field and bring our appetites. He wasn’t kidding.

We showed up at 11:00 a.m. and the beer and crawfish were already flowing. They had enough food to feed the entire stadium. Boudin, crawfish, sausage, and beer were plentiful. It was a true Cajun feast. They were the nicest group imaginable and we all had the best time sitting around listening to stories and telling them about Aggieland and all of our traditions. We drank beer, and more beer and then more beer because those crawfish were spicy and we were in college.

Y’all remember the college days when it was completely socially acceptable to drink beer at 11:00 in the morning? One little problem is that by a 2:00 pm kickoff, you might find yourself a little overserved.

Texas A&M is home of the 12th man tradition. The students stand the ENTIRE game to show our willingness to get in the game if needed. It’s a beautiful thing. But standing on an already wobbly metal bleacher after eating a ton of crawfish and being overserved and jumping up and down cheering for the Aggies…slightly unsettling. I’ll leave it at that.

I’ll always remember those Ragin’ Cajuns fondly. They weren’t much on the football field, but boy did they know how to throw a tailgate party.

An extravaganza of entertainment

This past weekend the Hunters’ Extravaganza was in town. Back in the days when P. and I were young and newly in love, I would go with him every year to survey the veritable wealth of all things hunting related.

We would stroll up and down the aisles holding hands and y’all I was so in love that I didn’t even care that all the booths basically sold some version of deer urine, ugly camo clothing, or deer feeders made out of industrial size trash cans. The highlight of the trip for me was just being with P. and eating those sugared pecans that they sell in little plastic sacks shaped like a carrot.

Pretty much after we got married, I quit making the annual trek to the Extravaganza. It really falls under the category of things that once you’ve seen them, you don’t need to see them again. Plus, once we got married we could sit at home and hold hands which in my opinion was preferable to being amongst the doe urine.

Anyway, I give you all this useless information to share one of my favorite stories regarding the Hunters’ Extravaganza (and I know at this point you can’t believe that there’s more). Every year they have a penned in area where they have a rattlesnake roundup. Seriously, if you want to come to Texas I can get you tickets for next year.

The rattlesnake roundup consists of a bunch of rattlesnakes and one clearly insane man that does tricks with the rattlesnakes such as putting them under his hat or picking them up or spinning them around really fast and snapping their head off (I’m sorry, that one’s not true I just made it up because the image in my sick mind made me laugh). So, everyone stands around and watches this guy who is obviously some sort of crazy.

One year at the Extravaganza, a family friend of ours was watching the rattlesnakes and the whole thing was making him feel a little icky. You know how you start to feel a little creeped out, like maybe there’s one near you or something? So he’s a little freaked out by the whole thing and about that time he takes a step backwards and steps on something cylindrical that kind of rolls under his foot. He jumps up, spills his beer, screams like a little girl and looks down to see a completely squashed giant dill pickle. Don’t worry y’all, it was dead.