Capital P

The spirit of Old Mexico with a little big city panache

Monday night I went to bed determined to wake up the next day and begin the search for the perfect urban sombrero for P. And when you live in San Antonio and find yourself in need of a big dang hat, where else would you go but to El Mercado?

That’s “The Market” for those of you who don’t possess my vast knowledge of the Spanish language. I can also tell you how to ask “how much for the donkey?” in case you ever find yourself in need of that particular phrase. Those eight years of Spanish really paid off.

I hadn’t been to El Mercado in years because it’s a touristy thing to do and I generally try to avoid all touristy activities because I have an aversion to being in crowds of people wearing socks with sandals, but I thought Caroline might think it was fun. I mean, how many places can you go these days that sell bullwhips and combs that look like switchblades all under one roof?

Not nearly enough is the correct answer.

We walked through the market as Caroline’s eyes got bigger and bigger. She had never seen so much useless, yet beautiful, stuff under one roof, which is saying a lot because we go to Target at least once a week. She’d pick up various things and ask “Is this Mexican?” And I’d say, “No baby, that was made in China because it wouldn’t be fair if Mexico cornered the market on making junk. It’s part of the Free Trade Agreement.”

She did manage to score an embroidered Mexican tunic and a darling headband, both of which she insisted on wearing immediately. I couldn’t bring myself to look closely at the labels because I didn’t want to know if they were made in China. The pain and disillusionment would be too great. It was disheartening enough when I recently discovered that the group Menudo was actually from Puerto Rico and not Mexico. Next thing you know I’ll learn that cheese enchiladas were originally made in Taiwan.

Finally, we got down to business and begin looking for the perfect hat. Oh, and we did find it.

Ladies and Gentlemen (as if I have more than two male readers), I present to you the Urban Sombrero.

It can provide you and your six closest friends with plenty of shade.

In the end I decided it was probably a little bit more of a statement than P is looking to make, unless it were to become his trademark and we renamed our business Big Dang Hat Landscaping, which doesn’t seem like a likely scenario. We sacrificed our desire to purchase the biggest hat in the place for a more understated, tasteful version.

And then we went to Mi Tierra, ate fresh flour tortillas and drank Shirley Temples.

Or as they’d say in Mexico, El Shirley Temples.
It’s better than diggin’ a ditch

We had a weekend full of festivities around here. There was a birthday party at the pool on Friday night, a t-ball party at the pool on Saturday, and basically nothing on Sunday because I didn’t want to look at the pool for at least twenty-four hours. After all, summer is a marathon, not a sprint and we can’t burn ourselves out this early in the game. As it stands, all the food served at the pool grill has already started to taste the same which is bad considering the culinary offerings range from chicken fingers to bean and cheese chalupas.

The good news is that all the drinks are served with Sonic-type ice. It’s worth the price of membership to be able to sit poolside and drink all manner of cold beverages out of a styrofoam cup filled with that ice.

In between all the weekend fun, Caroline kept asking if we could wash my car. In fact, it was the first thing she requested on Saturday morning but I managed to refocus her attention on the impending t-ball party with a lecture about the importance of saving our energy. But then she brought it up again on Sunday morning and then again on the way home from church.

Apparently she has fond remembrances of the last time we washed my car at home even though it’s been over a year ago. I’d like to think it’s because I know how to bring out the fun in any situation, although this is a real conversation we had Saturday night after she heard me refer to “the fun police”.

“Mama? What are the fun police?”

“Well, it’s just a name for people who don’t like to see other people having too much fun.”

“Oh, so that’s like you. You’re the fun police.”

I’m not going to lie. It was like a knife through my heart. I guess being labeled the fun police is the price you pay for making a person leave the pool before they were able to eat their third ice cream sandwich.

And for the record, I AM fun. At least that’s what I tell myself.

We got home from church, ate some lunch, and then I told her to go put on some old clothes so we could go wash the car. Nothing like waiting until the temperature was comparable to sitting directly on the equator. I put on a big, floppy hat to protect my face from the sun because I don’t need any more sun spots, not to mention the fact that I have a big PMS breakout on my left cheek that would need its own chair at a restaurant. Caroline decided to put on her big hat too, and as we walked out the door, P reminded us to make sure we set up the orange cones around the perimeter of the car to warn oncoming traffic.

Because at least three cars will drive by in an hour.

And all of them will slow down to see who the nerds are wearing the big straw hats surrounded by orange cones.

I let Caroline set out the cones because she needs to earn her keep.

We filled a bucket with soapy water and began to scrub. Caroline was very enthusiastic and exclaimed, “THIS IS GOING TO BE SO MUCH FUN!”

Approximately three minutes later she declared it was too hot, she was all soapy, and was going to go back inside, leaving me to die of heat stroke all by myself.

However, I couldn’t just hose the car off and call it done. I had to finish it because y’all should know by now that this is the sort of task that causes all my compulsive, perfectionist tendencies to ramp up at warp speed. I went into the garage to look through our arsenal of car wash supplies and was disappointed to see our stash isn’t what it used to be.

Sure, that may look like a lot to the untrained eye, but it is nowhere near the amount P usually needs to feel secure enough to sleep at night knowing he could wake up the next day and wash sixty-five cars at a moments notice. P is a fan of buying in bulk.

As Exhibit A, I present this bag of Japanese bread crumbs that he purchased several months ago.

Granted, he uses these when he fries fish and he does make the best fried fish in the world. However, last I checked we weren’t planning on hosting a fish fry for every living thing in a thirty mile radius.

But we could if we needed to and that’s the most important thing.

I asked him later what happened to his car wash arsenal. It’s not like we’ve been using it to wash our cars since that only happens every twelve or thirteen months. I thought maybe he’s been so consumed with work and Operation Attic Cool-down that he’d just moved on to more important things like researching every single brand of radiant barrier paint or making his daily trip up into the attic to see what the temperature is and then record it in a little journal he’s been keeping to chart the progress of our new, improved attic fan.

I am not making that up. It’s a real thing. The first time I saw it I thought maybe he was taking his temp every morning to see when he’s ovulating and then I remembered that men don’t ovulate and we’re not trying to have a baby. Plus, 110 degrees would be a little on the high side for even the sickest person.

It turns out that he was vaguely aware that our car wash supplies have been dwindling, but didn’t know to what extent. The culprit is Shorty, one of our landscape company employees.

Shorty rides the city bus to work everyday, but he brings his bike on the bus with him so he can ride it from the bus stop down the street to our house. Obviously, it gets dirty in that process so Shorty faithfully coats his bike in Armor-All each day before he leaves and rides it another 1/10th of a mile back to the bus stop. He likes to keep his ride looking fresh.

The ladies are suckers for some shiny bicycle tires.

All I know is the next time Caroline starts begging me to go wash the car, I’m going to send her out and tell her she can wash Shorty’s bike.

Orange cones are optional.
I’m resisting the urge to use the word “aboot”, eh?

Today I’d like to give a huge shout out to my DVR. There was a dark time in the not so distant past that it would have been practically impossible for me to watch four hours of television shows in one evening, but the DVR makes it all possible. Especially considering that a two hour “Bachelorette” only lasts about twenty minutes when you fast forward through all the commercials and Chris Harrison saying, “Coming up next on The Bachelorette…”.

Dude, the show has been on for thirty-two years. We all know what’s coming up next.

However, in all fairness, nothing prepared me for the dance-off. The last time I saw moves like that was at a YMCA dance in 8th grade when a couple of boys wearing parachute pants and Vans broke it down. They even carried their own cardboard to better facilitate their spinning efforts.

It’s just hard to believe that anyone can actually make a living as a break dance instructor. I mean, is it the fulfillment of a lifelong dream or do you just wake up one day and say “I can’t work for the man anymore. I’ve got to start poppin’ for a living.”?

Of course in this economy it’s probably a better career path than becoming a stockbroker or even a monkey trainer because who can afford the upkeep on a monkey these days?

As I watched all those guys get out of the limo last night, I had two thoughts:

1. Jillian looked lovely in her white dress (tricky, tricky undergarments that I never could figure out) but it was unfortunate that ABC hosed down the driveway for effect because the hem of her dress was filthy by the time it was over. It’s going to take some serious OxyClean to get that out.

2. The large majority of the guys were a walking public service announcement for what can go wrong when twenty-five single straight men are allowed to dress themselves. I’ve never seen so many unfortunate ties in one place.

After last season’s “Bachelor”, I halfheartedly vowed that I would never watch again, but I knew it would lure me back in because I don’t watch with the hopes of two people finding long-lasting love in the course of six weeks. I watch because where else can you watch one man kick a water bottle off another man’s head other than at my next family reunion?

The bottom line is that even if Jillian finds the perfect guy for her (please don’t let it be weird foot fetish guy with the elfin ears), there will come a day that she will hypothetically spend the afternoon at her best friend’s house only to come home and discover that her soul mate has done this to her beloved home.

Then when she goes inside, she’ll discover this.

Perhaps, finally, she’ll notice that he was nice enough to clean up his mess.

Only to leave it in a pile in the middle of the hallway where it’s apparently awaiting pickup by the fairies that magically clean the house.

But she’ll love him anyway because there will come a moment later in the evening where he’ll walk in the room while she’s watching “The Bachelorette” and pretend like he’s doing a break dance move as he accepts his imaginary rose.

That moment beats jumping off a cliff in Hawaii every single time.

And it definitely beats the ending of the “24” season finale which I won’t discuss in case you haven’t watched yet.
She’s shattering the glass ceiling or window or whatever

Last Friday, Gulley and I were talking on the phone. Her youngest son, Will, asked if she was talking to Mel. She told him yes and he said, “Tell her I need to get with her about a time she can pick me up from school”.

Okay, Mr. Trump. Let’s see when we can get that on the calendar.

I told Gulley to put him on the phone so we could work out the details of our impending date. As it turned out, Tuesday was a good day for both of us. Our calendars were wide open, which isn’t easy when you’re dealing with a four-year-old who has a social schedule jam-packed with time spent eating fruit snacks and remembering to go potty.

Seriously, I love both of Gulley’s boys like they are my own, but there is something about Will that just does me in. He is a little bit of a rebel with charm to spare. Apparently, my taste in men hasn’t really changed over the years.

This is Will giving me what he refers to as his “sweetest smile”.

I’m powerless to resist him.

The thing about Will is that he reminds me so much of Caroline. Gulley and I often marvel at how similar their little personalities are. They both have a flair for the dramatic, can hold a grudge for days, and will make you laugh out loud about twenty times a day. And when you get the two of them together they are like fire and ice.

At Will’s birthday party this year, Gulley was talking to P and said, “We better hope Will and Caroline never decide to date each other because there would be way too much drama. They’re either loving or fighting”.

P replied, “Sounds like a perfect marriage to me”.

I have no comment.

Anyway, Caroline and I picked Will up after school yesterday so he could spend the afternoon with us and then go to Caroline’s t-ball game where Gulley would pick him up. I took the kids straight to a nearby candy store because the Easter Rodent only brought about three pounds of candy and that would never get us through an afternoon.

We secured our bags full of gummy butterflies, rattlesnakes, and one SugarDaddy sucker that proved to be an unfortunate decision, and headed back to our house to play. I don’t know why I was caught by surprise that they were so wound up considering that I’d let them eat massive amounts of sugar and they both tend to be overenthusiasts even without the high fructose corn syrup, but they hit the house like a pair of Tasmanian devils.

Caroline suggested they roll a ball back and forth to each other across the kitchen, which seemed harmless enough until I realized that by “roll” she meant “hurl across the kitchen with force”. Fortunately, the picture frame and toaster managed to survive intact, if not a little battered and bruised.

I sent them to the backyard in the hopes they would run enough to sweat some of the sugar out of their bloodstream. They immediately began to chase each other around, climb trees and make an attempt to pull Bruiser around in our red wagon. It was turning out to be a wonderful afternoon unless, of course, you were Bruiser.

After checking to make sure they were okay, I called Gulley to finalize our plans for the t-ball game. We were in the middle of our conversation when I heard the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

The word that came out of my mouth when I heard it was not a word I learned in Sunday School.

I hung up on Gulley and ran outside to see what had happened. Caroline was standing by her t-ball tee and crying hysterically. Will was standing a few feet away from her with a look of shock and awe on his face.

Our bedroom window was completely busted.

There is no doubt that I am a true South Texas girl because my first thought was “How on earth am I going to make sure that my room doesn’t lose too much air-conditioning tonight?” High maintenance much?

I attempted to calm Caroline down while I did what I always do in situations that require some type of solution and organized thought process, I called P.

“Hello?”

“CarolinewaspracticinghittingtheballandbrokeourwindowandwhatamIsupposedtodo? WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR OUR AIR-CONDITIONED ROOM?”

“You need to settle down. It’s no big deal.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Tell her it’s no big deal. Accidents happen. See if you can clean up the glass and I’ll be home in a little while.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He has no sense of drama.

The kids danced around me while I picked up the shards of glass. It helped the situation some, but there was still a big gaping hole in our bedroom window.

In the meantime, Caroline began to feel a sense of pride over her accomplishment and told me she’d like to call Bops to let him know how hard she hit the ball. She and Bops have really been working on her swing and, judging from the window, their work has really paid off.

I’m so proud.

And also probably a few hundred dollars poorer.

My knight in shining armor pulled into the driveway and immediately pulled out the duct tape. He taped what he could, but it was obvious we needed something to cover the window for the night. Because did I mention the need for maximum air-conditioning?

He disappeared behind the garage and came back with a solution.

At least it’s good for something.
Mama tried

As of 7:15 this morning, Spring Break is officially over. It’s back to the real world of a nutritious breakfast of Lucky Charms marshmallows, discussing the unfairness of life and how it relates to wearing leggings to school, and lovingly making a ham sandwich that will return to me almost entirely intact in a Cinderella lunchbox.

Oh, I l do love a routine.

I know there were some low points last week, specifically the day we resorted to taking pictures of the dog’s ear, but I’m actually a little sad it’s over.

The good news is that she and her daddy were able to finish off the week with another trip to the ranch.

The bad news for my washing machine and my formerly clean floors is that they share a love for finding new and improved ways to get muddy.

(The sound is a little off because Vimeo hates me right now.)

A Sunday Drive from Big Mama on Vimeo

I wonder if Merle Haggard’s mama made him wear leggings to school?
Good help and good t.v. are hard to find

When P got in from work yesterday, I told him that many of you seemed to think that he looks younger now than he did four and a half years ago. In the words of the late Mac Davis he said, “I can’t wait to look in the mirror ’cause I get better looking each day”.

That’s not really what he said.

What he actually said was something about the poor lighting of the photo and how it didn’t expose all his gray hair, but between you and me, I think he’s been dipping into my stash of Oil of Olay because his skin has never looked better.

As for me, I’m trying to eat a little healthier these days because the temperatures have reached the mid-80’s here this week and all that sunshine is a constant reminder that I will donning the equivalent of just my underwear in public before I know it and taking the walk of shame at the neighborhood pool.

Oh how I regret all the cheese I ate to get me through the long, mild winter.

So last night after dinner, I decided to eat blackberries for dessert instead of my usual handful or fifteen of M&M’s. And, really, it was almost the same except for the fact that I didn’t find them to be at all satisfying or comforting. In fact, I think I felt a little rage towards the blackberries for not melting in my mouth like the Valentine’s M&M’s that have treated me so well throughout the month of February.

Or maybe my healthy fruit snack (NATURE’S CANDY!) rage was misdirected and the real target of my anger was ABC and their stupid “Women Tell All” episode of “The Bachelor”. How many times now have I watched some “Bachelor” programming where they trot out Trista and Ryan as proof the show works?

I’ll tell you.

TOO MANY.

But I’ve never been more grateful for the invention of the DVR because what could have been two hours of my life I’ll never get back, turned out to just be one hour and three minutes. Modern technology has allowed me the luxury of rotting my brain in moderation.

On a totally different subject, when I walked through the door on Saturday night after getting back from North Carolina, I noticed that my kitchen island was completely covered in crumbs and various clutter in the form of a lot of catalogs that sell cheap ammunition. Then I carried my suitcase into the bathroom and saw that our sinks looked dirty and the shower door had grown some sort of film.

I made the decision right then and there to fire our maid. Not to talk ugly about someone, but she is horrible. A chimpanzee on Xanax could do a better job of cleaning our house. I couldn’t believe she would let it get into that kind of condition. It was shameful.

And then I remembered that I am the maid.

I wish I could fire myself, but I don’t know if I could find anyone else who would be willing to clean my house in return for a cold Diet Coke and all the change they can find in the couch cushions or the pockets of P’s jeans.

Needless to say, I’ll be spending the next few days trying to get my house back into some kind of order. While eating blackberries. And hiding my Oil of Olay from P.

Oh, and maybe downloading some Mac Davis songs on iTunes.