Year: 2007

  • No one will ever have to tell because I’ll never ask

    Last week, Gulley attended a Kindergarten roundup thing since her oldest son will be starting Kindergarten in the fall. It was basically an orientation type thing. My question is do they call it a roundup because we’re in Texas or is it called a roundup in places like Connecticut also?

    My guess is no.

    Anyway, the evening consisted of parents and their kids meeting all the teachers, seeing the school, and touring the individual classrooms. At the beginning or maybe it was at the end, (details! I’m all about details!) there was a question and answer portion to the roundup.

    As Gulley was telling me about the question and answer session, she mentioned that she didn’t ask any questions because she realizes that she has a tendency to zone out and there is a good chance that whatever question she decided to ask, would have already been answered.

    This led to a discussion of our shared fear of asking questions out loud in group settings, because here’s a little information that may save some of y’all time and embarrassment. Remember how growing up teachers and parents would always say things like, “There is no such thing as a dumb question”?

    They lied.

    Yes, Virginia. There is such thing as a dumb question.

    If you don’t believe me, then may I tell you how sorry I am that the batteries in your hearing aid have given out.

    I will be the first to admit that I tend to run out of patience for people who feel the need to ask all the questions with all of their what ifs and why nots, but lets be honest, if you’ve stopped for dinner at Church’s Fried Chicken, does it really matter what kind of oil the chicken is fried in?

    The kind that clogs your arteries and will cause you to die, unless counterbalanced with some type of cholesterol medication.

    When I call my company’s tech support line and tell the guy on the line that my computer died, does he really need to ask me if I’ve tried to turn it back on?

    Apparently so.

    And don’t get me wrong. I’m guilty. I have been known to ask the dumb question. Repeatedly. In fact, while Gulley and I were having our discussion about our fear of public questions, I told her a story that made me a legend in my high school youth group.

    My sophomore year in high school, my youth group was having a lock in. For those of y’all who may not know (and now are afraid to ask) a lock in is basically an all night slumber party but without the sleep. Ours usually consisted of all night basketball games, hide and seek, and movies like Rocky III being shown in various Sunday School classrooms.

    And drama. Lots of drama. You can’t lock in 25 high school girls and 15 high school boys without dealing with the emotional ramifications of all the relationship crises that can occur in a 12 hour time period.

    Anyway, the Wednesday night before the lock in, our youth group leader was giving us information about the event. He said, “If your name starts with A-M, bring Cokes and if your name starts with N-Z, bring a bag of chips.” My hand shot up like a canon and I asked, “Is that first name or last?”

    Now y’all may be thinking that’s not a dumb question and no, no it is not. Unless, your first name and last name start with the same letter which, of course, mine did. A fact that our youth leader quickly pointed out to me.

    It was the day I lost my innocence and realized that yes, the dumb question does exist. For the next three years, anytime those chip bringing instructions were given, all eyes would turn to me and say “First name or last?”

    So now, I refrain from the question portion of any event. It’s just better that way.

    It will save Caroline and me a lot of embarrassment in the future, although she has the benefit of having a first name and last name that don’t start with the same letter.

    I’m all about creating a better future for my child.

  • Carolina ballerina

    When I was pregnant with Caroline and went in for my 20 week sonogram, P and I absolutely knew we wanted to know the sex of our baby. I had already conducted the very scientific Drano crystals test, which told me I was having a girl, but for some reason P wanted more conclusive evidence before he let me order the pink fabric and paint for the nursery.

    He just doesn’t have the aptitude for science that I do.

    Sure enough, the sonogram revealed that we were having a girl and truth be told, I was more than a little relieved because first of all, I know girls because well, I am a girl, and secondly, because Gulley and I had gone out and bought a darling, pink fur trimmed jacket for the baby based on the results of the Drano test.

    And, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start planning Caroline’s future in ballet lessons while she was still in utero.

    It’s not that I’m some crazy, obsessed stage mother, it’s just that there is really not much cuter on this earth than little girls in tutus and precious, tiny pink ballet slippers. If y’all think I’m wrong, then just go window shop at the Deck the Walls in your local mall and look at how many different prints are available that feature tiny ballerinas.

    Art doesn’t lie.

    I couldn’t wait for the day that my daughter could follow in my dancing footsteps and begin lessons of her own. And some of y’all may be thinking “Wow, I didn’t know Big Mama was a dancer!” and actually, I’m not, unless you count a year of lessons when I was three and another year or two when I was 9 or 10. By following in my footsteps, I just meant that there are some cute childhood photos of me in a dance costume. I like to think I’m a pretty good package, but rhythm isn’t so much a part of it.

    Well, unless I’ve had a few margaritas and then, I’ve got some moves. Oh yes ma’am.

    Finally, last summer I signed Caroline up for ballet lesson 2 days a week for 4 weeks. She really loved it and although she spent the majority of the time just admiring herself in the huge, floorlength mirrors, she did it with impeccable grace and style. I took it as a sign that we were ready for a long term commitment to dance lessons and in the fall, signed her up for the whole year.

    What was I thinking? I should have gone to Walmart, paid $9.99 for a full length mirror, put it in her room and she could have stared at herself all day long for free.

    And to further prove that I was hypnotized by how adorable she looked in her little pink leotard with those precious, pink ballet slippers, I signed her up for a class that meets Monday afternoons at 4:00, because it makes complete sense to schedule an activity that requires me to force her into Danskin tights during a time of day where she would whine about having to live in a chocolate castle and eat M&M’s and brownies all day long.

    We have spent a grueling eight months persevering through dance class. Every Monday she says “Mama, I don’t want to go to dance” and I couldn’t agree more.

    Why do we go?

    Well, I’ll tell y’all the truth. It’s all about the recital. This is a crafty little dance studio and they schedule the recital for the very end of the year, but they make you pay for your costume and your recital fee at the very beginning of the year, because they have been doing this long enough to know that if they wait until the end of the year to collect that money, no one would do it. So they reel you in while you’re still giddy from buying the tiniest, cutest little tap shoes you’ve ever seen.

    A RECITAL! HOW EXCITING! Of course we’ll pay! There’s no way we wouldn’t be a part of the recital!

    I cannot tell y’all how tempted I have been to cut my losses and just get the costume, take it home and call it the most expensive game of dress up ever in the history of the world.

    This past Monday, Caroline finally revolted to what I’m afraid may be the point of no return. We arrived at dance lessons, I wedged her feet in her almost too small tap shoes (because I refuse to buy a brand new pair of tap shoes for what is, most certainly, the end of her dancing career), took her to the bathroom for the 4th time because nothing makes her need to pee like being encased in tights and a leotard, and then walked her to her classroom where she refused to go in.

    SHE REFUSED.

    It was a dance mutiny. A ballerina rebellion. A tapdancing coup.

    And what’s more, two other little girls from her class noticed that she had staged a walk out and decided to join her in the lobby so they could join arms in solidarity and say ENOUGH. NO MORE DANCING.

    I was in a pickle. I mean, honestly, I couldn’t care less about any of it at this point, but it seems like it’s the principle of teaching her that we follow through on commitments and we’ve committed to be in the recital. It’s the same reason I always eat a whole bag of Sour Patch Kids at one sitting. I’ve committed.

    I finally convinced her that she needed to go dance and with a flounce of her tutu and a flip of her ponytail, she headed into the studio. With that kind of attitude, it’s no wonder those Drano crystals were so sure she was a girl.

    May God have mercy on me.

  • Sudafed…the new gateway drug

    I spent most of the weekend suffering from cough due to cold or maybe just allergies. Either way, my nose alternates between running like a faucet or being completely stopped up, making my voice so deep that when I call Caroline from the other room, she answers, “What Daddy?”

    I’ve sneezed until I felt like my head was about to come off and honestly, wouldn’t care if it went flying across the room if it would just make the congestion stop.

    Thursday night before bed, I knew the time had come to medicate myself. I don’t really take any kind of medication on a regular basis, unlike P who pops the Zyrtec D like it grows on little antihistamine trees in our backyard.

    I thought about pilfering one of his Zyrtec D’s, but remembered there is way too much pseudoephedrine in them and if I took one before bed, not only would I not sleep, but I would have enough nervous, medicated energy to obsess all night about important issues like global warming.

    So, I rummaged through our medicine cabinet looking for just plain Sudafed, so that I could take my dose of choice, 30 mg, because I’m a girl that knows my cold medicine limits.

    Alas, we were out. I settled for taking one Benadryl, which still has me feeling sleepy and incoherent 5 days later.

    Friday afternoon, I headed to Walgreens to purchase some Sudafed. Wonderful Sudafed. Nothing else relieves the pressure in my head like those little red pills chock full of miraculous, healing properties.

    In case y’all don’t know this, it is no longer possible to just walk in to a pharmacy, grab your box of Sudafed, and head home to enjoy a head that no longer weighs 23 pounds. Oh no. They try to fool you with the identical boxes of Sudafed PE and Walfed PE, but don’t be confused, dear internet friends. PE is the poor man’s decongestant substitute. The only advantage it has over the original Sudafed is, apparently, you can’t make crystal meth out of it.

    See how I just threw out crystal meth like I’m all street savvy, when in reality, the only way I have this information is because I saw it on 20/20, which means I was home at 8:00 on a Friday night with nothing better to do than watch Barbara Walters.

    Anyway, to buy the original, miracle working Sudafed, you have to take the display card up to the pharmacist’s counter. I grabbed the card, walked over to the pharmacist and slid it across the counter so that we could make the exchange. The pharmacist looked me up and down, obviously trying to deduce if I was indeed, in the business of manufacturing crystal meth, and yes, I looked the part in my “He Hunts, I Shop” t-shirt, yoga pants and running shoes while clutching my kleenex tightly in my hand and saying, “Please, sir. I must have the Sudafed.”

    I guess he decided I was okay because he asked me to hand over my drivers’ license so he could enter my name in the computer database to determine if I was out buying boxes of Sudafed at every store in town. Finally, I signed something to the effect that I realized I was purchasing Sudafed, was aware that it contained pseudoephedrine and I could be accused of running a crystal meth operation and eventually, lose my home and all other earthly possessions.

    Ironically, in the past, when I’ve gotten prescriptions for major narcotics filled after such things as childbirth and P’s back surgeries, all they do is hand me the little bag with the potent, mind altering drugs and tell me to “Have a nice day!” to which I reply, “Do you know what you just gave me? How could it not be a nice day?”

    What they don’t understand is when I’m suffering from this kind of congestion, all I want is the congestion reducing benefits of real Sudafed.

    If I wanted to get high, I’d just take another Benadryl.

  • They ought to take that Oscar back

    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.

  • Farewell Billy Clyde, we barely knew thee

    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.

  • Taking back what is His

    “But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.”

    Isaiah 53: 5

    He did it because “God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life”.

    He did it because “as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love” and “as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us”. The height of His love and the width of His forgiveness are the beams of the cross.

    He did it because “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God”.

    He did it for all mankind.

    But He would have done it just for me.

    And He would have done it just for you.

    “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

    Luke 15: 20-24

    Happy Easter, y’all.