Month: June 2009

Planes, but no trains or automobiles

We had a great Father’s Day. P was especially happy because he was able to spend it catching fish, which next to manufacturing his own ammunition and talking back to the political shows on T.V. is his favorite past time.

I’d made plans several months ago to go visit some girlfriends for the next few days so I spent most of the morning cramming things in a suitcase because I am strong believer in waiting until the last minute and also because I ran out of laundry detergent and didn’t have any clean clothes until about noon.

Caroline was all broken up about me leaving town for a few days as evidenced by this conversation we had on Saturday.

“Is tomorrow the day you’re leaving, Mama?”

“Yes, baby.” (preparing myself for the tears and sorrow)

“OH YEAH! That’s when the fun begins!”

In all honesty, it doesn’t hurt my feelings because she knew she was getting to spend the night with Mimi and Bops. And they have a pool. And two new puppies. And no enforced bedtime. Who can compete with that?

When I arrived at the airport, toting my suitcase that is embarrassingly too large for a three-day trip, I checked in at the gate, dropped off my (large) suitcase, and headed to the security line. Because I am a seasoned travel professional, I had my I.D. and boarding pass at the ready.

I handed them over to the security guy, he looked at my I.D., looked at me and said, “You look a lot like Jamie Lee Curtis.”

Sir, have you seen Jamie Lee Curtis lately?

It’s not that I don’t think she’s a lovely woman. It’s just that I don’t really aspire, at thirty-seven years old, to look like a woman who has graced the cover of AARP magazine. Maybe I just look like someone who could put away a lot of Activia yogurt.

I tried to console myself with the thought that his eyesight must not be very good, but found it strangely discomforting to think that the person standing between me and some kind of terrorist incident has sub-par vision.

After getting through security, I went to the bookstore in search of some reading material for the plane. I believe there is no better opportunity than a plane ride to enjoy some cultural enrichment in literary form, but unfortunately they were sold out of “Mommywood” by Tori Spelling which was the only book I was interested in reading, so I settled for the latest issues of People and InStyle.

It turned out to be a good thing because I had no idea that Chace Crawford is going to star in the “Footloose” remake. Last I heard Zac Efron had dropped out and I was not aware that they’d found another young actor with impossibly well-coiffed hair to replace him.

Also, did you know that a hot new past time is something called “cupcaking”? I was worried it might mean something dirty because I am just that up on cultural trends, but as it turns out it actually means that people now enjoy staying home and making cupcakes.

I’d like to think I helped start that trend because I have enjoyed making cupcakes for years now. Finally, I am back on the cutting edge. Or baking edge. Or whatever.

Eventually it was time to board my flight to Tulsa. We were supposed to have a quick stop in Dallas, but it turned into a long stop. As we sat on the runway, waiting on a gate to open up according to the pilot, they decided it would be a good time to cut the air-conditioning because everyone knows that metal tubes filled with hundreds of people and no ventilation stay surprisingly cool in 100 degree heat. After thirty minutes of pure torture, we finally taxied to the gate where the pilot confessed that the real story was that a suspicious package had been found in baggage claim and they had to evacuate the airport.

Basically, airport personnel are liars who tell you that a gate isn’t available when there is a terrorist threat and that you look like Jamie Lee Curtis.

Finally the plane was ready to head out, but due to the delay I’d finished all my magazines and was left with no reading material. In desperation, I picked up the Southwest Airlines magazine because if I let myself look through the Sky Mall catalog I’d become convinced that my life is incomplete without a gadget that warms up my house shoes before I put them on. And I don’t even wear house shoes.

I thumbed through the magazine, checking out all the places where Southwest flies and discovered the games in the back. Out of sheer boredom, I began to play one of them even though I am terrible at crossword puzzles and Sudoku and basically anything except the Word Finds in Highlights Magazine. Surprisingly, I was really good at this game. Like really, really good. I filled in all the blanks and decided that all those nights of playing Pathwords must have really sharpened my mind. My game-playing prowess was balm to my ego that had been bruised by the comparison to Jamie Lee Curtis.

Then I looked at the top of the page and saw the title, “GAMES FOR KIDS”.

Perfect.

I have the intellectual capacity of an eight-year-old and the face of someone who’s fifty. It’s no wonder I often feel conflicted.
The care and feeding of Nemo

So last week I totally got conned into buying a fish for Caroline. I don’t know why I haven’t mentioned it yet because, heaven knows, it’s about the most exciting thing that’s gone on around here in days, but I realized I needed to let y’all know we bought a fish so when it dies in the next few weeks and I write a post about our fish dying, you won’t be all like “What fish? You don’t even have a fish”.

Here is our fish.

Caroline really thought outside the box and named him Nemo. It was an exceptionally original choice, not only because of the movie “Nemo”, but our last fish was also named Nemo. I asked her if maybe she wanted to call him Nemo II, but she insisted on just Nemo.

It kind of reminded me of when we took in a stray dog for a few weeks a couple of years ago and Caroline decided to call him Uncle Bruiser. For three weeks, we had Scout, Bruiser and Uncle Bruiser. Although you have to admit that adding Uncle to a moniker really gives it that extra something special. Just ask Ted Nugent.

Anyway, it all started when we went to the hardware store to pick up some paint swatches. There’s a pet store right next to the hardware store and she asked if we could just go in and look around. Clearly, the heat has made me insane because I said, “Sure!”.

I have every reason to believe she walked into that pet store with a strategy in place. She immediately saw the bunnies and asked if she could have one. When I refused, she moved on to the birds. Oh right. Like I’m going to have a bird in my house. There aren’t enough sedatives in the world for me to have a bird that has the potential to learn to talk. It was bad enough that one of the birds in the store knew how to make a sound like a dog’s squeaky toy. Every time that dang bird squeaked, I jumped out of my skin like a nervous cat on amphetamines and Red Bull.

After she received the no on the bird, she began to look admiringly at the hamsters and gerbils, otherwise known as dressed-up rats. By the time she asked me for a betta fish, I was relieved to buy just a fish. I felt like I’d escaped some deeper level of pet hell, when in reality I’d just been totally played. There is not a doubt in my mind she was gunning for the fish the whole time.

We brought Nemo home in the requisite plastic bag with a rubber band and I began to search for our old fish bowl. You can imagine my delight when I found it out in the yard, filled with water and covered in algae. Apparently, Caroline had been using it to conduct “science experiments”. If her hypothesis was that leaving a fish bowl full of water out in the South Texas sun would cause it to grow green fur and drive her mama crazy with the all the bleaching, then she absolutely proved her theory.

After the bowl was clean, we dumped Nemo in the water, then I pulled out the instructions on how to care for your betta fish and read number one, “Leave your fish in the plastic bag and put bag in new water to give fish a chance to acclimate to the new surroundings.”

Oops.

I guess it would have been helpful to read the instructions beforehand.

P came home around lunchtime and we introduced him to the newest member of our family. P is a fan of fish. In fact, he brought an aquarium into our marriage that we kept in our dining room for the first two years of our marriage. It was a dark time that I don’t like to dwell on for too long.

(Having the aquarium in the dining room was a dark time, not the first two years of our marriage. Just wanted to clarify.)

(It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the fish, it’s just hard to decorate around a wooden aquarium stand that screams “Bachelor Pad”.)

Caroline told P all about her new fish and P said, “Hey! I wonder if he would eat one of your Sea Monkeys?”

“Oh Daddy! Can we feed him a Sea Monkey?”

What kind of sick people do I live with?

Those Sea Monkeys are pets. I have been through a lot with those Sea Monkeys. My sweet friend Amanda gave Caroline those Sea Monkeys about two months ago and in that time I have managed to kill them countless times only to have them rise from their overfed ashes like the Phoenix. I am emotionally invested in those Sea Monkeys.

I should have known Caroline didn’t feel the same way when she wore them around her neck in the Sea Monkey Friendship Locket to go eat sushi. It never even dawned on her that she was eating the larger version of her pets.

P told her they could feed Nemo a Sea Monkey when he got home from work. Sure enough, later that evening they sucked one of the Sea Monkeys out of its tank and took it into Caroline’s bedroom. I stayed in the kitchen because I couldn’t bear to watch. Two minutes later I heard excited squeals and laughter as Caroline yelled, “HE ATE IT!!! HE ATE IT!!”

And that’s the last thing Nemo has eaten. Ever since he had a taste of live Sea Monkey, he refuses to eat his normal fish food. Or maybe it’s not the Sea Monkeys. Perhaps we bought the fish version of Ghandi and he’s protesting something. All I know is boyfriend won’t eat.

(He may be a girl for all I know. He just seems like a manly fish.)

This is why I’m telling you we bought a fish. Because if he keeps up this hunger strike, it won’t be long before I have to inform you that Nemo has gone on to a better place.

Y’all have a good weekend.
It all started with the singing telegram

Yesterday morning after I dropped Caroline off at VBS (It is Crocodile Dock for those of y’all who knew what she was talking about when she referred to Skeeter and skunk spray. Well done. I am impressed with your VBS knowledge.) I drove straight to Target. Ever since the Target moved an extra seven minutes and three stoplights away, I feel as though I must plan my trips to ensure maximum productivity, especially now that the big oil and gas companies have started their annual tradition of summer thievery at the gas pumps.

I went to Target with four goals in mind:

1. Purchase birthday gifts for the 342 birthday parties that Caroline is invited to during the next two weeks.
2. Find a set of travel-sized hot rollers because I am tired of sacrificing maximum hair volume for room in my suitcase. (Yes, I still use hot rollers. It’s how I roll.) (I apologize for the pun. I couldn’t resist.)
3. Attempt to find some self-tanner for my face because I keep it totally covered in sunscreen and it no longer matches my body.
4. To spend less than $100.00 and not get suckered in to buying any Mossimo goods or Balinese-inspired tschotkes.

I am proud to say that I achieved all of those goals, although there was a close call with a swimsuit coverup and the verdict is still out on the self-tanner because for all I know it might make me look like I’m going through puberty by tomorrow.

Unfortunately, my pride in my Target success was short lived. Gulley called while I was at Starbucks buying myself a congratulatory Venti Green Iced Tea (I’ll take that with two Splendas and lacking in the deliciousness that is Diet Coke, please) and mentioned that she was in Target looking at Father’s Day cards.

Dang.

Father’s Day cards. I knew I was forgetting something.

I certainly wasn’t going to drive all the way back to Target because I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it but the Target moved and it’s now approximately too far away for repeat trips. I told Gulley that I was just going to go to Hallmark and look for cards there. She told me that she’d thought about Hallmark but didn’t go there because she believes they have some big conspiracy going on involving a lack of traditional cards and a surplus of cards that talk or sing or tap dance out of the room when you open them and they charge $6.00 a card.

Because you can’t put a price on being totally annoyed by a greeting card with singing hamsters.

I kind of thought she was exaggerating even though I should have known better because Gulley and I never exaggerate or over-dramatize anything unless it’s our disappointment at Ed leaving “The Bachelorette” to go back to his job as a consultant in Chicago. But who can blame us because his departure RUINED the whole show and there is no way Jillian is going to find lasting love with any of the guys who are left. Breakdance instructors are fun to date but you don’t want to marry one because there’s a good chance he might do the caterpillar at your wedding reception and there are some wounds that are too deep to overcome.

Anyway, I went into Hallmark and it was just as she predicted. There were a handful of traditional cards to choose from and then rows and rows of singing cards. Where are we as a society that we can’t just hand our fathers a simple piece of folded paper that says “Happy Father’s Day”? Will it add to my dad’s enjoyment to have a card that features Kool and the Gang singing “Celebrate”?

Well, maybe. I mean it is Kool and the Gang.

But I know for a fact that if I bought P a card with singing hamsters there’s a good chance we’d start our Father’s Day with mild profanity and homemade pancakes.

I left the store empty-handed, then went home because it was past 10:45 a.m. which means it was time to get inside in the air-conditioning before the heat caused me to spontaneously combust.

When I walked inside I was feeling a little irritable from the heat and the singing cards, but then I got the mail and my whole day changed. One little postcard made me feel as if I’d just won some sort of lottery. I wish I’d remembered to take a picture of the card but unfortunately I didn’t think about it until it was three layers deep in the kitchen trash.

Do you know what it was?

A card from the people at Nielsen informing me that my household has been selected to participate in the Nielsen ratings. They’ll be calling me this week to let me know more about it. I feel as if I’ve just been given the keys to a magical kingdom. In fact, I’m seriously thinking about purchasing some graph paper and colored pencils to properly chart my T.V. viewing.

I’ve always looked at the Nielsen ratings and wondered “Who are these people and why do they not like all the same shows I like? What’s wrong with them?” But now, NOW, the viewing tables have been turned and I have a voice in what I want to see on T.V. Frankly, I am a little drunk with the power.

Just know that if all of a sudden you see a drastic upswing in the ratings for “Tori and Dean”, “The Bachelorette”, and virtually any programming on BravoTV, you have me to thank for it.

Well, and the folks at Nielsen for their brilliant choice in selecting my household completely at random.

I’m just so glad they didn’t send me a singing postcard to let me know.

Also, I just realized we’ll probably have to record P’s television habits as well. Good news for Uncle Ted and Ultimate Fighting!

Nielsen has no idea what they’ve just unleashed.
Little person, big personality

I spend a lot of time worrying that Caroline is too introverted and tends to keep her personality all tucked inside.

VBS from Big Mama on Vimeo.

I’d love to translate and share what any of that has to do with Vacation Bible School, but all I really understand is the “caw, caw” at the end because bird noises are a universal language.
All up in the grill

Yesterday was one of those days that didn’t start off that great and didn’t end up much better. Caroline has VBS all this week and I actually had to wake her up at 8:05 a.m. so we could make it in time. You don’t know how it grieved me to wake a sleeping child, especially my child who tends to pop out of bed by 7:00 a.m. almost every morning of her life.

By the time I picked her up at noon, she was exhausted and the backseat of my car basically turned into a scene out of a Greek tragedy. Except I don’t know any Greek tragedies with a plot involving a mean mother who won’t let her child eat only french fries for lunch and develop scurvy. I guess Sophocles couldn’t imagine that anyone would have to endure that level of cruelty.

We walked in the back door and I told her to go rest on the couch while I fixed lunch. After a ham sandwich, some Scooby-Doo, and a little rest, she seemed to be ready to face the world again so we went to the pool for the afternoon.

Let’s just say that before it was all said and done I had to say, “No, we are not staying five more minutes and we are not eating dinner here. If you ask me one more time then we’re not coming back to the pool for another week.” And then drama and chaos ensued.

Note to self: Do not threaten actions that create entirely unrealistic scenarios. It’s 168 degrees outside. If we don’t go to the pool for a week, we will all certainly perish from a bad combination of heat and the stir-crazy.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy eating dinner at the pool on occasion. In fact, I find their chicken fingers to be delightful on the days they aren’t totally burned to a crisp. Not to mention, the cheeseburgers are divine but there are only so many days you can sit around in your bathing suit and eat a cheeseburger. It breaks about six laws of nature.

At the beginning of the summer, Gulley and I noticed that the pool had added popcorn shrimp to the menu. We both agreed it sounded good in theory, but worried a little bit about the care and maintenance of said shrimp. It seemed like a recipe for potential food poisoning, and heaven knows that no one is going to feel sorry for you if you get food poisoning from eating shrimp at a pool grill prepared and handled by sixteen-year-old chefs who don’t even have the sense to empty the trashcans before they become a haven for every bee in a twenty mile radius.

But then one day my friend Julie made a bold move and ordered the shrimp. P decided it looked good so he ordered some too and he and Caroline ate their shrimp while I whispered silent prayers in hopes of exorcising any salmonella demons lurking within. There were no repercussions from the shrimp and it has since become Caroline’s favorite meal at the pool.

Then I noticed the other day they’ve added salmon to their menu. It’s not like I’m a food snob. I’ve eaten my fair share of meals at Long John Silver’s and I come from a mother who has been known to eat nachos from the snackbar at Target. I just think serving salmon is asking for trouble. It’s like the pool grill is trying to be a little too big for its non-gourmet britches.

I mean this is the same dining establishment where I ordered a grilled chicken pasta salad served with a piece of ciabatta bread and got pasta mixed with Italian dressing served with half a buttered hamburger bun. Those sixteen-year-olds think they are so clever, but I know ciabatta bread when I see it and it doesn’t look like the top of a sesame seed hamburger bun.

I think they should stick to the classics; cheeseburgers, chicken fingers, hot dogs, chalupas. Leave the grilled salmon to restaurants that actually have to abide by some sort of health code. Serving fish products is a disaster waiting to happen.

Of course so is taking an exhausted five-year-old to the pool after a long day, so what do I know?
The good news is that salsa and I have never been closer

Before I ramble on and on about the weekend, I’d just like to say how proud I am that I have written things here that cause people to find my site when they google “My dog has a big, stinky glob on his teeth”. If that isn’t a sure sign that I’m cranking out some fine literary material, then I don’t know what is. I feel certain that Hemingway is rolling in his grave from the envy.

It is with deep regret and sadness that I inform you that I have now been without a Diet Coke for five days. And it’s with even more sadness that I tell you that it’s made all the difference in the world. The constant burning I had in my throat for over a month has been totally gone since Saturday. I believe that the Diet Coke and I have been in a dysfunctional relationship for the last four years. I have loved it with all my heart and soul while it has been trying to take down my esophagus. It’s the classic tale of heartbreak.

Girl meets beverage. Girl loves beverage. Beverage breaks girls heart and stomps it into a million pieces.

Fortunately as I strolled the aisles at HEB on Friday in a desperate quest for a rebound beverage, something caught my eye, Lipton Green Tea Mixed Berry flavor. It whispered in my ear and vowed it would never leave me broken-hearted like the Diet Coke, so I took it home with me and we’ll see what happens. As of this writing, I find it to be delightful and refreshing.

I even mentioned to a friend that I felt kind of healthy drinking Green Tea because it has so many health benefits. Her comment was that it was healthy when brewed the way the Chinese do it, but now that Lipton has gotten a hold of it there are no guarantees. Whatever. It totally says something about antioxidants on the label so I’m going with it.

Anyway, I’m just thankful that I found a new source of caffeine on Friday because I had no idea how much I was going to need it before the day was over. Our church hosts the occasional family movie night during the summer and this past Friday night was the first one. P took Caroline and her friend S out to eat dinner and then to movie night. Since they weren’t going to be home until about 9:00, I called S’s mom to see if she could spend the night which was the cause of many squeals of delight from the girls.

They got home around 9:15 all jacked up on movie candy and the sheer exhilaration that only comes from watching an overweight panda do some sweet Kung-Fu moves. The next thing I knew my living room had been transformed into some sort of beauty salon/horse stable for their American Girl dolls.

In truth, Caroline doesn’t actually have a real American Girl doll but rather the Our Generation knock-off doll from Target because when she asked for an American Girl doll last year for her birthday I didn’t believe that she’d actually ever play with any kind of doll and certainly wasn’t going to bet $100 on it. It’s a decision that I have been proud of because that doll had laid half-clothed and isolated in some semblance of purgatory for dolls for the better part of eleven months before Friday night. Not to mention, Caroline doesn’t know the difference.

Although the day is rapidly approaching when she’ll be able to read the “OUR GENERATION” tag that sticks out of Jenny’s torso.

Really she has only herself to blame because Santa got totally burned by the pink Pottery Barn Kitchen that he spent way too much money on about three years ago only to have her play with it approximately two times, one of which was the other day when I threatened to sell it. Poor Santa, he was just so naive and enthusiastic about shopping for a little girl who, as it turns out, would rather have her very own hot pink rifle.

The girls were having so much fun that I didn’t have the heart to make them go to bed. I loved sitting on the couch and listening to all their little conversations that began with “Let’s pretend that…”

“Let’s pretend that Jenny is going to help Ruthie brush her horse.”

“Let’s pretend that the horse is going to the beauty shop for horses.”

“Let’s pretend that Ruthie wants to get her hair cut really short.”

“Let’s pretend that Diet Coke isn’t some sort of toxic substance.”

Actually, I think that last one was mine.