The Warrior Princess and her friend Sophie have a punk rock band. They call themselves the Jerks. (I have no idea who came up with this, but it's awesome.) They're the house band in WP's playroom. Sometimes Sophie is on guitar and Lily is on drums. Sometimes Lily is on guitar and Sophie is on bass. They rock out hardcore on Guitar Hero.
This morning it was my turn to run carpool. I asked the WP about a patriotic sing they were having at school.
I'm not really good at singing, WP said matter-of-factly.
I disagree, I replied, I think you have a very sweet singing voice.
Like this? she queried, and then yelled BLOB!!! at the top of her lungs.
No, I responded calmly, when you actually sing, instead of just yelling 'blob.'
She thought about that for a second. Then she added, Sophie and I aren't in the Jerks anymore.
I'm sorry to hear that, I told her. What happened? Creative differences?
What's that mean?
You know, some bands break up because of creative differences. Maybe you wanted to innovate. You wanted to express yourself musically. Go in a different direction. And maybe she was more concerned about, like, commercial viability.
Yeah, WP played along. It's really fun when she's game for my shtick. Usually she just thinks I'm an embarrassment. I wanted to write my own songs.
Happens all the time, I assured her. So maybe you go off, make a solo record, do a small club tour, maybe. And then y'all will be ready to be the Jerks again.
Yeah, she murmured, off in her daydream. WP is considering her options.
Then we got into a discussion about the merits of abstract art. I have no idea how that happened. It was kind of a fun ride to school, though.
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
i should never have taught you how to text
Bubbie recently visited me and the WP. She spent a few days. She needed the rest and a change of scenery and I needed...well, okay, I needed my mommy. Don't judge me.
One day, while I was at work, Darlene and Little G picked up the WP and took her with them to an 11:15 movie, leaving Bubbie alone in the house to just rest and relax. My technophobe mother only learned to text recently. I'm not sure but I think my brother and I tagteamed her. I assured her that, should there be some kind of grave emergency, this was the fastest way to get in touch with me, the only way to convey the proper level of urgency, something I would see even if I was not in a position to actually answer my phone.
At 1:09 p.m., I received the following text:
Should i be worried baby not home
Noooo. They probably talked D into taking them to maggie moo's.
ok
1:35 p.m.
where is the cheese grater
We have two.
One is a smaller one w a handle - drawer directly underneath drying rack
Other one is in upper corner cabinet
1:45 p.m.
boyh missing
both missing how about goat cheese
Goat cheese would be in deli drawer of refrigerator if we have it
wtf why are you trying to grate goat cheese
i will be leaving office soon so I can pick up anything you need
Cleaning products comet etc
What besides comet
And why are you cleaning. stop it
Im not but you will need sponges etc
Dude I'm all over it. leaving office now
1:59 p.m.
No ice sucks
What the f, woman
what are you doing that requires goat cheese and ice
Being a good partner
Aww! love
Back at ya
One day, while I was at work, Darlene and Little G picked up the WP and took her with them to an 11:15 movie, leaving Bubbie alone in the house to just rest and relax. My technophobe mother only learned to text recently. I'm not sure but I think my brother and I tagteamed her. I assured her that, should there be some kind of grave emergency, this was the fastest way to get in touch with me, the only way to convey the proper level of urgency, something I would see even if I was not in a position to actually answer my phone.
At 1:09 p.m., I received the following text:
Should i be worried baby not home
Noooo. They probably talked D into taking them to maggie moo's.
ok
1:35 p.m.
where is the cheese grater
We have two.
One is a smaller one w a handle - drawer directly underneath drying rack
Other one is in upper corner cabinet
1:45 p.m.
boyh missing
both missing how about goat cheese
Goat cheese would be in deli drawer of refrigerator if we have it
wtf why are you trying to grate goat cheese
i will be leaving office soon so I can pick up anything you need
Cleaning products comet etc
What besides comet
And why are you cleaning. stop it
Im not but you will need sponges etc
Dude I'm all over it. leaving office now
1:59 p.m.
No ice sucks
What the f, woman
what are you doing that requires goat cheese and ice
Being a good partner
Aww! love
Back at ya
in which the wp blows my mind
Like many mothers of daughters, I sometimes look at my child and think, "Who are you?"
The Warrior Princess - and it should be understood that she is definitely more warrior than princess - could not be more different from me in many respects. The most obvious difference is her complete lack of cookie fancy. I love to wear dresses. The quickest way to piss her off is to try to put her into a dress. I don't really like playing video games; she will probably design one by the time she's ten. I love food - all kinds. She has about ten foods she'll eat. I love novelty and she prefers consistency. Anything I think is a great idea, she immediately rejects. I love meeting people, and she won't look you in the eye when she talks to you. It makes me seriously crazy.
There's only one other person that makes me that crazy. And that's her father. (It's okay. He'd say the same thing about me.)
Because the WP and I are so different in so many ways, I always get a kick out of the weird ways she is like me. You who are parents will get this. Sure, our children get all kinds of physical traits from us (the WP gets a curly mop of hair from me, and her smile from her dad). They sometimes inherit health problems from us, or even temperamental traits. But there are some things they inherit that can't possibly be carried on DNA. Right?
Example: Here is a conversation that Lily and I had the other day when she was getting ready for school.
KMS: (yelling up the stairs) Don't forget to make your bed!
WP: (yelling back down) I won't!
Pause.
WP: (yelling from her room) MOM! I can't make up my bed!
KMS: Why not?
WP: Because it's too jacked up!
Well, who does that sound like.
It's easy enough to explain. When you grow up around a certain sensibility, you're bound to adopt it. So how do you explain the things your kids do...that you did as a kid...that they could have no way of knowing you did?
When I was little, I loved riding in the car with my dad, mainly because he loved to listen to music as much as I did. Also, it was a convertible. Sometimes he would talk to me about whatever it was we were listening to: Kerri. Listen. Hear that backbeat? or Listen to the harmonies on this one. The Beach Boys invented that sound. or You ever heard of the Memphis Horns? Listen, I'm gonna rewind this, and you listen for the horns. He would keep time - the backbeat, naturally - by tapping his finger, the one with the gold wedding band, against the hard steering wheel. (Interestingly enough, in my memory, when I hear that whack-whack-whack now, it's always keeping the beat of the Stones' "Jumping Jack Flash.") But sometimes, I liked for him to turn up the music enough to drown out most of the ambient noise, then I'd turn away from him, look out the window, and forget there was anyone or anything else in the world than me and my daydream and what I could see out the window.
I was driving the WP home from school one day when I noticed it.
We had music on - I never drive anywhere that I don't have music on, to this day - and I was asking her about her day at school.
How was school, sweetie?
Nothing.
Hey, boo boo. Didn't you have library today? What'd you check out?
Total silence.
Sweetie? Are you okay?
After a beat, she spoke the first words since she got in the car.
Mom? Can you turn up the radio please?
Sure, baby, I said absently, turning it up. And I glanced in the rear view mirror. That's when I noticed it. She was turned almost completely sideways in her seat, staring out the window.
Now if she ever goes streaking up the street wearing nothing but an oatmeal box tied around her neck with a piece of yarn, I'll be really freaked out. Although I think if that were going to happen, it'd have happened by now, because I was two when I did it.
Maybe she'll do it in college.
Great. Now I can't sleep.
The Warrior Princess - and it should be understood that she is definitely more warrior than princess - could not be more different from me in many respects. The most obvious difference is her complete lack of cookie fancy. I love to wear dresses. The quickest way to piss her off is to try to put her into a dress. I don't really like playing video games; she will probably design one by the time she's ten. I love food - all kinds. She has about ten foods she'll eat. I love novelty and she prefers consistency. Anything I think is a great idea, she immediately rejects. I love meeting people, and she won't look you in the eye when she talks to you. It makes me seriously crazy.
There's only one other person that makes me that crazy. And that's her father. (It's okay. He'd say the same thing about me.)
Because the WP and I are so different in so many ways, I always get a kick out of the weird ways she is like me. You who are parents will get this. Sure, our children get all kinds of physical traits from us (the WP gets a curly mop of hair from me, and her smile from her dad). They sometimes inherit health problems from us, or even temperamental traits. But there are some things they inherit that can't possibly be carried on DNA. Right?
Example: Here is a conversation that Lily and I had the other day when she was getting ready for school.
KMS: (yelling up the stairs) Don't forget to make your bed!
WP: (yelling back down) I won't!
Pause.
WP: (yelling from her room) MOM! I can't make up my bed!
KMS: Why not?
WP: Because it's too jacked up!
Well, who does that sound like.
It's easy enough to explain. When you grow up around a certain sensibility, you're bound to adopt it. So how do you explain the things your kids do...that you did as a kid...that they could have no way of knowing you did?
When I was little, I loved riding in the car with my dad, mainly because he loved to listen to music as much as I did. Also, it was a convertible. Sometimes he would talk to me about whatever it was we were listening to: Kerri. Listen. Hear that backbeat? or Listen to the harmonies on this one. The Beach Boys invented that sound. or You ever heard of the Memphis Horns? Listen, I'm gonna rewind this, and you listen for the horns. He would keep time - the backbeat, naturally - by tapping his finger, the one with the gold wedding band, against the hard steering wheel. (Interestingly enough, in my memory, when I hear that whack-whack-whack now, it's always keeping the beat of the Stones' "Jumping Jack Flash.") But sometimes, I liked for him to turn up the music enough to drown out most of the ambient noise, then I'd turn away from him, look out the window, and forget there was anyone or anything else in the world than me and my daydream and what I could see out the window.
I was driving the WP home from school one day when I noticed it.
We had music on - I never drive anywhere that I don't have music on, to this day - and I was asking her about her day at school.
How was school, sweetie?
Nothing.
Hey, boo boo. Didn't you have library today? What'd you check out?
Total silence.
Sweetie? Are you okay?
After a beat, she spoke the first words since she got in the car.
Mom? Can you turn up the radio please?
Sure, baby, I said absently, turning it up. And I glanced in the rear view mirror. That's when I noticed it. She was turned almost completely sideways in her seat, staring out the window.
Now if she ever goes streaking up the street wearing nothing but an oatmeal box tied around her neck with a piece of yarn, I'll be really freaked out. Although I think if that were going to happen, it'd have happened by now, because I was two when I did it.
Maybe she'll do it in college.
Great. Now I can't sleep.
seriously, what the hell is wrong with people?
I feel a rant coming on. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Lately, I've noticed a little rash, a hemorrhoidal flare-up, if you will, of meanness in our little corner of the world. Read or watch the political news, and you'll see it. And if you're a woman, especially, you'd better be paying attention to some of the bills being presented, in Arkansas and all over the country. It is open season on you right now. Watch your back.
It's not just in politics, either. I hear it everywhere. People are angry and feel newly entitled to spew their crazy onto anyone they think deserves it. Sexist, bigoted, homophobic attitudes are rampant and, for the first time I can recall in my lifetime, widely and publicly supported by a loud and obnoxious bunch of folks. A whole lot of people are choking on their own righteous indignation. It's scary on a macro level, and sad on every level.
To move away from the political and back into the cultural, I give you this example of pure, unmitigated meanness from the past week.
I am, of course, in Razorback Country, but surely all of you are aware of the time-honored rivalry between my alma mater, the University of Alabama, and Auburn University. Every resident of the state of Alabama has to choose a side at birth, basically. It's serious, serious bidness. Both these deep-South schools take their traditions VERY seriously. And one of the long-standing traditions at Auburn is gathering to celebrate victories among the 130 year-old oaks at Toomer's Corner. So, the Auburn community was understandably devastated to learn that someone had delivered an apparently lethal dose of herbicide to the Toomer's Corner trees.
An arrest was made this week, a 62 year-old Alabama fan who got sufficiently pissed off at Auburn's national championship win to go over to Toomer's Corner with some heavy-duty poison and dose those trees. He called in to a sports talk radio show and bragged about it. Bragged about it! He killed trees several generations old. Just to spite Auburn fans! Pardon my French, but what an asshole.
Obviously, Auburn's faculty, students, and Auburn fans were in shock. They brought over experts to look at the trees and see if they can be saved, but the levels of herbicide in the soil indicate that the amount of the poison applied went way beyond what would be needed to kill the trees.
As a graduate of the University of Alabama, I can tell you that one of the things in the DNA of both these schools - for good or ill - is a deep sense of tradition. So I don't know one member of the Alabama community that is anything but sick about what this idiot did to those beautiful trees. Through social media, a group of Alabama fans quickly created a fundraising drive to help save the Toomer's Corner trees. By the time I joined, it had reached over 10,000 people. As I write this, it's surpassed 38,000. We may hate Auburn, gleefully and enthusiastically. We may cheer when they lose. We live to beat them in the Iron Bowl each year and consider it a losing season if we don't, even if we're undefeated the rest of the season. Deep down, though, we know that our rivalry is what makes football season more fun. And we appreciate tradition above all. So what this man did to those trees struck at the heart of what most binds us to each other. Just plain mean.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people?
Want to help save the trees? Click here. Roll Tide.
Now dammit, get out there and play nice. Karma's a bitch, and mean people, trust me, she's coming for you. (And she might have red hair. Just sayin'.)
Lately, I've noticed a little rash, a hemorrhoidal flare-up, if you will, of meanness in our little corner of the world. Read or watch the political news, and you'll see it. And if you're a woman, especially, you'd better be paying attention to some of the bills being presented, in Arkansas and all over the country. It is open season on you right now. Watch your back.
It's not just in politics, either. I hear it everywhere. People are angry and feel newly entitled to spew their crazy onto anyone they think deserves it. Sexist, bigoted, homophobic attitudes are rampant and, for the first time I can recall in my lifetime, widely and publicly supported by a loud and obnoxious bunch of folks. A whole lot of people are choking on their own righteous indignation. It's scary on a macro level, and sad on every level.
To move away from the political and back into the cultural, I give you this example of pure, unmitigated meanness from the past week.
I am, of course, in Razorback Country, but surely all of you are aware of the time-honored rivalry between my alma mater, the University of Alabama, and Auburn University. Every resident of the state of Alabama has to choose a side at birth, basically. It's serious, serious bidness. Both these deep-South schools take their traditions VERY seriously. And one of the long-standing traditions at Auburn is gathering to celebrate victories among the 130 year-old oaks at Toomer's Corner. So, the Auburn community was understandably devastated to learn that someone had delivered an apparently lethal dose of herbicide to the Toomer's Corner trees.
An arrest was made this week, a 62 year-old Alabama fan who got sufficiently pissed off at Auburn's national championship win to go over to Toomer's Corner with some heavy-duty poison and dose those trees. He called in to a sports talk radio show and bragged about it. Bragged about it! He killed trees several generations old. Just to spite Auburn fans! Pardon my French, but what an asshole.
Obviously, Auburn's faculty, students, and Auburn fans were in shock. They brought over experts to look at the trees and see if they can be saved, but the levels of herbicide in the soil indicate that the amount of the poison applied went way beyond what would be needed to kill the trees.
As a graduate of the University of Alabama, I can tell you that one of the things in the DNA of both these schools - for good or ill - is a deep sense of tradition. So I don't know one member of the Alabama community that is anything but sick about what this idiot did to those beautiful trees. Through social media, a group of Alabama fans quickly created a fundraising drive to help save the Toomer's Corner trees. By the time I joined, it had reached over 10,000 people. As I write this, it's surpassed 38,000. We may hate Auburn, gleefully and enthusiastically. We may cheer when they lose. We live to beat them in the Iron Bowl each year and consider it a losing season if we don't, even if we're undefeated the rest of the season. Deep down, though, we know that our rivalry is what makes football season more fun. And we appreciate tradition above all. So what this man did to those trees struck at the heart of what most binds us to each other. Just plain mean.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people?
Want to help save the trees? Click here. Roll Tide.
Now dammit, get out there and play nice. Karma's a bitch, and mean people, trust me, she's coming for you. (And she might have red hair. Just sayin'.)
how i met your godmother
The icebreaker discussion question: Describe for us a time you felt different.
When I was in second grade, growing up in East Memphis, I was a Brownie. You know, a little Girl Scout. There were maybe 20 of us that gathered, sang songs, played games, did activities together. We were the same age, eight or nine. All of us white, all of us pretty solidly upper middle class. Our dads (not so much our moms, yet, mind you, but our dads) were doctors and brokers and accountants and restauranteurs. By most sociological standards, a pretty homogeneous group. And back then, we all wore the same uniform, a jumper in a fairly washed-out and sad shade of brown, with a brown beanie, a little orange tie at the neck, and a sash across the front that bore all our insignia - the Brownie pin, the little merit badges we'd earned, and of course, the all-important number that identified to which troop you belonged.
For me, that was Troop 53, Memphis Jewish Community Center. And I was the lone gentile.
East Memphis has long been a place with a pretty high concentration of Jewish folks. The reform Temple Israel and several synagogues are located in the eastern part of the city. I went to a small private school with many of the girls in my Brownie troop. The composition of my class at Lausanne was very interesting, not only for being slightly majority Jewish, but for its enormously lopsided gender composition. Lausanne had been an all-girl school until they started admitting boys in 1970, and let's just say they weren't enrolling in droves. In 1978, our class contained two boys. This was only a short-term problem for them, though, because when we girls finally started to discover boys... let's just say those two never had it so good, before or since. But I digress.
My school was only a few blocks from the Jewish Community Center, around which much of the social and community lives of my classmates was centered. So it made perfect sense from a geographical standpoint. And frankly, since the Brownie troop was comprised in part of my own Lausanne classmates, it didn't seem at all unusual to me that I should join an otherwise completely Jewish Brownie troop. Sometimes you don't know you're different until someone else points it out to you.
Not all of the scouts in my troop went to my school. There was this one little girl, the daughter of the troop leader, who came right up to me and got, you know, all up in my grill, so to speak.
What are you doing here? You're not Jewish!
Room, meet elephant.
I don't recall what my reply was to this. What do you say? I'm sorry? One thing was certain: I was going to hate this girl instantly. She always had something smart to say. She looked at things differently from everyone else. She expressed her opinion whether you wanted it or not and never backed down from it. She didn't care if even one other person agreed with her point of view or defended her. She had chutzpah, for sure, and she definitely marched to the beat of a different drummer. Takes one to know one.
When she transferred to Lausanne a few years later, she and I had the distinct honor of being the two worst players on the 7th and 8th grade volleyball team, where we took up right where we left off in Brownies, mercilessly antagonizing the shit out of each other. We spent so much time harassing each other, in class, at volleyball practice, and pretty much everywhere else that we eventually bonded and became the best of friends. I was welcomed at her house for countless sleepovers, and she at mine. Her parents weren't afraid to call me out on the carpet, and mine felt similarly empowered to bring her back in line. We were two odd ducks, but we had each other. We made up stories and recounted strange dreams to each other and cried about boys and rode our bikes to the mall. We both developed an interest in music and searched for new and interesting bands and shared with each other what we'd discovered and scoffed at the unenlightened. And grew up smart. And made our parents crazy. And slogged through college applications. Laughed, hugged, fought, and shared everything.
She introduced me to my husband. And told us we would be good together. To our faces. Subtle as a freight train. (I didn't like him at first, either.)
She left Memphis and went to college in Wisconsin and then law school in North Carolina and worked a ton and lived in Memphis and then Atlanta and then Memphis and lost her father and looked after her mother and moved to Washington D.C., where she currently makes a living as a lawyer, still telling people all their damn business and getting paid to do it.
Four days after Baby Warrior Princess was born, she came to Little Rock to see us. Completely ignoring any Christian tradition about godparents, we asked her to be Lily's godmother. It seems very appropriate that the WP calls her grandmother Bubbie and has a Jewish godmother. Nancy insists that I'm actually Jewish anyway, so I should just stop lying to myself.
We don't get to see each other much anymore, but we stay pretty connected on Facebook, reporting our news and sharing articles and snarking away at the Golden Globes in real time. And she sends Lily presents from time to time, just to let her know she's thinking about her. Before we left for Europe, she sent the WP a $20 bill to spend any way she wanted. Later, the thank you note read: Dear Nancy, thank you for the $20. I used it. Your pal, Lily.
The other day, WP and I were on our way home from school, and she asked me, Mom, can I join Brownies?
I had to smile. I wonder if she'll meet anyone interesting. Maybe there will be a little girl who becomes her nemesis. And then her friend. And then her sister. You never know.
We start Brownies next week. I'll let you know how it goes.
When I was in second grade, growing up in East Memphis, I was a Brownie. You know, a little Girl Scout. There were maybe 20 of us that gathered, sang songs, played games, did activities together. We were the same age, eight or nine. All of us white, all of us pretty solidly upper middle class. Our dads (not so much our moms, yet, mind you, but our dads) were doctors and brokers and accountants and restauranteurs. By most sociological standards, a pretty homogeneous group. And back then, we all wore the same uniform, a jumper in a fairly washed-out and sad shade of brown, with a brown beanie, a little orange tie at the neck, and a sash across the front that bore all our insignia - the Brownie pin, the little merit badges we'd earned, and of course, the all-important number that identified to which troop you belonged.
For me, that was Troop 53, Memphis Jewish Community Center. And I was the lone gentile.
East Memphis has long been a place with a pretty high concentration of Jewish folks. The reform Temple Israel and several synagogues are located in the eastern part of the city. I went to a small private school with many of the girls in my Brownie troop. The composition of my class at Lausanne was very interesting, not only for being slightly majority Jewish, but for its enormously lopsided gender composition. Lausanne had been an all-girl school until they started admitting boys in 1970, and let's just say they weren't enrolling in droves. In 1978, our class contained two boys. This was only a short-term problem for them, though, because when we girls finally started to discover boys... let's just say those two never had it so good, before or since. But I digress.
My school was only a few blocks from the Jewish Community Center, around which much of the social and community lives of my classmates was centered. So it made perfect sense from a geographical standpoint. And frankly, since the Brownie troop was comprised in part of my own Lausanne classmates, it didn't seem at all unusual to me that I should join an otherwise completely Jewish Brownie troop. Sometimes you don't know you're different until someone else points it out to you.
Not all of the scouts in my troop went to my school. There was this one little girl, the daughter of the troop leader, who came right up to me and got, you know, all up in my grill, so to speak.
What are you doing here? You're not Jewish!
Room, meet elephant.
I don't recall what my reply was to this. What do you say? I'm sorry? One thing was certain: I was going to hate this girl instantly. She always had something smart to say. She looked at things differently from everyone else. She expressed her opinion whether you wanted it or not and never backed down from it. She didn't care if even one other person agreed with her point of view or defended her. She had chutzpah, for sure, and she definitely marched to the beat of a different drummer. Takes one to know one.
When she transferred to Lausanne a few years later, she and I had the distinct honor of being the two worst players on the 7th and 8th grade volleyball team, where we took up right where we left off in Brownies, mercilessly antagonizing the shit out of each other. We spent so much time harassing each other, in class, at volleyball practice, and pretty much everywhere else that we eventually bonded and became the best of friends. I was welcomed at her house for countless sleepovers, and she at mine. Her parents weren't afraid to call me out on the carpet, and mine felt similarly empowered to bring her back in line. We were two odd ducks, but we had each other. We made up stories and recounted strange dreams to each other and cried about boys and rode our bikes to the mall. We both developed an interest in music and searched for new and interesting bands and shared with each other what we'd discovered and scoffed at the unenlightened. And grew up smart. And made our parents crazy. And slogged through college applications. Laughed, hugged, fought, and shared everything.
She introduced me to my husband. And told us we would be good together. To our faces. Subtle as a freight train. (I didn't like him at first, either.)
She left Memphis and went to college in Wisconsin and then law school in North Carolina and worked a ton and lived in Memphis and then Atlanta and then Memphis and lost her father and looked after her mother and moved to Washington D.C., where she currently makes a living as a lawyer, still telling people all their damn business and getting paid to do it.
Four days after Baby Warrior Princess was born, she came to Little Rock to see us. Completely ignoring any Christian tradition about godparents, we asked her to be Lily's godmother. It seems very appropriate that the WP calls her grandmother Bubbie and has a Jewish godmother. Nancy insists that I'm actually Jewish anyway, so I should just stop lying to myself.
We don't get to see each other much anymore, but we stay pretty connected on Facebook, reporting our news and sharing articles and snarking away at the Golden Globes in real time. And she sends Lily presents from time to time, just to let her know she's thinking about her. Before we left for Europe, she sent the WP a $20 bill to spend any way she wanted. Later, the thank you note read: Dear Nancy, thank you for the $20. I used it. Your pal, Lily.
The other day, WP and I were on our way home from school, and she asked me, Mom, can I join Brownies?
I had to smile. I wonder if she'll meet anyone interesting. Maybe there will be a little girl who becomes her nemesis. And then her friend. And then her sister. You never know.
We start Brownies next week. I'll let you know how it goes.
happy new year
And now, the obligatory rundown of New Year's resolutions. I historically avoid making resolutions, since a resolution is generally a promise you make but can't keep, and there's enough of that in the world. So for a few years, I had the habit of making resolutions that would be easy to keep, because it wasn't really an issue for me to begin with (One example: give up meth.)
Since 2010 damn near killed us all, though, I thought that I might revisit this whole resolution thing, because every now and then, it's a good idea to reboot. So without further ado, I set my intentions for 2011.
I resolve to...
1. Get 7-8 hours sleep per night. I might not do so much stupid crap if I were well-rested.
2. Take the stairs.
3. Eat in.
4. Remember your birthday.
5. Learn to play the WP's favorite Wii game so we can have tournaments.
6. Count to ten.
7. Give lots of compliments. (Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell you - that color really brings out your eyes.)
8. Get a facial every season. This is the only skin I'll ever have, after all.
9. Take a vacation. (An actual vacation. During which I actually rest.)
10. Make absolutely sure the people I love know how important they are to me, because you never know when someone's really in trouble and needs to know they've got you in their court.
11. Get some more done in my yard, and try to avoid the wrath of my neighborhood POA.
I wish each of you all good things in 2011 - but most importantly, I hope you will take some time to appreciate the people in your life who keep you afloat on this very stormy sea. And if you are one of those people in my life...please accept my undying appreciation and humble thanks.
Since 2010 damn near killed us all, though, I thought that I might revisit this whole resolution thing, because every now and then, it's a good idea to reboot. So without further ado, I set my intentions for 2011.
I resolve to...
1. Get 7-8 hours sleep per night. I might not do so much stupid crap if I were well-rested.
2. Take the stairs.
3. Eat in.
4. Remember your birthday.
5. Learn to play the WP's favorite Wii game so we can have tournaments.
6. Count to ten.
7. Give lots of compliments. (Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell you - that color really brings out your eyes.)
8. Get a facial every season. This is the only skin I'll ever have, after all.
9. Take a vacation. (An actual vacation. During which I actually rest.)
10. Make absolutely sure the people I love know how important they are to me, because you never know when someone's really in trouble and needs to know they've got you in their court.
11. Get some more done in my yard, and try to avoid the wrath of my neighborhood POA.
I wish each of you all good things in 2011 - but most importantly, I hope you will take some time to appreciate the people in your life who keep you afloat on this very stormy sea. And if you are one of those people in my life...please accept my undying appreciation and humble thanks.
re: retro
I was recently shopping (yes, again! Don't judge me!) in one of my favorite local boutiques, in preparation for an upcoming vacation. Scattered intermittently around the shop were groupings of on-trend items, marked by collages of photos clipped from fashion magazines, demonstrating how all the celebrities are tying their scarves this fall, or wide belts are going to be HUGE! or whatever. One such vignette featured skinny tapered pants, with oversized tops, belted, with piles of jewelry, trumpeting the slogan: Think 80's!
Oh, please, Lord, no.
I knew this day was coming when I started seeing flat lace-up oxfords being shown in women's shoe stores. Dear God! Jazz shoes! Those weren't cute in 1985, and they're not cute now. Or when Vogue and Bazaar started featuring silhouettes with massive shoulder pads. Paging Alexis Carrington! Then I started seeing young girls wearing black hoodies festooned with neon-bright graffiti motifs. Optic orange manicures. Skinny, tapered jeans. Fedoras. Chucks.
To my great chagrin, it appears that everyone is thinking 80s! So as Your Stylist, I offer this caveat, which applies to retro looks of any period. It is the Cardinal Rule of Retro: If you wore a decade's style during its original decade, you don't get another crack at it now. Step away from the shoulder pads. Now.
Consider this: when a young girl on the beach is wearing beads and crochet and faded torn jeans and other hippie attire, she's cute! A free spirit! A New Bohemian! But when someone who came of age in the sixties wears it, whether male or female, the effect is the same: he or she looks like an old hippie. Tired. Played. Period. In your heart, you know I'm right about this.
There are NO exceptions to this rule. Sorry. I don't care HOW cute the members of Duran Duran still are. If you are old enough to remember Madonna before she was Jewish, if you secretly believed that the senior BMOC dating the prom queen might actually be deep and may harbor a crush on a no-name sophomore because it happened in a John Hughes movie, you don't get to wear ANY of this stuff again. Pick another decade.
That is all.
Oh, please, Lord, no.
I knew this day was coming when I started seeing flat lace-up oxfords being shown in women's shoe stores. Dear God! Jazz shoes! Those weren't cute in 1985, and they're not cute now. Or when Vogue and Bazaar started featuring silhouettes with massive shoulder pads. Paging Alexis Carrington! Then I started seeing young girls wearing black hoodies festooned with neon-bright graffiti motifs. Optic orange manicures. Skinny, tapered jeans. Fedoras. Chucks.
To my great chagrin, it appears that everyone is thinking 80s! So as Your Stylist, I offer this caveat, which applies to retro looks of any period. It is the Cardinal Rule of Retro: If you wore a decade's style during its original decade, you don't get another crack at it now. Step away from the shoulder pads. Now.
Consider this: when a young girl on the beach is wearing beads and crochet and faded torn jeans and other hippie attire, she's cute! A free spirit! A New Bohemian! But when someone who came of age in the sixties wears it, whether male or female, the effect is the same: he or she looks like an old hippie. Tired. Played. Period. In your heart, you know I'm right about this.
There are NO exceptions to this rule. Sorry. I don't care HOW cute the members of Duran Duran still are. If you are old enough to remember Madonna before she was Jewish, if you secretly believed that the senior BMOC dating the prom queen might actually be deep and may harbor a crush on a no-name sophomore because it happened in a John Hughes movie, you don't get to wear ANY of this stuff again. Pick another decade.
That is all.
it's not you, it's me
Part of my job is coordinating fundraising events. One such event is coming up in November. And in anticipation of this event, I need...widgets, let's say.
Being a good steward of the public trust, I contacted two widget companies to obtain bids. Our organization has done business with both these companies many times. Both good companies, with good people. Good relationships. But as we all know, bidness is bidness. So, after talking to both companies, when Widget Company B came in several hundred dollars under Widget Company A, I told The Boss, who agreed that this was significant enough reason to go with Company B, our history with Company A notwithstanding. I called our contact at Company A, a very sweet guy.
I informed him of our decision. He was chagrined. He sounded really hurt, I mean deeply wounded, that we'd chosen to go with another company. After everything we've been through!
I politely - warmly, even - explained that I knew nothing but wonderful things about Company A. They were wonderful to work with and made a fine widget. However, the difference between the two bids was substantial enough to warrant our giving this particular job to Company B this time. I assured him that in no way did this mean we no longer wished to do business - we would have plenty of need for widgets and such in the future, and we would absolutely keep them in mind.
He continued on. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. He spoke about his history with The Boss. They went way back! I realize that, I told him, and she speaks highly of you and I have all the respect in the world for that, but you know, these are tough financial times for nonprofits, and this is, after all, a fundraiser, which means we have to try to spend as little money as possible to meet our goals.
We've been doing widgets for y'all since I-don't-know-when. I just...really? You took bids?
I thought I heard his voice crack. He was really taking this hard.
I began to feel like I was breaking up with a boyfriend. It's not you. It's me. You're...great, really! Someday you'll make some girl really, really happy. I stopped short of having a pint of Ben & Jerry's sent over.
He composed himself and asked me what kind of deal Company B was giving us. I told him. He said he would beat it and gave me a lower number. Bless his heart. I felt like the biggest bitch ever. That's why I'm in nonprofits and not mergers and acquisitions.
Emotionally exhausted, I called the sales rep at Company B and thanked her for her estimate. Then I very gently broke up with her.
She actually took it pretty well.
Being a good steward of the public trust, I contacted two widget companies to obtain bids. Our organization has done business with both these companies many times. Both good companies, with good people. Good relationships. But as we all know, bidness is bidness. So, after talking to both companies, when Widget Company B came in several hundred dollars under Widget Company A, I told The Boss, who agreed that this was significant enough reason to go with Company B, our history with Company A notwithstanding. I called our contact at Company A, a very sweet guy.
I informed him of our decision. He was chagrined. He sounded really hurt, I mean deeply wounded, that we'd chosen to go with another company. After everything we've been through!
I politely - warmly, even - explained that I knew nothing but wonderful things about Company A. They were wonderful to work with and made a fine widget. However, the difference between the two bids was substantial enough to warrant our giving this particular job to Company B this time. I assured him that in no way did this mean we no longer wished to do business - we would have plenty of need for widgets and such in the future, and we would absolutely keep them in mind.
He continued on. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. He spoke about his history with The Boss. They went way back! I realize that, I told him, and she speaks highly of you and I have all the respect in the world for that, but you know, these are tough financial times for nonprofits, and this is, after all, a fundraiser, which means we have to try to spend as little money as possible to meet our goals.
We've been doing widgets for y'all since I-don't-know-when. I just...really? You took bids?
I thought I heard his voice crack. He was really taking this hard.
I began to feel like I was breaking up with a boyfriend. It's not you. It's me. You're...great, really! Someday you'll make some girl really, really happy. I stopped short of having a pint of Ben & Jerry's sent over.
He composed himself and asked me what kind of deal Company B was giving us. I told him. He said he would beat it and gave me a lower number. Bless his heart. I felt like the biggest bitch ever. That's why I'm in nonprofits and not mergers and acquisitions.
Emotionally exhausted, I called the sales rep at Company B and thanked her for her estimate. Then I very gently broke up with her.
She actually took it pretty well.
dressed for duress
I recently accompanied The Boss to a black-tie fundraiser.
Being cookie fancy, I actually like getting all dressed up and going out. My problem was finding time to shop. My schedule doesn't really allow me to play Pretty Woman during bankers' hours, when the darling little boutiques are open. I did poke my head into a shop that turned out to be a technicolor riot of sequins and cutouts and neon-hued charmeuse. It was like Walt Disney threw up all over a drag queen. In 1985. So, I did what any desperate (but discriminating) girl would do: I returned home and immediately ordered two dresses from Saks. But when I received them, I didn't like either of them up close. What can I tell you? I know what I like, and what I don't. You can't enjoy your evening if you're worried about whether you have visible panty lines or whether the old man sitting across the table just got a flash of boob and may subsequently die of heart failure.
One night, when the WP was spending the night with a friend, I seized the moment and attempted a smash-and-grab ballgown blitz before the department stores and the mall closed. I didn't expect to find the dress of my dreams with this approach, but I at least hoped to find something appropriate.
Shopping reality: once you've ruled out everything that closes at 5 or 6, you're not left with a lot of options. I had to drive fast and train a ruthless eye on every floor-length gown that lay in my path. I tried three stores in the mall, and all that was left was complete dreck. So, I got back into the Mach 5 and headed for another shopping area, hell bent.
In a final act of desperation, I popped into a bridal shop and found a perfectly decent dress, strapless, in a rich chocolate color that was perfect with my coloring and didn't need a single alteration. What a relief. Time being of the essence, I handed her my American Express card and was done with it. The only potential snag was that it had a corset-style closure; it laced all the way down my back. The Colonel was out of town, defending our country or whatever, and the WP is just now getting the hang of tying her shoes. Subsequently, this was going to be a challenge.
The day of the gala, I planned to leave the office at 2 p.m., giving me plenty of time to get home, take a bath, relax, and work on my pretty before I had to pick The Boss up at 6:15. However, I got involved in a project at work and didn't actually leave the office until 3. I thought, okay, no problem. Plenty of time. Maybe I could even stop on the way home and get a manicure and pedicure, so that I can be at least semi-relaxed before heading over to my friend Sarah's with my dress, so that she could lace me up and send me on my way. I quickly called and made an appointment at a salon on the way to my house, and they could take me - what luck! Did I want the deluxe spa pedicure? No, I said politely, thank you, but I'd better stick with a basic pedicure this time...a bit crunched for time, you see.
The manicurist nodded. She proceeded to give me the basic pedicure and a manicure - and I didn't get out of there for nearly an hour and a half! (Apparently, if I'd ordered the deluxe spa pedicure, I'd still be there.) When I was dry enough to split, I practically sprinted to my car in a panic. I gingerly inserted the key into the ignition - don't want to jack up the new manicure! - and I could hear the "ding-ding" of an incoming text message. I looked at my phone.
Sarah. "Will you be here by five? We're about to leave for soccer practice."
Crap! Of course - her daughter has soccer practice! I hadn't thought about that. I contemplated my options. There was no way I could be at Sarah's by five. Who could lash me into this dress? My next-door neighbor, the triathlete? Um, no. Even for me, that would be weird. I frantically called my friend Darlene, who mercifully has learned to expect just about anything from me these days. "Sure," she told me, "come on over - we're expecting several 8-year-old boys for a sleepover, but that's not until six."
Forget the bath. I now had 40 minutes to get home, wash my face and redo my makeup, do slapdash hair, gather up my dress and accessories, throw on a button-down, running shorts and flip-flops, and blow wheels to Darlene's. I didn't feel fancy. Panic is not conducive to glamorous, effortless beauty.
When I got to Darlene's, she was ready for me, beer in hand. Her husband Greg is so used to my bullshit by now that he had absolutely no reaction to my bursting in the door and sprinting up the stairs in ratty clothes, full makeup and glittery jewelry and uncharacteristically big hair, with an evening gown draped over my arms. Darlene laced me up.
"Is this thing going to stay up?" she asked skeptically as she laced. She was concerned about a wardrobe malfunction of biblical proportions.
"Look, trust me, this dress is boned up one side and down another. Get this thing laced up tight enough, and I'm not budging. Swear to God."
"I don't know. Will you be able to breathe?"
"It's a corset! I don't want to breathe! Lace it up!" And she did a thorough job. I'm pretty sure that puppy was hermetically sealed. I hopped around while slipping into my four-inch heels, hiked my voluminous skirt up to my knees, gathered up my things, and tottered down the stairs. Because I am the very picture of feminine grace.
Greg was outside greeting the eight-year-old boys and their parents in the driveway. And here comes this insane woman sprinting up the driveway in an evening gown and stiletto heels. Some were amused. Most were confused. It didn't help that Greg was singing "Here she comes, Miss America" at me.
I shot the gathering crowd a big smile. "What are y'all so underdressed for? Didn't anyone tell you this was a party?" And I loaded my stuff and my big-skirted bodaciousness into my Subaru and bolted.
Miraculously, I managed to pick up the Boss on time without committing any major vehicular offenses. We went to the fundraiser, which was a really lovely event. Afterwards, I dropped the Boss off at her house and headed home.
That's when it hit me. How. The hell. Am I going to get out of this thing.
It took me fully fifteen minutes of intense physical and mental effort to extricate myself from my dress. I wish I had video, because I am sure it looked hilarious. Holy Mother, that thing was hard to get out of.
No one was around to take photos. You'll just have to trust me.
Being cookie fancy, I actually like getting all dressed up and going out. My problem was finding time to shop. My schedule doesn't really allow me to play Pretty Woman during bankers' hours, when the darling little boutiques are open. I did poke my head into a shop that turned out to be a technicolor riot of sequins and cutouts and neon-hued charmeuse. It was like Walt Disney threw up all over a drag queen. In 1985. So, I did what any desperate (but discriminating) girl would do: I returned home and immediately ordered two dresses from Saks. But when I received them, I didn't like either of them up close. What can I tell you? I know what I like, and what I don't. You can't enjoy your evening if you're worried about whether you have visible panty lines or whether the old man sitting across the table just got a flash of boob and may subsequently die of heart failure.
One night, when the WP was spending the night with a friend, I seized the moment and attempted a smash-and-grab ballgown blitz before the department stores and the mall closed. I didn't expect to find the dress of my dreams with this approach, but I at least hoped to find something appropriate.
Shopping reality: once you've ruled out everything that closes at 5 or 6, you're not left with a lot of options. I had to drive fast and train a ruthless eye on every floor-length gown that lay in my path. I tried three stores in the mall, and all that was left was complete dreck. So, I got back into the Mach 5 and headed for another shopping area, hell bent.
In a final act of desperation, I popped into a bridal shop and found a perfectly decent dress, strapless, in a rich chocolate color that was perfect with my coloring and didn't need a single alteration. What a relief. Time being of the essence, I handed her my American Express card and was done with it. The only potential snag was that it had a corset-style closure; it laced all the way down my back. The Colonel was out of town, defending our country or whatever, and the WP is just now getting the hang of tying her shoes. Subsequently, this was going to be a challenge.
The day of the gala, I planned to leave the office at 2 p.m., giving me plenty of time to get home, take a bath, relax, and work on my pretty before I had to pick The Boss up at 6:15. However, I got involved in a project at work and didn't actually leave the office until 3. I thought, okay, no problem. Plenty of time. Maybe I could even stop on the way home and get a manicure and pedicure, so that I can be at least semi-relaxed before heading over to my friend Sarah's with my dress, so that she could lace me up and send me on my way. I quickly called and made an appointment at a salon on the way to my house, and they could take me - what luck! Did I want the deluxe spa pedicure? No, I said politely, thank you, but I'd better stick with a basic pedicure this time...a bit crunched for time, you see.
The manicurist nodded. She proceeded to give me the basic pedicure and a manicure - and I didn't get out of there for nearly an hour and a half! (Apparently, if I'd ordered the deluxe spa pedicure, I'd still be there.) When I was dry enough to split, I practically sprinted to my car in a panic. I gingerly inserted the key into the ignition - don't want to jack up the new manicure! - and I could hear the "ding-ding" of an incoming text message. I looked at my phone.
Sarah. "Will you be here by five? We're about to leave for soccer practice."
Crap! Of course - her daughter has soccer practice! I hadn't thought about that. I contemplated my options. There was no way I could be at Sarah's by five. Who could lash me into this dress? My next-door neighbor, the triathlete? Um, no. Even for me, that would be weird. I frantically called my friend Darlene, who mercifully has learned to expect just about anything from me these days. "Sure," she told me, "come on over - we're expecting several 8-year-old boys for a sleepover, but that's not until six."
Forget the bath. I now had 40 minutes to get home, wash my face and redo my makeup, do slapdash hair, gather up my dress and accessories, throw on a button-down, running shorts and flip-flops, and blow wheels to Darlene's. I didn't feel fancy. Panic is not conducive to glamorous, effortless beauty.
When I got to Darlene's, she was ready for me, beer in hand. Her husband Greg is so used to my bullshit by now that he had absolutely no reaction to my bursting in the door and sprinting up the stairs in ratty clothes, full makeup and glittery jewelry and uncharacteristically big hair, with an evening gown draped over my arms. Darlene laced me up.
"Is this thing going to stay up?" she asked skeptically as she laced. She was concerned about a wardrobe malfunction of biblical proportions.
"Look, trust me, this dress is boned up one side and down another. Get this thing laced up tight enough, and I'm not budging. Swear to God."
"I don't know. Will you be able to breathe?"
"It's a corset! I don't want to breathe! Lace it up!" And she did a thorough job. I'm pretty sure that puppy was hermetically sealed. I hopped around while slipping into my four-inch heels, hiked my voluminous skirt up to my knees, gathered up my things, and tottered down the stairs. Because I am the very picture of feminine grace.
Greg was outside greeting the eight-year-old boys and their parents in the driveway. And here comes this insane woman sprinting up the driveway in an evening gown and stiletto heels. Some were amused. Most were confused. It didn't help that Greg was singing "Here she comes, Miss America" at me.
I shot the gathering crowd a big smile. "What are y'all so underdressed for? Didn't anyone tell you this was a party?" And I loaded my stuff and my big-skirted bodaciousness into my Subaru and bolted.
Miraculously, I managed to pick up the Boss on time without committing any major vehicular offenses. We went to the fundraiser, which was a really lovely event. Afterwards, I dropped the Boss off at her house and headed home.
That's when it hit me. How. The hell. Am I going to get out of this thing.
It took me fully fifteen minutes of intense physical and mental effort to extricate myself from my dress. I wish I had video, because I am sure it looked hilarious. Holy Mother, that thing was hard to get out of.
No one was around to take photos. You'll just have to trust me.
the battle of the backyard
A number of y'all have asked me how things are coming along since the post about the sorry state of my yard. Have I made any progress?
Why, I'm so glad you asked.
I actually have been making progress on it. You know how they say that sometimes you have to really break something down so that you can build it back up better, stronger? My yard situation went from overgrown and tragic to...truly tore-up-from-the-floor-up. Some of the weeds had gotten so advanced that I actually thought they were trees. Seriously, a saw was involved in their removal. Weird mystery vines were attempting to strangle and garrotte my azaleas.
I had a lot of work to do to get rid of all that, and my actions toward that end less resembled gardening than a five-state killing spree. I set about digging up roots and hacking at unruly branches and yanking violently at tenacious vines. I'm telling you, I got medieval on it. At the end of that weekend, eight mostly-dead shrubs from my front yard had been dragged to the curb, and in the backyard, a veritable army of thick and nasty weeds (and weed-trees) had been unceremoniously hacked to their deaths. I dragged every sharp, spiky, heavy bit of it out to the curb myself, piling the carnage three feet high for the city to pick up.
So last weekend, Bubbie came to town to help me out with the Warrior Princess' eighth birthday sleepover, an event which traumatizes me still. Remind me to tell you about it. Bubbie was a HUGE help with that, and also, she brought with her some plants. Bubbie is actually a genius with plants. She's not a pristine apron, potting shed kind of gardener, either. She just really loves plants. Knows their names, knows whether they like shade or sun, knows whether they'll play well with others. And she's learned this over the course of some forty years. Bubbie knows from plants. So she came to Little Rock loaded down with a styrofoam cooler full of plants from her own yard - turkey vine, strawberry begonias, elephant ears, really great stuff. Much more my speed than all the formal, fussy, high-maintenance plants that had been there before, which were resplendent for a week out of the year, but looked like crap the rest of the time.
So after the last guest left after Lily's party, my parents (my dad had come around, too, by this time) came to help me put my house back together. My mom and I briefly discussed where and how to plant the plants she'd brought, I thanked them for all their help, and they left. The slumber party had left me an exhausted shell of my former self, but I didn't want the plants to die, so I figured I'd better get them in the ground, stat.
Part of my Yard Beautification Plan is to do away with the boilerplate Chenal insta-landscape shrub balls in the front of my yard, and replace them with lower-maintenance plants for a lush, naturalized landscape. I had dug out about four shrubs myself in previous weeks before I decided that this was work better and more efficiently left to my lawn guys, whom I subsequently enlisted to get rid of about 10 of the aforementioned shrub balls - you know, those little shrubs that everyone trims into neat little balls - and replace them with ground cover. The turkey vine my mother had brought filled the bill perfectly. Martin and Jose were supposed to have extracted the shrub balls by the time my mother brought her plants, but it had rained. Fortunately, they were in the neighborhood that day, so I tabled the transplanting of the ground cover in the front yard, and moved into the backyard.
I planted the strawberry begonias in a back bed in the shade - they'll do well there. My mother had also given me some weird hydrangea. She explained to me what the deal was with this plant, but apparently it's not the same big-blue-ball hydrangea most people think of. Bubbie said it would like this one particular space in my backyard, so I had to move more unwanted plants to put the hydrangea in its new spot.
By this point, I was just stupid exhausted. I was into major yardwork, and the nap I'd been promising myself was nowhere on the horizon. Now that all of the major weed and bush extraction had taken place in the backyard, and it was starting to look like something not entirely disastrous, I was seeing things left and right that needed taking care of. I pruned a couple of trees, did some weeding, hauled off branches, raked out beds. I was again a stinky, sweaty, wild-haired banshee on a kamikaze death mission. My legs were covered in dirt and bites and scratches. I ran up on a massive colony of ants that had taken up residence in a retaining wall, and did battle with some poison ivy. I'm telling you, it was war. I looked like I had been doing battle with some Huns.
Finally, Martin and Jose rolled up, and the three of us went to work on the front beds. They dug up shrub after shrub, and together we smoothed out the soil. Then I took a double-pronged hoe and got busy planting the turkey vine. I fetched them glasses of ice water and we made a little small talk - very small, since they don't know a lot of English and I don't know a lot of Spanish. I think they were mainly amused that I was out there sweating like a pig along with them, instead of walking around in a tennis skirt, talking on my cell phone while they slogged it out.
After they'd finished and moved the perfectly healthy shrubs around to the side of my house, awaiting pickup from the neighbors who'd called dibs, I walked around and noticed something disturbing. We have jasmine growing on the fence bordering our next door neighbor's house and backing up to the brick wall of our house, outside my bedroom. It seems that this jasmine is very healthy. And thriving. And attempting to enter my bedroom window! In text parlance: WTF?!
Oh, hell no, I thought. What is this, Grey Gardens? Can stray raccoons and a visit to environmental court be far behind? How could I have let this happen on my watch? I mean, the Colonel would probably never have even noticed. Every spring, he would have obliviously mused gosh, it sure smells nice in here! But I should have known better! I marched resolutely into my garage to retrieve a ladder. In order to prop it up against the wall by my bedroom window, I had to climb up a muddy embankment. There wasn't enough space for me to stand the ladder up properly, so I carefully propped it up against the wall, and up I went. I yanked jasmine out right and left. Its sticky roots were grabbing on for dear life. One little tendril had literally worked its way between the windowsill and the window frame and was straining to enter the inner sanctum of my bedroom. Not. Happening. I gave one more good yank.
That's when I knew I was going down.
It's amazing the linear progression of thoughts that one is able to have in the second it takes to fall from a high place.
Oh, shit. Oh, no. What can I grab? The screen? Nope, it'll peel right off. And I'm not giving this damn jasmine the satisfaction. Stupid friggin' vine. Christ, I'm an idiot for letting this happen. Okay, if I grab the ladder...ugh, I'm on a hill, it'll land on me and I'll get creamed. (I shoved the ladder securely against the wall to ensure that it didn't topple on top of me.) Ow, was that my fingernail? Man, this is taking a long time...oof! I hit the ground, slid down the muddy hill on my face, and eventually sort of oozed to a stop.
After a second or two, I managed to right my wrecked body, which was covered in dirt and grass and blood. I feebly removed the ladder from the wall and somehow maneuvered it back into the garage, and then limped - no, hobbled really - into the house. I ran myself a bath, washed away the matted yard trash from my bruised and scratched-up skin, snagged a bag of frozen peas from the freezer to ice my twisted ankle (how'd I twist my ankle? I have no recollection of that), took two ibuprofen, and told the WP that everything's cool, okay? But Mommy's going to take a nice long nap.
I still can't believe I got my ass kicked by a jasmine vine. Oh, the humanity.
This isn't over, yard. I will have my vengeance.
Why, I'm so glad you asked.
I actually have been making progress on it. You know how they say that sometimes you have to really break something down so that you can build it back up better, stronger? My yard situation went from overgrown and tragic to...truly tore-up-from-the-floor-up. Some of the weeds had gotten so advanced that I actually thought they were trees. Seriously, a saw was involved in their removal. Weird mystery vines were attempting to strangle and garrotte my azaleas.
I had a lot of work to do to get rid of all that, and my actions toward that end less resembled gardening than a five-state killing spree. I set about digging up roots and hacking at unruly branches and yanking violently at tenacious vines. I'm telling you, I got medieval on it. At the end of that weekend, eight mostly-dead shrubs from my front yard had been dragged to the curb, and in the backyard, a veritable army of thick and nasty weeds (and weed-trees) had been unceremoniously hacked to their deaths. I dragged every sharp, spiky, heavy bit of it out to the curb myself, piling the carnage three feet high for the city to pick up.
So last weekend, Bubbie came to town to help me out with the Warrior Princess' eighth birthday sleepover, an event which traumatizes me still. Remind me to tell you about it. Bubbie was a HUGE help with that, and also, she brought with her some plants. Bubbie is actually a genius with plants. She's not a pristine apron, potting shed kind of gardener, either. She just really loves plants. Knows their names, knows whether they like shade or sun, knows whether they'll play well with others. And she's learned this over the course of some forty years. Bubbie knows from plants. So she came to Little Rock loaded down with a styrofoam cooler full of plants from her own yard - turkey vine, strawberry begonias, elephant ears, really great stuff. Much more my speed than all the formal, fussy, high-maintenance plants that had been there before, which were resplendent for a week out of the year, but looked like crap the rest of the time.
So after the last guest left after Lily's party, my parents (my dad had come around, too, by this time) came to help me put my house back together. My mom and I briefly discussed where and how to plant the plants she'd brought, I thanked them for all their help, and they left. The slumber party had left me an exhausted shell of my former self, but I didn't want the plants to die, so I figured I'd better get them in the ground, stat.
Part of my Yard Beautification Plan is to do away with the boilerplate Chenal insta-landscape shrub balls in the front of my yard, and replace them with lower-maintenance plants for a lush, naturalized landscape. I had dug out about four shrubs myself in previous weeks before I decided that this was work better and more efficiently left to my lawn guys, whom I subsequently enlisted to get rid of about 10 of the aforementioned shrub balls - you know, those little shrubs that everyone trims into neat little balls - and replace them with ground cover. The turkey vine my mother had brought filled the bill perfectly. Martin and Jose were supposed to have extracted the shrub balls by the time my mother brought her plants, but it had rained. Fortunately, they were in the neighborhood that day, so I tabled the transplanting of the ground cover in the front yard, and moved into the backyard.
I planted the strawberry begonias in a back bed in the shade - they'll do well there. My mother had also given me some weird hydrangea. She explained to me what the deal was with this plant, but apparently it's not the same big-blue-ball hydrangea most people think of. Bubbie said it would like this one particular space in my backyard, so I had to move more unwanted plants to put the hydrangea in its new spot.
By this point, I was just stupid exhausted. I was into major yardwork, and the nap I'd been promising myself was nowhere on the horizon. Now that all of the major weed and bush extraction had taken place in the backyard, and it was starting to look like something not entirely disastrous, I was seeing things left and right that needed taking care of. I pruned a couple of trees, did some weeding, hauled off branches, raked out beds. I was again a stinky, sweaty, wild-haired banshee on a kamikaze death mission. My legs were covered in dirt and bites and scratches. I ran up on a massive colony of ants that had taken up residence in a retaining wall, and did battle with some poison ivy. I'm telling you, it was war. I looked like I had been doing battle with some Huns.
Finally, Martin and Jose rolled up, and the three of us went to work on the front beds. They dug up shrub after shrub, and together we smoothed out the soil. Then I took a double-pronged hoe and got busy planting the turkey vine. I fetched them glasses of ice water and we made a little small talk - very small, since they don't know a lot of English and I don't know a lot of Spanish. I think they were mainly amused that I was out there sweating like a pig along with them, instead of walking around in a tennis skirt, talking on my cell phone while they slogged it out.
After they'd finished and moved the perfectly healthy shrubs around to the side of my house, awaiting pickup from the neighbors who'd called dibs, I walked around and noticed something disturbing. We have jasmine growing on the fence bordering our next door neighbor's house and backing up to the brick wall of our house, outside my bedroom. It seems that this jasmine is very healthy. And thriving. And attempting to enter my bedroom window! In text parlance: WTF?!
Oh, hell no, I thought. What is this, Grey Gardens? Can stray raccoons and a visit to environmental court be far behind? How could I have let this happen on my watch? I mean, the Colonel would probably never have even noticed. Every spring, he would have obliviously mused gosh, it sure smells nice in here! But I should have known better! I marched resolutely into my garage to retrieve a ladder. In order to prop it up against the wall by my bedroom window, I had to climb up a muddy embankment. There wasn't enough space for me to stand the ladder up properly, so I carefully propped it up against the wall, and up I went. I yanked jasmine out right and left. Its sticky roots were grabbing on for dear life. One little tendril had literally worked its way between the windowsill and the window frame and was straining to enter the inner sanctum of my bedroom. Not. Happening. I gave one more good yank.
That's when I knew I was going down.
It's amazing the linear progression of thoughts that one is able to have in the second it takes to fall from a high place.
Oh, shit. Oh, no. What can I grab? The screen? Nope, it'll peel right off. And I'm not giving this damn jasmine the satisfaction. Stupid friggin' vine. Christ, I'm an idiot for letting this happen. Okay, if I grab the ladder...ugh, I'm on a hill, it'll land on me and I'll get creamed. (I shoved the ladder securely against the wall to ensure that it didn't topple on top of me.) Ow, was that my fingernail? Man, this is taking a long time...oof! I hit the ground, slid down the muddy hill on my face, and eventually sort of oozed to a stop.
After a second or two, I managed to right my wrecked body, which was covered in dirt and grass and blood. I feebly removed the ladder from the wall and somehow maneuvered it back into the garage, and then limped - no, hobbled really - into the house. I ran myself a bath, washed away the matted yard trash from my bruised and scratched-up skin, snagged a bag of frozen peas from the freezer to ice my twisted ankle (how'd I twist my ankle? I have no recollection of that), took two ibuprofen, and told the WP that everything's cool, okay? But Mommy's going to take a nice long nap.
I still can't believe I got my ass kicked by a jasmine vine. Oh, the humanity.
This isn't over, yard. I will have my vengeance.
sorted
Have you ever had the sensation of watching yourself fall in a dream, and not being able to do a thing to stop it? I have. You're falling, you're falling, you're searching frantically for anything that might save you, there's no one to catch you, nothing to break your fall. When you realize this, the reality of your situation comes into focus: there will be impact. And seconds before you hit the ground at top speed, your acceptance comes, crystallizing into one last lucid thought before your inevitable annihilation.
This is gonna hurt.
Last year, in my life, the proverbial other shoe dropped. I generally try to approach things from a positive perspective. But I am here to tell you, those months were the scariest of my life, and I wasn't sure I'd survive them intact. During the day, I stayed busy, had lunch with friends, took care of the WP, wore my bravest face. But at night, when everything was quiet and it was dark, I really struggled. I didn't always handle myself with grace and serenity. Sometimes I was angry and edgy and withdrawn from people I love. I prayed a lot. I often felt alone. And tired. And white-knuckle scared. It hurt like hell.
More conventional wisdom: This, too, shall pass. But will there be anything left of me by then?
Another friend of mine saw me a couple of months into my freefall. I gave him the brave face. He cut right through it. "You look tired." Uh, thanks, man. Appreciate it. But he did share something that stayed with me. A trapeze artist, he explained, has to completely let go of the bar she's on, in order to catch the bar that's coming towards her. If she grips too tightly, of course, she'll miss the approaching bar as it swings her way. In between, there's that moment in which she's got nothing to hold on to. If she doesn't catch what's coming, she'll fall and die. But it's in that moment in between that she's flying. (This guy never met a metaphor he didn't like. Name the situation, and this cat has a metaphor. I tease him relentlessly.)
Pretty good imagery for someone in between bars, though. Of course, you have to assume that a trapeze artist can at least see the next bar coming. If I was the trapeze artist in this scenario, then fine, but to me, it felt like I was doing my act in the dark, and with no visual lock on the next swing, no assurance that it was actually coming. Sometimes it really felt like I would hit the ground and liquefy. But I didn't. The swing eventually came. The bar swung my way, just as my friend had always known it would. And the time in between, the terror and sadness and emotional exhaustion, every one of those days spent suspended in air was teaching me about faith, how little I had and how much I had.
Suddenly, the freefall was over. There. Sorted. And with that resolution, a wave of gratitude that I can't put into words.
I tell this story partly to share my experience, but mostly, I tell it in order to provide some context for my expression of profound gratitude and joy that a friend of mine recently caught a bar that swung her way. She remained suspended in air twice as long as I did, and during that time, lost a parent, had health concerns about a family member, stayed up nights with financial worries, and fought off despair as hard as she could. Hopelessness was imminent. You could see in her face how hard she had to work to stay brave. She had a really long and scary freefall. I, like her other friends, tried to be supportive and love her through it, but none of us could take away her fear and pain. Damn it.
But out of the blue, she caught the next bar, a really gorgeous, fantastic break that no one saw coming. From out of nowhere it came, and presto, she caught it. There. Sorted!
So really, this long story ends with a prayer of gratitude...for the next swing, of course, but also for the time in between, the scary time, the dark time, the repeated-steel-toed-boot-to-the-gut time, because that's where the grace lies waiting, and all the lessons are learned.
This is gonna hurt.
Last year, in my life, the proverbial other shoe dropped. I generally try to approach things from a positive perspective. But I am here to tell you, those months were the scariest of my life, and I wasn't sure I'd survive them intact. During the day, I stayed busy, had lunch with friends, took care of the WP, wore my bravest face. But at night, when everything was quiet and it was dark, I really struggled. I didn't always handle myself with grace and serenity. Sometimes I was angry and edgy and withdrawn from people I love. I prayed a lot. I often felt alone. And tired. And white-knuckle scared. It hurt like hell.
More conventional wisdom: This, too, shall pass. But will there be anything left of me by then?
Another friend of mine saw me a couple of months into my freefall. I gave him the brave face. He cut right through it. "You look tired." Uh, thanks, man. Appreciate it. But he did share something that stayed with me. A trapeze artist, he explained, has to completely let go of the bar she's on, in order to catch the bar that's coming towards her. If she grips too tightly, of course, she'll miss the approaching bar as it swings her way. In between, there's that moment in which she's got nothing to hold on to. If she doesn't catch what's coming, she'll fall and die. But it's in that moment in between that she's flying. (This guy never met a metaphor he didn't like. Name the situation, and this cat has a metaphor. I tease him relentlessly.)
Pretty good imagery for someone in between bars, though. Of course, you have to assume that a trapeze artist can at least see the next bar coming. If I was the trapeze artist in this scenario, then fine, but to me, it felt like I was doing my act in the dark, and with no visual lock on the next swing, no assurance that it was actually coming. Sometimes it really felt like I would hit the ground and liquefy. But I didn't. The swing eventually came. The bar swung my way, just as my friend had always known it would. And the time in between, the terror and sadness and emotional exhaustion, every one of those days spent suspended in air was teaching me about faith, how little I had and how much I had.
Suddenly, the freefall was over. There. Sorted. And with that resolution, a wave of gratitude that I can't put into words.
I tell this story partly to share my experience, but mostly, I tell it in order to provide some context for my expression of profound gratitude and joy that a friend of mine recently caught a bar that swung her way. She remained suspended in air twice as long as I did, and during that time, lost a parent, had health concerns about a family member, stayed up nights with financial worries, and fought off despair as hard as she could. Hopelessness was imminent. You could see in her face how hard she had to work to stay brave. She had a really long and scary freefall. I, like her other friends, tried to be supportive and love her through it, but none of us could take away her fear and pain. Damn it.
But out of the blue, she caught the next bar, a really gorgeous, fantastic break that no one saw coming. From out of nowhere it came, and presto, she caught it. There. Sorted!
So really, this long story ends with a prayer of gratitude...for the next swing, of course, but also for the time in between, the scary time, the dark time, the repeated-steel-toed-boot-to-the-gut time, because that's where the grace lies waiting, and all the lessons are learned.
another tender moment with the WP
The WP was rewarded with a popsicle after finishing her homework. She munched it quietly at the kitchen table while I folded laundry in the adjoining living room. I walked into the kitchen and regarded her sweet munching face, her little mouth stained a shade of blue that probably does not exist in nature. I smiled, seized by a moment of bittersweet pride. My baby. Growing up.
KMS: You're the world's most awesome kid. I love you.
Blank stare. Pause. Munch. Munch. Munch.
WP: There's this guy at school, in third grade. (Munch, munch.) And he has a driver's license.
KMS: I tend to doubt it.
WP: It's true. I know, because he showed it to me. It has a car on it.
KMS: Oh, well, in that case.
WP: (tossing her popsicle stick in the trash and walking away) You don't see him, because he gets to school earlier than I do.
KMS: You're the world's most awesome kid. I love you.
Blank stare. Pause. Munch. Munch. Munch.
WP: There's this guy at school, in third grade. (Munch, munch.) And he has a driver's license.
KMS: I tend to doubt it.
WP: It's true. I know, because he showed it to me. It has a car on it.
KMS: Oh, well, in that case.
WP: (tossing her popsicle stick in the trash and walking away) You don't see him, because he gets to school earlier than I do.
it's a conceptual thing
Tonight I tucked in the WP, gave her a kiss, and after a short pause, the following dialogue ensued:
WP: Mom?
KMS: Yeah, baby?
WP: Can I have a Halloween party this year?
KMS: Absolutely.
Pause.
KMS: And no, we're not getting a fog machine. So don't even ask.
WP: Aw, man!
WP: Mom?
KMS: Yeah, baby?
WP: Can I have a Halloween party this year?
KMS: Absolutely.
Pause.
KMS: And no, we're not getting a fog machine. So don't even ask.
WP: Aw, man!
the ballad of the backyard
He was a cardiologist. She was a schoolteacher.
They had spent many happy years together, building a life, raising their children and setting them free. One day, their happy and cozy nest was...empty, save for each other. In that bittersweet moment, they turned toward each other and embarked on a new life together. They sold the home in which they raised their now-adult children and, along with their trusty dog, moved into a slightly smaller home, just right for launching their new adventure. They never expected to move to Chenal, full of outsized quasi-Tuscan McMansions, sprawling lawns and ostentation galore, but when they saw the house, with its uncharacteristically cottagey feel and its lovely shaded backyard, they knew it was perfect for them. They spent six happy years there, working hard during the day and returning in the evenings to their new sanctuary. An avid gardener, she found the spacious backyard perfect for creating a lovely landscape, framed by sculpted beds of boxwoods, azaleas, and camellias. She planted bulbs, and she and her husband were always newly charmed by them - in the spring, it seemed that a new flower greeted them each Sunday when they retreated to the patio to share the newspaper and their morning coffee. She planted herbs. She spent quiet hours pulling up weeds while the dog happily napped in his favorite patch of ground cover. Life was sweet.
One day, her husband, having devoted his entire life to the practice of medicine, received wonderful news - a hospital in a large Texan city offered him a position that would be the culmination of all his hard work. After some deliberation, they decided to embark on yet another new adventure, while they were still young enough to do it, and called a realtor.
It took only two weeks. The couple received word that a young family had made an offer on their house. Apparently the young man was a military officer stationed at Little Rock - how unusual that they should move all the way out west instead of to Sherwood or Cabot! They didn't know much about the wife, but had been told that the new buyers had one child - a little girl, they'd heard. Oh, they'll love it here. According to the realtor, the young couple had taken a look at the backyard garden and fallen in love. The deal was made. The cardiologist and the teacher once again packed their memories, called for a moving truck and, after spending one more quiet morning sipping coffee together in their beloved garden, left their keys behind for the pilot and his wife, closed the door behind them, and headed toward their new life in Texas. The garden stayed behind to extend its gracious welcome to the new owners.
Isn't that a lovely story? Poor suckers. They had no idea they'd sold their home to the scourge of Chenal Valley.
Look, I didn't mean for things to get this out of hand, okay? I really did have the best of intentions when the Colonel and I looked at each other and said "yes - this is the house." Sure, Chenal is a long way from base, but that was actually part of its appeal (especially for me), and the easy hop onto I-430 from Cantrell made it more practical as a commute than something in the middle of town. But what really seduced me was the backyard. It offered shade and privacy and beauty - all the things I craved after the last three years spent in a midwestern gulag. How could something so beautiful ever be a burden?
Of course, while I was making that earnest declaration from my deck chair on Fantasy Frickin' Island, I failed to take into account the following facts:
Nice older couple, I'm sorry I let you down. No excuses: I dropped the ball. But I will make you this solemn promise: I will pull up my wellies and grab a shovel. As God is my witness...I. Will. Make. This. Right.
And with that, the battle for my redemption begins.
They had spent many happy years together, building a life, raising their children and setting them free. One day, their happy and cozy nest was...empty, save for each other. In that bittersweet moment, they turned toward each other and embarked on a new life together. They sold the home in which they raised their now-adult children and, along with their trusty dog, moved into a slightly smaller home, just right for launching their new adventure. They never expected to move to Chenal, full of outsized quasi-Tuscan McMansions, sprawling lawns and ostentation galore, but when they saw the house, with its uncharacteristically cottagey feel and its lovely shaded backyard, they knew it was perfect for them. They spent six happy years there, working hard during the day and returning in the evenings to their new sanctuary. An avid gardener, she found the spacious backyard perfect for creating a lovely landscape, framed by sculpted beds of boxwoods, azaleas, and camellias. She planted bulbs, and she and her husband were always newly charmed by them - in the spring, it seemed that a new flower greeted them each Sunday when they retreated to the patio to share the newspaper and their morning coffee. She planted herbs. She spent quiet hours pulling up weeds while the dog happily napped in his favorite patch of ground cover. Life was sweet.
One day, her husband, having devoted his entire life to the practice of medicine, received wonderful news - a hospital in a large Texan city offered him a position that would be the culmination of all his hard work. After some deliberation, they decided to embark on yet another new adventure, while they were still young enough to do it, and called a realtor.
It took only two weeks. The couple received word that a young family had made an offer on their house. Apparently the young man was a military officer stationed at Little Rock - how unusual that they should move all the way out west instead of to Sherwood or Cabot! They didn't know much about the wife, but had been told that the new buyers had one child - a little girl, they'd heard. Oh, they'll love it here. According to the realtor, the young couple had taken a look at the backyard garden and fallen in love. The deal was made. The cardiologist and the teacher once again packed their memories, called for a moving truck and, after spending one more quiet morning sipping coffee together in their beloved garden, left their keys behind for the pilot and his wife, closed the door behind them, and headed toward their new life in Texas. The garden stayed behind to extend its gracious welcome to the new owners.
Isn't that a lovely story? Poor suckers. They had no idea they'd sold their home to the scourge of Chenal Valley.
Look, I didn't mean for things to get this out of hand, okay? I really did have the best of intentions when the Colonel and I looked at each other and said "yes - this is the house." Sure, Chenal is a long way from base, but that was actually part of its appeal (especially for me), and the easy hop onto I-430 from Cantrell made it more practical as a commute than something in the middle of town. But what really seduced me was the backyard. It offered shade and privacy and beauty - all the things I craved after the last three years spent in a midwestern gulag. How could something so beautiful ever be a burden?
Of course, while I was making that earnest declaration from my deck chair on Fantasy Frickin' Island, I failed to take into account the following facts:
- I know jack squat about gardening, and my husband knows even less.
- The way I manage my time, I could know as much about gardening as P. Allen Smith and my garden would still go to seed, since I'm not particularly good at building in time for basic yard maintenance;
- I spend an appalling lack of time at home to begin with, so I didn't even realize it was so far off the rails until WAY late in the game, and by that time, it was too dang hot to do anything about it.
Nice older couple, I'm sorry I let you down. No excuses: I dropped the ball. But I will make you this solemn promise: I will pull up my wellies and grab a shovel. As God is my witness...I. Will. Make. This. Right.
And with that, the battle for my redemption begins.
the mysteries of aisle four, revealed
Don't, DO NOT, get in the way of two women on a manic late-night tampon run. I and my BFF were on such a run Saturday night at a grocery store in Eureka Springs. Small-town outposts of chain grocery stores are never laid out in a way that makes sense. (Clearly, the shiny Chenal Kroger-plex has spoiled me.) And perhaps in a nod to gentler days, when no one said the word "pregnant" out loud, a woman's menstrual process was referred to as her "monthly bill," and the somewhat euphemistically-named "sanitary napkin" was de rigueur, there was no sign above the aisles to use as a handy reference. There was a sign for "health and beauty aids," but that apparently refers to shampoo and deodorant exclusively. The two of us darted from aisle to aisle as if we were on a special ops mission. "You go down to produce and double back!" "I'll take aisles one through five!"
It occurred to me that I should perhaps try to look for diapers and such, because tampons and other "sanitary items" are ALWAYS located near baby gear, have you noticed? And the packages are easier to see in a smash-and-grab operation, when time is of the essence and you have a testy husband waiting outside in an idling car. So we expanded our search to include Pampers. We had to canvas the joint a couple of times - where were they hiding this stuff? Dammit, there are females in Eureka Springs, I've seen 'em. And they've gotta be getting their Tampax somewhere.
Finally, heading into the aisle marked for chips and nuts, I hit the motherlode. I called my friend for backup, and we went in. There sat the aisle of baby supplies (diapers, sippy cups, etc.), "feminine products", and - well, I guess they figure, while you're in the neighborhood - personal lubricant.
My friend sized this all up very succinctly. "Oh, look," she observed, "all the vagina-related items are together!" Convenient! We grabbed a box of tampons apiece and triumphantly headed for the checkout, giddy that we not only found what we'd spent way too long looking for, but had also made an astute product placement observation.
When we reached the checkout aisle, the young female cashier was engaged in a conversation with the equally young and somewhat sheepish male grocery bagger. It became pretty clear pretty fast that our girl's out of this poor guy's league. He was having some trouble pickin' up what she was puttin' down, if you know what I mean. And then here come two broads, each bearing a box of tampons, giggling their asses off. So he didn't have a chance from the jump, poor kid.
When he skulked off, we noted the young cashier's curious expression and gleefully shared our observation with her about the vagina aisle. She agreed that this was universally true, and shared our joy in finally figuring out a sure-fire method for quickly finding tampons or lube in any store in the civilized world without having to stop for directions. High fives were exchanged.
"But there's one thing we don't get," I confessed. "Why stick all that stuff with the chips?"
Without missing a beat, Our Girl offered this explanation: "Well, when you're in your period, you know you're gonna want some chips, so they put them right there."
Genius.
When we piled our giggling butts back in the car, my friend's husband didn't ask us what we were laughing about, which was probably smart. It's like there's an unspoken rule: what happens on a tampon run, stays on a tampon run. (That is, unless one of us has a blog.) But in my defense, I consider this a public service, both to women on a mission in a strange store in a strange town, and to men who may find themselves sent into a territory intimidating and unknown. Your reluctance to ask for directions is well-documented; let me save you the trouble.
Look for the diapers. And failing that, look for chips.
It occurred to me that I should perhaps try to look for diapers and such, because tampons and other "sanitary items" are ALWAYS located near baby gear, have you noticed? And the packages are easier to see in a smash-and-grab operation, when time is of the essence and you have a testy husband waiting outside in an idling car. So we expanded our search to include Pampers. We had to canvas the joint a couple of times - where were they hiding this stuff? Dammit, there are females in Eureka Springs, I've seen 'em. And they've gotta be getting their Tampax somewhere.
Finally, heading into the aisle marked for chips and nuts, I hit the motherlode. I called my friend for backup, and we went in. There sat the aisle of baby supplies (diapers, sippy cups, etc.), "feminine products", and - well, I guess they figure, while you're in the neighborhood - personal lubricant.
My friend sized this all up very succinctly. "Oh, look," she observed, "all the vagina-related items are together!" Convenient! We grabbed a box of tampons apiece and triumphantly headed for the checkout, giddy that we not only found what we'd spent way too long looking for, but had also made an astute product placement observation.
When we reached the checkout aisle, the young female cashier was engaged in a conversation with the equally young and somewhat sheepish male grocery bagger. It became pretty clear pretty fast that our girl's out of this poor guy's league. He was having some trouble pickin' up what she was puttin' down, if you know what I mean. And then here come two broads, each bearing a box of tampons, giggling their asses off. So he didn't have a chance from the jump, poor kid.
When he skulked off, we noted the young cashier's curious expression and gleefully shared our observation with her about the vagina aisle. She agreed that this was universally true, and shared our joy in finally figuring out a sure-fire method for quickly finding tampons or lube in any store in the civilized world without having to stop for directions. High fives were exchanged.
"But there's one thing we don't get," I confessed. "Why stick all that stuff with the chips?"
Without missing a beat, Our Girl offered this explanation: "Well, when you're in your period, you know you're gonna want some chips, so they put them right there."
Genius.
When we piled our giggling butts back in the car, my friend's husband didn't ask us what we were laughing about, which was probably smart. It's like there's an unspoken rule: what happens on a tampon run, stays on a tampon run. (That is, unless one of us has a blog.) But in my defense, I consider this a public service, both to women on a mission in a strange store in a strange town, and to men who may find themselves sent into a territory intimidating and unknown. Your reluctance to ask for directions is well-documented; let me save you the trouble.
Look for the diapers. And failing that, look for chips.
peaceful easy feeling
This weekend, the Warrior Princess and I partook in that most Arkansan of summer rituals: we went to the lake. Friends of ours invited us up to Lake Ouachita to spend a couple of days on a houseboat. We ate, we hung out, we lollagagged. The kids danced to Lady Gaga and did kamikaze water slide tricks and splashed in the lake. Weekends at the lake are lowbrow in the best possible way - you, too, can be a rich redneck for a weekend! Jet ski races! Loafing on a ski boat! Grilling out in the palm-tree-party-light-festooned slip and chatting up the neighbors. (He's a contractor. She does hair.) And best of all, you can forget the cookie-fancy and the blowout and rock your tank top and shorts and flip flops and your wild-ass-hair-and-no-makeup "lake look" as you lounge around on someone else's $360,000 boat! The WP and I were grubby as can be and happy as two pigs in a biggo pile of slop. And it got me thinking about this very distinctly Southern pastime.
Look, I'm from Memphis, home of Elvis, the capital city of the Delta blues, the birthplace of rock and roll. I was born and raised there and then sent to two fine Southern institutions of higher learning (the University of Alabama, roll Tide, thank you very much, and the much more high-falutin' - but no less Southern - University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill). I drink iced tea all day, every day, I love black-eyed peas and cornbread and pecan pie. Hell, I've even embraced the Razorbacks, now that I'm ABC (Arkansan by choice). So, I'd put my Southern cred up against just about any of y'all's.
Having said that, there's one characteristic that many of you other Southern folk share that missed me by a mile. I don't understand it, I can't explain it, but I sometimes fear I'm the ONLY one of my kind in the Southeastern United States.
I HATE the Eagles. Seriously, can't stand them. Which is a problem, because apparently where two white people from the South are gathered, SOMEONE has to pull out the Eagles, and always that same record - Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975). Lord, deliver me from a bunch of half-lit middle-aged guys with beer bellies getting all weepy over "Desperado". And sure enough, I was enjoying my chillax on the houseboat thoroughly until I heard "Take It Easy" coming from a neighboring boat, thereby triggering my post-traumatic music stress.
I attended college from 1988-1992. Granted, not the greatest years for rock and roll, but this period of time saw the advent of the compact disc, and also some interesting innovation in what was then termed "alternative" music, most notably a return to guitar-driven rock through the rise of the grunge movement, piloted by Nirvana and Pearl Jam. To a lesser extent, you also had the fuzzy post-punk shoegaze movement out of Great Britain, which was a blip in the states but actually birthed some really innovative and influential stuff, like My Bloody Valentine and the granddaddy of the shoegazers, the Jesus and Mary Chain. Of course, I recognize that I am now, have always been, and evermore will be, a big, BIG music dork. But this was where my head was between 1988 and 1992. So imagine my chagrin that every fraternity boy attending school in Tuscalousy at that time owned three cassette tapes, and three only*, which were worn out at every. Single. Party. And those were:
1. The aforementioned Eagles record.
2. The Doors' greatest hits, which I might actually hate even more than the aforementioned Eagles record, if that's possible. And
3. Abysmally, the Steve Miller Band's greatest hits.
*Also, there were a lot of Deadheads and Deadhead posers and Widespread Panic show-followers running around, so you'd occasionally get that tiresome jam-band thing.
Either way, this Sonic Youth, Depeche Mode, MBV-loving girl found absolutely NO quarter in this place that time forgot.
Ah, but wait. I seem to remember this one house party, keg, yada yada yada, same craptastic music, basically the same party as every other. And by some absolute miracle, in a quieter part of the house, I found myself in a conversation with some guy. Strangely, I don't remember the guy all that well, or what we talked about, but I'm sure we thought it was very Deep and Philosophical in our slightly inebriated state. What I do remember are two things. One: the room was dim and quiet compared to the rest of the house, deliberately so. (I wasn't born yesterday, folks.) And two, I remember the music: Cowboy Junkies' Trinity Sessions.
I'm pretty sure I made out with him. Dude, Trinity Sessions! So I'm just saying, fellas, it pays to branch out a little musically.
But back to my original point, which is this: I hate the Eagles, which is carried on a highly recessive gene in Southerners, apparently. It's like being one of the only ones in third grade who can't curl the tip of my tongue into a little roll. See? Recessive! And as a red-haired, green-eyed person, I know from recessive. There are scientists that say that red hair and green eyes will both be genetically phased completely out by the year 2060! Just sayin'.
Other than that, the weekend was perfect.
Look, I'm from Memphis, home of Elvis, the capital city of the Delta blues, the birthplace of rock and roll. I was born and raised there and then sent to two fine Southern institutions of higher learning (the University of Alabama, roll Tide, thank you very much, and the much more high-falutin' - but no less Southern - University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill). I drink iced tea all day, every day, I love black-eyed peas and cornbread and pecan pie. Hell, I've even embraced the Razorbacks, now that I'm ABC (Arkansan by choice). So, I'd put my Southern cred up against just about any of y'all's.
Having said that, there's one characteristic that many of you other Southern folk share that missed me by a mile. I don't understand it, I can't explain it, but I sometimes fear I'm the ONLY one of my kind in the Southeastern United States.
I HATE the Eagles. Seriously, can't stand them. Which is a problem, because apparently where two white people from the South are gathered, SOMEONE has to pull out the Eagles, and always that same record - Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975). Lord, deliver me from a bunch of half-lit middle-aged guys with beer bellies getting all weepy over "Desperado". And sure enough, I was enjoying my chillax on the houseboat thoroughly until I heard "Take It Easy" coming from a neighboring boat, thereby triggering my post-traumatic music stress.
I attended college from 1988-1992. Granted, not the greatest years for rock and roll, but this period of time saw the advent of the compact disc, and also some interesting innovation in what was then termed "alternative" music, most notably a return to guitar-driven rock through the rise of the grunge movement, piloted by Nirvana and Pearl Jam. To a lesser extent, you also had the fuzzy post-punk shoegaze movement out of Great Britain, which was a blip in the states but actually birthed some really innovative and influential stuff, like My Bloody Valentine and the granddaddy of the shoegazers, the Jesus and Mary Chain. Of course, I recognize that I am now, have always been, and evermore will be, a big, BIG music dork. But this was where my head was between 1988 and 1992. So imagine my chagrin that every fraternity boy attending school in Tuscalousy at that time owned three cassette tapes, and three only*, which were worn out at every. Single. Party. And those were:
1. The aforementioned Eagles record.
2. The Doors' greatest hits, which I might actually hate even more than the aforementioned Eagles record, if that's possible. And
3. Abysmally, the Steve Miller Band's greatest hits.
*Also, there were a lot of Deadheads and Deadhead posers and Widespread Panic show-followers running around, so you'd occasionally get that tiresome jam-band thing.
Either way, this Sonic Youth, Depeche Mode, MBV-loving girl found absolutely NO quarter in this place that time forgot.
Ah, but wait. I seem to remember this one house party, keg, yada yada yada, same craptastic music, basically the same party as every other. And by some absolute miracle, in a quieter part of the house, I found myself in a conversation with some guy. Strangely, I don't remember the guy all that well, or what we talked about, but I'm sure we thought it was very Deep and Philosophical in our slightly inebriated state. What I do remember are two things. One: the room was dim and quiet compared to the rest of the house, deliberately so. (I wasn't born yesterday, folks.) And two, I remember the music: Cowboy Junkies' Trinity Sessions.
I'm pretty sure I made out with him. Dude, Trinity Sessions! So I'm just saying, fellas, it pays to branch out a little musically.
But back to my original point, which is this: I hate the Eagles, which is carried on a highly recessive gene in Southerners, apparently. It's like being one of the only ones in third grade who can't curl the tip of my tongue into a little roll. See? Recessive! And as a red-haired, green-eyed person, I know from recessive. There are scientists that say that red hair and green eyes will both be genetically phased completely out by the year 2060! Just sayin'.
Other than that, the weekend was perfect.
commando
Fridays are "splash days" at the Warrior Princess' summer day camp. Accordingly, she wore her swimsuit to camp underneath her clothes, and being the organized and got-it-together mom that I am, I sent her with dry undies in a ziploc to change into afterwards. Swimsuit? Check. Sunscreen, applied at home before dressing? Check. Towel? Check. Change of clothes? Check. Splash day situation fully under control.
When I picked her up in the afternoon, she was playing kickball with the other second-graders. She was in her dry clothes, her hair in curly post-splash disarray, her skin lightly tanned from playing outside. (This in itself is a wonderful thing, since most who know the WP know her to be perilously Nintendo DS-obsessed.)
On the way to the car, WP galloped down the school halls. I asked her about her day, like I always do. "Fun," she grunted. She has a tendency to be somewhat monosyllabic after school and camp.
Me: So, you had a good time for splash day?
WP: (gallop, gallop, gallop) Yes. Only when I was getting dressed, I forgot to put my underwear on!
Me: Oh, no! So you had to take all your clothes back off?
WP: (after a beat) Um, no...I'm not actually wearing my underwear right this minute.
Me: Well...okay. So you're, like, commando right now?
WP: (very matter-of-factly) Yeah. I actually find it very relaxing.
Hard to argue with that, especially in the summertime in Arkansas. It's only a wardrobe malfunction if it's unintentional.
When I picked her up in the afternoon, she was playing kickball with the other second-graders. She was in her dry clothes, her hair in curly post-splash disarray, her skin lightly tanned from playing outside. (This in itself is a wonderful thing, since most who know the WP know her to be perilously Nintendo DS-obsessed.)
On the way to the car, WP galloped down the school halls. I asked her about her day, like I always do. "Fun," she grunted. She has a tendency to be somewhat monosyllabic after school and camp.
Me: So, you had a good time for splash day?
WP: (gallop, gallop, gallop) Yes. Only when I was getting dressed, I forgot to put my underwear on!
Me: Oh, no! So you had to take all your clothes back off?
WP: (after a beat) Um, no...I'm not actually wearing my underwear right this minute.
Me: Well...okay. So you're, like, commando right now?
WP: (very matter-of-factly) Yeah. I actually find it very relaxing.
Hard to argue with that, especially in the summertime in Arkansas. It's only a wardrobe malfunction if it's unintentional.
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