Memories

March 3, 2009 During the summers, my middle sister and I would stay with my dad. Three main things come to mind when I think about our summers with him: Coca Cola, beer, and cigarettes. Besides us (I think) those were my dad's favorite things in life. He smoked like a chimney. This was back when people did not know how socially unacceptable it was to smoke in front of your kids. I remember being trapped in his old clunker of a car (he got about 4 a year and they were always pieces of crap) with the windows up and the whole car filled with smoke. I remember being so relieved when he would crack the window (sometimes the little bat wing window) and the smoke would go rushing out. Man, if it was in this day- my mom could have had him in court ordering him not to smoke in front of us! Not in the 80's. Smoke it up parents, smoke it up. My mom once told me that the minute she got us back home, she would immediately wash all of our clothes because they reeked of smoke. We usually stayed at my grandma's (the Holy Roller I wrote about a couple of weeks ago). Things were always the same when we pulled up. Weeds crotch high in places, a run down chicken coop that may or may not have had chickens, a broken down Gremlin and Pacer in the yard, at least one additional broken down car in the yard each visit, and a trailer house in the yard that my dad lived in on occasions. I remember one year my dad found a baby racoon and named it Rocky. He tied some thick wire between 2 trees, put a leash on Rocky, and clipped it around the wire so he could run back and forth. I have not idea why he kept this racoon. It bit my sister once. Thankfully, she did not get rabies as far as I know. I remember being so dirty during those summers with my dad. I remember before going to bed each night having to dust our feet off before we crawled between the sheets. I am so grossed out by that because I imagine our feet were black as tar and we thought dusting them off was enough! Why weren't we wearing slippers? The room we slept in (called the "back room", which was about 4 feet from the "front room") had 2 old timey iron beds in them. For some reason, they were never all the way up against the wall, so there was about a one foot crack between the wall and bed. I used to make Candace sleep over on that side. She was so scared that something was going to reach up and grab her in that crack. I am sure that is why I did not want to sleep over there either! That room was always packed with crap. The room was about 15 feet wide by 20 feet long and there was only about 5 feet by 10 feet of really usable space because of the clutter. That place would definitely be a candidate for the show Clean House. I am a pretty healthy person, and I attribute my excellent immune system to all those summers in the dirt fest.

When I die, I better not have chin hairs.

03/37/07 Yes, it is 4am. I have been up since 3am. Kid woke me up and now I cannot go back to sleep. I am sure I will be dead later about 3pm when I am supposed to be lively at a party. Anyways, I cannot take credit for the following blog. A lady at work brought it up and I was very moved by it. I wanted to talk about it, elaborate on it, and welcome your comments.We were commenting about seeing little old lady patients that had long, grey chin hairs. We agreed that many of these ladies were either in nursing homes with no family, could not see the hairs, or had no one who cared enough about them to pluck the hairs (we called this neglect). My friend stated that in her will she has already stipulated that if she has a beard or stray facial hairs when she dies- her children will not receive any of her riches. She said that they had to take care of her and assure that she did not have the old lady chin hairs, or they would be written off. When she said this, I thought it was so profound. Now, I know most of my friends are old enough to understand the chin hair dilemma, but for those of you who do not- here is the deal. When you are a teenager, your skin is perfect (except for a few zits). You have no wrinkles, your skin tone is even, and the only thing you pluck is your eyebrows. Here is a quick aside: ladies, do not overdo the eyebrow plucking/waxing. Yes, those superthin eyebrows may be in, but just know that they will not always be. I believe that the cosmetic tatooing and model industries work together on eyebrow fashion. When the tatoo industry starts to feel a drop in customers, they pay the model industry (magazines, runway, etc) to begin flaunting the superthin brow. After about 2 years of this, the tatoo industry pays the model industry to being showing a more thick brow. Now, it will not be a dramatic change all at once. Over the course of a couple of years, the models will begin sporting increasingly thicker brows. Soon, the women of the world will begin flocking to the cosmetic tatoo artists to have their pencil thin brows filled in. I know this is how it happens. Anyways, back to my original story. In your mid twenties, you start to see some uneven skin tones. By the end of your twenties, you have the brown spots- which can generally be managed with makeup. But then. Oh, but then. You start finding------- the old lady chin hairs. It starts out as one that you need to pluck every few months. Then that one turns grey and hard. Then, you find another one, that needs to be plucked every month or so. And one day, you will find 3-5 long, black and grey hairs dangling from your chin. You wonder why no one told you. How could your closest friends not have told you? So, you pluck these hairs and feel relieved that you do not need to worry about this embarrassment for another month. Then, 2 weeks later, some have come back. Then, 2 weeks later, more have come back. Soon, you are having to check everyday since the hairs all grow at different rates. Damn those hair follicles with their different growth cycles!!! What I used to call my weekly chin hairs, are now my daily chin hairs. Since my friends do not have the cajones to tell me when I have a dangler, as we will now call them, my children and husband have inherited that duty. When I die, I WILL not have chin hairs, a beard, or a mustache (don't even get me started on that). I will make sure my lawyer, Howard K. Stern, will contact the appropriate authorities to visually inspect my hair situation upon my death. If anything is awry, my entire estate will be willed to the Aesthetician, Electrolysis, Laser Hair Removal Association of America. I will direct them to conduct weekly educational programs around the country discussing the options for hair removal. Please comment on your personal wants/desires when you die.

Ray + AC/DC= Love 4 Ever

Dec 2008: I wrote this after taking Benadryl, so if the tense is wrong- sorry. My husband love love loves heavy metal music. He is not an angry, black wearing, tattoo covered kind of guy. Just a regular person that likes heavy metal. He has always had a thing for AC/DC, Ozzy Osbourne, some guitar player for Black Sabbath, Van Halen (I would not really put them in the heavy metal category, but who am I to judge?), and probably many other gravelly sounding bands. I used to listen to that type of music, back when I lived in Mason and that’s all I knew. I remember when I discovered AC/DC in about 1989. I know they were around much longer than that, but my family was into country music and I was in a private Christian school for 2 years. The only rock I heard when I was at the private school was Whitesnake that Rodney listened to. Needless to say I really loved AC/DC for a few years, too. But I did not know any better. In a small town, especially when I was in high school, we were not exposed to much of anything outside our city limits. Believe it or not, when I was in high school (only a mere 15 years ago), the internet had not gone mainstream. I really don’t remember anyone that even had a computer. The first time I remember touching one was in 1993 when we used it for word processing. I had no earthly idea the world that existed beyond my Word Perfect. So back to Ray, he has been obsessed with AC/DC for as long as I have known him. Recently, Ray’s work friends invited him to an AC/DC concert. Like every concert that Ray has ever attended, he always has certain rituals he must complete. He always wants to take his own car, so the rituals mainly focus around it. Months before the concert, Ray begins the “stereo enhancement” tasks. There always seems to be a new or improved stereo that gets installed in his vehicle within a few months of the concert. In my own car, I can have the same stereo for 10 years, but Ray has to have a new one for one reason or another about every 1.5 years. So, sometime in the summer, he installed another stereo. I am sure that I had to tell him how much better it sounded than the last one- even though I could not really tell the difference. Also this year, Ray had a friend help him build a speaker box for (what I think was) a subwoofer. Ray spent many days and nights carefully crafting this box that had the speaker on one side and storage on the other. What he keeps in that storage, I don’t know. Probably some eight tracks, bandanas to tie around his thighs, a tshirt with rolled up sleeves, some tapered leg pants, some Rave hairspray for his heavy metal hair wig, some spandex leopard print pants, and some kaepa tennis shoes. It was like Santa’s workshop in there- hammers hammering, drills drilling, dust dusting, and spray paint spraying. After the box was completed, Ray would frequently (as he did with all the other concerts recently) request that I take the kids to school or he would offer to run errands. I used to wonder why he did this, but it finally occurred to me one day that during those alone times, Ray could turn up his 1980’s headbanger music, roll down the windows, and relive his teen years---I mean test out his stereo. I could just picture him with his left arm resting on the open window, breathing in the fumes of I35. I could see his (upper arm) hair whipping in the wind, as if headbanging to Highway to Hell. I imagine him thumping and bassing along in his little red wagon- feeling totally awesome. I see him at a stop light looking at some cute chicks with his eyes squinted slightly, pursing his lips, jutting them out, and doing the head nod in time to the music. Once the girls notice him, he sticks out his tougue (like Kiss) and does the rock and roll salute to them. I imagine him in utter bliss feeling like the coolest (old) guy on the street. As with all concerts, within a couple of days of the concert, Ray’s next ritual is the “cleansing of the kids” from his car. All the Hot Wheels cars, board books, diapers, wipes, and cheerios are removed from the Rock Wagon. There is never to be any sign of children. He always works on the MP3 compilation CDs that, surprisingly, are all the songs ever done by the band they are going to see. This year, Ray worked tirelessly on his rituals, especially the speaker box. Oh how I longed for his attention and for his embrace during these times. I missed my sweet natured husband who selfishly devoted his time only to the box. I knew my time would come again, but I also knew that I could not hold him back in these endeavors. To keep him sane, I had to let him have his time. Now that he has kids, I know this time is even more important. I am happy to report that this year, he did not attempt to grow the greatest goatee ever. It is the first time EVER that he has not done this for a concert. I am sure it had something to do with my blog bashing his facial hair. I know I should support the hair, for it provides great material for me, but I can’t do it. But, what he did do this year, that made me chuckle was have a special concert shirt made. He took a cartoon picture of Angus Young and had a guy at this work draw it on a tshirt in Sharpie. The following website should take you to the pic. http://www.amazon.com/AC-DC-Angus-Young-Sticker/dp/B000SJMRVS/ref=pd_bbs_sr_8?ie=UTF8&s=automotive&qid=1229831744&sr=8-8 And oh yes, he wore it. He loved that shirt. It was very well done and I am sure he was the envy of all the other concert goers (probably 98 percent men). I love my husband. He is a real sweetheart and I am very lucky to have him. He cooks, he cleans, he cares for his kids, and he puts up with me. He is just a little crazy in the head (yes, like you Banning).

A note to those WITH children

March 19, 2009 I was with some funny chicks yesterday and one of the girls began to discuss how out of touch many parents were with reality when it came to their kids. She first asked me if I would be offended if she talked about it and, or course, I said no. I told her that I totally remembered what it was like without kids (ahh, sleeping in, drinking at all hours of the day, laying around on the couch watching Price is Right or an America's Next Top Model marathon ALL DAY without interruption!) and how I felt about those parents. Throughout the discussion, I realized that her complaints/concerns/suggestions should not be quietly discussed among those who have not experienced the joys of parenthood. I realized that they should not feel shamed into talking about us in private- their side of the story needs to be heard! So, all you Mamas and Daddies, listen up. I will write as if I am the one without children. First, and probably most importantly- your children aren't as cute as you think. Every little poop, word, gesture, and breath is not impressive to us. Unless you are related to me or live in the same house as me, I really don't care. When I finally get to go out with you after not seeing you for 8 months, don't talk about your kid(s). If you are "sooooo freakin' glad to be out," then don't talk about the kids! When you talk about them, you think about them, when you think abou them, you talk about them more. When you bring your kid to a restaurant, do not let them run around. They need to stay in their chairs. I should probably be concerned about them getting hot food spilled on them, but mainly I don't want the waiter to dump hot food on me after your rugrat tripped him! I mean, come on, I come to Golden Corral for a nice, relaxing buffet experience. Buffet. What can I say. Do NOT let your kid go through the buffet line and get their own food. How many times do I have to see them casually stick the chocolate pudding spoon into their mouths, then put it back in the container?? I am at the Corral (that's what we regulars call it. The senior citizens and I) at least 4 times a months and the pudding incident happens almost every time. And the screaming (kid). Yea, I understand it is going to happen at times, but there is a maximum time of about 15 seconds that the rest of the world can stand it. Just because you have learned to tune out that frequency of shrill, does not mean you should. Take the kids outside, feed them some cheerios and Goldfish, then come back when all is well. We will think your kid is much cuter when they come back and be quiet. Now, onto the Wal Mart crowd (sorry Wal Marters, I go there, but it really gives a good visual for the story). It is not acceptable for you to ever bring your child out in public with only a diaper on. Perhaps if a tornado came to your house and sucked up all the other clothes and you had to drive to Wal Mart to buy new clothes, your kid always needs to have clothes on. You know all of you have seen this scenario- you go to Wal Mart to buy more dog food and contact lens cleaner. The Mama is there in her too tight knit lime green pants. They clearly show her granny panty line and they are pulled up way to high over her waist. The tractor pull tshirt (again, just for the story, I like watching tractor pulls!) has seen it's better days. You can see her pale gut throught the cigarette burn on the front of the shirt. Her flip flops are the $1 type and her calloused heels are hanging off the sides. Her toes with chipped hot pink polish are extending past the end of the flip flop. She has her 4 kids all under the age of 3. Two in the basket, one tugging on her waistband (DON'T PULL TOO HARD KID!) and one in the seat. The one in the seat has only a diaper on that is bulging because it has been on for 7 hours. Mama is yelling at her in a thick East Texas drawl, "Topenga, yeww better git ta drankin' that straaawwwberry melk. Yew know yer doctor woonnts ya start drankin' more nutrishous stuff!" The baby is holding a splintery a popcicle stick, dripping with drool, and she has sticky grape popsicle juice from her chin to diaper. The two kids in the basket are playing tug of war with a toilet plunger and one clearly has untreated pink eye. I notice he rubs his eye, then touches the basket- leaving a little germy present for the rest us. The mama screams loudly every 20-47 seconds at the kids. She says "Wylene, yew better quet tuggin' own ma stretch paaaants. Yer pullin' that eeeelastic down onto ma boil! Now stop it bafooorr I woop yew right heeeerrrre!' I ain't like those faaaancy mamas thet'll put yew in time ooouuuttt! I will poooolllll that wooden spoon outa my purse so faaasstttt!!!" So in addition to always dressing your children, do not wear lime green stretch pants. It makes you yell at your children. I can imagine how upsetting those pants would make you as they cut off the circulation to your brain. So Mama's and Daddies, take all this to heart and when I have kids-- please support me. I will need it if that is how my life is gonna be.

Flashback to Breastfeeding

September 30, 2007 - Sunday I am no earth mother So I have a 11 week old, as most of you know. I also have a 3 year old. With the 3 year old, I had a pretty hard time breastfeeding him. Difficult latch, unhappy momma, lots of reasons why it did not really work. So, I just pumped the milk with and gave it to him in a bottle. Not exactly natural, but at least he was getting the milk. With the second child, I was determined to breastfeed her the "right" way. I was going to take advantage of my natural, God-given ability. After 11 weeks, I have done very well. I am proud of my tenacity and that my nipples have held up. But, I would not exactly say I am the earth mother type. There are some real truths about breastfeeding that no one had ever told me. First, let me explain the pillow that I use to feed her. It is called (and I am not kidding) My Brest Friend (my bff). For those of you who do not know what it looks like- search it online to get a clear picture.You strap it around your waste and the baby lays on a kind of pillow table. It is probably the Brest thing ever invented. It puts the kid in the right position and holds the kid in place without much effort. Let's say she was feeding off the right one (feeding, sounds like a shark feeding frenzy). I could easily lay her across the pillow and use my right hand to hold the breast in place. The left hand is free to do whatever. My best friend used to be my body pillow, but this has moved into the first position. The only major problem with it is that it is not really practical to carry along with you and use in public. It is very big and barely fits in the carrier below the stroller. In trying to be the super earth mother that I thought I was, I thought "no big deal, I can just breastfeed in public without My Brest Friend." Well, I do not know how all these other women do it and have done it for millions of years, but Oh---My----God----, it is not easy. It is almost like the 3 stooges trying to feed a baby. It is a multifaceted task that really should require a couple of people. People, these are the things that no one else will tell you. First off, it forces me to feed her in a manner that is completely different than the way My Brest Friend and I do it. Again, as an example, lets say I was feeding her off the right breast. Even though I try to be super earth mother, I am NOT going to show my breasts in public! I know it is all natural and that is what they were made for, but I just do not think that people want to see that. So, I take a large blanket and throw it over my right shoulder. As I am holding her, I have to tuck the top of the blanket under my bra strap to hold it up. That way, when she thrashes around, which she always does when I try to do this in public, she does not pull the blanket down exposing my breasts. Without the pillow, I have to cradle her in the crook of my right arm. This in itself is quite a task. A 13 1/2 lb baby in the crook of your arm is not easy to hold. Then, I have to maneuver the squirming, crying, and anxious-to-eat child onto the nipple. Again, not easy. I have to expertly place the blanket around her head to create a kind of wall that allows me to her face, but at the same time prevent others from seeing my goods. Then, I have to try to get her mouth in the right spot on the nipple. For those of you unfamiliar with breastfeeding, you have to get the right "latch" or your nipples with crack and become raging fire balls. In fact, if your nipples get injured or you get clogged ducts in your breast from not drinking enough water- when that kid nurses you would think that someone was trying to saw your nipples off with the butter knife. Wow! You do not know pain until it feels like your kid is trying to gnaw your nipples off like a starving wolf. Back to the story- when a baby is hungry, they get very excited and move their face around trying to find the milk source. So, with my blanket placed, my right arm falling asleep, the baby squirming, and me trying to keep the public from seeing "my space", I take the left hand and try to guide my nipple into her mouth. Once I finally succeed, I have to keep my left hand inside the blanket tent to hold my breast away from her nose because their size and gravity force the breast over her nostrils. Beside all the other things that are happening in the public breast feeding fiasco, I do not want infant suffocation to be added. So, once she is on there, it is a constant battle to keep her on the nipple. She knows that this is not the way we usually do it and she does not like it any more than I do. On top of all this, my child, like many I am sure, is a very loud sucker. I could not discreetly breastfeed this child anywhere. My husband and I purposely choose to eat at loud restaurants to drown out the sound of my son screaming and sound of my super sucker. As soon as my baby and I get a rhythm going, she needs to be burped. So, I have to pluck her mouth off the nipple, pull my bra up, pull my shirt down, pull the blanket off, and then I can sit her up to burp. And, then the dance starts again when I put her back on. I forgot to mention, that on top of all of this, I have to try to keep the back of my shirt down so that no one can see my back fat. So how do these earth mothers do this? How do they just wip it out, sans blanket? They just don't care. I do not think the La Leche League will be call me anytime soon to be a spokesperson.

Down the Slippery Slope

May 27, 2007 - Sunday Down a slippery slope Category: Life Wherever my husband and I go, we always seem to be slowed down by his need to take care of his bodily functions. Me, I can hold a pee for hours and be fine. Only after about 3 hours of holding it and drinking a lot of fluids in the meantime does my need to pee ever become an emergency. With him, everytime is an emergency. No, it is not his prostate, this is how it has always been. So, after 14 years I should be used to it. But I am not. To top it all off, we have a toddler we are trying to potty train. So, the concern over peeing and pooping is at an even greater level than normal. Today we went on our normal Sunday outing to the library, only to find it was closed. We decided to go to the UT Tower because there is a fabulous pond behind it that is filled with turtles. I could not remember where to park to get there, so we parked by the stadium. I had forgotten that the stadium was about a half a mile from the Tower. No biggy, our son needed to burn off some energy. We parked and immediately my husband decided that he really needed to pee. My son and I walked around the Alumni Center courtyard looking at statues of Bevo, some horses, and a cowboy while my husband went to the souvaneir (?) shop to use the restroom. He came out and said they had no public restroom. I noticed that there was a memorial service going on in the Alumni Center, so I told him to go in. Heck, he was wearing a grey shirt, he could have easily been a mourner. My son and I discussed the makeup of the statues while he went inside. He came out again without finding a restroom. I knew what was coming next, my husband would have to pee outside. He rushed ahead of us and down a trail leading to a creek. Soon, he came back- a victor. I could see the relief on his face. He asked me if I saw him fall. I immediately started laughing and said no. As an aside, my husband has a really big problem with falling. He seems to fall all the time. Usually it is in the privacy of our own home as he goes up the stairs. In fact, tonight he almost ripped the end of his big toe off. How you lacerate your toe on stairs, I will never know. The last big fall was at my niece's birthday party when he tripped over a stake holding down a moonwalk. I missed the actual fall, but I heard that he bounced back up from the ground like he was on a trampoline. The family still talks about this. So, anyways, we are all on a bridge over the creek. My husband points out some old timey, rock stairs leading down to the creek. They were wet rain and mossy. He said he was going down the stairs and turned to see if anyone was around before he peed. He said as he turned, both of his feet slipped out from under him and he went airborne. He landed on his left butt cheek. He said it was like a cartoon fall. He showed me the back of his pants and they had nasty green moss stains on them. His hands were also covered in a green funk, like he was turning into the swamp thing. We walked up to one of the big water fountains on the UT campus so he could wash off a bit. So that was his story. Now for mine. My husband gets so irritated with me because whenever something happens to him, I embellish the story. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. So, I asked him if I could write my version as long as I told his version first. Here is how I see it: he walks down the mossy slippery stairs. He unzips his pants and starts to pee, when he decides he better look around to make sure no one is watching. As he turns, he falls like he described it above. He hands slips off of his, you know, and he can't stop the peeing as he falls. The pee is spraying everywhere and it like a fountain- getting his pants all wet and as he continues to fall the pee begins to spray onto his head. He finally lands and the pee has stopped. He is laying on his right side and slides down the slippery moss rocks a few feet. He is finally able to zip his pants and make his way back to his family. You can decide which version you think is true.

Crawfish and Urine

April 8, 2007 - Sunday This is quite possibly the funniest story I have read in years. I wish that I could take credit for this genius read This story, true story, was written by one of my very best friends here in Austin. Don't be discouraged by the length, it is worth the read. You will see why l like her so much.I was in the local grocery store the other day, shopping for all the things a middle-age semi-vegetarian white woman might shop for. I was leaving the seafood dept. after having bought some fresh non-farmed fish when I saw a display stand in the middle of the deptartment. It was filled with ice and what looked to be about 700 very cold and nearly frozen to death crawfish (seems crawfish boilin' season has arrived). They looked up at me (from what would surely be an icy death bed at some point) with their little black beady eyes and raised their tiny red pinchers towards me. It was as if they were saying "pick me, help me, save me, love me". I was their God. I immediately knew what I had to do. I got a plastic bag and tongs and proceeded to fill it up with crawfish. It was very heart-wrenching to decide which ones would have a chance at freedom and which ones would be left to face either a slow cold or very hot boiling death. I empathized with Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice" and knew how tough a choice she had to make. But it had to be done. Saving some was better than none. I chose the larger more active ones. I figured they would have a fighting chance once I released them into my neighborhood pond. Some trendy woman stopped and watched what I was doing. She said to me "I see you are picking out the larger and most alive ones. Are they the best for eating?" Shamefully I said "yes". Hoping that would be the end of the conversation. She then continued on to ask me how to cook the crawfish. I loathed myself as I found myself explaining how one concocts a "crawfish boil". There is a part of me new enough to this "not eating my fellow creatures that have been shot full of growth hormones and antibiotics and fed a non-natural diet thing" to where I could not bring myself to tell her I was buying these poor little bastards to set them free. I guess I didn't want to appear as some kooky tree hugger or militant vegan. So I lied. Finally she moved on.After filling the bag I took it to the seafood counter to be weighed and tagged for checkout. The associate was going to put ice in the bag and gave me a funny look when I vehemently refused it. I checked out and as soon as I got out of the store, tore some holes in the plastic bag so they could get some oxygen. I put the bag of "soon to be free" crawfish in the front seat of my car because it was sunny and would warm them up. I went back to the store to look at some rose bushes that were on display. When I got back to the car some of the more daring and active crawfish had made a break for it through the air holes in the plastic bag. Some were under the seat, some had even managed to wedge themselves into a pocket on the door where I keep CDs.Not having any tongs, I steeled myself to the task at hand. I knew a crawfish pinch wasn't that bad, but nonetheless I was going to avoid it if I could. I plucked them from the CD pocket and from under the seat. They fought me valiantly. I guess the warmth of the car had really invigorated them. I drove to the small pond in my Texas hill country subdivision to release them. It is about a 12 mile drive from the store. Somewhere along the way I felt I needed to pee. Not a big urge. Just that somewhere the brain is starting to think about it. I figured I would just wait until I got home, it wouldn't take long to release my little survivors. I got to the pond and took the plastic bag full of now very much alive crawfish and proceeded to strategically place them in the pond. I didn't want to dump them all in one place for fear none would survive if a predator found them quickly. So I walked up and down the bank kerplunking them here and there. Some really took off, scooting backwards into the depths of the pond. Others just kinda hung out where I had put them. They were free again. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, they were free at last. They were beautiful, the sun glistened down through the clear water illuminating their bright red shells against the calichi bottom of the pond. That is, except for one. As I walked up and down the shore of the pond admiring my handiwork and thinking, "my what a good person I am", I spied one little fellow on his back. Maybe he was the one idiot in the bunch. Because as we all know, there IS always one in a the crowd, isn't there? I watched to see if the idiot crawfish was going to be able to flip himself over. It was apparent he couldn't or wouldn't. I don't know which, because he wasn't saying. So I decided to step in and help him.We (the crawfish and I) had come this far, I wasn't about to let my immediate release survival rate drop to anything less than 100%.I had been to yoga earlier that day and was wearing some rather nice yellow Lance Armstrong special edition Nike flip-flops given to me by a friend. I really love these flip-flops and have taken great pains not to get them dirty. I usually just wear them to yoga or to work. Not out in the yard. I also had on some nice capri-length yoga pants as well, with loose legs.The upside-down crawfish was about two feet from the bank. I couldn't reach him leaning over the water. I couldn't find a stick to turn him over with. I had to step into the pond with a least one foot in order to reach him/her. The pond bottom looked pretty solid to me, not muddy; packed caliche like we find in the creeks and lakes in the hill country. After all, the crawfish had not sank into the pond bottom when I threw them in. How wrong I was.As soon as my foot hit the pond bottom, my foot, along with my special edition Lance Armstrong Nike flip-flop was sucked down into the mud about mid-way to my calf. At about the same time my foot hit the cold water and was being sucked down into the mud, I noticed I was beginning to pee. It was a small trickle. My urinary sphincter was trying to do it's God-given job. It just wasn't succeeding very well. I am a middle-aged white woman after all.I pressed on despite my two handicaps and flipped the crawfish over. It didn't move. It seemed content and bemused to stay and watch me try to extricate my foot and beloved flip-flop from the mud while peeing on myself. I pulled my foot free, but to my horror, the flip-flop wasn't on my foot. It had been sucked down into the muddy quagmire of the deceptive pond bottom. I couldn't see the hole where my foot had been because I had stirred up the mud getting my foot stuck and unstuck. Pee is still dribbling down my leg at this point. I gave up fighting the losing pee battle (double entendre). I sat on a rock, stuck both arms into the cold water to dig my Lance Armstrong special edition flip-flops out of the quicksand-like mire and let the urine flow. Like Kenny Rogers says, "You have to know when to hold 'em.....etc...."As I sat on the rock, pissing myself and blindly digging in the mud for the flip-flops I thought to myself, "was it worth it?" Was freeing those 20 or so little lives worth this private humiliation, not to mention the soiling of the flip-flop (and yoga pants)? And the answer is of course, "yes". I finally succeeded in getting the dirty filthy flip-flop out, finished peeing, picked up the empty smelly crawfish bag and walked back to my vehicle. Thank God I had some towels in my vehicle and that it was only a quarter-mile or so to my house. I got in the truck and the oddest mixture of smells surrounded me. One that most of us will (hopefully) never experience in a lifetime: the smell of crawfish and urine.

How did we not die?

Aug 4, 2009 My sister and I have commented to each other that we might be a little overprotective of our children. But, the longer I am a parent, am able to compare others' parenting styles to my own, and become more aware of my own mortality- the more I realize that we are actually probably as protective as any normal parent should be. We have begun to discuss how my father "parented" us, and it turns out we had many near death experiences under his care. My parents divorced when I was 7, so our summers after that were spent with him. We would leave my mom in about June and come back in August. Those were the dirtiest, hottest, and most unhealthy times I think we had all year! I drove past Paint Rock Road in North Austin today and it reminded me when my dad took Candace and I to Paint Rock, Texas. It is near San Angelo and probably 200 people live there. A river runs through and it had a rickety dam. We played in the river and had our fun jumping off of the dam. Candace did not jump out far enough one time and scraped her whole back down the dam. I would consider this a near death experience because she could have gotten a spinal cord or head injury. She said it hurt immensely, and I remember it looking bad. Dad just told her, "ahh, you're ok.!" Now, I say that to my kids when they really are ok, but I think that it warranted much more than that! I guess he was too busy drinking his Coors on the river bank with some other pwt that he befriended. Another time, we were at another lake and I was floating in an inner tube. I had my body through the middle and my legs down toward the bottom. I leaned over to paddle myself and flipped over and could not get my head out of the water. I was underwater for probably 20 seconds, about to drown, before someone pulled me up. But, rather than tell me not to do that again- what did it do? Did it again and almost drown again! My sister said that she almost drown, too in a lake, but thankfully my dad looked up at the right time and rescued her. And, my dad driving drunk with us all the time never ceases to amaze me. I cannot imagine what in his right mind made him think that it was ok to drink and drive with your children? Parents, watch your kids. Don't drink and drive with them. Do you want your kids, in their 30's, to look back and wonder how they survived in your care! Divorced parents, make sure you teach your kids what is acceptable behavior by the other parent and what is not! Make sure that they know- if something does not feel right or if you ALMOST DIE- that they need to tell you! It is tough growing up with one of your parents being a loser. My sisters and I are true survivors. I am going to start a foundation for people like us. Tell us your story, and you can join.

Lampasas Comes to Austin

Oct 16, 2009 This is an extra long note. If you don’t know my middle sister, Candace, you won’t think this is funny. If you do know her- you will be able to picture everything that is happening. She asked me to document our time on the phone yesterday. She had to take her daughter to the doctor here in Austin (red flag #1). Her daughter hurt her knee moving some furniture. I asked my sister whether they owned the little furniture mover thingies that you slide under the legs so even a frail granny could move them. She said no. I highly encouraged her to get some if she was going to force her sweet little daughter to do hard labor. So, I talked to her on Wednesday about this and she indicated that she was going to go through Marble Falls and up 71. Sounded good. Straight shot. I assumed she would mapquest it and be good to go. But, in the back of my mind, I had this feeling. I had this intuition. I felt like it was not going to work out so well. I just know Candace. She used to have trouble coming to my house when I lived up North and my house was 2 blocks off the road she would drive in on. She has lived in a small town for quite some time and has not had the opportunities to hone her big city drivin’ skills. So, I get this call from her at 1425 yesterday. She said, “Amanda, I needed to exit on 360 off 183, but I missed it. Those people would not let me over!!! Now I am on Mopac.” I instantly wanted to laugh, but I could hear the low level of panic simmering in her voice. So, I purposely started using a very calm voice. I said, “Candace, what part of Mopac are you on?” She said, (in a semi- high pitched voice), “Ummm, umm, Far West! I see Far West.” I said, “Ok, now tell me exactly where you were supposed to go?” Candace- “I just couldn’t get over! No one would let me over?!! Uhhh, I was supposed to go 360 to Bee Cave Road, left on Bee Cave, and then the office.” I said, “Don’t worry, you are not too far away, you have plenty of time to get there. 35 minutes is way more time than you need to get there. Keep going down Mopac, and exit 360. There is a right exit and a left exit, so you need to stay right (mistake #1) and go right. When you get on 360, you go a few miles until you see Bee Cave. Now, instead of taking a left like they told you- you need to go right. Because you are coming in from a different direction, go right. Real easy (red flag/mistake #2).” Candace- (breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating) “Ok. I think I need to call them and tell them I will be late.” Me- (almost yelling) “No! (yet remaining calm because I knew if she had ANYTHING else to distract her from the task, it would be disaster) You have time, don’t worry (WORRY!!! BE VERY WORRIED!)” I hung up the phone and continued folding one of 5 loads of clothes. It was 1435 when I hung up. My phone rang again at 1439. Guess who. The voice on the other end had an even higher pitch and she was speaking quickly, “Amanda, oh my God. Now I am on Cesar Chavez!! I was in the right lane (remember my mistake #1? Telling her to stay right?) and it was exit only and NO ONE would let me over! Why, oh why, won’t those people let me over!! What is wrong with them!!!!” Me-“ Candace. Candace!! Calm down (the normally jokey sister that would make fun of her at a moment’s notice had to leave the room. I could tell that panic attack/crap in her pants Candace was about to come out. I could feel the biggest laugh trying to burst from within me and I had to push it down. I was thinking that Candace should not be allowed to drive alone. But, then I realized that this was good experience for her and it was building up her skill base.) Ok, tell me if you see Lamar Boulevard. If you do, take a left on it.” Candace- “Ok, I’m, ummmm, I see it! (I could hear relief in her voice) Oh no! I can’t go right! (For Austinites that know, I forgot that you had to take the left and then right).” Now at this point I began to get the picture of how Candace looked in her car: She was sitting on the edge of her seat. Her back was straight and had not touched the seat since she missed the 360 exit. I imagine her gripping the steering wheel tightly and looking frantically back and forth (whether she needed to or not) for any sign of the way to go. I see her rocking back and forth, her teeth gritted, mouth slightly parted, and her eyes squinted. I can see her on the verge of panic as she had to drive with all the Austin people. By this time, Chelsi was awake (thank goodness, a calming force in the car. Someone else who could help navigate). Me- “oh, I forgot about that just keep going. You now need to look for first street. You see the lake beside you on the right, right?” Candace- “Yes (kind of tight squeal sound). What road??!!??” Me-“First Street.” (Time 1440) Candace- “I see San Antonio.” Me- “No, First Street and go right.” Candace-“ First Street! I see it! Which way? Which way?!!” Me- “Right (who gave this girl a driver’s license? Coach Mutschink?) You should be going over a bridge and look for a bat sculpture on the right and turn right.” Candace-“Water. Bridge. I see the bat!! I’m going right.” Me- “Now, keep going straight, you should see an Aussies and a Whataburger soon (mistake #3, forgot what road she got on.).” Candace-“No, no. Palmer Events Center. Palmer Events Center. Oh, I am going around a circle thing! (there is a weird traffic circle that is confusing to even Austinites. Great, I sent her down that road!)” Me- “it’s ok. Just go around the traffic circle (please pay attention to other cars so you don’t have a head on collision!!). You are going by Zilker Park. You should see a train track you will go under soon and get into the left lane. You can only go left or right, so go left.” Candace- (in a kind of dreamy voice) Oh, it’s a park. I see people over there! Train track! Oh my god, I am in the right lane!!! I can’t get over.” Me- “yes you can. Put on your blinker and try to get over.” Candace-“Hmm, no outlet.” Me-“Get in the left lane. You do not want to go into the Zach Scott Theater parking lot.” (time (1445). Candace-“Why won’t these people let me over?? (theme of the day. Note to self, teach Candace not to wait until the last minute to get over)” Me- “Just get over (and I wanted to yell that but calm, soothing sister was in charge).” Candace- “I got over! I am turning left!!!” Me- “Get into the right lane now and turn right on Barton Springs.” Candace-“I am turning.” Me- “Now go until you come to a big curve to the left and you will go under a big road. Which is Mopac. Now, when you get around the curve, pay close attention to the lanes and where it says you can turn. One is a turnaround, one is a left turn only, and another, you can go straight. GO STRAIGHT!!!” Candace-“I see the light and I see the turn lanes. Oh God, which lane do I get in!! Oh, I see the straight one. Do I go straight?” Me- “Yes (good Lord, how many times must I say it!!!). Go straight and do not turn until you get to 360. You will go right.” Candace –(I am having to do all this talking in real time with her. With each new landmark, I had to reassure her to continue on. Time 1450). I see a light. Do I turn here? Chelsi, what is that road? Barton something. Oooo, there is a garage sale (she is losing focus. I must bring her back)” Me- “NO do not turn there, go straight!” Candace- “Ok, we are going through the light. Oh, look over there Chelsi, there is that exit we should have taken off Mopac (uhh, yea!). All the other cars are taking this other little road! Oh, I better get over!” Me-“ Yea, that goes to the mall! Get over now and go straight.” Candace-“(excitedly) I see a road. Chelsi what is that? 360? Yea!! And I go right?” Me- Yes, go right (time 1455). Again, Candace almost has to turn into the mall parking lot because she is in the turn only lane. I assure her to keep going straight until she comes to Bee Cave. I thought we were smooth sailing. Me-“Tell me exactly what your original directions said. Have Chelsi read them.” Chelsi-“183 to 360. Bee Cave road and take a left. 5656 Westlake on the left” Me- (in a very direct and slow manner) “When you get to Bee Cave, you are going to go RIGHT on it.” Candace- “Right? I thought left?” Me- “you are coming from the opposite direction, so you will go right.” Candace- “Ok, so right on Bee Cave and right to the doctor’s office?” Me- (I wanted to yell this out and laugh, but I said it calmly) “No, you will still go left off Bee Cave to the doctor’s office, but go RIGHT off 360 to Bee Cave.” (Time 1458). Candace-“ I see Bee Cave (she said with a relieved sigh). I am turning. Macaroni Grill? HEB?” Me- (with eyes rolling and the laugh inching off the end of my tongue) “Candace, you turned into the shopping center, turn around and get out.” She spent about 3 minutes trying to find her way out. She was turning here and there, going to and fro. I hope we never put her in a paper bag. Candace-“I am back to where I can get out now. I am turning onto Bee Cave now.” Me-“ Tell me the address again. Ok. Now I want Chelsi – NOT YOU- to look at the building numbers and find where you need to go.” Candace- “there it is!!!! There it is!!! Oh my God, we made it.” Me- “Call me BEFORE you get back onto Bee Cave and I will tell you how to get out of there.” She did call me and it turns out that she should have gone through Marble Falls because Bee CAVe road crosses 71 and it would have taken her directly to the doctor’s office. She called me later that day gratefull that I answered my phone. She said if I had not, she would have had a heart attack. I don’t think she was lying, either. Now I just pray that the MRI my niece has to get is at the Seton Burnet, because if it is in Austin, I will have to take off work to go get her and take here where she needs to go.

HEB Training Pants. Thanks for the Memories

November 17, 2009 I wanted to give you a personal letter on my experience with the HEB Training Pants. I have been using HEB diaper products for the past 5 years. We were pleased with their performance with my older child and used them with our youngest child. When potty training time came, I hoped my daughter would train as fast as my son did. We never got the privilege of using the HEB training pants with him because he trained in a weekend. I don’t know why all the experts say girls train faster than boys, because we are on the 4th package of training pants for her. She has teased us with potty training, acting all high and mighty on her potty, get us all excited about the prospect of no more diapers, and then just shatter the dream when we realize that she has to go through a whole PROCESS to train. I mean come on. I did not expect this to be a long drawn out THING. But, that girl was a handful from day one, why should this be different? When I realized that we were in full blown potty training, I slipped into my trendy purple velour jumpsuit (low rise, of course), pulled my hair back into a sleek high ponytail, painted on a nice rosy cheek, threw on my running shoes, put on my oversized sunglasses, waved goodbye to my happy suburban family, and excitedly drove my decked out mini van (oh yea, with all the bells and whistles) to the nearest HEB. As I strolled into the store, I could hear Stayin’ Alive playing in my head. I walked confidently to the beat toward the biggest money maker of the store, the diaper section (after the meat section of course. Texans love their meat). I weighed my options, less expensive HEB brand that has always done me right, or more expensive, probably the same quality, name brands? When I first saw the HEB Training Pants, excitement welled within me. It put my two favorite things together, Clifford the Big Red Dog AND ruffles. I never thought in my lifetime that someone would combine the two and create such fabulousness. I cannot put into words the excitement and pride I felt over the prospect of outfitting my daughter in such a fashionable training pant. Fashion is a big part of my life and I make sure that my family and I are always dressed to the nines. I believe that we should dress all the way down to our undergarments in something awesome. Because I believe that if we feel good from the innermost layer out- we will have a better outlook, feel better about ourselves, and people will know that we mean business about fashion. Those are the kind of important values I am trying to instill in my children. I felt that the Clifford the Red Dog ruffly training pants would further my fashion mission. After a couple of days using the training pants, my happiness quickly subsided. I found a flaw in your almost perfect design. The ruffles along leg hole openings turned out to be a problem. The ruffle was stiff, not soft and supple like I had envisioned. It rubbed against my daughter’s inner thighs, creating a weeping, red, open area. Unlike most women’s problem of inner thigh rub (ITR) due to weight gain, my daughter’s problem was not due to abnormally large thighs. She has normal toddler thighs, no excessive rolls like you see on some kids. She can wear normal toddler pants/shorts without incident or excessive tightness in the legs. It pains me to say this, but I think the most awesome, perfect, fashionable HEB Training Pants aren’t so. The super stiff, thigh rubbing ruffle is such a major flaw in your design, that I must (one lone tear slowly falling down cheek)………buy a BRAND NAME. I never thought I would have to do it, but I must. It pains me to break off this long term relationship with you. You have been so good to me. We had some great times together. You went through good times (#1) and bad (#2) with my kids and I. I know you will research the problem and correct it, but for us- it will be too late. By the time the new design reaches the shelves, I know (hope) that my daughter will be potty trained. Thank you for everything. Thanks for the memories.

Kindergarten Vampires

I admit it. I am scared of the dark at age 34. I am scared of monsters in my closet, scared of something reaching up and out the toilet when I am peeing in the middle of the night, scared of zombie children/babies- pretty much anything a typical 5-9 year old fears. I know this irrational fear that has followed me my whole life is thanks to my father and older cousins and friends. I can remember at about age 4 or 5, sitting in our trashy single wide trailer in Odessa, Texas with my father watching a vampire movie late at night. I remember all the lights being out, with only the TV glow illuminating the room. It was about a young boy who became a vampire. The only part that I remember that still haunts me to this day was the younger brother who woke up to tapping on his window (let me tell, you I am scared right now. My heart is beating faster. I am on the second story of my own house and am about to abandon this blog now because I am scared being up here in the dark) and when he opened the curtains his vampire brother was floating outside. Good Lord, I am scared now!!! So, thanks, Dad, for thinking a 5 year old could handle that! I had older cousins that would tell me the Bloody Mary story every summer. They had one of those old creaky houses in the slums of San Angelo. I just knew I was going to die there. I remember being at one of my mom's friend's house and they had kids around my age and older. They kept talking about hands that might reach out of the walls and grab me. I can still feel that uneasiness where you cannot relax. I was about 7 when that happened. I know all of that early trauma scarred me for life. I am trying to be very careful with what my kids watch and what they believe. However, I found out my attempts were failing one night when Ray was gone. So, my son has started refusing to turn the bathroom light on by himself. He always wants us to do it now. The bathroom that he has a problem with is right off the living room (what a stupid place for a bathroom) and you can see into it from one of our chairs when the door is open (who designed this house?). Well, this night when Ray was gone, my son could not be coaxed to turn the light on by himself. He would walk over, glance around the corner into the laundry room (another joke of a room. If only I had known that a big laundry room was important before I bought this house), pause, and then sprint back to me. After he slammed the laundry room door shut and did the walk, glance, pause sprint routing about three times, I decided that in order to quit getting interrupted during Celebrity Rehab, I would turn the light on for him. So, he does his business and I start trying to find out why he was so scared. He finally told me that there was something in the laundry room (again, my heart rate is going up now). As soon as he said this, I could feel my chest tighten with fear. I calmly asked him what was in there. He said, it was a little thing that had big ears and big feet. I started to breathe more rapidly when he said that. I imagined some sort of Gremlin (capitalized because it was from the movie Gremlins). I imagined it attacking me as soon as the door cracked. Perhaps it would reach it's bony little Gremlin arms with its long creaky fingers through the small crack in the door and grab my ankle. Perhaps, like on Pet Semetery, it would take a razor blade like evil zombie kid (Gage) and slice my achilles tendon in half. Perhaps it would jump out of the door and attack my face like The Blob. With all of this running through my head, I managed to blurt out crap like, "There is nothing scary in our house. You are safe here. There is nothing in there. Come on and we will look." With my son on my heels, I bravely strode to the laundry room door. Though not really in slow motion, I imagined the my hand moving as if through honey toward the knob. I heard intensity building scary music in my head that would more than likely culminate in a loud crash as I was attacked by the monster/Gremlin/vampire/zombie. I opened the door and thankfully I lived. My son pointed at his monster, and it was a paint can on the floor with a pair of my husband's shoes perched appropriately in front of it. That is what is all came down to. Us leaving our crap in the floor (once again).

I can't be bored

Remember back in the old days when the only other thing you had to entertain you at home was a tv or a nintendo (the first version)? Remember when you were driving short or long distances, how you just pondered or listened to the radio? Remember when you were waiting somewhere you would just wait, or if you really planned ahead, read a book? Those days are long gone. I have come to realize that we cannot tolerate boredom, silence, "nothing to do," waiting, or just driving. Now, the second I get in my car, I feel like I need to call someone to fill my time as I drive (even if it is 10 minutes). It is like I cannot tolerate the thought of doing nothing while I drive. When I am at home, if I am not cleaning, visiting with my family, or doing something house related, I feel like I need to be on the internet learning about all the world has to offer. When did we all decide that we wanted to know what everyone was doing ever second of the day? When did we come to care that ______ is stressed, ______ is about to drink a glass of wine, ______ is going to the gym, _________ has gas today, _________ is lovin' her man? I don't know. But we do! We all have this uncontrollable to desire to connect with others, but only in the digital and/or cyber world. And texting. Good lord almighty the texting. I hate texting and I have it blocked on my phone. If you REALLY need to tell me something, call me. I don't get the texting and why all of you feel the need to do it constantly, I will never know. Yesterday at Employee Health, I wanted to rip the head off of a nurse that was texting. It would not have been so bad if I did not have to hear her beep beeping beeping as she typed, the musical number that played when she sent it, and the even more annoying musical number that played when her reply came in. I bet she sent and received 20 messages in 10 minutes. What in the world did she and that person have to talk about? And what do you want to bet, the person she was texting was probably a nurse over on the floor who should have been working? Don't get it. I know all of you love it and send about 10,000 texts per month, but I don't get it. I like you, my friends, but I don't need to be connected THAT much to you! So, I will connect with you when I drive home and am bored. I will connect with you on Facebook and Myspace every couple of days. But, beyond that- I don't want to hear from you that much!

Rules for Sex Talk

Talking about sexual conquests is not something I do. I mean, all I would have to do is go down the stairs to conquer the beast in my house. But, I know many people enjoy talking about all they have been doing, how great it was, and how much they want to do it again. And, as long as it is not too graphic, then have at it. But, what I don't agree with are people that discuss sexual inadequacies in their partners, below the belt abnormalities, or really anything related to sex that would embarrass the other person. I discussed this very matter with a friend that has no problem discussing every embarrassing detail (related to the other person) in regards to sex. I tried explaining why I disagree with her, but she did not get it or see a problem with discussing such things. I think I finally got through to her when I said that sex was an intimate thing between two people and those types of things should not be discussed. I mean, when someone has sex with you, there should be some sort of unspoken understanding that you are not going to discuss embarrassing details about the situation. I gave my friend a few rules regarding sexual behavior, so I thought I would pass them onto the rest of you.

1. If you have sex with a friend in your circle, you are only allowed to discuss details of your sex life with the express permission of the other person. Preferably, before the sex happens, you must discuss and document what can and cannot be discussed. This must be typed onto legal paper and signed by both parties.
2. If you have a one night stand with a friend in your circle, you are not to tell anyone else in the circle about this. If it was a one night stand, it means that one or both of you do not want it to happen again, are embarrassed that you even did it, and you can under no circumstances tell anyone else. If you do, there will be lots of awkardness within the group.
3. If you have sex with a friend in your circle, you may never have any discussions with other friends that involve length (inches, cm, mm, feet, meters, km) , length (seconds, minutes, or hours), performance, noises made, phrases said, and anything else that could be detrimental to the self esteem of the other person. Even if the other person does not know these things were discussed with other circle friends, you cannot do it.
4. If you have sex with someone that lives out of your town BUT has occasional contact with anyone in your circle (or with your family), or the potential to come in contact with your circle, see #'s 1-3.
5. If you have sex with someone that will never come in contact with your friends or family, you may talk about whatever you want (I will openly judge you if you do, though). Just know that by doing this in front of your friends/acquaintances, your liklihood of having sex with those that hear you saying these things about another person will greatly decrease. No one wants to be discussed in a negative light when it comes to sex. Those hearing you discuss these things will probably not want to have sex with you because they do not want to be the butt of your jokes.

More Memories

During the summers, my middle sister and I would stay with my dad. Three main things come to mind when I think about our summers with him: Coca Cola, beer, and cigarettes. Besides us (I think) those were my dad's favorite things in life. He smoked like a chimney. This was back when people did not know how socially unacceptable it was to smoke in front of your kids. I remember being trapped in his old clunker of a car (he got about 4 a year and they were always pieces of crap) with the windows up and the whole car filled with smoke. I remember being so relieved when he would crack the window (sometimes the little bat wing window) and the smoke would go rushing out. Man, if it was in this day- my mom could have had him in court ordering him not to smoke in front of us! Not in the 80's. Smoke it up parents, smoke it up. My mom once told me that the minute she got us back home, she would immediately wash all of our clothes because they reeked of smoke. We usually stayed at my grandma's (the Holy Roller I wrote about a couple of weeks ago). Things were always the same when we pulled up. Weeds crotch high in places, a run down chicken coop that may or may not have had chickens, a broken down Gremlin and Pacer in the yard, at least one additional broken down car in the yard each visit, and a trailer house in the yard that my dad lived in on occasions. I remember one year my dad found a baby racoon and named it Rocky. He tied some thick wire between 2 trees, put a leash on Rocky, and clipped it around the wire so he could run back and forth. I have not idea why he kept this racoon. It bit my sister once. Thankfully, she did not get rabies as far as I know. I remember being so dirty during those summers with my dad. I remember before going to bed each night having to dust our feet off before we crawled between the sheets. I am so grossed out by that because I imagine our feet were black as tar and we thought dusting them off was enough! Why weren't we wearing slippers? The room we slept in (called the "back room", which was about 4 feet from the "front room") had 2 old timey iron beds in them. For some reason, they were never all the way up against the wall, so there was about a one foot crack between the wall and bed. I used to make Candace sleep over on that side. She was so scared that something was going to reach up and grab her in that crack. I am sure that is why I did not want to sleep over there either! That room was always packed with crap. The room was about 15 feet wide by 20 feet long and there was only about 5 feet by 10 feet of really usable space because of the clutter. That place would definitely be a candidate for the show Clean House. I am a pretty healthy person, and I attribute my excellent immune system to all those summers in the dirt fest.

From 01/2006: The Picked Sausage Deceit

Before you read this, I must say that my taste buds have changed since I wrote this in 2006. I no longer crave this, but I still think the blog is hilarious.

Because this blog in public, I have been debating for days as to whether I would post this. My embarrassment for the following confession has almost made me back out. But I must. I must post this for all the people who, like me, are deceivers. This is for all those who bear the shame that I endure every few months. This is for: the pickled sausage cravers. I confessed my love of pickled sausage to a group at work and to my husband (we have been together 13 years and married 8.5). I love pickled sausage more than any other food. I have always had an obsession with tangy, twangy, hot, spicy food. There are times that I absolutely crave them. I have a favorite brand, which have about 3 types that I enjoy. I know the convenience stores that carry them. I know which stores carry which type. After the last tangy morsel, the juice left in the bottom is like my dessert. Just thinkin of it makes my mouth water. I love them. However, much to my dismay- my love of pickled sausage is not socially acceptable. The pleasant smell I so enjoy, is pungent the noses of most people. My husband can barely stand to be in the car with me when I eat, what he calls, the stink weiny. I really began to suspect that only a few people in the world were like me when I started getting questions at the convenience store counters from the cashiers. At least 10 times, I have had them ask me (with noses wrinkled, like they had a turd on their upper lips), 'are those good?'. The first time I saw the expression on their face and the disgusted tone in their voice, I knew. I knew that it could never be known to these people that I was the consumer of this weiny from hell. So, my deceit began at one of the Diamond Shamrocks (now Valero) I frequented. When asked the 'are those good?' question, I began telling them that they were not for me. Many times I told them, in a quick and disgusted manner, that they were not for me, but for my grandpa (God rest his soul). Many times, I would simply look at them with a look of surprise, as if to say 'you think I would eat the crap?'. I have to tell the lies most every time. People were so turned off by them, that I could not allow them to think that I would put them in my body. Thankfully, I have discovered that Wal Mart sells them in a gallon jar for about five dollars. I feel liberated that I can go to the checkout with a basket full of groceries and the jar just blends in. I like the fact that they probably think I am buying the big jar for the convenience store or dive bar that I may own. Why else would anyone in their right mind buy a gallon jar of vomit in casings? Because I need to replenish my stock every few weeks, I have to go to a different Wal Mart the each time. I cannot have those Wal Mart checkers judging me. I will say, that my consumption over the past year has decreased. My shame overwhelms me at times, so I simply do not indulge. I just wanted to get this out in the open so that other closet-stink-weiny-eaters do not have to think that they are alone. You are not alone. We are all in this world, packed together like pickled meat in a casing.

From 01/07/07: I was so cool

When I was in high school, I was friends with everyone. The popular kids were ok with me and the bad kids liked me alright. My friends were the ones that were not overly concerned with fashion or trends. We just wanted to have a good laugh. We got into our share of things, but most of us just never got caught. Half of my friends were really into drugs and partying, some pretended to be, and then there was me. I did my share of drinking, but I did not indulge in the drugs. I had no desire to do so. I was one of "smart" girls in school. I made good grades and school was pretty easy for me. So, needless to say, I am not sure why some of those other guys were friends with me. Anyways, I had a couple of rather worldly friends -the ones that came to Austin a lot, had the wild spiky/colored hair, listened to club music. These guys were the exception in my school in a town of 2000. I am sure everyone in Austin was like these guys, but in Mason, they were quite a site. So, I looked up to these guys at the time. They were different. They did not care what anyone else thought. Well, as many of you know, I have naturally curly hair. In high school, it was exceptionally curly and tangly. My worldly friends gave me the nickname "Nappy." By the end of high school, everyone called me that. I felt included by having a nickname. I felt special. I loved that nickname so much, I had it put on my class ring. It was not until years later that I learned that "Nappy" is not always used in a nice way. In Mason, there was really no one that could have really told me what it meant. I know that it can simply mean tightly curled hair (which is what mine was), but it was later that I learned it could also mean tightly curled, unwashed, and uncombed. So, when my children look at my class ring, I will have to explain how sheltered one can be in a small town. I am just glad I did not like the word "dildo," because I did not know what that word meant at the time, either.

From 01/25/08: Fruity Good Deed of the Day

Those of you that work with me have probably already heard this story, so this is for the rest of you guys.
I work as a supervisor in the operating room. Part of my job is to try to keep the surgeons happy and wanting to return to our facility. I pretty much just put out fires all day. So, last week one of our esteemed surgeons got very angry with us over instrument issues. She was so mad that she did not even want to talk to me about it. Usually she is very good about vocalizing her concerns and how we could have done better. The reason she was mad was legit, so there was not much more that I could say except "sorry." She vowed to cancel all of her cases in the coming week. Well, she only cancelled a few and returned to us on Thursday. I went to the room to check on her and how things were going in her room. When I entered, she was in a great mood. She stated that she had a patient in the hospital who (for some reason or another) had been there a long time and had been in the same clothes. I guess her family could not make it home or did not have a car or something. The surgeon said she was a upset because she was going to bring this patient a tshirt since she had no other clothes. As I left the room, I realized that I had a great opportunity to do some PR with this doctor and maybe score some points for the hospital. I was trying to figure out who in our department might have some of the many hospital tshirts that they give out so that I could give it to the doctor for her patient. I remembered that the ER always has used clothes on hand to give to the patients that need them. I guess like people whose clothes have to cut off of them or homeless people that need some new duds. So, I called the ER charge nurse and she agreed to let me have a tshirt. As we sifted through their stash, i finally found one that was clean, did not have holes, and said "Woody's Longboards" on the front. Cool, a surfboard shirt would work. I knew the patient would be grateful and the doctor would be happy that we listened to her! I imagined the doctor commenting on how thoughtful our department was and how she could tell that we really put the patients first. I envisioned her embracing me and thanking me for going out of my way for her. (Heee, Heee, Heee, the PR machine at work). As I approached the operating room, I decided to check the back of the shirt in case there were any gun shot holes or anything gross stuck to it. To my surprise, the first thing I noticed were a HUGE pair of oversized breasts. They were on the body of woman on her knees in the sand on a beach. She had her head thrown back and mouth seductively parted. She was sitting on her calves and had her back arched so that her bottom and breasts stuck out even further. To top it off, in big bold letters above the porn star was the phrase "Nice Papayas." I was so mad because I was trying to do something nice and score a few brownie points. Instead, I brought her a shirt some trashy guy would wear! So, what did I do? I marched right into that room and told the doctor about how I was really trying to do something nice and help her out. I explained how I was trying to help out a needy patient. When I showed the doctor the tshirt, I was not sure what kind of a reaction I would get (you never know). She started laughing and said that the patient would love it- and she did. So, if you are in my hospital and see a lady (who knows how old she is. I would love to imagine that she was about 90) in a completely inappropriate shirt, you can thank me. I am all about promoting sexuality in our patients.

From 02/15/08: 2 More Hair Blogs

Hair Blog 3 Category: Life
This is another hair related blog about my husband. This is the second in a series of who knows how many blogs about his hair problems. For those of you new to my blogs, I will be put the first one about his back hair at the end of this. Ray has always had trouble growing facial hair. When we were younger, he could not really grow much at all. It was very patchy. He could never have survived in the 70's and 80's. He would have been ridiculed right out of the Tom Selleck (however you spell that) fan club. As he has gotten older, he has become more able to grow some hair, but it always seemed a little sparce and patchy to me. I was never the biggest fan of the facial hair, but it was his life long dream to have some. Heidi asked me one day if I liked the facial hair and I told her not really. Then I explained the reason I could tolerate it. See, every month or two, Ray gets a wild hair and decides he is going to grow a mustache or a goatee. Sometimes the goatee is just on the chin and sometimes it is one of those that connects to a mustache. For the first week or two, Ray is in heaven. He spends a great deal of time grooming it, petting it, and admiring it. It is like his own little baby. At about day 13 of the growth, Ray comes downstairs after his shower and he has shaved it all off. When I ask him why he shaved it, the answer (for the past 10 years) is the same. "I was trimming it up with a razor, shaving around it, and I messed it up." EVERY TIME. And, if I paid more attention to the hair, I would notice that for a few days before the complete shave, the mustache and/or goatee would start getting progressively smaller. Each day, as he would try to groom it, he would mess it up a little more and have to make it smaller until, finally day 13 arrives. So, I told Heidi that the reason I could tolerate the not so great facial hair is because Ray would only maintain it for a little while and by the time I really got sick of it, he would butcher it. Then, I would have a few weeks of cleanly shaven husband until he decided to start over again. The other day I was out with Heidi and one guy was teasing his very hairy friend who was in his 30's. The non hairy friend was commenting that all the 18 year old girls probably liked his with his great mustache/goatee because the only thing that their male peers could grow was a "sleazestache." When I heard that, I instantly knew that that was what Ray had. My man is the sleazestache king. As I discussed this with him, he vehemently denied this. He insisted that his mustache was full and that only one part was sparce. He said that he used to not have the mustache and goatee connection because the hair did not grow right below the corners of his mouth. Now, he says he only has that problem (slightly) on the left side. I asked him about any other issues with his facial hair that he would like to divulge. He said that when he does grow the complete mustache that connects to the goatee (by what I call the hair bridge), that the left side will lay down very nicely, but that the right side sticks out like porcupine quills. He did get a little defensive when I tried to tell him that he could not really grow the facial hair. Ray told me recently that he remembered exactly when he had the best goatee ever. He said it was before Ozzfest a few years back. He went on to describe the fullness and length of the goatee. I laughed for 10 minutes over the fact that he could remember that with such detail. That wonder-goatee etched a memory in his brain that brought sheer joy to his face. I can just imagine that that memory will be in the top 3 of things he remembers in life, behind the births of his 2 children. I might even venture to say that it might even creep into spot number 2 depending upon which child is driving him nuts in a day. The only thing I remember about the uber goatee is that he could not keep his hands off of it. It was almost like he had his own little pet stuck to his chin. Well, Ray and I looked for a picture of the greatest goatee ever and I found it in my July 2005 folder on the computer. When I double clicked on picture and it popped up, I instantly started laughing out loud. I had to stifle my laugh since both kids were asleep. As soon as I saw the pic, I started to cry because I was laughing so hard. I even had snot bubbles coming out of my nose, I was laughing so hard. That goatee looked like a hairy horseshoe on his chin or maybe even the lips of a hairy, gross smiley face. Ray insisted that it was how goatees looked, but I told him that i had never seen one that looked like that. And, when I googled that, there was not one goatee that looked like that one did. I roared when I realized that when Ray thought about the best goatee ever, he thought of this picture. If you check out my pictures, look under "family" album and you will see it. I think he will be in denial about this forever. So, I will just deal with the 15 weeks of crappy sleazestache and the horseshoe of hair on his chin.
Back Hair Blog from May 2007
As you get older, I think that hair becomes more of an issue. Some of you may have read my previous blog related to chin hairs Once again, a hair issue has sparked my creativity. When Ray and I started dating in 1993, I was 18 and he was 19. At that time, Ray had hair on his legs, head, arms, and a small patch on his chest. No big deal. I would say in about 2000, 3 years into marriage, I began to notice that he was getting a little thin on the top of his head. He grew more chest hair, and he started to have a some hair on his back. The back hair was nothing that he could not manage himself with a razor once a month or so. He would mainly focus on it in the summer when we might go tubing or swimming with friends. As the years passed, the hair on his head decreased dramatically, he grew a lot of chest hair, and the back hair, oh the back hair. The upper torso nuisance has grown into a calamity. The once a month manscaping turned into a weekly thing. It is no longer something that he can take care of on his own. It has become a couple issue. The hair has gotten to the point that he can no longer just shave the top and be ok. Now, I have to be intimately involved in the care and grooming of my husband. I have noticed that over the past year, he has started to complain more about the hair and the fact that people at his job comment on the monkey crawling out of the top of his shirt. He frequently mentions that I need to help him manage the hair. He has begun to brush the shoulder hair into a nice 1970's Eric Estrada type do. The hair has also started to creep down the back sides of his upper arms. Now, that is especially disturbing to me. I remember in one of the towns in which I lived, maybe Stephenville, seeing a super white trash guy in his 50's who would always wear a sleeveless tshirt to the bar. He was greasy looking and looked like he smelled. He had so much fur on his shoulders and the back of his arms that we said he was wearing a sweater. That is what I imagine when I see that back-of-upper-arm hair on my sweet husband (who is not white trash.ok, maybe a little). I cannot believe that he now sports a hairy sweater vest. We have been married for 10 years now. Last week, I knew the magic was over when Ray was standing in the big garden tub of our home with me using clippers (yes, like you would use on a dog) to shave his back hair (and arm and shoulders and flanks and upper crack region). He was wearing shorts, but I had him bend over slightly, "like you would do at work, " I told him, so that I could also clip the hair that would show above his scrub pants. You know the honeymoon is over when you reflect upon your manscaping couple time.

From 10/08/08: My favorite sale

Those of you that know me well know how excited I get about this children's consignment sale we have twice a year here called Mommy and Me. Last spring I wrote a blog about my excitement over this sale and my strategies to get the best deals. This year was a much less hyped situation for me. Last year, I was a regular volunteer which meant I could shop at 3p, a whole hour after those damn super volunteers got to shop. Well, let me just say that in the weeks after last spring's sale, the HEAD HONCHO over the whole sale emailed me PERSONALLY (oh yeah) to ask if I wanted to be a super volunteer. That is right. I impressed them so much during my four hours as a regular volunteer, that they wanted me back. I was quite worried that they would not let me back in the first place because I turned some people away when I volunteered because they did not have hangers on their items. I was worried that because I was super bitch and caused the sale to lose that business- that they would not let me come back as a volunteer. Well, I know that my attention to detail (yeah right), my great customer service (ehh, maybe), my sweet disposition (total BS), my love of others (hmmm), my need to commune with other mommies (yeah, not so much) was surely the reason they wanted me. So this year as a super volunteer I had to volunteer a total 12 hours to get back 75% of what I sold and to get to shop at 2pm. That was why I was so much less hyped this year. I knew that there were a limited of super volunteers so there would be a lot less people I would have to mow over in my pursuit of the perfect deal. I roped Ray into taking 4 hours of my shifts. He agreed. He never knew when I started this 3 years ago that it would turn into such an obsession. He asked me if I was going to get rid of the things that did not sell this time around. I said "Hell NO! I will keep it and sell it at the next one." He wondered about the things that would be rejected by the inspectors. Hell No! If it is a stain and I can get it out, I will sell it next time! What is wrong with him? This is a lifestyle choice of frugality. If he is not with me, then he is against me. He does not understand the incredible deals that I yearn for. He does not appreciate that I can get a complete Gymboree pants and shirt outfit for $4 dollars! Where else on Earth can you find that? This is a little piece of Heaven for me, right in Palmer Auditorium. Yes, it means that I have totes and totes full of clothes in my garage. It means that I have to inspect every detail of these clothes for stains, tears, and wear before I can sell them (those inspectors are brutal!). It means that I will spend at least a week (or more) of my time preparing my items for sale. It means that I actually have to iron the clothes to make them presentable for the sale. It means that I have to spend HOURS cleaning every piece of baby equipment to sell (I spent 1.5 hours cleaning every nook and cranny of my stroller travel system). Yes, it means I have to volunteer with these other hard core mommies. Yes, it means I have to sort, organize, and arrange things (and my close friends know how unorganized I am). This lifestyle is not for the faint of heart, but they payoff is great. While I do not know how much I made, yet, (will give an update on that later) here is the breakdown of what I got. I spent a total of $240. $18 of that was taxes. For my daughter, I got 37 items. Most of which were complete outfits (pants and shirts), one Halloween costume ($6), and one purse ($2) and I spent a total of $110 on her. For my son, I got a total of 15 items and spent $68 on him. My daughter needed much more. I also bought him about 8 books, a puzzle, a lacing game, a Thomas something or other, and probably some other things for about $40. As you can see, I got a lot for my money. Hopefully I will make back at least half of that on what I sell. This obsession of mine will continue. For at least the next 4 years, I think my garage will be packed full of crap that I will eventually sell. Sorry Ray.

From 05/18/07: Another Hair Related Blog

May 18, 2007 - Friday
Another Hair Related Blog Category: Life
As you get older, I think that hair becomes more of an issue. Some of you may have read my previous blog related to chin hairs Once again, a hair issue has sparked my creativity. When Ray and I started dating in 1993, I was 18 and he was 19. At that time, Ray had hair on his legs, head, arms, and a small patch on his chest. No big deal. I would say in about 2000, 3 years into marriage, I began to notice that he was getting a little thin on the top of his head. He grew more chest hair, and he started to have a some hair on his back. The back hair was nothing that he could not manage himself with a razor once a month or so. He would mainly focus on it in the summer when we might go tubing or swimming with friends. As the years passed, the hair on his head decreased dramatically, he grew a lot of chest hair, and the back hair, oh the back hair. The upper torso nuisance has grown into a calamity. The once a month manscaping turned into a weekly thing. It is no longer something that he can take care of on his own. It has become a couple issue. The hair has gotten to the point that he can no longer just shave the top and be ok. Now, I have to be intimately involved in the care and grooming of my husband. I have noticed that over the past year, he has started to complain more about the hair and the fact that people at his job comment on the monkey crawling out of the top of his shirt. He frequently mentions that I need to help him manage the hair. He has begun to brush the shoulder hair into a nice 1970's Eric Estrada type do. The hair has also started to creep down the back sides of his upper arms. Now, that is especially disturbing to me. I remember in one of the towns in which I lived, maybe Stephenville, seeing a super white trash guy in his 50's who would always wear a sleeveless tshirt to the bar. He was greasy looking and looked like he smelled. He had so much fur on his shoulders and the back of his arms that we said he was wearing a sweater. That is what I imagine when I see that back-of-upper-arm hair on my sweet husband (who is not white trash.ok, maybe a little). I cannot believe that he now sports a hairy sweater vest. We have been married for 10 years now. Last week, I knew the magic was over when Ray was standing in the big garden tub of our home with me using clippers (yes, like you would use on a dog) to shave his back hair (and arm and shoulders and flanks and upper crack region). He was wearing shorts, but I had him bend over slightly, "like you would do at work, " I told him, so that I could also clip the hair that would show above his scrub pants. You know the honeymoon is over when you reflect upon your manscaping couple time.

from 04/07/07: Crawfish and Urine

April 7, 2007 - Saturday
Crawfish and Urine Current mood: hyper Category: Life
This is quite possibly the funniest story I have read in years. This story, true story, was written by one of my very best friends here in Austin. Don't be discouraged by the length, it is worth the read. You will see why l like her so much.

I was in the local grocery store the other day, shopping for all the things a middle-age semi-vegetarian white woman might shop for. I was leaving the seafood dept. after having bought some fresh non-farmed fish when I saw a display stand in the middle of the deptartment. It was filled with ice and what looked to be about 700 very cold and nearly frozen to death crawfish (seems crawfish boilin' season has arrived). They looked up at me (from what would surely be an icy death bed at some point) with their little black beady eyes and raised their tiny red pinchers towards me. It was as if they were saying "pick me, help me, save me, love me". I was their God. I immediately knew what I had to do. I got a plastic bag and tongs and proceeded to fill it up with crawfish. It was very heart-wrenching to decide which ones would have a chance at freedom and which ones would be left to face either a slow cold or very hot boiling death. I empathized with Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice" and knew how tough a choice she had to make. But it had to be done. Saving some was better than none.
I chose the larger more active ones. I figured they would have a fighting chance once I released them into my neighborhood pond. Some trendy woman stopped and watched what I was doing. She said to me "I see you are picking out the larger and most alive ones. Are they the best for eating?" Shamefully I said "yes". Hoping that would be the end of the conversation. She then continued on to ask me how to cook the crawfish. I loathed myself as I found myself explaining how one concocts a "crawfish boil". There is a part of me new enough to this "not eating my fellow creatures that have been shot full of growth hormones and antibiotics and fed a non-natural diet thing" to where I could not bring myself to tell her I was buying these poor little bastards to set them free. I guess I didn't want to appear as some kooky tree hugger or militant vegan. So I lied. Finally she moved on.
After filling the bag I took it to the seafood counter to be weighed and tagged for checkout. The associate was going to put ice in the bag and gave me a funny look when I vehemently refused it. I checked out and as soon as I got out of the store, tore some holes in the plastic bag so they could get some oxygen. I put the bag of "soon to be free" crawfish in the front seat of my car because it was sunny and would warm them up. I went back to the store to look at some rose bushes that were on display. When I got back to the car some of the more daring and active crawfish had made a break for it through the air holes in the plastic bag. Some were under the seat, some had even managed to wedge themselves into a pocket on the door where I keep CDs.
Not having any tongs, I steeled myself to the task at hand. I knew a crawfish pinch wasn't that bad, but nonetheless I was going to avoid it if I could. I plucked them from the CD pocket and from under the seat. They fought me valiantly. I guess the warmth of the car had really invigorated them.
I drove to the small pond in my Texas hill country subdivision to release them. It is about a 12 mile drive from the store. Somewhere along the way I felt I needed to pee. Not a big urge. Just that somewhere the brain is starting to think about it. I figured I would just wait until I got home, it wouldn't take long to release my little survivors. I got to the pond and took the plastic bag full of now very much alive crawfish and proceeded to strategically place them in the pond. I didn't want to dump them all in one place for fear none would survive if a predator found them quickly. So I walked up and down the bank kerplunking them here and there. Some really took off, scooting backwards into the depths of the pond. Others just kinda hung out where I had put them. They were free again. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, they were free at last. They were beautiful, the sun glistened down through the clear water illuminating their bright red shells against the calichi bottom of the pond.
That is, except for one. As I walked up and down the shore of the pond admiring my handiwork and thinking, "my what a good person I am", I spied one little fellow on his back. Maybe he was the one idiot in the bunch. Because as we all know, there IS always one in a the crowd, isn't there? I watched to see if the idiot crawfish was going to be able to flip himself over. It was apparent he couldn't or wouldn't. I don't know which, because he wasn't saying. So I decided to step in and help him.
We (the crawfish and I) had come this far, I wasn't about to let my immediate release survival rate drop to anything less than 100%.
I had been to yoga earlier that day and was wearing some rather nice yellow Lance Armstrong special edition Nike flip-flops given to me by a friend. I really love these flip-flops and have taken great pains not to get them dirty. I usually just wear them to yoga or to work. Not out in the yard. I also had on some nice capri-length yoga pants as well, with loose legs.
The upside-down crawfish was about two feet from the bank. I couldn't reach him leaning over the water. I couldn't find a stick to turn him over with. I had to step into the pond with a least one foot in order to reach him/her. The pond bottom looked pretty solid to me, not muddy; packed caliche like we find in the creeks and lakes in the hill country. After all, the crawfish had not sank into the pond bottom when I threw them in. How wrong I was.
As soon as my foot hit the pond bottom, my foot, along with my special edition Lance Armstrong Nike flip-flop was sucked down into the mud about mid-way to my calf. At about the same time my foot hit the cold water and was being sucked down into the mud, I noticed I was beginning to pee. It was a small trickle. My urinary sphincter was trying to do it's God-given job. It just wasn't succeeding very well. I am a middle-aged white woman after all.
I pressed on despite my two handicaps and flipped the crawfish over. It didn't move. It seemed content and bemused to stay and watch me try to extricate my foot and beloved flip-flop from the mud while peeing on myself. I pulled my foot free, but to my horror, the flip-flop wasn't on my foot. It had been sucked down into the muddy quagmire of the deceptive pond bottom. I couldn't see the hole where my foot had been because I had stirred up the mud getting my foot stuck and unstuck. Pee is still dribbling down my leg at this point. I gave up fighting the losing pee battle (double entendre). I sat on a rock, stuck both arms into the cold water to dig my Lance Armstrong special edition flip-flops out of the quicksand-like mire and let the urine flow. Like Kenny Rogers says, "You have to know when to hold 'em.....etc...."
As I sat on the rock, pissing myself and blindly digging in the mud for the flip-flops I thought to myself, "was it worth it?" Was freeing those 20 or so little lives worth this private humiliation, not to mention the soiling of the flip-flop (and yoga pants)? And the answer is of course, "yes".
I finally succeeded in getting the dirty filthy flip-flop out, finished peeing, picked up the empty smelly crawfish bag and walked back to my vehicle. Thank God I had some towels in my vehicle and that it was only a quarter-mile or so to my house. I got in the truck and the oddest mixture of smells surrounded me. One that most of us will (hopefully) never experience in a lifetime: the smell of crawfish and urine.

From 03/23/07: When I die, I better not have chin hairs.

March 23, 2007 - Friday
When I die, I better not have chin hairs. Category: Life
Yes, it is 4am. I have been up since 3am. Kid woke me up and now I cannot go back to sleep. I am sure I will be dead later about 3pm when I am supposed to be lively at a party. Anyways, I cannot take credit for the following blog. A lady at work brought it up and I was very moved by it. I wanted to talk about it, elaborate on it, and welcome your comments.We were commenting about seeing little old lady patients that had long, grey chin hairs. We agreed that many of these ladies were either in nursing homes with no family, could not see the hairs, or had no one who cared enough about them to pluck the hairs (we called this neglect). My friend stated that in her will she has already stipulated that if she has a beard or stray facial hairs when she dies- her children will not receive any of her riches. She said that they had to take care of her and assure that she did not have the old lady chin hairs, or they would be written off. When she said this, I thought it was so profound. Now, I know most of my friends are old enough to understand the chin hair dilemma, but for those of you who do not- here is the deal. When you are a teenager, your skin is perfect (except for a few zits). You have no wrinkles, your skin tone is even, and the only thing you pluck is your eyebrows. Here is a quick aside: ladies, do not overdo the eyebrow plucking/waxing. Yes, those superthin eyebrows may be in, but just know that they will not always be. I believe that the cosmetic tatooing and model industries work together on eyebrow fashion. When the tatoo industry starts to feel a drop in customers, they pay the model industry (magazines, runway, etc) to begin flaunting the superthin brow. After about 2 years of this, the tatoo industry pays the model industry to being showing a more thick brow. Now, it will not be a dramatic change all at once. Over the course of a couple of years, the models will begin sporting increasingly thicker brows. Soon, the women of the world will begin flocking to the cosmetic tatoo artists to have their pencil thin brows filled in. I know this is how it happens. Anyways, back to my original story. In your mid twenties, you start to see some uneven skin tones. By the end of your twenties, you have the brown spots- which can generally be managed with makeup. But then. Oh, but then. You start finding------- the old lady chin hairs. It starts out as one that you need to pluck every few months. Then that one turns grey and hard. Then, you find another one, that needs to be plucked every month or so. And one day, you will find 3-5 long, black and grey hairs dangling from your chin. You wonder why no one told you. How could your closest friends not have told you? So, you pluck these hairs and feel relieved that you do not need to worry about this embarrassment for another month. Then, 2 weeks later, some have come back. Then, 2 weeks later, more have come back. Soon, you are having to check everyday since the hairs all grow at different rates. Damn those hair follicles with their different growth cycles!!! What I used to call my weekly chin hairs, are now my daily chin hairs. Since my friends do not have the cajones to tell me when I have a dangler, as we will now call them, my children and husband have inherited that duty. When I die, I WILL not have chin hairs, a beard, or a mustache (don't even get me started on that). I will make sure my lawyer, Howard K. Stern, will contact the appropriate authorities to visually inspect my hair situation upon my death. If anything is awry, my entire estate will be willed to the Aesthetician, Electrolysis, Laser Hair Removal Association of America. I will direct them to conduct weekly educational programs around the country discussing the options for hair removal. Please comment on your personal wants/desires when you die.

From 03/23/07: When I die, I better not have chin hairs.

March 23, 2007 - Friday
When I die, I better not have chin hairs. Category: Life
Yes, it is 4am. I have been up since 3am. Kid woke me up and now I cannot go back to sleep. I am sure I will be dead later about 3pm when I am supposed to be lively at a party. Anyways, I cannot take credit for the following blog. A lady at work brought it up and I was very moved by it. I wanted to talk about it, elaborate on it, and welcome your comments.We were commenting about seeing little old lady patients that had long, grey chin hairs. We agreed that many of these ladies were either in nursing homes with no family, could not see the hairs, or had no one who cared enough about them to pluck the hairs (we called this neglect). My friend stated that in her will she has already stipulated that if she has a beard or stray facial hairs when she dies- her children will not receive any of her riches. She said that they had to take care of her and assure that she did not have the old lady chin hairs, or they would be written off. When she said this, I thought it was so profound. Now, I know most of my friends are old enough to understand the chin hair dilemma, but for those of you who do not- here is the deal. When you are a teenager, your skin is perfect (except for a few zits). You have no wrinkles, your skin tone is even, and the only thing you pluck is your eyebrows. Here is a quick aside: ladies, do not overdo the eyebrow plucking/waxing. Yes, those superthin eyebrows may be in, but just know that they will not always be. I believe that the cosmetic tatooing and model industries work together on eyebrow fashion. When the tatoo industry starts to feel a drop in customers, they pay the model industry (magazines, runway, etc) to begin flaunting the superthin brow. After about 2 years of this, the tatoo industry pays the model industry to being showing a more thick brow. Now, it will not be a dramatic change all at once. Over the course of a couple of years, the models will begin sporting increasingly thicker brows. Soon, the women of the world will begin flocking to the cosmetic tatoo artists to have their pencil thin brows filled in. I know this is how it happens. Anyways, back to my original story. In your mid twenties, you start to see some uneven skin tones. By the end of your twenties, you have the brown spots- which can generally be managed with makeup. But then. Oh, but then. You start finding------- the old lady chin hairs. It starts out as one that you need to pluck every few months. Then that one turns grey and hard. Then, you find another one, that needs to be plucked every month or so. And one day, you will find 3-5 long, black and grey hairs dangling from your chin. You wonder why no one told you. How could your closest friends not have told you? So, you pluck these hairs and feel relieved that you do not need to worry about this embarrassment for another month. Then, 2 weeks later, some have come back. Then, 2 weeks later, more have come back. Soon, you are having to check everyday since the hairs all grow at different rates. Damn those hair follicles with their different growth cycles!!! What I used to call my weekly chin hairs, are now my daily chin hairs. Since my friends do not have the cajones to tell me when I have a dangler, as we will now call them, my children and husband have inherited that duty. When I die, I WILL not have chin hairs, a beard, or a mustache (don't even get me started on that). I will make sure my lawyer, Howard K. Stern, will contact the appropriate authorities to visually inspect my hair situation upon my death. If anything is awry, my entire estate will be willed to the Aesthetician, Electrolysis, Laser Hair Removal Association of America. I will direct them to conduct weekly educational programs around the country discussing the options for hair removal. Please comment on your personal wants/desires when you die.