You are currently browsing the monthly archive for July, 2007.
We have had the coolest summer EVER. . .by that I mean actual temperature. Normally by this time we are suffering through dry, dry, tinder dry conditions–blazing hot days with lots of humidity and big black clouds in the afternoon that tempt us with the possibility of rain but only bring heavier humidity and thunder then vanish leaving everyone cranky and even hotter than before.
This summer, however, it has rained. It has rained and rained and rained. It has rained buckets and wash tubs and galvanized pail fulls. We’ve had humidity. . .and it’s been warm, but yesterday was the first time in a long time when it was down right HOT.
Therefore, it was the perfect day to trek out to the woods, build a fire, and roast marshmallows. Right? Well, that’s what we did. Thad had been asking to make S’mores, and Tony wanted to collect some various leaves from the property where we will build our next house, so we had already planned to go build a fire in the camp site for some end of July fun.
It was sticky hot and the mosquitos were out full bore. The thick foliage provided shade but jealously kept the breeze way up in the canopy of pines. We tromped around in the woods, sweating and swatting–pondering the merits of green wood when roasting a marshmallow, wishing for shovels with which to dig holes, getting scratched by briars.
There’s a quote in Winnie the Pooh where Pooh Bear asks Christopher Robin what he likes doing best, and he says, “What I like doing best is Nothing. It’s when people call out at you just as you’re going to do it, ‘What are you going to do, Christopher Robin?’ And you say, ‘Oh Nothing!’ and then you go and do it.’”
So what we did was Nothing. But the leaves were collected, the S’mores were eaten, and then we drove home sweaty and itchy and sticky but happy where we all had nice baths then went to bed. And that’s what I call a good kind of day.
Even when EVERYONE SWEARS that spray paint will do the job and unless you are painting wicker baskets, just buy the can and a brush.
So the other day I am running errands. It’s about 2:00 and I’ve not yet had lunch. I run into the Subway down the street (that I haven’t been to in years) and order my regular sandwich–6″ turkey on white with cheese, a little mayo, lettuce, bell pepper, onion, pickles, salt and pepper. I slide my card to pay and she says, “There is a dollar charge for debit cards.” To which I reply, “It’s credit–not debit.” To which SHE replies, “We don’t take credit cards–debit or cash only.” So I say “Thanks anyway.” And leave the gals at Subway to eat my sandwich or take it home for later.
I don’t really want fast food, but I run to Wendys, ’cause their new chicken salad Frescata is REALLY good. (No tomato on mine please.) I decide to get the meal so I can have a diet Coke, but I don’t want fries. If I’m going to have a lot of fat and calories, I’d much rather have it in the shape of a small Frosty.
So I say,
“Chicken Frescata, no tomato, diet Coke, and small frosty rather than the fries.”
“We can’t substitute a Frosty for fries?”
“How much is the Frosty?”
“Ninety-nine cents.”
How much are the fries?”
“Ninety-nine cents.”
“So the problem would be. . .?”
“A Frosty is a drink ma’am.”
Now would be the time for me to say that I KNOW that when they hand you your Frosty, they always hand you a straw AND a spoon. I find the straw rather laughable, because unless you get a melty Frosty OR unless you ALLOW your Frosty to melt on purpose OR unless you enjoy using a straw as a spoon OR unless you have the lung capacity and suction strength of a Hoover, well, the contents of your Frosty are NOT making it through that straw into your mouth.
And I say,
“Well, it seems to me that ninety-nine cents is ninety-nine cents. If I’m paying $5.85 for the combo and asking you to substitute same price items, it shouldn’t be an issue.”
So I pull up to the window and get a song and dance, at which point I say, “Okay. Just give me the sandwich.” And she says, “We’ve already scanned your card.” And I say, “I just want the sandwich.” And she sighs a deep, retail food worker sigh and says, “Well, I’ll do it this ONE time, but it WON’T happen again.”
I just smiled and said thank you as she rolled her eyes at me. Then I parked the car to eat my lunch. I started at first to feel angry that I’d had such a hard time getting sustanance that wasn’t deep fried in grease. . .then I started to feel badly for being such a pain. . .then I settled on just feeling happy ’cause I got my Frosty AND my yummy sandwich AND a diet Coke AND I got to sit in silence to eat it.
No big mystery there.
My friend over at Bringing Up Daisy has updated her “about” page. You might like to read why she started her blog in her own words. Those words of hers happen to have made me cry. . .which I’ve been known to do on occasion. . .and mostly because I love her and have traveled this road with her. I find her brand of wisdom remarkable and right on the mark as she sees things from a different vantage point this time around. She’s been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, and is willing to share her trials by fire with the likes of me. . .and now you should you so choose.
I’m a fan. Can you tell?
I just love to talk. Have you guessed? That being said, sometimes my comments get a little out of hand. That just happened when I read this story over at a blog called “Save the Phillips.” Since I spent so much time typing it out, I thought I’d just share it with y’all. Carolyn, I’m sure, remembers the story.
The first time I traveled with my (then 15 month) daughter, we missed pre-boarding. The flight attendants (four of them) were none too happy and complained LOUDLY about my tardiness possibly delaying the flight. That being said, not one of them lifted a hand to help me load the stroller, massive carseat, and carry-ons. I was alone. In FACT, I was fussed at for having THREE carry-ons. One was my purse. One was a backpack. One was a diaper bag. I informed them that my child had her own seat and was allowed two carry-ons, therefore we were actually missing ONE.
As I huffed and puffed onto the Southwest flight to ARKANSAS, it was 9:00 a.m. on a business day. The plane was PACKED. When everyone saw me, those who didn’t visibly roll their eyes heavenward all of a sudden took great interest in looking at their laps. Then, an angel from God rose from his aisle seat (on the row of three seats), walked toward me and said, “May I help you?” I asked if he would hold Victoria (figuring he couldn’t really make it very far with a baby on a plane full of people) while I got the carseat buckled. He said, “Why don’t you hold her while I put away your luggage and get the car seat settled in. She’ll be happier with you. Do you need your back pack or just the purse and diaper bag?”
I could have kissed him.
Victoria cried during takeoff, so I sang her favorite song–”Old Macdonald.” The man said over the roar of the engine and my scream singing, “There is nothing more soothing than a mother’s voice.”
After we got in the air, I found out he’d been married for 37 years and was the father of four. . .all daughters. He helped us get off the plane, carried the car seat and my backpack while I pushed Victoria, and delivered us to Carolyn who was picking us up.
I don’t even remember his name. . .George? Henry? It may as well have been Gabriel for the “ministering spirit” he showed this sweaty, frazzled, frustrasted mommy. I’m pretty sure what he saw when he looked at me, other than a woman in need of some help, was one of his daughters. When I looked at him, I saw a halo atop the friendliest face I’d seen all day long throwing me a rope to cling to. I’m sure I imagined the halo, but God bless him wherever he is.
. . .but this sums it up.
Then this comment on that post totally cracked me up
His Girl says:
So I read this to the hubby…for reasons that needn’t be mentioned. And he said, “ask her what a fireman’s doing in bed at 6:45.” Don’t worry, I whacked him.
Whether he missed the analogy altogether OR was just being facetious, it’s funny either way.
*Addendum* It would HELP if I spelled “write” correctly.
One of my favorite Christian artists is Chris Rice. One of my favorite Chris Rice songs is “Clumsy.” If I could figure out how to get it on here, I’d do it, but the words will have to suffice for now. I give you “Clumsy”–the theme song of my life.
Clumsy by Chris Rice
You think I’d have it down by now
Been practicin’ for thirty years
I should have walked a thousand miles
So what am I still doin’ here
Reachin’ out for that same old piece of forbidden fruit
I slip and fall and I knock my halo loose
Somebody tell me what’s a boy supposed to do?
I get so clumsy
I get so foolish
I get so stupid
And then I feel so useless
But You’re sayin’ You love me
And You’re still gonna hold me
And that You wanna be near me
‘Cause You’re makin’ me holy
You’re still makin’ me holy, yeah
I’m gonna get it right this time
I’ll be strong and I’ll make You proud
I’ve prayed that prayer a thousand times
But the rooster crows and my tears roll down again
Then You remind me You made me from the dust
And I can never, no never, be good enough
And that You’re not gonna let that come between us
I get so clumsy
I get so foolish
I get so stupid
And then I feel so useless
But You’re sayin’ You love me
And You’re still gonna hold me
And that You wanna be near me
‘Cause You’re makin’ me holy
You’re still makin’ me holy, yeah
From where I stand
Your holiness is up so high I can never reach it
My only hope is to fall on Jesus
I get so clumsy
I get so foolish
I get so stupid
And then I feel so useless
But You’re sayin’ You love me
And You’re still gonna hold me
And that You wanna be near me
‘Cause You’re makin’ me holy
You’re still makin’ me holy, yeah
This applies to surgery, house remodeling, and the cleaning out of closets and hidey holes.
I’m physically fine. I cannot afford a house remodel. Guess which one I’m in the midst of.
That’s all. Just hi. I’m sort of in the midst of two worlds right now. The “summer” world and the “school” world. I finished the 7th Harry Potter book yesterday afternoon, so the much anticipated selfish activity of my summer is done. . .the big vacations are done except for on final trip to Galveston. . .on Friday the birthdays will be done (except for mine which doesn’t really count). . .and now it’s time to lay summer down and pick up the school year. But first, I must “pick up” my house.
The state of Texas had decided that we will be starting later this year. So I have about two extra weeks of summer to get things done that I normally can’t do. I have roped off this week for The House. It will be interrupted briefly so that the children and I can get hair cuts PLUS I have a “free” pedicure that a friend gave me. I think the personal care will all take place on Thursday. On Friday, Victoria turns 9 and is having her first real life sleep over. There are only four little girls in Victoria’s class at church, (she is one of the four)–and about 10 boys. Four is a good number for a sleep over. . .and so four is what we shall have.
As far as I know we will do an art project, watch “Pollyanna”, and eat junk food. And the girls will stay up too late, but they will be downstairs on air mattresses, so that’s fine with me. None of them wear bras yet, so they won’t have to hide their lest their friends get them wet and freeze them or dangle them from the blades of the ceiling fan. They also aren’t interested in boys yet, so there will be no crank calling. I THINK all of them have spent the night at friend’s houses before, so there should not be any home sickness. And there is an even number, so no one will be left out.
Wish me luck.
There is a book that has been the makings of lore around our house. It is entitled True Grits. It holds in its Hallowed pages several of Tony’s favorite jokes and by-lines and a lot of funny material to boot. Alas, a friend carelessly “misplaced” Tony’s copy several years ago, then INSISTED that it had been written by Lewis Grizzard (may he rest in peace). It was NOT written by Lewis Grizzard.
It was, in fact, written by John H. Corcoran, Jr. I know this, because a copy of it sits in front of me at this very moment. Despite our many internet searches, it was Tony’s friend David of the Colorado trip who finally tracked it down for him.
I have laughed myself silly since opening it.
You will be getting gems from this book for a long, long time, so just gird your loins (literally–if you are, indeed, from The South and have given birth to one or more children, you will need a Depends) and get ready.
The first installment is one I called to read to my mother immediately because. . .well. . .I’ll explain that in a minute.
Real Title: Big Orange, Cocola, Sebmups, and Such
Alternate Title for those not from The South: Big Orange, Coca-Cola, 7-Up, and Such
“The true Southerner always drinks a whole bunch of soda pop and has gracious plenty on hand for guests.”
My mother is no bigger than a minute. That being said, she married a strappin’ lumber jack of a man and proceeded to give birth to his three lumber jack-like children. She eats like a bird, but is in possession of THREE (3, III) refrigerators and TWO (2, II) chest freezers (one large, one medium). The freezers are filled with all manner of game (duck, deer, fish, rabbit) as well as chicken tenders, breaded shrimp, cured hams, and icecream. One fridge is in the kitchen. The freezer of THAT fridge is filled with ice. . .shaped into cubes and housed in trays. . .either already dumped into a huge ice cube holding recepticle OR in trays in various stages of frozeness awaiting certain demise in a styrofoam cup filled with soda pop. The fridge part of the kitchen fridge is FILLED TO THE BRIM with food and leftovers. Fridge #2 is in the “utility room.” During hunting season it sometimes holds partial carcasses of deer in several states of processing. During the summer it holds watermelon and cantaloupe. In the OTHER utility room (I will be glad to explain this to those who care to know, although I’m sure that Sarah could give a more unbiased description having visited both utility rooms on more than one occasion.) is fridge #3. . . the “cold” refrigerator.
It is, indeed, the refrigerator that keeps things the coldest. It is NOT in the kitchen for the chilling and preservaton of food, but is in the ex-carport now second utility room filled TO THE BRIM with carbonated beverages.
Coca-Cola, Dr. Pepper, Berry Dr. Pepper, Cherry Dr. Pepper, Cherry Limeade Sprite, Diet Coke (with Splenda), Diet Coke (“With saccharine that gives your Daddy headaches and is filled with horrible sweeteners that he refuses to drink for fear it will give him cancer but I didn’t throw it away in case you wanted to drink it.” Which I did care to do and did toot sweet.), Sprite, Diet Sprite, 7-Up, Delaware Punch, the VERY INFREQUENT Pepsi product (besides Dr. Pepper which doesn’t really COUNT as Pepsi and 7-Up ’cause some people like it better than Sprite), and fruit flavored carbonated beverages, diet and full-bore, in grape, orange, and strawberry flavors.
I kid you not.
And everyone who is ANYONE and has been to my parent’s home even one time knows where to go should they care for a coke (Southern generic for anything carbonated). You walk through the living room, through the “dining room” (I use that term loosely), through the kitchen (past refrigerators 1 and 2) and into the ex-garage/utility room #2 to Grandaddy’s old refrigerator where the cokes are icy and plentiful.
This is the case BECAUSE my mother was born and half raised in southern Arkansas and raised the rest of the way and married in northeastern Louisiana and embodies all that is good and right and lovely about southern womanhood. She loves her family, knows the ins and outs of how to keep her husband happy, can run a house and cook a heavenly meal with a baby (or grand-baby) on one hip, AND “always drinks a whole bunch of soda pop and has gracious plenty on hand for guests.” There is nothing that a cold coke (of whatever denomination your particular palate prefers) won’t cure.
Should you care to go and see her, just tell her you’re a friend of mine. She will invite you in, offer you a seat under the ceiling fan, parade out all manner of food, AND THEN will offer you a drink out of the “cold” refrigerator.
I come from good stock.
