Lemonade?????

Two years ago, I worked as a waitress for a restaurant that was just opening. (Note to self, don't do that again...) We had a fairly full service bar, including sixteen wines to complement our Italian food. The owner, who possessed a shockingly small amount of common sense, decided that we should all taste the different wines so we would know how to describe them to our tables.

Fine and dandy.

Two problems. One, his idea of wine tasting was to fill a styrofoam cup 1/2 full and hand it to you. (16 of those...you figure out the alchohol content). And two, he decided to do this right before the restaurant opened for the night.

I don't drink.

I have excellent reasons for this, not the least of which is my complete inability to tolerate anything but the smallest amount of alchohol.

I was ordered to drink.

I sipped carefully of each cup - never draining it eagerly like many of my fellow waitresses were doing. I knew I had an empty stomach so I was deliberately taking not more than a couple sips from each glass - just enough to keep the boss happy and hopefully keep me from becoming tipsy.

I was unsuccessful.

We opened the doors and sat the first table of the night in my section.

I got up from the bar to go to the table and realized I was having to walk with care so as to avoid running into all those pesky chairs and tables someone placed in my way.

When I arrived at the table, I greeted them and found my tongue would barely cooperate in forming the words I needed to say. Still, I pulled it off and asked them what they wanted to drink.

They answered.

At this point, disaster struck.

I could hear the sounds coming out of their mouths but my brain refused to translate those sounds into anything resembling words. It sounded like they ordered "lecokwinorapep".

I grabbed onto the first sound in the word, leaned over the table, and practially shouted, "Lemonade?"

They looked at each other, looked at me and repeated the same completely indecipherable word as before.

I tried again. "Lemonade?" I was shouting. Leaning into their personal space. Desperately hoping they would just succumb to my powers of suggestion and say "Yes, lemonade would be delightful."

They stared at me in much the same way people rubber-neck at car accidents on the freeway: fascination at the wreckage and relief that it wasn't happening to them.

The woman grabbed the menu, opened it to the drink section, pointed to a word and carefully enunciated "Coke."

Oh. Well why didn't you just say so in the first place?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I don't drink.

Let That Be A Lesson To You

I inherited my cat, Taz, from my parents when she was 1. ("Inherited" sounds like they died when really, it was just that they constantly rescue cats and had 5 or 6 at the time. I got married and moved out - I took a cat with me.)

Taz is a gorgeous black and white cat who lives her life with confidence and the occasional side of attitude.

She was a kitten when we rescued her and her digestive track took a while to adjust to her new, consistent food supply. In fact, for the first month or so, her digestive track was so bad, she would fart - copiously - all the time.

Especially when she jumped into your lap. Something about the force of her landing caused major gas to erupt.

It stunk.

Badly.

My dad was usually on the receiving end of this treatment as a) he would sit in his recliner and she viewed that as an invitation to join him and b) he has a nose sensitive enough to rival a bloodhound. (Many a day we watched him scowl and sniff and announce to everyone that there was poop in a room. The obligatory search would last for a few minutes before we told him, firmly, "It's all in your nose.")

One day, Taz jumped in my dad's lap and let fly. It was the last straw.

He put her on the floor, gathered some steam of his own, and then sat on her (not enough to hurt her, just enough to pin her down) and ripped a fart that, had my boys been there, would have earned him a permanent spot in the Extreme Bodily Functions Hall of Fame.

Then he stood up and said, "Let that be a lesson to you."

I think he forgot he was dealing with a cat.

She resumed her gassy excursions onto his lap within five minutes. Apparently, cats don't heed object lessons. Either that, or as she let fly with her twenty-ninth fart of the morning she was thinking in her twisted kitty brain,

"Let that be a lesson to you."

Deep Thoughts...

My mother is coming to town today. I always look forward to her visits - we hang like old friends most of the time. Look out shoe stores! (I seriously need my own shoe closet...)

It's funny that even though I love her and I know she loves me, a small part of me waits to see if I measure up. This isn't a fault of hers but more a part of my personaltiy and how I view myself in the sea of women friends and family surrounding me.

My mom was always quiet, soft-spoken, smart, totally organized, remembered every detail that needed remembering...

Of the above, I am smart.

That's it.

I know that doesn't mean something is wrong with me. I think it's natural to take the examples of femininity and beauty around me and internalize that as the "standard".

The problem, of course, is that while I do love girly stuff like goregous shoes and manicures, the resemblance stops there.

I am rarely quiet. I am outspoken and bold though I try to be kind. I'm hardly ever organized in a way that would make sense to someone else. I'm so consistently forgetful, my hubby no longer bats an eye when I run out of gas, leave clothes in the dryer, or wander around for two days with a dead cell phone.

I do not like chick flicks. I may be the only woman I know who remained unmoved by The Notebook. In fact, when they were floating in the pond of ducks and people all around me in the theater were sniffing away tears at the romance of it all, I was busy thinking, "I certainly hope they don't fall in. There has to be a LOT of duck poop floating around."

My hang-up is that I see women around me, both friends and family, who are such beautiful people inside and out and they are gentle, soft-spoken, and have full tanks of gas. I sometimes feel like a bold dash of brilliant red in a room full of pastels.

And yes, I know I was created to be who I am. I don't argue with that. I just sometimes struggle with feeling that maybe I'm less feminine and beautiful than the girl who can smile meekly in the face of rudeness while I'm already spouting off a snappy reply designed to put them firmly in their place.

Maybe I just need to recognize that strength comes in many forms. There is strength in remaining gentle toward those who don't deserve it. Strength in being soft-spoken and mild with others. And there is strength in rolling up your sleeves and wading in to the middle of life - swinging - if that is what it takes to stand up for truth.

I don't have any halfway mark for anything I do. I dive into life with determination that borders on reckless abandon. I don't see a lot of examples around me of women like me and I admit, some days it makes me wonder if I stand out to others the way I stand out to myself.

I believe there are no accidents. God created me as I am for His reasons and I just need to move beyond holding up the softer feminine images as my role models because those models just don't fit me.

One of these days, I'll be okay with that.

If You Have Any Poo, Fling It Now!

*borrowed the title of this post from my favorite line in Madagascar*


Some people just need a crash course in basic manners. For example:

1. Don't shovel food into your mouth and then chew with your mouth wide open. While your mastication process is fascinating, I'm already familiar enough with the whole procedure that I'd rather not view it. And please, DON'T SPEAK. I prefer to eat my food sans crumb spray from your gaping mouth.

2. Don't neglect to RSVP for an event and then grace us with your presence anyway. I may act happy to see you but you are so NOT getting my share of the brownies I carefully portioned out with my guest list in mind.

3. DO NOT ALLOW YOUR DOG TO POOP ON MY LAWN AND THEN LEAVE IT THERE. It may come as a shock, I realize, that I do not consider it my job to shovel YOUR animal's fecal matter. If I happen to know where you live, I'll gladly return the doggie presents to your front porch (don't think I would? You don't know me well...)

What got me on this little rant? Two days ago, my kids were playing in our front yard. I was watching out my office window. Two women come walking by with one of those little stretched out hot-dog looking dogs. The dog was walking on my lawn. Right before my eyes, he squatted down and pooped. The women did nothing until they looked up and saw I was watching. Then they tugged the dog along and LEFT THE POOP.

Not on my watch, you don't. I don't feel like having one of my kids step in that little pile of joy and then track it into my house. Nor do I want my hubby's riding lawn mower to fling noxious little missiles at my house while he mows.

I snatched a plastic bag and ran out the door.

The women were almost off my property. My middle child (who has NO FILTER between what enters his head and what comes out of his mouth) was racing around them yelling,

"Hey! Your dog pooed over there. There's poo over there. You can't leave poo in our yard!"

Preach it, baby and can I get an amen?

I walked up to them and said, "Would you like a bag for that?"

They cleaned it up and left.

I saw them walking by yesterday.

Sans dog.

Wise.

Mini-vans of the World, Unite!

Mini-vans get a bad rap. Men (and women!), swear up and down they'd rather ride a Vespa cross-country in the dead of winter than own a mini-van. Commercials for new multi-passenger vehicles are quick to point out that while they can fit your whole family and a dog as well, they are NOT a mini-van.

Those of us who own a mini-van, regularly abuse it. See this for a perfect example.

Now, it seems, mini-vans are fighting back.

A few months ago, I was driving my kids and two of my friends to meet my hubby at the zoo. I drove through an intersection - turning left - and heard what sounded like a thousand marbles being dumped on the pavement.

Turns out the window on my sliding door decided that was as far as it was willing to go. It didn't swing out and drop. It didn't crack and fall. It simply stood still - while the rest of the van kept going - sliding along the side of the van until crashing to the pavement in our wake.

I thought that was bad.

This is worse.

A pastor in our church owns a mini-van, not nearly as old as mine. He pulled into his driveway, hopped out and came around to open the sliding door and release his children from their car seats. He grabbed the door handle, slid the door open, and watched in horror as the door shot off the back of the van and exploded into pieces on his driveway.

And you thought you had car trouble.

Bowling for Idiots

I am a talented woman.

I can speak in front of crowds, unplug toilets, write songs, poetry, and novels, and make a 20 minute drive to work in 11 minutes flat. (Of course, if you're reading this and you are a Williamson County Sheriff, Paul, or my mother, that last bit isn't true at all.)

But I cannot bowl worth beans.

Last night, I went bowling with friends and bowled an 81. I was PROUD of that! I bowled 1 strike, 2 spares, and only 4 gutter balls. That is a miracle of no small proportion.

Let's look at my previous attempts at bowling:

1. Last year, we went bowling as a family. The kids got bumpers on their turns. My hubby, over-ruling my vociferous protest, would not allow me to have bumpers as well. Something about "no grown woman needs bumpers to bowl". Right. The result was this:

Hubby - 190 or something equally irritating.
8 yr old - 90 something.
6 yr old - 70 something.
5 yr old using the time-honored granny approach - 60 something.
Me - 54.

And that's nowhere close to my worst.

2. One summer in high school, I stood at the lane, swung the ball to build momentum, and felt it fly backwards out of my hands and into the back of a very cute guy.

Still not my worst moment.

3. In junior high, our P.E. teacher came up with the brilliant idea of teaching a unit on bowling. We learned the theory, the technique, the strategy...one problem. We had no bowling balls, no pins, no lane, no rent-a-fungus shoes - nothing.

This was easily remedied by a class trip to the local bowling alley. To pass the bowling unit, we simply had to bowl reasonably well using the aforementioned theory, technique, and strategy.

When my turn came, I grabbed my 8lb. ball, slid around in my stylin' multi-colored shoes, and prepared to dazzle my teacher. I took 3 running steps, swung my arm forward, and ran into two problems, simultaneously.

Problem 1: The bowling ball was SUCTIONED onto my fingers and refused to be released.

Problem 2: My rent-a-fungus shoes had NO TRACTION and were easily persuaded by my considerable forward momentum to leave the floor.

Result: I belly-flopped onto the lane, arm perfectly extended, ball nicely aimed toward the center pin, and slid forward several feet.

That was bad. But worse, WORSE, was the acne-coated, squeaky-voiced post-teen manning the desk who felt it necessary to get on the loudspeaker and say -
"No one is allowed onto the lane. Please get off." - thereby ensuring that anyone who happened to miss the initial landing could still partake in the shameful spectacle that was me, trying to bowl.

Contest Update

The results are in: I didn't win this contest but I had some excellent competition and the winner deserved the prize. This was a fun and educational experience all around. (Now, off to put Alexa into another dangerous situation...)

Well, all the first round winners have their 5 pages posted and critiqued over at fff and I've read through them all. I love discovering new literary voices that mesmerize.

A few of those entries were so incredible to read. I had a few of those moments when time seems suspended and all other distractions fade as I was captivated completely by an idea, by poetic prose, or by a truly distinctive voice.

I feel honored to be part of this group of "second-rounders" and think there are several strong contenders for the grand prize.

The winner will be announced Thursday. I'll keep you posted.