Bambie and Buddies Lovin' Life at My Herbicide House

Bambie and Buddies Lovin’ Life at My Herbicide House

A recent article in the newspaper gave tips on how to create a “wild-life friendly” yard.  The story suggested that one’s environment needs to become more eco-friendly.  However, there’s always such a menagerie outside my house it makes me wonder if the animals are getting a herbicide high every night with the garden gnomes from my chemical-laced crabgrass.  Come see if you want.  Bring traps or a bb gun.  Or a cat, unlike mine, that will actually hunt.  

Here are some of the newspaper’s suggestions to cultivate a space that attracts wild-life:

“Replace one’s sod with native plants and trees.”  

“Leave some dead trees or branches to provide insect food and cavities for nesting birds.”     And have plenty of black widow and copperhead anti-venom handy.

“Leave a section of your property messy with weeds, leaf litter and brush.”  Then Ms. Frozenface Snootybutt from the Homeowners association will be up in my bidness with a citation from the Germantown Gestapo of Ordinances.

“Use wood chips instead of dyed mulch.”

“Apply compost tea to your yard instead of fertilizer.”  Really?

And most important of all:

“Stop using chemicals on your lawn and pesticides in your garden.”

So, just to be clear, my family wins the neighborhood prize like every month for the best lawn on account of we have teenage slave labor.   

So, teenage slave labor + toxic chemicals = green, Lance-Armstrong-climbing-the-Alps juiced-up lawn.  

My grass is beautiful, and I can’t pronounce even one poison in that pre-emergent that I love and which is invisible in my drinking water.  However, my flowering shrubs leave something to be desired.  

Why, you ask?  Because every single freaking deer and their redneck Bubba cousin comes to OUR ‘roided-out, fertilized chickweed turf to graze at half past midnight every night.  There are even BUCKS chomping our suburban broadleaf.  I’ve seen them.  And every day in the morning dew you can see their sweet, graceful footprints after they’ve chewed up every azalea I have.  

There would be a lot fewer deer on my property if the crazy people in Germantown wouldn’t go ballistic and call the police every time they hear a gun shot.  Geez.  

Why do deer prefer my toxic edibles when there are perfectly good “green” democrats right across the street with lawns covered with clover and wild dandelions and nourished with tea compost?  Whatever that is.

That’s not the only wildlife my gorgeous, poisonous landscaping attracts.  We put every Weed-Be-Gone, triple strength, Nature’s Avenger, Round-up, Ortho-Spectracide concentrate you can buy on our vegetation, plus loads and loads of dyed mulch.  Yet, we have woodpeckers (and, consequently, holes) gracing our chimney, moles and chipmunks tunneling in our flower beds, ducks and frogs chillin’ in our pool, birds pooping on our porch, and squirrels wreaking havoc in our attic. And a stupid outdoor cat that obviously does nothing to keep them out.  Actually, she probably charges Admission.

So the way to attract wildlife to your grounds is obviously not to mess with all that “green” stuff.  I’ll gladly give you my left-over Ortho-licious fertilizer pellets and split a truckload of black mulch with you in order to create a pleasing pasture on YOUR property for my deer to graze.  I’ll spread the wealth, or manure, as it were, and even dump our grass clippings in your yard when my slaves empty the bag on the mower.  (Heaven forbid we would bring down the neighbors’ home values by not bagging our grass clippings on mowing day).  

I’ll even let you have rent my cat for a few months to do nothing in your yard.  After Bambi and friends move in with you, the cat could at least provide you with some natural fertilizer.  And feel free to keep the proceeds from Admission.

The Evolution of Dads

I am reposting this from last Father's Day.  ----------

The Evolution of Dads

What happened to the good old days when Dad came home from work and Mom handed him a newspaper and said, “Here’s your slippers?”  Nowadays after work, the kids are at soccer and piano, Mom works late, hands Dad a Lean Cuisine and says, “There’s the microwave.”  Poor guy.  The rules changed as fast as you can Google “Women’s Movement,” and Dad had to learn to change the baby’s diaper as well as change the oil in the car.  

But a funny thing happened.  The uninvolved Dad realized he really liked kissing chubby little feet as he changed diapers.  And he enjoyed playing Barbies and Pirates with his kids instead of watching the Cowboys on TV.  The modern Dad is solid as a rock—and rocks at Wii Hoola Hoops.

Mom may be better at handling girl drama, but no one is better than Dad at lining up army men for battle and initiating ticklefests.  He rides with you on roller coasters, but not the rides that spin.  And he sculpts cool sandcastles at the beach and lets you bury him in the sand. 

Regardless of family dynamics and the demands of his job, he’s never too busy for his children.  He’s there to teach his son how to throw a fastball and how to survive when life throws him a curve. And he’s there to kill bugs and blow bedtime kisses. 

The modern dad knows how to fix a flat tire and fix his daughter’s broken heart.

He makes tee times for his son and makes time for tea with his little girls.

He teaches his daughter how to bait a hook and how to determine whether her date to the prom is a bottom-feeder.

He tells his daughter scary stories at nine and scares her boyfriend half to death at sixteen.

He checks for leaks in the attic and monsters under the bed.

College football is something he lives for, but he misses the game because Christmas lights are something his kids can’t live without.

He sacrifices luxuries in his own world for his kids’ first trip to Disney World.

He paints the whole house and paints his daughter’s fingernails.

He knows how to call a duck and call his mother just to say hi.

He bounces his toddler on his knee and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And he’ll never ask for a pat on the back for simply doing his job.

Whether he is old-school or modern, the moment a new Dad holds that squirming bundle in his arms for the first time, a powerful pride surges through his veins, calling him to be part of something larger than himself.  It awakens a protective and noble facet of his identity which first blossomed when he was a boy fighting fierce backyard battles with his trusty pirate sword.  He’s his daughter’s first Prince Charming and his son’s infallible Superman.

Dads have transformed through the years, but some aspects of fatherhood never change.  Dad never misses an opportunity for a little friendly competition.  Mom is the one who warns you not to take that jump on your bike, but she doesn’t know Dad is the one who dared you to.  Dad races you to the house but always cheats and takes off before he says, “Go!”  He always wins the “can’t-keep-a-straight-face” contests, but he helps you win prizes at the fair.   

Though Dads have evolved, two irrepressible DNA traits remain from the vestiges of the caveman.  #1—Dad is always right so do not bother arguing with him.  #2—If he doesn’t know an answer, he will make stuff up.    

Predictably, as his toddler morphs into a teenager, Dad’s tender love often evolves into tough love as he imposes sanctions on cars and cell phones.  From Ward Cleaver to Al Bundy, Dads have repeated the same mantra to their irreverent subordinates—“When you grow up you’re going to have a rude awakening,” “Nobody cares why,” and “If you don’t like it here, go find another family!” 

I have a family of my own now, and I have etched Dad’s nuggets of wisdom into the bark of our family tree. When I grew up, I DID have a rude awakening, I realized my boss DOESN’T care why, and everything Dad told me was true, except the stuff he made up. 

Mama Don't Like to Freeze in the Piggly Wiggly

Ok, my husband is Mexican, so don't think I'm being racial here.  It's just for fun!

Mama Don’t Like to Freeze in the Piggly Wiggly

As the brutal Memphis summer heats up, we southern girls start glistening as soon as we step outside. Last week I was gettin’ all gussied-up, with big hair despite 99% humidity, and I forgot I was out of my real expensive perfume.  So I drove to the store to buy some, and before I could park and walk into Walmart, I looked like I’d been hit in the face by a Super Soaker.

You’d think that a visit to the grocery store would bring relief from the kind of sweltering stickiness that makes the lotion on my legs run down to my flip flops.  However, every time I approach Piggly Wiggly’s sliding doors, an Arctic blast rushes through my damp clothes, gripping every muscle in my body and twisting me into a tight-jawed, grumpy-butt Sue Sylvester (Glee) with frozen underwear.  

Yesterday at the grocery, I tackled the frozen food aisle first. I rummaged around the freezer, deciding which vegetable I could fool my kids into eating. Consequently, my fingers turned dangerously white and I had to step back, holding the glass door open at arms length. Then I couldn’t read the stupid packages.  That’s why it’s always so cold in there—all the semi-blind, middle-aged ladies stand four feet away from the freezer holding the doors wide open.  I gave in to the cold and shut the door, but then the glass fogged up and I couldn’t see inside. 

If I didn’t come home with some interesting food, the kids would probaby revolt by grabbing their recorders (the sadistic musical instruments) that they’ve hidden since elementary school for just this occasion and screeching “Hot Cross Buns” 24/7 until there are some REAL Oreos in the pantry, and not those low-fat ones, dammit!  They’re teenagers now so they think they can say “dammit.”  

So I stuck my hand in and quickly grabbed some chimichangas with that tasty meat filler like Taco Bell uses.  Except the kind with no beans.  Beans make me windy.  Not that I eat that crap, since you ask. 

Turning down the cereal aisle, I could still see my breath and decided I’d had enough. I demanded to see the store manager.  A large Mexican man lumbered up.  I knew he was the manager because he had “Señor Chapa” on his name tag.  I know that means he’s the boss because I’m pretty good at Mexican.  I introduced myself, and his face dropped like maybe that old cake-nazi witch from the bakery department had told him about me.  Not that I’ve ever pissed anyone off in the bakery department. 

“I am freezing my butt off in your store,” I grimaced. “Will you please turn the freaking air conditioning off?”  I told him in a real polite way because I’ve been known to sorta unleash before.  He’s lucky I didn’t rip him a new one like I did to the waitress at Longhorn when she said they were out of Chocolate Molten Lava cake and I had a coupon. 

“Ma’m, I can’t turn the air conditioner off because one person is cold,” said Chapa.

“Look around, Nacho.  Do you see anyone over there at the magazine rack leisurely admiring Ryan Reynolds’ abs in People?  No.  That’s a sign.”

“I don’t think that means customers are cold,” he said.  Maybe they don’t like Ryan Reynolds’ abs.”

“Chewy, you’re just talking nonsense now.  I think the cold has frozen some of your brain neutrons.  Maybe you shouldn’t be managing a grocery store.  Obviously you don’t know Prime Beef when you see it.  But can we get back to my frigidity?”

“Well, if other people were complaining, I’d turn the air down,” he said callously.

“You know what, Pancho?  You’re right.  I’m the one that’s loco.  But it would be a shame if the fingers of one of those little old ladies on the scooters were so cold she couldn’t grip the brake and smashed into one of those waist-high freezers and flipped in head-first and broke a hip, now wouldn’t it?”

  Since then Chubba and I are pals.  He figures I kept him from a lawsuit by the blue-hairs.  I come in every Wednesday and he fires up the toaster oven and makes me hot, free samples.  I think Gordito could, legit, be my soulmate.  He bends over backwards for me, and he knows Mama likes her some chimichangas.  No beans.

Confessions of a Real Mom

Confessions of a Real Mom

I’m not nearly the mother I dreamed I would be.  I’m too frazzled to be a room mom.  I detest cooking.  And since I have anger management issues, I yell at the umpires in middle school softball.  But I’ve recently discovered a mecca for brilliant parenting advice.  It’s a place where you’ll find tips from more obsessive supermoms crammed into one space than in the dressing room on “Toddlers & Tiaras”—the self-help shelves at Barnes and Noble. 

This magic aisle boasts hundreds of titles written by successful “real” moms instructing us slacker moms on the secrets of how to do everything from organize and delegate to go green and get rid of stubborn belly fat.

Those cool ladies also usually write blogs with charming names like “glitzysupermom” or “marathonmomof7,”  in which the overriding themes are “I’m OK.  You’re OK.  I’m just better than you, hon.”    

They make me wanna crawl in a hole with my Cheetos and Ho-Ho’s.   

The truth is, I’m intimidated by the over-achieving moms on book covers—the way they can run a corporation, communicate without screaming, make playdough out of dryer lint, and wear those skinny jeans.  How do their teenagers turn out so perfect?  If I were to try to implement their Five Easy Steps to Help Your Teen Express Herself, my daughter would probably respond by getting a Guns ‘N Roses tattoo and wind up on Jerry Springer.

If those pundits of self improvement, smiling at me from the bookshelves, are indeed as accomplished, confident, and slender as they claim,  I probably couldn’t relate to them anyway. 

I like a mom who, with frosting on her lips, fibs that it was Dad who ate the last piece of birthday cake.  I can identify with the frazzled mom who wants to lock herself in her bedroom in the middle of the day after a horrifying trip to Walmart with two preschoolers and a sick baby. 

I’ll bond with the mom who goes to the bathroom in the stall at Target holding a crying baby and her purse on account of there are no hooks on the door and who’s begging her toddler to get up off his hands and knees and stop sucking a receipt up off the floor.  That’s the seasoned veteran I’ll listen to.  She is real.  She is an inspiration.

Give me a mother who threatens to tie her teenagers to the top of her SUV’s luggage rack the next time they mercilessly ridicule her for simply tapping her fingers off-beat to the radio.  One who doesn’t bring weird vegetables for her kid to eat at playdates to impress the Oreo-packing moms and insist, “My son, Willow, would rather have raw okra than anything else in the world!”  Puleeeeeeze.  I guess he’s never had chocolate syrup then.     

I don’t think I’d connect with an “I-can-do-it-all” female dynamo who writes self-help books about things like relieving stress and taking charge of your life.  She would probably share her coping strategy with me instead of a gallon of Rocky Road.  

You can bet your sweet mac ‘n cheese she’d claim she doesn’t have cellulite either.   That’s because she probably teaches 5 a.m. Extreme Spinning classes at the gym.   I have an annoyingly energetic friend like that who posts all her athletic accomplishments on Facebook. She touts that she exercises because she likes to push herself—which sort of makes me want to push her down.

Truthfully, I don’t have much time for exercise or social media—except to stalk my kids on it.  An average mother can barely keep her head above water, much less find a working pen in her house and write a book.

As a matter of fact, “real” moms don’t write a lot of books.  They’re too busy making dinosaur dioramas and scrubbing permanent markers off the carpet.  They’re on their knees blowing bathtub bubbles and butterfly kisses, and pouring out anxiety and fear to the God of high fevers and brand new drivers.  

“Real” moms are teaching their daughters how to stand up against the wave of public opinion and how to ride out the rip tide of teenage emotions.  They are engrossed in their son’s school play, and they’re reveling in their daughter’s double-play.  They’re teaching their kids to take baby steps and sometimes leaps of faith.   

And there’s no where else they’d rather be.

So, to all my under-achieving sisters sloshing in the trenches of motherhood, it makes me feel better when you admit that you’re addicted to Reese’s Cups, that you don’t have all the answers, that a glass of wine makes you happy, and that you’re flying by the cellulite in your pants just like me.  

And for the record, I most certainly did not eat the last chocolate bunny from the kids’ Easter baskets.  It was Dad.

SCRAMBLED PRAYERS

SCRAMBLED PRAYERS

I decided I’m going to start giving thanks more.  Since it’s summer and I don’t have to set my alarm in the morning, I figure lying in bed for a few minutes saying a prayer for my blessings is a great way to start my morning and it’s the least I can do.

However, my mind is so scrambled, I literally can’t concentrate for longer than 15 seconds on prayers.  They go something like this:

Dear Lord, thank you so much for my wonderful soft, bed and my heavenly pillow, and my soft covers.  Thank you for my beautiful bedroom.  Ok, let’s see.  What else?  I really don’t need to lie in bed long. Wastes half the day.  What do I have to do when I go downstairs?  First thing, deal with the stupid cat.  Bugs me to death meowing to come in before I have my coffee.  God, why can’t my husband let her in?  Darn him.  I just said ‘darn’ in my prayer.  God, please forgive me of my sins. Then she wants to be let out of the laundry room after five minutes and go out again.  Why can’t she go straight outside, God?  My hot coffee is waiting and she wants to roll around on the rug first and stretch and all?  She can do that crap outside.

Lord, thank you for the summer time and our trip to the lake.  The kids had so much fun.  Thank you for not letting them get concussions riding on that tube— especially their friends that came with us.  I wonder if the cat came home all weekend. Thank you, Lord, that cats are so easy.  Please don’t let that stupid animal have gotten run over by a car.  We were only gone three days.  Been gone a lot longer than that.  Thank you, God, that the cat stays outside.  If she stands on a curb, I wonder if she’s stupid enough to start racing across the street right when a car comes.  If she got hit, I wonder if you could save her.  I guess not if she hit the tire face first.  But what if when she got right to the car, and stuck her foot out in front of her to stop quick and change directions?  The car would just run over her foot.  I wonder if the vet has ever had to cut off a cat’s foot.  I wonder if they know what to use to do something like that.  I wonder if they know where to cut it off?  Would they cut it off above her cat-elbow or below?  If below, she’d probably try to use it to walk and just end up with a bloody stump.

Oh my Gosh!  I’m thinking about the cat getting a bloody stump.  God, what’s wrong with me?  I can’t concentrate for 15 seconds.  This CANNOT be normal.  

Thank you, God, for answering my prayers and giving me something to write about today.  You have a great sense of humor.

Amen

KINDERGARTEN TEACHERS WATCH THEIR GARDENS GROW

My short essay was published in the Memphis newspaper in September.  Thought I'd share it!

Kindergarten Teachers Watch their Gardens Grow

By this time of year, students of all ages are settling into a routine at school.  Kindergartners, especially, have gone through major changes in the last few months. And so have their parents. They are glad their 5-year-olds are ready for some independence but reluctant to let go of leisurely time spent sculpting play-doh and aligning army men in the sandbox.

When I had babies and toddlers, some days seemed to pass at a sluggish pace.  It was an endless cycle of messy high chairs, exploding diapers, and horrific fits at the grocery store.  And sometimes it was the kids who threw fits.  To me, kindergarten may as well have been the prom because they both seemed so far away I could scarcely imagine it.  But as inevitable as kids learning to talk and then to talk back, the time for kindergarten arrived.  On my son’s first day, I stooped at the door of his classroom to give him a kiss, relishing the thought that I might have a little more time to myself.

But a funny thing happened.  As he walked away and the flashing lights on his Batman tennis shoes became dimmer with each step, I realized I wasn’t ready to let him go.  I wasn’t ready to give him up to a teacher that he would be with more than me.  Moreover, I didn’t even know this woman I was handing my child off to.  I worried that she might get impatient because he usually ate his lunch slowly.  And sometimes he couldn’t remember the difference between a “b” and a “d.”

But my apprehensions were quickly soothed.  His teacher was a gentle, caring lady whose patience far-exceeded my own, and she made every child feel special.  Twelve years later she’s still at his school, plugging away, enlightening little minds on the tricks of telling time and counting money—and often pulling baby teeth after class.  There’s only one reason she spends year after year nurturing little ones—she loves it.

A kindergarten teacher is like a gardener who starts fresh every season with newly planted seeds. She enriches the soil with creativity, coaxes her seeds to bloom, and prunes with purpose.  She spends time on her knees, cultivating the blossoms who flourish in fertile soil and toiling with the ones who struggle among the rocks. 

Every year on the first day of school, a kindergarten teacher probably notices a little boy who meanders into her classroom looking as if he might cry.  She takes his tiny hand and feels his small fingers curve cautiously around hers.  More than likely it has been many years since that first boy walked into her classroom, and she knows from experience that a red popsicle usually cures the jitters. 

Like a gardener, she knows there’s promise in every seed, a remarkable story waiting to unfold.  She doesn’t know yet the particular qualities that make the little boy unique, but after some tears, crises and crumpled paper, she’ll figure it out as she always does.  She understands that some of her tiny shoots bloom easily, with all the colors of God’s rainbow, but some take longer, often spurred by patient appeals, Kool-aid, and a few cheesy Goldfish.

She plans projects and pow-wows, and every year she teaches her apprentices how to be gardeners themselves.  Scooping dirt with chubby fingers, they’ll carefully tuck bean seeds into white styrofoam cups and faithfully watch for little stems to appear.  Then she’ll explain how to step back and watch them grow, just as she lovingly steps back and watches her students grow.

They tip-toed through her garden gate as tots, peeking their heads through the door like sprouts through dirt, and they will seem to wave good-bye at the end of the year all grown up.  Velcro shoes will give way to carefully tied sneakers, and the stick people they used to draw will have fingers and clothes and cowboy hats.

She thinks of students she has nurtured through the years, adding by tens and learning shapes with sprinkles of humor and the fertilizer of praise.  They are now young ladies and men.  With her, they learned to make their letters—and years later, they’re learning to make a difference.

After ten months of tending, she’ll hug the same little boy who was so nervous the first day of school.  She’ll take his tiny hand on the last day and feel his fingers now curve comfortably around hers.  They will share an unspoken bond, and she’ll know that he takes a little piece of her with him as he leaves her garden.

If You're Thinking of Joining a Gym in the New Year....

If You’re Thinking of Joining a Gym in the New Year.....

Because the holiday rush and responsibilities have left my brain like mush, I have to resort to repeating funny things I’ve heard or read.  

In the spirit of New Year’s Resolutions, I am passing along a sort of top 10 list (really 11) of  “Rules of Conquering the Gym,” gleaned from a recent article in the Wall Street Journal by Jason Gay.  His article was originally titled, “The 27 Rules of Conquering the Gym,” but I am posting the best ones here.  B-T-Dubs:  # 8 is mine.....

        1.  A gym is not designed to make you feel instantly better about

             yourself.  If a gym wanted to make you feel instantly better 

             yourself, it would be a bar.

        2.  Give yourself a goal.  Maybe you want to lose 10 lbs.  Maybe you

             want to quarterback the New York Jets into the play-offs.  But

             be warned:  Losing 10 lbs. is hard.

        3.  No one is the history of gyms has ever lost a pound while reading

             “The New Yorker” and slowly pedaling a recumbent bicycle.  No

             one.

        4.  “Great job!” is trainer-speak for “It’s not polite for me to laugh at

              you.”

        5.  You can take 10 Minute Abs, 20 Minute Abs, and 30 Minute

              Abs.  There is also Stop Eating Pizza and Eating Sheet Cake Abs

              —but that’s super tough!

        6.  If a gym class is going to be effective, it’s hard.  If you’re relaxed

              and enjoying yourself, you’re at brunch.

        7.  Fancy gyms can be seductive; but once you get past the modern

              couches and fresh flowers and the water with lemon slices,

              you’re basically paying for a boutique hotel with B.O.

        8.  (This is mine):   My husband says there are old dudes who come

              to the gym, undress in the locker room, and sit on the couch and

              watch tv naked.  Regular guys, I would avoid sitting on the locker-

              room couches and touching the crotch-level sink counters where

              said old dudes lean into the mirror to trim their nose hairs. 

        9.  If you’re at the point where you’ve bought biking shoes for the

              spinning class, you may as well go ahead and buy an actual bike.

              It’s way more fun and it doesn’t make you listen to C+C Music

              Factory.

       10.  Fact:  Thinking about going to the gym burns between 0 and 0

              calories.

        11.  There is no secret.  Exercise and lay off the fries.  The end.