What 40 Looks Like

He had no idea where we were taking him. Biggy's happy birthday, courtesy of Mamoo, Granny, Myself, and the Kids:

Big Questions

I was watching this with Lola tonight--Are You Afraid of the Dark episode Jake the Snake, wherein one boy risks his life to save his friend. This got Lo thinking:

Lo: Would you do that?

TR: What? Go into that basement with those snake men?

Lo: Risk your life to save a friend.

TR: If it were someone I loved.

Lo: A friend you loved? Like who?

TR: Like Kathy, Josie....

Lo: You would actually risk your life?

TR: I mean, if there was a chance I could save them and we'd both survive.

Lo: What if there was no way you'd survive? Would you save them?

TR: Nope.

Lo: Nice.

TR: I have kids who need me.

Lo: What if you were a hundred and it was a kid, like a seven-year-old, and there was no way you could survive? Would you save the kid?

TR: Yeah, I think so.

Lo: You should. The kid would have its whole life to live and you'd be about to die anyway.

What IS That Noise?

Not the squeaking--that we're used to. What's that sad cry of someone who wants to come inside?








I'd bring him in, give him his own pad, but I'm running out of pet names.

The Wailin' Jennys

Sunday Biggy

Team Trivia

Here's a sample of last night's brilliance at Suburban Tap:

Chopper (the Team Trivia Host): Your category is Fictional Characters. The question is, What fictional character's name meant "white face" in Ape language?

Blaise: Who was the main character in Planet of the Apes?

TR: Oh my god, what WAS his name? Charlton Heston played him. Raquel Welch was in it with him, riding a horse.

Blaise: And Marky Mark was in the remake. Jack, did you see the remake?

Georgia: I did. But I was about TEN!

Biggy: Think, y'all! Ape language!

TR: I still have that image of her on the horse. When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to look like that.

Blaise: C'Mon...Marky Mark...Ape language...No one remembers what they called him?

(Wham song coming to an end)

Biggy: We have to put something down!

Jack: How about Cracker?

Biggy: Na...I'm putting Nilla.

TR: Ha! Turn it in.

(Song ends)

Chopper: Ok, again, the question was, What fictional character's name meant "white face" in Ape language? And the answer is: Tarzan. Your next category is Sports. The question is, What 1992 American Olympic gold medalist figure skater played Princess Jasmine in Disney's Aladdin on Ice?


TR: Who was the girl Tonya Harding beat up? The one with long dark hair?

Biggy: Kerry something.

Blaise; He said Gold medalist. Kerry didn't didn't win the year she got clubbed. You sure it wasn't Michelle Kwan? What year was she?

Biggy: Michelle Kwan's not American. No, I know it's that Kerry girl. What's her last name?! Kerry....Kerry...

Georgia: Does he mean she WON the medal in '92, or could she have won it any time? The question's not clear.

Jack: I wouldn't know anything about Disney on Ice.

(Meatloaf song coming to an end)

TR: Just put down Michelle Kwan, since we don't know Kerry's last name.

Biggy: AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!! Fine! (Writes it down, goes to turn it in.)

TR: Her last name was Something-aggin. Something-aggin...Kerrigan. NANCY KERRIGAN! Catch him!

Blaise: It's too late. He already put it in the pitcher.

(Biggy comes back, sits down.)

TR: Nancy Kerrigan!

(Biggy slaps his forehead, which takes a while. Meatloaf song ends.)

Chopper: Your question was, What 1992 American Olympic gold medalist figure skater played Princess Jasmine in Disney's Aladdin on Ice? The answer is: Kristy Yamaguchi.




*Note: Girl on horse was Linda Harrison, not Raquel Welch.

I Ain't Gonna Lie

I Forgot to Post Yesterday! That's scarier than when I walk around searching for my cell phone while I'm TALKING ON my cell phone.

Friday Nostalgia

Pet Sematary, 1989. As if the book hadn't scared me enough.

Projected Family Portrait

For the month of July, it's Camp Georgia at our house, as we're paying George to take care of Lola until she (George) leaves for school in August. The sisters have made a loooooong list of activities to while the while and have already checked off 'see Mim's Island,' 'baking day,' 'walk to Publix,' and 'go to the World of Coke.' At Camp Georgia, Lo must say please and thank you. She must brush her hair. She doesn't eat junk food and she has to exercise. I recommend Camp Georgia. It's money well spent.

I don't have much money, however, because Georgia is also cooking for us. You might think that sounds wonderful, especially since she's an awesome cook, and it is. But she sends me to the grocery store with epic lists--full of strange, foreign items, such as buttermilk and pineapple-not-from-a-can. Monday, we had oven-fried chicken, twice-baked potatoes, warm rolls, and fresh fruit salad; Tuesday, it was French bread pizzas from scratch; yesterday, a home-made chicken casserole; and today, country-fried boneless pork chops, fresh corn, peas, and muffins. At every meal, Biggy acts like a pig in mud. He tells my daughter over and over how good everything is, glancing sideways at me with an expression born of nine years of Old El Paso Gorditas and Tuna Helper. He never knew it could be like this.

But I've got news for my husband: my lack of kitchen skills has kept him fit and trim. Three more weeks of these dinners, that will be us above: Biggy, Stella, me, Jack, Blaise, and Lo (who'll be fine because she won't eat real food).

Good Touch/Bad Touch: A Lesson

On Fathers

I've been thinking a lot about fathers lately. Fathers Day is always a tough one, being as I haven't spoken to mine in 15 years and see that as a trend for me. I was talking to one of my favorite students yesterday about fathers and we agreed that, no matter how old we get or how vast the divide, we are always--somehow--looking over our shoulders, wondering if they see. That everything we do, we do to impress them for good or bad. As for me, I'm always thinking, "Living well...," as if what I needed were revenge, as if he would wish me ill. Well he might.

But it occurred to me that we'd summed up the whole problem, then and there: that we'd always wanted our fathers to SEE us, see who we were and are, which is something they'd never done. They'd always seen us as extensions or reflections of themselves. We were not to be separate creatures, or special, or entitled to our own thoughts and emotions. So while we might gain momentary approval by making straight A's or winning at the track meet, we were not going to get it when we excelled at something that proved our separateness.

This didn't change when I became an adult. The first time I was published in a literary magazine, I was 28. My father didn't say "That's so great!" or "I'm so proud of you." He scowled at the poem and told me, "I wish you'd publish something I could show my friends." And when my sister was in the hospital, withering away with Leukemia, too exhausted to see her friends, too depressed to be comforted, my father said to her, "Leroy is coming by to visit. Could you put on a little make-up, try to smile, and thank him for the robe he sent you?"

When I picked my first husband, I was certain he was nothing like my father. More than twenty years later, I'm still dismayed by that error. Turned out, my father was his hero. I think my ex got some of his best ideas from the stories I told.

For men like this, families are accessories, something to be shut up in a box and worn to make them look good on special occasions. And by special occasions, I mean family reunions and company picnics, not the likes of Christmas or Easter. For my father and my ex, holidays were hours to be endured. I have the pictures: yawning by the Christmas tree, swinging a golf club during the Easter Egg hunt, drunk at the Thanksgiving table.

This was all I knew of fathers before I married Greg. I was surprised the first Christmas Eve when he didn't stay out "shopping" till the malls closed and "stop by the office afterward to wrap the presents." He was already home, having taken a couple of days off to shop with me and consult with Santa.

When Lola was born, I kept waiting for the new to wear off, so he could start ignoring her and resenting her. She's eight, and he still rushes home from work, barging through the door with his stupid falsetto "Looolaaaaa!" Until a couple of weeks ago, I assumed I'd snagged the only truly good father besides Greg's uncle, who was the most gentle and sweetly devoted father I knew to have raised his children to adulthood. He died in April, and I will never forget him.

The week at Fripp this year opened my eye (the one that would open). There are more of these guys out there, and I was in a house full of them! Dads who took their kids fishing and golfing, who laughed at their kids' idiosyncracies--yeah, blaming them on the mothers--rather than bullying them into being little mini-mees; dads who got the kids in the shower and knew where the favorite tee shirts were and what they liked to drink; dads who didn't sneak off in the golf car(t) to the other side of the island to call their girlfriends.

These men were actually HAPPY hanging out with their wives and kids. I'm not saying they're perfect. In fact, I've got a long list of of improvements they could make under the heading 'Husbands.' But shocker of shocks, they all SEE and love their children, which is enough to make me tear up that list.

Row, Row, Row

I've been down the Nantahala several times, but this was my first time to brave the falls. Sadie takes them during her virgin voyage. With Biggy as Captain. That's real courage.

Precious Moments, Part Two

Lo and K with their water blasters, doing what they do best.

Precious Moments, Part One

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

One topic for argument this weekend regarded the daddy longlegs spider--venomous or not? I'd always heard they were the most venomous spiders in the world, but with mouths too small to bite. Turns out, they're not even spiders.

Friday Nostalgia

From (the real) Get Smart, season one, 1965.


*Note: According to Blog 365 rules, I can prepare posts when I don't have access to the Internetz and post retroactively. Ha.

Gone Camping

See you Sunday!

Sexiest Song Ever

What Anne Frank Said

"Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart."

After we got home on Saturday, Mamoo was telling me how much Granny did NOT enjoy Fay's visit and that, at one point, she offered to take Fay home if Mom would bring her the scooter and a leash. I was going to blog the whole conversation, so I was googling for images: old lady scooter dog : when I came across the bunny above and had to check it out.

You have to admit--even when you're in one of those 'people suck' moods, as long as there are folks who care enough to buy these, all is not lost in the world.

Jogging With Georgia

Ga: I've been thinking about this a lot, and I've decided you should adopt another baby.

TR: Oh? Why's that?

Ga: Because I played with a baby in Costa Rica, and it was a lot of fun. So I'd like to do it again.

Just a Memory

Today, it was back to work.

Quiet Before the Storm

Georgia got home yesterday! So Mamoo and Granny came over for dinner tonight--and Blaise. Mamoo brought Fay back also, for a homecoming of epic proportions. Before the chaos ensued, though, I spent some sweet quality one-on-one with my beautiful Stella.

Now That We're Home

Conversation in the driveway:

TR: Mamoo and Granny are coming over for dinner. I'm going to fix bar-b-q.

Biggy: What time? I've got to ride my bike sometime today. (Pinches waist) I weighed 189.6 this morning, and I should have weighed 187.

TR: You think those scales are off? 'Cause I can't figure out how I GAINED weight this week. I didn't eat that much, except for when we went to the Shrimp Shack--and the last night, when I had seconds on biscuits and the stuffed tomato things...

Biggy: Tania, you eat a LOT. Every time we go out, all those fries...

TR: THAT'S ONCE A WEEK! The rest of the time, I eat about 1500 calories a day, and I exercise.

Biggy: Walking three miles isn't really exercise.

TR: FIRST of all, I jog most of it. And at the beach, I jogged AND rode my bike.

Biggy: So what are you thinking--(mockingly) a thyroid problem?

TR: No, a tumor. My mom had one when she was my age. The size of a grapefruit.

Biggy: (His expression reflects he's just thought of something clever.) ...uh. Never mind.

TR: WHAT? What were you going to say?

Biggy: Nothing.

TR: TELL ME.

Biggy: You could lose two pounds today if you cut your hair.

TR: ...

Biggy: You know that was funny.

TR: ...

Biggy: Where are you going?

TR: To pack.

Boxing

Wish You Were Here

LolaLola@Bubba's Surf Shop

Catch of the Day

The Boys of Summer

Biggy annihilates a ten-year-old.

Just a Post to Say I Can't Post

Because I've been trying to load up one minute of video for the past hour, and blogger won't let me. I'll try again in the morning.

Goobers Gone Fishin'

It took them two hours to get ready. I expect them back in about thirty minutes.

Today On the Beach

Jack, flying a kite; Biggy, out in the kayak; Lola, catching crabs; and I, walking around with my Flip camera.

Heading to Fripp

We had a fascinating conversation as soon as we hit the road. It started with Biggy correcting me about my earlier post:

Biggy: It's golf CART, by the way--not golf CAR.

TR: You're wrong. Everyone always says golf cart, but it's actually golf car.

Biggy: What even makes you think that?

TR: Someone corrected me once, so I looked it up.

Jack: Someone CORRECTED you for THAT? That's like getting on to someone for saying PIN instead of PEN [emphasis on short e].

TR: True.

Jack: I got in an argument with this kid at school because he heard me say Billy Joel, and he corrected me. He said, "It's Joll." And I said, Jo-w'l.

Biggy: Billy Joll.

Jack: Jo-w'l. Two syllables, but kinda slurred together.

TR: Right. Billy Jo-w'l.

Biggy: Whatever.

Jack: That's my point.

VayCay

Again this year, we're fortunate to be hitting the beach at Fripp, courtesy of Portfolio Center, for the annual PC retreat. A full week of sunning, jogging, and biking for me, and watching others crabbing, fishing, and swimming (Remember, I only pretend I might actually get in the water). Neither of my big girls are coming, which means I'll be without my usual allies and exercise partner.

We leave in the morning, at 10, according to Biggy's always-rigid vacation departure schedule. He acts as though a time-sensitive million dollar prize or a drop-deadline awaits us at the other end of the drive. Whereas I like to sleep in, drink some coffee, coo at the dogs I won't see for a week, pack, read my email, pack some more, then get on the road, my husband likes to start crackin his whip the night before: "You need to pack your suitcase so I can start loading the car..." He thinks we should sleep fully clothed, wake up at his pre-determined time, and sprint to the car.

Anyway, I've gotten off track. So Biggy and I are upstairs, discussing how we need to get to the island in plenty of time to pick up the golf car he's reserved when Jack walks in and sees Biggy's new Adidas sitting on the bed.

JackMan: Whose shoes?

Biggy: Mine. I got them so I can jog at the beach. Since there's not really any place to ride my bike.

TR: It's fun to ride around on the island.

Biggy: I know, but it's not really exercise.

TR: Whatever. I'm just glad you're going to jog with me. You are bringing your bike, though, right?

Biggy: I plan to bring three--your monkey bike, Lo's BMX, and mine--for me and Jack to share.

Jack: Yeah, I won't be riding.

TR: Oh, you are going to ride with me! Georgia won't be here, so you guys are going to have to take turns filling in for her.

Biggy: OK, Jack. I'll complain on Monday and Wednesday, and you can do Tuesday and Thursday.

Jack: Sounds fair.

The Morning After

I thought I'd go in, they'd do what they had to do, and I'd be good as new today...

Friday Nostalgia

I watched this rerun yesterday with my one eye.
Seinfeld, 1992, The Contest. One of the funniest scenes on TV. Ever.

Nightmare

I dreamed I went into a small office where a woman who looked like Doris Day wearing white Naturalizers sat me in a reclining chair and swabbed my face with alcohol. Then a tall man who looked like Humphrey Bogart in Sansabelt slacks stuck a needle in my eye and sliced my stye with a scalpel. Next, both the man and the woman took turns digging at the wound with Q-tips the size of broccoli. Finally, the man cauterized the area with something that looked like one of those tools used to burn names into the wooden plaques they sell in Gatlinburg. It smelled like when we used to put our Barbies' heads in the charcoal grill.

But I wasn't asleep.

I couldn't even close my eyes.

More on the Subject

In response to Biggy's brag about how it took him ten minutes and ten dollars to purchase his new trunks at T.J Maxx, I thought I'd elaborate on the swimsuit shopping experience for middle-aged women.

According to a recent poll of women I know, once you're out of water wings and no longer choosing between the Barney bikini and the Mickey maillot, swimsuit shopping ceases to be pleasant. Beyond the futile exercise of finding the perfect balance between what you want to hide and what you want to show off, fluorescent lighting is unkind to everyone, even high school cheerleaders and college volleyball players.

Around 40, though, when "what you want to show off" is sadly taken off the table, mere unpleasantness morphs into torture. Not only does the whole ordeal require more time and money, but it inevitably leaves you broken and demoralized.

There's so much to consider: quality, fit, exposure, likelihood of slippage or spillage... Because no matter how much you work out or how slim you are, the world--with it's gravity and sunlight, is at war with your skin, battering it like a meat mallet, stretching and thinning it, transforming it into the bag that will hold your 90-year-old bones.

So the fabric has to be of good quality. You can no more wear a Target tankini than you can wear a tube dress from Charlotte Russe. Cheap, lightweight fabrics get caught in bumps and crevices; they show the outline of your post-pregnancy navel. Wearing discount swimsuits is like putting coffee in a Dixie cup, when what you need is a sturdy travel mug.

But quality is only the beginning. Last night I tried on a beautiful, simple Ralph Lauren one-piece, crafted from a nice thick shimmery lycra spandex. It was an elegant navy blue number, cut higher on the legs and in a low V down the front, with a little silver RL clasp between the breasts. It was lovely, really. Until I turned and saw the decolletage from the side. What would have been an intriguing glimpse of flesh on a younger gal was, on me, reason for the cabana boy to to gouge out his own eyeballs.

Hence, that area of my body was officially added to the ever-growing list called Things That Must Be Covered or Disguised, a list that includes belly, bellybutton outline, upper thighs, evidence of nipples, stretch marks, ass divots, love handles, bra fat, back fat, and broken capillaries. Everything else must be held in place, contained, and rendered immobile for walking the twelve steps to the tiki bar (well, not me but my friends).

Does anyone know of the perfect suit?

Today I Went Shopping for Swimsuits

I had my heart set on this one, but I couldn't find it anywhere.

Because Sometimes More is More.

A tour of Mamoo's little garden.

Georgia Tree

I added ice cream spoons and sticky lizards (in honor of the reptiles that get in her dresser drawers in Costa Rica). Oh--and cookie cutters that came free with Splenda.

Wasted Time, But $aved Some Money

I mentioned before that I have a sty on my eye. I've had it since long before George left for Costa Rica, which was five weeks ago, so I'm guessing about two months total. I asked the doc-in-the-box to have a look at it while I was there for the bronchitis, but she told me I had to go to an eye doctor. That was--what--about two weeks ago? I decided to do more self-surgery rather than take time out for another appointment. I even thought about using the prescription Fay had for her torn eyeball. In any case, poking it with pins and tweezers and scrubbing it with peroxide hasn't cured it, so today I gave up and went to the opthamologist. I was hoping he'd cut it off with a razor blade or something, a method I've considered doing myself. BUT NOOOOOO. He prescribed an antibiotic ointment and said to give it another week. I came home and compared the scrip to Fay's, and sure enough...


I could have been using it all along.

About Getting in Shape

Today, as part of Biggy's fatherly duties, he had to put together Jack's new weight bench. He was assembling it in the computer room upstairs as Jack played Poker online. I walked in as they were discussing where to put it:

Biggy: I think it'll fit in your room.

TR: Why don't you put it in the empty playroom downstairs?

Biggy: He doesn't want to work out in front of people.

TR: There are plenty of times Jack's home with no one else in the house.

JackMan: I don't want to have to walk down the stairs to work out!

TR: Are you kidding me?

JackMan: No. That's why I don't want it in the basement either. That's two flights. I want to be able to roll out of bed and work out.

TR: Then roll back into bed again?

JackMan: Exactly.

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

I was folding laundry today while watching that Dirty Jobs show on Discovery. The episode was about catching and preparing geoducks (pronounced gooey duck), a shellfish I'd never heard of--much less seen. I was so disgusted and fascinated, I did a little Youtube research:



I did want to show you this clip from Dirty Jobs. Mike Rowe is dreamy:

Friday Nostalgia

Andy Warhol at his finest, made in 1974. My wirgin friends and I would pile in the car to go see this at the drive-in when I was 16 or 17.

The Ride Home From Work

Late-Nite Post-Crit Post

For Your Professional Wardrobe

From Victoria's Secret, of course.

The Work of the Devil

I'd heard a while back about the frequency that can't be heard by anyone old enough to have driven a Pacer. I was fascinated by the subject the same way I was fascinated by sea worms, and then I forgot all about it. Until Sadie and Justin came in this weekend and tormented me with his mosquito ringtone that everyone--EVERYONE--except me could hear. Oh, what fun!

"Mom can't hear it; she's too old."

"Greg can still hear it!"

"You taking your Geritol, Mom?" (Right, I know. I'm the only one who knows what Geritol is.)

Team Trivia

I tried to email this to Georgia but it didn't go through, so I'm posting it here. Tolerate.

Sadie and Justin were in town, and we were dragging them to trivia, so I called Blaise to see if he wanted to go. I said, "I mean, unless you have other plans," to which he responded, "Nope. My girlfriend is in Costa Rica." I was happily surprised that he wanted to join us, and then a little while later he called to see if he could bring a friend. "Really?" I asked, "Have you described us to your friend? Does he know what we're like?" He assured me it would be fine and somehow even picked up another friend to bring along. Before we left for Suburban Tap, I told them how bad we suck at trivia--and how excited we were to have three Georgia Tech boys on our team, not to mention my brilliant oldest and her trivia-savvy boyfriend. In the end, we still sucked, having a great first half and tanking the second. We had a great time, though, except for missing Miss G.

From my left, going around the table: Lo's friend J; Lola; Blaise's friends Ed and Scott; Georgia's beau Blaise; Sadie's beau Justin, Sadie; and Biggy Greg. Our team name: Everyone but George.

No one wanted to say "Hey," because they hate the video camera. In fact, the whole family seems a little annoyed with me and my Flip lately

A Lola C Production

I'm posting this so Georgia won't feel so homesick, but if you'd like to be annoyed, go ahead and watch it. Regular readers will recognize Mamoo's horrid little Madonna sitting with Lo's friend J in the papasan chair. And if you listen closely at the end, you can hear Stella singing from the couch in the other room.

Friday Nostalgia

from left to right: Jack, Georgia, Sadie, Anna, Caitlyn. (1994)

I grew up with Caitlyn's mom. Anna and Georgia will be sharing an apartment at school this August.

Speaking of the Chamber

I used to send my writing classes there when Mini Kiss was playing.

Things That Aren't What They Say

Weekend before last, Biggy and I were out riding at Blankets Creek, and I inhaled a bug. Of course this set off an awful coughing jag, which has now lasted for more than ten days. For the first few, I figured it was the bug working its way out. I pictured its little body breaking up the way a roach once broke up in Biggy's cocktail at the Chamber back in '97. (Dancing in the dark club, he kept finding pieces of something in his rum and coke, spitting or rubbing it off his tongue until he realized what it was.) I thought I'd cough up wings and antennae, etc. and be done.

Somewhere along the line, I started feeling like I'd been hit by a Vespa--you know, not like Strep or the flu, where you feel like you've been hit by a truck; more the way you feel when you've performed sty surgery on yourself with tweezers, Q-tips, and a bottle of peroxide--on top of having bronchitis and a sinus infection. Yeah, what I have.

I sat in a Wellstar URGENT Care facility for three hours to find that out. THREE HOURS. I watched the View, read two old Family Circles, listened to some greasy old pharmaceutical rep work his magic with the office manager, and still had time to imagine the scenario in which they discovered I had lung cancer (which never would have been caught if it hadn't been for the bug). I was giving myself the pep talk about being brave for those around me and setting an example of dying with dignity when they called me back.

I did like the doctor, though. She was probably about 11, but she did not laugh when I told her the bug story. She didn't tell me I was crazy, that I'd "probably just SWALLOWED" the bug or that a bug would have already been "absorbed into my system" (Biggy, Hank). SHE ordered lung x-rays. SHE was afraid I might have aspiration pneumonia.

I didn't, but still.

And I think I fixed my eye.

How Much Fun Am I Going to Have With This?

This was on the Q100 website today (I read their lousy blog--I know!).

Forget taking them on vacation, forget the exotic locales. I'm taking them places I consider more appropriate, starting here:



You can get it for yourselves here.

Please-please-please!

Fay wants to play:

White Trash Checklist

Velvet Elvis:


Rusty Patio Furniture:


Chihuahuas:


Pop-Up Parked in the Driveway:


Above-Ground Pool:


Husband in Undershirt, Red-headed Kid: