Turning up the Heat

Hot Dang! It’s hot! As I write this the temperature is 101 degrees, but it feels like 106 according to the National Weather Service. The humidity is only 34%, which is unusually low for these parts. Thank goodness. We wouldn’t be able to breathe if it were any higher. It’s supposed to be this hot again tomorrow with a heat index of 110. Summer is smacking us around like it usually does in August, but I am not complaining. I hate cold weather. I whine and mope all winter long for summer, so now that’s it’s here I’m keeping my mouth shut. I refuse to acknowledge that I’m sweating like an ugly girl on her first date. I am also in complete denial about the way my whacked out hormones are reacting to the heat. I kicked the covers off the bed so hard last night I almost sent the dog sailing with them. I think I scared him because he ran to the other side of the bed and stayed there the rest of the night. Today I have had a fan running full blast from the file cabinet across from my desk. I have on linen capris and a t-shirt and it still feels like too much. My clothing gets briefer as the days get warmer this week. At this rate I’ll be showing up for work nak*d by Friday. The heat has forced me inside to the treadmill this week, but I still walked away from my run today smelling like a sour rag….after my shower. Can I just say I am jealous of the way men can run in just a pair of shorts?

Of course, some of my sweating may come from the fact that Teen Angel starts high school tomorrow. I’m trying to be really excited for her, but I’m so apprehensive about the next four years. She’s going to grow up SO much in that time. She identified herself as “your little freshman” when she called me earlier today. Wow. When did she get that old? When did I get so old? We are a year and a half away from dates and a driver’s license. Is it any wonder I’m sweating bullets? We have a saying around here that "you pay for your raising'", which means your kids make you pay for all the misery you caused your own parents when you were growing up. If that's the case then I'll be sop and wet (southern for soaked) every day between now and May 2011. It looks as if this heat wave could last a while.

Kindergarten Smiles

School starts in a couple of days, and a whole lot of little folks will toddle onto that big yellow bus for the first time and head off to kindergarten. I love kindergarteners. They are so cute. I remember Teen Angel on her first day of school. Her backpack was as big as she was. She was spit and polished in her romper and matching hair bow, but she couldn’t have cared less about what she was wearing. She just wanted to go to school. She was ready. She was too little to be embarrassed by the fan club that gathered in the driveway to see her off: mom, dad, Mama J. and Papa T. Of course, I cried, even though I tried not to. It’s so hard to turn loose of little ones because you know you can’t protect them from everything anymore. I know some moms (and dads) who will be crying in their driveways this Thursday. I penned this one for them.

Kindergarten Smiles

Notebooks, pencils,
shiny new shoes.
A colorful backpack
bigger than you.

A great big step
to the yellow bus
signals the end of what
was once just us.

A smile, a wave,
you’re on your way.
Your journey without me
begins today.

Will you be scared?
Will you make friends?
I hope you’re smiling when
your first day ends.

From this day on
the years will fly.
Soon you’ll be grown and then
waving goodbye.

Indulge my tears
on this big day
and the catch in my heart as
the bus pulls away.

I share your joy
about this ride,
the doors it will open,
prizes it hides.

But it seems too soon
to let you go
to share you with a world
of troubled souls.

Hurt and sorrow,
anger and crime.
Now they begin to touch
this child of mine.

I pray for strength,
wisdom and peace,
for the power to touch
when out of reach.

Know I’m with you
when we’re apart.
I am your first teacher.
You are my heart.

Laughter through tears
will carry me
through each of your milestones.
I’m fine, you’ll see.

I’ll be right here
when you get home
to share your joy about
the trip alone.

Today’s the first
of many trips
that will open new doors
and sail new ships.

Ignore my tears.
They’re really smiles
for my kindergarten child’s
first learning miles.

By Hula Girl, August 2006

Driving Miss Hula

Hubby and I don’t fight like some couples do. We’re just too tired to argue about the small stuff, so usually we agree to disagree and move on. It’s a good thing because the gap between our political opinions is as wide as the Mississippi River. The one thing that still starts us bickering after nineteen years together is driving….specifically, HIS driving and my inability to keep my mouth shut about it. I try. Really, I do, but sometimes it just wells up until I can’t stand it anymore and spills out of my mouth in profane ways. It did yesterday, on the way back from St. Louis.

We have a system when we travel. Hubby drives and I navigate. If we’re ever on “The Amazing Race”, I will be the chick in the backseat with the map. I usually do very well at navigating, so I get really frustrated when he refuses to listen to my directions. “I’m the one holding the map, fool,” is the response I gave early in our relationship when he questioned my directions. I decided to try a different approach after I came close to being dropped at the nearest exit ramp a couple of times. Now I bite my tongue, say “yes” and focus on a Cracker Barrel billboard while counting to three. Do you know how many Cracker Barrel billboards there are between the Butler Hill Road exit and the Peveley, Missouri exit on I-55? Five. That’s how many times I had to count yesterday when we headed in the wrong direction as we started home. I knew immediately we had made a mistake. It felt wrong. It looked wrong. It just wasn’t right, and I knew it. I said so…three times. Hubby insisted that he remembered the area and kept driving. He would not turn around, even when he began to suspect he was wrong. He finally pulled off at a Shell Mart and told me to ask for directions. I think the party at fault should be the one to ask for directions, but I bit my tongue and trudged into the store only to find out what I already knew. We were headed in the wrong direction and simply needed to TURN AROUND. Sixteen miles later we were back where we started. Oh, look! There was the interchange we needed, one half mile from our hotel. I pointed that out….loudly.

I got even louder when we nearly drove through a red light. “What the h@&^l are you doing”, was out of my mouth before I could stop it. I got some story about the dust prevention gizmo on the brakes causing them not to work right when you have to slam on the brakes. I refrained from pointing out that slamming on the brakes isn’t necessary if you don’t approach stoplights at an excessive rate of speed.

I was starting to get grumpy, especially since I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and it was around 9:45am. Hubby had promised to stop pretty quickly so we could eat before we got too far down the road. Thirty minutes into our drive we had passed two Denny’s, one Bob Evan’s, three Cracker Barrel’s and several fast food options. Every time we pointed to a sign, Hubby would say, “Okay, but I’m sure we’ll find something you guys will like somewhere down the road.” What’s not to like about any of those? They all have biscuits, and as my daddy says, “That’ll do.” Still, we drove. In fact, we didn’t stop until the last exit before a long stretch of rolling Illinois farmland. Where did we stop? Bob Evan’s. Arrrrgh!

I guess the other Sunday travelers weren’t in as big of a hurry to get home as we were because we kept running up on the back end of their cars. I thought perhaps reading a book the rest of the way home would be a good way to take my mind off of Hubby’s tailgating AND stop my left eye from twitching. I didn’t, so I opted for my passive aggressive way of drawing attention to the issue. It’s a tactic I use close to home, too. I simply grab the dash or the overhead handrail when we get too close to someone. I also like to mash my foot into the floorboard as if I’m pressing a big, fat imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side. This method allows me to truthfully say I didn’t SAY anything about his driving. It gives me some semblance of trying to keep my mouth shut. He passively aggressively ignored my passive aggression but did finally slow down a little when the state troopers got a little thick.

This whole driving thing worries me because I see us turning into Mama J. and Papa T. in a few years. They’ve been fighting over Papa T.’s driving for years. He hasn’t driven in months, but he’s been known to make a few butts pucker on past road trips. I’ve seen Mama J. demand to be let out of the car while riding down the highway. Her more polite way of handling it has been to smile and thank Papa T. for the airplane ride as she got out of the car upon their arrival home. I thought about thanking Hubby for the plane ride yesterday but managed to bite my tongue. I really was trying hard not to be ugly. Besides, there is a slight chance that the wrong turn onto I-55 could have been my fault.

Don't Stay Home

"If you ain't got no money, take your broke *** home."-Glamorous by Fergie

That's my favorite song lyric right now. It cracks me up every time I hear it. Hubby and I sing it all the time, laughing at how being broke has never kept us at home. No matter the state of our finances we have always found a way to take a vacation or a few road trips each year. We both grew up with parents that took us on summer vacations, and it's a tradition that has stuck with us. We didn't take a big vacation this summer because we are headed to Florida in October. However, we've been on three road trips, two of them involving amusement parks. We've just returned from St. Louis where we spent a full day shopping for school clothes and a long, hot day at Six Flags. We probably could have put the money toward more practical things, but I'm glad we didn't because Teen Angel brought a friend who blessed me with a reminder that I'm not nearly as broke as I think I am.

After a day of roaming the mall Friday we hit an O'Charley's for dinner. Best Bud struggled over picking her dinner and finally admitted she had never been to O'Charley's before. I thought that was a little odd until she revealed later that she had never even been to an amusement park. Her family has never been able to afford it. She is fourteen years old. I've been aware of their financial struggles for a long time, but I didn't realize how much it had cut into her childhood experiences. That's because she doesn't let it get her down. She's honest about her situation but she bounces back from each disappointment in a way that prevents you from seeing how deeply it runs. I knew she doesn't have an iPod or any of the other techno accessories the teens arm themselves with these days. I knew she doesn't get to spend much money on clothing and that her shopping money this weekend came from her babysitting job. I also knew she had never been on a big vacation, but I had no idea she had never even been to an amusement park. Never been on a roller coaster. Never spent the day running from one wild ride to the next. Never bought a $6 corn dog or a $4 soda. Never thrown up from too much heat and too much spin. Never won a fuzzy hat by hammering a plastic frog into a lilly pad. She literally had no idea what to expect at Six Flags the next day.

I lost my appetite. I suddenly realized what a big deal this was for her and why her grandma was so glad we were taking Best Bud with us. My child has been to more amusement parks than I can count and has traveled to beautiful places in the Caribbean. She knows how to get around in an airport, eats exotic foods and mingles easily with kids from other countries. And yet, one of her friends hasn't had the opportunity to ride a roller coaster. Wow. I was determined that Best Bud would have the best time possible. It was fascinating experiencing the park through her eyes. It was like taking a toddler to the park. Everything was new. She was scared to ride rides, which required some negotiation between her and Teen Angel because my child is a daredevil and wants to ride only the fast, scary stuff. Hubby and I spent the day in the water park, periodically meeting up with the girls. We let them run and stomp and do what they wanted. It was a full day.

My pockets were pretty empty when we came home today, but I'm glad we went. I hope Best Bud gets to see more of the world in the coming years. If I won the lottery tonight, one of the first things I'd do is take her to Disney World or maybe on a cruise. I'm glad we didn't keep our broke *** home. Maybe it gave her an inkling of what's waiting for her.

Sunshine in Missouri

I'm posting from a St. Louis Holiday Inn where we just spent the day at Six Flags. It is hotter than Guam here. 98 degrees and sun, sun, sun. I've had all the sun I can stand for a few days. Hubby and I spent the day in the water park while Teen Angel and her buddy rode rides. The wave pool was so packed you couldn't stir 'em with a stick. That's southern for really crowded. We saw a lot of tired kids, many cranky parents and several sunburned bodies. Oh, and plenty of tattoos. Today's winner? The Winnie the Pooh cartoon strip panels that stretched up and down one man's arm. There were several bad bathing suits as well. The grand prize in that category goes to the fat man in the tiny neon blue Speedo. The poor service award goes to the snack stand that ran out of food AND ice. Hot people get grumpy when they can't get cold drinks, includng me. All in all, it was a good day. The girls are headed for the hotel pool and I'm headed for a shower. This trip has been unique in a very special way. More on that tomorrow.....if I'm not too pooped to post by the time we wander home. I wonder if anyone will notice if I wear my pajamas to the hotel pool?

Good-bye Summer

We are headed to St. Louis tomorrow. It’s our last grab at summer fun before school starts next week. We’ll spend a day at Six Flags, do a little shopping and eat some fatty foods. I don’t think we’ll ride The Arch because the darn thing keeps losing power this summer. I have ridden in those little trams, and I do not want to be knee to scabby knee with strangers in a sticky little cubicle for a couple of hours. This long weekend is a chance for Teen Angel to have some fun with one of her best buddies who is moving to a new school. They won’t be going to high school together, and that’s tough for them to accept. In fact, Teen Angel has four friends that she’s saying so long to this summer because they’re going to different schools. She also has a close friend who lost her dad to a bad car wreck two nights ago. It’s a transitional summer for sure. That first bite of grown-up realities can leave an aftertaste that lingers.

I remember feeling really out of sorts and awkward during the summer before I started high school. Nothing felt right. I knew I wasn’t a little girl anymore, but I wasn’t very grown up either. I was leaving the comfort of a rural K-8 school where I knew every face, could predict the weekly lunch menu and had enjoyed the friendship of the same 30 kids for nine years. I didn’t know what to expect but recognized that I was entering the world of boyfriends, peer pressure and serious academics. I was insecure about my appearance. I hadn’t fully reached puberty and my boobs were the size of mosquito bites. I also couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. My eyes has gone terribly south that summer, but I was not about to tell my parents because I knew thick glasses would be the result. I didn’t know much about boys, but I knew girls in Coke bottle lenses weren’t likely to turn many heads. I said good-bye to a buddy that summer. One of my classmates moved to New Jersey, making me realize there was a world outside my little hometown and that sometimes it sucked up people around me. Would it eventually whisk me away too, I wondered. I knew I would be making new friends but fretted over whether I’d keep many of the old ones. I was a nervous wreck.

That summer flew, as they all do when you’re a kid. I spent a lot of moody days sunning and reading. I mowed yards and earned money for school clothes. When it came time to buy clothes, mama took me to a nearby department store for name brand jeans instead of hitting the jean and t-shirt racks at Finkel’s Five and Dime. I finally entered the hallowed halls of womanhood, which was exciting for about two days. Then I realized what a drag that was going to be for the next forty years. I also got a new hair cut, something a little more feminine than my tomboy bob. I picked up my class schedule and bought my school supplies. Just pens and notebooks. No Trapper Keepers or “Dukes of Hazzard” lunch boxes. By the time the first day of school rolled around, I was determined to make the most of the four years that lay ahead. I don’t remember much about some of my other summer vacations, but I do remember that particular summer. I have thought about it often this past week. When I took Teen Angel to buy school supplies and had to explain why she wouldn’t need scissors. When we talked about getting school clothes and a hair cut. When I got a phone call from my old classmate who eventually left New Jersey for Louisiana. Remember Teen Angel, good-bye isn’t always forever.

Give me Some Skin

I feel like I’m twelve years old today….because I fell and busted my knee wide open. It was a pretty spectacular tumble, and it left me with the best case of road rash I’ve had since a three wheeler accident in my teens. It’s one of those weepy wounds that requires gauze and tape because they don’t make a band-aid big enough to cover it. It’s a doozie that stretches from the top of my kneecap to four inches above the ankle bone. If there were contests for this kind of thing, I’d win a blue ribbon.

I was running at lunch time, and trying to be extremely careful because it was 96 degrees outside. I thought the heat would be my biggest problem. I didn’t know my own klutziness would be a much bigger issue. I was running on a somewhat shady street that runs out of sidewalk for about two blocks. I usually zip down a driveway and run on the edge of the street until I hit sidewalk again. I guess I misjudged the distance between the curb and the edge of the pavement because my toes came down about two inches too short, sending me knees first onto the hot asphalt. As I was landing I thought to myself, “Self, there is nothing graceful about this moment. This is as ugly as it feels”. As soon as I hit, I did what everyone does when he falls. I bounced up, looked around to see if anybody was around and acted like nothing had happened. I took off running and had too much pride to stop and look at my knee until I could hide behind a shade tree in the next block. I knew it was bad before I looked because of the hot drip I could feel running down my calf. Despite the stinging and the bleeding, I ran all the way back to the office because I was so ashamed of my dirty, bloody leg. Did I mention I fell on one of the busiest streets in the city? Go big or go home, I always say.

Our first aid kit didn’t have any peroxide, so I had to clean my knee with alcohol. Those kits should come with a bullet to bite down on when you’re using that crap. I’ll spare you the details but there was a lot of cleaning that needed to be done. Nothing like picking asphalt out of your knee right before you eat a bologna sandwich lunch. This tumble left a mark that will take days to heal. I haven’t had a scab this big since I was twelve and tried to ride my bike down a really tall hill. I lost control about a third of the way down, flipped over the handle bars and slid on my knees for what felt like twenty yards. I thought I was going to meet my Maker as I was flying through the air. For weeks, I kept busting those knees open. My birthday picture that year shows me holding a cake and brandishing two scraped up knees. Beautiful. At least I won’t have any photos to document this tumble. However, I will get to wear my lovely gauze bandage to a business breakfast in the morning and jury selection later in the day. (I have jury duty this month.) The price we pay for physical fitness? Twelve pounds of pride.