A Small Victory for Smart

We have Paris Hilton to thank for so many things: increased sales in dog clothes, the return of big ugly sunglasses and a small upsurge in jailhouse religion. Wonder if she made a donation to the Gideons out of gratitude for the bible she clung to in jail? I’m afraid her biggest contribution to society may have been a general downturn in the ambition of some young women. We seem to have a lot of very young women who think you can glide by in life on a smile, three inches of cleavage and a tilt of the head. There are plenty of smart, ambitious young women out there, so I don’t want to paint them all with the “broad” brush. However, dumb is back, and it’s driving me crazy.

When I was growing up in the seventies the Gloria Steinhams, Shirley Chisholms and Billie Jean Kings of this country were motivating us little girls to be the best and brightest we could be. Daily, the dominant figures in the media pounded into my little nearsighted, brunette head that an education was my ticket to success. My parents drilled that message into me too, but they were reinforced by the images and messages on TV and in books and magazines. Of course, when you are severely nearsighted and skinny as a POW you don’t exactly pin your hopes on using your looks to get ahead. Nevertheless, no one else was sending me that message, either. The country was shutting down its Playboy Bunny clubs and burning their Cross Your Heart bras.

It’s just not that way these days. While parents and the realists of this world are still preaching education, the 24-hour media circus is glutted with Paris, Nicole and other folks famous for showing up and looking good. And don’t forget Britney and Lindsey who have some talent but get more attention for getting drunk and waving their hoo-hoo in our face. Dumb is cute. Young women are using their sexuality instead of their brains to make a buck. The Playboy Bunnies are back. They even have their own reality show. Jessica gets movie deals because she fills out a pair of shorts and can’t tell the difference between chicken and tuna. We are backsliding with all of this giggling and chest thrusting.

I want you to know that I’m doing my part to stop it in its tracks. My latest attempt was last Thursday night while I was standing in line at the Porta-Potties with several hundred other people at the Jimmy Buffett concert. The lines were clearly marked and people were trying to be considerate and efficient because we all wanted to get back to our seats before the end of intermission. Each line was served by two Porta-Potties. As I neared the front of my line, a sweet young thing came walking up next to me, smiled and said to the elderly fellow in front of me, “I’m starting a new line.” (Insert excessive giggling and chest thrusting here.) Apparently he was too surprised to speak or distracted by the cleavage. Not me. Maybe it was the margaritas at work, but I wanted her to know that cute business wasn’t getting her a free pass to the front of the line. I tapped her on the shoulder and said, “There is no new line. THIS line serves these two bathrooms, and the line starts back THERE.” (Insert pointing of figure to the end of the line.) I had a flash of Kathy Bates in “Fried Green Tomatoes” when she tells those two girls she’s older and has more insurance and then proceeds to ram their car. “Tawanda!” was her battle cry. Sweet young thing seemed surprised by my tawanda moment. I continued to glare at her so she dropped her head and stood there longingly while we passed her by and used the pot. Of course, in my haste to keep her out of the Porta-Pottie, I opened the door too fast and exposed the backside of a man taking a whiz. Oops! A casualty in my war on stupid girls.

I am my Mother

The pace at which I am becoming my mother is accelerating at an alarming rate. You spend your entire youth swearing that you will never do the things your parents do. Teen Angel is at that point now. Little does she know that no matter how hard she tries not to, one day she will be wearing stretchy pants, singing too loud and dancing in her underwear with the dog. Somewhere in your mid-thirties you realize that you WILL be just like your parents and do the same stuff that seems so dumb when you are a kid. I remember the exact moment I first realized my evolution into Baby Ruth had begun. I was trying on shoes in a department store and couldn’t decide between two pair. One pair was cute as Johnny Depp’s butt but uncomfortable. The other pair was low to the ground and a little on the frumpy side. I was leaning toward the frumpy, comfortable pair when it hit me like a sledgehammer that that was the exact choice my mother would have made. “*@$&!! This was NOT going to happen”, I said out loud to no one in particular. It was the beginning of a transformation that sneaks up behind me when I least expect it and scares me so hard I almost wet my pants. The leaky bladder is part of the evolution, too. Sigh. I was hoping to skip that gene.

The latest slide into the Baby Ruth zone started two weeks ago. Every night I wake up because I’m too hot. I’m hot….all the time…even when other people aren’t. I know it’s July in Kentucky, but this is a different kind of hot. My core temperature has a mind of its own. I’m kind of young for menopause, but it appears I could be an over achiever. I can’t stand the covers, can’t stand the sheets and certainly can’t stand the dog curling up against my backside. Whew! He’s going to have to find a spot at the end of the bed. Hubby has always kept the house pretty chilly at night, and he’s still comfortable. I, on the other hand, am sweating like a thief in Sunday school. The problem is twofold, because the moment I wake up in the middle of the night, my bladder kicks in overdrive. Gotta pee it screams, so I have to stumble in a daze to the bathroom, praying I will not whack my toe on the bedpost I know is dangerously close to my path. I also have to pray that the TP wars in our house will not leave me empty handed because NO ONE is going to wake up and bring me toilet paper no matter how loud I yell. I narrowly managed the five square minimum at three o’clock this morning. As I climbed back in bed after my potty trip I thought about how nice it would be to keep a fan by the bed. My eyes flew open and I almost swore out loud. Ahhh! Fan by the bed?! There she is again. My mother, creeping up behind me. Can stretchy pants be far behind?

Fruitcakes

"There's a little bit of fruitcake left in everyone of us."-Fruitcakes by Jimmy Buffett

Boy, was he right. I saw plenty of fruitcakes this week. They were lots of fun and mighty nice. Let me introduce you to some of their fruitcake madness.

Just a few of the 22,500 who gathered together at Cinncinati, where the Parrot Head thing all began many years ago. Cincinnati is proud of its Parrot Head legacy.

Here I am in the middle of all that mess. Note the lovely flamingo deely-bobbers. You can't see my parrot flip-flops, but they were quite the hit. People kept stopping me and asking me where I got them. I met a lot of new friends that way. Leave it to a first born child to find a way to get noticed in this crowd.

See the friendly police officer on the left. He's the one in the vest. He was kind of cranky. It seems that drawing this duty is NOT considered a plum assignment. I wonder why?

Maybe it has something to do with all the rowdy tailgaters across the street. Here is a tiny portion of them. They were friendly folks, especially the man wearing the Corona carton for a hat.

The people in the colorful RV were friendly folks, too. I was especially fond of their artwork on their RV. Nothing screams Parrot Head like a fin on the roof.

Except maybe sunglasses, a coconut bra and a grass skirt on the front.

These guys couldn't get into the Boy Scouts with their behavior, but they certainly were prepared. If you look closely(in the middle), you'll see the commercial smoothie maker they brought with them. It was running on a generator. It was a little more reliable than the blender some other folks were running off of their car battery.

There was even a beach. We were invited to play in it. I'm telling you these Parrot Heads are friendly people. They even helped me to find my salt.

Found the Salt

In the interest of not posting anything that could be used against me in future Senate confirmation hearings, I will not tell all. I will admit to having a large time. A REALLY large time. I have pictures but have to get them developed. That's because I had to take them the old fashioned way, with a disposable camera. Cameras aren't allowed into the concert, so you have to sneak one in. Any unapproved items (ie..cameras, blankets, coolers, alcohol, beach balls over a certain size) are halted at the door and put in an unattended barrell where you can try to find them after the show. Yeah, right. Not wanting to lose a digital camera, I opted for the disposable one. I saw many unusual sights: beaches in the back of pickup trucks, wild outfits and one naked backside at a porta-potty (more on that later). We stayed safe and a good time was had by all. Can't wait 'til next year! More info to come later today, but now I'm off to Wal-Mart to get the pictures developed...and to buy some salt.

Searching for my Lost Shaker of Salt

I am all tingly today. That’s because I’m headed to Margaritaville when I leave work. We are Cincinnati bound for tomorrow night’s Jimmy Buffett concert there. 22,500 crazy people dressed in wacky outfits will come together on the banks of the Ohio River to celebrate leisure. It’s where the whole Parrothead movement started many years ago, and the folks there know how to have a good time. They’ll start tailgating tomorrow morning. It raises people watching to a whole new level. You really don’t have to drink to have a good time. I’ll probably have a margarita, though. Or two. And a cheeseburger.

My outfit is ready: grass skirt, leis, flamingo Mardi Gras beads, flamingo sunglasses and satin parrot flip-flops. Teen Angel is mortified that I will wear that get-up in public. The next time she tries to walk out the door in butt crack revealing jeans and a T-shirt that says “I Pooted”, I’m not going to say a word. I’m just going to quietly change into my Parrothead outfit and sit down beside her in the car. I won’t change until she does. It’s similar to the dirty dancing technique or kissing in public tactic her dad and I use to show her how silly she’s acting sometimes.

By this time tomorrow, I should be standing in a lot on Kellogg Avenue, amidst cars with giant shark fins on top, men in coconut bras and grass skirts and women with silly hats. I might take a picture. Or two. And make a few new friends.

The scenery will be fun, but the music is really what I enjoy most. Jimmy’s music is fun. It’s a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll and a little bit of ballad. It’s easy to sing along to and lends itself to audience participation. I might dance during a song. Or two. And sing out loud.

Why will thousands of people dress up in silly outfits, drink a few drinks and sing some songs? Because it’s a few hours of escapism; an opportunity to set aside your worries for a little while and pretend you are someone else in a far away place where it’s warm, and sunny and feels like vacation. A place where you’d like to spend a day. Or two. And relax.

Keeping the Pace

Have you ever been feeling really good about yourself and something you’ve done only to realize later that it didn’t compare to the accomplishment of someone quietly standing right beside you? It God’s way of keeping us humble, I guess. I spend a lot of time being humble.

I ran a 5K Saturday morning at the local park. It was my third race and the site of the first race I ever ran. My goal was to beat my time from the first race. I’m still pretty new to all of this racing stuff, so I have no illusions about my abilities. I’m really slow compared to the master runners. The overall winner ran a 5:36 mile. That’s twice as fast as me. I can’t even imagine what that’s like. Maybe someday. I worked really hard this time to pace myself, to rest appropriately and to eat all the right stuff prior to the race. The first time I raced I didn’t know anything about carb loading or tapering or all that other fancy running stuff. Now I know to eat my whole wheat spaghetti the day before the race, to get at least eight hours of sleep the two nights before the race and not to jump out there with all the fast guys when the starting buzzer goes off.

As I headed toward the back of the line-up with the other slow folks, I laughed and joked about speed with a business acquaintance who said he wasn’t really a runner but wanted to participate because it was a charity event. His goal was to finish, so I wished him luck and assured him he would be fine. I put on my ear buds, adjusted my iPod and tried to stay focused on my goal. Stick to your pace. Stick to your pace, I kept telling myself. Sometimes you feel good when you run. Sometimes you feel like a tired old poop. I felt great Saturday morning. I kept slightly ahead of my training pace, hitting my first mile at the ten minute mark. That’s good for me. I did a second ten minute mile and had good energy during the third and final mile. I even had some kick at the end. I hit the finish line two and half minutes faster than the first time I raced. I was beaming when I hit the shoot. I thought I might even have a shot at placing in my age division.

I stuck around to watch the youth race and to see the awards. As I was mingling around the crowd, that business acquaintance walked up to me and congratulated me on a good run. Well thanks, I said, still feeling pretty pleased about my time. He told me that he sees me running around town on my lunch hour and asked me why I run. I told him about all of the heart disease and diabetes in my family. “I understand,” he said. “I had brain surgery last year. I had a tumor removed.” I was floored and for the first time, noticed the scar on the front of his scalp. He went on to explain that the race was his way of celebrating his survival and his recovery. I got the feeling that he hadn’t shared that with many folks. He hurried off to get to his son’s soccer match, and I just stood there for a minute, absorbing what he had told me. It suddenly put a whole new meaning to the notion of racing. It’s not really how fast you run, it’s the desire to keep running. Hmmm. Humbled again.

Going to The Dogs

“I want to be like Buddy”, I thought this morning as I stood in my driveway and watched my neighbor’s dog sprint home. Buddy is a free spirit…a traveler and an adventure seeker. He has the heart of a child and the soul of a gypsy. His tail is always wagging, and he always seems happy. I think he developed his wanderlust when he rode all over the country as a pup with his owner, a long haul truck driver. They traveled the lower 48 states for a year or so. When the trips got too long and Buddy got too big, Buddy ended up with the trucker’s dad, my neighbor Mr. Tom. To say that Mr. Tom is Buddy’s owner is not quite accurate. Buddy belongs to no one but belongs to everyone. He makes the whole neighborhood (and a few nearby) his home. Mr. Tom feeds him and so do ten other people. Even though Buddy roams the subdivision, he doesn’t bother anyone and he doesn’t damage stuff, so most folks tolerate him. Except for Mrs. P.. She doesn’t like it when he tinkles on her lilies. He doesn’t pee on anyone else’s plants, so I think he does it just to spite her because she’s so grumpy. She really is. Ask anyone on the block.

When I saw him at dawn this morning he was slipping home like a teenager who had snuck out for a beer party. He had a bounce in his step and a twinkle in his eye. Goodness only knows what he had been up to. He’s a hunter, a gatherer and a lover. He didn’t have any squirrels in his mouth so I suspect last night’s adventure had more to do with affection than with game. He’s a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy, although he was pretty smitten by that little female lab that showed up about a year ago. She had wandered far away from home and was obviously attracted to Buddy’s free spirit. They had two days of romping and running together before her owners found her and took her home. As she pulled away he seemed panicked. He moped for a week before he took to the streets again.

He has street smarts, too. He knows how to stay out of trouble, and he knows to keep away from moving cars. He’s not interested in barking at the UPS man, and he never snaps at kids. He just wants to have a good time…all the time. He never seems to have a care in the world. That’s why I want to be like Buddy….sometimes. I love my life, but we all have those little moments when we’re tired and stressed out and we wish for something different. Sometimes I want to be a free spirit; an adventure seeker without a care in the world. I want to see the world, meet a lot of new people and have lots of fun. I want to romp and roam and not be responsible for anything. The next time I’m feeling down, I’m going to run with Buddy.