Reply All - REALLY?

WARNING: SOAP BOX ALERT. RANT FOLLOWS.) Has someone in your company, or even someone with a large group of friends for that matter, sent a mass e-mail? And then, one by one, recipients start hitting “Reply to All” with their own pontifications on the e-mail’s subject? It’s like kicking an anthill and all the little buggers come flowing out like lava.

Let me please go on the record and state, I LOATHE “Reply to All.” I just heard someone today making fun of people who are annoyed by "Reply to All" offenders. That would be me. Should I let them know I'm one of them? Should I let them know that a “reply to all” is simply a corporate-sanctioned piece of spam e-mail? Should I let them know that "Reply to All" offenders are just plain lazy and borderline not aware of their surroundings? That they should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery?

It’s bad enough in your personal e-mail. But I think it’s worse in a corporate setting. Most “Reply to All-ers” are oblivious to the fact that usually, high-level company executives are also cc:ed on a mass e-mail. Does the CEO of your company really want to receive 50 replies back? Do you really want that CEO knowing you were not smart enough to simply reply to the original sender? While she/he might enjoy knowing that there’s a great team spirit amidst all the replies, they still get sprinkled among the other 125 e-mails received that hour via Crackberry. And no one wants to deal with that.

Go ahead. Hate me if you want. I hate having to purge 19+ replies all saying, “congrats” or “I feel exactly the same.” I hate hearing a barrage of opinions on a topic about which I really could care less. I hate having to mute my computer’s sound because every time one of them appears, a chime goes off and it sounds like a bad rendition of “Carol of the Bells.” I hate being excited that the e-mail box reads, “You have 30 new e-mails” and they’re all “Replies to All.”

Please don’t feel compelled to reply to this blog entry – you can leave me a voice mail.

Stop the Madness (or should I say, “Ad-ness?”)

Some things are just inherently wrong. The Michael Jackson-Lisa Marie Presley marriage…pineapple on pizza…tank tops with bra straps showing…adding water to single malt scotch…

Last night, I saw a TV commercial for maxi pads – the ones with “wings.” There’s not a thing wrong with advertising a feminine hygiene product. What was wrong was the creative concept. THE MAXI PAD WAS RIDING A MECHANICAL BULL. Not a girl wearing a maxi pad, but the pad itself flies up onto the bull (it has wings, you know) and gently spreads its wings around the body of the bull. As the bull performs its mechanical shuck and jive maneuvers, the maxi pad stays in place – an obvious metaphor for its true function.

STOP IT. I know what a maxi pad’s supposed to do. And I don’t ride mechanical bulls (anymore). I’m having a hormonal flashback to the old 70’s ad where the fem-hy-challenged female exclaims to her fem-hy-knowledgeable friend, “I need roller skates to keep up with you!” I guess the mere fact that I’m blogging about it serves the company’s communication goals. So alas, somehow they’ve won.

What’s next? A douche commercial featuring a fire hydrant? Well, that's just a bunch of bull.

When Humans Become Meals...

July 2010 has been the rainiest and hottest July I can remember. With this climate comes the humidity, the bad hair, the stagnant air and the standing water. And with this environment comes the mosquitoes. Tiny little vampires of the insect world.

According to Wikipedia,there are about 3,500 species of mosquitoes in the world. I’m quite sure that about 3,499 of them live in the Texas-to-Florida corridor. To my vampire comment, let’s be fair…only the female mosquito is the vampire. She needs the blood of humans to produce eggs and ultimately future little bloodsuckers. Males suck on plant nectar and hang out while their gals prey on us warm-bloods. This is like a bad rendition of “Twilight” and we’re ALL Bellas.

These little she-devils love my husband. He is a mosquito magnet of the highest attracting force. Buy stock in “Off” or “Cutter” products, folks, because our family is single-handedly keeping those companies in business. Before we go outside to do anything – and I mean ANYthing – we have to “lube up” as we call it. Go to the mailbox? Lube up. Walk the dog, water the plants or any yardwork? Lube up. Answer our front door? We should lube up. Our neighbor came to our door this past week and we literally smacked a mosquito on his forehead. Nothing says “hi, neighbor,” like a pop to the upper-left forehead and the blackish-red stain of a splattered insect!

Think we should do more than just “lube up?” We have coils that you light. We have citronella in all shapes, forms, liquidities and holiday colors. We have tiki torches – which I think when lit simply signal the mosquitoes to “C’mon over, dinner is served.” We have a propane-powered fogger, which works like the sprayer trucks, but in hand-held form. Our county has sent the trucks and even crop duster foggers to fly over our neighborhoods, but alas, throngs of the little swarmers still cruise our yards.

I’m pestered by them, but not like my husband. I think it’s because I eat a lot of garlic and according to an old wives tale, garlic in the bloodstream is supposed to be unappetizing to mosquitoes (yet another vampire connection). But lately, I too have had to spray every exposed body part with insect-repellant chemicals. And still, as I bend down in the flower beds to battle the crab and Dallas grass (there’s another blog entry there…), I’m attacked by swarms that would send the Luftwaffe back to Berlin. I feel like I’m the man in that old “Off” TV commercial, where he sticks his arm in the aquarium filled with mosquitoes, and they attack him like paparazzi on a Kardashian. And sadly, it’s not looking any better in August…

Rodeo Mania and Memories

It’s that time of year again… The 2010 Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo opens today and every time they open the gates (this is their 78th year), a stampede of childhood-to-adulthood memories and good times flood my brain.

For anyone not familiar with the HLSR, it’s one of the largest (if not the largest – I’m not sure) charitable and volunteer organizations in the Southwest. Their primary goal is to promote agricultural, livestock and farming pursuits and provide scholarships – and in their history, they’ve provided over $250 Million dollars to Texas youngsters. Over 22,000 volunteers donate over 1.1 million hours of their time each year to keep operating costs low, allow for top shelf entertainment and breathe life into the event.

I’m one of those volunteers. I have been since 1985.

When I’m not volunteering, I’ve been a patron. Long before I started volunteering. While my committee memories bring fond memories, my memories as a rodeo-goer are funnier. I think of:
- My parents bringing me to see The Osmond Brothers in the 70’s and I wore a purple cowboy hat because it was Donny’s favorite color.
- The date I went on and was angry because Eddie Rabbitt canceled. A little-known Texas performer filled in at the last minute. Some no-name called George Strait.
- I’ve drank Milk Punch in the mornings with girlfriends at the Chute Club; these turned into beers in the afternoon and jello shots by nightfall.
- I’ve danced with friends at the Hideout – some all-girl band named the Dixie Chicks were playing.
- Picture this: A stately crystalline buck, head held high, a bottle of tequila protruding out of his icy muzzle. Picture the other end, as the tequila flows out. I’m SOOOO happy that I did NOT drink tequila from the rear-end of that ice sculpture.
- The “beer goggles” that allowed my houseguest to set off the fire alarm as he went out to the car in the middle of the night to retrieve a bag for his wife. The firemen were not happy and I don’t think even the purple cowboy hat would have made them smile.

Over the years, volunteering has its benefits: I’ve worked on press releases, helped photograph calf scramble kids, worked the Go Texan Parade route and helped host wine events. I’ve listened to the sound quality of speakers at the tippy-top of the Astrodome and I’ve helped cowboys, bull riders and cowgirls make sure they pick up winnings. I’ve been a Captain, Chairman and Worker Bee. I’m happy that I got to ride twice in the Grand Entry – and not in a wagon, on horseback, thank you. I’ve also been able to watch top entertainers – from Elvis to Bill Cosby to Reba McIntire to ZZ Top – all from the arena floor of the Astrodome. So if you think its all work for free, don’t be sorry – the perks are great.

Only one thing left to say -- let’s Rodeo!

Parrot Head Memories

It’s the dead of winter in Houston, Texas and you’d think – given our other “season,” which is HOT - we’d appreciate this burst of arctic air. Then along comes the concert announcement that sends everyone’s head spinning like a margarita blender into a beachy, sunshine attitude: Jimmy Buffett is coming!

I love Jimmy Buffett. I’m a Parrot Head. I want a job where I can sing great songs, make people happy, travel the world and indulge my writing talent. How did I miss THAT major in college?

I remember the “Urban Cowboy” soundtrack, where “some guy named Buffett” sang a great dance song called “Hello, Texas!” There were concerts at G. Rollie White Coliseum in College Station, TX – concerts that required road trips to Houston to purchase Hawaiian shirts. The Hawaiian shirts made the trip to Ft. Lauderdale, where I saw him at Miami’s South Beach during Spring Break – right before we very thankfully decided to forego the tattoo.

In adult years (if you can call them that as I wear a straw hat with parrots, Mardi Gras beads and a cheeseburger on top of it), I’ve seen him inside and outside – at the old Summit in Houston as well as at the beautiful outdoor venue, Mitchell Pavilion. I’ve spilled beer on others and had the same returned to me. I’ve had a conga line trample the pizza our group was sharing. I know how to do the “Fins” dance and I don’t know where I’m-a-gonna go when the Volcano blows.

I’ve lived vicariously through several of his novels (yes, in case you didn’t know he’s also an author). I am pretty sure that Berkshire-Hathaway financial guru Warren Buffett secretly wishes they were related. His songs occupy a significant memory load on my i-Pod. I haven’t bought tickets to the concert in May yet, but plan to do that as soon as I finish looking for my lost shaker of salt!

Batter Up!

I'm a huge baseball fan. I know for most women, mid-February means valentines, chocolate and champagne. For me, it means batter up, boys! It's time for pitchers report to Spring Training in Florida and Arizona!

This is a photo of me and my parents - in Apache Junction, AZ in Spring of 1963. Dad was the manager of the Colt .45's (the direct ancestors of the Houston Astros) and Spring meant high hopes, shiny bats and clean balls at the base of Superstition Mountain. As a kid I learned about the desert; how to avoid a veritable plethora of cacti; don't climb a saguaro; rattlesnakes are not our friends. And I learned to love baseball.

As I grew older, Spring Break meant Fort Lauderdale, baby! But not because it was a spring break mecca, my dad was with the Yankees - and that's where they trained each spring. Actually, they train in Tampa, but Dad went south to scout the competition. And as a college student and all-around good daughter, I was happy to forego any plans I had to visit dad on his lonely 6-week stint. (Are you buying this yet? It's Lauderdale, for goodness sake!) I had a free place to stay and my only monetary responsibility (other than cocktails) was to meet Dad for breakfast every morning. I'm pretty sure he didn't believe my story that real Coca-Cola and dry toast was the latest Glamour Magazine diet plan.

All these fond memories add up to an adult who loves baseball. And I love the Astros and I love the Yankees. My biggest nightmare (or perhaps dream) would be a Yankee-Astro World Series. For whom would I root-root-root? Or maybe I'd just root for both. Either way it would be a great time.

Gearing Up for Rose Season

It's Feburary. And in Texas, it might get cold for a few days, but generally we're fairly temperate. For me, February means I can start tending to and cultivating my precious rose bushes. I only have 3, but I love them. Problem is, I hate waiting until I'm sure we're done freezing. I'm like a kid who wants to open a gift early!

I've not always been a rose gardener...the first year we were in our home, my husband surpised me with 3 rose bushes for Valentine's Day. He hates to give flowers because they're already dead. He thought they'd look pretty in one of our flower beds. He didn't think my face would go white with fear, but it did.

I explained that roses were very needy - labor intensive - finicky. I had never grown them before and for a very good reason...I didn't want to kill them! After my hyperventilation subsided, I ordered books from Amazon.com on roses; on rose diseases; on pruning and planting; on pests and pesticides. I googled everything I could that was rose-related. I learned about rabbit poop fertilizer (aka "rose viagara" as my husband calls it). Between that and the native rose soil (which is ironically cultivated in the subdivision in which I GREW UP), five years later, my roses are happy little campers. I've actually succeeded in growing something. We even moved them (yes, a dicey prospect for the very finicky roses) to their own flower box, which they love.

And me, I'm now a card-carrying member of the Houston Rose Society. Geeky, I know - but it sure is nice to have roses from your husband in the house all spring and summer long! Don't tell him, but he was right! LOL!

Like Mother, Like Daughter? Hope Not!

Today as I crept in morning traffic on my way to work, I was behind a Jeep Cherokee. It was obviously a "Mom" vehicle, because the back windshield proudly displayed a sign reading, "Drive Safely, My Munchkin is on Board." MY MUNCHKIN? Are you serious?

Now I have to see the woman who proudly describes her offspring as a character from the Land of Oz. Since I'm exiting the freeway anyway, I begin to pull up beside her. Safely secured in the back seat is a baby seat - no doubt the Munchkin throne. But my attention is quickly diverted to Mom, who is behind the wheel, lighted sun visor flipped down as she applies a layer of mascara to her eyes. How safe can "Her Munchkin" be as she pumps the brakes and plumps her lashes at the same time?

All this would be bad enough - but sitting next to her in the passenger seat is a pre-teen girl. A daughter perhaps? Another Munchkin who's just a bit older? The girl has the identical, passenger-side lighted sun visor in full-action mode and is ALSO applying eye makeup. The front seat of the Cherokee looks like backstage at a Revlon fashion show. Strike a pose, Ladies - they're ready for their close-ups, Mr. DeMille!

So I'm guessing when Tweeny-bopper gets HER license, we can look forward to another rolling Mary Kay party...or perhaps "Texting While Driving" lessons? Munchkins beware!