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!