Traveling in Today’s World - Mama Said There’d be Days…

Growing up, my parents always taught the principles of “please,” “thank you” and simply being polite. Especially when it came to traveling. We traveled A LOT when I was growing up and thankfully, my folks never had to deal with traveling in today’s airline climate.

I just took a weekend trip where I had to fly out of town. And easy 2.5 hour flight up to Chicago and another one back. Before I go off on the people who tried, tested and tweaked my patience, there were some high points to the flights that helped balance out the insanity: The hilarious group of elderly women in the airport restaurant that kept us all in stitches with their humor; A lovely flight attendant on the flight up who purchased drinks for our row to honor the air force sergeant seated next to me; The couple on the flight back with the 3-month old baby who slept peacefully through the entire flight. There ARE nice strangers everywhere and it’s a shame that they are many times overshadowed by idiots.

Hmmm. Idiots. Mom would say I wasn’t being very polite. OK, I will try to highlight their antics in the most polite way possible, using please and thank you.

Please, Mr. Curbside Skycap – throw my suitcase over to the conveyor belt so as not to exert yourself in the 4-5 steps it takes to reach it. You missed? Well thank you for then flipping it like a giant block on the 2nd try so it rolled on all 4 corners before reaching the belt.

Thank you, Courtesy Shuttle for the Handicapped, for running over a little girl’s sweater in your race to the next gate. At least the little girl wasn’t wearing it.

Thank you, Father and 2 kids, for all standing at the end of the security scan conveyor belt and putting on your socks, your sneakers and your belts while the rest of us catch our belongings before they go past you. More thanks for not taking up space on the benches that are conveniently there for this purpose.

Thank you, holder of boarding pass A39, for pushing in front of me, holder of boarding pass A32. Please let me get out of your way.

Thank you, Gate Attendant, for letting him do it. Please ask your high school math teacher why you can’t count past 30.

Thank you, passenger behind me, with your i-Pod up so loud that even with earbuds I can tell you’re listening to Katy Perry. Please make an appointment with a doctor to check your hearing.

In conclusion, please allow me (see how I got that “please” in there, Mom?) to quote a popular country-western song: “Mama always told me that I should play nice, but she didn’t know you when she gave me that advice.” In this case, “you” know who you are, Southwest Airlines travelers.

Not a Selfie Fan

When I was on vacation in Europe in the last millennium, my friend asked me, “Why are you taking pictures of all these statues? Why don’t you ever want to be in the picture?” My answer: I hate having my photo taken. Getting a passport photo is as stressful to me as presenting in public or going on a first date.

Fast-forward to the current day, mobile society where most everyone LOVES to post photos of themselves…aka “Selfies.” I’ll be honest - this practice annoys me. It’s kind of self-absorbed. OK, not kind of. It is. And it can get you in trouble if you’re of the mind to experiment with more…uh…experimental… uh…arsty shots and scenes a la a Kardashian video. You know what I mean.

Obviously, my opinion is WAAAAY in the minority, given that everyone from Ellen to the President is snapping selfies. Given that that the term selfie was proclaimed 2013 Word of the Year by the Oxford English Dictionary. http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/selfie Given that when you Google, “How to take a Selfie,” there are over 73 million – yes, million – links that pop up.

So I am woefully outnumbered. I did however, take this photo while on a cruise this summer – I’m calling it my first selfie, but this friend contends that I’m simply photo-bombing her and that it isn’t my selfie because she took it.

Lastly, back to my friend and I in Europe oh those years ago: She also asked, “If you’re not in the photo, how will people know you’ve been here?”

Duh. I took the picture – you’ll just have to trust me.

The War on Weeds

Right now, one of the books I’m reading is a military action thriller – the tagline of which reads, “Beyond Special Forces Lies Our Last Line of Defense…” Well, the last line of defense in my yard between beautiful, blooming beds and an onslaught of unwanted weeds is me. Gentlewoman Farmer? Gardening Goddess?

I’m really more of a Yard Trooper. I have armed myself with weapons both mechanical and chemical. I think I’m much more militarily horticulturally advanced than the average homeowner, going beyond the standard trowel, spade and shears. I use my weed hog with cold precision. I spray Round-Up with accuracy matched only by SWAT Team snipers. I leave no root behind when pulling up weeds by hand… A regular “Jack Bauer of Le Jardin.”

And yet, week after week, the pesky, pesty plants return. Here are just a few of my “I-may-look-floral-but-I’m-a-yard-parasite” foes:

Dandelions – “Dandy?” I think not. Sure, let your kid make a wish and blow the adorable, puff-ball of a flower. Your unintended seed-spreading just caused me and my lower back an extra hour on my hands and knees trying to dislodge the entire weed by the root. I’ll send YOU my Advil bill.

Dallisgrass – I think dallisgrass is like gray hairs. If you pull one out, 5 more appear. Or at least that’s how it seems when you’re trying to eradicate it. The flowers look like little “hayseed sprigs” and they spread like wildfire. So if you see someone trying to look like a farmer with a sprig of the flower hanging out of his/her mouth, grab it by the flower end and proceed straight to the nearest trash can!

Crabgrass – This stuff is like rattan-quality rope material. Getting it by the original root is like finding a buried treasure. If macramé ever comes back into style, I can braid what I pull up and use it as decorative rope.

Clover – I swear I will scream if I purchase one more plant at a big box store and find clover in the plastic planting container. As if I didn’t have enough clover in the yard already – PLEASE include some as a gift with my purchase of hibiscus. And in all my years of gardening, I have yet to find the elusive 4-leaf variety – the weed world’s winning lotto ticket.

Morning Glory – I know, technically not a “weed.” But these plants are unabashed in their invasiveness. One season of “oh they’ll be so pretty” and the next moment their vines are choking your star jasmine like a WWF superstar.

For more info on weeds (REAL info, not just my rantings) here’s a shout-out to my college friend Randy, Houston’s Garden Guy: http://www.ktrh.com/pages/gardenline-broadleaf.html

Another great site for Weed ID: http://www.floridalawncare.org/101.html

Good luck and green gardens!

The Battle of the Crape Myrtle

Sounds like a war novel, huh? It WAS a war.

I hated this botanical bastard. I did not plant it. It came with my old house. “It’s just a tree,” you are thinking…“How hard can it be to remove?” This Crape Myrtle was unstoppable. It was an Energizer Bunny Bush on steroids. It was the Terminator of the tree world. It was like another season of “The Bachelor/Bachelorette.” It would NOT go away.

We first cut it down with a chainsaw. Then, we drilled hole in trunk and inserted tree-killer poison. We deprived it of sun and water. Like some alien monster whose severed parts regenerate into new beings, “suckers” (small offshoots) emerged. We sprayed “sucker stopper” on it to no avail. Yet the suckers continued to sprout and grow larger. Stronger. Mocking me.

So my head is hung in defeat. I surrendered. You won’t read about this war in a history book. Not even in a botany textbook. It was a war I fought valiantly and lost embarrassingly. A war in which I threw in my white sun hat (in lieu of the proverbial towel) in utter defeat. Ironically, the scientific classification for a crape myrtle is the genus “Lagerstroemia.” I say ironically because after all this, a beer sounded like a good idea.

And guess what…in my new house, there are two large crape myrtles welcoming you to my front door. And mocking me at the same time. I guess “if you can’t beat’em, join’em” applies to foliage too because like me, they’re staying.

She's Baaaaack!

For the very few of you who follow “Crafty Thoughts and Blonde Moments,” I’m back. I feel as though I should be in a confessional. “Forgive me, Blogspot, for I have been absent. It’s been over two years since my last post…”

I had slacked up on blogging my thoughts, rants, comments and observations in 2011. But then in June of 2012, my world completely changed. I lost my husband to an unexpected heart attack. It was a shock to be sure and the past 2 years have been a time of tears, transition, trepidation, toughness and turnaround for me (hey, I'm out of practice so I had to do some alliteration drills). It was difficult to post a blog topic because so much of my humor came from, was directed at or was shared with him. Thankfully, all the things “they” say are true: time heals, you are never given more than you can handle, you are tougher then you think, and so on. I will miss him very much, but with his sense of humor, he’ll want me to move on and blog on.

So I'm moving on. I packed up the animals, sold the house in the suburbs and moved back into the city. (Cue up the theme music from “The Jeffersons.”) I’m closer to friends. Closer to work. Meeting the neighbors and getting active with a Rodeo committee again. Between home selling and buying, packing and moving, a new dog and a quirky new urban neighborhood (new to me, most of the houses are from the 50's), there are lots of fun blog targets to keep me inspired. And eeeek…newly single again. The whole dating again topic should hold enough blog fodder to take me into the next year. Hell, the next decade.

Like I said, I’m back. I’ve spruced up my page and given it a facelift. More musings and mulling (and hopefully fewer alliteration drills) to come, my blog fans – all 2 of you.

Mother Nature's Anthrax

Ahhh…Spring is here. A time for growth and rebirth. For beautiful blooms and a palette of greenery right out of a Monet masterpiece. A time for Mother Nature to start fresh. And a time for Mother Nature to exercise her twisted sense of humor on all us allergy sufferers. You know what I’m talking about: POLLEN.

Forget volcanic fallout…forget acid rain…forget tear gas. Pollen is powerful. It causes almost two months of nose-clogging, eye-watering, throat-stripping plant dust that single-handedly keeps brands like Sudafed, Zyrtec and Claritin in the black. But zapping grown men into sniffling babies and keeping the drug manufacturers in quarterly bonuses isn’t Pollen’s only gift…

Let’s not forget the boon to car washing businesses. Owners of car washes all over the south are planning their Riviera vacations, thanks to the little gems of germination. Mr. Bubbles is sitting at the Captain’s Table because my vehicle looks like its wearing a yellow fur coat. But wait, there’s more…

Did your neighbor compliment you on your new yellow tablecloth? What? You don’t OWN a yellow tablecloth? That’s just our trusty Pollen, floating into an open window or door to make itself at home in your home and promote yet another industry: cleaning products and maid services. You’ll either have to hire a maid or you will be the maid, thanks to our friend Pollen.

So when Mother Nature sends you her annual terrorist package of Pollen, thank your lucky stars for antihistamines, central air conditioning, a strong vacuum and sealed garage. Maybe that’s why they call it “Allegra” – which means joyous – because you’re so darn happy to have some relief!

The MRI - Testing More Than My Health...

I have been blessed with very good health. Hospitals and procedures are not something to which I’m accustomed. In Fall of 2010, I was told by my doctor that I needed to get a chest/body MRI done. While I realize an MRI is a major procedure, it’s fairly commonplace. I had an MRI done on my foot once, so no biggie. I was worried more about what we would find versus the actual procedure. WOW. My worry was completely misdirected.

First, the doctor asks if I’m claustrophobic. Why, of course I’m not, I scoff. I’ve been in an underwater submarine to look at pretty fish and coral. I’ve hidden in closets for surprise parties. I’ve driven in very small cars. Piece of cake. Second, the doctor asks me if I’d like a sedative for the procedure. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. As I re-tell this story back at the office, several friends warned me that “you will need valium.” I write them off as weenies.

I arrive at the MRI facility and check in. The nurse outfits me (very painlessly, I should add) with my IV and asks if I am taking a sedative. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. Any normal person would see a pattern here. Not me. I’m escorted into the MRI room and I see the machine that sort of resembles a wine chiller on its side. So it’s got THAT going for it. I’m presented with my ear plugs, a cozy blanket and a plastic ball on a tube. “This is your panic button,” the technician explained. “If you are at all nervous, just squeeze the ball and we’ll pull you out.” I grasp it, but I think to myself, obviously I won’t need that….

WRONG.

Oh, don’t misunderstand. It all started out all right. I actually made it through about 14 minutes. But on Minute 15, the machine started closing in on me like a rolling kaleidoscope. As I clicked in, inch by inch, I started to lose sight of the white, tiled ceiling. Then, I attempted to keep up with the drum-rapping song that beat in my head. Oh wait – that’s not a song, it’s my heart beating faster than microwave popcorn! I can literally feel it in my chest, as my arms are crossed over my heart. I actually thought, “Well, it’s good that I look like I’m in a coffin, because I may just die.” Minute 15:30, I’m squeezing that rubber ball as if I could make it disintegrate and they start to pull me out. Minute 15:50, I’m out and they help me back to the waiting area to calm down.

At this point, I agree to the sedative. One problem: it’s only 1 milligram and my anxiety level is now at a gazillion milligrams. But I take it anyway, and being the oh-so-patient patient, I quiz the nurses, techs and my husband: “Is it working?!...What should I feel like?!?...Will I know when it kicks in?!?...Will I feel groggy?!?!...How long does this take?!” If you’d like to set my diatribe to music, I suggest using “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” as your music bed. I tried one more time, but to no avail.

Needless to say, my mission was scrubbed faster than the Space Shuttle getting yanked from Houston’s Johnson Space Center. I looked at my arm, where the nurse had so skillfully inserted the painless IV, only to find a coaster-sized, blue-red bruise around the insertion area where I had squeezed myself even harder than I had squeezed the panic ball.

So what did I learn from this? Well, I learned that an Open MRI is the way to go. I learned that Valium (20 mgs to be exact) is my friend. And I learned that I’ll probably never have a career as a Chilean Miner. In the end, all involved are healthy and happy (except maybe for that little panic ball – I WAS pretty abusive…).

What Scares Me?

A good friend of mine suggested an interesting topic: What are you afraid of? The first response that pops up is “ending sentences with prepositions”…but I digress. Since it’s the start of a new year and a new decade, I thought I’d ponder the question.

So what scares me? The usual tangible, icky things in nature: snakes, spiders, rodents and roaches. It’s not so much that they scare me, as I have an innate desire to kill them. Oh, and monkeys, too. Especially little, wiry monkeys. YUK. Perhaps my fear brings out some murderous streak. Perhaps that’s something others should heed…hee, hee. So here we go – Fear 101 for me:

Clowns
They’re evil. Just plain evil. No one is that happy all the time. Never trust anyone or anything that fits 10+ in a tiny car. (Now I must asterisk this by saying I do not mean rodeo clowns – they perform a valuable service.) But most circus “tramp” clowns, spindly marionettes and those icky mime-ish French clowns give me the creeps. Maybe it’s all that facial make-up and costuming hiding the real person inside. If there really IS a real person inside….

Uncontrolled Fire
I grew up with Smokey the Bear. He was smarter than the average bear. I mean, c’mon…who wants to become a human torch?!? Not me. I’m OCD when it comes to candles, fireplaces and even pizza boxes on low in the oven.

Tequila
It’s not so much the tequila that scares me as much as ME AFTER I drink tequila. It makes me mean. And I’ve already mentioned the potential murderous streak…

Drowning/Suffocation
I learned to swim at an extremely young age…perhaps my parents had the same fear and wanted me to overcome it. I love swimming, but do it very controlled environments. Pools, small ponds, oceans with see-through water and LOOOOOONG sand bars. No Jacques Cousteau-action for me...no swimming through dark, coral tunnels. I sort of hyperventilate as I write that!

Reality TV
The Bachelor…Jersey Shore…The View…Wife Swap…The Ed Show…Toddlers and Tiaras…Bridalplasty…The Glenn Beck Show…ANYTHING with a Kardashian on it. I only hope it’s not an indication of where our collective mindset is headed.

White Zinfandel
Enough said.

Being Lonely
I don’t mean being alone, I mean being lonely. Having no one in which to turn. I think I’ve got this fear licked, because I’ve been lucky to have great family and surround myself with wonderful friends.

Perhaps writing about it exorcises some fear demons. Mostly I try to live every day to that cliché of “the fullest.” And I try to be thankful every day for my blessings and to hope for those who don’t have as many. I found an amended version of “The Serenity Prayer,” and it helps me with my fears. Maybe it will help you with yours.

God, grant us the serenity to accept things we cannot change, courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Grant us the patience for the things that take time, the appreciation for all that we have, and the tolerance for those with different struggles. May we appreciate the freedom to live beyond the limitations of our past ways, the ability to feel your love for us and our love for each other and give us the strength to get up and try again ~ even when we feel it is hopeless.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, ALL!

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!

Wining or Whining?

Anyone who knows me knows: I LOVE WINE.

I've been trying to learn more about wine, but let's face it. I'm a novice. Actually a novice of a novice. The difference between me and some other folks is that I'm not afraid to admit it.

Have I overpaid for a glass or bottle of wine because I knew no better? Yes.
Have I enjoyed wine from a box? Yes.
Have I grossly mispronounced a type of wine or name of a vintner? Yes.
Have I ever tasted Boone's Farm? OK, yes...but I was a teenager. Some slack, please.

The dictionary defines connoisseur as "a person who is especially competent to pass critical judgments in an art, particularly one of the fine arts, or in matters of taste." Am I a connoisseur? Heck no. All I'm saying is that I'm a fan, and I know what I like. I like crisp over buttery; peppery over plummy; dry over sweet. The more I read-taste-learn-taste-research-taste (yes, a pattern emerges), the more I can blindly detect the differences.

Lately, as I peruse Facebook, Twitter, Google and all other things digital, I'm noticing that many people don't just say, "I'm enjoying a glass of wine." They feel compelled to alert you to the fact that they're opening a bottle of Santa Margarita Pinot Grigio (which is, overpriced in my extremely humble opinion). Or a Napa this or a French that. I'm confident that of the people who read the alert, the ones who know wine just think it's pompous and the ones who don't know wine don't really care.

The more I learn, the more I know what I like and what to look for on a label. And most of the time, it's not the price tag. A wise man (and wine expert) told me that it's wonderful to enjoy a good, expensive bottle of wine - and encourages everyone to do so. But don't overlook and certainly attempt to taste the hundreds of wine values that are out there. And he was most definitely NOT talking about MD 20/20.

That being said, I'm going to open a Diet Dr Pepper, of the Waco region, canned (hopefully) in 2009. I'm saving the sauvignon blanc for a bit later. Cheers!

Giving the "Right" Gift

I learned from my mom that giving the right gift doesn't always mean the most expensive, or biggest or most extravagant. The old adage "it's the thought that counts" is really true.

I've been very blessed in life to be the recipient of some thoughtful gifts. Some more extravagant than others, many small in size but huge in heart. Some favorite (but certainly not all) memories:

- A collie puppy because the giver knew I loved "Lassie."
- A horse because my parents wanted to preserve their sanity.
- A hand-crocheted afghan from someone who really didn't have the time to do it.
- Maroon bed sheets for college at Aggieland.
- A gift bag full of cleaning products to a broke, new college graduate.
- A bookmark because someone knew I loved to read.
- Recycling an inspirational plaque from one who lost a pet, to me when I lost one.
- Airline miles so I could visit a friend.
- Handmade Valentines from my husband.

It's all about giving from the heart and not worrying about the price tag. Don't worry that it's too small a price tag. And if you have the means, don't worry that it's too grand. Give of yourself and give with love and you'll get love back.

Our Christmas Gift - "Chance"

It was the day after Turkey Day and the only things stirring were the sounds of Christmas to come: plastic tubs full of Christmas decorations being dragged across the hardwoods, my husband cursing at the ever-unstraight tree top, a football game on TV that no one really cared to watch and me, wondering out loud if 11:30 a.m. was too early to crack open the Pinot Grigio.

On one of my husband's many trips to the garage for yet another unhelpful decorating tool, he hears a "squeak." Much to his surprise - by total "chance" - he finds the sweetest little constantly purring kitty following him around. Well, you can imagine that my husband, AKA "The PUNisher," named him Chance. Only 5 minutes after he arrived. He fell in love with Chance faster than a new Callaway driver.

Being the responsible one, I posted messages on our community e-mail boards and after a couple of weeks and no responses, we knew Chance was here to stay. Our older cats were beginning to figure out he wasn't leaving and he has actually given them a spark of playfulness that they heretofore hadn't exhibited at age 14. Chance also made friends with our dog, Chip - much to Chip's delight. (He's only used to the older cats ignoring and/or hissing at him.)

So we had a very Merry Christmas - by Chance!

The Least Favorite Things File: Grocery Shopping

My husband contends that in our marriage vows, if he knew “for better or worse” meant having to grocery shop with me, he might have bailed on the whole thing. He’s right. I HATE to grocery shop.

My mother LOVED to grocery shop. To her, it was a social outing. She had her three favorite stores. She would see her friends there. She knew store managers, checkers, sackers and specialty department managers. They knew her and were all happy to see her coming. Not just because she was spending money in their stores, but she was kind to them. She appreciated their jobs and what they provided. Oh yes – and because at Christmas, she baked goodies for them.

I’m really a kind person – but it’s a different world out there now. To me, grocery shopping is not an event – it’s a chore. And it’s usually a big chunk of paycheck, even with coupons. Why is it a chore? Because of the people I usually encounter when I embark on a shopping trip.

Bad Drivers 1 – Outside. These folks can’t seem to notice that the lines on the parking spaces are slanted at a direction completely opposite of the direction they’re driving. And no, you cannot “whip” that Suburban into the space from the wrong direction. These are also the drivers who apparently don’t understand the meaning of “crosswalk.”

Cross Walkers. Not only do these people take as much time as possible to navigate the crosswalk, but they do it at the longest diagonal line they can manage. No straight shot across for them – no. They have to be in the path of vehicles for the longest amount of time they can muster. Kids, cell phones, loose shoe strap, lack of equilibrium – whatever it takes to stay in the way.

Bad Drivers 2 – Inside. Now we’re in the store, behind the cart. C’mon people, it’s America – treat the aisle like a road and drive on the right. Don’t stop, leave your cart in the middle of the aisle, and go back 15 feet to grab the Nutter Butters. Would you leave your vehicle on Westheimer Road while you went back to grab a soda at Valero?

Deli-Tasters. How many samples of ham can you taste? Do you REALLY not know the difference between gouda and pepper jack cheese? If you’d like lunch, hit the drive-through at Mickey D’s. And speaking of McDonald’s…

Out-of-Control Kids. Take your kids to the Playland. I know you’d like to tire them out for their nap, but please CONTROL YOUR CHILDREN. The only reason you should allow them to run up and down every aisle without your supervision is if your retirement plan includes a corporate lawsuit against the store when they crash into an end-aisle display. And thanks for loading up four of them – along with a full basket of items - on one of those carts made to look like a car. You usually can’t steer it and you’re in everyone’s way.

Coupon Perusers. I’m a coupon-a-holic. But I’m an organized one, ready to go with list and coupons in hand. Nothing is more fun than the person on the busiest aisle…wad of coupons (or worse, flyers with uncut coupons) in hand…thumbing through the ones that aren’t being dropped on the floor…then bending and chasing them all around the aisle. You can double the fun if you add bored spouses, an impatient mother-in-law or kids to this equation.

People Who Can’t Count Their Items. The sign says “15 Items or LESS.” Did you fail Sesame Street? (And it's "fewer" by the way.)

Clueless Sackers. Do they give bonus points to sackers for constantly chatting with fellow sackers? For putting the can of V8 on top of my bread? For bagging the leaky bleach cleaner bottle in the same sack with the dry pet food? For lobbing the easily-bruised tomatoes and apples to the side in search of a new sack? For wedging the piece of chocolate-iced cake down the side of the cart so the icing will stick to the top of the container? Bonus points like that should get you a vacation!

Cart Dumpers. Thank you so much for leaving your empty shopping cart in the empty parking space. Not only does it prevent someone from parking their vehicle there, but it enables the wind to propel the cart into the side of my car door.

And everyone needs a door ding to remind them of their fun trip to the grocery store, don’t they? Cha-CHING.