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.

My Own Personal Michael Jackson

On this day after the death of “King of Pop” Michael Jackson, the media is rampant with stories, theories, anecdotes, interviews and musical montages. It seems the key topics of information relate to the cause of his death, the amazing success of “Thriller” and MTV as well as all the allegations of child crimes. While I see their point and I realize what boosts ratings and sells papers, Jackson’s passing meant a trip down memory lane for me.

I remember being a 7-year old girl in 1969 Florida and having two posters on my bedroom wall: The Osmond Brothers and The Jackson 5. At the time, I didn’t think it might be breaking new ground to have a poster of a black (the phrase African-American had not yet been coined) pop group on my wall, but in the deep South, it showed how the very talented Jackson brothers were moving quickly into the mainstream. I just thought Michael (like Donny O) was “cute.” Take THAT, New Kids!

I remember many half-hours of joy, laughing at the cartoon antics of the Jackson 5, back before MTV or VH1 were the television promotional tools of choice for bands. The brothers had so much fun getting in and out of their harmless trouble each day, it was one of the few times I grumbled at being an only child.

I remember 10 years after the poster went up on the wall, winning a 1979 dancing contest at a dance held in the Conroe Sacred Heart Catholic Church, to the tune of “Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough.” Although I’m not Catholic, lots of my friends were and I was just glad they allowed dancing. Ironically, my prize was a Linda Ronstadt country-pop album, “Simple Dreams.”

I remember buying the cassette tape of “Thriller” and then thinking I’d better buy the album too because “it would probably be very popular and valuable someday.” Little did I know. And on top of that, my mom absent-mindedly sold it in a garage sale.

I remember moving into adulthood, dancing non-stop to songs like “PYT” and “Wanna Be Startin’ Something” in the trendy clubs of the 80’s. And I remember thinking, “man, I wish I could dance like him.” The adult side of my brain replied, “yeah, right!”

I know his last years were clouded with bizarre happenings, doubt about his character and controversy about his actions. I’m not sure I have an opinion on any of that because I believe none of us have all the facts. I will choose to remember him for the wonderful memories and music he left for me – left for us all. And thank goodness for the i-Pods that allow us to keep his music with us!

RIP, Michael – may your pain be ended.

Keep Mom Away From My Hair!

I grew up in an era where women – my Mom specifically – went to the “Beauty Shop” once a week to have their hair shampooed and set. Mom’s day was Friday. Personally, I can’t imagine going 2 days without washing my hair – Mother did it for SEVEN DAYS, every single week. And in South Texas – the heat and humidity capital of the world, I might add. By Day 6, my Mom was crazed – scratching her scalp and trying to tease some last lift of life into a hairstyle that had been slept on for five nights.

That’s when she came looking for me. I think we suffered the payback for moms who didn’t have any daily control over their hairstyles. I was like a live doll whose hair my mom could play with. And she wasn’t really good at hair styling – face it, she had someone else do it for a reason. Hopefully, you were lucky and you had thick hair with lots of it. Not me.

Mom honestly taped bows to my head as an infant, because I had no hair. My current stylist has called my hair “chemically challenged” and he’s right. Think soft like corn silk – yes, like the stuff you pull out of an ear of corn. Think dental floss –stringy and easy to rip. Before you think this is beautiful or ethereal, stop. No barrettes; they don’t have enough to clip onto. Never a hip patch of leather with the stick through it like all the cool hippie girls wore. French braids? Ha – Sacré Bleu!

Join me in a stroll down follicle lane as I flashback - I'm sorry, relive - Homemade Hair Hell from the 60’s and 70’s, all instigated or endorsed by my Mom.

Dog Ears – Why would you give your daughter a hairstyle named for a canine? That’s just not right. And despite the fact my dad had several construction levels, my “ears” were never the same height – one was always slightly higher than the other. Plus - my hair was so short that I always had an inch or 2 of hair hanging down at the nape of my neck. Always a good look.

Uneven Bangs – If mommy can go to the beauty shop, then WHY COULDN’T I?!? Edward Scissorhands had nuthin’ on my mom! I ran when I saw her coming with the scissors. It always looked like my mom cut my bangs on a hill…and this was before punk ushered in asymmetrical hairstyles.

Braids – Obviously, French braiding was out. One has to have more than twenty hairs for that to work. And regular braids made me look like a low-rent Pippi Longstocking. Or Cindy Lou Who on crack.

Bad Perms – Probably the only good thing my mom did was not allowing me a perm back in the day. Sure, it would have added some body to my otherwise flat hair, but back then, there was a lot of room for error. And face it, she would have wanted to do it herself and that's an equation that would've scared Einstein – My Mom + The Home Perm = Burning Hair. So I’m lucky to have escaped this.

Sponge Rollers and Picks – Because my mom wouldn’t let me have a perm, this was the alternative. Obviously created by a man (or someone at Guantanamo Bay), you rolled your hair up wet, crammed a pick in to secure each roller AND you slept on them! Go to your pantry. Get 8 – 10 sheets of aluminum foil and scrunch each one up into a spiky ball. Put all the balls on your pillow and try to sleep on them.

Brain-Crushing Headbands – Speaking of torture, this is simply another device aimed at little girls. Teeny little comb-like spikes dig into your scalp. The 2 sides of the band methodically and slowly squeeze your temples until you start to see stars and pass out. If this didn’t get you to turn the volume down on Scooby-Doo, nothing would!

Palm Trees – I spent some of my younger days in Florida, and Floridians thought it was cute to put one pony tail smack-dab on top of your head and call it a palm tree, because of the way it fell on top like the fronds of a palm tree. This might have been cute when I was 2 – but not at 10.

Sun In – Ah, the beautiful glow of sun-kissed hair. Spray this on and you’ll become a real-live Malibu Barbie. NOT! You instantly become Carrot Top and the Hubble Telescope zones in on you, mistaking your head for the Red Planet Mars.

Asphyxiation with Aerosol Hair Spray – You want to know the REAL cause of global warming, Al Gore? It was my mother and her Final Net. It was like being in the house when the exterminator bombs for bugs. So breathing this in had to be good for us – it had to have killed some germs, right? And as an added bang for you thrill-seekers, my mom SMOKED while she shellacked her hair or my hair.

Bandanas – Who’d have ever thought that a cowboy accessory would make such a versatile hair helper? (insert sarcasm) You can roll it up and tie it off like a hairband. You can wear it in the “Bubushka” style, with the little flap falling over the crown of your head. You can go “Rosie the Riveter” style – which is what we used to call the current “doo-rag.” No matter how you wear it, you look like Britney Spears’ backwoods cousins, waiting for the tornado to take your trailer.

Rubber Bands vs. “Hair Bands” – We didn’t have to spend the whopping 29 cents on a package of cloth-covered, protective hair bands. Not when we got a daily newspaper – we had plenty of rubber bands in every color in the crayon box. So not only are you putting something in your hair that’s stained with newsprint ink and has been thrown in the street, the only way you can remove these from my hair was to cut them out or rip out a handful of hair with it.

You know – maybe Mom was onto someting…that weekly beauty shop visit doesn’t sound so bad after all!!!