Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, Christmas, cleaning, dogs, family, humor, Middle-Age, silver, south, southern, Thanksgiving
The holidays are upon us, and for most people that means lots of food, shopping, and visits with family. If you’re from The South, that means re-hashing behind kitchen doors the latest escapades of our eccentric relatives, and saying “Bless her heart” a lot. Those same relatives serve a very important purpose during the holidays: they are the people who keep our own families from going at each other across the table. Why pick on your sister when the easier target just shot three holes in his roof while chasing an opossum that turned out to be Cousin Elgin’s old beaver hat?
The holidays also mean one other thing—cleaning.
I don’t just mean taking a swipe at the dust sprinkled on the dining room table. I’m talking about on-your-knees, hip-throbbing, “Oh My God There’s A Mouse Under The Bed—Oh Wait, It’s Just A Dust Bunny” CLEANING…
Mostly, I just let things go until company is coming, or the family is plucking that last nerve, and I clean to prevent infanticide. It just doesn’t bother me as much as some people. Years ago, one of my friends gave me the nicest, back-handed southern compliment ever when she said, “I just love how you’re so comfortable with your house like this.” But now, the holidays are here, and it’s time to break out the old elbow grease and see how much damage has been done since the last time I cared.
Polishing the silver is my least favorite part. Not only did I have to promise to use the silver (or it would be hauled back to my mother’s house, where it would once again have a loving home nestled in velvet), I had to promise to never use the instant polish. Not using the instant polish means that for one evening, usually during the Sunday night football game, I am camped out on the living room floor, rubbing silver with a toothbrush. If you’ve never polished silver, here’s something you may not know—it sucks all the liquid out of your skin for days, leaving you looking a zombie with withered, gray, corpse-like hands. Three days after the scrubbing, rinsing and wiping, I can still still smell the chalky, coppery scent on my fingers, and I incessantly rub Pond’s hand cream into the cracks of my hands until I look like Lady MacBeth after her killing spree.
But mostly, I like cleaning when it’s been awhile—there is something viscerally satisfying about seeing the dust and dog hair swirling around inside my bagless vacuum cleaner. Same with the steam cleaner–nothing gets me more excited when I’m cleaning then seeing that black, dirty carpet water pour down the sink. It’s like when you were little and you had to keep peeking at that really nasty scrape on your knee–you just had to peel back the band-aid to see how bad it was.
I do have one favorite new cleaning tool, and most people will probably find it disgusting, but it’s efficient. The wall where The Dog’s food bowl is kept is constantly covered with dried up flecks of dog food. For years I’ve tried everything to get the wall clean, even fading the paint job by using straight bleach. Once, I even painted over it (not a good idea, it just looked lumpy). But the other night, my neighbor brought his old beagle, Lucy, over for a visit. Lucy, bless her heart, licked at that wall until it looked brand new. I don’t know what is in Lucy’s saliva, but it’s way better than a Magic Sponge or bleach. After Lucy left, I wiped the dog spit off the wall and marveled at her secret super power. From now on, I’m just going to sprinkle some old bacon grease on the baseboards, call Lucy inside, and let her go to work while I watch Duck Dynasty.
Now you know who my cousins and aunts and uncles will be talking about behind their closed kitchen doors as they carve the turkey and mix up the stuffing.
“Bless her heart, she’s so worn out she lets the dog clean the floors for her.”
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Sports | Tags: adulthood, Corn Hole, family, football, games, humor, Middle-Age, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom, tailgate, Virginia, weddings
I have a new talent. It’s not very often once you hit your forties, you discover something new about yourself that doesn’t have to do with migrating hair or the fact that the doctors on Gray’s Anatomy all look like they’re children.
This summer, I discovered I’m pretty good at corn hole.
The revelation occurred during a wedding reception. Daughter #2 and I tossed our way into a corn hole victory, wearing summer dresses and aiming for a board painted with twining, pastel flowers. What a welcome departure from the typical wedding small talk over bacon-wrapped scallops and monogrammed mints!
A couple of weeks later, Hubby and his work buddies set up a corn hole game in the glass lobby of their office. After hours, we played several games, with the added risk of shattering three stories of glass on a mis-throw. As we played, I realized that corn hole is like dancing: one beer will loosen up the arms, but two or three beers produce uncoordinated, jerky motions that cause folks to shake their heads and back away.
I didn’t realize corn hole had become a part of my psyche until a couple of weekends ago, when we went to the Montpelier Steeple Chase races in Central Virginia.
Tailgates sported silver candelabra and flower arrangements that belonged in an issue of Southern Living. Colorful hats, feathers and scarves competed with the jockey’s silks against a backdrop of falling leaves. Southern men staggered around in khakis and button down shirts, clutching red solo cups filled with bourbon or gin while their dates grabbed an arm and led them over to the track to watch the races. Vendors touted overpriced boots, and hats, and artwork to grace libraries and sitting rooms.
One vendor was selling chairs and pillows covered with hand-painted watercolor animals and insects. I was about to move on to the tent with Kettle Korn and gyros, when I noticed a small pile of square beanbags that were also painted in the same style for $20 – $40 each. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why anyone would pay such a ridiculous amount of money for corn-hole bags. It wasn’t until I picked one up, felt its weight and caught a whiff of lavender that I realized they couldn’t possibly be corn hole bags. They were sachet bags–the kind that women sometimes put in their underwear drawer. (Does anyone even still use those?) The fact that I even knew this was due to my proper southern upbringing; but like tomato aspic or chicken gizzards, just because I know what a sachet is doesn’t mean I partake.
Having been introduced to the addictive world of corn hole, I’ve decided it should not be limited to NASCAR, football and weddings. I think the DMV should have them, as should the Post Office, women’s bathroom lines at concerts, and on the back of road construction trucks, ready to be dropped at a moment’s notice when traffic comes to a standstill on I-95. What better way to kill time and make a group of strangers come together in a spirit of camaraderie?
So grab a couple of boards, prop them up, and raid your kid’s toy box. You never know when you might need to make some friends, or just pass the time while life goes on around you. For those of you still too proud to admit you like corn hole, just tell people you’re throwing sachet bags around.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, country clubs, exclusion, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, teens, Virginia
The other night I had the dubious honor of being invited to a corporate reception/wine tasting class at an exclusive, men’s-only club Downtown. The day before the event, we received an email detailing suggested arrival times and dress code: coat and tie for the men, no dress code for the women.
Did this mean the members don’t care what the women wear? Doubt it. Did it mean they weren’t going to touch that topic with a ten-foot-pole? Probably. Or, did it mean they secretly want the women in attendance to dress like Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman in her high heels, mini-skirt and tank top? Bingo—that’s my guess. But, in the interests of keeping the peace, I threw on old faithful—the black cocktail dress and heels.
There is something about the smell of a men’s club (that being the only the men’s club I’ve been in) that reeks of exclusion. The scents of old cigar smoke, office breath, and bourbon were in the walls, carpets and the few uncomfortable chairs provided in the lobby. Portraits of the Great White Fathers hung from the walls—of course, special preference was given to our Confederate leaders.
As I perused the volumes of “Harvard Classics,” prominently displayed in aging china cabinets, I had the almost uncontrollable urge to strip out of the dress, breathe onto the highly-polished bar counter and draw smiley faces in the condensation with my finger. Thankfully, they opened the buffet, so everyone was spared.
While we didn’t stay for the wine tasting class due to our kids’ sports commitments, for me the evening was an experience in observing a social era passing by. In an age of excessive bullying and rabid discussions over tolerance, exclusion should no longer be a privilege, but it was pretty cool to get a glimpse into that world.
Later that night, when I was trying to explain the event to Daughter #2, I was preparing to finish my story with a moral lesson on exclusion, racism and misogyny, when Daughter #2 broke in.
“Mom?’ she asked.
“Yes,” I said, waiting for my moment to launch into a teachable moment.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “They were teaching a class on how to be alcoholics?”
Sigh…
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Sports | Tags: adulthood, bull riding, country life, county fairs, humor, Middle-Age, rodeo, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom, teenagers, truck pulls, trucks
This weekend I spent the afternoon being the “Parent on Premises” for Daughter #2 and her friends at our local fair. Like lots of small county fairs, there were the usual pens of 4-H animals, sketchy carnival rides that I can’t even look at anymore without getting nauseous (ghosts of funnel cake past), pig races and truck and tractor pulls. The scents of kettle corn and fresh-cut grass immediately took me back to the years I spent in painted-on Jordache jeans, trolling the county fair for boys on whom I could practice (what would later become) my barfly stare; knotted bracelets transported me back to the tents where I would peruse cheap jewelry made from “real shark’s teeth,” and hair clips.
These days, the teenagers are still trolling, the jeans are still tight (only now they have a fashionable name for it—“Skinny Jeans”), and there are still booths selling cheesey jewelry. Not much may have changed, but I realize now how much I missed with my teenaged tunnel vision. There was an entire world of gut-churning, fist clenching tension and excitement out there that I never knew about.
The Truck Pull
If horse racing is the sport of kings, truck pulls are the farmer’s equivalent. For the first time, I paused long enough to watch the truck pull. Once I was standing on the hill looking at the red dirt track, I couldn’t walk away. There was something visceral about the growling engines as they forged ahead and made the earth rumble and shake under my feet, the same way the pounding of racehorses down the stretch gave me goose bumps. Even the run-up to each competitor’s attempt had its own tension, like horses entering the starting gate. Once the truck and weights were connected, there was a pause.
The driver gunned his engine.
Smoke billowed, and I could feel the pistons churning in my chest. Adrenaline shot through me, even though I was nothing more than a suburban mom trying to take pictures with her iPhone. It made me want to run out to my Highlander and start 4-wheeling all over the parking lot.
But that wasn’t the only visceral experience I had that day. Late in the afternoon I caught the last bull riding competition. It wasn’t anything fancy like PBR that you see on t.v., but this tiny corner of extreme sports had its own atmosphere, complete with “I wanna be a cowboy, baby” by Kid Rock booming in the background. Mud flew into my camera as bull after bull exploded from the shoot. I stood against the rail amid a crowd of cowboys, wanna-be cowboys, skanks, and yuppies walking around with the Jack Russell terriers on leashes—all cheering and secretly hoping for blood.
We waited, standing on tip-toes to get a better view as the riders got situated, and held our breaths when the rodeo crew swung open the gate. As the bulls exploded from the shoot, the crowd was silent until the cowboy fell into the mud.
The first rider fell off immediately and hobbled back to the gate clutching his groin. It was already better than NASCAR—things were turning in more than one direction, the audience was constantly being sprayed with debris, and the riders were lucky to finish at all. No caution flag there. I’d like to see Kyle Busch try sitting on top of a half-ton of twisting, bucking, hopping bull—I don’t think he’d be in any kind of shape to be picking so many fights on Pit Road if he did.
The second bull somehow got busy in the shoot and fell over, tangling himself in the rails. Although I could practically see the PETA people swiping their phones as they speed-dialed their lawyers, the bull was fine and hauled himself back up without help. This was almost as good as the NFL—watching that bull get back up was like watching an offensive lineman get to his feet after a play—a lot of head shaking and swaying rump.
When the bull riding was over the crowd filtered away, off to gobble more funnel cakes, fried pickles and homemade ice cream. I stayed by the ring and pried my hands from the rails.
I was tired, and invigorated at the same time. I had a hard time going to sleep that night, even after a full day of sun.
I guess the old saying is true: you can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the girl. I may have spent the last twenty years away from country fairs and truck pulls, but the country didn’t stay away from me.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, bourbon, drinking, emotions, family, Food, humor, Marriage, Middle-Age, red solo cups, south, southern, subourbonmom
The other day I heard someone say “my cup runneth over.” The expression (which comes from Psalms 23:5) means having more than enough for your needs. Well, I’ve begun to think we all have cabinets full of cups, but not all cups have good things in them—some of them are delicious, and some are just nasty. Too bad those things aren’t kept in shot glasses.
We all have the cup of good luck and good times, which I like to picture as a flute of champagne, bubbling over the rim onto a dinner jacket or down the front of a cocktail dress, especially at weddings and celebrations (for celebrators on a budget, make it pink Asti Spumante). It makes us happy and laugh a lot, and dance inappropriately at weddings—best of all, it rarely leaves a stain.
The cup of jealousy is a no brainer–crème de menthe. It’s a vile shade of green, and can even ruin something as sweet as vanilla ice cream.
The cup of anger can be filled with lots of things, but my choice would be beer. There might be some arguments, but hear me out. Beer makes people loud, and sometimes aggressive. If beer drinkers don’t get aggressive, they get tired and go to bed before the party’s over. When someone’s red solo beer cup is too full, the beer slops out over the edge and onto someone else’s flip flops, pickup truck, or stadium seat. It leaves a sticky residue that stays around for a long time (have you ever smelled a fraternity house?) and makes your shoes squeak, reminding you of what happened. And when you try to empty your red solo cup by drinking it, beer makes you feel bloated inside, and keeps you up all night when you finally break the seal and try to let it out.
The energy cup is filled with…what else? Coffee! When your coffee mug overflows it’s annoying–probably as annoying as you are to those whose cups are only half-full. It’s even more annoying when you spill a $4 cup from Starbucks–then you’re annoying and out $4.
The cup of youthful sex is filled with peach schnapps or Boones Farm. Lots of people drink it when they’re younger, and never really get over the experience. Their stomachs still curdle at the memories.
The cup of mature sex is bourbon, in a highball glass—sometimes it makes you laugh, sometimes it makes you loud, and sometimes it makes you sleep when you’re done emptying it.
We also have the cup of love, which for me would be filled with hot chocolate—it’s warm, sweet and makes you feel happy and full inside. It also helps you sleep at night.
Everybody has a cabinet full of cups, and at one point or another, they all runneth over. When it happens, choose wisely who you spill the contents on—friends don’t mind a little beer every now and then, people will laugh and grab you into a giddy hug when you spill your champagne, and most folks will be okay when your hot chocolate runneth over, because even your residual chocolate tastes good when they suck it out of their favorite shirt.
Cheers!
Subourbon Mom 