Filed under: Misc. Humor, Travel | Tags: adulthood, beaches, Florida, Fort Lauderdale, homeless, humor, south, southern, subourbonmom, travel
Last weekend I was lucky enough to be able to escape for a last-minute, family-free trip to Fort Lauderdale. I arranged for a small village to take care of the family, and after feeling guilty for about 10 minutes, I decided to just enjoy the fact that I didn’t have to drive anybody around, I didn’t have to find yet another edible crockpot recipe for soccer carpool nights, and I didn’t have to figure out how two people can create so much laundry and then ignore it for weeks at a time–yeah, that’s right, I’m calling out Daughters 1&2 right here, right now. Your laundry isn’t going to do itself!
While I was there, I spent a few minutes camped out on the steps of a colonnade containing several bars and restaurants. I quickly became aware of two things at once: someone had sat next to me, and he REEKED of B.O.
Homeless Guy
I looked up, and of course, there was Homeless Guy, sitting right next to me.
This is not unusual. I’m the creepy old guy magnet. (Of course, this doesn’t include Hubby.)
Whenever I go out to clubs with friends where we can dance, my friends always gets a kick out of the fact that the local Creepy Old Guy always finds me. Creepy Old Guy sidles up and dances next to me; usually, my friends are laughing, and one will mouth to me, “Are you ok?” I nod yes, because Creepy Old Guys usually just wants a dance and then he moves on.
This time was no different. Homeless Guy and I exchanged hellos, and while I played Candy Crush, he informed me he was from Baltimore. This was in fact, true. I could tell, because he said Ball-mer. Maybe it was because of this opening honesty that I was predisposed to think he was truthful.
Thinking of you, my loyal readers, I asked Homeless Guy if I could take his picture. He agreed. As you can see, he was really close. My sinuses were clearing.
“Since you took my picture can I have a dollar?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
I dug around, but didn’t have one. Just then the friend I was waiting for walked up. As we began rummaging around for the dollar, a commotion broke out involving Homeless Guy and a Beezer (a.k.a. Beach Geezer—older man who hangs around the beach scoping out young women).
The deeply tanned Beezer stalked up to Homeless Guy and demanded, “Did you pick up my glasses?”
Homeless Guy shook his head (he had a pair of reading glasses with the tag still on them hanging from his neck). “You mean these?” he asked. “…’Cause they’re readin’ glasses.”
Beezer shook his head, agitated. “Somebody said a homeless guy wearing a red shirt picked them up. I need them—they’re prescription.”
Homeless Guy shook his head again and said, “They’re readin’ glasses, man.”
“But mine were prescription! I can’t see without them!” Beezer was clearly agitated.
“But they’re readin’ glasses,” Homeless Guy said again.
Seriously. That was the conversation…and it kept going. It was like listening to Daughters 1 & 2 argue about changing the cat litter—pointless and accomplishing nothing.
As the argument escalated, Homeless Guy had clearly forgotten about my dollar, so my friend and I bolted to the beach. However, I couldn’t help being just a little annoyed at the Beezer. Yes, Homeless Guy in all likelihood had taken his glasses; but in Homeless Guy’s defense, Beezer shouldn’t have put them down anyway, especially in a bar. He probably took them off to put beer goggles on–and if that’s the case, he’s not going to want see clearly in the morning anyway.
Shame on you, Beezer. Shame.
So here’s the best I could do for you, Homeless Guy. I never gave you that dollar, but I can give you the benefit of the doubt in my blog. I hope someday you get some glasses to see your way to a better life.
Filed under: Food/Drink | Tags: adulthood, bourbon, football, humor, Middle-Age, south, southern, subourbonmom
I don’t know how it escaped me, but I recently learned that September is National Bourbon Month, celebrating bourbon as America’s “Native Spirit.” How ironic–because of genetics, America’s true natives can’t hold their liquor. In 2007, Senator Jim Bunning of Kentucky sponsored the bill that was, not surprisingly, unanimously approved.
So, to honor this most sacred of months, I decided to celebrate in my own ways:
Whereas Congress declared bourbon as `America’s Native Spirit’ in 1964, making it the only spirit distinctive to the United States; To honor the Native Spirit, I decided to have a drink or two while sitting on the lawn with a couple of other moms at an Imagine Dragons concert, supervising our teenage daughters as they navigated the creepy world of older boys and men playing “guess how old they are.” It was how I imagine a Native American story-telling evening might have been spent (because I watched Dances with Wolves way too many times) if they had massive speakers, electric guitars and huge screens so the neighboring tribes could complain about the noise for miles around. We didn’t smoke pipes, but we did sit with our fellow elders, solve most of the world’s problems, and clap and dance along with the music. However, unlike our Native Sons, my European genetics let me hold my liquor all too well, until I got sleepy. I believe I snored most of the way down I-95.
Whereas the history of bourbon-making is interwoven with the history of the United States, from the first settlers of Kentucky in the 1700s, who began the bourbon-making process; To honor our bourbon-brewing forefathers who left the east coast for the freedom to brew tax-free in the mountains, I recently sampled some bourbon that was dis-“stilled” far, far away from any liquor store. I like corn, and I like water, the two most important ingredients in bourbon. Unfortunately, what I drank tasted like these were the ONLY ingredients—with maybe a cup or two of rubbing alcohol thrown in. But it was tax-free!
Whereas bourbon has been used as a form of currency; This one was easy—I had a bottle of Woodford Reserve with a Kentucky Derby label on it made into a lamp for my mom for Christmas—so much better than a gift card!
I have also used bourbon drinks to trade for food and other drinks at tailgates. It is not unheard of for my voice to carry over the din of the football crowd rasping, “I’ve got an extra cup here if you’ll share your chips and salsa.” Bourbon can also be used as currency to punish fellow tailgaters who insist that women in their 40’s somehow lose their ability to do shots. For the record, we don’t lose our ability–we lose our stupidity. However, sometimes one must step up to the plate and prove, once again, that taking a bourbon shot in the Redskins parking lot is not just a man’s prerogative. With the bet announced, bourbon has occasionally cost a doubter some cash, or at least a few homemade cookies.
I’m also stockpiling bourbon and other bottles of alcohol (at least that’s what I tell people when they get a glimpse of my liquor cabinet) for the demise of the modern world. If the American dollar ever fails, I will be a survivor. My wounds will also be clean.
Whereas generations have continued the heritage and tradition of the bourbon-making process, unchanged from the process used by their ancestors centuries before;” The processes may not have changed all that much, but our drinking habits have. I’ve been known to drink out of a mason jar (now I have fancy ones with a hole through the lid for a straw), but I prefer Bourbon Slushies and the one I like to call, “Give Me My Figgin’ Bourbon” (see https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2013/04/19/mint-juleps-and-other-signs-of-spring/ for the recipe). Now that I’m in my 40’s, and antacids are a regular part of my diet, I have learned to be kinder to my body. I sip instead of slam, and regularly doctor my drinks up to fool my brain into thinking its just another form of dessert.
So enjoy National Bourbon month, and let me know how you plan to celebrate our Native Spirit!
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!
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts | Tags: adulthood, body language, communication, email, family, humor, kids, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, technology, television, texting
I recently read a book for my job entitled Brain Rules for Baby by John Medina. (Like my kids, I have waited until the last minute read it, and now I’m wishing I had some Cliff’s Notes.)
In this book there was a chapter on the use of electronics by young children–according to research, children spend years learning body language and facial cues, some of which happen in milliseconds–so fast we aren’t even aware that we show them. For example, the subtle straightening of my mother’s shoulders and slight narrowing of her eyes were tiny clues, a shot over the bow before the non-verbal onslaught began; her pursed lips meant she was really annoyed, and I would be dealt with later. As I got older, I got better at seeing the first body language volleys before we ever got to the pursed lips—it saved a lot of verbal effort for both of us.
One day, there was enough silent tension in the room between me and mother that my brother asked his wife what was going on. She whispered, “Can’t you tell? They’re fighting!”
Reading body language and facial cues was extremely important for our survival as a species. If a person could not read the body language of an enemy or angry tribe member, they had a high likelihood of dying (see pursed lips above).
There are also body language cues that indicate when a potential mate is interested (or not). When the guy in a bar doesn’t know that we are interested when we play with our hair, lean in close and bite our lower lips, he’s going to go home feeling a little…blue. If people had not learned how to read those cues, we would have died off as a species millennia ago.
You can’t learn how to pick up a girl by watching The Bachelor.
The author goes on to say that children must learn these things from interaction with an actual person, not a video or CD.
Which brings me to texting, emails and tv.
I’m a fan.
I love texting and emails because as I’ve gotten older, I like people less and less. Texting and email enable me to simply ask for the information I need without engaging in actual conversation.
I love television for the same reason—I can lose myself in the storylines because I don’t have to respond to them in an involved way. The directors of the shows even help me out by going in for close-up shots when there is an emotion I need to pay particular attention to (HBO’s The Newsroom is great at this—thank you Aaron Sorkin).
Using technology to socialize is so much less tiring—and it’s making me lazier than those people who circle the gym parking lot to find a space (I mean, really? You’re going to the gym! Walk a little–consider it your warm-up).
I used to love sitting around, chatting with my friends, family, and anyone who would hang out. I loved drawing people out, hearing their stories, and offering advice (often unsolicited and even more often un-used). It’s often how I got ideas for my stories and books. There is a reason Southerners love front porches—we can talk and watch the world go by, and get to know you. It’s also why Southerners are so good at the backhanded compliments. We watch and learn what makes people tick by spending time with them, then jab them a silver, sugar-covered shrimp fork.
These days, I am usually in the car and in a hurry. I have resorted to texting and emailing in the name of efficiency, and talking in a very distracted way on the phone as I multi-task at home. And so, it seems, does everybody else.
I miss sitting on the porch, solving the world’s problems, or hearing about a friend’s concerns, and even mine. I miss the clink of ice in a glass as the conversation ebbs and flows. I miss the puzzle that is a friend’s face as they try to convey something that happened, or work out a problem. The subliminal cues are the best part—they are what let other people into our inner sanctum, even when we don’t mean for it to happen.
But, don’t worry, I’m not giving up my electronics. I want my Candy Crush fix as bad as the next person.
People still irritate me, and I love my tv shows, but I think I’ll try to make more of an effort to have some meaningful conversations once in a while, just to keep my ability to read people’s social cues up to snuff. You never know when you might need them to survive—I’ve got teenage daughters. If I ever needed to be able to read subliminal cues, it’s now (yes, girls, I can see your eye roll from here!).
Subourbon Mom 