Filed under: Food/Drink, Misc. Humor | Tags: bourbon, family, Food, humor, Kentucky Derby, Mint Juleps, south, southern, sports, Spring, tailgate
Spring has sprung in Virginia, and for those of you not living here, let me enlighten you as to what that means. In Virginia we go straight from sleet to 90 degrees in three days. As a result, daffodils and hyacinths pop up like whack-a-moles in every suburban garden, and all the trees bloom at once, leaving the air smelling vaguely like shrimp.
Pollen (which I used to think of as some powdery fairy dust that sticks to bee’s feet as they flit from flower to flower) becomes a yellow miasma hovering over our town like mustard gas from WWI. It covers the cars, sidewalks, and driveways so thick that my black SUV looks like a Van Gogh painting—a blurry, black and yellow bumblebee bouncing from one sporting even to another. I pop Allegra-D pills like and Oxycontin addict, and suck on my legal crack pipe, er, inhaler, just to go to the gym.
But, spring also heralds certain rituals, which I forget about each year until they happen: stinky soccer uniforms lay in heaps on the bathroom floor; there are new packs of gum in my car to chomp on during games (a last-ditch effort to keep from being THAT parent); fold-up chairs litter the trunk; saddle pads reeking of horse sweat (which daughter #2 swears is one of the best smells in the whole world—others beg to differ) lay forgotten on top of the chairs; Gatorade and white wine bottles fill the garage fridge. (That fridge is solely for the purpose of housing the many beverages we must have on hand for those days when “it’s just to nice to____________________. Let’s sit on the deck.”)
The final, end-of-spring symbol is The Kentucky Derby—that glorious first Saturday in May where 3-year-old horses come pounding down the backstretch as millions of fans and gamblers scream and cheer them on. It’s a day of joy (the bookies and winners) and tears (the unlucky gamblers and owners). It’s a day of silly hats, bow ties, and even more important, Mint Juleps.
Before I ever even liked bourbon, I knew the Mint Julep was a sacred beverage, one to be savored and evaluated each year. That golden nectar, poured over ice in a silver Jefferson cup and decorated with a mint sprig, meant the older folk weren’t watching what I was doing, and I would probably be able to steal an extra ham biscuit (or three). It also meant time stopped for a full two minutes as we watched the race.
Time stopped.
These days, I catch myself hoping time will stop, sometimes so my girls will stay the way they are, safe at home with me, and sometimes so I can just catch my breath. So this year, I’m going to hose the pollen off the porch, watch the Derby and pour myself a (second) Mint Julep. Then, I’m going to turn off the t.v. and enjoy the hum of the bees on the azaleas and the interminable drone of the neighbors’ lawn mowers.
And as I fall asleep (bourbon does that to me), time will stop again.
My personal recipe for them is a little different, modified from another recipe I got out of Southern Living (I’m sure their mixologists would be horrified):
1 tsp brown sugar
2-3 oz. bourbon
Splash of ginger ale to taste
Mint leaves
Muddle brown sugar and mint on bottom of Jefferson Cup. Add ice. Pour in whiskey, then add ginger ale to taste. Stir. Repeat.
Filed under: Middle Age, Spring Break | Tags: Atlantis Resort, Bahamas, clothing, Dancing, family, fashion, humor, Middle-Age, parenting, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel, Victoria's Secret
Ahhh…the human mating ritual, commonly known as Spring Break, has begun. For those high school seniors lucky enough to be able to flee the cold and go somewhere warm, bathing suits are agonized over, spray tans are purchased, and cheesy, I-think-this-is-what-grown-ups-wear-at-night-in-bars-clothing is packed.
I recently spent a week at the Atlantis Resort for my teenaged daughters’ Spring Break. While my kids are not even close to being eighteen and they weren’t eligible to drink, I saw many who were, and it made me realize one very, very important thing:
There is NO WAY my kids are going to a resort for Spring Break when they’re eighteen, at least not without my being there.
I also learned several other things:
- Spring Break at a beach resort is a Victoria’s Secret marketer’s Nirvana. Everywhere we looked during the day, there were bathing suits and cover-ups from the catalog, as well as the requisite Aviators and Ray Bans. At night, herds of 18-20 year-olds wandered through the casino wearing in-style shorty-shorts with super-high heeled wedges, looking like preschoolers playing dress-up. However, unlike the models in the catalogs, most of the teenage girls were not an emaciated 5’8”; they were pasty white (or white with red sunburn blotches), and lurched around like giraffes in those ridiculous shoes.
- I have no desire to wear anything from the Victoria’s Secret catalog ever again.
- I am proud of my ability to manage a buzz (after years of practice). In years past, I would have watched with perverse admiration as a guy upended a Grey Goose bottle and chugged away. This time, all I could think was, “Dude, you’re just gonna hurl on the next girl you dance with. Good luck with that.”
- I enjoy the fact that I can walk into a casino and out of it again without blowing a ton of money on the tables, or my dinner on the carpet.
- The amount of material that passes for a bikini these days could be purchased in the Band-Aid section of a pharmacy. Before we left, I spent some time outside the Target dressing rooms, waiting for my girls to find something we could agree on. I eventually buried my hypocrisy, realized there aren’t any bottoms that cover enough to make me happy, and choked back a “Hell no, you’re not going out like that!” I shouldn’t have worried. Compared to many of the girls I saw at the resort, my daughters and their friends looked like nuns.
- I have new appreciation for the tankini, especially when riding in a tube in the Lazy River. Those who are brave enough to wear a bikini top risk becoming the newest super hero: UnderBoob, as the top tends to ride up unexpectedly. There is also less risk of leaving a layer of sunburned skin on the tube when you’ve been in it for as while.
- Hip-hop music is addicting, no matter how old you are.
- Bourbon is a great lubricant for dancing–however, 40-year-old knees don’t bend as much as 20-year-old knees, and it IS possible to get stuck.
- I am not the cougar I thought I was. I used to say I wanted a guy with a 40-year-old brain in a 20-year-old body. But there’s a reason a 40-year-old brain is the way it is–we’ve learned all the things 20-year-olds are still toddling through, and it makes us more interesting. Ok, that was a load of crap. The truth is, any 40-year-old who has a 20-year-old’s body spends WAY too much time in the gym, and wouldn’t have any time left for me.
10. I don’t want to be eighteen again. Twenty-five? Now that I could do, at least for a weekend.
Filed under: Spring Break | Tags: Bahamas, clothing, family, humor, Middle-Age, mom, resorts, south, southern, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel
Spring Break at a resort in the Bahamas—what a great place to people-watch! And, like anywhere else, there are stereotypes galore. Here are a few I enjoyed watching as I sat by the pool, turning my skin into leather and racking up more dermatologist bills:
UnderBoob: The woman who wears her bikini top on the water rides, and unbeknownst to her, it rides up
Aqua-Velva Man: Sixty-year-old men who consistently try to pick up 20-year-olds in the casino
Flash More-Mom: Mom whose bathing suit is too small for her augmented breasts
SliderMan: The guy who slides his way in front of you at the bar and gets served first
Fatman & The Toy Wonder: The fat, Eurotrash guy who has a trophy wife/girlfriend on his arm; the toy is usually blond and significantly younger.
EnvironMan: The granola tree-hugger who walks around the resort in recycled flip-flops and a t-shirt that says “Save the (fill in the blank),” but drinks from a Styrofoam cup
Narrow: Named for the narrow strip of banana-hammock (man-thong) occasionally seen on European men, which only makes other men and women narrow their eyes to reduce the sight as much as possible, without looking openly grossed out.
Dumber Woman: Can be pretty or not, often has a high-pitched squeal of laughter, orders champagne because it’s the only drink she can remember, and wonders why other women avoid her like the plague
The Incredible Bulk: The fat, pasty-white guy/girl who sweats all over the lounge chairs by the pool, and leaves a film of sunscreen in the water
Octopus Prime: Club dancer whose hands roam so much it’s like there are eight of them
Selektra: The teenage girl who, like, must agonize over which, like, lounge chair to sit on, which, like sunscreen to use, and, like, which frozen drink to order;
Green Banter: The jealous men and women who viciously make comments about the others at the resort; when it’s not about you, it can be funny
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, aging, elderly, family, growing old, humor, memory, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, south, southern
I remember the day I was with my kids in an antique shop, and I had to explain what a typewriter was and how it worked. They were interested for about twenty seconds, and then I heard myself droning on and on and on, like all older people do when they get a chance to reminisce about “The Good Ol’ Days.”
When I mentioned this incident to some friends, we began talking about the things that we will one day start doing to our kids to drive them crazy. So, while drinking our coffee on the deck at some un-Godly hour in the morning (because that’s when us Middle-Aged people get up now), we made a list of things to remember as we approach The Golden Years:
1. Make sure you have a hobby and stay busy. It will help keep your mind alert, and it will help keep you from driving the rest of your family crazy.
2. Go out and make new stories so you’re not telling the same ones over and over. It’s ok to tell the same family history stories over and over again—especially if you’re Southern. That’s how family legends are born. But make sure you have new ones, too. Otherwise, you’ll become one of those crazy legends. (I suppose that’s not half-bad, either–at least they’ll remember you).
3. Keep a list by the phone of things you want to discuss with people. When they return your call, you’ll have a better chance of remembering why you called them in the first place.
4. Don’t wear Velcro shoes. Those are for preschoolers ONLY.
5. Don’t talk about your sex life. Nobody wants that mental image.
6. Label the furniture and knick-knacks in your house. If it has a story behind it, write that down, too. Let your heirs know why it’s in your house in the first place, and maybe it’ll end up in theirs instead of an estate sale.
7. Clip your fingernails and toenails—enough said.
8. Make it a regular practice of being fully clothed during the day. Nobody wants a preview of what’s to come.
9. Admit you really can’t hear/see/remember things. Don’t try to work through them. In the words of Clint Eastwood, “improvise—adapt–overcome.” Get a hearing aid/glasses/notepad. (Refer to #3 if you forgot)
10. Stop trying to convince yourself that the Darth Vader wrap-around glasses are cool. They’re not.
11. Trim ear/nose/eyebrow hair. No one likes hanging out with a living chia pet. Grandchildren can help you with this. They love scissors.
12. Help protect the environment—turn down the heat and put on more clothes. Just because you’re almost done with the environment doesn’t mean the rest of us are.
Feel free to add to my list in the comments. Now, I’m going to post this list somewhere important, like next to my pill-a-day box. Then, I’m going to try to remember where I put the remote and turn up the t.v. I’ll bet it’s somewhere near the phone.
Filed under: Sports | Tags: family, French kiss, humor, kids, Kissing, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, raising kids, sex, south, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, Valentine's Day
I’m beginning to understand now why my mom never talked to me about anything to do with sex or relationships. The topic of sex and love with your kids is a minefield, and I am regularly blowing my opportunities to impart wisdom.
Take, for example, the topic of first real kisses (the French kind).
While driving to pick up the girls from school on Thursday, I was thinking about Valentine’s Day, which led to reminiscing about past Valentines, and from there I digressed into past boyfriends. Somewhere between Wal-Mart and Barnes and Noble I remembered my first kiss. Not the fireworks that I anticipated…
I can’t remember where my keys are, but I can bring THAT up from the vault?
I vaguely recall it as being in a dark room with a boy I didn’t really like that much, REO Speedwagon playing in the background, and a spinning bottle… and a lot of spit.
As I waited in the carpool line, I wondered why people kiss in the first place. I mean, think about it. Who on earth thought touching lips and tongues would be sensual? We eat, sneeze, cough, and probably have bad breath most of the time. Not to mention the weird thing in there we call a tongue—not a particularly attractive anatomical feature, if you ask me.
According to a couple of strange and unreliable websites, some anthropologists speculate kissing is a primal way of sampling a potential mate’s pheromones, determining a mate’s personality and potential. If that’s the case, no wonder I was so grossed out.
Others speculate kissing was a learned behavior, since other animals do it. I don’t believe that one–after all, we don’t lick ourselves, do we?
So I took a survey of some friends’ first kisses, and the nearly universal response was that it was…”awful.” But there was one caveat—if you were kissing someone who was older (read “more experienced”), it was definitely better.
The other thing I found out is there are several kinds of “awful” first kisses:
The Slobberer
The Tongue Thruster
The Tongue Sucker
The Lip Biter
The “I-Have-No-Idea-How-Much-My-Head-Weighs” Leaner
The Absentee (no tongue at all)
The Stuffer (similar to the Tongue Thruster but more tongue, less movement)
The Side-to-Side Rotator (just pick one side of the face to stay on for a while!)
So, when my daughters asked me what it would be like (and I’m assuming, like an ostrich with my head in the sand, that it still hasn’t happened yet), I told them it probably wouldn’t be all that great the first time, and poured myself a drink.
And then, in a moment of stupidity, I told them it would get better.
Yep, I basically said practice makes perfect.
Excellent parenting.
Subourbon Mom 