Filed under: Sports | Tags: family, football, humor, Mall Cop, Marriage, Middle-Age, NFL, playoffs, Redskins, southern, tailgate
Can I just say again that I love football? Even though my team lost on Sunday, and RG3 is hurt way worse than anyone dares to even whisper, there is something about the game that brings out the inner wolf in me that stalks its prey and joins in the gory gluttony after the kill. It makes my mouth open and emit visceral screams that have no meaning, but sound something like “DeeeeeeeeeeFeeeeeense!”
It also makes me sink to a pre-game aggressiveness that puts me only slightly higher than tripping a blind man with a cane—taunting mall cops.
That’s right—I taunted a mall cop as a Playoff warm-up.
As if his job wasn’t bad enough, sitting in that Fisher Price pick-up with the not-quite-a-cop yellow lights flashing in the (now) HH Gregg parking lot.
For over a decade, my family has met in the Circuit City parking lot near the stadium to coalesce into one window-flag-waving, magnet-bearing metal container of Redskin enthusiasm. This Sunday, Hubby and I met Big Brother to continue the tradition. As usual, we waited for His Greatness, The Lateness, fretting over the possibility of losing a good parking space because of the delay, and texting our impatience in a steady stream (never mind that Big Brother had bought and assembled a new fire pit and remembered to bring wood, a lighter and newspaper—thanks, man!).
When he finally arrived, we leapt out of the car and rapidly began unloading our gear into his truck. As we did, I noticed Paul Blart, Mall Cop, sitting across the lot, watching us through his C.H.I.P.S. shades and scowling.
“Dude, I think he’s watching us,” I reported, as my status of Little Sis, a.k.a. Lookout, required.
“So?” Hubby replied. “We’ll just park somewhere else.”
After a brief discussion of where to leave our car (while I gave Mall Cop the stink-eye the whole time), we agreed to meet a couple of blocks away. As we began to pull out of our space, Mall Cop began to follow us, just to make sure we were not leaving one of our cars. I could practically see is hands twitching, ready to punch in the tow truck number.
“We should drive around a while,” Hubby said, grinning and looking in the rearview mirror.
I looked at my watch. Precious tailgating minutes were passing by, but sometimes in life, there are moments just require a sacrifice.
So off we went, Hubby and I, a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, cruising through the HH Gregg parking lot. Mall Cop followed us at a crawl, lights flashing. We circled the lot, meandering between rows, carefully looking as suspicious as we could.
Finally, Mall Cop got wise and stopped. We stopped, too. He waited at the end of a row for our next move.
We paused for a moment, hoping he would move and we could follow him around the lot for a while, but time was short. Dan Sneider would probably have noticed that one space in the stadium lot was still empty, and sold it.
Disappointed, we left Mall Cop stewing and met Big Brother far away from Mall Cop’s prying eyes. We piled into Big Brother’s truck and proceeded to the game. It was a great day, no matter what the end result was. The Skins had done better than anyone ever expected, the tailgate food was delicious, the fans were upbeat (even after the game), and we were home by 11:00pm.
But there was one, small cloud left hanging around—I taunted a mall cop, who was probably a fan, and got stuck working on Playoff day. So for that, I’m just a wee bit sorry…but if he’s there next season, I’m putting on my Eric Estrada sunglasses, tan leggings, and boots, and following him.
Filed under: Parenting | Tags: Bath and Body Works, Christmas, cologne, family, humor, Middle-Age, perfume, shopping, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens
What is it about the Bath & Body Works store that attracts the pre-teen crowd like Christmas shopping attracts bad drivers? It can’t be their low prices—seriously, $10 for a candle that smells like ashes from my fireplace? Or, $3 hand disinfectant that leaves your steering wheel smelling like stale cookies? This summer, one of the girls even purchased a candle called Mahogany Teakwood that, I swear, smells like Drakkar Noir. Remember that? Or, for you youngsters who may not be familiar with that scent from the 1980’s, the candle smells like teenage boy who’s just discovered cologne. I think I might borrow it, just for the trip down memory lane. Maybe I’ll watch Top Gun while I burn it.
All of these things I can live with, because it’s a place where my kids can shop that doesn’t sell clothes for hookers in teen-age sizes, and doesn’t get them all hopped-up on caffeine. And, being a pre-school teacher, I’m all for the disinfectant. I just wish they sold Lysol in flavors like Warm Vanilla Sugar and Japanese Cherry Blossom.
HOWEVER…I have come to loathe the scents the teen girls seem drawn to…the cloying, heavy sprays and lotions so sweet and thick, they must have been inspired by a mortuary trying to cover up the scent of formaldehyde. Sleepovers are the worst. In the morning, the downstairs has a miasma of “Twilight Woods” drifting amid the sleeping bags and piles of clothes and hairbrushes. You can practically see the blue haze, like a layer of smoke from a speak-easy in the 1920’s. I can only imagine this must be what a brothel would have smelled like before the age of deodorant and sanitation.
But, I think we may have finally emerged from the darkness. This morning, Daughter #2 came up to me with a glass of milk and said, “Mom, this glass smells like Bar-B-Que.” Now, normally, I would say dump it out because it’s 7:30, we’re already running late, and no I don’t want to smell your sour milk; but, since we’ve begun buying organic milk, I wasn’t about to toss out $4 worth of white gold. So I sniffed it while she held the glass up.
It smelled like her Bath & Body Works perfume.
“It’s your perfume,” I said.
“No it’s not. It’s BBQ.”
I took the glass away and gave it to Hubby. “Does this smell like BBQ to you?”
“Nope,” Hubby answered.
“Now sniff her hand.”
He did. “It’s your perfume, Cutie,” he said.
Horrified, Daughter #2 looked at us and shrieked, “You mean I smell like pork loin?”
Sorry, Bath and Brothel Works, but I think it’s safe to say we might be moving on to the other teen scents, probably with catchy marketing names “I Can Drive,” or “SnapChat Me.”
But I might go get one of those Mahogany Teakwood candles and put it in my stocking.
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: cars, driving, humor, Marriage, southern, tailgates, traffic martyrs
You’ve all seen them as you’re stuck in a hideous line of traffic going from four lanes to two, or as 20,000 people are trying to leave a stadium at the same time. Either way, somebody farther up is LETTING PEOPLE IN. That person is a Traffic Martyr.
Sacrificing your spot in line for a Slider (a.k.a. the I’m-going-to-try-and-get-over-even-though-I-saw-the-line-backing-up-a-mile-ago-guy) not only rewards rude driving, it has historically caused an immeasurable and unrecorded rise in health care costs. The lemmings behind the Traffic Martyr have to up their Lipitor dosage, or risk having their hearts explode as their blood pressure escalates faster than the General Patraeus sex scandal.
If you are, or ever have been, a Traffic Martyr, maybe you’re one of those genuinely nice people who believe in letting Sliders in once a day. I’ll bet you even do it with a smile and a wave. And you probably believe in unicorns.
But I doubt you’re really that nice, down deep inside. Letting Sliders in your lane probably made you feel good, maybe a little self-righteous, and definitely a little superior. After all, you were the nice one. I’ve been there myself. And in the right situation, Traffic Martyrs can be useful, like when they slow the pace down enough to let you safely whack your teenager with a “punch-buggy-no-punch-back” hit while driving with your knees.
But if there’s one thing people hate more than Traffic Martyrs, it ‘s Sliders.
When Hubby encounters a Slider attempting to invade his driving space, he usually creeps up until he’s one inch behind the car in front, blocking the Slider. It’s as effective as a girl saying “let’s be friends.” Hubby’s move usually results in lots of honking and bird-flipping. But recently, in a rare act of being a Slider, Hubby ran into the ultimate Slider Hater.
Literally.
At the horse races last week (the same ones where the Irish news interviewed me), Hubby was trying to leave the infield with 10,000 other wind-burned, inebriated tailgaters. Having thoughtfully parked on the end of the aisle, facing out, he was quickly ready to merge into the line of stop-and-go traffic. One driver, however, was very upset that Hubby was going to be allowed to join the vehicular Conga line so soon. But instead of quietly cursing the Traffic Martyrs and like most people, Slider Hater called out to Hubby:
“You can’t just get in line! I’ve been waiting here for a half-hour.”
Hubby, having already gotten permission from the Traffic Martyrs around him, answered in typical Slider fashion, “Seriously, you’re not going to let me in? We’re all just trying to get out of here.”
Slider Hater: “Hey Buddy, I’ve got my kids in the car back here. Now you can do the right thing and let me go first, or you can do the wrong thing.”
Now, to be fair, Hubby had gotten permission from all the other cars around him,and Slider Hater had probably been sitting there for a while. Tempers were flaring. “It’s a rental,” Hubby yelled back. Daughter #1 cringed.
Hubby then attempted to merge. Misjudging the width of the rental car, Hubby took out the front of Slider Hater.
Yep, that was fender-bender #3 for our family in nine days.
Karma….freakin’ chipmunk.
Filed under: Middle Age, Sports | Tags: bourbon, election, family, Food, horse racing, humor, Ireland, Montpelier, south, southern, subourbonmom, swing state, tailgate, Virginia
Last weekend I was doing what God has ordained all good Virginians do in the fall: Tailgate.
But not at a football game—watching horses race around a mile-long course at James Madison’s home, Montpelier plantation. They were jumping bushes and fences no horse in its right mind would ever do if there wasn’t an annoying tiny-man on its back hitting it with a stick.
For any southern tailgate, the men don their uniforms of khaki pants, button down shirt with bowtie, and navy blue jacket. The women dress up in silly hats, colorful scarves and ridiculous boots no self-respecting horseman would ever wear anywhere near a barn. They spread their southern delicacies (i.e. ham biscuits, devilled eggs and pecan pie—not everybody can bring chips and salsa!) on fold-up tables covered with their best tablecloths and silver chafing dishes. The centerpiece is an opus of fall foliage around silver candelabra or a horse statue. And lets not forget the most important feature: the drink table. Bourbon, wine, rum, vodka, champagne, and Bloody Mary mix are all ready to be tumbled into Jefferson cups or, in our case, red solo cups (nothing but the best for my friends!).
It was a beautiful day, free of cell phones, election flyers, and pimple-faced doorbell ringers. Not a tramp stamp in sight.
Until, THE INTERVIEW, that is.
That’s right, folks, an Irish reporter from a television station had a camera man in tow, circulating among the drunks, asking what it is like to live in a swing state. And guess what? He interviewed me. Yep, the least political person who’d already had about three bourbon and gingers.
That went well.
It’s a little vague, but I’m pretty sure I offered him a drink about every other sentence. In my golden-hazed mind, I managed to string together this thought: Irish-guy-must-want-to-drink-so-be-a-good-hostess-and-offer. He politely declined each time.
He asked me what it is like to live in a swing state. Thankfully I choked back a comment about all the rumors of swinging couples in the area where I live. Or at least I hope I did. In my head, I planned to give an intelligent rant about how we all are huddled in our living rooms, cowering from the ringing phones and massive recycle pile of election mail, and that the electoral college is unnecessary in this electronic age.
I’m pretty sure what came out was something like “It sucks.”
Yep, I’m a voter. Mr. Kluge, my Government high school teacher would have been so proud.
I’m pretty sure you’ll never see that interview on the news in the U.S., except maybe on YouTube as one of those Dumb American posts, but I have done my part to ensure that the international world’s view of Americans is still intact.
The news guy never did take a drink. Maybe if I’d had some Guinness…
Subourbon Mom 