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: 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: Misc. Humor, Posts, Sports | Tags: fantasy football, football, grieving, humor, NFL, Redskins, south, southern, sports, tailgate, television
I’m a Redskin Fan, and have been since I was barely a two-glasses-of-bourbon suggestion one night. That makes me an eternal optimist (what fan of a losing team isn’t?).
We’ve had our moments in the sun–who could forget John Riggins calling Sandra Day O’Connor ‘Sandy Baby?’ Or watching the super-fan in the stands waving his tomahawk and head dress in a touchdown celebration? Or laughing as the Hogettes paraded through the parking lots in dresses and pig noses? Or watching Gus Ferotte slam himself into the end zone and give himself a concussion? Ah…the Glory Days!
The Hogettes, photo courtesy of ESPN.com
For years, these types of things were the highlights of my Sunday afternoons. We spent hours agonizing over bad calls, yelling at the television, and listening to the scratchy sounds of Sonny and Sam slur their way through the broadcasts. Beers were drunk and spaghetti was gobbled off of t.v. trays.
When the Redskins won, we viewed our entire week through burgundy and gold colored glasses, riding around with flags on our cars, and wearing our Redskins hats, sweatshirts and jerseys everywhere. When the Skins lost, we listlessly slogged our way through work and school until the next possibility of glory…six long days away.
Now, there is no week of second-hand glory.
There is no mourning period.
We are no longer allowed to grieve–and this is going to do damage to the football fan psyche.
In 1970, Pete Rozelle wanted to have a football game broadcasted on a weeknight, in an effort to create more exposure and popularity for the newly-merged NFL. ABC was the only taker. Forty years later, Pete Rozelle should be thrilled–we have football on Thursday nights, all day Sunday, Monday nights, and sometimes on Saturdays. For some, this is like scoring a touchdown on 4th and 1 in OT.
But I miss the grieving process.
I’m a football junkie. I’ve played different versions of fantasy football for years. I even love the idea of the NFL Sunday Ticket, especially since I lived overseas for a while—it was the only way I could watch my team. And football is better than melatonin for putting me to sleep on the couch three nights a week.
But by the time I’ve finished watching Monday night’s game, I have to turn around on Tuesday and start figuring out who I’m starting where in my Fantasy pool. I have to look at all of the games coming up, read the injury reports, and determine which games are important enough for me to watch. With only three days between weeks, time is of the essence. The pressure is more intense.
But more importantly, what’s going through my head when we lose, especially when we lose HUGE, like we did against Philly, never gets dealt with (puh—leeeease…the only thing worse would have been to lose like that against Dallas!).
These days, when the Redskins lose, there are only three days to let the anger I have at my own daily life safely filter into the venting I do about my team. There used to be six.
Monday through Wednesday, I rage at the Redskins and how much I hate Michael Vick, and argue that Tony Romo is a less than mediocre quarterback—and no one realizes how close to the edge I am, or how angry I got at something someone said or did to me. But if something sets me off on Thursday, everybody better just step off. On Thursdays, I’ve been forced to start thinking about the next set of games instead of working through the last ones. I have no safety valve to let off steam since I’ve been forced to move on—so I start taking it out on real people, like Hubby (see https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2013/08/19/fishing-frenzy/).
Just imagine how high the crime rate would be if everybody was like me, and needed the grieving process of the non-football days like I do. Thankfully, most people seem to have other outlets for their frustrations.
Like sexting, getting caught, and doing it some more, all the while running for Mayor of New York.
Or something like that.
So please, Mr. Goodell, please let us grieve. Give us our Thursday nights back. The world might be a safer place.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Anger Management, family, Fishing, humor, Meditation, Middle-Age, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom, travel
Early morning on Kerr Lake
Fishing, like golf, or the television show Survivor, pares people down to their basic personality traits. Unfortunately like golf and Survivor, it often does this in the company of others; even more often, it does this in the company of good friends or family. This past week, I was with my family on our annual vacation to Kerr Lake, on the border of North Carolina and Virginia. The fishing is never very good (rather, we aren’t ever really good at it), but this year, Hubby decided he was going to embrace fishing like he does everything else—with enthusiasm that is infectious and fun, and with a competitive nature that could turn even the most relaxed morning into a crazed, smack-talking showdown worthy of the WWF.
Every day, Hubby and I rose at 6:00, made coffee, and woke up my brother. It was the highlight of my day, standing at the window, looking out at the mist rising off the water as Hubby, my brother and I did the coffee dance around the spoons, milk, sugar and creamer, all the while trying not to flinch at the open bottles of bourbon and rum sitting on the counter from the night before.
Anticipation.
Calm.
Quiet.
The only sounds outside were the crowing of a rooster nearby and the slapping of our shoes on the dirt path to the dock. Herons let out their primordial screeches as they sought new perches when we intruded. Swirls erupted on the surface of the water.
And the tournament began…
For two days the fishing was good—a few bass, a crappie, a few catfish and a perch. Hubby was thrilled with his catches, and kept a running tally in his head for size, number caught, etc. My brother declared he’d brought prizes for the most fish caught, biggest fish, and a consolation prize. There was a spirited discussion whether the catfish that landed on the dock but jumped off the hook and the dock counted (it did), and whether fish counted if they we were too lazy to learn how to clean them (they didn’t).
So, Hubby and I learned to clean fish.
The last day did not bode well. We were all tied up, and the tension was mounting. Maybe I was tired. Maybe the fishing Gods had had enough of our greed. Maybe it was the rain. Whatever the reason, something inside of me snapped.
First, my brother had a huge fish on his line, reeling it in. His pole was nearly bent in half, and I could see the excitement in his eyes. Just as he got it to the boat, Moby Dick swam underneath it and jumped off. My brother let out a string of curses I’d only ever heard him say in pain or extreme anger. He sat down in misery.
“I can’t believe it got away,” he mumbled. “I can honestly say that was the biggest fish I’ve ever had on my line before.”
A nice sister would have patted his shoulder, said something mildly consoling and kept on fishing, letting him gather up his enthusiasm to continue.
Not me.
“Well, it’s too bad you weren’t man enough to land it,” I said.
Both he and Hubby stared at me in disbelief. I heard what I’d said and couldn’t believe it, either. Who was this person I’d become? I knew neither of them would have ever said the equivalent to me. I apologized and tried to say some platitudes, but they fell flat, and for good reason.
Later, both Hubby and my brother pulled in fish at the same time while I drove, rod cradled in my arm (I still hadn’t even had a nibble). From somewhere deep inside, anger welled up and I snarled, “I hate both of you!” (Okay, there was a curse word in there, too, but I try to keep these clean). Both men turned around and stared at me, probably wondering if I’d been back on the sauce since we went to bed, then went back to landing their fish. For the rest of the day, that phrase was repeated over and over again, sometimes with a shake of the head, sometimes just because they knew I was embarrassed. Gotta love the family.
Usually, fishing calms and soothes me, even when I’m with others. I don’t know what happened that day, but I turned into the John MacEnroe of the bass world. I like to think I was tired, but after realizing that other people’s basic personalities were showcased when they were fishing (my brother is quiet and supportive, Hubby is competitive but fun, both daughters are very empathetic and pleaded to set the fish free), I am beginning to think I’m just not a very nice person.
The others have gone back home, and I’ve just finished cleaning up the house. I think it’s time to go back down to the water and try to recapture the person I used to be when I fished for hours by myself, meditating through the monotony of casting and reeling. There is a time for competition, and I’ll bring it next year, but until then, it’s time to put away the jet ski, grab myself an iced tea and remember why I love the being on the lake so much.
Maybe fishing isn’t a reflection of the person you are. Maybe it’s a reflection of what you’re bringing to the lake when you arrive. Either way, I have some work to do. Whether it’s internal, or my crazy “subourbon” schedule is making crazy, I’m looking forward to my fishing lobotomy.
Filed under: Parenting, Sports, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Beer, Colorado, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, parenting, Rafting, sports, teenagers, travel
The Family Rafting in Colorado
Occasionally, no matter how much it pains me, I have to admit that Hubby was right about something; and sometimes, there are many parenting lessons that can be taught/learned in one single event—family trips are rife with both of these opportunities.
Last week during a family trip to Colorado, the girls and I agreed that white water rafting would be a great family adventure. Hubby was skeptical, but, the day before we had spent hours watching candy being made by hand in a factory and panning for gold at an abandoned mine.
Lesson #1: Children don’t need to have the mystique of where candy canes come from destroyed by bulky men in hairnets;
Lesson #2: Pointing out that panning for gold is a lot like washing dishes does not help your cause at home.
These excursions were fun, but we all realized that Colorado was an outdoor wonderland beckoning us east coast explorers. So we picked up the white water rafting brochure and began discussing which trip we should take. There were two options: Beginners aged 5 and up, and a trip for Intermediates, or “Aggressive Beginners.” Since the last Beginner rafting trip Daughter #1 and Hubby took was like floating in a pool, Daughter #1 felt we were definitely ready for something more exciting. Hubby was doubtful, and tried several times to persuade us that the Beginner level would be fine.
We didn’t listen.
So, we paid $60 bucks each to cling to a rubber tub in raging, 40-degree waters.
Lesson #3: When a brochure says wet suits and helmets are mandatory, it would be wise to consider the reasons for this, and that the brochure was made by 20-year-old college students who think they are invincible.
Suited up, we fell in with the other mostly middle-aged businessmen, looking like a bright yellow SWAT team on the way to a bumblebee convention. Before the guides would let us put the raft into the water, there were cursory explanations about where to put your feet, and that each guide was required to pay “Sin Beer” for the multitude of rafting sins occurring during the trips, like guests falling overboard, missing stopping points, and losing oars. Volunteers for the front were solicited. Hubby bravely took one for the team and hopped in, having been informed that the front people have the greatest chance of falling out. I opted for the back, thinking the girls would be hemmed in by the others, and that I was closest to the guide, who could pull me in if I fell out.
Lesson #4: Unlike the mini-van, the back seat is NOT the safest place to be in a raft.
Within minutes we realized we were WAY out of our depth. Spinning round and round, we plummeted into holes of water and bounced out again, only to begin the cycle over. After bouncing out of my footholds twice, I finally lost my grip completely and tipped over backward into the swirling water, banging my hip on a rock.
Lesson #5: Panic can supersede parenting.
I would like to say I would have made Bear Grylls proud and hauled myself back in, but in reality, I panicked and grabbed Daughter #2, who is 90 pounds wet. With the guide yelling at her to pull me in, she yelled back and tried not to be pulled in by her own mother. Somehow, the guide managed to steer the boat and haul me back in at the same time. I was clearly never going to be the hero I thought I was. Cost: 1 12-pack of beer.
For the next half-hour, we struggled to keep the raft upright as we surfed, spun and tumbled in the Class 3 and 4 rapids. We lost another of our team in a Class 4+ rapid, plummeting into a hole that folded the raft in half. The young woman in front of Daughter #1 tumbled ass over elbow for a full minute in the frothing water (another 12-pack) and lost her paddle (another 6-pack), until hubby was finally able to pull her back in. She landed on top of him, in shock, and the only soul left rowing on that side was Daughter #1. I will never forget the look of panic on her face, which remained glued there until her feet touched dry land. We missed a mandatory eddy and had to continue on (another 6-pack).
Lesson #6: Remember to praise the bravery and outspoken nature of the children you have raised.
Daughter #2 made sure the guide knew she was in trouble when she couldn’t pull me in, and Daughter #1 never gave up, rowing for all she was worth, even when she was scared to death.
The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful (we even sang “Under the Boardwalk” while we paddled), until the final five minutes. Under dire warnings that if we missed the next eddy we would involuntarily go down the Advanced Rapids, we paddled for all we were worth toward the waiting rafts. We hauled heaved and shoved at the water, until we hit one last hole. In went Hubby (another 12-pack). Thankfully, he was close enough to shore that he could make his way to the other rafts and get hauled in.
Lesson #7: Sometimes it’s okay to let Hubby say “I told you so” as much as he wants after a day like that. He earned it!
As we waited to get on the bus, we stood in the sun and tried to warm ourselves by placing shaking hands on rocks and shedding our life jackets. Our legs trembled with fatigue from the waist down, and after several minutes, our eyeballs returned to normal size. We paid our guide well in tip money and “Sin Beer” money (we figured we owed him for at least 2 cases of beer).
Lesson #8: Show your children it is right to reward excellent service.
Without brave and “invincible” guides, we would never have made it—they earn their tips every time they step into that raft with a bunch of “Aggressive Beginners” like us.
Will we ever do it again? Only Hubby and Daughter #2 say they will. She maintains it was fun, and has blown up a picture of her sister’s terrified face and now keeps it on her phone. Was it a priceless experience? Absolutely!
- The Family Rafting in Colorado
Subourbon Mom 