Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, children, Christmas, Christmas Trees, family, Holidays, humor, kids, Letters to Santa, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, Santa, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, Traditions
Like everything with teenagers, Christmas at this age is a mixed sack of coal and gifts.
These days, we no longer have to scramble to hide their gifts and the special Santa wrapping paper (which I found out later they already knew about). Now, I just remind the family, “If you don’t believe, you don’t receive” (we all receive, and there is no mention of the questionable fat man in a body stocking stuffing himself into our chimney like a sausage.) We no longer stay up until 1:00am putting together brightly-colored plastic, cursing every Chinese company that decided heavy-duty plastic was a good idea. But we also don’t have those magical moments, like when the kids would pause at the top of the stairs and survey the loot under the tree like they had found the Holy Grail; or the morning Daughter #1 burst into tears on Christmas Day. When I asked her why, she said, “I’m just so happy!”
I also miss letters to Santa. Every year, the girls would carefully compose their letters to Santa, or dictate them to me. We would address them to the North Pole and stick them in the mailbox. About a week later, our wonderful mail carrier would deliver a hand-written letter back, addressed to each child by name. These days, I get gift list updates from my kids via email and text (from the next room), with links to the different catalogs and stores for my shopping ease.
But one thing that is definitely better is the tradition of getting the tree. We still go to the same lot, and we still wander around letting the girls make the decision. But now, the girls can articulate their opinions:
Daughter #1: “I don’t like this one—it has a hole.”
Daughter #2: “Your face is a hole.”
Me: Sigh….
Hubby: “What about his one?”
Daughter #1: “I don’t like it. It lacks originality.”
Decorating the tree is also better. Now the girls can put the ornaments higher than our knees. They re-hash the family trips we’ve taken, since we try to get an ornament form each new place (“Mom, do you remember the time Aunt Cindy tried to get on the ski tube and her face landed in your lap?”–followed by hysterical laughing). Unfortunately, they also like tinsel, and every year they glob it on heavier than Troy Polamalu’s hair, and every year I take a little off each day, trying to minimize the tackiness (of the tree, not Troy’s hair).
But the best thing about having teenagers during Christmas is that even though they send me shopping lists on-line, and they no longer burst into spontaneous tears of joy, they appreciate the family time. As I write this, they are decorating the tree, laughing over the toilet paper tube ornaments and debating whether the Redskins are worthy of having their ornaments adorn our tree (we’re hardcore fans, so they’re going on, but with serious reservations). They may not remember all the toys or the letters to Santa, but I hope they will remember the time we spend together.
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: Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: children, colds, family, flu, germ, health, humor, kids, mom, parenting, parents, subourbonmom
In honor of cold and flu season, and the wonderful children with green noses and slimy sleeves that learn to share their germs before they learn to share anything else, ‘m putting aside my box of tissues and NyQuil to impart this sage advice:
Cover Your Katchoo!
I have a cold.
I’ve got a runny nose, achy toes,
And a fever, so I’m told.
I know how I got it, too.
Someone didn’t cover their Katchoo.
I remember sitting next to Tommy
(he’s the kid who always wants his Mommy).
When all the sudden, he took a deep breath—
Ahh—ahhh-ahhh-…..Katchoo!
And do you know what?
My arm was covered in goo!
My teacher made me wash it all off.
But not before Annie started to sneeze and cough.
I ran to the sink and scraped and scrubbed.
I made patterns of bubbles while I rubbed.
I thought maybe I’d gotten off germ-free.
But yesterday I started to –achoo!—sneeze.
My nose filled up and my head started to hurt.
My forehead got hot, but my cough was the worst.
It started up here, in my chest, and it wasn’t so bad.
But the next day it came up from my toes,
So I called for my dad.
“Dad!” I said, “How did I get so sick?
I did what the teacher said, but I still feel like ick.”
Dad looked at me and scratched his head.
He sat next to me on the bed and said,
“I feel bad for you, I really do.
It looks like someone didn’t cover their Katchoo!”
Copyright 2013 Subourbonmom
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: 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.
Subourbon Mom 