Saturday, February 13, 2016
the hickey
I have always encouraged open dialect with my children. Though sometimes it can be painful and regretful I have had two major rules when it comes to healthy conversation. Rule one is say whatever you want but say it respectfully. It is my belief that a one sided conversation is only a lecture. I need feedback especially if I am correcting a behavior. Perhaps I only know one portion of the story, perhaps the details will change my mind or the outcome. Tell me your side but please tell me in a way I can receive it, politely as if I am ignorant to the facts not as if I am stupid. Open up respectfully so that I can understand. It's important to me.
Just as important to me is rule two. I remember this example from when Angel was small. He was our first child to enter kindergarten and he stepped boldly into the bilingual class at Gibson Elementary in Corpus Christi. It became apparent that all of the words he used had a slightly different twist to them. It was nothing earth shaking but it was at that time we determined the need to establish rule two. If you don't know the meaning of a word, ask and know before you use it. Angel was a smart boy and really looked for ways to increase his vocabulary.
I remember very well one day as we drove from the elementary school toward town he asked, "what's a hickey?"
Oh, my! I took a deep breath and immediately remembered a preacher's wife that used to have very obvious hickeys on different occasions. "well." I started the conversation slowly trying to tell a 8 year old boy what a red mark on someone's neck was, why it got there, and what it means. I did a bang up job!
After I finished my scattered explanation he asked, "is that what Mrs. Kelly (name changed to protect the not so innocent) has on her neck?" With no way to avoid it, reluctantly, I affirmed. He sat quietly for a few more miles. I could see the brain gears clogging with wonder.
"Mom." He said. " why do they call Jordan that when he wears his boots?"
I never look at a splotchy red neck without thinking about that day.
Today, on the Eve of Valentines day, please evaluate the enclosed picture, find your state and be sure you buy your Valentine the most regional expected gift.
http://www.wideopencountry.com/map-shows-most-googled-valentines-gifts-in-every-state/
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Dead Man in the Terminal
I have always wondered what people thought about while they sat staring across the TGIfridays counter as passengers stream by rushed, frazzled, and exhausted. They don't let me in anyone's head but my own so this was I thought as I enjoyed my sizzling chicken and cheese skillet.
I can't believe that is him. I read his obituary. I signed the guest registry at his funeral. I hugged his sister. I sent a spray of his favorite peach gladiolas. I cried for him. I gave to the scholarship set up in his name. I took a pound cake and a bucket of fried chicken to his church for the post funeral luncheon.
Confused by the rainbow of raw emotions I first smiled. I smiled bigger as I nearly choked on my bubbling hot cheese and sautéed onions. Then I noticed he was smiling too. He seemed to be happily humming as he strolled through the terminal. Why would he be happy? He's dead! And for a dead guy he blends in nicely. He's wearing a festive tropical shirt and boat shoes. He has a nice gold watch on his right arm. I had forgotten that he was left handed. He has a leather book bag hanging over his shoulder and he is pulling a dark brown leather roller board.
Confused; I left happy– to –see–you and faded directly into confusion. Why? That is all I can think besides I have got to find my waitress so I can pay my check and chase him through this airport.
He's maneuvering gracefully through terminal C. I am rushing like a mad woman, O.J. Simpson style, thirty yards in the rear stumbling over my own computer bag and grimacing at travelers standing too casually in the walkways.
He's going to stop at C10. I have to see the destination. Where is he going?
Hoping he doesn't see me I drag my bag over to the bathroom entry way and fumble in my purse for my phone. My phone! A picture, I have to take a picture. A selfie with a dead man, (sadly enough that is probably not a first) but a selfie with a dead man in a pale blue flowery shirt without telling him. Then what do I do? I don't think I should post it on Facebook but I surely cannot keep it to myself. Who do I tell? His sister? Oh, the agony she has gone through already. She would be devastated to know that he faked a drowning at the beach to escape away to wherever he's going. Where is he going? Cincinnati? Really? Who stages their own death on a beach in Cancun, Mexico on a holiday weekend to go to Cincinnati alone? Alone? Maybe he's not alone. Is he with someone? A woman? Was he here with a woman? The gate area is beginning to churn as the incoming passengers deplane. They struggle to get around me and my computer bag and into the ladies room.
What should I do? No one will believe this. I have to say something. Something like…"Hi, Joe. How are you? Imagine running into you" or "wow, you look good for a dead man" or “did you love the peach gladiolas?” or "Cincinnati is beautiful this time of year, isn't it?"
Wait, this is criminal. It's against the law to fake your death isn't it? It is on television and movies. What if he is in the witness protection program and running from the mafia? Or maybe he is running drugs for the Mexican cartel. Or perhaps he's running away with a teenage girl he meet at a swim up bar on the white sand beach of Cancun. Maybe he's just trying to outrun a bookie from the track that he owes thousands of dollars.
Oh my, he's looking around. Does he see me? Maybe he feels like someone is watching him. That's how he lives now, always looking over one shoulder, sleeping with one eye opened, suspecting everyone. Maybe he caught a negative vibe from my presence and my camera video recording his every move, documenting the way he's sitting with his legs crossed and his computer bag lying on his lap. He's sipping an orange crush and digging in his shirt pocket. Gum; He has a stick of gum; wintergreen or spearmint but not cinnamon.
It's the shirt that distorts this scenario. It's too dramatic for Cincinnati. It's made for a tropic escape to South America not middle America.
The chicken wasn't that good but I hope you enjoyed the story.
I can't believe that is him. I read his obituary. I signed the guest registry at his funeral. I hugged his sister. I sent a spray of his favorite peach gladiolas. I cried for him. I gave to the scholarship set up in his name. I took a pound cake and a bucket of fried chicken to his church for the post funeral luncheon.
Confused by the rainbow of raw emotions I first smiled. I smiled bigger as I nearly choked on my bubbling hot cheese and sautéed onions. Then I noticed he was smiling too. He seemed to be happily humming as he strolled through the terminal. Why would he be happy? He's dead! And for a dead guy he blends in nicely. He's wearing a festive tropical shirt and boat shoes. He has a nice gold watch on his right arm. I had forgotten that he was left handed. He has a leather book bag hanging over his shoulder and he is pulling a dark brown leather roller board.
Confused; I left happy– to –see–you and faded directly into confusion. Why? That is all I can think besides I have got to find my waitress so I can pay my check and chase him through this airport.
He's maneuvering gracefully through terminal C. I am rushing like a mad woman, O.J. Simpson style, thirty yards in the rear stumbling over my own computer bag and grimacing at travelers standing too casually in the walkways.
He's going to stop at C10. I have to see the destination. Where is he going?
Hoping he doesn't see me I drag my bag over to the bathroom entry way and fumble in my purse for my phone. My phone! A picture, I have to take a picture. A selfie with a dead man, (sadly enough that is probably not a first) but a selfie with a dead man in a pale blue flowery shirt without telling him. Then what do I do? I don't think I should post it on Facebook but I surely cannot keep it to myself. Who do I tell? His sister? Oh, the agony she has gone through already. She would be devastated to know that he faked a drowning at the beach to escape away to wherever he's going. Where is he going? Cincinnati? Really? Who stages their own death on a beach in Cancun, Mexico on a holiday weekend to go to Cincinnati alone? Alone? Maybe he's not alone. Is he with someone? A woman? Was he here with a woman? The gate area is beginning to churn as the incoming passengers deplane. They struggle to get around me and my computer bag and into the ladies room.
What should I do? No one will believe this. I have to say something. Something like…"Hi, Joe. How are you? Imagine running into you" or "wow, you look good for a dead man" or “did you love the peach gladiolas?” or "Cincinnati is beautiful this time of year, isn't it?"
Wait, this is criminal. It's against the law to fake your death isn't it? It is on television and movies. What if he is in the witness protection program and running from the mafia? Or maybe he is running drugs for the Mexican cartel. Or perhaps he's running away with a teenage girl he meet at a swim up bar on the white sand beach of Cancun. Maybe he's just trying to outrun a bookie from the track that he owes thousands of dollars.
Oh my, he's looking around. Does he see me? Maybe he feels like someone is watching him. That's how he lives now, always looking over one shoulder, sleeping with one eye opened, suspecting everyone. Maybe he caught a negative vibe from my presence and my camera video recording his every move, documenting the way he's sitting with his legs crossed and his computer bag lying on his lap. He's sipping an orange crush and digging in his shirt pocket. Gum; He has a stick of gum; wintergreen or spearmint but not cinnamon.
It's the shirt that distorts this scenario. It's too dramatic for Cincinnati. It's made for a tropic escape to South America not middle America.
The chicken wasn't that good but I hope you enjoyed the story.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Happy Anniversary!
Since 1990 every time I have given a wedding gift in the card I have written these words: husbands and wives are a dime a dozen but a best friend to spend the rest of your life with is one in a million. I learned this twenty seven years ago TODAY when my daddy walked me down the aisle to join my very young life with that guy I live with.
This is not the first anniversary we have spent in different time zones but this year I have this handy dandy blog to broadcast the secrets of a blessed relationship:
1. I met that guy I live with in 1984 when I was 15 years old. He came over to my house to court my sister but she was not interested. Yes, little sister gets the hand-me-downs.
2. Our first “date” was to a Junior High football game in Elysian Fields to watch Lance play. It came a down pour and we retreated innocently to the car. Most of the night we listened to Bryan Adams sing “straight from the heart”.
3. With Lance still in the back seat we held hands for the first time on the way home. Journey was playing on the radio, “Sender my love” and that guy I live with bumped my hand accidentally. I thought he was shyly attempting to hold my hand so I grabbed his like a bass on top water bait.
4. The first time we kissed our teeth bumped. It was his fault.
5. When we started ‘going together’ (80’s term) we were standing at the top of the bleachers at a football game in Beckville.
“People keep asking me if we are going together”, he said.
“What do you tell them?”
“What should I tell them?” From the very beginning he answered questions with questions.
“Tell them we are.”
Since then there have been days when I have wanted more, days when I have wanted less, and days when I didn’t know what I wanted.
Together we have had 5 pregnancies and three sons; we have buried our fathers and grandparents; we completed our four year degrees. Today, if he is reading this from Mississippi or Louisiana then he will know that I have left a surprise for him in the capable hands of my mother.
The Claddaugh Ring: the symbolism dates back centuries. According to Google University:
1. The hands represent friendship; to me they represent history, where we started, the past that we drag along with us daily.
2. The heart represents love but to me it is today and the opportunity to make today better than yesterday.
3. The crown represents loyalty. The future, the potential, possibilities, and purposeful intention to live happily ever after.
Happy Anniversary to that guy I live with!
This is not the first anniversary we have spent in different time zones but this year I have this handy dandy blog to broadcast the secrets of a blessed relationship:
1. I met that guy I live with in 1984 when I was 15 years old. He came over to my house to court my sister but she was not interested. Yes, little sister gets the hand-me-downs.
2. Our first “date” was to a Junior High football game in Elysian Fields to watch Lance play. It came a down pour and we retreated innocently to the car. Most of the night we listened to Bryan Adams sing “straight from the heart”.
3. With Lance still in the back seat we held hands for the first time on the way home. Journey was playing on the radio, “Sender my love” and that guy I live with bumped my hand accidentally. I thought he was shyly attempting to hold my hand so I grabbed his like a bass on top water bait.
4. The first time we kissed our teeth bumped. It was his fault.
5. When we started ‘going together’ (80’s term) we were standing at the top of the bleachers at a football game in Beckville.
“People keep asking me if we are going together”, he said.
“What do you tell them?”
“What should I tell them?” From the very beginning he answered questions with questions.
“Tell them we are.”
Since then there have been days when I have wanted more, days when I have wanted less, and days when I didn’t know what I wanted.
Together we have had 5 pregnancies and three sons; we have buried our fathers and grandparents; we completed our four year degrees. Today, if he is reading this from Mississippi or Louisiana then he will know that I have left a surprise for him in the capable hands of my mother.
The Claddaugh Ring: the symbolism dates back centuries. According to Google University:
1. The hands represent friendship; to me they represent history, where we started, the past that we drag along with us daily.
2. The heart represents love but to me it is today and the opportunity to make today better than yesterday.
3. The crown represents loyalty. The future, the potential, possibilities, and purposeful intention to live happily ever after.
Happy Anniversary to that guy I live with!
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Five things I can see from here:
1. I see a family sitting at the bar. I suspect they don’t recognize they are in a hotel tavern but think it is an extension of the atrium. The children are tumbling about on the furniture and seem to be waiting for something. One of the young youngsters is about 10 years old and is wearing purple soccer socks.
2. The Pizza delivery guy and the Chinese food deliver guy are waiting at the ‘circle table’ of the lobby. They exchange casual dialogue in an almost tragic fashion while anticipating that at any moment their caller will meander into the lobby and rescue them.
3. A fireplace in Florida. I assume it is there for the sole purpose of dangling the Christmas decorations. When do you use a fireplace in Florida? By the way, the family in the bar is now playing Patty-cake or something as unpleasant.
4. The revolving door and its exhausting crusade and determination to bring people in and take people out in chorus and without disruption.
5. Five American flags in a spray of cut flowers, (also red, white and blue) poised in graceful partisanship, exhibiting independence, and placed in celebration of the birthdate of American.
Oddly enough this seems to some extent like work.
2. The Pizza delivery guy and the Chinese food deliver guy are waiting at the ‘circle table’ of the lobby. They exchange casual dialogue in an almost tragic fashion while anticipating that at any moment their caller will meander into the lobby and rescue them.
3. A fireplace in Florida. I assume it is there for the sole purpose of dangling the Christmas decorations. When do you use a fireplace in Florida? By the way, the family in the bar is now playing Patty-cake or something as unpleasant.
4. The revolving door and its exhausting crusade and determination to bring people in and take people out in chorus and without disruption.
5. Five American flags in a spray of cut flowers, (also red, white and blue) poised in graceful partisanship, exhibiting independence, and placed in celebration of the birthdate of American.
Oddly enough this seems to some extent like work.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
It's not about you
I'm a little bit frazzled and rightly so. Last week I laid around in airports from Shreveport to Chicago and back. After spending 36 consecutive hours in the in six different terminals, in four different cities I took a day of mental R&R. I slept twelve hours in my own wallowed out gel top king-sized bed. I twisted and wiggled and I tried to recuperate and I guess I did just in time to start over this week. Out of Bush Intercontinental on Sunday evening, through Dallas Fort Worth into Oklahoma city. Monday night I boarded in Oklahoma City to Omaha, Nebraska and then back to OKC on Tuesday. I worked late on Wednesday but after three nights in the airports I was happy to catch up on some employee online education and emails. It's Thursday night and I have managed to get to the Delta terminal of Tulsa International Airport. Destination: Jackson, Mississippi.
This morning I drove off with my day planner lying on top of the rental car while I talked on the phone to a customer in Hutchinson, Kansas. On my way to the airport I pulled a half inch long (thankfully) blonde hair from my chin that no one bothered to tell me existed. It's all okay though because I like my job and because in seat 23B, next to me, on a dark plane into Jackson, Mississippi, I saw a reflection if myself.
I started off thinking, no, of all the crazy people on this plane, why do I have to sit by 'the guy.' You know ‘the guy’; the one who sat in the bar too long; the one that thinks his jokes are funnier than they really are; the guy in the Hawaiian shirt headed to Mississippi.
Before we were to the runway I knew he was a drug rep for Upshur Smith out of Minnesota. He's been there two years and he loves it. Before that he was in pharmaceutical sales for a global company but not happy. Before we had the wheels up he told me his life was changed and that today he was a better man. He brought it up so I asked, “what event changed your life?” If Ron was telling this he might say it was turning 49 years old and realizing that he's living on borrowed time since his Dad died at 49. He might say it was the realization that life is too short and he has much to laugh about and live for. He might tell you about the day in 2010 when he hit his knees and gave his life to the Jesus that his step grandmother told him about when he was just a kid. Maybe he would tell you it was his own kids and his determination to do right by them or the love of his life that they called mom that divorced him a few years back.
His jokes still aren't that funny (sorry, Ron) but through his stories and his willingness to share them I could see a little bit of myself and the places I could grow. He shared this simple motto: it starts with me but it's not about me.
I've heard that before; I've said that before but tonight I heard that from someone in seat 23B that needed to say it and be heard.
This morning I drove off with my day planner lying on top of the rental car while I talked on the phone to a customer in Hutchinson, Kansas. On my way to the airport I pulled a half inch long (thankfully) blonde hair from my chin that no one bothered to tell me existed. It's all okay though because I like my job and because in seat 23B, next to me, on a dark plane into Jackson, Mississippi, I saw a reflection if myself.
I started off thinking, no, of all the crazy people on this plane, why do I have to sit by 'the guy.' You know ‘the guy’; the one who sat in the bar too long; the one that thinks his jokes are funnier than they really are; the guy in the Hawaiian shirt headed to Mississippi.
Before we were to the runway I knew he was a drug rep for Upshur Smith out of Minnesota. He's been there two years and he loves it. Before that he was in pharmaceutical sales for a global company but not happy. Before we had the wheels up he told me his life was changed and that today he was a better man. He brought it up so I asked, “what event changed your life?” If Ron was telling this he might say it was turning 49 years old and realizing that he's living on borrowed time since his Dad died at 49. He might say it was the realization that life is too short and he has much to laugh about and live for. He might tell you about the day in 2010 when he hit his knees and gave his life to the Jesus that his step grandmother told him about when he was just a kid. Maybe he would tell you it was his own kids and his determination to do right by them or the love of his life that they called mom that divorced him a few years back.
His jokes still aren't that funny (sorry, Ron) but through his stories and his willingness to share them I could see a little bit of myself and the places I could grow. He shared this simple motto: it starts with me but it's not about me.
I've heard that before; I've said that before but tonight I heard that from someone in seat 23B that needed to say it and be heard.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Fashion nonsense
Any of you that know me very well know that I am by no means a fashion expert. I wear sweat pants and converse tennis shoes way too often. I don't like to get my hair cut so I often look shaggier than I should. I don't color my hair so I have that dishwater blonde that no one would ever request and most wouldn't tolerate. My nails are jagged and natural, yeah, let’s say they are natural. And truth be known, I celebrate 'no shave November' two months longer than most Bass Pro shoppers. Maybe you've noticed.
Regardless I have a few opinions on the subject. I can handle a man in a leotard if he's a dancer or a gymnast or aspiring to be but I don't know what to do with the man in the hotel hobby in a black leotard and a sports bra. He doesn't fit into any of the categories that society has taught me to acknowledge. Maybe I am condescending, judgmental, or a backwoods redneck hick; I can own that. Forgive me, but then tell me what does it mean if a grown man is wearing a sports bra in public (or elsewhere)?
In my travels I see many things that I just don't understand. Most recently I have noted more and more entire families with colored hair. Mom has blue streaks, Dad has purple, one kids has green, the other has orange. My boys are probably glad we didn't do the family hair dyeing trend because I would have made them having matching or at the very least coordinating colors like their Easter outfits or our Christmas pajamas. I wonder if it was the mom's idea. Did she beg the dad to participate? Did they lose a bet? Did they fight over who got which color?
Speaking of pajamas when did it become acceptable to wear your sleeping clothes out in public? It's been allowed for some time to drag through Wal-Mart in nighties you would never wear anywhere else but the airports are crawling with grown women in footy pajamas and no bra! I have a simple rule: if you're schedule is so tight that you don't have time to put on under garments you should skip something else from your morning routine. Or better yet if you know you are going to have get up early to be at the airport by 10:00 o'clock maybe just sleep in your sports bra.
People are full of fashion rules about what color shoes should be worn after Labor Day, walking in heels the correct way, and chipped and flaking toe nail polish with sandals. I have one more rule specifically for the heavy girl and then I will put on my tie dye T-shirt and walk away. Just because it comes in your size doesn't mean you should wear it. I tip the scales that way too so I understand. If you want to wear a bathing suit on the beach you run a definite risk of being referred to as a beached whale and that’s ok. It happens to the best of us but please don't parade around the mall in a tube top and booty shorts. It kills my fashion appetite.
Regardless I have a few opinions on the subject. I can handle a man in a leotard if he's a dancer or a gymnast or aspiring to be but I don't know what to do with the man in the hotel hobby in a black leotard and a sports bra. He doesn't fit into any of the categories that society has taught me to acknowledge. Maybe I am condescending, judgmental, or a backwoods redneck hick; I can own that. Forgive me, but then tell me what does it mean if a grown man is wearing a sports bra in public (or elsewhere)?
In my travels I see many things that I just don't understand. Most recently I have noted more and more entire families with colored hair. Mom has blue streaks, Dad has purple, one kids has green, the other has orange. My boys are probably glad we didn't do the family hair dyeing trend because I would have made them having matching or at the very least coordinating colors like their Easter outfits or our Christmas pajamas. I wonder if it was the mom's idea. Did she beg the dad to participate? Did they lose a bet? Did they fight over who got which color?
Speaking of pajamas when did it become acceptable to wear your sleeping clothes out in public? It's been allowed for some time to drag through Wal-Mart in nighties you would never wear anywhere else but the airports are crawling with grown women in footy pajamas and no bra! I have a simple rule: if you're schedule is so tight that you don't have time to put on under garments you should skip something else from your morning routine. Or better yet if you know you are going to have get up early to be at the airport by 10:00 o'clock maybe just sleep in your sports bra.
People are full of fashion rules about what color shoes should be worn after Labor Day, walking in heels the correct way, and chipped and flaking toe nail polish with sandals. I have one more rule specifically for the heavy girl and then I will put on my tie dye T-shirt and walk away. Just because it comes in your size doesn't mean you should wear it. I tip the scales that way too so I understand. If you want to wear a bathing suit on the beach you run a definite risk of being referred to as a beached whale and that’s ok. It happens to the best of us but please don't parade around the mall in a tube top and booty shorts. It kills my fashion appetite.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
the pumpkin tattoo
Several months ago I sat in a meeting with my team, my coworkers and people I am developing strong and lasting friendships with. We were asked to introduce ourselves and to share a personal fun fact. Directly across the room from me sat a sales coworker just a little older than me. She dresses stylish yet conservative. Her hair is short, her nails long; both attended to nicely. She has grown children, two grandchildren, a husband and a soft spot for her forelegged friend of the canine variety. She is very normal, middle America, mom next door, PTA president, Mac and cheese making lady. In her job she's successful and admired. Her fun fact was that she has a rose tattoo on her shoulder.
I wasn't shocked at all but immediately I started envisioning how she came to have a rose tattoo on her body. Was she drunk? Maybe a dare? Is that the only tattoo she has? Did she go at night to the ink shop or after brunch with the PTA ladies? Was it a sketchy neighborhood or maybe she had a friend in the business? What other designs did she consider?
Unfortunately, we where not encouraged to linger on any one fun fact during the introductions.
Still why the rose? Maybe that's her middle name our her mothers name (it's my mothers name but I never thought of getting it on my body) . She didn't say what color it is or the type of rose? Is it opened or a bud? I wonder if it has thorns.
Strangely the meaning of all these different characteristics is available online for your googling enjoyment.
I haven't yet seen the coworkers rose ut given what I know about her I expect it is a traditional red rose representing true love. I bet it has a couple of leaves showing and it is a partially opened bloom. The number of pedals can also contain symbolism.
Curiosity plays a big role in fueling my imagination.
So yesterday whilst in Memphis we toured the Sun Studio. We had a fabulous tour guide! She was energetic and engaging in a surprising and welcoming manner. However, as I listened to her I couldn't help but notice the large tattoos across her chest and down the outside of her right arm. The neck line of shirt left most of the lettering on her chest visible and it appeared to read 'honkytonk angel'. At the top of her right arm she had a rocket with a cowgirl lassoing into space. Just above that concerned me. No, it wasn't vulger or inappropriate. It was Jack O'latternO'lattern. I didn't Google the meaning of the pumpkin tat because all II could think of was how drunk must you get at Octoberfest to get a pumpkin tattoo?
I don't have any tattoos but it's not because I haven't thought about it from time to time. It's because I could never decide on an image that would represent me for the rest of my life. I have many friends that sport many artful designs across their bodies. My oldest son has some tattoos that only his mother loves as much as he does. But as I said, I am curious. Why did you, blog reader, friend, family, get the tattoo that you did? What does it symbolize to you? Are you happy with it? Does it make you smile in your heart when you look at it and think about the time when it was new?
Please share.
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