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Guilty Pleasures

Sep17

janis joplinzodiakjane austen

duck dynastyapple pie

I wish I loved opera. Or abstract art. Or The Catcher in the Rye. The truth of the matter is, I never hum “Don Giovanni” in the shower. I can’t look at abstract art without noting the folly of not wearing a seatbelt. And one paragraph into J. D. Salinger”s novel, I wanted to slap him and his whiney main character, Holden Caulfield. I am afraid my tastes are downright plebeian.

‘Fess up, now. We all have guilty pleasures, those little diversions we don’t mention to strangers. We enjoy them, despite the fact they are nerdy, uncool, and sometimes downright tacky. They almost never include any of the things we are supposed to enjoy. But since we’re all friends here, I’ll confess my top five.

When it comes to music, I don’t listen to much of anything recorded after 1975. As far as I’m concerned, disco heralded the end of civilization. I wrap myself in oldies and sing along to lyrics seared in my brain. There were a few dicey moments when Austin, a city stuck in the ’60s, decided it no longer needed an oldies radio station. Thanks to Sirius, I’m back on the road in my time machine, radio buttons programmed by decades, ending with the ’70s. And I’ll keep going to those tribute concerts, like Janis Joplin and the Fab Four. Heck! I may never have to catch up.

Although I have never paid to have my horoscope done, I admit I check out the forecasts for me and various friends and family members each morning. It’s not that I actually believe in it or depend on it. I just like to see what it says lies in store for the day. It’s completely coincidental that I pay especial attention to it when my life is in crisis, or I want to see if a friend’s new sugar is compatible or an axe murderer.

When it comes to literature, you’d think as a writer I would have more intellectual tastes. Of the authors I had to read in school, I liked only a handful. I loved Harper Lee, Dorothy Parker, and Oscar Wilde. Stream of consciousness, a la William Faulkner and James Joyce left me frustrated and angry. Mostly I read nonfiction: history, especially World War II, biography, and true crime.

There’s one exception, Jane Austen. I have her complete works on my Kindle, and whenever I’m waiting for something, or when I’ve had a whole day of dealing with the masses of asses that make up too much of today’s society, I retreat into Jane Austen’s world. It had its share of asses, too, but at least they were painstakingly civil.

As for reality television programming, the next time I swallow some deadly poison, I’ll just tune into Honey Boo Boo. Forget ipecac; that show makes me violently nauseous. There is, however, one reality show I like, and it’s definitely a guilty pleasure. I’ve gotten a little hooked on Duck Dynasty. At first I had my doubts, but I watched to humor Bryan, who seemed just about ready to dash off a fan letter. Once I got past the beards, I realized these are well-educated, articulate people who espouse values I can get behind. No women’s work/men’s work sexism here. Men’s work consists of duck hunting and anything else the women will let them do. The truths of life, even delivered with a southern accent, are still valuable and refreshing

And then there is food. Gourmet food is lost on my peasant’s palate. Three bites of thinly-sliced something, drizzled with squiggles of some sauce from a mustard squeeze bottle will never get me through the night or cheer me up, much less make me want to slap my mama.

There was a local company called Pie Fixes Everything. They made miniature pies that contained absolutely no guilt. Unfortunately they went out of business after eight years. If only I’d found them sooner! In their honor, however, I have adopted their company name as my personal credo. If I ever design a family crest, Pie Fixes Everything will be emblazoned on a field of rhubarb and meringue. I’ve been known to drown my sorrows in a Hostess Fruit Pie, so I can’t imagine a more appropriate family motto.

Okay, now it’s your turn. Guilty pleasures. Dish! I can’t wait to hear…

Happy Campers ‘R’ Us

Aug27

Camping 3-2Camping 2-2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Camping 1 (2)I’m back. I’ve almost recovered from my semi-annual day surgery, and I’m ready to blog again. I won’t go into what was wrong, because I never get anything interesting or sexy. Trench foot would be a step up from most of the stuff I get fixed. Suffice it to say I’m almost well. And many thanks to my loving husband, Bryan, who gets to take care of me through all my woes, even when the yuck factor is pretty high.

We used to have a Buick like me. Seems like every other month something went wrong, not surprising since that car was the same age as my daughter. She was off at college when I finally waved goodbye to the Mom-mobile. At that point, the only thing original left on that car was the body (similar to me), since we had replaced virtually every replaceable part on it (also like me). So, if you must judge me by appearances, don’t compare me to Meryl Streep or Sally Field. Compare me to a grey 1984 Buick Le Sabre. (Actually, you can compare me to Vanessa Redgrave, if you like. I think I look better than she does, but only because pudge has smoothed out most of my wrinkles. There are disadvantages of staying rake-thin your whole life.)

Getting back to the subject, I want to comment on some of the fun things we did before being operated on sidelined me. In my last blog I mentioned the Writers League of Texas Writer’s Retreat in Alpine, TX. While I luxuriated in a Best Western, Bryan camped for a week at Davis Mountains State Park. He is the only person I know who could stay there a week without a car and love every minute. The man is a hiking and camping fool, so I never worry he’ll get bored. I only worry he’ll fall off a mountain.

We started camping about twenty years ago. I was in my forties before I camped for the first time, and I must say I’ve gotten good at it. The turning point came when I decided not to try to cook city food out in the middle of nowhere. We left the cooler at home, I invented ways of cooking really good food from dried or vacuum-packed ingredients, and we camped happily ever after. We got the camping process so stripped down, we stopped taking my aging Mom-mobile and went camping in Bryan’s Camaro. That was impressive.

I’m usually the resourceful one in the mix, but this last time Bryan’s right brain kicked in and he came up with some really good ideas. One of my brainstorms on my first foray into the wild was a campsite paper towel dispenser. About the third time the wind blew the roll off the table and into the dirt, my Rube Goldberg gene went to work on solving the problem. The result was a bungee run through the roll and hooked around an oak tree. Not only did the paper towels stay clean, but the taut resistance made select-a-sheet a breeze.

Strangely enough, the end of July is the rainy season in Alpine, rainstorms coming virtually every afternoon.  With me in Alpine and cell phone communications only possible if he climbed a mountain, necessity became the mother of invention, and Bryan was the proud father. I was so impressed by his invention. He attached the bungee to one of the camp chairs, and covered the roll of paper towels with a plastic bag. If it started to rain when he was in camp, he could simply move the chair into the tent. If he was away when the rains came, the plastic bag kept the towels from being ruined before he returned. Brilliant!

I want to say a word about our new tent. It’s hard to tell from the picture, but it’s 14’x14’, 196 square feet of spaciousness. Whereas we dubbed our previous smaller tents “Camp Kilgore,” we now luxuriate in “Kilgore Manor.” It features cross-ventilation, a vaulted ceiling, and even a vestibule. Okay, the vestibule is a bit of a stretch, but that’s what the manufacturer calls it. Now if we get shut in by bad weather, we have plenty of room to spread out, make a sitting area with the camp chairs, or practice cartwheels.

Since it was a new tent, Bryan and I assembled it in a backyard dry run beforehand. It is the easiest to assemble of all our tents, although the ceiling being out of the reach of either of us necessitated buying a fold-flat step stool. I slept in the tent two nights, one on each end of our week, and Bryan stayed there comfortably the rest of the time.

Alpine (the Davis Mountains in general) is the only place to be in Texas at the end of July. It’s always at least 10 degrees cooler than home during the day, and the nights are downright nippy. It always saddens me a bit to drive back into the inferno of the rest of Texas, although I’m usually ready to be home.

If you want to rough it, our way of camping isn’t yours. If you want luxury and air conditioning, our way isn’t for you, either. But if you want to try something in the middle, I’ll be happy to give you some pointers. We really are happy campers.

A Childhood Memory

Aug14

childhoodLast month I attended the Writers League of Texas annual writer’s retreat in
Alpine, Texas. This was the third year in a row I have participated, and it is
fast becoming a tradition both my husband and I look forward to.

I attended the memoir class taught by Donna Johnson and Christine Wicker. This
class dug up a lot of my past, some sweet, some not-so-much. If you want to get
in touch with yourself, try a memoir-writing clinic. Be prepared, though.
There’s no such thing as free therapy, as the old saying almost goes. Ours was
the only class that came with Kleenex.

I want to share a piece I wrote as one of the class writing exercises. It is one
of my fondest childhood memories, and I’m grateful for the chance to bring it
forward again.

***

My older brother dug holes in our backyard. They were large and deep enough to
sit in undetected by casual passersby. I loved those magnificent holes Tom
shared with me.

Mama allowed him to have only one hole going at a time, lest the backyard become
an unusable No Man’s Land. He always filled one hole in before starting another
one.

I watched for signs Tom was about to start another hole. I tagged along to watch
him choose a site. He was limited to a four-foot radius around the mulberry
tree. Grass wouldn’t grow there anyway, and Mama had given up trying. He walked
around and around, kicking a rock here, prodding a dirt clod there. Finally he
would sink his shovel into the ground, and I’d know he’d found his spot.

And Tom’s holes were always clean. I never got my play clothes dirty sitting in
them, and you could take books and magazines down there without fear of ruining
them. I would run my fingers across the hard-packed walls or floor without
soiling my hands. I always suspected Mama cleaned our holes when we weren’t
looking.

When the hole was finished, we observed a brief dedication ceremony, culminating
in both of us climbing in and sitting down. I was protected, circumscribed, and
unassailable, totally safe. Sitting in that hole with Tom felt like a hug.

Six Birthdays and a Mental Meltdown

Jul5

 

June birthdays 2

June birthdays 3 June birthdays 1  June Birthdays: Chris, Katie, Taylor, Ofelia, Derek, and Brandon!

 

My bad! I know it’s been a long time since I posted to my blog, but sometimes living my life gets in the way of writing about my life. With six family birthdays and Fathers’ Day in June, I am now officially OD ‘d on cake and small cups of ice cream. At any rate, I’m back!

I’ve been unusually busy lately, but not too busy to catch a few scraps of news or notice sea a change in the smaller world I inhabit simultaneously with the larger one. My little world takes in all of Northwest Austin, with frontiers extending to Leander, Georgetown, and Curra’s on Oltorf south of downtown Austin. Traveling outside this area requires the mental equivalent to a passport, a mindset I call, “Fixing to Travel.” That might mean New Braunfels, Longview, San Antonio, West Texas, or even, rarely, across the state line.

I like my familiar little world. There’s usually no need to fire up the Garmin to get where I need to go. As a matter of fact, most of my errands can be run on autopilot, or at least they could until recently.  I have entered the Season of the Loon. Lately it’s been the Mickey Mouse Club’s “Anything Can Happen Day” every day.

Apparently, while I was out buying birthday cards by the gross, a few traffic laws were changed. It seems it’s now legal to make left turns from the far right lane as long as there is a car length space available in front of me.  A related law allows people to exit highways and immediately cross all lanes of the access road. Any cars in the way must yield to the interloper. Also, I’ve noticed the “California Stop” has been legalized. That’s when you approach a stop sign, consider stopping, and continue on your way. Red lights were always considered more of a suggestion than a fiat, but now it is legal to run them if you are moving more than five mph over the speed limit.

Maybe I missed the passage of the new traffic laws, but I sat transfixed by the goings on at the Capitol. Wendy Davis–filibustering in pink running shoes–took me back to my youthful protests and demonstrations. The sea of orange shirts was a stirring sight. It was a joy to see people care about something enough to get out and make a scene about it. Maybe the apathy of the Me Generation is coming to an end–finally.

Now I have time to reconnect with friends on a deeper-than-Facebook level. July is here, and that means the writer’s retreat in Alpine, while Bryan gets his annual Jeremiah Johnson fix, camping at the state park. We’re both looking forward to our separate pursuits and getting together to talk about our adventures. Even after 35 years, we still can’t wait to talk at the end of the day.

I’m ready to get back to posting regularly, so thanks for your patience, and I’ll update my blog soon so stay tuned, and thanks for your patience.

 

 

 

Sometimes Dreams Come True

May19

Fab Four #2Last night I achieved a dream I’ve harbored for almost 50 years. I met the Beatles.

I remember so clearly February, 1964, when the Beatles appeared for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show. The hype preceded them, giving birth to what would become Beatlemania. A month shy of my fifteenth birthday, I knelt on the cold terrazzo tile floor of our den, up close to the television. When the boys finally appeared, I screamed and pounded my hands on the floor, imitating the teenage girls I’d seen on the news. It was a turning point in my life and the beginning of my dream to see the Beatles in concert.

Not that I had a rat’s chance of that, even when they appeared in Dallas and Houston. My father, appalled by their hair, their clothes, and their Britishness in general, thought they had been sent by the Russians to destroy our country and poison our youth. Between him and my mother, who didn’t believe in going anywhere but Disneyland, I would never get to see the Beatles in concert, at least not until I grew up and was on my own.

Of course, by that time the Beatles had broken up and no longer were seen together anywhere. The decades passed and like most fans, somewhere in the depths of my heart, I clung to the hope they would reunite for one last hurrah. Then John Lennon was murdered, and George Harrison died of cancer. That put a damper on my hopes.

Fast forward to 2013. As Bryan and I watched a fundraiser forPBS , there they were–the Beatles–not as they would have been now, even if they were all still alive, but as they were in 1964. The four moptops in tight-fitting suits and Beatle boots, hair unbelievably long for the times, delivered their songs with youthful enthusiasm and cheekiness. After a break to campaign for donations, the boys were back, this time in the ridiculous, wonderful satin costumes of their Sgt. Pepper phase. One more costume change later, they appeared as I remembered them in their final days, John in a white suit with long hair framing his face, Paul well-coifed and heart-stoppingly handsome, George, my secret favorite, thin, dark, and brooding, and Ringo, who changed so little over the years, gazing out past his nose and drumming his little heart out.

It was the tribute band, The Fab Four. They looked like the Beatles, they sounded like them (passing muster by two fans who knew every note of every album), and they had the accents, body language, and gestures down cold. Bryan and I were entranced. Once we learned they were coming to Austin in May, it didn’t take a lot of arm-twisting from PBS to get us on the phone, pledging the amount required to get two free tickets to the performance. We donate every year anyway, and this premium was too intriguing to pass up. Then the host explained that, for an additional donation, we could get two tickets to the Meet and Greet, where we would meet and greet the band members before the show. How could we pass that up?

The day of the concert finally arrived. Aside from trying to figure out what I should wear to meet the Beatles, our plans went smoothly, we arrived at the Paramount and were herded into a corner to wait with the other Meet and Greet people. Watching the less favored come in and head for their seats, I was struck by the parade of former pretty, young girls and sweet, young boys, now shuffling by as senior citizens. A few young people came, and there were even a few children, brought by parents or grandparents wanting to pass the magic on to that generation.

Finally we were led backstage, where we gathered around the drum platform and neatly arranged instruments. Then the boys appeared and greeted each of us politely and warmly, shaking hands, joking, and giving every appearance of being thrilled to meet a group of slightly dazed AARPsters. Then they moved in front of the huge backdrop screen and dutifully posed with us, two at a time, as someone took a picture with our phone camera. It turned out dark, and soon George Harrison had our camera, trying to adjust it. I stood in a totally surreal situation, Bryan and I wedged between the four Beatles, looking straight off the album appropriately named “Meet the Beatles.” That we did!

As we moved quickly to our seats, I automatically threw a “thank you” over my shoulder. I chalked up  another surreal moment as a Liverpudlian accent called, “You’re welcome.” We had hardly sat down when the fun started. They encouraged the audience to scream (mostly at the end of a number so we actually got to hear the music), clap to the beat, dance in the aisles, and sing along anytime we felt like it. The people filling the theatre sang every word in unison, surprisingly on key. I thought of the throngs in Vatican Square, responding to a papal mass as one person.

We got our money’s worth and then some. The show, which started promptly at 8:00 p.m., ended at 10:30, by which time I was screamed out, boogied out, and worn out. I might not be fifteen  anymore, but I’d had the time of my life, and so had Bryan. We got to relive together the youth spent before we knew each other.

So hooray for dreams that finally come true, in a way and 50 years later. It wasn’t the real thing, but dreams aren’t about reality. It sounded like the Beatles, looked like them, felt like them, and I probably appreciated this “meeting” more than I would have when I was fifteen. It may be that dreams come true when they should. This one did.

Cry Havoc! The Wars of Dog

Mar21

Taco collarNo doubt about it. We love our dogs. They are all rescues, co-opted mainly from various relatives who couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of them, and there’s not a pedigree in the bunch. They are all mixed breeds, although one, Angie, may be the product of inter-species dating.

Angie, the oldest at 16, has congestive heart disease and is going downhill. In less than a year she has gone from 3 out of 6 to 5 out of 6 on the Congestive Heart Failure scale, according to the vet, and this is one time when higher scores are not better.

Annie, at 15, seems to be doing well, except for missing a few teeth and several marbles. Her personal credo is: “I lick, therefore I am.”

Taco, who is supposed to be 4, is starting to show the wear and tear of a much older dog. His age is based on the unreliable memory of someone who inherited him from a tenant who didn’t want him anymore. His muzzle is beginning to show white, and he recently underwent dental surgery and removal of a growth on his paw. That screams, “Old Man!” to me.

So we’re running a nursing home for geriatric dogs once again. Bryan was handling the medications, a single pill for Angie along with the morning treats. He came down with his semi-annual, near-fatal allergy attack about the time everything changed and is just starting to get the hang of the new routine.

Here’s the schedule:

6:30 a.m. Pick up food, because one of Angie’s meds needs to be taken an hour before eating.  Tear Pill Pocket in half, putting half in a small container for later. Press small, white pill and 1/2 of diuretic into 1/2 Pill Pocket. (The diuretic is roughly the size of a newborn baby’s fingernail clipping.) Break large, new heart pill in half, saving half for later in the small Later container. Give meds to Angie and morning treats to all.

6:45 a.m. Take large dollop of bland chicken and rice soft dog food from fridge and microwave for 10 seconds. Add 1 dropper of foul-tasting antibiotic liquid and 1 tsp. of sugar free maple syrup. Mix well. Hold while Taco manages to lick up every crumb. He is blissfully unaware that this will end when he takes all of the medicine.

Late afternoon – Repeat.

Taco lost his bottom four front teeth due to decay, which is another reason I don’t think he’s the spring chicken he’s supposed to be. The lady at the vet’s cheerily told me it was a good thing he didn’t lose his front teeth, too, because then his tongue would hang out. A blessing, indeed.

On top of everything else, Taco has a hard plastic cone (sometimes known as a Renaissance collar) encircling his head to keep him from licking the stitches on his paw. He looks like an ice cream cone from “The Island of Dr. Moreau.” What’s more, he absolutely hates it and spends his time lying on his side, doing an excellent redition of the death act from “Camille.” He has mastered the art of the guilt trip and lays it on thick. This will go on until he gets his stitches out, sometime next week. I’m counting the days.

All of these visits to the vet and meds cost about the same as a down payment on a Volkswagen. It’s not that I really mind. As Bryan reminded me, “They are our children now.” I just wish we could claim them as dependents on our 1040.

I will never be without a dog. They are such good company, they love without agenda, and I apparently need something I can make neurotic without recriminations. Even if I have to live in a nursing home someday, I plan to bring my dogs along, in my mind–all of them–from Dixie and Penny, my childhood dogs, to Smokey, Tasha, and Tawny, our big dogs, to Angie and Annie, and Taco who lies about his age.

I hope I get a big room.

London, Paris, Las Vegas…Johnson City?

Mar8

QuiltI’m not admitting I’ve sold out to aging, but Bryan and I had an unusually fun weekend recently doing something I never thought I’d do. For my birthday, we drove to Johnson City to attend a fundraiser for their library.

I became aware of this function the weekend before when I attended a writers’ workshop at the library. There I met Leslie, one of the library ladies when she’s not selling ice to Eskimos. We talked while I waited for my folk to arrive, and she pointed out a gorgeous hand-made quilt they were raffling, several cellophane-wrapped baskets of goodies to be auctioned, and she mentioned the spaghetti dinner, Bingo, and silent auction the  following weekend. I bought some raffle tickets, because I really wanted that quilt, and went on to my workshop.

Bryan did the driving that morning, and we arrived early enough to eat breakfast at the Hill Country Cupboard, a Johnson City must. They advertise their chicken fried steaks – Nearly 3 Dozen Sold – but their breakfasts are really excellent, not the artery-clogging fare we expected. He dropped me off at the library before backtracking to Pedernales State Park to do some hiking.

Showing back up at the appointed time, he entertained himself looking at all the things I had checked out earlier. Leslie asked if he was Janet’s husband. I’m not sure why, since the whole class consisted of women about my age, and he said yes and introduced himself. She proceeded to tell him everything we had discussed earlier, filling him in on the fundraiser, and he was paying for two tickets to the spaghetti dinner when I met up with him.

Fast forward to the next weekend. We drove to Johnson City, found the Methodist Church where they were holding the fundraiser, and were welcomed by some really nice church ladies that looked exactly like the church ladies we both remembered from our childhoods. Dinner was tasty and organized as only church ladies and drill sergeants can.

Soon it was time for Bingo. The last time I played that game we covered the numbers with pinto beans. These cards, with their little sliding number covers, were strictly uptown. Bryan won a Bingo game and received a gift certificate for a local, highly-recommended barbecue joint, so we’ll be going back to Johnson City again real soon. I won nothing, including the quilt, but that was a close one. I had a moment of excitement when they drew and announced the winner was another Janet from Austin, but not me. Bryan also put in the winning bid on a watch at the silent auction, one of the few he didn’t already own. He couldn’t have been happier if he were twins! As he says, you can never have too many watches.

While driving back on Hill Country backroads as dark as the inside of a black cow, we talked about how much fun we’d had. We visited with some really nice people, ate good food, gambled, and played Bingo, all without having to set foot out of our home range. We also didn’t have to set foot in Vegas, something I try to avoid. I may be getting older, but I wouldn’t trade our Hill Country odyssey for a chi-chi dinner in a Houston uber-restaurant, which we used to enjoy so much in our younger days. We wore comfortable clothes, sensible shoes, and garnered many a story to pass on over the next few weeks–AND–it was for a wonderful cause, helping the Johnson City Library pay on their beautiful new building.

So if you get tired of Green Pastures, the Driskill Hotel, or even Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse, consider spending your time and money in Johnson City, Texas. It’s definitely a place worth writing (home) about.

For as Long as Ye Both Can Stand It

Feb21

Bryan and I just celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. As veterans of divorce wars, we never take these milestones for granted. Sometime around our wedding date we enjoy a getaway, usually to the Gulf Coast. It’s my chance to see things you don’t find in Central Texas, and it’s Bryan’s chance to indulge his omnipresent craving for seafood. Since I don’t eat it, I never learned to cook it. His only chance to take the fishy edge off is an occasional dinner with our daughter, who learned to like seafood in spite of my genes.

Right after Christmas, Bryan starts asking what I want for our anniversary. Coming so soon after that gift-giving bacchanale, I seldom have any ideas left, and the situation is complicated by the fact our anniversary, Valentine’s Day, and my birthday fall uncomfortably close together. This year I decided to consult the experts. I checked the Hallmark website to find out what the official gift is for a 30th anniversary, like consulting Hoyle before shooting someone over a game of Texas Hold ‘Em gone bad.

First I learned we are dangerously close to the end of the list. After the 15th anniversary, the list no longer has individual years, rather they count by fives. I also discovered there are TWO lists, one traditional and one modern. For example, the traditional 30th anniversary gift is pearls; the modern gift is diamonds. That’s inflation for you.

I already have  enough jewelry, so I decided to make my own list, starting with the 30th anniversary just to cut to the chase. Based on my own personal experience and considering I had two knee surgeries in the past six weeks, I assigned Ace bandages as the traditional gift; for the modern gift, anesthetic. I got both earlier this month, and they fit perfectly.

So what will be appropriate five years from now, on our 35th anniversary? And if (not likely but possible) we’re still milling about on our 50th? Five years from now, I don’t see any drastic changes in our lives, except Bryan will be really old. For a traditional gift, maybe a monogrammed magnifying glass; from the modern list, an Acorn Chairlift that attaches to the car door.

On our 50th anniversary, Bryan will be pushing 90; I’ll be pulling 80. I’ll go out on a limb here and suggest we completely ignore the future technology and go traditional. I think Bryan and I should get matching tattoos, a little Shar Pei dog (a good choice at that age) inside a heart—with a pacemaker. I can hardly wait. Vive la amour!

 

High Resolutions

Dec29

Christmas is over and it’s time for me to deal with my annual will power outage. We still have to get through New Year’s, but except for blackeyed peas, it’s a non-fattening holiday. It’s no wonder most of my resolutions for the new year pertain to eating, or rather not eating, and losing weight accrued between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I have learned, however, to be realistic in making these resolutions, lest I stack up a pile of failures before the year even gets off the ground. Take it slow, take it easy, open one eye, a tentative toe in the water. Small victories are still posted in the win column. Here is my annual list of resolutions I think I can handle.

I will…

  1. …not buy bigger clothes, especially underwear. Being uncomfortable is great motivation to lose weight.
  2. …not wear baggy clothes, even if the tight ones make me look like the Michelin Man’s girlfriend.
  3. …reacquaint myself with the wonders of kale. Temporarily banished from my kitchen for the holidays, Big K  is back in town.
  4. …show people at least as much patience as I show my dogs.
  5. …call at least one friend per week to catch up, and not just monitor their lives voyeuristically on FaceBook.
  6. …dust something every day.
  7. …work to become a better writer by writing more and better.
  8. …remember to take my reusable bags into the grocery store with me every time.
  9. …check the care label in clothes before I buy them, and put back anything “dry clean only” or “hand wash, dry flat.”
  10. …stop rationalizing why I need to buy a new outfit, eat a doughnut, or watch one more episode of an NCIS marathon.

Some people may think I’ve lowered the bar a bit too much, but I say, “Baby steps, people!” If these resolutions work out this year, I’ll consider upping the ante next year, and the next, and the next. With any luck at all, I’ll pass on before I have to  do anything too strenuous, like climbing Mt. Everest or walking the entire Houston Galleria.

Feel free to use my resolutions or come up with your own. Be realistic, circumspect, and flexible. And by all means, let me know if you come up with some I can use next year.

Happy Holidays and Family Fruitcakes

Dec19

Christmas at the Zach

After my last blog, a plaintive rage against the negative aspects of the holidays, some of you may think I was born with a heart three sizes too small. I have great memories of the family Christmases of my childhood, and this time of year never fails to trigger my nostalgia.

Funny how my sharpest holiday memories revolve around the women in my family. As far as I could tell, the men were mere observers, invited guests who played little part in the preparations. They were generally affable, long-suffering sorts who lived on the outskirts of our lives. They worked hard, hunted, fished, and tried to stay out of the way of their womenfolk.

Likewise, children were expected to watch from a distance, do odd jobs when asked, and keep out from underfoot. The boys usually headed outside to run around and make noise, but for me and the other girls, the kitchen was a finishing school offering everything we needed to know to take over as the next generation of Southern women.

Firstly, everyone either had a nickname or was addressed with multiple names. Uncle Robert Edwin was Pete and Uncle Charlie was Jock. My cousins, John Howard, Merry Lynn and Janice Kay, remain thus to me, even if they prefer John, Merry, and Janice now. And then there was my Great-aunt Pobo. Her real name was Willie Polk, which she hated. As an adult she legally changed it to Pocahontas P., which she considered an improvement. One of the kids dubbed her Pobo and it stuck.

What is it about the southern latitudes that encourage quirkiness? Maybe it’s the heat and humidity, bringing it out in families the way it brings out mildew on bathroom tile. Movie makers and writers usually just perpetuate Southern stereotypes, with few capturing our essence. A transplanted Mid-westerner, who loved “Steel Magnolias,” was flabbergasted when I told her I was related to or went to school with every woman in that movie.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “What about the Shirley MacLaine character, Ouiser. Who do you know like her?”

“My Great-aunt Pobo and my husband’s Aunt Faynelle,” I answered without hesitation. “Every Southern family has one. Matter of fact, you’re lucky if there’s only one.”

I never knew any Tennessee Williams women. We didn’t have a Blanche Dubois or a Maggie the Cat in my family. They never stood around in their slips–that I knew of. Most of them wore corsets or enough Lycra to make their real shapes anyone’s guess. And they never “depended upon the kindness of strangers.” Most were tempered steel, wrapped in velvet. The rest were just plain steel.

Pobo tended to take out her dentures after eating and lay them on the table. My mother believed in parenting through paranoia, inventing terrifying superstitions for every occasion. My grandmother loved watching professional wrestling on television, waving her fists and yelling things she’d whack me for saying.

Women in my family had timidity bred out of them, and those who married in soon learned. You had to fight to get a word in, the noise level intimidating all but the most determined conversationalists. I never knew anyone in my family who was quiet or shy. If such a throwback existed, she would have gone unnoticed and unfed, fading away from starvation.

These women who filled my childhood are gone now, but I clearly see and hear them in my mind. They are bustling around the kitchen like tugboats in a busy harbor. Cackling laughter drifts through the house, following delicious holiday smells—ham, pickled peaches, mincemeat pie, and my mother’s “blonde” fruitcake. Made in a huge bowl I only saw at Christmas, it was chock-full of nuts and candied fruit, but not a drop of whiskey. Mama was raised Hardshell Methodist, a branch rarely found outside the South.

Above all, I hear their voices rising above the kitchen clatter:

“Did you notice how much weight Clarice has gained?”

“Notice? She looks like she’s being followed!”

“Now, y’all be nice. It’s Christmas!”

“I am being nice. Did I say a word about her hair color? Did I ask if she got it from the Ringling Brothers?”

I have a sudden craving for fruitcake.