Not Me Responsible For Many Household Mysteries

Recently I have become aware of another being living in my home.  His name is "Not me."

I have no idea how Not Me came to live here or who let him in.  I have not actually met him either although my husband and two kids have.  I envision him as having reddish hair, freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and a chipped front tooth.

Not Me is responsible for all sorts of mysterious occurrences under this roof. For instance, Not Me has eaten all of the ice cream that I bought a few days ago. When I asked my two kids who ate all of the ice cream, they replied, "Not Me." Recently, Not Me left the fence door open letting the dogs out. Luckily for us our dogs are fairly smart. The dogs were either scared or suspicious that it may be a trick so they waited patiently on the front lawn never venturing beyond the yard. Again, I asked my family who left the gate open and they replied, "Not Me."

Not Me hasn't ended his pranks there. He has left a trail of dog food from the garage to the dog bowls, left wet towels on the wood floors, cancelled a program I had set on the DVR, lost ear buds and the most concerning, spilled something on my iPhone. The latter has caused me to use my phone in speaker mode or it's extremely difficult to hear callers. Which I guess isn't all that bad until you have to take a call in the grocery store and put the person on speaker. The result is they get to hear me and the manager's daily special. And before you say, "well, why don't you just take it to an Apple store?" I will tell you that I am -- in San Antonio, three hours away, where the nearest Apple store is located as soon as I can find the time.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I'm not sure that Not Me is a kid at all. I distinctly remember a Not Me from my childhood. One time he let a lizard loose on my mother's shoulder as my family travelled from East Texas back to Fort Worth in our station wagon. Another time, Not Me backed my friend's parents car out of a driveway striking a speed sign. To cover his tracks he tried to Super Glue the rubber strip back to the metal bumper. Her parents asked, "Who did that?" to which we replied, "Not Me."

I hope to meet this Not Me someday. I'm sure if he's keeping a diary of all of his pranks then we will have a good laugh and maybe I'll learn the whereabouts of my missing Henckel knife. I'm sure I'll also learn that Not Me is a close friend of the sock thief. You know that guy. He steals one sock out of each laundry load.

Wondering if Not Me and the Sock Thief are relatives of the Dead Battery Miser who takes used batteries out but doesn't throw them away.

The Wondering Texan



 

Summer Activities and Memories Made

It's a little more than two weeks before school starts and I'm running out of activities for the kids. We've done the water park, lake house, Boy Scout camp, beach, city pool, library reading program, VBS, art camp, excursions to the dog park, drifted around on a bay cruise, and seen five movies.



Last night my son tried on his dad's suit. In a hurry to grow up.

OK, I begged them to get a decent photo. My daughter looks pained doesn't she?

Biting on worms.



Up on ski's.

When I was a kid my mom's answer to summer was, "go out and play. Be home by dinner." There was a huge field behind our house where the neighborhood kids, my brother and I would play all kinds of games. Hide and seek, pirates, Indiana Jones, and assorted other imaginary games. But what I remember most was climbing a huge sycamore tree, riding on a piece of cardboard down a hill, and putting miles on my green Schwinn bike. The good old days pre-DVR, cable, Game Boy, IPod, Xbox, $100 earphones, and waterproof, decorated Band-Aids.

One thing that bridged my childhood and my children's has been a heated game of Monopoly. It is a game where experience and wisdom comes in handy. As I bought property, my kids scolded me for, "spending all of my money." When I bought Park Place and Boardwalk, they chided, "no one lands on those. What a waste." Well, a few hours later they were begging me for mercy or at least a payment plan.

But this summer hasn't been all fun and games for my kids. They have started taping into the retiree and young parent market. Our daughter has been babysitting typically earning $60 a night. Plus, she is working on her reading program for her freshman year. She has to read six short stories with worksheets and read a book of her choice. The short stories range from Marigolds by Eugenia Collier to The Last Rung on the Ladder by Stephen King. Our son has been spreading fertilizer and mowing. OK, not everything has gotten easier for today's kids.

And as hectic as this summer has been, I'm truly dreading next summer when my daughter will be taking driver's education.

I can't believe my husband and I are on the downhill side of parenting, albeit probably the most challenging years. Teenage crushes, driving, attitudes, making or not making school sports teams, dating, homecoming, and acne. It's not going to be easy and I'll probably have to medicate my husband for parts of it, but we will struggle through. And when all is done we can apply our discretionary money to trips instead of volleyball knee pads and t-shirts with sharks on them.

Wondering if beating my kids in Monopoly will scar them for life?

The Wondering Texan













 

A Hot Little Mess

It's summer here and I'm hot and bothered. What can I say? I live on the Texas coast where the humidity is about 100 percent, the heat index is about 105 Fahrenheit and the mosquitoes are the size of Hereford calves. What I wouldn't give for a cool front or a walk-in refrigerator.

This seagull may be able to stand on the sand, but it's hot for humans.

Speaking of refrigerators, do you know what the best thing about Walmart is? It's the frozen foods section. Yes, it's pure joy to open up that door holding the popsicles and stand there soaking in the cool dampness. And it's not just me. I've noticed quite a few middle-aged women standing there with looks of ecstasy on their faces as they reach for a frozen pizza.

Today I went to yoga and had a hot flash. How is that possible? I thought yoga was suppose to be calming. I was standing there on my little green mat when I felt the rush of heat rolling up from my mid-section to my face. And no, it wasn't just because I was in the downward facing dog position. Which brings me to another point. Who names yoga positions? I mean really, have you ever seen a dog with it's butt up to the roof, head between the front legs and stomach taunt? All I could think of was my hot flash and my yoga pants riding up.

These days quite honestly, I don't know if I'm having a hot flash or if it's the Texas heat. I've actually asked people, "Are you hot or is it just me?"

And don't even go there like Jessica Tandy in Fried Green Tomatoes when she tells Kathy Bates to "just yourselves some hormones." I can't take hormones because of my cancer diagnosis three years ago.

But it could be worse I guess. I could be living in some Third World country without air conditioning. I could be trapped in a turtleneck sweater. I could never have discovered the bliss of an Arnold Palmer drink (with or without vodka).

So, all in all, life could be a lot worse. But what I wouldn't give for a life of cool.

The Wondering Texan



 

A Hygenist Nightmare

My husband went to the dentist yesterday to have his teeth cleaned for the first time in about 2 years. And as you can imagine, he handled it like a man.

Let me first answer your initial question. Why? Well, again, he's a man. Second question - why didn't I make him. OK, let's see. I have nagged, bullied and begged. Finally, I did what only a wife can do. I threatened not to kiss him anymore.

Well, he finally went. But he refused to go to the same dentist our kids and I visit. Probably because he knew the dentist and I would have a good laugh about it.

So as he left the house yesterday I sweetly gave him a peck on the cheek and told him, "I hope they have a jackhammer ready."

The appointment started at 8:30 a.m. and finished at 10:20 a.m. Luckily, the hygenist put on a topical anesthetic.

He called me afterwards and our conversation went something like this:

Him: My mouth hurts.

Me: Well, I bet your teeth feel really clean.

Him: My mouth hurts.

Me: Take some aspirin.

Him: I hate going to the dentist.

Me: Don't you love that fresh-from-the-dentist clean feel?

Him: My mouth hurts.

Last night as we sat on our patio, he was in a much better mood. A couple of Tylenol, and gin and tonics did wonders.

"I think the hygienist got tired," he told me. "She actually poked me once in the lip."

"I'm never going to do this again," he said.

What? I've got to fight this battle again?

"I've learned my lesson," he said. "I'm going back in six months."

As he finished telling me about his two hours in the chair, I didn't have the heart to tell him that this year he needs to schedule his first colonoscopy. I'm working from up to down on bettering his health.

The Wondering Texan


 

What Perfume and Lard have in Common

It's after spring break, the crowds are gone and so is the sunny, warm weather. Today is a gray, misty, cool day, and in a little while I've got to get blood drawn for my upcoming oncologist visit, and afterwards I have an appointment for my annual OB/GYN visit. As you can tell, the weather outside mirrors my day ahead.



The small skillet was filled with rust and leaves.

But as I reflect on the past weeks, I have to say it's been overwhelming positive and chaotic with many firsts for me. To start, I participated in my first Relay for Life event to raise money for the American Cancer Society. So far, this little town of about 8,500 people has raised about $70,000. During the event I received ACS's Hero of Hope award. I was shocked. So shocked in fact that when my first name was called I just stood there looking around for the recipient to walk forward. Then I felt stupid. Feeling stupid while standing on a stage receiving an award is awkward to say the least.

Next in the "firsts" department when I tried this week to "cure" an old cast iron skillet and Dutch oven for the Boy Scouts. The boys were busy last weekend cleaning out their storage shed and trailer and came across the two rusted pieces of iron. I brought them home with the promise that I would revitalize them. As I told my neighbor, a West Virginia native, of this latest project of mine she looked at me as if thinking:

1) She's going to drop those on her foot
2) She's going to set her kitchen on fire
3) The poor dear has snapped
4) All of the above

She then asked, "Do you know how?" I stammered, "Um, well, I thought I would Google it." That's when she took charge telling me to thoroughly clean the pots with steel pads and liberally grease them down with lard, "Not Crisco, butter or vegetable oil. Lard," she told me. Then cook the pots in the oven at about 275 degrees for hours. Clean and repeat as needed. She then looked me square in the eye and said, "You got it?" Shish, of course. Just one more question, "Where do I get lard?"

So I tried it on Tuesday. The results are mixed. The pots are better than before but not what Paula Deen would be proud of, but then again, this is for Boy Scouts so maybe they won't be critical.

Then last night, my husband and I spent our first night in our guest bedroom. You see, our son came home from baseball last night with about five pounds of red dirt on him. He took a shower and then proudly came out telling me, "Mom, the bathroom was all stinky so I sprayed it with your perfume." My bedroom and bathroom still smell like Chanel. I wonder if my West Virginia neighbor has a recipe for perfume detoxification.

I know there have been other recent firsts, but my mind has drawn a blank and/or they are too mundane to mention. So, signing off for now.

Wondering if I have the energy to tackle the pots again this afternoon.

The Wondering Texan





 

Fish Sticks and Middle School

The other night my husband asked why I'm not writing as much anymore. I told him I'm really busy and besides, I haven't had much to write about.

He looked at me and said, "Seriously, you work in a middle school."

True, middle school is a target rich environment with acne, young teenage drama, drug sniffing dogs and  adults who are simultaneously trying to maintain control and stay sane.

Last week was my first encounter with a drug sniffing dog. He was black and white with a patch of black fur over one eye. He was so cute I wanted to pet him but figured that probably wasn't allowed. Anyway, the principal, the assistant principal (who is a giant of a man), and the police officer came into the classroom asking everyone to leave the room minus backpacks, jackets and purses.

Afterward I told my husband who asked if the dog found anything. "No, except probably my leftover venison chili."

Which brings me to another school topic  -- lunches. Occasionally I will eat a school lunch. And let me tell you, the school lunch matrons are as intimidating as they were back in the '70s and '80s when I was in school. Hair nets are never a good look on anyone. Anyway, right before Christmas I was going through the line when one of them asked, "Why are you here?"

I was stunned and felt like Oliver Twist asking for more porridge. She then caught herself and said, "It's just that in the teacher's lounge a special holiday lunch has been set up for you guys."

Last week, my husband made my lunch. I hate making lunches. I would rather clean an entire kitchen after a tornado than make lunches. I went to the teacher's lounge and opened my bag. Inside he neatly tucked a little note saying, "I love you. Have a good day." And then I pulled out two pieces of cold, leftover pizza; a handful of red grapes, and about six pieces of Hershey's kisses in red and green wrappers. It looked like a five-year-old's lunch. Poor guy, apparently packing lunches isn't his favorite thing either.

Occasionally at school some students will ask me if they can eat in the classroom with me. It's OK with me as long as they follow my rules: 1) clean up their own messes 2) don't be too loud, and 3) don't bug me when I'm reading my Kindle.

But I imagine they are eating in the classroom for the same reasons as me -- it offers a quiet refuge from the noise and drama of middle school.

Some of these kids are in desperate need of a hug. But since I can't do that I smile at them, listen to their stories and tell them to take another bite of their turkey melt.

Wondering why after all of these years the basic dynamics of middle school haven't changed?

The Wondering Texan

Miles and Miles of Texas with a Deer on the Hood

Skull on the ranch.

As with everyone else, I've been busy with post holiday craziness -- packing up Christmas ornaments, trying to lose the extra 5 lbs. that has landed on my hips, and cleaning out the refrigerator of unrecognizable leftovers wrapped in red Saran Wrap. So far, I've be successful with clearing the clutter and tossing the bio-hazards from the frig.

But we did have a nice holiday seeing friends and family in Fort Worth, and trip to our friend's ranch in Noodle, Texas, where my son killed his first deer. No 11-year-old could be prouder. You know that scene in Family Christmas Vacation when Chevy Chase ropes a huge Christmas tree to the top of his family's vehicle? Well, for the seven hour trip back home, we had the deer affixed to the top of the SUV. You know you're in Texas when you pull through a McDonald's for lunch and not one person is surprised, startled or disgusted by the deer. They only register a mild raised eyebrow. So, us and deer headed home through Paint Rock, population 273; crossing Hog River; and skimming through the Hill Country. As the song by Asleep at the Wheel says, we saw miles and miles of Texas.

Now, our son has the hunting bug and last Sunday he and my husband went duck hunting at a nearby ranch in Fulton, Texas. Rain was coming down and it was something like 40 degrees outside. Surely they wouldn't go hunting I thought. I was wrong. When they came home, my son raced through the den as I asked, "How was it?" He immediately shot into a steaming hot shower where he stayed for 10 minutes. His lips were purple for an hour. But he had fun and they shot a duck.

So, to my friends who have only girly daughters and/or husbands who don't hunt, let me tell you what it's like to live with these types of men and a tomboy girl.

1) I have waders drying from a hook on my patio. They will probably be there for a while since it's been raining for two days now.
2) I have shotgun shells drying out on my laundry room counter.
3) I have a deer head on my patio shelf that the dogs have pulled down in an apparent attempt to make it a raw hide.

Our wonderful Abilene hosts.

4) I have to separate my laundry in the usual fashion -- whites, colors, darks. Plus add one, camo/hunting clothes which stink like dirty feet and cheese.
5) I have homemade dried venison jerky.
6) I have to light candles to mask the smell of gun cleaner out of the house.
7) I have to be the sane one when my husband suggest we should put the gutted deer on the front lawn as a deterrent against neighborhood deer eating our plants. I told him we would probably be reported to MHMR and PETA.

An old gas station in Albany, Texas.

8) I have to find an ice pack for my daughter who got a huge raspberry between her eyes from the rifle scope as it kicked. Yes, my daughter. And I had to reassure her that it would be gone by the start of school.

So, add all of this to the normal routine of managing a house. Not that I'm complaining. I'm really not.

Wondering how to cook duck.

The Wondering Texan

An Albany church.

Albany has a few cute shops dotting it's old town center.