Not So Cuddly Brown Bear and the Breathe Right Strips

I grew up in the country, and I long to live there again.   I love the big, star-filled sky at night.   I love the silence, broken only by bullfrogs and crickets, and an occasional car across a rock-covered road.  I like catching lightning bugs and putting them in old mason jars.    I love marking the seasons based on what the farmers plant, rather than squares on a calendar.  I love the romance of it all. 

I am not as fond of sleeping in the great outdoors, however.  

When The Kid was nearing her second birthday, Big Daddy decided he would take us on our one and only family camping trip.   We drove a gazillion and half hours, crossed our great state of Texas, and ventured halfway across New Mexico to find a suitable spot.   The same mountain campgrounds he had gone to when he was little.   

Now everyone join in with me as we sing, "The Circle of Life."

Our  His idea of camping is a tent, not a rolling home on wheels. We had our tent, a little camp stove, potable water, a couple of chairs, a little food, and some fishing rods. We were set. EVERY single campsite, but ours was filled up with RVs. Big ones, little ones, slide-out ones, ones with satellite dishes, and  ones with great big, noisy generators that kicked on at two in the morning.  Of course, due to our "true" camping status, I immediately felt superior to all these people who would not get the "real camping experience."  

Of course, having never have camped and being a little OCD, I was petrified of everything that could go wrong. I had purchased a snake bite kit, and I felt fairly sure I could suck the venom out of any bite, if needed. Heaven knows, I had read the directions about four billion times.   I had bells for us to wear when we hiked through the woods to warn the bears we were coming.  I had read about how you can sing as you walk so that the bears would run away; I knew if a bear heard my voice, he would head for the hills.   I had a huge first aid kit in case Big Daddy decided to fillet his hand rather than the trout. I was ready for anything.

Until, on the 18 hour drive, I realized that Aunt Flo had come to visit and now a bear would eat me for sure, since they can smell up to 20 miles away from them. A bell and a bad singing voice would not save me.  Good-bye, cruel world.

Other than my impending death, I have to say honestly, it was pretty cool to see the campgrounds through my husband's childlike memories.    The times he snuck out of the tent that his parents still don't know about.  The time, as a little guy, he fell into the lake and tried to hide it from his parents.  He knew all the good fishing spots and  had awesome stories of his dad trying to offroad to the top of a mountain in an old 60s tuna boat of a car.  We fed bread to the little chipmunks, and The Toddler squealed in delight and chased them.  Big Daddy took The Toddler to catch her first fish with her very own Barbie fishing pole.     

It was magical.

Until I went to the bathroom at the campground.

There two things happened.   One, I realized that the cute real life version of Chip and Dale, those lovable chipmunk scamps, were actually carrying bubonic plague and desperately wanted to kill my family with the Black Death.

Two, when I went to the bathroom, the Park Ranger stopped me since she didn't recognize me.  I explained we had just arrived a few hours earlier and were camping over in lot blah, blah, blah.    She informed me to be very careful with all our food and garbage as a bear was in the area.  Then she opened up the restroom door and showed me the claw marks in the concrete THREE feet above my head.   What kind of animal makes claw marks an inch deep and eight feet high in concrete?

Mother of Pearl.  I  really was going to be Not So Cuddly Brown Bear's next meal.  

Apparently, according to the Park Ranger, someone had thrown their trash into the bathroom garbage can.   Not So Cuddly had come down the mountain hungry for a nice meal of trash and pushed the door in.  Once inside, he/she/it/ had torn the bathroom stall's door off its hinges, ripped the sink from the wall, devoured the trashcan, and then remained trapped in the bathroom for 8 hours while he/she/it angrily clawed the inside concrete wall.

Once Not So Cuddly  had been discovered, he/she/it was released and had continued to make frequent forays into the campsite to look for more food.  

I quickly went back to the our tent, and let Big Daddy know that he would soon be a widower. I was definitely going to be a bear appetizer soon.  Or we were all going to make the bear a fine midnight snack.   Whichever.  We were not long for this world.    That's all I knew.

The first night in those mountains temperatures dropped to just above freezing.   It was stinking JULY.   It should not freeze anywhere in July.    The first night we all slept in our respective sleeping bags.   I woke up to my hot-natured toddler, having crawled out of her bag, sleeping in the fetal position on top of her sleeping bag.  Her skin was ice cold.   I drug her little icicle carcass into my bag, and we snuggled the night away.  

The next day dawned rainy, cold, and miserable.   Big Daddy was *all* in to the trout fishing, but as soon as we went down to the river, The Toddler was soaked and freezing.   Back she and I went to the tent to change clothes and warm up.   An hour later, she was begging to see Chip and Dale, the Bringers of Death, and the rain eased to a fine mist. After visiting with them for a bit, we were soaked and chilled to the bone, again.  Our noses were running.   Our skin would not warm.   The Toddler started getting really sleepy and lethargic. 

Nowhere in preparing for my trip had I read about hypothermia, but I strongly suspected that was where we were headed.  I bundled her back up again and prepared for the cold, wet hike to the river where Big Daddy was blissfully fishing away.   

Based on her condition, we quickly decided a trip into the nearest town over an hour away for a meal in a warm restaurant was the way to go.   I guess Big Daddy and I were a little addled from the cold, too, since  it never dawned us that we could have just started the car, turned the heater on, and warmed her up without wasting the gasoline or the cash for a meal.  We were oblivious to that idea though and headed off.

We returned to our tent around midnight.  The mist had stopped.  Temperatures had plummeted again. As we zipped our sleeping bags into a mondo, king-sized one, our noses began to run again.   We quickly snuggled down into that fluffy, warm heaven and prepared to sleep.

Several hours, later Big Daddy was awoken by a beastly noise.  He lay tense, waiting to hear it again.   The Toddler and I slept on.  His alertness was rewarded with another grunt and snort.    Big Daddy's heart began to pound.  Obviously, Not So Cuddly had chosen tonight to come root around our camp.    We were not in a big, metal RV.  We had chosen to camp in a nylon lunch sack.   Big Daddy's hand shook as he quietly grabbed our gun and prepared to possibly sacrifice his life for ours.  He just had to figure out which side of the tent the bear was on.

As Big Daddy kneeled on the sleeping bag, he heard the snort again.  Not So Cuddly was on my side of the tent.   Big Daddy crept to the zipper and prepared to face the beast.  Just as his hand reached the zipper, the biggest snort and grunt yet erupted from my side of tent.   

Big Daddy put the safety back on the gun, stowed it, and punched me in the arm.

"I almost killed you!"  he exploded.   "I thought the bear had come to eat us all.   Oh no.  It wasn't a bear.  It was you snoring."

"A lady never snores," I demurred.  

"A lady might not," he retorted, "but you sure as hell were."

To this day, I know it wasn't me.  It was Not So Cuddly Brown Bear ready to eat us all.  Big Daddy's shouting scared him off, I'm sure.

It was a miracle we survived.

Two Car Washes, One Day Part 2

So to recap you can click this link or......



I had just spent over an hour of my life trapped in a windowless prison, having to pee, and not able to escape.

No, I was not in Ikea.  

I had been trapped in a broken car wash.  My car was covered in pink, purple, and blue foam.   My bladder was full.  The car wash wouldn't work.   I was sent on my way with a refund and a "Sorry for your bad luck."

As I received my refund from the cashier, I asked her, "So where am I supposed to go now that the soap is drying on my car?"

"I would try the touchless car wash across from Albertson's,"  she replied, with a shrug as if her place of employment was not responsible for what looked to be a Care Bear's murder all over my car.

I hopped in the car and headed over.

Now, a smarter woman would have stopped and peed.   My only thought was that I had to get this soap off my car, BEFORE it ruined the paint and Big Daddy yelled.

I drove the couple of blocks to the second car wash.

I should have just peed.

This car wash is situated beside a Fina station and next to an abandoned car lot.    I've seen a few cars go in and out before that day, but I'd never stopped there before.

As I perused my options, I decided I got eight bucks back at the gas station, I'd go ahead and spend the same amount for the car wash here.    I'd still get an undercarriage wash, presoak, wash, wax, and dry.  I'd be finished.  The car would be clean.  Life would be good.

Or not.

I slipped my money into the machine and the proceeded to creep into the machine, thankful that Large Angry Man didn't work here.

Presoak was good.  My undercarriage had to be sparkling at this point.    I inched up to the stopping point.    Bright pink foam cascaded down in a waterfall of happiness.

And then....

Nothing but this.

There is NO WAY in heck this is happening again, I thought.  What are the odds?

Maybe there was a water pressure issue.  Maybe the car wash gods hated me.   Maybe I was meant to pee my pants like a first grader who waited too long.  

Maybe I would.

Unfortunately for me, this particular car wash didn't have an attendant like Large Angry Man.   I actually began to miss his smiling mug and cheerful banter.

I waited for five minutes for the water to come back on.  My little stop light stayed red, warning me that I couldn't move forward.

Ten minutes.

Nothing.

Fifteen?

Nope.

I couldn't go forward because of the thingies that lock your wheels in place, so I backed out of the car wash.

There, by the keypad, was a number to call "in case of mechanical breakdown."

If this didn't count, I didn't know what would

I dialed the number, as I looked out at my soapy car, shaking my head.

"Dee, dee, dee.  We're sorry the number you have dialed is not a working number."

Of course, it isn't.

I went to the Fina next door to find out if they were responsible for the car wash.

Of course, they weren't.

Did they know who was?

Of course, they didn't.

I was out my eight bucks and had double the soap on my car that I had an hour ago.

Un. Stinking. Believeable.    

Now, the truly sad thing is this.   If you look at the picture I took, just to the right of that building is a self-wash car wash.

Less than a block away.  It's where I should have gone in the first place, if I wasn't such a lazy bum; now it was where I was headed since I had no choice.  Oh, the irony.

I got change for a five and headed over.

It took me seven bucks to rinse all the soap off in the cold, cold wind.  In my heels.   Doing the tee-tee dance.

Fifteen bucks for car washes.   Almost two hours of my life and there was STILL bird poop on the car.

I felt like I was in a Twilight Zone episode.   I kept waiting for Rod Serling's voice to do a voiceover, "She wanted a car wash, and she got one in..... in the Twilight Zone."

Two Car Washes, One Day Part 1

Mom told me the other day that no one else in the world seems to have a life like mine. Sometimes things happen to me that even I can't believe.

All I wanted was a car wash.

I stopped at one of our local Shell stations to fill up with gas.   While pumping my gas, I really *looked* at my car and realized that the poop birds which had moved into our neighborhood (those nasty birds you see in parking lots that do nothing but make noise, eat, and poop)  had decorated my car beautifully.   I decided to spring for the super- mega-ultra-incredibly-expensive-but-doesn't-get-your-car-completely-clean -but-that's-okay-because-I'm-a-lazy-bum-and-don't-want-to-get-out-of-my-car-and-actually-do-it-myself-and-because-I-really-have-to-pee-and-it's-cold  gas station car wash.

A mouthful, to be sure.

I took my little code from the kiosk, and drove my car around to get in line.  

There was already a car in the car wash and a brand new black Dodge Challenger in line in front of me.     I opened up Facebook and prepared to entertain myself.

I don't know how much time had passed, but eventually I grew bored with Facebook-stalking other people, and looked up.  I guess it had been a decent chunk of time, because the guy in the Challenger now had his window rolled down and was beating his hands on the steering wheel.    I looked in front of him to the lady in the car wash.

She was going forward and then backing up.  Going forward.  Backing up.   Going forward.   Apparently, she thought she had bought the awesome car wash I had which includes a touchless dry.   She kept trying to engage the dryer and the dryer was not feeling the love.

I rolled down my window and shouted to Challenger Dude, "What's she doing?"

He screamed back, "I don't know.  She's an idiot."

Alllll righty, then.

Another 5 minutes passed, and Challenger Dude honked his horn.   She waved to him with one finger and pulled around to the front of the gas station.   He pulled into the car wash; I pulled up to the car wash screen and watched the Idiot Lady go into the gas station.   She came back with cash in her hand.

A hearse pulled up behind me.  Two black limos behind him.  I guess the local funeral home thought today was a good day to wash their stock as well.

Meanwhile, in front of me, Challenger Dude, was zipping through his undercarriage wash and went too far for the presoak.  There was a flash of reverse lights as he jockeyed into position and then a torrent of pink foam.  The car wash shifted to cleaning mode and let loose tons of blue and purple foam to REALLY clean the car.   And then it ground to a halt.

Nothing.

Five minutes passed.

I started looking up car washes on The Googles.    Were we at #7458 or #3765?  Why don't these addresses include things like "beside Braum's"?   It would make life so much easier.

Ten minutes passed.   Surely, there would be alarms going off in the station to let them know that someone was trapped.  Right?   Surely.

I couldn't back out.   I couldn't go forward.   Should I abandon my car and go into the station?   What if I do and then it starts working and he finishes while I'm in the station?  Then I'll be holding everyone else up and I'll look like the idiot.  

Another five minutes passed and the largest, angriest man in coveralls I have ever seen, emerged from the store.  He stomped to the car wash.   Through my open window, I could hear him talking about "dumbasses."

Large Angry Man went to a control panel and fiddled with this and angrily punched buttons on that.    Then he went to the front of the Challenger and stomped down the two thingies that hold your car in place.  He tapped on the foam covered window and told Challenger Dude to pull his pink, purple, and blue foamy car around to the front and get a refund.  

Then Large Angry Man stalked over to me.

"Can you not be a dumbass?"

"Ummm.  I think so."

"I want you to pull in to the car wash and stop when I tell you to."

"Will it work?"

He gave me the look to end all looks.   I could feel a tiny piece of my soul die.

"Don't be a dumbass and it will be fine.    Those people backed up.  Don't back up.  When I tell you to stop, stop. You understand?"

Yes, Sir, Mr. Large Angry Man.    Whatever. You. Say.  Sir.

I started to creep forward.

"Roll up your fool window."

"I know!   I'm not an idiot!"

And The LOOK came out again.

I inched my way through the undercarriage wash.

"STOP!"   Large Angry Man screamed.

I stopped.

Pink foam began to rain down on the car.  Large Angry Man stormed away.  

Blue and purple foam began to fall from the heavens.

And then nothing.

Are.  You.  Stinkin'.  Kidding.   Me?

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen minutes.

The car began to get hot in the windowless, concrete prison we were in.   I turned it off.  

I began to get hot.  Should I risk rolling down the windows?   What if it started suddenly?    Would I have enough time to roll up the window before I drowned in a sea of Care Bear-colored foam?

And, Sweet Baby Jesus being rocked in a hay manger bassinet by a celestial choir,  please let my bladder hold my pee a little longer.

I was trapped.  I felt like a member of the Donner Party, but without the company and the cold and the hunger and the survivor guilt.

 Okay, I felt nothing like them. I just had to pee, dangit.   Really, really, REALLY bad.  

I snapped a picture and posted it to Facebook.

Six more minutes passed.  

I risked rolling down my window to shout at the hearse behind me.

"Does Large Angry Man know?"

"What?!?"

"Does that  big guy know?"

"Yes!  He's working on something.  Don't go anywhere."

Funny, jackass.   Super funny.

Three more minutes passed.

Large Angry Man stomped back in, shot my car THE LOOK, and started punching more buttons.   Then he disappeared for a while, came back and punched more buttons.  

Another 17 minutes passed.

Finally, 41 minutes after I entered the car wash,  Large Angry Man came by and stomped on the thingies, and told me to come around to the front to get my refund.  

I drove around and parked in the same spot, Idiot Lady who was not such an idiot, and Challenger Dude, had parked.     Large Angry Man started talking to the hearse, trying to convince him to go through.

"Don't do it!! It's a trap!" I shouted.

Large Angry Man shot me THE LOOK again which I was rapidly beginning to think was actually  just his normal, everyday face.

The hearse pulled in.

Limo Driver shouted, "I'm not a fool" and pulled out of the line using the space the hearse had just vacated to  maneuver.

As I was getting my refund, I asked where would be the closest place to wash the foam off.   They directed me to another touchless car wash a couple of blocks away.

If I'd only known it was a conspiracy.......

Twins

From the age of 2-4,  The Kid was in a Christian preschool.   They were all about diversity and loving God and being positive and all the things that you want your child to know and be.

Until the day, my child's teacher made the comment, "I didn't know your husband was black."

Umm.... okay.

He's not.  He's Native American, but whatever.

Her teacher, Miss Kim, explained that the Kid had been telling everyone that her Daddy was black.   Not that there was anything wrong with having a black husband, but she wanted me to know.

Big Daddy gets dark during the summer, but honestly, he looks more Hispanic than black.  

Maybe The Kid was confused.    Daddy's hair is black.  His eyes are dark brown.   Maybe that's what she meant.    My parents had adopted several children from other races, but we had never really made race a big deal.  

I questioned The Kid.

"What color is mommy?"

"White."

"What color are you?"

"Brown."

Well, she was tan from being outside all the time, so I let it slide.

"What color is Grandma?"

"White."

"What color is PawPaw?"

"White."

"What color is Daddy?"

"Black."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep!"

"What color is his hair?"

"Black."

"What color is his skin?"

"Brownish-black."

"What color is Elijiah?" (My adopted BLACK brother.)

"Black."

"Is he the same color as Daddy?"

"Yep."

Nope.

We would occasionally question her as she grew older.  She always maintained that her daddy was black.  I always believed she was just confused in her little two year old brain, until that fateful day when she was three.

Snoop Dog had been arrested for something... (Hookers?  Drugs?   Guns?).   I had the news on  while I was cooking dinner.   The Kid was playing happily on the floor.   She looked up at the TV screen, right as his mug shot flashed up.  The Kid screamed, "Daddy!" and ran to the screen, jumping up and down, thrilled to see her "father" on TV.

I called to her real Daddy in the other room, and we both watched in amazement as our child tried to kiss and hug the TV, smiling beautifully and saying, "Daddy" over and over.

You know, now, looking at both those pictures above, I can kind of see the resemblance.

They both look like they would shank you.  

And Now I Want Pancakes

The other day I wore my hair in a bandanna to school.

It blew my students' minds.  

Big Daddy and I had been to a car show in Austin a few days before.  I love to dress up for the shows.   I love the pin-up look. I love the big hair, flawless makeup, the petticoats, the figure flattering dresses, and the femininity of it.  I feel very cute and very girlie when I dress that way.  I love it, and I try to keep a little of it in everything I wear.

Sometimes on the weekend, I wear my hair in a bandanna.  It's easy, low-maintenance, but cute.  The other day, I got up a little late for work, pulled my hair back, and put on a bandanna.  Kind of like the picture I took in Austin.

My kids were freaked out.

"Did you join a gang?"

Nope.

"Do you know you look Aunt Jemima?"

Thanks. That makes me fictional, fat, black, and able to cook awesome pancakes.   Phenomenal.

"You look like that girl from the 50s, Rosie O'Donnell, or something.  You know the one.   She has her arm up like this and she points at you like this."

Rosie the Riveter? Maybe?

"You look like Little Debbie.  From Little Debbie Snack Cakes."

If I had a straw hat and red hair with no bandanna, maybe.  Oh, and if I was NINE.


"Miss?  Do you know who you look like? The Sunmaid raisin girl."

No bandanna.  Red  Little House on the Prairie bonnet, but she does have dark hair. And a basket full of GRAPES.


"Miss, you look exactly like Snoop Dog.  Except he's a Crip so his bandanna's blue and yours is red so that would make you a Blood and he's a guy and you're a girl and he's black and you're not and he does drugs and I hope you don't and he writes rap and you don't.  Do you?  Do you write raps?"

Yep.  I totally see the non-resemblance.

"I think they're all wrong.  You look like one of those cute pin-up girls from a car show," said my  new favorite student ever.

Thank you.  Thank you very much.  I look just like her.   In fact, I *am* her.   Not.               

You know, looking at all those pictures for this post.  I think the first student might have been right.  I do look most like Aunt Jemima.  

*Sigh*

Crazy Cat Lady

When we moved to our house thirteen years ago, one of the things I loved best was all the song birds that flitted through our yard.    Cardinals, mockingbirds, blue jays, robins.  You name it, we had it.

Our house has a hedge right in front of our living room window.   It has been amazing to watch a cardinal family come back year after year, build their nest, lay their eggs, and create a new generation.   

This year, however, we have cats all over the stinkin' neighborhood.    Bobtails, black cats, tabby cats, calico cats, black and white cats.   Our own tolerated  beloved cat was once one of the fifty frazillion strays running around the neighborhood.

Cats, cats, cats.

Several days ago, I looked out and there was our cardinal couple happily building their nest. Spring is in the air.

My heart smiled.  

Until last night.  

It was the best part of the day.  My bra was off.  My pjs were on.  My hair was pulled up in a ponytail.  Life was good.

And then PsychoticKitty started going nuts.  

He was jumping off the arm of the chair and launching himself at the window.   There would be a little thud of his tiny skull against the window, and he would climb back onto the chair to dig at the mini-blinds    A few seconds later, PsychoticKitty would attack the window with his skull again.   After about three cycles, I pulled up the mini-blinds    There I saw a dusty-colored cat perched in the shrubs waiting to pounce at the poor unsuspecting cardinal family.     

I saw red.   

Not MY cardinals.

My barefoot feet stormed down the steps.  I chased the cat off screeching, "Stay away from my birds!"   He took off like a shot.   

I went back in the house, proud that my cardinals would live another day.   I sat back down on the couch, smiling.    Until I looked out the window.   The cat was back.   

Um. 

I don't think so, Kitty Kitty.

PsychoticKitty is sometimes a little hardheaded, so we have a squirt bottle to remind him that he can't get on cabinets or climb mini-blinds at three in the morning. I've also found it works on the hubby.  Whenever he's in a foul mood, a little squirt to his chest and he jumps just like the cat does. Big Daddy gives me the same blank look as the cat, like all his circuits have been reset, and then all seems to be right in the world.   

I figured if the squirt bottle works on PsychoticKitty AND Big Daddy, surely it would work on a stray.    Right as my feet hit the sidewalk, the stray jumped at the Momma Cardinal.    I started squirting and screaming, "No cat! Not the birds.  Stay away from my birds."    

The cat jumped down and ran under my car.   I followed with the squirt bottle, spraying away.  He ran to the street.  I followed squirting and screaming, "Stay. Away. From. My. Birds. Leave my cardinals alone!"     Each word, punctuated with a squirt.  

The cat turned back toward my house.  I sprayed again.   

He snaked back to the street, and I chased after him running barefoot down the center of the street, in my pyjamas, bra-less boobs flopping, hair wild, squirting, and screaming, "Stay away from my birds! You. Cannot. Eat. Them.  I'm serious!"  

The neighbors in the house beside me came out and stared at the sight before them.  Even the crazy neighbors on the end of the street peeked out to see what the commotion was.    

I chased the cat to the end of the block, and walked back with the dawning realization of what I must look like.   

When I got back in the house I told Big Daddy, "The cat is gone, but if someone called the cops, it wasn't me." 

He looked me up and down and said, "Honey, I think the neighborhood knows you, and there's no way you're getting out of this one."

Well, damn.

Time to move.