A little gravel in my travel

So a few mysteries remain the day after my 30th (yes, I can't believe it either but apparently I was careless enough to post my full birthday on Facebook, thereby confirming to the world that I am, in fact, old-ish.)

But back to the mysteries. They are in no particular order and perhaps mysterious only to me. But it's a bit of a drive from there to here, so I had ample  opportunity to review what went on last night.

1. How did Dana Greene get those pants on? Did it require tools, and what's the process for getting out of them? 

2. Why does Rodney Atkins not croon about the time it takes to get a little gravel OUT of your travel? My car had a beach-ful of sand in the trunk that spilled from the fireworks paraphenalia and I could write the blog in the dust that covered the inside. Worth the cleanup time? Totally. 

3.  How can Mark Morse not be saddled with some beautiful babe? He's a great guy and is bringing baldness back as super bad-ass. Girls are apparently clueless in my home county.

 

4. How can Jeff Blanton not be a TV reality star? Bravo has missed the mark there.

5. How could the frickin' Legion be a better time than The Damn Lake?  While I strongly respect the right to choose in so many different situations, those of you who chose karaoke (still stupid) over the people who traveled from near and really far to see you kind of pissed me off. I hope you had a good time (and I almost mean that) because we all did.

6. Why did I cave to Beth Strahla's pressure to go back to Jasonville in two weeks to play softball with our class? I wasn't even drinking! 

Thank you Lea Anne and Kallie and Bridget and Whitney and Dana and Jeff (both of them)  and Ed and everyone who did the hard work of putting the party together. Sharing The Damn Lake was damn generous. Setting up, getting all those damn old pictures and inviting the teachers was damn inspirational.

I LOVED seeing Miss Keaton. She'll always be Miss Keaton to me. Do you know how many people get to see their SECOND grade teacher at their 30 year high school reunion?  I bet it was the 39 or whatever final number we had. That was so awesome. And for Brad Scott to come, and Mr. Wells and Mr. Krame? Damn fabulous. 

Could I possibly say damn one more time?  

And, is it just me, or did everyone like our classmates even better last night than we liked them in school?

Oh! Another mystery: I still don't remember threatening to kick your ass, Linda. I even stopped by my sister and brother-in-law's house this morning and asked Steve if he remembered us fighting over him. He did not.

Editor's note for all you city friends:  Jasonville is a very small place and sometimes you have to share when it comes to romance. Some take that a bit too far, but my sisters and I -- to the best of my knowledge -- never shared boys despite this fantastic story Linda told about she and I apparently fighting over Steve Strahla.  My brothers, on the other hand sometimes swapped back and forth in the same weekend. But that's another story.

And get this: when I went to my lifelong friends to back me up that Linda must have confused me with someone else, I was the cheese, standing alone. No one remember a Steve and Cheryl romance. It was the "I'll just kick your ass" quote they claimed sounded like me. I graduated with a whole platoon of Benedict Arnolds, if you ask me.

Except for Dana McNabb. Dana gave me a jar of her home-made relish. So she rocks. I accidentally left it at my sister Donna's house, though. So if I manage to make the drive down for Homecoming, it will be that relish that gets me back...

***

Last week, I decided that Karma was talking to me, so every day I'm starting the day posting on FaceBook a reason I will be happy that day. It's early, but I'm kind of having fun with it and I thought I'd recap my week of I was happy-isms here for those who follow the blog but eschew FaceBook. No inscense or chanting is required.

Last week, according to FaceBook, I was happy:

That my friends staged an intervention in 1996 to move me to Broad Ripple where Jeff Reed couldn't help but keep walking my way from his house to mine. And somewhere along the way we captured each other.

Because my daughter still wants me to help her with her hair.

I'll see some friends who I met in kindergarten and (for the most part) was with for the next 12 years and we should have some fun catching up on what's happened since.

Of birthdays, friends and karma

Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a lot to atone for.

It's possible that I have overestimated my karmic debt. But I doubt it. Unlike all who know me, I know each sin intimately. So to celebrate my birthday tomorrow, I'm going to do a little bit of public payback.

Taking a page from my friend Tammy Ramsey, and perhaps the influence of my latest Book Club book, I'm going to post a sentence or two every morning on Facebook that says what I'm happy for that day. I'm not going to lie: some days I'm gonna lie. Because I know me. And I know that there will be some mornings when it'll be harder to push back the bear than others.

Those days I'll attempt to be funny if not 100 percent positive.

But I'm going to give it a go.  Cross your fingers. Light a candle. Do whatever it is you do. This could be the dawn of a whole new me.

Pushing buttons

Alison and I are having a debate. It started years ago, but recurred the other day when we were going into the doctor's office.  I opened the first door, she pushed the big, blue square button designed to assist the less-able bodied to enter buildings through the second door.

I do not park in handicapped spaces -- even in the rain. Even in the cold. Even when I just have to run in for 3 seconds.

I only pee in handicapped stalls in emergencies and when I'm the only one in the place. And I ALWAYS hurry in these cases. Otherwise, I use the standard stall as befitting of my able-bodiness.

And I never push the blue button. In lieu of pushing the button, I do a little mental happy dance that I don't need that help. Yet.

Alison, who has earned a black belt in tae kwon do, can (when she wants to) run circles around me. Of late, she's taken to perfecting her one-handed handstand as she waits out the shuffling/dealing portions of games of gin rummy. Somehow she has a different take on the idea of assisted living.

"Mom. That's what's it's there for," she said, when I protested her use of the button.  "It's like this: Would you get out your ruler and measure how many feet are in a mile or would you use your iPad to Google it?"

I told her that she was missing my point and did everything but demonstrate my mental happy dance to bring her around. She wasn't buying it.

"It's not like it only has so many times you can push it," she said.  "If it's there, I think everyone should use it."

I can't really say she's wrong. I'm putting it down in the category of which way you position the toilet paper or whether you like pencils or pens. Clearly, you SHOULD choose my way. But I won't hate you if you choose poorly. I might sigh or roll my eyes, but I won't judge. Much.

In other news, my husband took me out to dinner and Blake Shelton Friday night and I'm still in awe of both Jeff and Blake. Jeff because he's really not a country music fan but was better than a good sport at the show. And Blake Shelton because he's just a great guy.

He was funny and attentive to the crowd. We were 11 rows back from center stage on the floor. I could see his sweat, his dimples and his truly horribly designed tattoo. But I wasn't in danger of spittle or sweat spray. 

The worst thing that happened was the guy behind me who was making rude noises about Sunny Sweeny -- the second act. Sure, dude. be a BS fan, but don't be rude to the people who come before. I think Blake Shelton would have kicked his ass had he heard. Had I been in the front line, I probably would have told on him.

As it was, Jeff thanked me later for keeping quiet and saving HIM the broken nose. (The rude guy was big and ugly in both his behavior and appearance...)  But the two young girls and their mom next to me were as sweet as could be and way fun.

We had dinner at  Zest before the show. Alison had a sleepover, and I got her opinion of my outfit before we left. I had on my TV bra (2-cup sizes, ladies!) so the halter actually worked, and funky heels. Alison pronounced it good but thought I had too much eye-liner on. 

I risked it. Got compliments from the women at Zest, who encouraged me to keep it all on --even for a country show. Jeff had leftovers though, and Zest is near our house so I ended up changing into jeans and Ali's new cowboy boots, which still had a little Flat Rock dust on them.

I confessed to her later. She thought it was a good idea. "Did you wipe off some of that eye-liner?" she asked.

I thought about telling her that the cosmetic companies made the eye-liner so people would use it, but decided we'd had enough of that conversation.

Hair of the dog

Much to Jeff's chagrin, Alison's legs are now smooth as the day she came home with us. Except for a small patch of fur around her left knee. A scrape suffered in the Caribbean Cove lazy river made it unsafe for the razor to approach.

We did it in stages. Below the knee Saturday -- which thrilled and repelled her all at the same time. No slips of the Venus.

This morning, when I picked her up from her pool sleep-over, she pulled me aside and said, "Mom! The hair on my legs is already growing back!"

I gasped and clutched at my heart. "No!" She was not amused and went back to the razor as soon as we got home.

In other news, Jeff and I enjoyed a date night while she swam hairless, trying out a new Greek spot and settling in full of pita and olives for the duration of the new Batman movie. It's very long. I'm sure I pulled a butt muscle sometime between the third and fourth year of the film.

I'm not dissing the thing. But it did take a while to get to the credits. Thank God I'd gone to the ladies room before we went in. Between my disappearing bladder and the ol' butt injury, the batman and I didn't fully gel. It was light years better, however, than Un-Magical Mike.

The other day, the three of us were driving home from somewhere and Jeff told us the Subaru might need some mechanical attention. I said I thought we were done putting money into that vehicle. Jeff informed that I'd be tired of my Mustang and ready to give it to him before he would be ready to give up the Forester.

"Hey!" came the protest from the back seat. "I called the Mustang a long time ago."

Hair of the dog

So Alison is dying, just dying to shave her legs. Actually, she wants to shave her arms, too. Because, you know, all redheads are notoriously hirsute.

Gah. I have told her that once you start it never stops. That it will grow in black and thick and disgusting. I've shown her my scars and she's helped me sop up the blood from particularly wicked terrible shaving accidents.

None of it works.

So this weekend, I think I'm going to let her do it. I can be talked out of this. I haven't told her yet.

Thoughts?

So it's the last full week of summer vacation and we've been trading off child care with our friends, the Beaches. Amanda and Ali are at her house in the day and they come here for sleeping and volleyball camp.

It's been a hoot. Amanda has a tiny kitten and Alison is in total love with it. She emailed me a video she took with her iPad called "Devil Kitty" that had little Mittens attacking Amanda.

It's been a hoot. They are currently protesting having to shower. I'm having none of it. They'll be clean tomorrow. Hairy. But clean.

Thursday I have the day off and we're going to the Indiana State Fair with some of my sisters, a niece and three cousins. I already have wrist bands for unlimited Midway rides and a plan to escape the worst of the fair food.

Tip of the day for anyone going: stay away from the bubble tea. People say it's good, but it's cold tea with milk and funky bubbles of not-that-awesome flavoring. Also, the homeade ice cream trailer is still gone.

Go see Cindy and David's sausage and lemonade shake-up stands. It's the best food there. They're north of the covered bridge by the free stages. Don't settle for the midway. It's worth the walk for the good stuff.

Good morning campers!

We got her back! And she hasn't tried to escape once since leaving the utopia that is Flat Rock River Camp.
It's just a bit more than 60 minutes from the camp to our driveway. We talked nonstop for at least 45 minutes, took a couple of breaths and went back in. Among the best tidbits:
"Mom, when we get home, can I have Ramen for lunch or can we stop at Taco Bell? I have had nothing but home-made food for an entire week. I want something that comes from a package."
"So there was this boy who came up to me and touched my hair and said "It's so sexy." (Alison says he was 18 and among the Spanish contingent, which had departed for their own damn country before we arrived. Which was good timing.)
"Did you dance with this boy at the dance?"
I asked, outraged, prepared to find out if she came within a centimeter after this exchange.
"No! Geeze Mom. It was sooooo embarrasing," she said.
(I'm shaving her head before she goes back next year.)
There were no days of having to eat fruit and salad all day, though apparently Jenna had beans every day. Each cabin has a special sound they use to round up the inhabitants in a big group. The Osage cabin's sound was the "Caw! Caw!" of a crow until Miss Tokash, the delicate flower of the group, repeatedly emitted odor.
"Jenna was a gas tank," Alison reported. "She farted every day."
The cabin call quickly became "Fart!"
Everyone had a great time. Alison got distracte one day, put on her cowboy boots but forgot to get dressed so she went rope jumping in her pjs and boots.
This was the first year for Alison to have more than one friend at the camp going in. Helen has gone every year, but this year they weren't in the same cabin. Alex and Hannnah went, as well, but were also in other cabins and they were in different activities. So they got to see each other at meals and the occasional joint event. >br /> Jenna and Ali were joined at the hip, as you might expect, and they're already signed up to return. Drew's going to go, and we're hoping it will be another full contingent. It's not that we don't want to meet new friends, but we're happy with the friends they have. Newcomers will require vetting...
It's really a great camp. While I struggle a bit with the idea of Alison growing up at warp speed, It's a wonderful experience for everyone. Amy and I are trying to find a way to get to go ourselves. You can see photos at www.flatrockymca.org Jeff and I acted like we were on vacation. We drank more champagne and wine and dined out more than we probably have done all year. We stayed out way too late on a school night drinking more wine that we should have with John and Lisa; we saw Cheryl Gonzalez live and in the flesh for the first time in too long; and we ended the week with Team Beache and a three-hour dinner in Broad Ripple.
We ended the weekend last night with a great family outing in Columbus where we got to see cousins and siblings and got schooled (again) by Aunt Shirley and her rapier wit. At one point I remarked that even on the phone, using only silence and vibrations, Aunt Shirley can let you know she thinks you're a dumbass.
"Hmmm. You must have more experience with being a dumbass," was my sister's rejoinder.
It's tough crowd, my family. But I'll keep 'em.

Perspective

Alison is counting the minutes until she's back at Flatrock River Y Camp -- where she'll be bunking with a few of her oldest and newest friends, free from her parents and firmly in control of her destiny for 7 long days and nights.

We can email and writer her letters, but short of an emergency, she can't reach out to us. She's just fine with that. I, however, am betwixt and between.

She's 11 now, listening to Maroon 5 and rappers, hoping for a pair of shorty-shorts and wishing she needed a bra. All I can see is her going off to college thousands of miles away where she'll drink and experiment with boys with no thought at all of me. Or, gak!, she'll actually complain about her out-of-touch mother who she can't relate to.
You laugh, but I truly have long moments of panic over those days that are coming. I hear them in the distance like a midnight train riding country rails straight to my door
I can fret for days over her happiness level, what the sassy girls are school are doing to her, if she has enough food in her lunch and whether she'll be safe at whatever sport or activity she's involved in.
I try to hide my obsessive worry, and I think I do a fairly good job of it -- at least from her perspective. She knows I worry, but as a general rule, she's off finding pictures of cats or learning a new cupcake trick, and playing video games or being silly with her friends.

I don't remember much interaction with my mother or feeling like she had anything but random thoughts of me. Of course she had seven kids, a Pentecostal church and an Avon route to deal with. I should forgive her for her scant attention. Probably I will one day.
I wonder what's worse: benign neglect or hidden worry? Does every mother worry this much? Why can't I just be one of those people who don't worry about what's coming next? They seem to live perfectly happy lives and bad stuff doesn't happen to them very often. Maybe this week I'll figure out how to do that.
Right now I'm focused on pushing back the worry over whether Alison will fall of her horse at camp and have to be Lifelined to Indianapolis and then live life from a wheelchair. Or fall off the Alpine Tower and suffer the same fate, or worse. Or get bitten by an exotic snake that's escaped the local wackjob's farm and slithered off in search of fresh meat. Or bring home bed bugs. Or fall in love. Or smoke pot.
The possibilities are endless. I'll worry about most of them. Jeff's going to have to ply me with lots of champagne this week. Or I'll just work a lot. Maybe both.
In my head, I know my worrying will likely be for naught. She will have big fun. Jenna is going to be with her for the first time so the worst thing that will likely happen is they'll get in trouble for giggling too long after lights out. And she'll have Helen and Hannah and Alex on the campgrounds, too. Plus all the well-trained, well supervised staff. It's a safe place. A good place. I really shouldn't worry at all.
Alison's worst day at Flat Rock was the day they served biscuits and gray for breakfast (she hates biscuits and gravy so she had an apple and a bananna instead); PBandJ for lunch (she hates peanut butter so she had salad instead); and chicken pot pie for dinner (she hates chicken pot pie so she had salad again.)
"Ugh. It was the healthiest day of my life. It was AWFUL!" she reported.
Uh-oh. It's time to go. I'm going to drive slow...