Okay, so here's the story: on the last day of a conference in Orlando, a group of us went to a shopping mall to get away from the hotel for a little while. (Our conference was held at the same hotel where we were staying, so we had spent A LOT of "quality family time" in that building.) My friend Michael discovered a "surf store" in the mall called "Adrenalina" in which they had a surfing pool. When we first walked in the store, there was a group of about 15 kids, assumedly at a birthday party. I was fascinated. This had to be one of the best birthday parties ever. Somehow we just didn't grow up with "surfing parties" in Jackson, Mississippi. I can't think of why...
We lost several members of our group to a sale at Ann Taylor Loft, so I ended up watching the kid surfers on and off for long while. And the more I watched, the more I thought, "I could do that... I would do that..."
Problem #1: I have never even considered surfing as an option because of my intense fear of deep water (and the sharks contained therein).
Solution #1: This water was, at most, a couple of inches deep and upon detailed inspection appeared to be shark-free.
Problem #2: I had no clothing with me that was surf-appropriate - no shirt, no shorts, no towel.
Solution #2: They were having a 50% sale on the clearance rack.
Problem #3: There are only about 10 minutes until the next (and final?) surf session at 8:00. It's now or never.
Solution #3: I choose NOW! :)
I wandered back over to where Michael was waiting on the ATL crew and said, "According to the moms, it's $20 for a half hour and $40 for an hour... who's pitching in?" He looked at me and said, "Are you serious?" to which I replied, "Yeh, I'm serious! I'll do it!" He laughed and said, "Oh, I am IN - let's go!" The others all pitched in so that I didn't even have to pay for the session, and the salesgirl helped me buy my surfing gear right then and there - I signed all the release papers (because there can be some serious falls, as you'll witness), handed over my dry clothes to one of our group, and they clipped the tags off of my new shirt and shorts as I was walking into the tank.
It was me and (approximately) a 15-year old and two 12-year olds. The 12-year old girl fell and jammed her hand and had to leave. The two boys were pretty good - they managed to surf for decent periods of time and even do some "swishing" moves. (I didn't have time to pick up the lingo.) I was not so lucky. I will claim that my somersault combination on the first bodyboard is impressive and that I do an excellent impression of a newborn giraffe standing up for the first time when I got on the mini surfboard. I had all kinds of shaky jimmy-legs going on. But by the third time I was doing pretty well... right up until he let out the line a litte bit more. And then, WHOOSH! BOOM!
As you will see from the footage, I look neither athletic nor coordinated (which is mostly true - except on the dance floor); but I never expected to be. I clearly didn't miss my calling as professional surfer, but as a comedic stuntwoman?... maybe. ;) Thanks to my friends for putting up with (and documenting) my rarely-witnessed spontaneous side and to my instructor who did his best to hide his laughter from me (although you can totally see his facial expressions on the video).
Yes, it hurt to fall; but I was having too much fun to care. Yes, I was smiling and laughing the whole time, even though I was choking on water and blinded by chlorine. And yes, I was incredibly sore the next couple of days, but it was totally worth it. That was probably the best $50 I have ever spent on clothes. If they had any sort of facility like this nearby, I'd totally be hooked. But note to self: watch out for that first step! It's a doozy!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Sunday, February 24, 2008
On the Home Front
When we were growing up, there was an understood rule that Mom could not be gone from the house for more than two days. Dad could handle work and kids and dinner and soccer practice and piano lessons for approximately 48 hours; but much longer after that, and order would slowly start to unravel. Outside of the yard, the "Home Front" just wasn't quite Dad's "niche."
However, since his retirement and Mom's hat trick of injuries the past couple of years, Dad has slowly found himself embarking on a new career of domestic training. Dad has had learn how to navigate the inner aisles of the grocery store (as opposed to the perimeter where the steak, eggs, and milk live). He has honed his skills in bathroom cleaning, kitchen mopping, and dog walking; and my mother has even let him iron. (No burns or scorches, to his credit.)
As blase' as this all may sound, we must recall that my mom has organized the daily cooking and cleaning of our household as though she had it mentally laid out on a multi-colored spreadsheet. (Perhaps she does, for all I know.) As a result, she has a certain mindset about how things "should" be done. Sheets should be washed on a certain day; freezers should be defrosted in a certain month; and all of these things should be done with a smile and a song worthy of Mary Poppins herself.
My dad's not really a "Julie Andrews musical" kind of guy. He has done pretty well in spite of it. But there has been the occasional... miscommunication, as would be expected. For example, Mom had told Dad what settings to use for a particularly tricky load of laundry. Mom's instructions did not reconcile with what Dad saw in the laundry room; so Dad (former engineer), drew a schematic of the front of the washing machine and took it to Mom for her to clarify. In response, my mother (former schoolteacher) sent my dad to the "Household Appliances" folder in her four-drawer filing cabinet to get the manual. A consensus was reached, and the laundry was finished; but this should answer a lot of questions for people who wonder why my brother and I are as... "detail-oriented" as we both are. And Type A shall wed Type A, and they shall begat Type A and Type A...
However, since his retirement and Mom's hat trick of injuries the past couple of years, Dad has slowly found himself embarking on a new career of domestic training. Dad has had learn how to navigate the inner aisles of the grocery store (as opposed to the perimeter where the steak, eggs, and milk live). He has honed his skills in bathroom cleaning, kitchen mopping, and dog walking; and my mother has even let him iron. (No burns or scorches, to his credit.)
As blase' as this all may sound, we must recall that my mom has organized the daily cooking and cleaning of our household as though she had it mentally laid out on a multi-colored spreadsheet. (Perhaps she does, for all I know.) As a result, she has a certain mindset about how things "should" be done. Sheets should be washed on a certain day; freezers should be defrosted in a certain month; and all of these things should be done with a smile and a song worthy of Mary Poppins herself.
My dad's not really a "Julie Andrews musical" kind of guy. He has done pretty well in spite of it. But there has been the occasional... miscommunication, as would be expected. For example, Mom had told Dad what settings to use for a particularly tricky load of laundry. Mom's instructions did not reconcile with what Dad saw in the laundry room; so Dad (former engineer), drew a schematic of the front of the washing machine and took it to Mom for her to clarify. In response, my mother (former schoolteacher) sent my dad to the "Household Appliances" folder in her four-drawer filing cabinet to get the manual. A consensus was reached, and the laundry was finished; but this should answer a lot of questions for people who wonder why my brother and I are as... "detail-oriented" as we both are. And Type A shall wed Type A, and they shall begat Type A and Type A...
How to Be a Hospital Belle
Lessons Learned from Mom's Hospital Stay
(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.
(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.
It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.
(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)
The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.
About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.
My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"
Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."
I was brought up right.
(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.
(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.
It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.
(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)
The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.
About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.
My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"
Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."
I was brought up right.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Xena: Beyond Thunderdome
My mom broke her leg last week (more on that later), and in the meantime, I am babysitting Xena here in Oxford while Mom transitions from hospital to home. Xena isn't overly aggressive or anything, but a 75-lb dog unexpectedly standing, sitting, or deciding to sleep on you can take your breath away whether or not you recently had orthopedic surgery.
You have to understand that Xena is a high maintenance dog (and this is coming from me). She wants attention ALL THE TIME. My parents call her "the velcro dog", and it's not because she's incredibly useful. Xena does not entertain herself very well - in her mind "play" means somebody else is immediately available to (a) throw the ball (b) hold the chew toy (c) observe with rapt attention while Xena destroys said ball or chew toy. And as a 75-lb. attention-seeker, Xena is very... persistent. Point in case from this morning: there are few things as disruptive as having a Doberman repeatedly shove her nose under your left elbow while you are trying to work on the computer. She is, you might say, "difficult" to ignore.
I had a few toys at my house for her, but Xena has systematically destroyed all of them. As I figured out last night that she was not "chewing", but rather eating the last one standing, I had to confiscate it from her, distract her with a piece of "Pupperoni", and then stash the mutilated toy in the freezer where she wouldn't smell it.
Today in desperation I went find some more toy victims. Dobermans have what you might call "powerful jaws" (even cowards like Xena), so most toys don't survive "playtime" for very long. There are standards that have to be met. I found 3 or 4 that should last a day or two. I will bring them out in stages, but the first was this rubber squeaky ring that cost less than $2. She went nuts over it.
Please do not judge the cinematography (or the condition of the house, as it has been Xena-fied. These are, in fact, different clips. I wish there were audio not only of Xena's barking and yowling at the ring but also of the ring's rather distressing death knells. Shout it out: "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!"
The ring lasted less than an hour before she broke through the plastic (and started ripping pieces off and swallowing them, of course). I had to take it away from her, and she knew I put it in the garbage. (See her pitiful camp out in front of the cabinet.)
This is why we use the freezer.
You have to understand that Xena is a high maintenance dog (and this is coming from me). She wants attention ALL THE TIME. My parents call her "the velcro dog", and it's not because she's incredibly useful. Xena does not entertain herself very well - in her mind "play" means somebody else is immediately available to (a) throw the ball (b) hold the chew toy (c) observe with rapt attention while Xena destroys said ball or chew toy. And as a 75-lb. attention-seeker, Xena is very... persistent. Point in case from this morning: there are few things as disruptive as having a Doberman repeatedly shove her nose under your left elbow while you are trying to work on the computer. She is, you might say, "difficult" to ignore.
I had a few toys at my house for her, but Xena has systematically destroyed all of them. As I figured out last night that she was not "chewing", but rather eating the last one standing, I had to confiscate it from her, distract her with a piece of "Pupperoni", and then stash the mutilated toy in the freezer where she wouldn't smell it.
Today in desperation I went find some more toy victims. Dobermans have what you might call "powerful jaws" (even cowards like Xena), so most toys don't survive "playtime" for very long. There are standards that have to be met. I found 3 or 4 that should last a day or two. I will bring them out in stages, but the first was this rubber squeaky ring that cost less than $2. She went nuts over it.
Please do not judge the cinematography (or the condition of the house, as it has been Xena-fied. These are, in fact, different clips. I wish there were audio not only of Xena's barking and yowling at the ring but also of the ring's rather distressing death knells. Shout it out: "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!"
The ring lasted less than an hour before she broke through the plastic (and started ripping pieces off and swallowing them, of course). I had to take it away from her, and she knew I put it in the garbage. (See her pitiful camp out in front of the cabinet.)
This is why we use the freezer.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Not a Creature Was Stirring, Not Even a... Cricket?
Apparently my house is the place where crickets come to die. Over the past few weeks, I have found their dead bodies by the dozen, clustered around my front doorstoop, outside the back door, inside the garage, etc. I sweep them away, but new ones kept appearing every day. I tried leaving their little cricket corpses for a while, thinking, you know, that they might "serve as a warning to others." Apparently crickets don't communicate that way.
What could be the cause of this strange phenomenon? Is it the weather turning colder? Is it some strange instinct that draws them to this particular plot of land? Is it the copious amounts of spider poison that I have spread around every door and window of the house? It's hard to say, really. One of nature's little mysteries, I guess...
Within the past week or two, Oxford has gone into a full-blown Southern "fall" with leaves changing color and fluttering down (both usually within the span of a week - this is one of the few processes that moves pretty quickly in The South). The oak, gum, and magnolia trees are all shedding their respective acorns, gumballs, and empty seedpods as well, which makes walking around Ole Miss a continuous exercise in testing my reaction time and reflexes. A "beautiful scenic campus" is all well and good until it's dropping down on your head (especially the magnolia pods, which are about the size of a fist).
I will give the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast credit for this: they do "fall" much better there than we do down here. It's almost as if God gave that part of the country the deluxe Crayola "Fall Foliage" 64-pack (complete with special edition glitter crayons) and then handed the standard 8-pack to Mississippi, mumbling, "Um... you can make do with these. Just blend a lot."
But that's okay because in absence of a wide spectrum of colors, we've had a lovely range of temperatures mostly in the 60s and 70s. And given a choice between scenery and temperature, I think we all know which takes priority in my world. (If you don't know, please consult any of my coworkers who had to go to Ottawa with me in February of 2006.) You could put me in a plastic bubble with a constant temperature of about 75 degrees, and I can guarantee that I'd be much happier than if I were out in a gorgeous landscape where it was 40 and windy. I'm not saying I'd want to live in the bubble forever... just maybe 'til it warmed up a bit outside.
I head into finals over the next few weeks, so I don't think there will be anything noteworthy to share there. But then I begin my Christmas Break tour of Maryland, Virginia, Mississippi, and California; and I always have adventures when I travel. What will it be this time? Will the battery in my hotel door lock die, trapping me (and all other hotel personnel) outside of my room again? Will my airplane seatbelt strap mysteriously end up in the lap of the gentleman next to me, forcing me to wake him up and ask him to hand the strap to me rather than make a disastrous reach for it myself? Will I charm another celebrity into waiting for me after we disembark? (Hey, Bill Nye the Science Guy - remember me? ;] How you doin'?)
I just never know...
What could be the cause of this strange phenomenon? Is it the weather turning colder? Is it some strange instinct that draws them to this particular plot of land? Is it the copious amounts of spider poison that I have spread around every door and window of the house? It's hard to say, really. One of nature's little mysteries, I guess...
Within the past week or two, Oxford has gone into a full-blown Southern "fall" with leaves changing color and fluttering down (both usually within the span of a week - this is one of the few processes that moves pretty quickly in The South). The oak, gum, and magnolia trees are all shedding their respective acorns, gumballs, and empty seedpods as well, which makes walking around Ole Miss a continuous exercise in testing my reaction time and reflexes. A "beautiful scenic campus" is all well and good until it's dropping down on your head (especially the magnolia pods, which are about the size of a fist).
I will give the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast credit for this: they do "fall" much better there than we do down here. It's almost as if God gave that part of the country the deluxe Crayola "Fall Foliage" 64-pack (complete with special edition glitter crayons) and then handed the standard 8-pack to Mississippi, mumbling, "Um... you can make do with these. Just blend a lot."
But that's okay because in absence of a wide spectrum of colors, we've had a lovely range of temperatures mostly in the 60s and 70s. And given a choice between scenery and temperature, I think we all know which takes priority in my world. (If you don't know, please consult any of my coworkers who had to go to Ottawa with me in February of 2006.) You could put me in a plastic bubble with a constant temperature of about 75 degrees, and I can guarantee that I'd be much happier than if I were out in a gorgeous landscape where it was 40 and windy. I'm not saying I'd want to live in the bubble forever... just maybe 'til it warmed up a bit outside.
I head into finals over the next few weeks, so I don't think there will be anything noteworthy to share there. But then I begin my Christmas Break tour of Maryland, Virginia, Mississippi, and California; and I always have adventures when I travel. What will it be this time? Will the battery in my hotel door lock die, trapping me (and all other hotel personnel) outside of my room again? Will my airplane seatbelt strap mysteriously end up in the lap of the gentleman next to me, forcing me to wake him up and ask him to hand the strap to me rather than make a disastrous reach for it myself? Will I charm another celebrity into waiting for me after we disembark? (Hey, Bill Nye the Science Guy - remember me? ;] How you doin'?)
I just never know...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Huntin' Gators
I KID YOU NOT. I went to an alligator hunt. Normally I would not feel compelled to drive three hours and hang out at a wildlife ranger station in the dead of night, but that's the kind of dedicated cultural liaison that I am.
Here's the scoop: it's illegal to hunt alligators in Mississippi normally; but two weekends out of the year, the Dept of Wildlife and Fisheries grants permission to a select few. They have a hunter's "raffle" of sorts: anyone with a valid sportsman's license can enter for a chance to gain possession of one of 120 alligator "tags." Each tag allows up to two boats of up to five people on each boat the opportunity to go out spotlighting on the Ross Barnett Reservoir from 6:00 PM - midnight for a Fri/Sat/Sun trio. Each tag allows for 2 gators: one 4-7 foot and one 7 foot and above. They have rangers and biologists on hand to gather the length, width, etc. data. At most, they will thus gather 240 alligators; and trust me, we've got that many to spare down here.
This year they had over 1000 entries. One family I met even entered their nine month old son's name to have another chance to win a tag, seeing as how his sportsman's license was already set up. They had this child at the ranger station that night. He may have been wearing camouflage footie pajamas...
My mom found out about this whole shin-dig from one of our lakehouse neighbors, Sherry, who was our official guide to the ranger station where the "bringin' in o' the gators" took place. We followed her there at about 9:30 on a Saturday night. (Welcome to my social life in Mississippi. Don't be bitter just because you're jealous.)
There was already a small crowd of about a dozen or so, gathered around a red pick-up truck parked in front of the weighing pulley. And there, lining almost the entire interior perimeter of the truckbed was a 12-ft alligator. It was dead (otherwise tying it to the pulley and weighing it would have been extremely difficult). It weighed in at 463 lbs. - "underweight", according to the men gathered around the truck.
Here is the tale of the catch, best as I can recount it from two of the hunters themselves: Baseball Cap Man (couldn't see his face well because of the spotlights at the station) and Paul.
BCM: "We'd been out fer a while, and then Paul saw this un's bubble trail. So, we tossed the line over and caught him right away. Took us 'bout two hours to catch 'im, but he took the bait real quick; it was the rest of it that took so long. Now, Davey'd told us that if they're underwater fer more 'n an hour, they're prob'ly day-ud ('dead'), and he was under for most of an hour an a half. So, we'd figured he was long gone. We started pullin' 'im up, and turns out we had 'im snagged through thuh tay-ul ('tail')! I dunno' how we kept 'im on the lihne, but he stayed ohn. So, we're haulin' 'im up, thinkin' he's done drowned; an' his back feet hit that boat ramp, an' his legs tensed up, an' I tell ya', HE COME TO LIHFE. I yelled, 'Paul, get the gun! Get the gun!', 'n he [the alligator] is draggin' me in the water up to my thighs..."
At this point "Paul" cuts in, laughing, "Yeah, I was takin' pictures! I finally put the camera down and grabbed the bow, but the arrow bounced right off his hay-ud ('head'). [Reporter's commentary: Paul should have watched more Discovery Channel as a kid. Alligators developed all that armor for a reason.] So I threw that down and got the 410, and that took him out."
By the way, a "410" is a shotgun. (My mom had to tell me. Don't ask.)
As proof of their story, there was a snag in the back of the gator's tail, a shotgun "scar" through his head; and a circumstantial nick across his skull that may or may not have come from Reservoir Warrior Paul's hunter's bow and arrow.
My mom asked, "What are y'all going to do with it?" "Oh, we'll eat it," they all agreed, nodding in confirmation, "Grill it, fry it..." * "But what will you do with it tonight?" (My mom has never been a fan of letting things sit out overnight.) BCM shrugged, "Oh, we'll put it in a cooler - someone's volunteered one already." My mom and I looked at each other, looked down at the 12-ft alligator, did the traditional Southern female mental calculations of "How much freezer space do we have?" and looked back at each other, eyebrows furrowed. Mom asked uncertainly, "How big of a cooler is it?" BCM sort of cocked his head and answered very matter-of-factly, "It's a walk-in, ma'am." Naturally.
We heard rumors that a 13-footer had been caught and was headed to the station; but by close to midnight, Mom and I were tired and ready to go, even though only one other small gator had arrived. We called it a night. I know, I know -- gator hunt sissies. We were newbies, though; next time we'll be ready. Heck we may be there -- Frankie wants to enter next year. Shocker.
Did I mention they caught the 12-footer not far from where our lakehouse is? Who wants to come visit?
* Yes, I've eaten alligator before. It tastes like chicken.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
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