To Feel Like Paris

I stuffed Tequila into a big purse and hauled her in the store yesterday. She would have been content to wait in the car, or somewhat happy to be left at home, but I wanted to feel like Paris Hilton. I've seen lots of photos where Paris hauls around her chihuahua in a jeweled pooch-pouched purse. I think her purebred is about half the size of my mixed pedigree, but I used a really big purse. In its former life, it  snuck popcorn and sodas into movie theatres. Big Guy helped me stuff Tequila into the purse. She didn't understand the concept, I'm not sure Big Guy did either. Once I had her squished inside, with her head poking out, Tequila traveled well. Except when she wanted out. At one point, I was carrying the dog in my arms with the empty dog purse dangling from one shoulder. I haven't seen photos of Paris caught in that situation. Tequila also shed more than I anticipated. Even with Tequila secured in the purse, loose blonde dog hairs covered the outside of the purse as well as my shirt. And I think I inhaled a few stray strands. Paris doesn't seem to have that problem. Although maybe being a blonde makes it easier to wear blonde dog hair. Tequila also got kind of heavy to cart around, but I knew better than to ask Big Guy to carry her. I have never seen photos of Paris breaking a sweat as she dog-carts. And while her dog weighs less than Tequila, all of the jewels adorning her dog bag probably evens out to about Tequila-weight. Clearly Paris knows what she's doing and has built up dog-hauling muscle. At the end of my adventure, I didn't feel much like Paris, and Tequila seemed a bit grumpy. Clearly I need to take a step back in my effort to channel Paris. Next time, I will leave Tequila in the car and cart the other tequila in my former movie bag. It's a start.

Enough Said

If Big Guy hadn't parked the car in the garage, I wouldn't have backed it out of the garage.

Cockroach Fight

We bought our first house on a Friday; Big Guy lost his job the next Monday. My paycheck wasn't enough to cover the mortgage, which set the stage for the great cockroach fight on Tuesday. I opened a fresh gallon of milk and poured two glasses, one for myself and one for Big Guy. That's when we noticed a big cockroach swimming in his glass of milk. My glass was cockroach-free. Big Guy, who really likes his milk, might not have been so upset if the roach was in my glass, but it was in his, and he wanted justice.  Big Guy's plan was to take the milk back to the grocery store, explain to the manager that the milk had come loaded with a live cockroach and demand a fresh gallon. I begged him not to. In a small town, I didn't want to be known as the wife of the crazy guy. I didn't believe the roach could have survived pastuerization. And, I pointed out, this roach was kicking around the milk like a healthy one, if healthy and roach can be used in the same sentence. Most likely, I reasoned, the roach had come in with the moving boxes, fallen into the glass and floated to the top as I poured the milk. Big Guy wouldn't budge on his theory and I stuck fast to mine. In the end, we poured out the milk. Even if I was right about the roach starting out in the glass, I wasn't going to drink that milk. And, as much as Big Guy wanted to blame the milk, he knew his theory stood on shaky ground. We never would have argued about the roach-laced milk if we weren't worried about paying our bills. That is what I would like Congress to understand as it tussles with the President and contemplates shutting down the federal government. Members of Congress will still get paid, but a lot of hard-working federal employees won't. The moral of this story: Check the glass before pouring the milk. If you pour the milk and don't like what you see, throw it out as quickly as possible, on election day.

Two-Daughter Family

When I realized Daisy sold globs of lipstick on Post-it notes to Birdie for 25 cents, I admired Daisy's ingenuity and wondered if Birdie's 25 cents came directly from my purse. I decided both girls needed to find something more productive to do. That's the way I feel about a British study. It surveyed 2,000 families and concluded that the happiest ones are those with two daughters. I applaud the study on its smartness, but I think the researchers could find something else to occupy their statistical skills. Of course, our two-daughter family is happy. When newborn Birdie joined our family, young Daisy stuffed her diapers down the toilet, twice. And as for the white towel etched with blue marker, four-year-old Birdie coolly ratted out Daisy, who knew nothing about it. Birdie knew everything about it. Sisterly piano duets died a quick death. Playing the piano with a perfectionist isn't any more fun than playing the piano with a quitter. Hogging the t.v. reared its ugly head as did borrowing clothes without asking. And then there are times when they start each other laughing. That's real sweet unless Big Guy or I is trying to lay down some law. The British study mentioned increased cooperation on chores and children who are easier to reason with. That's where the study descends into total hogwash. Those researchers haven't tried to get Birdie or Daisy to accept the peaceful coexistence of spiders, pick up their shoes or bring in the trash cans. As for boys. I wish I had one. A son could solve a spider crisis.

High School Reunion

I have never been to a high school reunion. When my family moved in February of my senior year, I switched schools to one I barely remember. I don't receive invitations to its reunion and sometimes have trouble recalling its name. I don't dwell on my lack of opportunity to get together with people I liked/didn't like/never thought about, but occassionally I wonder what I'm missing. I satisfied my curiosity last Friday. I attended the annual April Fool's Day reunion of former employees of the American Soybean Association. I don't usually go to the event, but I realized this year marks the 20th anniversary of my heave-ho from the good ship Soybean. (The organization was floundering, and it was jump or get pushed for many of us. I was pushed.) When my invite to the get-together arrived, I pushed it around the kitchen table for the better part of a week, sort of like I would if it were a high school reunion and I'd forgotten to lose 20 pounds. The afternoon of the event, I mentally committed to go. As soon as Big Guy walked in the door from work, I began preparing to leave. Then the calendar caught my eye--I was one day early. I am so not reunion material. I waited another 24 hours and once again I was reunion bound. Only I went to the wrong place. I called home; Birdie read the address; I finally arrived at the right place on the right date. Once there, I had a good time. I discovered the passage of time mellows everything, especially me. It helped that the obnoxious ones weren't there. Not that I remember who they are/were. So thanks, Great Scott, Timekeeper, Econ Guy and LA Girl for getting me there. Birthday Girl, CiCi, 9 Lives and A3G: I won't let another 20 years go by. Now I have my heart set on a prom. I never did one of those, either. I want the long dress, the corsage, the limo and Big Guy in a tux.

Lily Bloom

Yes, Harry Went To Rhodes

Upfront, the admissions counselor at Rhodes College said, "Don't send us a Harry Potter essay." I swallowed my disappointment. That was my plan for getting into Rhodes. Then I remembered, Birdie is looking at colleges. Not me. My role is to help pay for college and to announce my visits. At first, I thought the Rhodes admissions counselor was a little tough on Rhodes stone-faced resemblance to Hogwarts Academy. Then Birdie and I stepped into the dining hall. Students fling their backpacks onto the entrance hall floor, then compete elbow-to-elbow for access to pizza, pasta, hamburgers and weird vegan stuff. While I know not everything vegan is weird, that day, I saw weird. Once the students have lunch in their grasp, they sit at long wooden tables in a high-domed chamber just like Harry and his buds. Acquiring lunch is crazy, collisions happen, and lunch trays hit the floor. For the excitement alone, I'd go to Rhodes. Birdie would, too, although she claims more scholarly reasons. Only two days before our visit, Rhodes announced two new majors: Environmental Science and Environmental Studies. The biology professor who met with Biride helped craft the new program. What she said about it was dead-on to what Birdie may want. I figured some sort of wizard magic was at-play like if Birdie thought she wanted a college major that let her design bikinis and other beach fashion-wear for kitties, Rhodes would have read her mind and offered it. Now that I think it through, our whole visit had a strong touch of magic. Birdie's first love is to sing. We met with the head of Rhodes choral music department. And guess what? The choir need sopranos. A shortage of sopranos simply never happens. At Rhodes College, science, singing and lunch as a contact sport collide. That's plenty good enough to keep this magic place on the Birdie short-list.