I spent several hours last night under the famous Friday Night Lights in central Texas. Our Dawgs were ridiculously victorious with a 65-6 win. Our band sounded great and the kids who run with the spirit flags after touchdowns burned approximately 6,000 calories each, since they sprinted holding 10 pound flags 8 times (seven touchdowns and one safety).
It was a great night in Dawgville for sure! But to me, the most interesting thing happened before the game even started. The early fans had been in the stands watching the pre game warm ups of each team, feeling a little chilly in the 93 degree air (our daily highs have been 100+ for several days). We stood for the school song, had a seat, and rose again later for the National Anthem. It is tradition at the Dawg Pound for the spectators to sing the anthem, and our beloved announcer often adds, "Let's sing loud enough for our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan to hear" which is technically impossible, but brings a tear to my eye every time, especially in our military community.
Anyway, we rose for the anthem. We sang, or at least others around me sang and I lip synced/whispered because my friend who can really sing was in front of me and I didn't want her to hear my voice. I am generally a very irreverent person, but I am all business during "The Star Spangled Banner". It gives me much pride and also humility to be able to live in this country, that, for all it's faults, is still the best thing going in the world.
Apparently, the anthem means something a little different to the people two rows in front of us. As the music started, the wife had her right hand over her heart and her left arm around her husband (which if you want to get technical about it, is already a violation of proper etiquitte, but not nearly as big an infraction as she was about to commit).
As the song progressed, she began squeezing his butt, and before "the home of the brave" she was reaching between his legs and cupping his balls. Right there. In the Dawg Pound. In front of hundreds of people, some of them children. During the national anthem! Again, I'm not a prude, but I could not believe what I was seeing. Because of the sanctity of the moment for me, I did not alert anyone else to this activity. Post anthem, I asked my friend if she had seen something unusual (because I see weird stuff like this all the time and I find it comforting to have a back up just in case I might be crazy) and her response was, "Looks like something other than just the flag got raised."
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Are You Ready for Some Football??!!
Sorry to borrow from Hank, Jr, but fall in central Texas is exciting! Sure, it can't possibly really be fall yet since the thermometer still tops 95 degrees daily, but school is in, and high school football starts tomorrow night!
I'm hard pressed to explain why I love football so much, but I'll try. As a child, I would go over to my friends' houses on Sunday afternoons to find their dads glued to the tv, rooting for their favorite teams. Since my dad was in the Army, we had geographically diverse neighbors and most of the teams in the NFL were represented in our 'hood. The only house without football on was ours and I wondered why we didn't partake of this obviously fun and family building experience. My dad hates televised team sports in general and football in particular. I think this stems from when he was permanently benched as a senior in high school for repeated clotheslining offenses. At any rate, Tubby hates football. He begrudgingly attended two football games while I was in high school to see me perform with the band and left right after half time. His comment about it all was, "Why does a high school have more coaches than Notre goddamn Dame?" (btw, note the juxtaposition of the profane into the Latin phrase for "our mother"-pure Tubby!)
My early guidance on the subject came from my male cousins who explained the game to me, and one fateful day in 1976, they drove me past the site most holy to some of us: Texas Stadium. From that moment on, and to this day, although we have had some tough times of late, I was a Cowboy fan. Not to get mushy, but Interstate 30 between Dallas and Fort Worth has been dubbed Tom Landry Highway, and the signs even have little fedoras on them. My eyes get misty every time we pass.
The love of the game grew during my high school years when I was in band. While to some of my female friends this was just an excuse to ogle cute guys in tight pants (admittedly a perk), I was paying attention and wondering when the hell the refs were going to start calling some pass interference. To this day, I love being friends with a girl who knows what intentional grounding is.
I continued attending games throughout college and into my teaching career. Seventeen years into teaching, I'm still a season ticket holder and in attendance at all home games. I have the Dawgs on Fridays, the Aggies on Saturdays, and the Cowboys on Sundays. Granted, those last two teams have let me down a lot during the last couple of seasons, but I love them all. When all three teams win, I call it a trifecta weekend.
Once, our high school football team was selected to be part of some exhibition games being played all over the state on Labor Day weekend. The venue was (genuflect) Texas Stadium and our opponent was a little team from west Texas: The Odessa Permian Panthers. These are the folks that were the basis for the book and movie Friday Night Lights. As we pulled up, my then seven year old stepson wanted to know why there was a big hole in the roof. I explained to him that the hole was there for God to watch his favorite team. His response was, "God's favorite team is the Bulldawgs?" My response was (and I apolgize if I blaspheme a little here), "No, Sweeite, God's favorite team is the Cowboys; the Bulldawgs are his second favorite." By the way, the Panther mojo was no mo' that day, as the Dawgs were victorious.
College and pro games are great, but there is something so pure about high school sports. Most of the people involved are in it for the love of the game, and as a teacher, I love the personal feeling of pride in the kids I've taught doing great things on the gridiron. And I love to see all the kids perform, not just the athletes. Band, cheerleaders, drill team, and ROTC all play their parts as well and contribute to the sense of community pride I feel at every game.
So tomorrow night, I'll don my blue and gold and sit among 10,000 or so of my friends, colleagues, and neighbors to cheer on our Dawgs in their season opener. The Frito pie will be hot, the drinks will be cool, the air will be full of energy, and I'll be in section B, row 8, seat 29, happy to participate in the tradition of Friday Night Lights.
I'm hard pressed to explain why I love football so much, but I'll try. As a child, I would go over to my friends' houses on Sunday afternoons to find their dads glued to the tv, rooting for their favorite teams. Since my dad was in the Army, we had geographically diverse neighbors and most of the teams in the NFL were represented in our 'hood. The only house without football on was ours and I wondered why we didn't partake of this obviously fun and family building experience. My dad hates televised team sports in general and football in particular. I think this stems from when he was permanently benched as a senior in high school for repeated clotheslining offenses. At any rate, Tubby hates football. He begrudgingly attended two football games while I was in high school to see me perform with the band and left right after half time. His comment about it all was, "Why does a high school have more coaches than Notre goddamn Dame?" (btw, note the juxtaposition of the profane into the Latin phrase for "our mother"-pure Tubby!)
My early guidance on the subject came from my male cousins who explained the game to me, and one fateful day in 1976, they drove me past the site most holy to some of us: Texas Stadium. From that moment on, and to this day, although we have had some tough times of late, I was a Cowboy fan. Not to get mushy, but Interstate 30 between Dallas and Fort Worth has been dubbed Tom Landry Highway, and the signs even have little fedoras on them. My eyes get misty every time we pass.
The love of the game grew during my high school years when I was in band. While to some of my female friends this was just an excuse to ogle cute guys in tight pants (admittedly a perk), I was paying attention and wondering when the hell the refs were going to start calling some pass interference. To this day, I love being friends with a girl who knows what intentional grounding is.
I continued attending games throughout college and into my teaching career. Seventeen years into teaching, I'm still a season ticket holder and in attendance at all home games. I have the Dawgs on Fridays, the Aggies on Saturdays, and the Cowboys on Sundays. Granted, those last two teams have let me down a lot during the last couple of seasons, but I love them all. When all three teams win, I call it a trifecta weekend.
Once, our high school football team was selected to be part of some exhibition games being played all over the state on Labor Day weekend. The venue was (genuflect) Texas Stadium and our opponent was a little team from west Texas: The Odessa Permian Panthers. These are the folks that were the basis for the book and movie Friday Night Lights. As we pulled up, my then seven year old stepson wanted to know why there was a big hole in the roof. I explained to him that the hole was there for God to watch his favorite team. His response was, "God's favorite team is the Bulldawgs?" My response was (and I apolgize if I blaspheme a little here), "No, Sweeite, God's favorite team is the Cowboys; the Bulldawgs are his second favorite." By the way, the Panther mojo was no mo' that day, as the Dawgs were victorious.
College and pro games are great, but there is something so pure about high school sports. Most of the people involved are in it for the love of the game, and as a teacher, I love the personal feeling of pride in the kids I've taught doing great things on the gridiron. And I love to see all the kids perform, not just the athletes. Band, cheerleaders, drill team, and ROTC all play their parts as well and contribute to the sense of community pride I feel at every game.
So tomorrow night, I'll don my blue and gold and sit among 10,000 or so of my friends, colleagues, and neighbors to cheer on our Dawgs in their season opener. The Frito pie will be hot, the drinks will be cool, the air will be full of energy, and I'll be in section B, row 8, seat 29, happy to participate in the tradition of Friday Night Lights.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Miss Manners
My first teaching assignment was a trial by fire for many reasons. First, I had six different preps, meaning that each day I taught six completely different classes: Spanish (a joke, but I had 12 hours in it and that was enough for emergency certification), English II, 7th grade English, 8th grade U.S. History, 9th grade U.S. History, and English IV. Second, I was a senior class sponsor. Third, I agreed to be the cheerleader coach when the sum of my cheerleading experience was watching that made-for-tv movie where Jane Seymour and Julie from The Love Boat tried out for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.
In addition to all my other duties, for some reason I became the unofficial etiquette adviser for the school system. How did this happen? I really don't know. Maybe it was the dignified way I ate my Frito Pie (For the uninitiated, this is a marvelous concoction served at every Texas high school football game that contains Fritos corn chips with chili and cheese on top. Jalapenos are optional, but in my opinion the vital finishing touch to this dish. After all, every meal needs a vegetable.) at ball games with my napkin in my lap. Perhaps it was the fact that when I had to tell the math teacher to f-off, I whispered it in hear ear rather than utter it aloud for everyone else to hear. I'm nothing if not polite, I say.
At any rate, I became the go to girl for all sorts of sticky social situations. I should mention that our school population was about 98% Caucasian, 1% African American, and 1% Hispanic. I frequently had to remind our kids when we went to football games or field trips that it was unacceptable to make comments about the ethnicity of people we might see. Most of the kids considered seeing someone of another race a novelty and did not mind pointing out at full volume, "Look over there at those black people." I know. I did the best that I could to make them understand that the real world was a much more diverse place than the county they lived in (and that some of them had never been out of).
One of our field trips was a reward trip to the Six Flags amusement park in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex. A young man got on the bus with a shirt that I deemed totally unacceptable for our trip, since I found it deliberatly racially incendiary. He argued with me, I told him he wasn't going anywhere with me in that shirt, he thought I was just uptight, and we finally compromised on a shirt that said "If you don't like rodeo . . .Buck off!"
These kids had lived such a sheltered existence that they didn't understand why there weren't any Baptists in Romeo and Juliet. When I was preparing my seniors to read The Canterbury Tales, I explained to them how Thomas a Becket had been murdered in the cathedral and mentioned something about the Cardinals who helped run the Catholic Church. They actually thought that I was talking about birds. I once made a comment about someone who had used the wrong fork meaning the wrong piece of flatware at one's own place setting, and they thought I was talking about someone who took a fork from the hand of someone else since they had never seen or heard about having more than one fork.
I did a lot of educating that had nothing to do with the content of my courses, but I certainly think I was fulfilling a need. I have to give the kids credit: they were not afraid to ask questions. I mentioned in an earlier post that our football team once played a team from an Episcopalian school. When we got off the bus, one of the football players yelled (never a reason to be discreet), "Hey, Miss, who's that dude in a dress?" I looked around for the nearest transvestite, but had to reply, "Clay, that's not a dude in a dress, he's a priest."
In addition to all my other duties, for some reason I became the unofficial etiquette adviser for the school system. How did this happen? I really don't know. Maybe it was the dignified way I ate my Frito Pie (For the uninitiated, this is a marvelous concoction served at every Texas high school football game that contains Fritos corn chips with chili and cheese on top. Jalapenos are optional, but in my opinion the vital finishing touch to this dish. After all, every meal needs a vegetable.) at ball games with my napkin in my lap. Perhaps it was the fact that when I had to tell the math teacher to f-off, I whispered it in hear ear rather than utter it aloud for everyone else to hear. I'm nothing if not polite, I say.
At any rate, I became the go to girl for all sorts of sticky social situations. I should mention that our school population was about 98% Caucasian, 1% African American, and 1% Hispanic. I frequently had to remind our kids when we went to football games or field trips that it was unacceptable to make comments about the ethnicity of people we might see. Most of the kids considered seeing someone of another race a novelty and did not mind pointing out at full volume, "Look over there at those black people." I know. I did the best that I could to make them understand that the real world was a much more diverse place than the county they lived in (and that some of them had never been out of).
One of our field trips was a reward trip to the Six Flags amusement park in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex. A young man got on the bus with a shirt that I deemed totally unacceptable for our trip, since I found it deliberatly racially incendiary. He argued with me, I told him he wasn't going anywhere with me in that shirt, he thought I was just uptight, and we finally compromised on a shirt that said "If you don't like rodeo . . .Buck off!"
These kids had lived such a sheltered existence that they didn't understand why there weren't any Baptists in Romeo and Juliet. When I was preparing my seniors to read The Canterbury Tales, I explained to them how Thomas a Becket had been murdered in the cathedral and mentioned something about the Cardinals who helped run the Catholic Church. They actually thought that I was talking about birds. I once made a comment about someone who had used the wrong fork meaning the wrong piece of flatware at one's own place setting, and they thought I was talking about someone who took a fork from the hand of someone else since they had never seen or heard about having more than one fork.
I did a lot of educating that had nothing to do with the content of my courses, but I certainly think I was fulfilling a need. I have to give the kids credit: they were not afraid to ask questions. I mentioned in an earlier post that our football team once played a team from an Episcopalian school. When we got off the bus, one of the football players yelled (never a reason to be discreet), "Hey, Miss, who's that dude in a dress?" I looked around for the nearest transvestite, but had to reply, "Clay, that's not a dude in a dress, he's a priest."
Monday, August 17, 2009
Altitude Sickness and Me
My bff for over 20 years (not to mention the mother of my most precious godson) lives in Colorado Springs. I've been to visit several times over the years, and because of PG will continue to go, perhaps more frequently. I love being with Joy. She may be the only person on earth who completely gets me, and we have never had a fight of any sort. We think that her mom and my dad are cosmic twins since they are both angry, cheap, pessimistic people. I would go see her regardless of where she lived, and CS is truly beautiful, but I do have some complaints:
1. Joy has bighorn sheep that regularly frolic in her yard and on her street. The minute I hit town, these alleged bighorns pack up their badminton sets and picnic gear and head for the hills. Damned sheep should at least appreciate the fact that I'm an Aries!
2. Everyone in Colorado is super healthy. They ride bikes and hike in the mountains and eat organic produce. I don't think there is a Dairy Queen in the entire state. This makes me feel bad about myself, although not bad enough to take any kind of positive action.
3. The altitude sucks! I am a sea level kind of girl. Here are the places I have lived: north and central Texas; Ft. Rucker,Alabama; Edgewater, Florida; Clarksville, Tennessee; Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas; Heidelberg, Germany. You also may be able to guess at my daddy's profession. Anyway, I like low altitudes.
Once, on a trip to Joy's, she and I decided that we would drive to the top of Pike's Peak. I had been to the summit once before with my parents and brother via the cog railway. No problems there. I don't know what the difference was: maybe I was younger and better able to handle it or maybe I knew Tubby was not going to accept altitude sickness. Anyway, off Joy and I went! The night before we had gone to one of her neighbor's houses to watch the Avs in the Stanley Cup playoffs. Our hostess, who bore a striking resemblance to Jamie Lee Curtis, served the best frozen margaritas with a shot of amaretto on top. A big part of altitude sickness is dehydration, and these nifty little drinks did nothing to help me there. Why did I drink them, you might ask. My answer is I didn't want to be an ungrateful guest. Hello, I have manners!
On our ascent, I started to feel queasy and headachey. As is our custom, Joy was jabbering away to me, but instead of happily chattering back, I was answering her in increasingly monosyllabic replies.
Joy: Would you like to stop and take some pictures?
me: no
Joy: (at 10,000 feet) Would you like to stop for some fudge?
me: no
Joy: (at 12, 000 feet) Would you like to stop at the gift shop?
me: (at this point my only goal in life is not to vomit and I have figured out the problem) Just get me the fuck down!
Joy: OK
Silence ensues while Joy indeed gets me the eff down. It was probably the longest silence ever in our years of friendship. Once we were back to a more reasonable 7000 feet, I am completely back to normal and a little hazy on the Pike's Peak details. Thankfully, Joy will never let me forget this incident, and I even received a Christmas ornament with a bighorn demanding to get the f$#@ down.
1. Joy has bighorn sheep that regularly frolic in her yard and on her street. The minute I hit town, these alleged bighorns pack up their badminton sets and picnic gear and head for the hills. Damned sheep should at least appreciate the fact that I'm an Aries!
2. Everyone in Colorado is super healthy. They ride bikes and hike in the mountains and eat organic produce. I don't think there is a Dairy Queen in the entire state. This makes me feel bad about myself, although not bad enough to take any kind of positive action.
3. The altitude sucks! I am a sea level kind of girl. Here are the places I have lived: north and central Texas; Ft. Rucker,Alabama; Edgewater, Florida; Clarksville, Tennessee; Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas; Heidelberg, Germany. You also may be able to guess at my daddy's profession. Anyway, I like low altitudes.
Once, on a trip to Joy's, she and I decided that we would drive to the top of Pike's Peak. I had been to the summit once before with my parents and brother via the cog railway. No problems there. I don't know what the difference was: maybe I was younger and better able to handle it or maybe I knew Tubby was not going to accept altitude sickness. Anyway, off Joy and I went! The night before we had gone to one of her neighbor's houses to watch the Avs in the Stanley Cup playoffs. Our hostess, who bore a striking resemblance to Jamie Lee Curtis, served the best frozen margaritas with a shot of amaretto on top. A big part of altitude sickness is dehydration, and these nifty little drinks did nothing to help me there. Why did I drink them, you might ask. My answer is I didn't want to be an ungrateful guest. Hello, I have manners!
On our ascent, I started to feel queasy and headachey. As is our custom, Joy was jabbering away to me, but instead of happily chattering back, I was answering her in increasingly monosyllabic replies.
Joy: Would you like to stop and take some pictures?
me: no
Joy: (at 10,000 feet) Would you like to stop for some fudge?
me: no
Joy: (at 12, 000 feet) Would you like to stop at the gift shop?
me: (at this point my only goal in life is not to vomit and I have figured out the problem) Just get me the fuck down!
Joy: OK
Silence ensues while Joy indeed gets me the eff down. It was probably the longest silence ever in our years of friendship. Once we were back to a more reasonable 7000 feet, I am completely back to normal and a little hazy on the Pike's Peak details. Thankfully, Joy will never let me forget this incident, and I even received a Christmas ornament with a bighorn demanding to get the f$#@ down.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Tubby
Tubby is what I call my dad. I know it probably sounds disrespectful for me to call him that, but I do and so does my brother. In our defense, he often called himself Tubby, The Little Fat Man, The Irate Fat Man, or when we were teenagers, The Asshole of Ashford Lane. I should mention, also to defend myself, that he has called me Booger for 40 years, so I think I'm entitled.
I'm very proud of my dad. He's an honorably discharged veteran of all four branches of the U.S. military and a highly decorated Vietnam Vet, he waited till he was on solid financial ground before he had kids, he always provided everything we needed and most of what we wanted, and he stressed the importance of education from day one (although he did sit in the car during my high school graduation because "it was hot in that goddamn gym and little fat guys sweat a lot"). For all his outstanding qualities, though, he can be somewhat difficult. He is not now, nor has he ever been, politically correct. He calls it as he sees it, and everyone is entitled to his opinion.
When my brother and I were growing up, Tubby had a cast of characters that served as examples of people not to be emulated. If you were working on a school project that was due the next day, you were Last Minute Louie. Didn't fully wrap the aluminum foil around a leftover? Half Ass Hannah. Not working like you should and you were Jonathan Jack Off. And you certainly were not going to school looking like Joe Shit the Rag Man. When my brother went through Army basic training, he didn't worry much about what the drill instructors had to say. Some of his fellow platoon members were amazed at how the DIs didn't bother him and one day they asked him about it, wanting to know how he kept the DIs from getting to him. My brother's response was, "I heard worse at the dinner table".
For my thirtieth birthday, I decided to get a tatoo. This was something I had wanted to do for a long time, and I got something I think is tasteful in an area that is totally covered by any clothing I choose to wear. For years I had mentioned it and for years Tubby told me I couldn't take the pain and would wuss out, so I was waiting for the right moment to tell him. It turns out my brother, allegedly accidentally, beat me to it. I am so sorry I missed what turned out to be a 20 minute, multi-room fit. It started in the garage where Judas, I mean my brother, broke the news. Tubby then ran into the kitchen and yelled ala Frank Costanza to my stepmother, "Booger has gotten a goddamn tatoo!" My stepmother replies, "I know, I saw it right after she got it". Tubby stalks back to the garage, still muttering about how I have ruined everyone's lives, wears himself out, comes back inside and announces, "there's nothing we can do about it now"! To this my stepmom replies, "I could have told you that 20 minutes ago". (On a side note, do you see why it's easier to tell her things???)
One autumn, I announced that my BFF would be in New York in December for business and she had suggested that since she was flying in a couple of days early we should meet and hang out. This is when she lived in Europe and I hadn't seen her in ages, so I quickly accepted and booked my flight. Here's how that conversation went down:
me: I'm going to New York to meet Joy.
Tubs: Absolutely not.
me: That wasn't a question.
Tubs: You'll get knocked in the head and mugged. What if Joy doesn't show up?
me: I'm not going to get mugged. I'll be careful. Joy will be there and if she isn't, I know how to book a hotel room. I'll just stay near the airport till it's time to come home. Everything will be fine. Try to look on the positive side of things.
Tubs: At least that goddamn tatoo will make it easier to identify your body!
me: That's exactly what I meant when I said to think positively. Thank you, Daddy.
I'm very proud of my dad. He's an honorably discharged veteran of all four branches of the U.S. military and a highly decorated Vietnam Vet, he waited till he was on solid financial ground before he had kids, he always provided everything we needed and most of what we wanted, and he stressed the importance of education from day one (although he did sit in the car during my high school graduation because "it was hot in that goddamn gym and little fat guys sweat a lot"). For all his outstanding qualities, though, he can be somewhat difficult. He is not now, nor has he ever been, politically correct. He calls it as he sees it, and everyone is entitled to his opinion.
When my brother and I were growing up, Tubby had a cast of characters that served as examples of people not to be emulated. If you were working on a school project that was due the next day, you were Last Minute Louie. Didn't fully wrap the aluminum foil around a leftover? Half Ass Hannah. Not working like you should and you were Jonathan Jack Off. And you certainly were not going to school looking like Joe Shit the Rag Man. When my brother went through Army basic training, he didn't worry much about what the drill instructors had to say. Some of his fellow platoon members were amazed at how the DIs didn't bother him and one day they asked him about it, wanting to know how he kept the DIs from getting to him. My brother's response was, "I heard worse at the dinner table".
For my thirtieth birthday, I decided to get a tatoo. This was something I had wanted to do for a long time, and I got something I think is tasteful in an area that is totally covered by any clothing I choose to wear. For years I had mentioned it and for years Tubby told me I couldn't take the pain and would wuss out, so I was waiting for the right moment to tell him. It turns out my brother, allegedly accidentally, beat me to it. I am so sorry I missed what turned out to be a 20 minute, multi-room fit. It started in the garage where Judas, I mean my brother, broke the news. Tubby then ran into the kitchen and yelled ala Frank Costanza to my stepmother, "Booger has gotten a goddamn tatoo!" My stepmother replies, "I know, I saw it right after she got it". Tubby stalks back to the garage, still muttering about how I have ruined everyone's lives, wears himself out, comes back inside and announces, "there's nothing we can do about it now"! To this my stepmom replies, "I could have told you that 20 minutes ago". (On a side note, do you see why it's easier to tell her things???)
One autumn, I announced that my BFF would be in New York in December for business and she had suggested that since she was flying in a couple of days early we should meet and hang out. This is when she lived in Europe and I hadn't seen her in ages, so I quickly accepted and booked my flight. Here's how that conversation went down:
me: I'm going to New York to meet Joy.
Tubs: Absolutely not.
me: That wasn't a question.
Tubs: You'll get knocked in the head and mugged. What if Joy doesn't show up?
me: I'm not going to get mugged. I'll be careful. Joy will be there and if she isn't, I know how to book a hotel room. I'll just stay near the airport till it's time to come home. Everything will be fine. Try to look on the positive side of things.
Tubs: At least that goddamn tatoo will make it easier to identify your body!
me: That's exactly what I meant when I said to think positively. Thank you, Daddy.
Jesus had a Schwin?
My dad was green long before it was popular, not because he gives a damn about the environment, but because he's incredibly cheap. I understand his reasoning to an extent. If you have a finite amount of money coming in every month, it makes sense to try to save money on utilities and sundries. Yes, I'm thankful that I always knew I had a home and enough to eat, but it was kind of exasperating to be yelled at about the fact that "toilet paper consumption in this household is too goddamn high." He went on to say, "We only have X dollars coming in this house each month and we can spend it all on toilet paper or we can buy food." To which I replied, "Actually, Daddy, if you didn't buy the food we wouldn't need the toilet paper." His response, "Shut up, Kimberly!"
He once calculated the amount of water used with each flush of the toilet and came up with a price per flush. He threatened to take money out of our allowances for each flush after the three per day limit. He refused to turn on the air conditioner each year until June 15 (have I mentioned we lived in Texas????). One winter morning during the 80s, he entered my room to wake me up and noticed that all my fingernails were blue. His comment to my mother was, "Maybe I should turn up the heat; I think the girl is dead." When it was later revealed that the blue was due to nail polish, the thermostat went right back to 62 degrees. When my brother's friends came over during the winter months, we would offer to take their coats from them, but they refused since they needed the warmth.
Although Tubby loves Pringles, he refuses to buy them because "you could buy a ten pound sack of potatoes for that." Our family probably went out to eat once a month while I was growing up, and often that was just drive thru hamburgers at the DQ. Hamburgers only, because "I'm not paying for fries, you can eat chips at home!"
As our dad, he also mortified my brother and me with his behavior in public. His embarrassing behavior and his cheapness collided one afternoon at Red Bird Mall in the music store. My then 15 year old brother had saved up to buy a Billy Idol cassette, and since it was a double cassette, it was twice the normal price of $10. When the clerk rang up my brother's purchase, Tubby yelled across the store, "I wouldn't pay that much to watch Jesus Christ ride a bicycle!"
Beyond humiliating for us, but just another day for Tubby!
He once calculated the amount of water used with each flush of the toilet and came up with a price per flush. He threatened to take money out of our allowances for each flush after the three per day limit. He refused to turn on the air conditioner each year until June 15 (have I mentioned we lived in Texas????). One winter morning during the 80s, he entered my room to wake me up and noticed that all my fingernails were blue. His comment to my mother was, "Maybe I should turn up the heat; I think the girl is dead." When it was later revealed that the blue was due to nail polish, the thermostat went right back to 62 degrees. When my brother's friends came over during the winter months, we would offer to take their coats from them, but they refused since they needed the warmth.
Although Tubby loves Pringles, he refuses to buy them because "you could buy a ten pound sack of potatoes for that." Our family probably went out to eat once a month while I was growing up, and often that was just drive thru hamburgers at the DQ. Hamburgers only, because "I'm not paying for fries, you can eat chips at home!"
As our dad, he also mortified my brother and me with his behavior in public. His embarrassing behavior and his cheapness collided one afternoon at Red Bird Mall in the music store. My then 15 year old brother had saved up to buy a Billy Idol cassette, and since it was a double cassette, it was twice the normal price of $10. When the clerk rang up my brother's purchase, Tubby yelled across the store, "I wouldn't pay that much to watch Jesus Christ ride a bicycle!"
Beyond humiliating for us, but just another day for Tubby!
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Adventures in Cheerleading
I have had many jobs in my life, from clown at children's birthday parties at McDonald's (the worst) to best selling author and fabulous celebrity jet setter (total fantasy, but it could happen), but one of the weirdest experiences of my life was when I served as a high school cheerleading coach. Please remember that I live in Texas, and up until this point there have been at least two Lifetime movies made about Texas Cheerleading Scandals!
The school where I worked was very small, and because of that, we played six man football. If you have never seen this, you really should. The field is 40 yards by 80 yards instead of the standard 50x100. A first down is 15 yards instead of 10, an extra point kick is worth 2 points, an extra point run is worth one, and anyone on the team is an eligible receiver. The best part about six man football is the 45 rule, which states that at or after halftime, if either team is up by 45 or more points, the game is over.
During my tenure in this position, I got to work with some exceptional young women and I am truly blessed to have maintained contact with several of them. Great as these ladies were, however, they brought me some very crazy moments.
S. (head cheerleader): Miss, we'd like to do that cheer we learned at camp, "Defense, Defense"
me: Y'all can do that one in a few minutes, but not now.
S.: Why not?
me: We have the ball.
J. (another cheerleader): What about that one called "First and Ten"?
me: If we do that, we will look stupid.
J.: Why?
me: This is six man football, and a first down is fifteen yards.
J.: Oh.
In addition to all this fun, because our school was so small, there usually was not enough money for us to take a bus of our own, and we frequently had to ride with the football team. This was bad for many reasons: 1. I was usually assigned the task of sitting in between the girls and the guys to assure that no one with a y chromosome made it to "no man's land". 2. The bus had to be dead silent on the way to the game because the guys, I mean Warriors, had to concentrate on the game. 3. If our Warriors lost, they had to be silent on the way home to think about why they were losers. 4. The coaches always wanted to stop and feed the team at Pancho's which naturally led to gas emitting contests once we were back on the bus. Although no males were allowed in no man's land, there was just no stopping their aromas.
During my last year there, the unthinkable happened and our school got large enough to move up a classification and play eleven man football. The worst part of it all was that we no longer had the 45 rule, and team after team slaughtered us. One night, we drove two hours one way to get beaten 78-0, and it turns out that was my fault. Since I was not suited up with the team that night, I wondered how this could be my fault. It all got blamed on me because the team we played was from a private Episcopal school, and I was mentally in league with them, weakening our team's efforts. I was unaware of this incredible talent, but thank you, Henry VIII!
The school where I worked was very small, and because of that, we played six man football. If you have never seen this, you really should. The field is 40 yards by 80 yards instead of the standard 50x100. A first down is 15 yards instead of 10, an extra point kick is worth 2 points, an extra point run is worth one, and anyone on the team is an eligible receiver. The best part about six man football is the 45 rule, which states that at or after halftime, if either team is up by 45 or more points, the game is over.
During my tenure in this position, I got to work with some exceptional young women and I am truly blessed to have maintained contact with several of them. Great as these ladies were, however, they brought me some very crazy moments.
S. (head cheerleader): Miss, we'd like to do that cheer we learned at camp, "Defense, Defense"
me: Y'all can do that one in a few minutes, but not now.
S.: Why not?
me: We have the ball.
J. (another cheerleader): What about that one called "First and Ten"?
me: If we do that, we will look stupid.
J.: Why?
me: This is six man football, and a first down is fifteen yards.
J.: Oh.
In addition to all this fun, because our school was so small, there usually was not enough money for us to take a bus of our own, and we frequently had to ride with the football team. This was bad for many reasons: 1. I was usually assigned the task of sitting in between the girls and the guys to assure that no one with a y chromosome made it to "no man's land". 2. The bus had to be dead silent on the way to the game because the guys, I mean Warriors, had to concentrate on the game. 3. If our Warriors lost, they had to be silent on the way home to think about why they were losers. 4. The coaches always wanted to stop and feed the team at Pancho's which naturally led to gas emitting contests once we were back on the bus. Although no males were allowed in no man's land, there was just no stopping their aromas.
During my last year there, the unthinkable happened and our school got large enough to move up a classification and play eleven man football. The worst part of it all was that we no longer had the 45 rule, and team after team slaughtered us. One night, we drove two hours one way to get beaten 78-0, and it turns out that was my fault. Since I was not suited up with the team that night, I wondered how this could be my fault. It all got blamed on me because the team we played was from a private Episcopal school, and I was mentally in league with them, weakening our team's efforts. I was unaware of this incredible talent, but thank you, Henry VIII!
If You Were a Horse. . .
I have been a Texas public school teacher for the last 16 years. It can be an incredibly rewarding career, but frustrating too. The first four years of my career, I worked at a tiny, very poor school district in northeast Texas. Enrollment from preK-12th grade was about 500 kids. The school was in a rural setting, so it was not uncommon for the Agriculture class to castrate pigs or kill chickens or for classes to be temporarily dismissed because someone's steer got loose. Classes were small, everyone knew everyone else, and one of the kids' favorite pastimes was to try to set up their single teacher with any man in sight. At first, it was kind of cute, like when they tried to pimp me out to the guy who made milk deliveries to the cafeteria. It was annoying when the constantly suggested that I get together with one of the two single male teachers on campus, one of whom was totally unsuitable for reasons political, cultural, and religious; and the other who was, unbeknownst to the kids at the time, gay. It got downright embarrassing when they asked a married referee at the basketball game if he would like to go out with me. One of my favorite students offered to set me up with her cousin, as long as it didn't bother me that he had just gotten out of prison. I was open minded enough to ask what he had been in for, hoping for insider trading or something that had left him millions of dollars in a Cayman bank account. I realize this makes me sound bad, but if I was going to date an ex-con, this is the type of crime I could deal with. Anyway, she finally told me that cuz had been in the joint because he was a grave robber and he got caught because he left his name-engraved tools at the crime scene! I politely declined her offer at this point.
One day, R. said he had a question he wanted to ask me, and I stupidly believed that it might have something to do with academics.
me: What's your question?
R.: Do you ever want to have kids?
me: What does this have to do with Poe's use of irony?
R.: Really, Miss, do you want to have kids?
me: I don't know; it's a possibility, but first I would like to be married and settled down.
R.: Well, I'm not trying to be rude. . . (which we all know means rudeness is a comin')
25 year old me: But?
R.: Well, it's just that if you want kids, I think you need to get started, because if you were a horse, you'd be dead!
One day, R. said he had a question he wanted to ask me, and I stupidly believed that it might have something to do with academics.
me: What's your question?
R.: Do you ever want to have kids?
me: What does this have to do with Poe's use of irony?
R.: Really, Miss, do you want to have kids?
me: I don't know; it's a possibility, but first I would like to be married and settled down.
R.: Well, I'm not trying to be rude. . . (which we all know means rudeness is a comin')
25 year old me: But?
R.: Well, it's just that if you want kids, I think you need to get started, because if you were a horse, you'd be dead!
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