This Isn't Texas

In 2015, I met an incredible man-online.   He was everything I wanted in a partner, except for the fact that I lived in Texas and he in Florida.  He flew out, and then I did, and so on, until I decided to move to Florida in December 2016. 

I packed up my worldly goods and loaded them in a rental truck, and M flew in to drive me to my new home in the Sunshine State.  We were delayed by his lost luggage (thanks, United), but got underway on a Sunday evening.  After driving for a few hours (me leading in my car; him following in the rental truck), we stopped for the night, still in Texas.  

The next morning, we left early and made the obligatory stops at Bucee’s and Whataburger and crossed the Sabine River before noon.  Firmly ensconced in Louisiana, it was time for a gas stop.  At this point I was still leading, and I took an exit for a gas station.  Accustomed to the Lone Star State, I exited and went through the stop sign, intending to turn into the gas station, but there was no entrance and I was forced back onto the interstate.  A few miles later, I successfully entered a gas station and M began to tease me about missing the previous stop.  I told him there was no way to get to the gas station from the access road.  He informed me, “this isn’t Texas,” to which I replied with a quizzical head tilt.  He continued, “You can’t turn into the gas station from the on-ramp.  There aren’t access roads here, although they are brilliant urban planning.”  And I’ll be damned, he’s right about that.  Apparently access roads are exclusive to Texas, because I haven’t seen any since.

M continues to remind me that I’m not in Texas anymore, like when I want to burn the leaf pile in the front yard or shoot the pesky armadillo who is uprooting my lilies.  On my first day at my new school, I was surprised to learn that the kids in Florida don’t recite the pledge to the Texas flag.  The other day, I asked him why the closest convenience store doesn’t have Blue Bell ice cream, and his (slightly snarky) reply was, “This isn’t Texas.”

Crazy People

Sometimes I wonder if there is something inherently wrong with me because I seem to witness a lot of apeshit behavior in public.  Maybe I'm on the lookout for weirdness so I can have more material, and maybe there are really just a lot of unusual people in the world.  For instance, the other day at church, a man very audibly trimmed his fingernails during the sermon!  I find that really strange.

Another case in point is a woman at the Colorado Springs airport this summer.  I had been in CO to visit my dear friend and her two gorgeous boys, aged 4 and 2.  More on them later.  At the end of my visit, they dropped me off at the airport and I proceeded to the security screening.  I'm not a expert traveler, but I've been through enough airports to know the drill.  I'm getting scanned and waiting for my carry on to make it down the conveyer belt, when I hear the beginnings of a ruckus in the line across from me.

A woman in her mid to late 40s is bawling.  She has just been selected for a random pat down and she is not happy.  Now, I don't particularly care for this either, but if you want to get on the plane, you have to get with the damn program.  The very polite female TSA person is giving her the play by play about everything before she does it.  She says, "I'm going to pat the outsides of your legs" and proceeds to do so.  The woman lets out a shriek that would make a banshee proud at the touch of a hand to the outside of her knee.  Her knee!  I suppose, in this woman's defense, that she may have suffered some trauma in the past to make her behave this way, but my suspicion is that she is just nucking futs!  I realize that sounds a bit judgmental, but really, her knee?  My hunch is confirmed, however, very quickly.  In between sobs, she blubbers, "My poor daughter is over there waiting.  ALL BY HERSELF!  I need to go to her!"  I turn around, expecting to see a toddler, but no, I see a college aged woman turning red and shaking her head.  I, of course, silently applaud myself for my incredible insight and head to my gate to wait for my flight.

Sons of Anarchy

Besides Hawaii, another completely badass thing that has happened in my life is the television program Sons of Anarchy.  Best.Show.Ever.  The cast is amazing and the writing is perfect.  It's a show that keeps you guessing and has you loving and hating the characters.  Katey Sagal is a Machiavellian dream as Gemma, the matriarch of this motorcycle club.  She is the Wendy to a lot of adorably fucked up Lost Boys and it is a pleasure to watch.  Over the summer, I got to attend a motorcycle event at Cowboy Harley Davidson in Austin.  While there, we also got to meet two cast members, Mark Boone, Jr and Tommy Flanagan.  I would like to think I was cool, but I was as giddy as I could be.

The show is greatness, but the work the cast and crew do to support our veterans wins my heart all over again.  Check out the show then follow cast members on Facebook or Twitter to see all the great things they are involved with!

Here are my pics with Tommy, aka Chibs and Mark, aka Bobby.  They were absolutely adorable!

Happy Father's Day

To the dads in my friends and family-Happy Father's Day. You have a very tough job. I called Tubby today to give him my wishes, and we had a pretty good conversation. Despite everything I've ever said about him, I love Tubby fiercely and wouldn't trade him for any other dad. It may have been tough at times, but I'm thankful that I wasn't brought up in some candy ass operation and my brother and I are both productive members of society. We don't think the world owes us anything so we have realistic expectations. Thank you, Tubby for making us strong and loving us enough not to be a friend but a parent.

Good Night, Sweet Prince

Normally with my blogs, I try to be funny, but tonight I'm taking a serious tone because one of my former students is being buried tomorrow. He, at age 18, was killed in a car accident early Friday morning while on his way back from Austin with a group of friends. His death and the deaths of other students of mine are the reason for this blog.

Youth does not equal invincibility, though you may think otherwise. Please, please, please think before you act. If your mother or English teacher would not think something is a good idea, don't do it. The people who love you (including those teachers) want you in this world for a long time.

Thank you Byron, Joe, Joseph, Siobahn, and Jamie for allowing me to get to know you.

Rest in peace.

Tubby and the Y2K

The latter part of 2009 marked the 10th anniversary of Tubby's Y2K paranoia/preparations. I don't think anyone on the planet, at least in his income bracket, was more ready for this disaster than Tubs. He started gathering items early in 1999, and by the time December rolled around, he had the following: 50 pounds of pinto beans, 50 pounds of rice, several five gallon jars of jalapeno peppers, numerous cans of propane, a pantry full of canned goods, 100 two liter bottles of Pepsi, a generator and six 55 gallon barrels filled with either water or gas. Clearly, he was prepared for the worst.

It was during this time that I began to get phone calls like this:
Tubby: Hey, Booger, do you have enough tampons to get through this Y2K thing? This is your dad.
me: Since you are the only one who calls me Booger, I kind of guessed who you were.
Tubby: Fine, smartass! If you need the tampons, I'm going to the commissary. Make me a list.

Calls like this continued, and unsolicited gifts began to accumulate. He gave me an oil lantern, the aforementioned tampons, a propane camping stove, and, the gift that keeps on giving, 12 gauge shells.

Tubby just knew that at the stroke of midnight, the power was going to go out and he would be under siege by looters wanting his ten year old television and other appliances. I pointed out that if the power was out, the looters might not want things that had to be plugged in, but apparently I was just not being a team player.

The best call came on December 31, 1999.
Tubs: I wish you and your brother would come over here tonight.
me: Daddy, that's so sweet. You want us all to be together if this is really the end.
Tubs: No, I just want a two more shooters to protect my stuff.
me: Oh.

My brother and I declined that amazing offer and instead watched the new year ring in peacefully from the comfort of my living room. We laughed till we hurt at the thought of Tubby being pissed off about not getting to protect his crap from the hordes of looters. To this day, I think he is still mad that he was wrong about the whole thing. He had to get rid of his stash, part of which was useful. Hubs and I used the propane to power our grill for quite a while, but I still have an unopened 5 gallon jar of jalapenos in my garage.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday for several reasons, not the least of which are that it's totally ok to be a glutton and the Cowboys are on. On a deeper level, though, I appreciate the reminder to count my blessings. I think I'm pretty good about gratitude, but having a day devoted to it is wonderful. So, in no particular order (because if you want that, read the blog of someone who is concrete sequential rather than abstract random), here are some things for which I am eternally and tremendously thankful:

1. Caller ID: I love not having to answer telemarketing calls.
3. Sunscreen: I love the sun and swimming, but with skin that is more pale than the bottoms of most people's feet, high SPF is a must!
4. Amazing friends and family: Knowing such a diverse group of people is a privilege and I cannot begin to describe the positive impact they have on my life. From shoe shopping to stock making to football watching to coffee shop venting, they make every day better.
5. Great job: My job can be stressful, but the kids make me laugh every day and it is very satisfying to know that I've played even a small part in their eventual successes. Also, they provide me with endless material for blogs. I've also been blessed with fabulous co-workers who don't seem to mind my occasional irreverence.
7. Tubby: Sure he's difficult on a good day and full of gloom and doom, but he's my dad and I love him, even when he starts conversations with "Now, what's wrong with you is. . .".
8. My most precious godson: He's the first person I loved before I met. How could I not love someone who was created by two of the finest people on the planet? He's the most beautiful, brilliant 11 1/2 month old ever, and he tells me that he will be attending college in Texas.
9. A car that allows me to play my Ipod through the factory installed sound system.
10. Junior League: No where else would I have been able to meet such a diverse, dynamic group of women! This organization makes me so proud and also humbled.

Tragedy

I have debated myself over whether or not to post this blog. I am disgusted and saddened by Thursday's events at Ft. Hood. The United States Army has been part of my life since my dad enlisted when I was three months old. I married a soldier, who is now retired, and it is fair to say that at times I have been unhappy with the Army, but I have also received numerous benefits, both tangible and not, from this association. I tend to be irreverent and snarky, but I am also fiercely patriotic and proud of this country and our service men and women. For whatever reason, they have chosen to put their lives on the line for our freedoms and neither they, nor the civilian workers present, deserved the cowardly attack they were subjected to. I don't want this blog to be about Hasan except to say that I believe he will have his day in court and justice (at least the earthly Uniform Code of Military Justice kind) will be served. What happens to him in the hereafter is, of course, left to much higher authority. In the days and weeks to come, I know we will learn more about the shooter and his motives, but I wanted to write this blog about the media and the frustrations I have with the members of the Fourth Estate.


1. When someone in the military reports that the shooter has been "neutralized" this does not mean his pH has been restored to 7 (thanks to NNG for that one). Please don't wonder aloud on the air what that means. It means "he is no longer shooting people because we have stopped him from doing that by whatever means necessary".

2. The phrase "whatever means necessary", Newspeople, leads me to my second frustration. I know initial reports from the post indicated the shooter was dead, but was it really prudent to lament this fact, saying "Now we may never know a motive."? Honestly, knowing a motive is not nearly as important to me as saving lives, and if you kill the perpetrator in the process of saving innocent people, so be it. Please do not act disappointed that the murderous traitor may have been harmed.

3. A three star general dealing with a massacre on his post should never be approached as if he is an actor on Oscar night. This person is dealing with issues and logistics most of us cannot imagine and he doesn't have time to chat. When he says he'll take one more question or that he will not comment on a motive, he means it. Don't act like he's part of a conspiracy to keep information from you, Woodward.

4. If you are going to persist in live interviews with random idiots who have nothing to add and just want to be on tv, could you please put the following as the identifier under their faces on the screen: Miscellaneous Dipshit. That way, we all know that this person has nothing credible to add and we can ignore their ramblings and speculation. You might also apply this idea to your natural disaster coverage as well.

5. Please stop insulting our soldiers, even though you are doing it inadvertently. Yes, non wounded and wounded service members rendered first aid to those more hurt than themselves, even if they were putting themselves in harm's way to do so. Understand that this is what they are trained to do and this is what they have always done. When you respond to this fact with incredulity, you imply they did something above and beyond, and I understand that would be true in the civilian world. But in the military, what they did is standard, which is why our soldiers deserve much more respect than they get.

Brain Surgeons

In a recent blog, I wrote about a former colleague who was allegedly remembered by a student who had been in a coma for years. This same colleague brings to mind another story. . .

Please keep in mind that I realize public education is flawed. I am acutely aware of this fact, but I am also aware of the fact that no other country attempts to do what we do on such an inclusive level. In many ways, I envy the German school system, but I admire our (sometimes misguided) heart. We really do try to find a way to educate every child in this country to whatever capacity he or she is able to be educated.

This brings me to my un-esteemed colleague. One year when we arrived back to school, she was severely disappointed with her schedule. It seems, that in addition to her upper level and Advanced Placement classes, she was expected to teach a couple of sections of "regular" kids. This, apparently, just would not do! She marched herself into the assistant principal's office and informed him that she was not suited to teach the regular kids (known to her as the dregs of society) because that would be like "asking a brain surgeon to work on feet." Despite her pleas, she did have to teach the feet, although I wouldn't call it teaching. Her best effort and attention went to her AP classes, and the other kids got mere crumbs.

I have a lot of problems with this. 1. I've seen her teach; she's no brain surgeon. 2. All kids should be treated like they can learn because they can. 3. I'm glad she likes the AP kids and I'm in favor of the AP program, but we have way more "feet" than we do AP kids, and the feet pay the bills and allow her to be employed. 4. Many teachers, and she is certainly one of them, who teach AP or gifted kids think that they are gifted by association, and that's bullshit. It's hard to teach gifted kids, but it is just as hard or harder to teach regular and special needs kids.

I love the feet! Not to take anything away from a gifted kid, but I love the kids who are maybe not as naturally endowed but still have intellectual curiosity. I like the average kid who is a hard worker. I like the kid who doesn't kiss my ass for a grade. I like the smart ass.

God bless the feet! And pardon the diatribe!

Family Tradition, Tubby Style

I always get a little uncomfortable when people start talking about their family traditions. On almost any other subject, I have something to share, but when it comes to this, I'm at a loss. My family simply doesn't do tradition.

For those of you who haven't read my posts about my dad, let me introduce you to Tubby. Tubby, these nice people read my blog, and they seem to like me, I mean really like me. "Goddamn it, why are you putting stuff about yourself on the internet? Haven't I told you a thousand times not to do crap like this? When I die, your brother is going to get the money and he will hold it for you until you prove yourself responsible enough to handle it! Have you gotten another goddamn dog? I guess it's nice to have money to burn on those vet bills, Mrs. Got rocks."

That, readers, is my father. Here is an exchange from my childhood. I am 7 or 8 at the time.

Tubs: Do you think anyone in this world outside of this house gives a shit whether you live or die?
me: My teacher?
Tubs: Wrong! No one cares. Did you know that there are people in this world who will hurt you just for the fun of it?
me: No.
Tubs: Quit living in a dream world! Do I need to build you a sandbox?
me: No.
Tubs: Fine!

Not surprisingly, this man did not participate in any of the kind of ritual that I see other families enjoy. Special Thanksgiving meal? Not us. We made a trip to Wyatt's Cafeteria because Tubs doesn't like leftovers. Christmas carols? Nope. The Christmas tree could go up no sooner than 2 weeks before the big day and had to be down and stored (in a box labeled "X-Mas Shit") on December 26.

The closest thing we have to a tradition (aside from inappropriate drinking, which I'm not gonna lie, does help you deal with Tubs) is the New Year's Call. My brother and I started this when we were in our 20s, and admittedly, it's a really stupid thing to do. Each January 1st at midnight, my brother and I would call our dad, wait for him to answer, then hang up. We found such hilarity with this that we continued it for years, taking turns on the years we weren't together. The best part was this line from Tubby, "No matter where I live, some drunk asshole calls me on New Year's Eve and hangs up!" To this day, I don't think he knows that his kids are the drunk assholes!

My Platform (and I'm not talking shoes!)

I'm way too much of a slacker to seek or hold public office, but if I did, here is my platform:

1. Whatever consenting adults do in private is their business, not mine. The key words are consenting and adults, Roman Polanski. I realize the crime took place over thirty years ago, but so did his bail jumping. By the way, don't you just love the Hollywood embrace of this man? Really, Madonna? Is it ok with you if someone gives your teenage daughter champagne and a Quaalude and rapes her? What if he's made some good movies, would that make it better? And Woody Allen is publicly siding with him?! Perfect!

2. If you chose to go to Wal Mart (or anywhere, really, I just think that WM has the highest incidence of this kind of thing) with your baby, please clothe him or her. I never want to see another diaper only-clad infant or toddler in public. As I have said before, I really have nothing against every day low prices, but I have a big problem with the kid throwing poo out of his diaper on Aisle 5!

3. I'm sorry if this one is offensive, but if you don't like it, please feel free to spend 17 years in the public school system before you criticize. Everyone will be chemically sterilized sometime in early junior high school. When individuals prove themselves emotionally and financially stable, their reproductivity will be restored. If you have a baby on the government's dime, the government will give that baby to someone who is more responsible but can't have children.

4. Speaking of education, we need to get back to basics and stop all of the touchy-feely nonsense that plagues our system now. When a kid fails a class despite all opportunities, it is not the fault of the teacher. Kids who refuse to make adequate progress will be put into residential boot camp until their grades improve. If their grades don't improve, they will augment their lessons with Adopt a Highway cleanup. We need to worry less about hurting feelings and more about preparing students for the real world.

5. Everyone has to take responsibility for his or her actions. Let's quit blaming everyone else for our problems. Ben and Jerry (or Tom and Jerry) are not responsible for my high triglycerides. That's on me. Might I add, after years of viewing Tom and Jerry cartoons, I never once hit my brother in the head with a frying pan.

6. If the shoe fits, buy one in every color! Ok, I made it about shoes after all!

Childless by Choice

Let me start off by saying that I love kids. I've been a teacher for 17 years, I genuinely enjoy my friends' kids, and I absolutely adore my Very Precious Godson! Despite all this, however, I have never wanted kids of my own.

I must either be a genius with birth control or barren, and I'm ok either way. I've never even had a real pregnancy scare. A couple of years ago, a very dear (but evil) co-worker made me think I might be pregnant because I was a day late and nauseated. All day I thought about how I was carrying another Damien, so I stopped at the drug store on the way home to purchase two pregnancy tests. When my husband got home, I was in the middle of test one. He asked me what I was doing and I replied, "Mary says I'm pregnant so I'm peeing on a stick to see if I have Satan's child in me." He seemed perplexed, and I continued explaining myself while I waited for the results. "I'm late and Mary thinks I'm pregnant, so I'm taking a test. What if I'm pregnant?" His way too calm response was, "Maybe if, despite our efforts to the contrary, you are pregnant, we should take it as a sign from God." My response, "Or the devil." (I'm nothing if not optimistic!) I was lying on the sofa feeling my abdomen and told my husband I felt a hoof. He, for some inexplicable reason, thought I was crazy and told me so. I said, "Did you hear that A.C. (anti-Christ), Daddy doesn't love me and I'm a single parent." About that time, the timer buzzed, and we went to check the test, which was, of course, negative. Just to be safe, I took the other one the next morning and it was negative too.

I know that some people are suspicious of this decision, and it puts me forever out of the Mommy Club, but my biological clock has just never demanded my attention. The other day, a 16 year old student of mine who is pregnant for the second time started asking me questions about pregnancy.

Kid: My back hurts and I'm tired. Is that normal?
Me: I don't know. I've never been pregnant.
Kid: What??!! On purpose???? How old are you?
Me: Yes, on purpose, and I'm 40.
Kid: Wow!

So, I know I'm being judged by society in general and one particular idiot specifically, but I have made the choice that's best for me, and I'm happy with it!

Endangered Species

I love being a teacher, and, I'm not going to lie, I particularly love it during the summer time. Since I tend to see the humor in everything (even when others don't), I think I'm very well suited to working with teenagers.

I'm certainly not one of those "miracle" teachers who have Lifetime movies made about them. One of my former colleagues thought herself the miracle type. In fact, she once taught a sophomore in San Antonio who had severe attendance problems and she took it upon herself to visit him at home to try to get him to attend school (you'd have to know this woman, and some of you do key words: San Antonio, to realize that this story is total BS). Anyway, the kid was in a really bad motorcycle wreck and was in a coma for three or four years. When he got out, he had total amnesia, but when he ran into her at the mall one day, he walked up to her and said, "I have total amnesia, but I remember that you were my history teacher and you changed my life." This same colleague was once very concerned that the children were outside sitting on a big green plastic thing that had "high voltage" written all over it. My response to her was, "Look on the bright side, maybe the electricity will render their dumb asses sterile before that DNA gets in the gene pool." I, apparently, am insensitive.

Ok, I don't have a coma story (and I also don't just make shit up to try to impress people with how much my students love me). Some kids think I'm great, and others don't. I'm ok with that. I'm also ok with the fact that the kids who like me are a little on the thuggy side, although I've had to talk them out of "taking care" of someone on more than one occasion.

Here is an example of how my kids try to help me out. One day right before lunch, I got my purse out of the cabinet for my lunch money. The bag was a fabulous pink croco number, and one of the girls said she really liked it. My response was, "Thank you; they killed the last pink alligator in captivity to make it for me." Everyone chuckles, except one kid. He stays back behind the others to tell me, "Miss, I don't think you should tell anyone else about your bag. It could get you in trouble, being from an endangered species and all." I'd trade that kind of concern for fake coma boy any day!

All My Children

I really love teaching, and I love my new job at which I am working with at risk kids to help them graduate. This profession has brought me incredible highs and unfathomable lows over the last 16 years. The following kids didn't know they were auditioning for a spot in a future blog, but here are some of my favorite conversations.

Me: If you click on the link provided, you can see the house where Shakespeare was born.
Kid: Wait a minute! They had color back then?

Me: Does anyone have any questions about what we've covered so far with Romeo and Juliet?
Kid: Where do the New England Patriots play their home games? Is New England a state?

Me: Elvis Presley was a twin.
Kid: With who?

Kid: Miss, do you know what ship will never sink?
Me: No, which one?
Kid: Our friendship!

Me: Name a state that stayed with the Union in the Civil War.
Kid: What side was Colonel Sanders on?

Me: We have an exchange student from Kazakhstan.
Kid: Does he know Borat?
Me: Borat is not a real person, but a creation of the actor Sascha Baron Cohen.
Kid: No, he's real. I saw him on tv.

Kid: If the NFL tries to draft you, can you go to Canada?

Kid: How can Susie (a sophomore at the time) be having a baby? She's not married.
Me: Ask your mother.

Kid: What if Susie goes into labor at the pep rally?
Other Kid: Then Coach R. will deliver the baby; it's his gym.
Third Kid: All he knows how to do is tape stuff up.

We've Got One of Those In Here

I've been in public education for 16 years, and for 10 of them, I taught freshman English. When I left the freshman hallway, I felt like I had escaped a cult. I loved being with them while I was there, but six weeks into teaching juniors, there was no going back for me!

One year, I had a class of 20 boys and three girls. This was a difficult class to manage because the boys were rowdy and the girls were rotten due to all the attention they were getting. It was close to Halloween, so I decided we would read a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, "The Cask of Amontillado". The class was particularly giggly and restless, and although I thought I might know why, I decided to ask a couple of kids what had been so entertaining.

I kept F.(one of the three girls) and T. (a nice but perpetually confused kid) after class to see what the problem had been.

Me: I noticed that the class was especially silly today. Do you know why?
F.: Yes.
T.: (looking sheepish) Uh huh.
Me: What was it?
F.: I'm not sure I should tell you.
T.: It's really gross, Miss. You've probably never even heard of it. (this still cracks me up; he thought I was too pure to know about the more unseemly aspects of life!)
Me: It's ok; you can tell me.
F.: We were laughing because B. was jacking off. (I knew I could count on her for an honest answer!)
Me: Ok.

So I told my principal about the incident, and he had the counselor call the kid's mom. I thought it would be an isolated incident, perhaps he just had a really special affinity for Poe or something, and to my knowledge, he never did. He didn't have to though. That day in October, he branded himself with those other kids for the rest of the year. In the spring, the class pyromaniac noticed smoke outside the window and asked if he could go outside. I said, "It's not a fire, just dust being stirred up." He asked for more information, and I told him, "There's a weed whacker outside." His response was, "Hey, we've got one of those in here too!"

Great Ball Handling-On and Off the Field!

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."

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.

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."

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.

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.