Soccer Mom

For those of you just tuning in, allow me to give a bit of background information about myself before I launch into the next tale that is rolling around my ADHD brain.

Husband and I have five children:  mine, his, ours and somebody else’s who we have had the privilege of raising:  Girl – age 26, Boy – age 25, Girl – age 22, Boy – age 16 and Girl – age 9.

Throughout the years, we have experienced every bleacher butt opportunity imaginable.  My personal bleacher butt developed from 20 years of non-exercise as Cheerleader Mom, Football Mom, Baseball Mom, Softball Mom, Gymnastics Mom, Wrestler Mom, Track Mom, Basketball Mom, and Dance Team Mom.  That’s equal to 4,024 hotdogs for dinner with a side of chips, washed down by supersized cups of Dr. Pepper with Reese Cup chasers.

(Are you starting to understand why I’m somewhat of a vegetarian now?)

When last Daughter was born 9 years ago, we had three active middle/high schoolers.  I had the biggest bleacher butt in the world.  The Mrs. World Bleacher Butt title would have been mine if there was such a contest.

I vowed that our sweet little baby would never, ever play sports.  She would be an artist.  She would be an avid reader.  Maybe I would let her dance or cheer, (and she has) but only if there was only one (1) practice per week and no mandatory fund raisers.

So imagine my horror when Daughter’s best friend walked through the front door last week bearing the dreaded news:

Soccer Sign-ups

The very words drained every mid-life fantasy from my veins.  Even Husband’s eyes popped when it hit him our lives could soon to revolve around another sports schedule.

What about the romantic weekend getaways we had planned?  Our glasses of Chardonnay tinkling in front of a roaring fire?  Our leisurely weekends with nothing to do but whatever *we* wanted?

I’ve driven cars full of stinky track shoes and sweaty basketball players and I’ve washed so many jerseys that my washing machine refuses to open.

Have I not sat through enough wind, rain and sleet in one lifetime?

I’ve cheered until I’ve lost my voice.  I’ve worn the t-shirts, hosted the parties and worked the concession stands. I’ve washed enough cars to circle the earth three times.

And I’ve sold enough candy bars, popcorn, cookie dough, candles, sport buttons, sweatshirts and pies to earn a free month in Italy, all expenses paid.  Tell me what I’ve won, Johnny!

Why, you’ve won Soccer Mom, Barbara!  Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Let’s all have a moment of silence that this is not the path Daughter will choose.

And if she does … let the games begin!

 

State Park

Our adventure began when Husband printed three web pages off of the internet about three different state parks, and gave them to me to make the final decision.

I was drying and styling my hair at the time, so he spread the pages on the bathroom counter and I glanced across them. One of them had a bold headline that said, “Fireworks – Activities for Kids – Boat Rentals – Swimming Pool.”

“Ah — swimming pool — our kids will love that, ” I thought. I pointed to it and the decision was made. “Kids, get your swimming suits on,” Husband said.

What I didn’t realize until we were on our way was that this particular park was a two hour drive from our house.

“No problem,” I thought, “the kids will be ready to swim when we get there.”

When we pull into the park two hours later with two hot, hungry, bored kids, the first thing I notice is a huge cement parking lot on the left. It is empty.

It is the parking lot for the pool.

Y’all know what an empty pool parking lot means on a 95-degree day. I look at Husband and he has noticed it too. I am certain he has noticed because a vein has popped out on his neck.

We drive on.

The kids are nagging us to stop so they can get out.

“Let’s explore the park first and see what kinds of cool things they have here,” Husband says.

We drove a couple miles up the road and notice the park is not a foresty park like we expected, with mountains, trails and wildlife, but it is a grassy park with a small lake. After driving about two more miles, I notice houses. Houses?

“Honey,” I say, “we are not in the park anymore. We are in a subdivision.”

We turn around in someone’s driveway and go back into the park.

“Let’s stop at the marina,” I suggest. We will rent a boat and save the day. We walk up to the marina and I survey the dock. There are 10 paddleboats, one canoe and one stinky fishing boat with a motor. I’m thinking we can handle the stinky boat — the kids won’t care as long as we are on the water.

“Do you have boats for rent?” Husband asks the cashier.

“We have a motorboat, but it is not for rent until August 7. We have paddleboats and a canoe though.”

We decide to walk out on the dock and think about this option. It is about 100+ degrees on that dock. I cannot bear the thought of being in a hot paddleboat or a canoe on a lake with no shade with two cranky, hungry and sweaty kids. We pass on the offer.

Then we spot a beach on the other side of the lake. We decide to take our picnic lunch there so the kids can eat and swim. We drive as close as we can to the beach, but there is about a one mile walk to the beach from that point. We unload our chairs, towels, cooler and food, and start walking. The sun is beating down and there is no shade.

On the way there we pass an open chapel where a charismatic church is holding a “meeting” — then I realize it’s not a “meeting,” but the place where the “kids activities” are suppose to be held and the church is sponsoring them. There are no kids there. I think a couple of the elders started praying for our family as we passed. I surmise that no kids are there because no one wants to be healed in order to do the kids activities and we walk on.

Mark kids’ activities off the list.

We get to the beach area and the only shelter is taken, so we walk underneath a big shade tree and sit down to eat … with the chiggers. Then I look at the beach. It is about 1 and 1/2 feet wide and 12 feet long. Dead fish and foam are scattered around the sand. Ew.

In the middle of our lunch, a big wet dog lands on our blanket chased by a girl with black lipstick and a pierced eyebrow. “Do you notice the people look a little different here?” I whisper to Husband. “That girl was a witch!” screams Son. Husband shushes him and tells us we are leaving.

We pack up our stuff and start bickering. I think at that point it was about 115 degrees. Husband and I are lagging behind the kids so they can’t see us mouthing rude obscenities to each other. As we stomp past the chapel, the church people see us and start praying fervently. 

We need it. 

When we get to the car, I smooth out the web site paper and read it again, trying to find something, anything, to save this trip. I read the description under fireworks: “We have a natural fireworks display here with all of the fireflies that live in the park. Sit down in the evening and enjoy the magical firefly display!”

The end.

 

Downtown Sally Brown!

Leaving KnoxVegas to spend the rest of the week learning social media in Chicago. Meeting up with some old friends and planning to meet some new friends. Pretty sure I’ve packed clothes that are too warm with no time to run home between the office, final errands and airport — guess I’ll have to shop when I get to the City — such a sacrifice (-; (Hope BNA still has that quick manicure place!)

 

Testing Twitterfeed!

Just testing my Twitterfeed . . . crossing my fingers that it works.

 

Girl Power

Taking the family to Dollywood (amusement park) tomorrow. Makes me think of when I took my 9-year-old daughter to Six Flags in Atlanta last year. Wasn’t sure how that was going to go because, at that point, I hadn’t been on a roller coaster in about 10 years. I remember telling a co-worker that maybe Daughter would change her mind about hitting all the extreme rides and she replied, “I’ve met your child. She’s not going to change her mind.” No truer words were ever spoken.

So, we spent 8 solid hours on roller coasters. The park wasn’t crowded so I didn’t even get a chance to breathe in between thrill rides.

We did a free fall drop (16 stories) on Acrophobia. Daughter said that she cried on that one but we were falling so fast that the tears “flew right off of my face.” I didn’t do so well on that one either — I opened my mouth to scream when the fall started and nothing came out — I don’t think I was actually breathing until we landed at the bottom. Did this stop us? No!

Girl Power! We rode *every* coaster there.

We rode the Georgia Scorcher roller coaster standing up — oh . . . my . . . gawsh.

We soared like bats out of Hades on the Batman ride — flipping around the track so quickly that there were moments that I didn’t know if we were right side up or upside down.

We rode the Superman coaster — zooming through the air ** belly down ** through a 78 foot pretzel loop at 60 mph — I’m not saying I didn’t almost pee my pants on that one, but it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to flying like a super hero. After that Daughter bought a pink Superman cape at the gift shop and we rode it a second time with our arms stretched out in front of us like we *were* Superman. The Five for Fighting song has a new meaning for me now:

I can’t stand to fly
I’m not that naive
I’m just out to find
The better part of me

I’m more than a bird
I’m more than a plane
I’m more than some pretty face beside a train
And it’s not easy to be me . . .

 

I Don’t Believe in Bloody Mary

I cleaned out the downstairs closet today — the large one under the stairs. Anyone who lives at my house knows this is the closet of horrors. You open it very carefully not knowing what will slide out, and you must close it with more than a firm hand. You also need a good bump of the hip . . . and sometimes a full body slam.

At least that’s what we had to do until today. Now it is a closet with space. One tub of neatly organized beach stuff. One vacuum cleaner. One neatly packaged dvd player for long car trips. Organized coats and hats. A big roomy closet. I could lay down in there now and take a nap, all 5′ 10″ of me.

But I couldn’t do that at night. I’ve always had issues with closets after dusk. For as long as I can remember, I can’t sleep in a dark room when the closet door is open. My youngest child has inherited this phobia because when I tuck her into bed at night she always pleads, “Will you please shut the closet door all the way before you go out?” Actually, I think subconsciously she has picked up how I shudder when I have to approach an open closet at night to push it closed.

I don’t know why I have this strange fear of dark closets, but one of the things that appealed to me when we bought this home is that most of the closets have lights. I checked them out thoroughly before we made an offer to purchase. In the daylight, of course.

I do know that when I was my kid’s age, I didn’t understand the whole “skeletons in the closet” concept. I remember my mom saying that one of her friends had them, and the next time we visited that friend, I stopped on the way to the bathroom and checked her linen closet to see if I could find them. They were not there, and I got caught, because it was a closet that required the full body slam to shut again and I only weighed about 50 pounds at the time. My mom whipped my ass for snooping without even asking me what I was looking for. The nerve of that woman. The entire incident was her fault, so after that I kept right on snooping. Except for in closets.

Maybe I spent too many adolescent slumber parties inside a dark closet chanting “I don’t believe in Bloody Mary” into a hand mirror after a dare. Even though I never saw Bloody Mary, it always scared the piss out of me when one of my friends would come screaming out of the closet insisting that she did. Even though I pretended not to be scared. I wonder why I never got invited to slumber parties where the boys snuck in the bedroom window and the girls hid them in the closet and stepped in for a kiss now and then? If that would have happened, I’d be experienced enough to take my husband into my clean closet tonight for some smoocharoonie.

At any rate, I have closetphobia. Kind of like claustrophobia, I suppose, only with clothes hanging overhead — shirts with arms that hang down until it gets dark enough for them to reach out and grab you.

Now you know. Aren’t you glad you stopped here today?

 

A Million Little Cheez-Its

Doesn’t really bother me that James Frey wrote a book only slightly based on his life and then marketed it as his “true life story.” Do readers not understand how boring true life really is? I just want to say, Oprah, I knew you were wrong when you dissed him on your show, I’m glad you finally apologized. And now, in honor of this moment, is my own only-slightly-based-on-real-life story, A Million Little Cheez-Its. (Oprah, have your people call my people.)

**************************************************

A Million Little Cheez-Its

by Barbara Carr Phillips

The sun streamed through the bedroom window and I found myself waking up on the floor. Again.

Three day Cheez-It binge.

The crumbs were still adhered to the corners of my mouth, causing pain when I frowned, and my navy blue sweater was covered with tiny flecks of orange.

I remembered hallucinating that the good fairy had flown over me and sprinkled me with magical dust. Did she? I licked my sweater to make sure.

No, definitely Cheez-It.

I knew I had to get in the shower. Randy was due home from a business trip any moment, and I didn’t want him calling the family for another intervention.

I got myself cleaned up just in time. Randy walked into the bathroom just as I was drying my hair.

“Hey sweetie.”

“Hey!”

“Um, I thought the house smelled a little cheesy when I walked in.”

“Oh, that, well . . . a couple friends came over last night with cheeseburgers.”

We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, but, luckily he got a phone call and the heat was off.

While I was cleaned up on the outside, my insides were still suffering from the three days before. I’ve done every Cheez-it imaginable: Cheddar and More Cheddar, Cool Ranch, Cheddar, Hot Wings, Cheesy Blue. I even did a special blend that I got from a Cheez-It dealer in Colombia.

Who would have thought that me, the Harvard grad born to a biochemist and his loving Martha Stewart wife would have turned out so rotten. As soon as Randy left the house, I called my dealer, Ronnie.

“Ron, you gotta help me. I need a box of Cheesy Blues. Don’t put it on my debit card because Randy will find out. Just add it to my tab.”

“Barbara, you owe me from last week.”

“Look, buddy, you better send out the Cheesy Blues. You don’t want anything bad happening to your little dog, Toto, do you?”

I didn’t know why I treated Ronnie like this. He was a good, hardworking fellow.

“I’ll do it, but this is the last time.”

I stood by the door waiting for the delivery. I felt fragile, as though my body were made up of a million little Cheez-its. Would I crumble? My hands trembled in anticipation, but I thought maybe this time I could eat just one.

The End.

 

Good Intentions

I had really good intentions of keeping up with this blog, but after I got an iPhone a few months ago, I stopped getting on my personal computer so much. I realized this when I couldn’t remember my password to get on my laptop today. Of course, I’m on my company laptop 8 to 10 hours a day, but I don’t have time to be blogging then!

So, I check Facebook and my Yahoo mail on my tiny little phone screen when I’m out and about (yes, that’s why you get two sentence e-mails from me now, my dear family and friends!) I’ve opened a Twitter account, and in June I’m going up to Chicago for a social media conference where I will learn even more ways to avoid e-mail and blogging and just use social networking tools.

Still, I don’t want to give up my blog! I still want my tiny little voice out there, I’m just not sure what I want to say.

 

What a Croc!

When I checked my e-mail this morning, I discovered that someone had used my debit card to buy $175 in Croc shoes. I knew that charge wasn’t mine because I am a shoe-a-holic, but I have never had Crocs on the wishlist. I don’t care how comfy they are — they’re ugly. So, my day started with cancelling cards, reordering them, changing passwords — ugh! Not how I had planned to start the day.

But, I am recovering! When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping! Anyone have a card I can borrow?

 

Writing for Revenge

Recently, I heard someone on television say, “Don’t do Taylor Swift wrong because she’ll write a song about you.”

I thought that was funny because I have often thought about writing a novel based on the true stories of people who annoy me. I would throw out some possible titles of a book for fun . . . but, as Thomas Moore wrote, “Those who plot the destruction of others often perish in the attempt.”

Still, I’m putting this on my birthday list: