Today Should be an International Holiday

So, the solar eclipse of 2017 here in North Texas sort of resembled a greenish-brown pre-tornado overcast sky.  I was not impressed. Of course, I would have been had I lived in Oregon.  But you know.  I don’t.  I live near Six Flags and Globe Life Park where the Texas Rangers play…oh, and that stupid-looking stadium that looks like the Dallas Cowboy’s Gargantuan White Nipple that can be seen on the horizon from 12-miles away.

The coolest thing about today has NOTHING to do with making solar glasses out of cereal boxes.  MY HIGH SCHOOLERS WENT BACK TO SCHOOL TODAY!!!  I’m enjoying the quiet of my 3 college-age kids and my husband.  I caught up on laundry, made my bed, downloaded some apps onto my computer and took care of some health care stuff online for several of us.  This is HUGE, y’all.  I was only interrupted once to help my husband trim his beard…and then he decided to just shave it all off so I was dismissed back to my solitude of peace, with no having to break up fights about whose turn it is to play on the laptop. WOOOOHOOOOO!

The first day of school should literally be an International Holiday.  And all mom’s who show up at any diner or coffee shop or convenience store with a stupid grin and looking slightly frazzled from getting those students off to school on that first day, should receive a big cup of coffee, tea, or whatever they want for free.

I’m going to live it up for the next hour before they lumber off the bus and raise the decibel levels up in here.  It’s party time.

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The Doctor is In

I’ve known him all my life. And after my dad, he’s the “adult male” that I would turn to for car maintenance advice, a kind word, a belly laugh in the form of some hilarious anecdote that had  happened that week. Uncle Tracy has been a comfortable constant in my life no matter where the Army sent us throughout my childhood.

My cousin, Wendy, was my best friend/pen pal during all that back and forth moving overseas to Texas to Alabama and back overseas, etc. I felt grounded reading her letters and a sense of normalcy writing back to tell her all about my softball season, how much I hated Algebra II, and which boy I had a crush on that week. I always sent love to her parents and she always sent it back to mine. And for us, there was never any awkwardness. Even though she wasn’t a military BRAT like me, we would pick up right where we left off three years before. We’d run out to play on the zip line that Uncle Tracy had built using the tallest trees in the backyard or play basketball or throw pine cones at each other or at night, jump out from behind a fat bush on the side of the road to scare the crap out of teenage drivers who were speeding up the street and then take off running as they slammed on brakes and cussed at us out the open windows.

When I spent a week with them during the Summer Wendy had gotten her learner’s permit, Uncle Tracy earned a new nickname. We were in his pick-up truck. Wendy was driving. We were in the left only turn bay and she was having trouble with the 3-on-the-tree. Uncle Tracy was patiently bellowing directions from the passenger seat. I was the quiet moron in the middle; head turning left then right then left again as the conversation continued across me. After about 4 light changes from red to green and back to red, Wendy was beyond frustrated as the engine choked and died again. Uncle Tracy stated loudly, for the tenth time, “Wendy, you’ve got to put the damn thing in first gear!”

“It IS in first gear!” she shouted back, red-faced.

“Wendy, if this damn truck was in first gear, we’d already be in the driveway by now. Put it in first gear.”

She violently pulled the shift bar from where it was to neutral and then back to where it was. “It IS in first gear, Daddy!” The light turned green again. She let up off the clutch again. The truck jerked forward and died again. The car behind us started honking again as he was too close to go around us like the cars behind him. The light turned red again.

“Wendy, you’re in third gear. Put the truck in first gear!!”

“Daddy, it IS IN FIRST GEAR!” she shouted back.

Uncle Tracy actually yelled this time, “IF THIS TRUCK IS IN FIRST GEAR THEN I’M A GODDAMN BRAIN SURGEON!”

The dumbass in the middle, sensing the tension and trying to show solidarity with her cousin waved and said, “Hiiiiiiiii, Doctor Tracy!”

They were too pissed off at each other to laugh. She finally found first gear and we went home. When we got  back to their house, I figured I should make myself scarce and then I heard my aunt laughing in the kitchen. I went to get a glass of tea and she handed me a tall cup to take to “the good doctor.” She and Wendy howled with laughter.

I handed him his tea and he just looked at me. Then he laughed and said it was in third. I  told him that out of all the pipefitters in the world, he made a fine brain surgeon. He’s been Dr. Tracy ever since.

 

 

My Musical Passions

Taste in music can tell you a lot about a person. I had a friend years ago who was in the Army. He used to roll his eyes at my love of pop music and “candy-ass” dance tunes and country music. We argued about the definition of the word “eclectic” all the time. He swore I had  no taste at all and vowed to teach me about true music and I preached about musical snobbery. The cool thing about our friendship was that we learned so much from our extremes.

Tony had some sort of connection with concert tickets. I still have no idea how he scored so many awesome tickets for us. We saw The Screaming Trees, Mudhoney, The Lemonheads, and several others. We took my little sister to Lollapalooza II in Virginia and danced in the mosh pit with Eddie Vedder, who had been left behind at a gas station when the tour bus pulled out while he was using the bathroom. (He hitch-hiked to the concert.) We got to hear Soundgarden, Temple of the Dog, Pearl Jam, Ice Cube, and so many others. By the time the headlining Red Hot Chili Peppers hit the stage they were so drunk that they sucked. We left after the second song because we barely recognized the songs. They became known to us as the Luke Warm Silly Peckers for a long time after that.

Now I’m in my 40s and my kids are teens. I love that my nearly 15-year old can sing 80s tunes with me in the kitchen while we cook together. I asked him about my taste in music having influenced him yesterday. He said he loves 80s music because it actually IS music. “Come on, Mom,” he said. “Is the ‘Watch Me Whip, Now Watch Me Nae Nae’ crap of today really music?” I just hugged him. I love him. My autistic 19-yr old jams to AC/DC and all I have to do is say, “Show me your horns.”  She raises her forefinger and pinkie on each hand and starts banging her head to “Back in Black.” (But she’s also a huge fan of Michael Jackson and Katy Perry. Go figure.)

I still love 90s Alternative music. But it hasn’t changed my love for country music or Black Sabbath or Aerosmith or Evanescence or Eminem or any of the old school Rap from years ago. I still love the Clash and Husker Du and Adam Ant as much as I love Blondie, Bryan Adams, Rhianna, Dr Dre, and yes, Taylor Swift. I love classical music, opera, anything by George Strait, Prince, and Kelly Clarkson. There are only a few genres or artists that I refuse to listen to. Yanni, Zamfir and his magic (f’ing) pan flute, Hardcore gangsta rap, and Nickelback all leave me wanting to scratch my ears from my own head and toss them into a river. Is that an extreme reaction? Probably. But like I said, I’m pretty passionate about music.

 

 

At Least She’s Polite

My daughter’s teachers are amazing. I cannot sing their praises enough. And my daughter LOVES them, even though there are days when the Autism-induced frustration comes flying out of her mouth in a Tourette’s Syndrome style of four-lettered words.

Her math teacher, Ms Scott, is kind of new. She started last year. She and Randa hit it off. Ms Scott mentioned that Randa never said anything bad to her like she had to all of the other teachers. Perhaps Randa was allowing the new to wear off.

Last semester I was talking with several of Randa’s teachers while the kids were at lunch. One laughed as she recalled the day that Randa said hello to her and then called her “stupid bitch” while throwing a finger at her. The teacher had said, “Randa! What did you say?” And Randa immediately dropped the middle finger and gave her a thumbs up instead and said, “Stupid fish?”

Another teacher told of a fond memory where Randa plopped down next to her at a table and said, “Ms Miller, why do you have to be such a son of a bitch?” To which Ms Miller replied, “That’s just how I roll.”

There were a few other stories and we all laughed, my laugh more of a nervous reaction to my concern that I’m never going to get put in for that Mother of the Year Award due to the stellar example I’ve set for my AU kid. Ms Scott admitted that she’d finally been admitted to the Randa-Cussed-Me-Out Club.

She’d told Randa to get her work and sit down at her table when Randa looked at her and said, “Shut the fuck up, Ms Scott.” Ms Scott calmly told Randa, “I think you can find a nicer way to say that, Randa.” Randa didn’t bat an eye.

“Shut the fuck up, please.”

We died laughing.