Me: "What are you doing?"
Ron: "Getting ready to go get my hair cut."
Me: "Right now?"
Ron: "Yeah. Why?"
Me: "Let's go play golf."
Ron: "Golf? I can't. I have to get my hair cut. It's like a week overdue."
Me: "Oh yeah. It's at least an inch all over. Come on. You can get your hair cut later. I really want to play."
Ron: "You can't just get up and decide you want to play golf. You have to plan ahead. You have to make a tee time."
Me: "But I didn't know I wanted to play until a just few minutes ago."
Ron: "And God knows I'm only here to cater to your every whim, but I have to get my hair cut at nine o'clock. I could call out there and try to get us on at ten thirty. We could play nine holes."
Me: (with a deep, audible sigh) "No. I wanted to play now. I'll probably never ever want to play again."
Ron: "Good thing you're not dramatic."
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
It Happened On The Bus
It was several lifetimes ago, when I was a sophomore in high school, that my Latin class came to Knoxville for a J.C.L. (Junior Classical League) convention. It actually turned out to be more like the Highland Games than a convention, Roman-style of course, which none of us had prepared or, more importantly, dressed for, so we spent our day sitting in the bleachers overlooking the football field at Webb School, sweltering in the sun. After all, it was a school activity; therefore, we were forced to wear school clothes, and by school clothes I mean no shorts and no jeans. God forbid that we could relax and enjoy ourselves, even though it was on a Saturday and was supposed to be "for fun." While the other schools showed up ready to play, we looked like a bunch of misfits who were allergic to fun. I mean, Christ almighty, I had on brand new shoes and my favorite skirt and sweater, so I wasn't going near any dirt. And I'm pretty sure our Latin teacher had failed to read the details on the convention agenda sheet. She, too, was over-dressed for the occasion, in her polyester suit and patent leather high heels. Seriously. There wasn't a shade tree on that campus back then. When we finally boarded the bus for home, we all looked and smelled like wet dogs. No worry about couples making out in the back of the bus. Nobody wanted to get near each other.
But something did happen on that drive home that has stuck with me for...well, forever. The boys - Eddie and Steve and Larry - started this thing where they were making all the girls' names into something "dirty". Of course my name was an easy target - Phyllis became Syphilis. And so it stuck. From that day forward, they called me "S" (they shortened it) and later, "the Big S". Now you'd think I would have hated such an offensive nickname, but I didn't. I laughed about it. They thought they were clever and because I appreciated their humor, I became part of their group. Those very guys became my best friends and my support system throughout high school, and I became "The Big S" to everyone - girls and guys and parents, who had no idea why they were calling me "The Big S".
And those guys? Well, one of them took me to the jr. prom, one of them was my graduation/class-night partner and one of them took me to my first UT football game.
I have to think that on the ride home on the bus that night, if I had reacted in any other way, things would have been very different for me. And I would have missed out on some of the best friends and best times of my life.
Just recently when I found myself at a funeral of a high school friend, and after the service I was standing alone in a long line to speak to the family, I heard a familiar voice booming out over all others.
"It's The Big S!"
And there they were - Eddie and Steve and Larry - still my friends, still as happy to see me as I was to see them, and still calling me the name that started it all.
But something did happen on that drive home that has stuck with me for...well, forever. The boys - Eddie and Steve and Larry - started this thing where they were making all the girls' names into something "dirty". Of course my name was an easy target - Phyllis became Syphilis. And so it stuck. From that day forward, they called me "S" (they shortened it) and later, "the Big S". Now you'd think I would have hated such an offensive nickname, but I didn't. I laughed about it. They thought they were clever and because I appreciated their humor, I became part of their group. Those very guys became my best friends and my support system throughout high school, and I became "The Big S" to everyone - girls and guys and parents, who had no idea why they were calling me "The Big S".
And those guys? Well, one of them took me to the jr. prom, one of them was my graduation/class-night partner and one of them took me to my first UT football game.
I have to think that on the ride home on the bus that night, if I had reacted in any other way, things would have been very different for me. And I would have missed out on some of the best friends and best times of my life.
Just recently when I found myself at a funeral of a high school friend, and after the service I was standing alone in a long line to speak to the family, I heard a familiar voice booming out over all others.
"It's The Big S!"
And there they were - Eddie and Steve and Larry - still my friends, still as happy to see me as I was to see them, and still calling me the name that started it all.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Horse Sense
Few things in life are better than a cool breeze coming through the open window on a morning when the sun is shining and the birds are singing. Of course the birds are occasionally drowned out by the sound of the lawn mower. Ron's hard at it this a.m., trying to beat the heat. I think I may have mentioned before that Ron makes no distinction between his presentable golf clothes and his shabbier work-around-the-house clothes. Grass stains be damned! He just doesn't get it and I'm over trying to enlighten him. You can lead a horse to water but you can't keep him from peeing in it.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Lodge
When we were growing up DaddyDearest was a card-carrying member of the Bristol, Tennessee chapter of BPOE, better known as the Elks. Mind you, he was no ordinary member. He was as devoted a lodge member as any loyal wapiti that was ever admitted into its benevolent arms. Mainly, though, I think it's where he went to get away. I'm not sure what specifically he was so intent on getting away from; be it the house full of neglected children or the dysfunctional marriage, it really didn't matter. We all grew to loathe the Elks as much as he grew to love it. As soon as he left work in the afternoon, he'd stop by the house to pick up his mail, then head downtown to his home away from home, where he'd usually stay until midnight. If we needed him for anything, we knew where to reach him. Like when MommyDearest went to night school and we were left in charge.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"What's up?"
"Someone's trying to break in and we're here by ourselves."
"Where's the warden?"
"She had class tonight."
"Are they still there?"
"I don't think so. Whoever it was ran away when I started screaming."
"Okay, well call me back if anything else happens."
Or, like the time Priscilla "ran away from home."
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"What's up?"
"Priscilla's gone. I think she ran away. She may be pregnant."
"How do you know she ran away?" (No reference to the possible pregnancy)
"Her stuff is gone and she didn't come home after class today."
"Okay. Well, if she doesn't show up in a couple of hours, call me back."
Over the years he held every office in his Elks chapter, culminating in the highest of all, the Exalted Ruler, which his offspring so lovingly referred to as the Exhausted Rooster.
The only time we kids ever saw the inside of the Elks Lodge was for the occasional Friday night family bingo events. The stage in the big room would be littered with toys, and if you bingo-ed (and everyone did), you got to run up and pick the one you wanted. It was how the hard-core (i.e. absentee parent) members assuaged their guilty consciences. I once scored a fabulous erector set that gave me literally minutes of fun.
The real fun actually started when the bingo was over and all the other families went home. Except for us and our friend, Sandy. We had daddies who weren't about to let the presence of their kids interfere with their usual routine: staying in the "Gay Nineties Room" (their cleverly disguised name for the drinking hole) until it closed, sometime after 1 a.m. We found ourselves a key position just across the hall from the entrance to the "Room". We were perched in a window seat in an otherwise dark and scary, empty (except for a couple of wheel chairs) room in the old Elks building, our only goal in life - to be where we could see the huge picture of the naked woman hanging over the bar when the bar doors swung open. It was scandalous! As the crowd thinned, we'd steal a glance every few minutes, and in between, we'd entertain ourselves with scary stories, as if the room we were in wasn't scary enough. Our daddy and Sandy's daddy were always the last to leave. Neither one wanted to go home to the mother of their children.
Good times.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"What's up?"
"Someone's trying to break in and we're here by ourselves."
"Where's the warden?"
"She had class tonight."
"Are they still there?"
"I don't think so. Whoever it was ran away when I started screaming."
"Okay, well call me back if anything else happens."
Or, like the time Priscilla "ran away from home."
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"What's up?"
"Priscilla's gone. I think she ran away. She may be pregnant."
"How do you know she ran away?" (No reference to the possible pregnancy)
"Her stuff is gone and she didn't come home after class today."
"Okay. Well, if she doesn't show up in a couple of hours, call me back."
Over the years he held every office in his Elks chapter, culminating in the highest of all, the Exalted Ruler, which his offspring so lovingly referred to as the Exhausted Rooster.
The only time we kids ever saw the inside of the Elks Lodge was for the occasional Friday night family bingo events. The stage in the big room would be littered with toys, and if you bingo-ed (and everyone did), you got to run up and pick the one you wanted. It was how the hard-core (i.e. absentee parent) members assuaged their guilty consciences. I once scored a fabulous erector set that gave me literally minutes of fun.
The real fun actually started when the bingo was over and all the other families went home. Except for us and our friend, Sandy. We had daddies who weren't about to let the presence of their kids interfere with their usual routine: staying in the "Gay Nineties Room" (their cleverly disguised name for the drinking hole) until it closed, sometime after 1 a.m. We found ourselves a key position just across the hall from the entrance to the "Room". We were perched in a window seat in an otherwise dark and scary, empty (except for a couple of wheel chairs) room in the old Elks building, our only goal in life - to be where we could see the huge picture of the naked woman hanging over the bar when the bar doors swung open. It was scandalous! As the crowd thinned, we'd steal a glance every few minutes, and in between, we'd entertain ourselves with scary stories, as if the room we were in wasn't scary enough. Our daddy and Sandy's daddy were always the last to leave. Neither one wanted to go home to the mother of their children.
Good times.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Grey Gardens, The Movie
After watching the new HBO movie "Grey Gardens" last night, I have to say that while Lange and Barrymore were outstanding as Big Edie and Little Edie, the movie itself just didn't do it for me. I think it's because I had seen the original documentary a few years ago and this new production was pretty much just an embellished remake of that. But no way could it capture the same eerie state of denial and desperation that the documentary portrayed.
Apparently I wasn't alone in my fascination with the Beale's. "Grey Gardens" went on to become a Broadway musical and now, a movie. I think people are intrigued by the notion that these upper-crust women could start out so refined and end up so utterly pathetic, living their lives in the flea-infested squalor of a single room in a dilapidated house that was once so grand and elegant. I admit that at times while I was watching the documentary, I got so uncomfortable, I had to turn away. But then, in the next instant, I was drawn right back into it, to the raw exposure of the disappeared dignity of the once-aristocratic, once-glamorous, once-beautiful, once-hopeful mother and daughter. It was very sad.
Apparently I wasn't alone in my fascination with the Beale's. "Grey Gardens" went on to become a Broadway musical and now, a movie. I think people are intrigued by the notion that these upper-crust women could start out so refined and end up so utterly pathetic, living their lives in the flea-infested squalor of a single room in a dilapidated house that was once so grand and elegant. I admit that at times while I was watching the documentary, I got so uncomfortable, I had to turn away. But then, in the next instant, I was drawn right back into it, to the raw exposure of the disappeared dignity of the once-aristocratic, once-glamorous, once-beautiful, once-hopeful mother and daughter. It was very sad.
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Price Is Right
The phone rang on Friday and when I looked at the caller ID it showed a 1-800 number, which I usually ignore. But for some reason I decided to answer. It turned out to be an offer for a trip to the Beau Rivage in Biloxi for a three night stay. Even though the recording mentioned April 19th and I knew that was out of the question, I decided to go ahead and listen to the details. What could it hurt? So when prompted, I pushed "one". I'll play their silly game. An operator came on and she informed me that the April 19th trip was no longer available, but they did have openings for their May 10th trip. Would I be interested in that one? Well, I might be, but first, tell me what kind of deal we're talking about. Up to that point, nothing had been mentioned about the cost. I figured she was trying to hook me before she lowered the boom. And that's when she whispered that magic word I so love to hear: FREE! Oh my! Did she just say, free? A junket to Biloxi?Flying out of Knoxville? Three nights at the Beau Rivage? Oh, hell yeah! I signed on to that excursion before she had time to retract the offer. Because surely to God she had the wrong number. I'm no high roller. But she seemed fine with everything, including my travel companion - PhillyTwo, who happened to be wanting to go to the beach for a few days in May. I didn't have to twist her arm. She likes that magic word, too.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Wherefore Art Thou, Tiger?
It's always fun to watch the Masters, but more so when Tiger is in contention. That doesn't seem to be the case this time. Of course, you can never rule him out, but it would take more than a small miracle for him to climb back into it. He's 8 or 9 strokes back. The 2 leaders and the guy right on their heels would pretty much have to begin convulsing and get carried off on stretchers. Then the entire field under them, down to Tiger, would have to make triple bogeys their comfort zones, while Tiger got chummy with the birdies. I'm not holding my breath. It's just not his tournament this year. You'd probably never know that if you were trying to follow him on the course today. He'll have the usual throng, twenty or thirty deep vying for a glimpse. Because win or lose, he's still Tiger.
Addendum: Okay, Tiger did make a run for it, but tripped and fell on hole #17. Dammit all to hell. I was pulling for him. And poor Kenny. After Tiger and Phil faded, I was sure he was going to win. He came so close, but it turned out to be Angel's day. Don't cry for me, Argentina!
Addendum: Okay, Tiger did make a run for it, but tripped and fell on hole #17. Dammit all to hell. I was pulling for him. And poor Kenny. After Tiger and Phil faded, I was sure he was going to win. He came so close, but it turned out to be Angel's day. Don't cry for me, Argentina!
Friday, April 10, 2009
Twelfth Floor - Nudies
I would probably give the Imperial Palace in Vegas two itty bitty stars, and one of those would be for the pool area, which looked pretty cool, the other for the room balcony over-looking the pool area. Don't misunderstand. I didn't swim. It was too chilly. But it looked inviting and tropical-resortish with waterfalls and tiki bars. And I know of no other hotels in Vegas that have actual balconies you can go out and stand on. But the rooms were basic, no frills, very much like a Days Inn. And I have to say, it's the only place I've ever stayed where I stepped off the elevator (onto the wrong floor, no less) and encountered a big ol' naked man standing in the hallway, holding a bucket of ice, knocking frantically and wishing to God he had been nicer to the little woman so she would open the damned door. I wonder...did she convince him to go to the ice machine naked or did he just not realize until it was too late that he was clothes-less? Either way, me and the Pillsbury Doughboy unfortunately made eye contact the second I stepped off the elevator, so I quickly swung back around, pushed the button and prayed for redemption. It seemed like an eternity before another elevator stopped, during which time I could hear him knocking and begging, but- and you can take this to the bank - I never so much as glanced back in that direction. It weren't pretty.
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