Tall Curly Biscuit

My son is taking an Animal Science class this semester as an elective.  I didn’t really encourage the class because…I dunno…I’m not an animal person.  I think they belong in the wild, mainly because they BITE.  Plus, if a person dies with a houseful of pets and nobody discovers the body for a while, guess what the animals start eating?  Mmm hmm.  Just search “pets eating dead owners” on Google if you’d like examples.

Of course, I guess it happens with people too, like the Donner Party.  Oh, dang it!  Now I’m suspicious of humans.

No, just kidding.  I’m pretty sure my family won’t eat me.  I’ve been stocking up on peanut butter specifically to avert a crisis like that.

Anyway, because it’s Spring Break, we have two animals from Animal Science class for the week—a bearded dragon and a Russian tortoise.  It’s actually fun because both animals are easy and entertaining, especially Prokofiev the Russian tortoise.  Prokofiev is more active than I thought a turtle would be.  He keeps trying to get out of his cage, which is sad so we put him outside in the parsley a few times a day and watch him very closely.  I think I’ll be sad to see him go on Monday.

What if there are other animals I might like?  To keep perspective, I constructed a handy Venn diagram that incorporates most of my life.

Constructing this diagram stretched the limits of my organizational skills.

The Russian tortoise made it out of the danger zone and into the sweet spot with my dog, partly because Prokofiev was totally down with posing for a Russian stereotype photo.

I had fur to sew a tiny Russian cap, but then decided Photoshop was kinder to the turtle. How nice am I?

Hello, dear readers!  I made it back from Puerto Rico with no arrest record, despite hitting a woman in the head with my liquor-filled suitcase.  It was an accident, caused mostly by my rush to get out of the plane and not realizing that loading a carry-on with 4 bottles of coconut rum will make it difficult to retrieve from the overhead compartment.  Whoops.  Sorry, lady.

A few days before I went on the trip, I had a series of Rich White Girl Problems.  Rich White Girl Problems is a popular Twitter category, and sometimes, instead of real thoughts, I think in Tweets or Facebook posts in my head.  I know you do, too.

I went for a spray tan the day before I left, and I realized that one of my worst fears that afternoon was having a wreck during the 2 mile drive from the tan place to my house.  If I got in an accident after I spray tanned and started to sweat, it would totally ruin the color.  Also, I’d have to talk to the cops while dressed in spray tan clothes.  UGH!  Yes, Rich Girl Problem, I thought.  (Rich being defined as the ability to pay for something frivolous like a spray tan.)  But I refused to call it a Rich White Girl Problem in my head because I am not racist.  I know lots of rich girls of varying colors.

But anyone other than white would not have to get a spray tan.  Moment of Epiphany!  I have discovered the only and ultimate Rich White Girl Problem: Fear of ruining your spray tan.

I used to think that I wasn’t that white and was supposed to be deeply tanned by the sun.  All my life, three out of my four grandparents have talked about our Native American heritage.  Even though two who claimed to be part-Indian had very fair skin and blue eyes, I imagined myself being able to tan like a bronze Cherokee princess, just like my great-great-great grandmother was, supposedly.  I’m really smart.

Last year I researched my family tree on Ancestry.com, and I was shocked at how Caucasian I am, percentage-wise.  Even if all the claims of Native American heritage are true, it still adds up to—well—not enough to avoid sunscreen.  Dang it!  Here’s a diagram of my heritage, as modeled by my arm:

My skin color heritage

Just kidding!  It’s all sun damage.

My good friend S had melanoma a couple of years ago.  It was—and still is—a big deal.  Doctors had to remove a chunk of her leg, and she can never be in the sun again.  The cancer remains at the forefront of her mind.  The other day, we witnessed two shirtless teenage boys skateboarding down the middle of a busy street.  My first thought was “They’re gonna get hit by a car!”  But S said something like, “Oh my gosh!  That’s crazy!  And I bet they’re not even wearing sunscreen!”

So I sent her this picture:

This boy is not wearing enough sunscreen!

I jest, but on the beach last week, I wore enough sunscreen to cover all of Canada.  Being from Texas, my husband and I are serious about the sun; we know how intense it can be.  Sometimes it just randomly sets stuff on fire here (well, it feels that way).  And even Cherokees have to wear sun protection when they’re on the beach for 7 hours.  One of our favorite games to play on beach vacations is “People from the Cloudy Gray North.”  We guess where people are from based on their ability to apply sunscreen.  We’re not racist, but we’re horrible stereotypers.  When a person haphazardly applies sunscreen and gives up when they can’t reach part of his or her back, said person will quickly cook to lobster red in the non-protected areas.  We like to covertly take pictures of those splotchy people and guess Wisconsin or New Jersey?

Vermont, dang it. Sometimes stereotyping has flaws; I couldn’t smell the maple syrup wafting from her pores from where I was sitting, which caused me to incorrectly guess New Hampshire.

This couple has never used sunscreen before. My guess is.....England.

So this leads me to an extension of the only Rich White Girl Problem: picking a good sunscreen that will provide adequate sun protection but not chemically deteriorate a spray tan.

Can somebody get to work on that for me? Thx!  ♥  (I think that’s how Rich Girls of Varying Races would sign a post.)

Just in case I get arrested, thrown in jail, or mistaken for an international prostitute and exiled to the former Soviet block, I’d like a chance to explain myself.

I’m leaving for Puerto Rico in a couple of days to join my husband, who is already there for a work meeting.  We’re going to spend the weekend together remembering that in addition to making solid roommates, we also really like hanging out with each other.

Because he travels often enough to have airline status, he never has to pay baggage fees, but when I travel alone, I have no perks and have to pay for checked bags.  So to save moola, he took all my luggage with him.  All my dresses, swimsuits, shoes, and toiletries are already in Puerto Rico.

It’s awesome because I can pretty much just walk on the plane with nothing.

Except, I didn’t send my fancy lingerie with him.  I didn’t feel like sorting through it before he left.  Also, I’m practically a Puritan, so the only kinky things I’ve got going for me are a spray tan and the element of surprise.  That’s why I have to pack my lacy things in my own carry-on bag.

I also forgot to send medicine with him.  We rarely get sick, but it would be a real shame to be on a lovely vacation and not have Immodium if the situation requires.  And I can’t forget the two varieties of allergy tablets, Advil, ADD capsules, and some antibiotics I never used, just in case.  I also self-diagnosed myself as needing more vitamins (thank you, Internet), so I’m packing 5 different kinds of those, too.  I don’t want to lug around all the bottles so I dumped several of every kind of pill into one giant Ziploc.

One last thing—I’m bringing a pair of heels to put on the moment my shuttle arrives at the resort because if any of my husband’s colleagues see me in the lobby, I don’t want to be in my Nikes.  There’s been too much exfoliating, plucking, and spray tanning today for a Nike first impression.

So let’s recap: I’m going on a several-day trip to Puerto Rico with no luggage except for a small carry-on containing a pair of heels, lots of lingerie, and a large bag of pills.

That won’t arouse suspicion.  No, not at all.

It reminds me of the times in high school when my friends and I would go to the grocery store in the middle of the night to buy massive amounts of toilet paper and nothing else.  And we’d try to look innocent, like we weren’t about to terrorize neighborhoods at 2 a.m.

Only this time, I’m not guilty of anything!!!  If the cops test my urine, they will find it to be unnaturally fluorescent yellow (from the vitamin B12), but otherwise clean.  How long does that process take?  Will I miss the plane?  And could I be put on a government list as a possible trafficker of something?  Heels, lingerie, pills…I could be an international prostitute, although the Nikes and lack of a Russian accent will surely invalidate that theory.

Once hooker is out, officials might think I’m an obscure reality star or D-List celebrity because who else packs like this?

Well, if I’ve been arrested and can’t post for a while, just know that I’m innocent.  If it makes the news, here’s to hoping the media doesn’t cast my fluorescent pee in an unflattering light.

Dear Readers (and Listeners, if you are one of those people who gets read to in the car from the mobile device of your passenger’s choosing),

Oh, I’ve missed you so.  There’s been little time for writing.  Besides a busy work schedule, I had family in town and then went to the Motherland (Wichita Falls, Texas) for a couple of days to visit my folks.

Only my daughter and I went to Wichita Falls; the boys had other plans.  We used that time with my mom to craft funky tutus for my daughter’s upcoming dance party and watch The Sound of Music four times in twenty-four hours.  It was glorious!

I love that movie, and now I’m inspired to throw myself a “Girls in White Dresses with Blue Satin Sashes” party.  When I was little, I wanted to be Liesel because she was beautiful, she could sing, and Rolf kissed her.  Now I think that Rolf was just an ugly Nazi, but I never got over Liesel’s romantic dresses.  However, I came of age during the 90s, and donning a dress sans work boots and librarian glasses would have pegged me as a freak.  So instead of being pretty, I wore plaid flannel shirts, hemp necklaces, and Doc Martins during my teenage years.  Grunge was…rebellious, unpretentious, exactly what we needed???  But it wasn’t retro, glamorous or sweet.

I was so pretty.

So, there would be nothing odd about me making up for lost time and wearing a long white dress with a blue satin sash around town now, right?

Just like there’s nothing unusual or excessive about throwing your three-year old a Sound of Music birthday party, complete with homemade green curtain jumpers for all the guests, RIGHT?  This girl did.*

I’m being sarcastic.  It’s totally weird, mainly because Christopher Plummer’s hotness was completely lost on those kids.

Christopher Plummer was so sexy…wow.  But the good thing is that my husband looks very much like his grandfather, who HAD CHRISTOPHER PLUMMER HAIR.  So now I’d really like my man to get over the 2012 haircut and go retro for me.

Debonaire: It's the hair. HEY THAT RHYMES!

Other revelations and happenings during the past two weeks:

1. Since my last post, Dave Barry responded to me!  He wrote, “Don’t worry, you didn’t smell any worse than we did.”
2. I’m going to write something useful in the next few weeks—look for a series on my rental house purchase compared to my parents’ rental house experience.
3. Useful, you say suspiciously, fearful I might disappoint?  Don’t worry, there was a provocative peephole installation.
4. As for the I Ate My Twin post, we have not received pictures of mismatched body parts despite my request.  HOWEVER, I have verbal confirmation of third nipples, webbed feet, real-life tumors with hair and teeth inside, and more awesome gruesomeness.  Well done, strange creatures of the universe!
5. Today I searched for images of clapping, and pictures of bras came up first.  Naturally, I was curious, and apparently there are instructions for a Clap Off Bra on this site.  I thought the public should be aware.  What’s most odd to me is that the creator was simply trying to keep up with advances in lingerie technology from SYRIA.  What we can learn from the Syrians: a repressed sexual culture leads to greater lingerie ingenuity.  If Steve Jobs had lived in Syria, women could be equipped with touchpads…oh, nevermind.  This will go downhill fast.

Auf wiedersehen, goodbye!

*Sew Weekly/Sound of Music party girl: I’m sorry for making fun of you. I’m jealous of your sewing abilities, and I’m sure your daughter will one day appreciate Captain Von Trapp.

Last weekend my friend V and I decided to make homemade dim sum to celebrate Chinese New Year.  Neither of us is Chinese, but as Americans we’re always up for borrowing another culture’s holiday as an excuse to party.  We searched the web for recipes, techniques, and advice to replicate the most authentic dim sum possible.

After learning more about Chinese dumplings than I ever thought possible (EVERYTHING IS A BUN), we headed to the nice, large Asian market 45 minutes away.  We probably could have found most things in our suburb, but we also craved a certain kind of smoothie that we could only get at the Indonesian shop in the same strip mall.  The smoothies have dark brown “floaters” in them, which are large balls of tapioca flavored with brown sugar.  The balls are so large they require a special, wide straw.  V and I first tried them last summer in an adventurous moment, and I didn’t like the floaters at all.  The experience is like this: as you drink your fruity smoothie, you’ll see a big brown orb glide up your wide straw.  Then, faster than you anticipate, the slippery ball will suddenly emerge from the straw and slide into your mouth.  You’ll have to engage your teeth to get rid of it, but it will be chewier and more flavorless than you’ll expect.

The sensation is unusual, and I cringed every time a slimy tapioca ball hit my tongue.

Even though we both thought the floaters were a strange/gross experience, V and I both started to crave the weirdness again.  Have you ever had a hankering for an unpleasant sensation, like sushi, the smell of sweat, or Bioré Nose Strips?  That’s what happened to us over these floaters.

It's coming...

After satisfying the slimy ball craving, we headed to the market, where we purchased far too many ingredients containing the word “glutinous.”

We also picked up a package of chicken feet for visual effect on the table.  I believe stew was their intended purpose, but we were hoping to add excitement to our tiny party.

We anticipated reactions from our families ranging from “EWWWW!” to just short of vomit, but we were sorely disappointed.  The kids and husbands were surprisingly calm.

One friend suggested that I should be careful because guys will eat anything this shade of fried beige. Only, the feet weren’t fried—they were RAW and still looked like this. Also, they were pliable and rubbery. ICK! I bet some culture somewhere puts them in a smoothie.

After the dim sum evening, I spent the next day recovering (we assumed the Chinese would drink Cab if they had it) and ridding my house of the smell of oyster sauce.  I had succeeded in no longer smelling like China and got ready to attend a Dave Barry lecture and book signing.  Dave Barry!  I was so excited!  Dave Barry is my writing idol.  I first read his articles and books in junior high, and his humor convinced me that good writing didn’t have to be serious, pompous, or boring.  My son is a fan now, reading the same books I read and emulating Dave’s style in his Language Arts papers.

Dave has a new book out, co-written by Alan Zweibel (of SNL and Curb Your Enthusiasm fame).  Lunatics is the name, and it’s written in the style of an improvisational sketch.  The plot is outrageous, but while reading, I laugh-snorted enough to make my husband leave the room.

I knew I’d have 30 seconds while Dave signed our book, so I wanted to make a good impression—maybe he’d give me 15 seconds of writing advice!  I planned my outfit and for the first time in my life actually cared about meeting a celebrity.

Oh, I’m positive that we made an impression on the whole crowd—not just Dave.

Twenty minutes before we planned to leave the house, my son made an Easy Mac (microwavable mac & cheese) for himself.

There are only THREE simple steps involved in making an Easy Mac (hence the name).

1. Fill with water.
2. Microwave.
3. Stir in cheese packet.

My son forgot about the water part and skipped straight to the microwaving.  In two minutes, our house was enveloped with toxic smoke and the bitter fumes of burning plastic.  It was horrendous.  Every fiber in our house absorbed the pungent smell, including our clothes and hair.

Easy Mac: not so easy for space cadets.

Even if we’d had time, changing clothes or showering again wouldn’t have made a difference—the fumes of charred plastic and flaming macaroni were so strong they invaded every room, including our closets.  We could smell ourselves outside, in the car during the hour-long drive, in the audience….

So, yeah, I’m sure we made an impression on Dave Barry—the same kind of impression as a refinery on fire.

Our fumes singed Dave's & Alan's nose hairs.

Someday he’ll write something about those stinky people he meets on book tours, and I’ll know it’s us.  That would be exciting in a way.  He might even start craving the smell of burning plastic for some seemingly inexplicable reason…

Dave, you are welcome to come back to Texas anytime, where we will treat you to slimy floaters, chicken feet and burned Easy Mac.  Yeehaw!