Surely that Bible verse wasn't referring to beauty pageants

                Having recently judged the 2012 Miss Seattle (WA) Pageant, I am amused/amazed  someone from my background is considered an authority in selecting the ideal young woman to represent a city or state in the Miss America system. 

                Now that we're talking about Miss America, I have to take a minute to educate and inform you on the positive points of the Miss America system.   First of all, you have to understand that this is not the toddlers and tiaras kind of pageant.  A full 75% of the scoring in Miss America is talent and interview (including on-stage question).  There are no fake teeth, here, people.  This is glamour on an academic scale.  There are those who get Miss USA and Miss America confused.  Let me explain once and for all the differences between the two. 

                Number one, I would NEVER be involved with something Donald Trump had his name stamped all over.  And all those YouTube videos with confusing answers to on-stage questions are part of the Miss USA competition, people.  I assure you those baffled beauty queens are not Miss America.

                A quick history:  There was no Miss America 1950.  Thiswas the year they started post dating the titles.  As Miss America had added a talent component in the 1935 and the new winner (Miss America 1951) was Yolanda Betbeze, an accomplished opera singer from Alabama.  At the time Catalina Swimwear was the major sponsor of the pageant and the winner was expected to serve as a swimsuit model for a year.  Miss Betbeze refused stating she was an opera singer, not a swimsuit model.  Lenora Slaughter, then Executive Director, agreed and told Catalina Swimwear as much.  When they threatened to withdraw their support, Miss Slaughter said she would find other sponsors.  Allegedly, at a press conference, Miss America 1949, Jacquie Mercer (from Arizona) remarked, “You should start your own pageant.”  And they did and it was the birth of the Miss USA pageant, which has no talent category.

                As a side note, I must say I love me some Miss Arizona.  I had the privilege of judging their pageant in 2009 and met some amazing and fabulous women, including Misses Arizona 1984 (Rhonda White Pawlak) and 1986 (Terri Kettunen Muschott).  Ms. Pawlak, took me to Sonic and then bargain clothes shopping after the pageant.  You know I just adore her, right? 

                Now I am not saying that former Miss USA’s have no talent and aren’t intelligent. What I am saying is if you aren’t talented, intelligent and well-spoken you WILL NOT become Miss America.  I don’t care how pretty you may be. 

                However, let us not forget there is a beauty component.  If you are ugly, it doesn’t matter if you cure cancer on stage, you will not be crowned Miss America.  Ugly will just not win.  Odd looking or vaguely horse-faced but still not unattractive, sure; there have been those years but I shall not repeat them for you here.  I don’t want to be impolite. 

                And I should know about beauty,  I was 1^st runner-up in the Little Mr. Dixieland pageant in 1975.  The fact there were only 3 contestants is a not germane to this discussion.  It could have been worse.  I once showed my calf in the 4-H County Fair in Clarksville, TX and being the only entrant in my class I felt I would easily win Grand Champion.  To my dismay, I was summarily awarded a white ribbon, which is the equivalent of third place. Yes, third place. 

                A little pageant birdie told me Miss America might be moving to Mississippi this year; Biloxi to be exact.  I am pleased and not surprised.  As one of the premiere pageant states, Mississippi is a logical choice.  As Suzanne Sugarbaker once said, “You will never see an ugly Miss Mississippi.”  No truer statement has ever been spoken.  Mississippi has had 4 Miss Americas, which places us right behind California and Oklahoma with 6 each and Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois and Michigan with 5 each (Mary Catherine Campbell from Ohio won two years in a row in 1922-23, but I count her as one Miss America).  Plus we’re the only state on the list with casinos and superior food, let’s just be honest.  It just makes sense, doesn’t it?  As a side note, three of the four Miss Americas from Mississippi were from Ole Miss.  Do what you want with the information Mississippi State fans.

                I love the Miss America system.  I love the opportunities this program gives to young women.  Interview skills to give them an edge over their competition in the job market are invaluable.  And, of course, I love the excitement and the dresses and being surrounded by beauty.  I get all bumfuzzled thinking about the glamour and the glitz, as long as it doesn’t involve children with those fake flipper teeth.  My family would say that is rernt.  And as someone who has judged the Vernon Alabama Street Fair Queen pageant, I know from rernt, do you hear me?

Now I have gone and forgotten the point of this missive, so I’ll just say see y’all in September at Miss America.  I’ll be the perky gentleman near the front wearing my fantastic $6 vintage thrift store tuxedo.  If you come early enough, we can count the number of pitiful Yankees wearing white shoes after Labor Day.  This being in a casino, it could take awhile.  I hope you bring snacks.  Tater tots from Sonic should do the trick.  Just saying.

I only hunt bargains, y'all

                Even a life spent on a path which allows you to remain true to your value system, can be de-railed by the simplest of suggestions.  The Dad had ever so innocently asked if he could choose the meal for our Friday night dinner.  As I have certain activities on my schedule throughout the week (Dinner/Trivia on Tuesdays, Choir Practice on Wednesdays, Singles Bible Study on Thursdays) I have designated Friday as Dad's Day and he gets to choose the meal and/or activity due to his continual lament that he feels like he lives by himself.
              He suggested he cook pork chops and home fries.  I immediately began to formulate the many reasons why he should not when my stomach took over and I was downright shocked to hear myself say, “How much bacon do you need?”  He adds bacon, onions and peppers to his potatoes and cooks them to absolute pieces and they are some of the best things I’ve ever eaten.  If God is actually Southern, and I’ve been assured by a number of Baptists He is, we’re having home fries in heaven, y'all.  To this coma-inducing meal we added turnip greens so I could at least pretend it was reasonably well-balanced.
               I woke up the next morning moving slowly from the grease and carbs running through my veins and discovered he had taken the leftovers and made omelets.  Not wanting to be rude but not really happy with another ‘cheat’ meal so quickly, I ate the food and thought about the activities to which I was often an unwilling participant throughout my formative years.
              To wit, I have been coon huntin’, frog giggin’ and have hauled more hay than an extra on Hee-Haw.  I have also hunted deer, rounded up horses and hoed cotton.  To be honest, the last one was probably only two weeks of my life, but whenever it gets hot outside I find myself needing to sing spirituals bent over in a field, y’all. 
              And while I embraced these activities with all the joy of a Republican acknowledging a poor person, I did try ever so hard to fit in and be “one of the guys”, with varying degrees of success.  Full disclosure, the variance was non-existent.  I was not happy and I let them know as much as I could seeing as how children of my generation were to be neither seen nor heard.  To say our opinions were irrelevant would mean they had given any thought to our opinions.  Pretty much it was, “We’re goin’ coon huntin’.  Go get your cousin to get you some coveralls; it’s gonna be colder than a pawn broker’s heart out tonight.”  Notice no invitation.  No, “Hey buddy, you wanna go kill a raccoon in the dark for no reason”?  They said it, I did it, I survived, end of story.
             Once when we were deer hunting on Henderson Island in Louisiana, my Uncle and I (he was only a year older than me) were paired up to get in a particular stand and wait for deer to come by.  Then kill them.  Now, you have to understand I didn’t find anything inherently wrong with killing these deer; it's what they're there for, I had been taught.  I grew up in a carnivore’s playground.  We would kill and eat animals we owned (cow, goat, whatever) and it wasn’t a big deal.  It sometimes was a bit uncomfortable, like when my cousin asked, “Are we eating Billy?” during a July 4^th picnic.  But by and large I was all about the eating, so I guess I had to be all about the killing.
             While we were waiting nature called, as she does, and I felt I had found a time to really truly fit in by peeing outdoors, proudly and without shame.  In my naiveté thought I was in the clear.
            When my Uncle walked by and saw me answering the call of nature, he said,      
             “What in the blue blazes are you doing, boy?”
              I turned, mid stream, and proudly said, “I’m tee-teeing (we are not vulgar people).”
              He looked at me and said, “Come on y’all, we’ve got to find another stand.  Dusty just peed all the deer away.”
              What?  How can I not have done the right thing?  Peeing in the wild is what these people want from me, is it not?  And what did he mean, tee-teed the deer away?  Is my urine tainted?  Do I need medical attention?  I know I ate more than my fair share of Spam and crackers the night before but I was hungry and being amongst the flora and fauna takes it out of a preppy, I can assure you.  If the stench of 7 men alone in a cabin didn’t drive away the wild animals, the fluids from an 11 year-old whose dietary habits was mostly made up of Whatchamacallits and Big Red soda would certainly not send Bambi and his pals fleeing in fear.  
                I won’t get into the details of the hunt for frogs and raccoons.  Suffice it to say raccoon hunting is like deer hunting but at night.  Frog gigging is like raccoon hunting but in water.  And hauling hay is indentured servitude, people.  I want my own telethon for those three summers.  Just saying.
                Again I am navigating a landscape that is unfamiliar and again without a map, but I think I can do better this time.  We are intrepid explorers, well, at least one of us is.  We don’t need Sacajawea to make it to the Pacific.  His Lewis and my Clark can get there just fine as I am the only one who can actually get us anywhere out here in the land of the hippies with my buddy Siri.    And we can take those first steps as soon as we can get up from the table.  Those taters have weighed us down, y’all.

I don't care if Casper IS friendly...

                When last we spoke, we had discussed language, stemming from my father’s use of the term “haint”.  That post lead to a conversation with my sister where she reminded me another word we pronounce incorrectly was “mont-ner”; meaning monster. 

                Being a naturally jouvous person, I normally make an effort to avoid all mention of scary things lest I conjure up some creature in my head which will cause me to lose precious sleep.  I don’t know what happened to me during childhood but I have been afraid of the dark since somewhere in the neighborhood of birth and lasting up to and including last night.  I don’t know what makes me skittish in the darkness but if someone were to scare me with, say, a chainsaw, I could outrun any Olympic sprinter regardless if they used steroids or not.  Once, as a teen, I just about outran a car when I thought the Blue Lady of Humble Lake was trying to “git” me.  The unfortunate situation occurred when I attended my first teen bonfire, wearing my best corduroy pants.  I mention the wardrobe choice simply because, during my flight, said pantalones eventually started to smoke from the friction of my chubby legs pistoning me toward safety.  Now where I thought I was going to find safety in the boonies of East Texas with ‘Flock of Seagulls’ bangs and 3 Swatches was beyond me.  All I knew was I wanted to be elsewhere.

                And elsewhere was where I wanted to be recently when The Dad told me he had seen a ghost in my house.  Now, I realize I am a big strong man (well, a man anyway) but I did not need to hear this.  Before he could describe this recently sighted apparition, he turned to me and said, “All this talkin’ ‘bout spirits ‘n’ stuff had put me to mind the stories my mama told me.” 

While he reminisced and I pretended to listen, I thought of several occasions of my own where I lost any shred of coolness I, or my friends, imagined I had by possessing a lack of bravery which would have gotten me banished from most any Disney movie.  While my friends never abandoned me, per se, most certainly my date to the Junior Prom was less than thrilled when I abandoned her, faster than a celebrity breaks their wedding vows, at the breakfast afterwards. The brother (I won’t tell you his name but it rhymes with Scott Holliday) of the hostess decided to dress as Freddy Krueger and casually tap-tap-tap, on the French doors to my immediate right in the den while I was actively pretending to watch “A Nightmare on Elm Street, Part XVXVIII” along with 7-8 of my closest personal friends and their dates. 

When I ever so jouvously turned my head to the doors and saw this particular face, I screamed like a peacock set on fire, shoved past my date (I apologize again, Denise) and ran down the hall to the bedroom of the slumbering parents due, I can only imagine, to the overwhelming belief Mr. and/or Mrs. Holliday would save me through the use of gunfire or fisticuffs.  I don’t believe either of them were the same after experiencing the invasion of their inner sanctum by a chubby tuxedoed youth and a full 1/3 of the remaining guests alert enough to have noticed my flight, quickly following suit.  Now, I may be exaggerating these points; this was, after all, 1987 and it's a bit hazy, not due to alcohol or drug, mind you. I was a good Baptist youth, although I will cop to an addiction to Aqua Net;  something had to keep that hairdo in place, people.  All I know is the the following year, the Prom breakfast was held in a well-lit hotel suite with suitable chaperones and, for me, a mild sedative.

The most recent event I will share happened in Alaska, while camping.  Now, anyone who knows me is aware while I am not a ardent fan of the outdoors at night, I can be shamed into complying with the requests of the nature loving pseudo-hippies I have collected as friends.

This particular outing was Memorial Day weekend in 2003 and, being Alaska, it was a balmy 40 degrees.  As I was much larger then, the lack of heat was a plus.  Precious I may be, but most persons, places and things are not improved by the addition of moisture.  And underarm sweat stains large enough to effect local weather patterns are not a good look for anyone. 

I had watched the movie The Ring just prior to this trip.  Suffice it to say it was not a romantic comedy about a wedding.  Yes, I know, why on earth do I watch scary movies when they actually scare me?  I have no answer other than peer pressure.  What?  I have peers, in theory. 

We get to the campground and as there were 6 of us, I felt my odds of surviving the weekend without being murdered were fair to middlin'.  I wasn’t the slowest, did not have the largest breasts and was never interested enough to investigate the source of random snapping twigs . I felt pretty sure I wouldn’t be one of the first to die, per the typical plots of axe-murderer movies.  Once we scouted out the restrooms, however, I discovered the source of my pain for the weekend.  Even though they advertised toilets, they were actually toilet seats attached to the top of very deep wells.  Like “Journey to the Center of the Earth” deep.  And if you’ve seen The Ring you know that the girl mont-ner, at one point, climbs out of a deep well and comes to git the people.  Well, I can assure you I don’t need someone to git me whilst I am conducting my business.  The psychological repercussions I don’t want to imagine.  Needless to say I spent the weekend avoiding the bathroom which became increasingly difficult while trying to digest elk cooked in a skillet over an open fire.  TGI Friday’s this was not.

I had yet to feel uncomfortable in my new home even when living alone for almost 4 months, but when he told me he had seen a ghost, my first instinct was to flee.  The high cost of real estate in the Bay area held me in place, however, and I asked him to describe this ghost.  When he stated it was a woman with a large hat and veil and a parasol, I was both delighted she seemed fashionable and suspicious of the accuracy of the fashion as my house was built in 1929 and parasols haven’t been used in any manner since My Fair Lady. 

As I left to cleanse the house of evil through the recitation of any song I could remember with the most Jesuses in it, I noticed a figure alarmingly like the woman he described!  Right in my face!  It was the lovely lady in the painting I have over the buffet in my dining room; my first real piece of art.  My Daddy was either all out of conversational topics not involving bodily functions or he was trying to scare me.  Rude.  I told him if the phantom was well-dressed, then we could co-exist quite happily and I strode off to bed with the full knowledge he had simply fabricated the story and I had nothing to worry about.  Dustin does mean “strong hearted leader” according to the book of baby names.  My parents had chosen well.

Full disclosure:  I left the light on in the den for a couple of nights.  You know, just in case.

English as a Second Language?

                I was reminded again just the other day how my family has a folksy vernacular; an odd combination of country, redneck and Southern that is peppered with words that I believe we may have invented.  I was sitting at the dining table talking to my friend Adam and The Dad was looking at my magazine.  It was the latest edition of Vanity Fair and it was, unfortunately, turned to the page which features photos of some of the contributors.  As a rule, writers are not an overly attractive subset of humanity.  There are exceptions, of course.  John Grisham and I are among those who are considered attractive.  Well, more attractive than, say, J.R.R. Tolkien (I imagine) or Truman Capote (I am certain).

                When he saw the photo of one particularly unfortunate-looking individual he said, “Woo, she’s so ugly, she’d make a haint take a thorn thicket!”  Now, I’m not sure if he has regressed since my Mother’s passing or if he always talked this way and I chose to ignore it.

                Adam, who is a graduate of Northwestern (in Chicago) seemed confused and very quietly asked if The Dad were having a stroke.  I laughed and explained the definitions of both haint (ghost) and thorn thicket (something akin to a flowerless rose garden, all thorns).  While I am not certain of the accuracy of his statement (why would it concern a ghost to run into the brambles seeing as how they really aren’t wearing sheets?) I found it interesting I knew exactly what he was talking about.

                Once The Dad retired to his room to sleep, Adam asked me why he used such odd phrases but I didn’t.  Well, I could fill up a book about the inherent differences between my father and me but I’ll leave this task to the actual book I’m hoping to create from these blogs.  Prepare your wallets people; I have expectations of support (buy my first book A Gone Pecan at Authorhouse.com or Amazon.com right now!) from my readers/friends/family/well-wishers/those easily manipulated by guilt, etc.  This question caused me to review words and phrases my family uses fairly regularly, some of which may be familiar.

                Jouvous – Nervous.

                Tooky – Persnickety.

                Rernt – Ruined.  Could be in reference to a person, place or thing.

                I swonny – An exclamation like “My goodness!” or "I swear!".

                Wompy-jawed – Askew.  See also catty-wampus.

                Chicken Doody – Any spot on your dress, car, shoe, sidewalk, etc.  Typically does not refer to actual poultry excrement.

                “Fine as frog hair” – Said in response to “How are you?”  The joke being frog hair is so fine you can’t even see it.  It’s not as funny as The Dad thinks it is.

                “Ain’t fit to shoot” – Not even good enough to bother with wasting good bullets.  See also triflin’, low-down, no-good. 

                “In a toot” – In a bad mood.

                “Going to town” – leaving your home, regardless of whether you reside within the city limits or not.  Stemming from a youth spent in the boonies.

                Boonies – Living so far outside of the city limits, even wild animals question your presence.

                Coke – any flavor of carbonated beverage.  Yankees refer to it as soda or pop.  We mock those Yankees, sometimes to their faces.

                Beautimous – Very attractive.  See also Linda Evangelista, Jaclyn Smith or my niece Payton.

                Hooty-tooty – Extra fancy.  See also hoity-toity or foo-foo.

                Uppity – Extra fancy but in a condescending manner.

                Nassy – Nasty.  This one seems to stem from sheer laziness.

                Feel free to use these words and phrases in casual conversation to confuse or intimidate frenemies, future in-laws or people eavesdropping at Starbucks.  I would caution against using in the workplace as you may demoted.  I’m not ashamed of my upbringing, but I know enough not to say “I reckon” beyond the comfort of a Tractor Supply store or a conversation with someone named Herschel or Oda Lee.  How else do you think I got to be so hooty-tooty?

As much as I put on, I am glad I grew up in the South and I am, in the deepest recesses of my heart, a good ol’ boy.  I just prefer to show my Southern pride through the wearing of seersucker. 
And that's all I'm saying for now.

                 

               

               

               

                               

Give me a D, give me an O, give me an NUT...

This morning I was awakened by an unnervingly peppy gentleman who looked disturbingly like The Dad.  This man came into my bedroom and practically sang me awake, wanting to know if I wanted coffee.  Now, my mother did this most of my life, and while my teenage self was annoyed I really appreciated her sunny disposition.  My father (he had admitted his identity under rapid-fire questioning), on the other hand, has never been called vivacious by anyone other than some random cousin mispronouncing the word 'vicious'.  I kid, but The Dad typically moves very slowly and is often less than peppy due to a lot of pain from his back and shoulder. 

When I asked to what I owed this new Mary Poppins-esque temperament, he said he wasn’t “hurtin’ too bad” due to his new pain medication, but I suspected it was also due to his happiness over my allowing him two Krispy Kreme donuts for dessert last night.  Who knew a sugar high could last until the next day.  If he weren’t diabetic, I’d give him donuts every day. 

While I enjoyed my coffee, and he sat grinning and chatting I had a bit of déjà vu due to his maniacal smile and chirpy disposition.  It reminded me of the time I got stranded in San Antonio due to snow in the DC area.  It’s a long story, but the reason I was in San Antonio to begin with was at the invitation of my sister who was attending, along with my cousin, Aunt and cousin’s daughter, the Mid-South Cheer Finals.  Now, I was aware of competition cheer squads being as involved in my niece Payton’s activities as I can be from a distance of a half-country.  But prior to Payton joining a competition cheer squad, I was confused about private cheerleading teams.  Who did they cheer for I wondered?  Did they have private football teams?  Maybe they rented themselves out to schools with no coordinated girls or something.  I don’t know.  But you can get money for cheerleading in college.  I should know.  I, your humble chronicler, was a cheerleader for one semester in college.  Two of my aunts, two of my cousins and one of their daughters and now my niece Payton have lead the cheers at various sporting contests. This is a phenomenal level of school spirit to come off one turnrow, do you hear me? 

Let me tell you this was an experience I’ll never forget.  As a side note, if you’ve ever lost a polka dot, well, buddy, I found it.  EVERYTHING there was polka-dotted, zebra-striped or bedazzled; sometimes all three.  Red glitter eye shadow, pink glitter lip gloss, and rhinestone studded hair bows which could’ve topped the Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Plaza.  And that’s just the “Cheer Moms” and “Cheer Meemaws”.

We get to the Alamodome and got in line to buy a ticket; $30 per person.  Ouch!  However, as I was dressed for the occasion in red chinos, white button down and navy blazer, I was mistaken for a coach and let in for free, given a commemorative backpack and a free bottle of “Spirit Water”. Well, not really, but I was thanked for my spirit on more than one occasion.  Well, not thanked per se, but people said “whooo!” a lot and pointed at me.  It's nice to see people supportive of my fashion choices. 

As far as this competition, let me tell you nothing could have prepared me for this.   3600 hyperactive tots, tweens and teens being herded onto a stage to perform these gravity defying stunts with an disturbing amount of sass and spunk and even more disturbing amount of eye makeup.  Those contortionists in Cirque du Soleil couldn’t have pulled off what some of these little Hunters and Fallons and Dakotas did, without losing their hostile smiles.  Well, the coaches called it “projection”.  I called it maniacal.  Of course, I said this to myself.  Hell hath no fury like a “cheer mom” with her own bejeweled spirit stick accompanied by her “I Pay, She Cheers” t-shirt clad spouse.  I don’t want to be beaten with those clapping-block things, either from over-exuberance or anger over a touch-out.

And you would not believe what these children are able to do. There is a move called a scorpion.  They take their foot and pull it  in a circle behind them until their toes touch the backs of their heads.  Standing up.   Six feet or more, in the air.   In someone else’s hands.  While “projecting”. 

It’s almost more than you can bear to watch.  But we did, from 9 am until 6 pm, without a break.  After so many groups, it’s funny how commonplace something unbelievable can become.  No wonder this generation isn’t impressed as they are going through regimented exercises which would’ve put Mary Lou Retton into traction during her heyday.  After several hours of similar routines, with varying degrees of success including lost bows, which is a deduction (in points), and somehow a lost shoe, which is another deduction, I almost couldn’t take it anymore.  I don’t know if there are points deducted for making overweight performers wear belly-shirts that Heidi Klum couldn’t pull off without some degree of embarrassment, but there should be.  Those poor babies.

Prior to this experience I had never witnessed a scorpion other than once in my sister’s yard.  After a while I began to get bored with the whole thing.  The same snippets of songs, with similar routines.  It sort of blurred together. By the end of the day after I had ingested more overpriced water and foot long corndogs than a felonious carnie worker, I began to view those amazing feats with bored derision like, “Is that all you’ve got Amberly?  A scorpion?  How about when you’re fully extended, you ring a bell with your feet or spell out Cheer Nation in sign language with your toes?  Maybe then I’ll be impressed.”  Knowing full well I could not contort by body into that shape with the assistance of a mechanical taffy puller and an overzealous chiropractor.  Some things aren’t meant to move in those ways, least of all while wearing clearance sale Brooks Brothers.

When I saw the first team complete a scorpion, I felt compelled to give them a standing ovation.  I stood and clapped but noticed the only people standing were the “cheer parents” of the performers.  My sister just shook her head and laughed.  By the end, I was done.  I was so weak from the overwhelming too-much-ness of it all I would have agreed to chips and queso with Charles Manson to get back to the hotel. 

Speaking of queso, I just remembered I have a leftover quesadilla in the refrigerator and I feel compelled to attend to this matter post haste or even quicker.  So, I’ll leave you with this, I salute all those who cheer, those who clap along in the stands (psychotically or not), and most importantly, those who make Krispy Kreme donuts.  Seriously, they’re doing the Lord’s work, y’all. 

Oh and there is a picture of me from college doing a toe touch for the school yearbook floating around on Facebook somewhere.  Happy hunting.

Out of left field

          If you've ever read Vanity Fair magazine, you know they end each edition with a Proust Questionnaire.  This is where they ask someone of note a series of questions such as "What trait do you despise about yourself?", "Who are your heroes?", "What is you definition of happiness?", etc.  As I was reading the latest edition, I decided to ask The Dad some of these same questions, just to see what he would say.

        His answers were not really surprising (marrying my Mother was his proudest moment, having a Harley is his definition of happiness) until I got to the one where I asked, "Who are your heroes?"  When he said, "You and your brother", I was caught off guard but I continued with the questions.  What?  I had already added this activity to the running list in my head and I needed to cross it off, people.

        When we got to the end, I re-visited his answer and asked him, "Why did you say that Thornton (my brother) and I were your heroes?"
        "Why?" he asked.
        "I was surprised."
        "Surprised?  You're my heroes because you both have good jobs that you like and that you're good at."
        "Really?  I never knew."
        "I'm prouder of you than anything.  You knew that didn't you?"
        "Of course, I knew," I said, thinking I so did not know.

        I now have a new definition of happiness.
       

      

Does preppy come in pill form?

           Anyone who knows me knows I have one cowlick in the front of my hair and two in the back. Why my parents left me in the care of bovines in my formative years is anybody’s guess.  The cowlick in front is a nuisance to someone as particular about my appearance as I am.  For the remainder of this entry, I will refer to my cowlick as the swoop as shortening it to, simply, ‘the lick’ makes me as uncomfortable as I was accompanying my niece to the premiere of Eclipse, one of those horrifying Twilight movies.  Since when did pasty become the new chic?   If I were in high school now, I would be muy popular (that’s Spanish)  as I am so pale, I’m almost translucent.  And I have been known to sparkle in the sunlight.  Well actually I freckle, but they both end in ‘kle’ so I’m still in the game, right? 

               So, when the swoop is parted on the left, it causes my hair to swagger into a formation not unlike Conway Twitty.  For those who aren’t familiar with Mr. Twitty (may he rest in peace) you can reference John Travolta in ‘Grease’ or Johnny Depp in ‘Cry Baby.’  If you’re younger than that, you shouldn’t be reading this and need to go to bed.  I feel quite sure it’s past your bedtime, child.  However, if I part my hair to the right, the swoop leaps into a formation resembling Superman, from the movies starring Christopher Reeve, not the TV show where Bo Duke was the Dad.

                The point I am trying to make is why do we call it a cowlick?  Why this particular animal?  Why this particular gesture?  Did it actually happen to someone back in 16whatever?  I have researched the history of the swoop and here is what I found.  They are also referred to as hair whorls and trichoglyphs.  It was started in the 16^th century and referred to the way a mother cow licks her young’s head causing a swirling pattern in the hair.  While those are interesting facts, the name needs work, doesn’t it? 

Trichoglyphs could be useful in my quest to use as many obscure references as possible in casual conversation.  Telling someone I have multiple trichoglyphs could elicit all manner of responses depending on whether they thought this was a medical condition, weird animal or tattoo.  Hair whorl could be interesting although it would be consistently misspelled by a citizenry who for some reason can’t seem to master the proper use of your and you're. 

I realize the word cowlick is not something to which most people pay much attention; however it is the one thing keeping me from becoming completely amazing.  I think we can all agree with fantastic hair I could take over the world.  Well, hair and a family fortune.  And considering my Dad lives with me, I’m thinking the family fortune is nowhere to be found.  When he asks me why he couldn’t he have been born rich instead of good looking, I wonder myself.  About the money, that is.  I have grown accustomed to ignoring my father’s lunatic rants about his awesomeness at anything other than reality show competition-level eating, Olympic caliber flatulence and, oddly enough, crocheting.

Yes, my redneck, macho father crochets.  It’s an interesting dichotomy to reside in someone who retains no semblance of the couth he apparently faked throughout my childhood.  Don’t even start with me, the man leaves his (sugar-free) Popsicle sticks stuck to the placemats on my dining room table along with used blood sugar test strips, crumbs of indeterminate origin, his electronic solitaire game and whichever paperback western he is enjoying at the moment.  It looks like he robbed a Walgreen’s.  And he never says “Excuse me,” when he passes gas from either end.  He ignores it, guffaws or begins to look for the frog he assures me he just stepped on. I rest my case.

But, back to the crochet, which is French for “hook”.  He is pretty adept at a skill he obtained while being jailed for some random fight on some random weekend in the bustling metropolis of Lake Providence, LA when he was younger.  I’m not sure if it was one of those times where he got in a fight because he was bored or simply doing any manner of things that were illegal in that era.  I can never depend on him to stick with the same lie twice; much less tell the truth once.  But whatever the situation he is a skilled crochet artist.  And he produces them at a rate you can only compare to Southeast Asians sewing hidden buttons for Tommy Hilfiger.  He crocheted 8 afghans and 4 scarves between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  He’s already finished a gift for someone who is retiring in June. 

 I have made more runs to the craft section of Wal-Mart for thread than an ill-prepared Vacation Bible School teacher.  And if I have to lie to the woman at the check-out line about my daughter Kinley’s last minute school project one more time, she’s going to get suspicious.  Apparently, I do care what Esperanza thinks of me.  Oh, did I tell you that I now have a daughter named Kinley?  She’s ever so sweet.  She is a carbon copy of my niece Payton.  So much so I could use Payton’s photos and say they were Kinley if push came to shove.  Not that I would do it.  Well, at least not more than once.  Okay, twice.  Okay, once at Wal-Mart and once at Target.  Lydia, my  Target cashier, seemed curious as to why I had so many boxes of popsicles, Uncrustables and kool-aid.    “That darn Kinley,” I laughed and gave her my patented “parent shrug”.   “What can you do with a teenager?”

What am I supposed to do, admit the Uncrustables are for me?  That’d be like admitting I like the song by the boy who used to have the haircut and that I stood in line (in line!) to see Toy Story 3 and that’s a bit more mature than I care to be at this juncture. 

And I fully intend on blaming The Dad. Apparently lying is contagious.  I knew catching “country” was just a gateway, y’all.  I’m slowly becoming a redneck.  But I’m going to do everything in my power to fight it.  In fact, tonight I’m wearing a tie and matching pocket square to bed.