Month: October 2010

This story originally appeared in the October 21, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune.

With the spring arrival of a cutie named Sam, my friend, Shirley, became a grandmother for the first time. As with most first children/grandchildren, preparations for Sam’s arrival began as soon as his due date was announced, and finding the perfect nursery theme soon became a top priority for his mom and grandmother.

A creative pair, Shirley and expectant daughter Melanie headed to a baby specialty store, hoping a stroll up and down the aisles would generate some ideas.

“Melanie wanted something fresh and different, as all her friends seemed to be decorating with the same woodland creatures or monkeys or tried-and-true bunnies and ducks,” Shirley later told me. “We didn’t see anything that ‘spoke’ to us until we were leaving the store, and she saw two plush monsters – a male and a female version – in the clearance bin.”

And the idea for Sam’s monster nursery was born.

The plush pair rode home on the dashboard of the car while the mommy and nana-to-be began plotting their decorating strategy. Before long, they’d purchased monster fabric, ordered monster-embroidered quilt blocks and commissioned original monster paintings. As friends and family members learned of the plan, they made their own contributions, including monster piggy banks, a monster beanbag chair and monster ugly dolls. Nana Shirley even made a 17-foot monster snake for Sam.

Cute, huh? Especially for a little boy.

But I have to admit when I first heard that Sam would be compelled to spend his first night at home – and many nights thereafter – amidst a collection of monsters, I was doubtful. I mean, isn’t every kid’s nightmare being eaten alive by a big hairy beast that comes alive only after bedtime? And Sam would not only have to worry about one monster; he’d be surrounded.

On the other hand, I figured, Sam’s immediate exposure to monsters might grant him a measure of immunity to monster-fright, a condition that has afflicted countless over-imaginative children since time began, including me. My monsters, like many monsters of childhood, lived under the bed.

When I was a kid, I slept in a mahogany four-poster bed that sat high enough to allow a foot or so of space between the box springs and the floor. In other words, there was plenty of room for a monster or two down there.

Until I was five or six years old, the only monster residing under my bed was the generic green kind with fangs, horns and one Cyclopean eye in the middle of his forehead. Then my parents took my brothers and me to the drive-in theater to see To Kill a Mockingbird, and a second monster that looked an awful lot like Boo Radley came along.

I imagined the two scary creatures huddled under the bed, plotting to jump out the minute I dozed off and scare the living daylights out of me. Fortunately, they never pulled any of their monster stunts – at least not any that I know of. It’s quite possible they simply never managed to wake me up, since that was back when I could sleep like a rock for eight hours at a stretch.

As you can probably guess, under-the-bed monsters aren’t a problem for me anymore. For one thing, I grew up. And for another, there are too many gigantic Tupperware-like storage boxes wedged under the beds at our house to allow much room for monsters. To fit into any leftover space, the poor creatures would have to be too small to be scary.

And as for Sam? He’s reportedly thriving among the monsters, happily unaware that his colorful nursery décor is the stuff of nightmares for other kids. Kind of makes me wish my parents had thought to decorate my nursery with monsters. It might have saved me a lot of needless anxiety.

This story first appeared in the October 7, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune…

I probably shouldn’t admit this publicly, especially considering the region of the United States in which I was born, raised and still reside, but I really don’t care for football. Now I’m not talking about the trimmings like game parties, marching bands, and concession stand peanuts. I enjoy all that. I just don’t like the game itself, mainly because the only thing I understand about it is that when the ball crosses the goal line, somebody scores, and then they get to kick the ball for another point. That’s it.

Try striking up a meaningful conversation about a first down or a clipping penalty or a quarterback sack in one of last weekend’s games, and all you’re liable to get from me is a non-committal comment like, “Oh, I must have missed that,” or “Wasn’t that something?” Truth be told, I’m not exactly sure what those things are, and I’m okay with that. Football isn’t my thing. My husband, on the other hand, is devoted to the game.

As I write this, Jimmie, also known as our household SuperFan, is watching the umpteenth college football game of the day, excitedly pounding the arms of his recliner and hurling the occasional victory shout or not-so-nice word in the general direction of the TV. I’m huddled with the Chihuahuas in the bedroom because I figure it’s a good time to get some writing done; they figure it’s to their advantage to hide from the scary man in the den.

Normally a fairly laid-back kind of guy, Jimmie morphs into a different person when watching football. He becomes noisy and animated, and miracle of miracles, he manages to stay awake for a full four quarters at a stretch. There’s something about the combination of a TV, recliner and remote control that usually causes Jimmie to fall asleep – unless, that is, he’s watching an NCIS rerun or a football game.

But I don’t get it. I really don’t. What’s so fascinating about watching a bunch of big guys moving an odd-shaped little ball up and down a field by tackling and making every effort to permanently maim each another? It makes no sense to me. But given the popularity of football, it evidently makes sense to a lot of other folks. And at one time – probably 25 or 30 years ago – that bothered me. I thought I was missing out on something, and I hate missing out on anything if I can help it.

So being the reader I’ve always been, I headed to the bookstore and bought a thin volume entitled “The Girls’ Guide to Football” or something like that. It’s been so long, I don’t remember the title for sure. But I do remember reading the book. I also remember still not understanding the game after I did. My comprehension skills tend to fail me when I’m reading something I truly have no interest in.

I have to admit, though, that even to a football-challenged person like me, the sport has its associated good points. When we’re home, Jimmie is happy to watch it on his own, leaving me free to do things I enjoy, like reading, writing or shopping on the Internet. And whenever we go to a game, I get to sit in the stands people-watching and eating concession stand food, which are two of my favorite pastimes. So all that being said, I guess I really do like football in a sideways sort of fashion.

But unless you want to hear a critique of the drill team’s performance at halftime or a diatribe on the condition of the ladies’ restroom at the stadium, don’t expect any post-game analysis from me. I still don’t get it. And if I don’t understand football at my age, I doubt I ever will.

This story first appeared in the September 23 issue of The Trussville Tribune…

Not so long ago, I was young. Oh, I know that compared to some people, I’m still young. But I’m a whole lot older than I used to be, and I’m beginning to see it, act it and feel it. Here are some of the symptoms I’m experiencing…

· Wearing reading glasses has gotten to be such a habit that I don’t even notice I’m wearing them. When I bought my first pair a few years ago, I thought I’d never get used to them. Furthermore, I was aggravated to pieces that the darn things were even necessary. Now I don’t even try to read a large print book without them, a sure indication that my ugly little spectacles have become a kind of security blanket. But I have to say being able to easily see what I’m reading beats the heck out of squinting and clutching a book at arm’s length.

· As far as music, I don’t know any Beyonce songs, and I don’t care that I don’t know any Beyonce songs. In my book, she’s got a long way to go before she’ll meet the standard set by the likes of James Taylor, Karen Carpenter (God rest her soul) or The Captain and Tennille. By the way, who is this Jay-Z person Beyonce is married to? Am I supposed to know him? And why don’t either of them have last names?

· Twenty-five years ago, my style motto was “Beauty before comfort.” It’s now the other way around. These days, I consider push-up bras and heels any higher than an inch-and-a-half akin to medieval torture devices. And who wants to wear tight jeans when a pair of forgiving elastic-waist pants will serve the purpose just as well? Until I’m dressing to meet the Queen (surely it’ll be my turn one day), I’ll be choosing comfort.

· Black and white TV is my visual comfort food. I’ll take “I Love Lucy” or “The Addams Family” over “Hannah Montana” or that Steve Urkel show any day. Watching the old stuff reminds me of simpler times, back when I didn’t have to pay my own bills, and off-days meant bicycles and roller skates, not laundry and vacuuming.

· I sit around the dinner table with friends discussing what antacid works best after eating a meal of spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread. We then compare cholesterol and blood pressure levels, trade recipes for easy low-fat desserts and talk about who’s recently had a knee replacement and who could probably use one. What really blows my mind is when my contemporaries start bringing out pictures of the grandkids and passing them around the table. Aren’t grandparents supposed to be older than we are?

· I go to bed early – real early. In college, I could stay out ‘til midnight and make it to class the next morning by 8:00 a.m. – or a few minutes after, at least – then keep going ‘til midnight again. Nowadays, I can hardly wait until 9:00 p.m. to hunker down with a book and try to stay awake long enough to read for an hour or so before falling asleep. I do, however, wake up earlier than I used to – 6:00 a.m. is what I now consider “sleeping late.” So surely it all evens out somehow.

I had one other point to make, but I can’t remember what it is… Oh, that’s it – the short-term memory thing. As time goes by, I have less and less of it at my disposal. But that might not be all bad. I regularly make a fool of myself in one way or another, and forgetting stuff like that is okay with me.

And on that note, I’ll close. Writing about this aging business is getting a little depressing, to tell the truth. Besides, I’ve got to get up from here and head out on some errands. Now if I can just remember where I put the car keys…