Month: February 2011

This story originally appeared in the February 17 issue of The Trussville Tribune.

Along with every other patriotic football fan in the country, I cringed when Christina Aguilera botched the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner” during the Super Bowl earlier this month. As soon as it happened, I knew she was in for some unwelcome media attention. You don’t goof up like that in a packed stadium, not to mention in front of millions of TV viewers, without paying some kind of price.

But in my opinion, she got what she deserved. With a little forethought, the whole mangled mess could have easily been avoided. I mean, good grief, if you’re going to sing for a crowd that size, at least have the good sense to use a teleprompter or write the words on your hand. Didn’t the girl learn how to cheat on a test like everybody else who ever went to grammar school?

On the other hand, I’ve got to admit that Christina was in a tough spot. No matter how seasoned a performer may be, the Super Bowl would have to rank right up there with a starving lion’s den at suppertime as one of the most intimidating venues ever. So I’ll give her that much. But that’s even more reason to spend a little time and effort preparing not to fail. Just sayin’.

But I was no more horrified with Christina’s faux pas than I was when I tried to recall the correct order of the phrases in the national anthem and encountered a memory lapse of my own. So what’s up with that? I’ve known and cherished those words since second grade, and to suddenly forget how they all fit together was a little unnerving.

I hate to say this out loud, so I’m going to whisper it very quietly: Could this and other periodic brain glitches I’ve been experiencing lately be (gasp!) senior moments?

I fear it may be true. The signs are all there. I’ve begun hunting reading glasses perched on my head and car keys I’m holding in my hand. I’ll put important things away in special places and can never find them again. I’ll wash a load of clothes and forget to throw them in the dryer before mildew sets in, and I have to wash them again.

The short-term memory is fading fast, which doesn’t explain why I’d forget the lyrics to a song I’ve known since I was a kid. So it looks like the long-term memory isn’t in such good shape, either. But I can remember the name of a substitute teacher in my first-grade class, while I can’t remember the date of a hair appointment I made yesterday.

I’m reminded of the Sunday afternoons Mama and I used to visit Meemaw Flowers in the nursing home. Well into her eighties, my grandmother could readily spin tales of her childhood, once describing in great detail and with perfect clarity a tulip tree in her parents’ backyard. But she couldn’t remember our visit two weeks before – or that she’d told the same story and described the same tree to us then.

Thankfully, though, my “Star-Spangled” moment was brief. I managed to remember the song by singing it through a couple of times, causing the parrot to set up an ear-splitting ruckus and the Chihuahuas to perk up their ears and tilt their heads as if to say, “What’s all that racket you’re making? And can you please make it stop?” At least Christina has a decent singing voice, even if she has to make up the lyrics as she goes along. (I could make a mean crack about blondes here, but I won’t. This time.)

The backlash from my memory lapse was minimal, nothing compared to the media frenzy Christina suffered through. In my case, once the parrot stopped squawking and the dogs settled down, the incident was pretty much forgotten.

But alas, in Christina’s case, the bungled words won’t be forgotten until the next time somebody famous botches “The Star-Spangled Banner” on national TV. Given the difficulty of the tune and the phrasing that nobody truly understands, I predict that won’t be very long at all.

This story first appeared in the February 3, 2011, issue of The Trussville Tribune…

Wow, who knew? All these years I thought I was a brunette, and come to find out, I’m a blonde. At least that’s what the hair color people say, and they ought to know.

One evening last week, I washed some of the gray highlights out of my hair with the contents of a bottle labeled “Dark Blonde.” I was pleased with the result and later commented to Jimmie that the color came as close to my natural color as I’d ever been able to find.

“The funny thing is,” I said, “I’ve never considered my natural color to be anywhere near blonde.”

“Huh,” he said, giving my refurbished tresses barely a glance before turning his attention back to the TV. He’s evidently so accustomed to the color of my hair changing from time to time that yet another shade is barely worth noting.

I once longed to be a blonde bombshell but never had enough nerve to go the bleaching route. I frankly doubted light-colored hair would do much for my complexion, plus I feared winding up with a head full of over-processed straw.

There was that one summer, though – I must have been sixteen or so – when I spent a lot of time poolside with friends Sonja and Melanie at Sonja’s daddy’s country club. Between the chlorine in the pool and spritzes of lemon juice on our hair, we were summer blondes as long as the season lasted. And I think the lighter color probably suited me just fine. But then, all those hours in the sun guaranteed I had enough of a tan to carry it off.

I again experimented with a somewhat lighter color the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. Mama and Daddy left my younger brother and me home alone one weekend while they went on a trip with Daddy’s boss and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Martin. Craving some excitement but low on funds, I ran to the drugstore and plopped down my last few bucks for a bottle of hair color labeled “Golden Halo,” or something like that.

The writing on the box promised the magic formula inside would render my hair a shiny brown with golden highlights and body to spare. Furthermore, my hair would be thicker, more manageable and infinitely attractive to every handsome and well-to-do college-age male for miles around. Okay, so maybe I read a little more into the advertising copy than was actually there…

In reality, the stuff turned my hair a horrible brassy red, and I had no sooner finished drying it when Mr. Martin’s Cadillac turned into the driveway. The parents were home, and there I was, looking for all the world like an Irish Setter on a bad hair day.

Worse, I had never met Mrs. Martin before, and her first impression of me was bound to be less than favorable. But I figured I might as well get it over with. So I bravely stepped outside to help Mama and Daddy with their bags.

The look on my parents’ faces was priceless.

“Your daughter is lovely,” Mrs. Martin sweetly gushed to my mother, trying really hard to sound sincere. “But where did she get that red hair?”

“I’m guessing from a bottle,” Mama deadpanned, giving me the maternal evil eye.

“Oh…” Mrs. Martin giggled nervously, sensing she’d stuck her foot in the middle of what was about to become a family issue. She hastily retreated to the car and urged her husband to do likewise.

My current hairstylist, Cindy, recently advised me that any hair color with “golden” in its name would turn brown hair red. No kidding. Too bad somebody didn’t share that little tidbit with me thirty-five years ago. It might have saved me some trouble.

But now learning that I’m actually a blonde, and that I apparently have been all along, gives me a whole new perspective on life. Remember the old commercial that posed the question, “Is it true blondes have more fun?” Well, I intend to find out. And if that’s indeed the case, I’ll be spending the next few years catching up on all those good times I’ve been missing.