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I’m just wondering: when is May 5 just May 5?

6 May

Yesterday all my friends had FB statuses about “Cinco de Mayo” and drinking margaritas or having a Corona for lunch. And I got all excited, thinking – what an AWESOME holiday: it’s like St. Patrick’s day for my Mexican friends!

But – after a bit more thought – I came to the conclusion that it is NOT AT ALL like St. Patrick’s Day. I’m in Chicago and the river here was not dyed green. There were no cloggers dancing on bars. I didn’t hear of anyone going out for “kegs and eggs” in the morning. And – most importantly – I am pretty sure  a saint did not chase snakes out of Mexico, because HELLO – isn’t Mexico home to many a rattler???

I actually have no idea what Cinco de Mayo celebrates – other than a date: May Fifth. (That’s right, I’m spelling it out in case you’re dumb and thought it was some kind of mayonnaise festival, you dingdong. But then again, I just admitted my ignorance, so should I be calling you a dingdong? Probably not.)

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Let’s hear it for the boy!

3 May

Alan and I spent this weekend in Richmond for his sister Barbara’s wedding. Everything ran like clockwork and it was a flawless event. Barbara was glowing and her new husband Paul was sporting a constant grin whenever I saw him. It was how a wedding SHOULD be.

The added fun was that Alan got to officiate and wrote the homily himself. He looked frighteningly official (I guess that’s the point) as he stood in front of Barbara and Paul in his tuxedo. For a minute I started to sweat, worrying that he might hear God’s calling and decide to be a man of the cloth, preaching “hellfire and brimstone” and teaching Kylie that dancing is sinful – until a certain Ren McCormack moves to town, plays chicken with a tractor and convinces the town to host a prom.

Fortunately, I only indulged in this Footloose fantasy for a split second before remembering that Alan was ordained for the day as the head of the “Church of the Naked Pants,” and therefore merely looked official but actually had a 50/50 chance of wearing breakaway stripper pants on the pulpit.

In all seriousness, Alan did a great job presiding over the event. It was one of the most personal ceremonies I’ve witnessed, and the homily perfectly communicated the wishes of a protective older brother for his sister.

Even so, I’ll admit that I’m breathing a little bit easier now that his tux has been returned. When he stops insisting that I call him Father, I’ll truly rejoice.

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A day in my life, in Jeopardy format.

27 Apr

I’m too tired to write a fully-formed post. So instead, I’m going to share three of the random thoughts that have gone through my head in the past 24 hours. I’ll supply the thought first and the trigger second, in an attempt to drive Alec Trebek wild with enthusiasm.

Here goes…

Thought #1: “Well, I might be aging but you are too and at least I’m doing it with a roof over my head. Wait. I’m moving. Maybe I will be fired or won’t be able to afford my new mortgage and I’ll end up homeless. In which case this was not only a mean thought, but an ironic one. I want to take it back! I’m an evil, awful person for thinking that!”

Trigger #1: What is the one response to a homeless man, shouting, “Damn Sugar. Ain’t getting any younger!” at me today?

Thought #2: “I really need to find a new pool.”

Trigger #2: What is the appropriate reaction to finding a dirty (by which I mean USED) and water-logged tampon sitting on top of the soap dispenser in a shower stall at my pool? Enough said. (Vomit.)

Thought #3: “Is it my mat or the blanket that smells like fish?”

Trigger #3: What is a yogic mystery? Somehow I managed to choose a blanket at yoga tonight that smelled like it was washed with clam juice. Every time I did a downward-facing dog, I found myself pulling a few extra, curious drags of air to diagnose the odor. Halfway through class, I pinpointed the blanket, traded it for another and the problem was solved. Oddly, I was not craving clams casino when I left class.

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When is a melon just a melon?

17 Apr

Today I saw a bumper sticker that said, “stop to squeeze the melons of life,” and I wondered if by melons it meant breasts.

And then, because “stop” wasn’t capitalized, I got worried that part of the sticker was missing, and it originally said, “I stop to squeeze the melons of life.” The reason I was worried was because maybe it was actually a warning, like “I brake for children” or “I make wide left turns” and it was possible that if I let my mind wander, I might rear-end this guy, because there were a lot of breasts ahead of us walking along the sidewalk.

But then we drove past them, and I didn’t rear-end him, so I figured he either actually meant melons, or that there never was an “I” on the sticker. Even so, I’m glad today wasn’t the farmer’s market. No need to bait the guy with produce stands.

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A rose by any other name… might smell like kielbasa?

15 Apr

So we all know people with unfortunate name combinations…. just start a conversation about someone you know whose name is Rose Budd (nee Bush) and inevitably, you’ll start hearing about other ironic pairings.

Last night at book club this very topic came up and I found myself talking about a girl I went to elementary school with, who – in the interest of anonymity – we’ll call Krista Hiney. (This isn’t her real last name, but it’s a close parallel, especially on the Hiney part.)

Her last name wasn’t just unfortunate, but something of a self-fulfilling prophecy: in fourth grade she crapped her pants during quiet reading time. Except instead of wearing pants, she was actually wearing a dress, so she had to be pushed out of the classroom while still seated in her chair because she was scared her underwear would fall down when she stood up.

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