Category Archives: The Lucky Mom

The Running of the Bulls — New Orleans Style

The secret’s out. We do things a little differently here in New Orleans. Usually bigger, louder, and with a hell-of-a party at the end. So when I heard about the Running of the Bulls, NOLA style, I knew Mr. Wonderful and I had to be a part of it.

Officially, the Festival of San Fermin in Nueva Orleans, NOLA’s Running of the Bulls is a little different from the centuries-old event in Spain you may have seen on the news this week. It starts off with the traditional procession featuring the statue of San Fermin, the patron saint of Navarre, who is rumored to have met his death by the horns of a bull on the streets of Pamplona in the fourth century. But our version differs from the traditional after that.

Our “bulls” are roller derby girls, clad in red and black with horned helmets and baseball bats. They roll through the streets amongst the runners, shrieking and swinging their bats. It’s one of those things that you really can’t explain. You have to be there.

We started our day early, pulling out of the driveway about 6:30 a.m. By 7:00 the crowd was already thousands-deep. Some had coffee, others Bloody Marys (blood being the theme of the day), and the purists had their beer. The bulls were tightening up their skates and straightening their fishnets, while the runners roamed the area seeking friends and photo ops. It was surreal.

Me and my peeps getting ready for the big event!

At 7:30, the formal procession began, with the statue of San Fermin carried through the streets accompanied by musicians and hordes of the “faithful.” As his procession concluded, the announcer called for the line-up.

The procession begins.

"Making the way" for San Fermin.

The Encierro (bull run) is led NOLA-style, by the Krewe of the Rolling Elvi. (Yes, the plural of Elvis is Elvi.) As they blaze the one-mile trail thousands of runners follow behind, waiting for the release of the bulls from one of the three “bull pens” along the route. When the bulls hit the pavement, the casual pace turns frantic as runners hear the bulls coming up behind them, and the sound of the bats striking (and I do mean striking) is immediately followed by yelps from the runners. The first couple of strikes let you know exactly what you’re in for, and gives you the chance to make the decision whether to remain in the street or seek refuge on the sidewalk. I chose the former. (No regrets.) I did skip the gauntlet at the end, though. (Maybe next year.)

Bull Pen at Line Up

The media reports said 10,000 people participated!

The Krewe of the Rolling Elvi led the run.

Some of the bulls took their roles with a bit of humor. Others took it very seriously. About 1 in 10 “whacks” was delivered with a vengeance. I understood fully the sign announcing that we were to “run at our own risk” once that first serious blow struck my hind quarters.

Big Easy Roller Girl!

Whack!

At this point, you may be asking “Why?”

To that, there is only one response, “¿Por qué no?”

It was, without a doubt, one of the longest and most fun miles of my life! Accompanied by my BFF Elena, (our husbands and Elena’s firstborn left us behind) I experienced a strange explosion of fear, excitement, and chaos, wrapped up in adrenaline. Words can’t describe it. So here are a couple of videos:

The first video was professionally produced, and is worth the 10-minute investment to watch. It tells the story well.

The next video was taken by a cell phone, so its quality is less impressive, but it was taken by my BFF’s son Ryan, and makes you feel the chaos. One of the shouts you will hear is Mr. Wonderful.

As with all things, there is something to be learned. Never attempt to block a bat being swung at your backside with your hand. There are no bones in your backside, and it can survive a blow better than a hand. (I drove myself straight to the Urgent Care Clinic after the party for an x-ray. Hairline fracture. Well worth it!) Mr. Wonderful took one on the thigh.

Mr. Wonderful's battle scar.

As El Padrino announced from the balcony of Ernst Café before the start of the event, “New Orleans ain’t for the normal.”

So if you feel the need to experience this unique event next July, give me a shout. I’ll bring the sangria.

Talk Nerdy to Me — Part I

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They’re irritating and overused. Like the sound of fingernails of a blackboard, I cringe when I hear them. We’ve all got a few on our personal lists, but there are a handful that are universally accepted as obnoxious. Annoying phrases are everywhere.

Source: universecityblog.wordpress.com

I know I’m not the only one who wishes many of these phrases and words would go away. I know there are others like me out there who long for a return to a more genteel manner of speaking. (Now, I don’t want to swing to the opposite extreme. I don’t need to ask my son “with whom he will be going to the movies.”) But I would embrace the renaissance of a few polite and well-mannered phrases to replace some of the ones I feel just have to go.

The number one offender: “(I/she/he) was like.” Attention teenagers: this is not a verb phrase. If you want to describe what someone says, does, or feels, there are verbs for that purpose. Please learn how to use them.

Fusion words: combining two words, then dropping a syllable or two because you’re too lazy to say the whole thing. “ ‘Sup?” is the number one offending word in this category, but there are many, many more. “Dja-eat?” (“Did you eat?”) If the statement or question requires two words, please speak them both. Having a conversation reduced to a few grunted syllables is just rude and makes you sound like a cave man.

Overuse of the word, “Whatever.” This non-committal word usually means the responder disagrees with what you’re saying, but doesn’t have the energy or vocabulary to respond appropriately. Parents, beware. It does not imply agreement. It’s a verbal tool teenagers use to stop a conversation.

Interrogative words: What happened to them? Questions should begin with words like how, may, why, or did. Raising the pitch at the end of a phrase and inserting a question mark does not constitute a question. (“You went to the store?”)

The dreaded “No offense, but…” This phrase should just be stricken. No good can come of anything said after that phrase. This disclaimer does not give you license to say rude or ugly things, just because you’ve preceded the insult with a feigned politeness. Using the Southern cousin, “Bless his/her heart” (as in, “My aunt is crazy, bless her heart.”) after a put-down is just as offensive. Don’t do it.

Now, I realize that language is an evolving entity. Today’s vernacular is significantly different from that of just a few decades ago. Therefore — as with all things – this, too, shall pass. I just hope I live long enough to hear it happen.

For now, if you see me around and want to chat, avoid these phrases. Speak in complete sentences and leave out some of the slang. Let your language bear some resemblance to the mother tongue we learned in school. Please talk nerdy to me.

Which phrases make your head spin? Please share if I’ve left out the one that makes your head spin!

Coming soon: Part 2 – Nerdy words, and how to use them.

Tales from the Treehouse*

Random Acts

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I remember the first time I saw the slogan. I was living in Texas at the time, and was in New Orleans for a friend’s wedding. We were at the local hangout, and it was plastered on the wall behind the bar:

PRACTICE RANDOM KINDNESS AND SENSELESS ACTS OF BEAUTY.

I was amazed by its simplicity. I was inspired by its power. I committed it to memory.

{ Source: OptimisticMinds }

Now, this was the 1980s. There was no internet to fuel such a concept. It was a grassroots movement, forced to travel by bumper sticker and magazine article. By word of mouth. By deed. It was slow going. If it was going to catch on, I was going to have to do my part.

I went back to work the next week and remember being excited by the concept, and sharing it with co-workers. A few thought it as silly. A few thought it weird. A few thought it was as wonderful as I did.

And so began my journey.

Over the years I’ve paid people’s tolls, bought the coffee of the driver behind me in the Starbucks window, bought groceries of the young couple with the baby in the stroller. I’ve given blankets to a homeless man, and picked up hitchhikers (I don’t do that anymore). I remember sitting on the side of the road on Christmas Eve with an old lady who had car trouble. (Before cell phones. You had to get someone to drive to the next exit to make a phone call for you.) I sprinkled flower seeds in the empty field and watched them bloom. I cleaned the statue outside my church. I carried candy around at Christmas and left it in the tube at the bank drive-up with a note.

But mostly I just tried to Be Nice. To as many people as possible. A genuine smile, a cheerful hello, a simple “How are you today?”— while making eye contact and waiting for a reply. Learning to be friendly, learning to listen, learning to care.

Talking about it seems a little strange to me. One of the points of a Random Act of Kindness has always been that it should be anonymous. (Touting them here is only for the purpose of explaining the concept.) When the recipient of one of my Acts tried to thank me, I always asked for the same thing: for them to pay it forward. To be kind, or generous, or helpful to another. I had this pyramid scheme in my head that one day, people would go about their business, constantly being nice to one another. My version of Utopia.

Twenty five years later, I’m trying to keep up the momentum.

Which brings me to 2011. A few days ago I came across a website called JustBeeGenerous.com. The concept was familiar: being anonymously generous. But this added the ability to push the movement forward using a card, explaining the act of generosity, and urging the recipient to pass it on. I was so excited!

As things now travel at the speed of Google, it took only a short time for the web site to pop up o a friend’s Facebook page and for me to learn that its creator is someone I know, the niece of a dear childhood friend of mine! I ordered my FREE cards and exchanged emails with her, and am watching the mailbox for my JustBeeGenerous gear.

Her version of the concept added the missing piece – the message of the act, and the request to keep it going. I’m so proud of this little girl I used to know, for making such a substantial difference to our world.

So, according to one calendar, Monday is Random Acts of Kindness Day. (According to another calendar it was yesterday.) Whichever day you choose to recognize, I challenge each of you to join the movement. Practice Kindness. Make the world a more beautiful place.

You never know whose life you may change. Might even be your own.

No Ladybugs Were Harmed During the Making of This Sauce

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I was feeling adventurous that day. So instead of sticking to my list, I roamed up and down each aisle of Sam’s Club, eyeing things I would not normally buy. Then I saw it: the gi-normous can of crushed tomatoes. I thought, “That would make a gi-normous pot of red gravy. My family likes red gravy. I should get that.” In the cart it went.

It sat in the pantry for a couple of weeks. Anxiety started to set in. I didn’t have a suitable recipe. I’ve only made homemade red gravy once. I’m not sure I’m ready. What if it’s not as good as my mother-in-law’s? My old fears welled up, and I actually considered returning it for a refund donating the can to the food bank.

Then Mr. Wonderful went out for town for a few days, and I figured I had a window. I’d try it, and if it turned out badly, throw it out and buy a gallon of sauce from Venezia’s — no one would be the wiser. Game on.

I posted a request on Facebook for recipes and input from friends, and got lots of great responses. Since I was making an ordeal adventure out of it, I opted to follow my nephew’s advice. He is, after all, of Sicilian descent AND in culinary school, and he taught me about barding when I made braciolone.

Armed and Dangerous.

Armed with his recipe, I went to the grocery store. (Not Wal-Mart, the actual supermarket with fresh produce and specialty herbs!) I got the freshest herbs (the kind still potted…) and spices I’ll probably never use again. But if this was good, Mr. Wonderful was going to love me more than ever. (Italian boys have weird relationships with food.)

I picked fresh basil from my garden, and washed it carefully. (NOTE: always check fresh herbs thoroughly, including the underneath side of the leaves where Ladybugs hide. I almost added a little extra flavoring to my pot!)

I poured a glass of wine and put on my apron (to get the full “chef” effect), and started cooking.

Fresh herbs. No Ladybugs.

Seasoning pouch. This keeps the greens out of the sauce and saves my kids the trouble of picking them out.

I felt very sophisticated making the cheesecloth pouch, and kept looking out of the window to see if by any chance a Food Network camera crew was nearby, because surely this much effort was worth my own TV show. I filled the pouch with great care while singing an Italian song. (That part of the recipe came from my friend’s mom, Ms. Bernie.) I followed the recipe carefully, making notes on any variations for future ordeals adventures.

Two glasses of wine later Three hours later I tasted my sauce and it was delicious! The plan was to have it for dinner the next night, when Mr. Wonderful returned home. I transferred the sauce to smaller bowls to store overnight, because I forgot one important detail: when making a gi-normous pot of anything, make sure you have enough containers to store it or enough people to eat it. (Gi-normous pots do not fit in the fridge.)

I felt accomplished and validated when I was finished. I have now completely conquered my fear of Italian cooking, and will be scouring the Food Network’s web site later to let them know I’m ready for my show.

And the next time I go to Sam’s, I’ll grab 2 cans of those tomatoes.

With Apologies to Dr. Maslow

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I don’t consider myself an “expert” in any way. But with 45 years combined experience (19+16+10) parenting 3 boys, I have learned a thing or two. And by today’s measurable standards I’ve done a decent job. They make good grades. They have reasonable standards of hygiene. None of them has been to juvey.

So (after I pat myself on the back) let me share with you a little of the wisdom I’ve gained.

Teenage boys only give their undivided attention to one thing: video games.

When there’s a controller in their hands, they can block out anything. Parents calling, little brothers screaming, phones ringing. I pray the house never catches on fire while Slick is playing Call of Duty. He’d be a goner. I even saw The Trailblazer’s girlfriend on a Skype screen competing for his attention while he was playing FIFA. She lost. They get hypnotized by the pixels on the screen like deer staring into headlights. (A few days ago I thought about throwing the main breaker and telling them there was a power outage just to get their attention. But it was too hot to be without the A/C, so I had to shrug off that idea.)

Once you get past video games on the Needs pyramid, everything else comes with an underlying distraction: thinking about girls. The chart is self-explanatory from that point forward.

The tiny space at the top of the pyramid is what remains of their former dependence on us. As they rely less on mom and dad for other things, the remaining contact is only for the purposes of bonding (us) and asking for money (them). They want to spend as little time with their parents as possible, preferably not in public.

So those of you with teenage boys in your life, study this chart carefully, and save yourself a lot of grief. Don’t get your feelings hurt when they bail on having dinner at home in favor of hanging out with friends. Don’t think you understand what motivates them. Don’t speak to them in public. And make sure the smoke alarms in your house are loud enough to be heard over COD.

I’m sure Dr. Maslow would agree with me.

Dear Mr. Wonderful,

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In case I haven’t told you lately, you’re a wonderful guy. When I was a girl, and imagined my life, I never even came close to the way it’s turned out. I hoped I’d find someone who loved all of me — my big mouth, my mood swings, and the awful sounds I make in the morning to clear my sinuses. You’ve been a really good sport through all of it. You’ve even validated me by reading my blog.

And you’re a wonderful dad. You’re never too tired to go for a bike ride, push someone on the swing, or fix problems on the computer. When I can’t moderate another argument, you step right in. And you’re the best at preparing for social studies tests! I know our boys will turn out to be great dads, because they’ve had such a great example.

Putting you on a plane today made us all a little sad. But I’m smiling knowing you boarded the flight in your Who D@d t-shirt, and were probably thinking about us as much as we were thinking about you.

Happy Father’s Day. You rock!

The Lucky Wife

They’re Still Mocking Me

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The record heat we’ve been having here has been rough on a lot of things. My tomato plants would probably argue they’ve had it the worst. I just can’t seem to water them enough to get them through the daily 95+ degree temps. Other people seem to be doing alright. I see huge, healthy plants dripping with ripe red fruit.

Mine have decided to live despite me. Or perhaps to spite me. I don’t know which.

I’ve kept them on life support long enough for the ones already there to ripen. And I’ve picked a few, and (despite the appearance of the branch from which they were plucked) they tasted really good!

Perhaps I should just stick to flowers.

Hard-to-kill Black Eyed Susans

Hardy Mandevilla

Even the drought-tolerant daisies are looking sad.

Transforming Grief

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Yesterday was a rough day for me and Mr. Wonderful. We attended two funerals. Two funerals for men about our age. Two wives much like me burying their husbands, children much like ours saying goodbye to their dad. Two mothers grieving for their sons.

It was hard. And by the end of the day, I was in a very contemplative mood. Once we got home I began to recall the words I’d heard earlier, promising myself to find the lesson in them, and to put it to use. It was the only gift I had left to offer the two friends I’d said goodbye to.

My mind went to something a friend recently posted on Facebook. It was a message about good intent being of little value if not backed up with action. I thought about all the times I say I’m going to do something, and don’t. Specifically about all of the times I tell friends we need to get together, but never do. I let the trivial actions of my days take over, and my well-intentioned invitations go to the back burner until next week.

That’s not good enough. I have to do better. Because I was reminded yesterday that next week doesn’t come for everyone.

So I’m challenging myself – and you – to think about the separation that sometimes occurs between feelings and intentions and actions. And close the gap. I want to reduce the regret I have over phone calls I don’t get around to making, visits that I’ve left unscheduled. I want to know that I’ve offered my hand to those in need. I don’t want anyone to wonder whether or not I love them.

In the Lord’s Prayer we say “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” The Golden Rule speaks of action: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” It is clear that God intends for us to receive in the manner in which we first give.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It’s not enough to love someone. You must tell them. You must show them.

It’s not enough to feel compassion. You must reach out to those who are in need. You must touch them.

It’s not enough to foster relationships that are easy. We must find the good in others, even if it is buried deep.

It’s not enough to love God. We must live according to His word, and be disciples of that word.

Not in my Job Description

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There are a couple of things I just don’t do. I don’t cut grass. I don’t climb on the two-story ladder. And I don’t buy cups. I’m talking about athletic cups, not the kind you drink out of.

The only illustration I'm using for this post.

One of my kids returned home from a week at the beach with a friend’s family last night. He looked exhausted and had a beautiful tan (obviously no SPF 100+ sunscreen applied). I knew exactly what would happen without my intervention, so to avert crisis this morning, I gave him two tasks: unpack your bag from the beach, and get your lacrosse bag packed and in the foyer. (Lax camp began this morning.) I even gave a deadline. 9:00 P.M. I was very proud when (a few minutes before 9:00) he went out to the garage to gather his gear.

He returns with the bag, then goes to his room, and begins making noise that indicates he’s looking for something. Soon thereafter, he appears downstairs and asks if anyone knows where his cup is.

Now, as his mother, I feel it’s my job to stay on top of certain things. I make sure he has clean underwear and socks with no holes no more than a few holes. I keep shampoo and soap available, and provide meals. But I will not be responsible for his cup. I just won’t.

Mr. Wonderful remembers seeing one in his closet, so goes to help him look. I’m having no part of this search — just shaking my head and fetching a wine glass to be an observer. They find one. My son announces that it’s too small.

I just walked away.

If any other male made that statement I’d have been on it like gravy on rice. There are sooo many punch lines. But this is my kid, so it’s a little creepy going there.

As it was now too late to go buy a “bigger one” I listened as his dad asked him if he could manage for the first day of camp with the one we found. He said he could. This afternoon I’ll hand him some cash and send him in to Academy Sports to go resolve this issue. By himself. Because I’m not going to get into a discussion about what size cup he needs. Ever.

P.S. For the love of all things sacred, please don’t tell him I wrote this.