Blog entries categorized under Telling Tales
You can talk smack about them
By BECKY ANDREWS
Around this time of year when extended family members prepare to convene on our households, Angel and I participate in a spirited game of, ‘I can out do you’ or it’s more commonly referred to name,
‘Who has the nuttiest little family’. The conversation usually revolves around whose parent, grandparent, or other relative had the most success at humiliating us or making puberty more awkward than it already was. Because we both come from fairly outspoken people, the contest is always close.
This is usually how the conversations go:
Angel: “I had to sleep on a camp bed for a year in Greece!”
Me: “I was a Jehovah’s Witness until 6th grade.”
Score- Becky- 1, Angel-0
By ANGEL KANE
As I lay across the kitchen floor Sunday night, surrounded by bubble wrap, duck tape, a pulley and wig, my husband walked in,
“Well, this looks like another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
And honestly, if at that moment my fingers had not been super-glued together, I would have exhibited some rather rude behavior. Instead (due to circumstances beyond my control), I took the high road.
By ANGEL KANE
On Sunday as I hopped in the car, I noticed that my husband had packed his laptop as well.
“Why are you bringing the laptop to church?” I asked
“I have to make a trade before noon and can’t find my phone.”
By ANGEL KANE
I’m a risk taker. That’s right. You know it. After years of reading about my fear of flying, fear of germs, fear of public displays of affection, fear of Becky getting me into another “fine mess”, I know that you might have pegged me differently.
But I’m here to tell you that for one brief moment last week, I was that bold and courageous girl, I always knew I could be!
By BECKY ANDREWS
I freely admit a reality show addiction. Not of the ‘Dancing with the Stars’ or ‘Big Brother’ or even ‘Survivor’ type reality. Nope, my shows aren’t that classy. In fact, there’s not even a cash prize awaiting some of these folks. Just a lifelong reminder of how they behaved- good or bad- forever in minds of America.
It started innocent enough. The very first season of ‘The Real World’ started airing my freshman year of college. While I watched the show occasionally, it wasn’t until the second season of the MTV franchise that I would make sure my class schedule didn’t interfere with the latest episode. My roommates and I would loudly discuss each episode. Throughout the week leading up to the next installment, we’d discuss how we thought it should play out.
I didn’t grow up in a house where punctuality was a virtue. In our household, the start time of any event was more of an unrealistic expectation thrust upon us by people who were obviously not as busy as we were.
Then I married my husband who believes 8:00 means 7:50 and so on . . .
Over the years, its been a source of contention, to the point where my husband has repeatedly informed me “studies show that always being late, is a sign of arrogance.”
To which I respond, “I can’t help it if I’m better than everybody else. Now, stop honking that #^$&*@ horn at me, I will be ready in another 5 minutes!”
(I know what you are thinking … he’s a lucky man, isn’t he?)
By BECKY ANDREWS
You read that right. After a very uneventful two weeks waiting for something funny, dangerous, or even inspiring to happen…nothing. I started and stopped about 30 different story ideas. This happens sometimes but this time…nothing.
I started one about training for a half-marathon. This race was different because it was on my birthday and completing it would be a birthday gift from me to me. When I started writing about hurting my calf during one training day, the story kind of went south. I came home from that run complaining to my husband. I went on about how this injury would ruin my chances of hitting my PB because intervals will be impossible.
By ANGEL KANE
There are people that say, the eyes are the windows to the soul. But given fillers, botox and brow lifts…I no longer believe that to be the case.
As I see it, if you really want to know someone’s soul…take a look at their shoes. You can really tell who is enjoying life or, more importantly, who has given up on life, based on their shoe selection.
For instance, just the other day, I was sitting in court amongst a sea of attorneys wearing blue, black and grey suits. I had the fortune of sitting between two young female attorneys and ….I looked down at their shoes.
I fully understand the premise, that due to the fact my parents footed my law school tuition, that I am their attorney… for life. And, of course, …for free.
I totally get it. But I am starting to think, after 19 years…we have to be close to being even.
I pity the fool who crosses my father, be it a neighbor who doesn’t mow his lawn as routinely as my father expects him to or the business owner who continues to park their car in “his” spot.
It just takes one phone call…to his attorney…and the unsuspecting foe receives a firmly worded letter expressing OUR dissatisfaction.
By ANGEL KANE
As the temperatures finally begin to cool down, one can’t help but begin to think about all things fall. From pumpkins to hayrides to bonfires, we all know that there is no better place to spend fall than in middle Tennessee.
And this year, one place we all can all get together and enjoy our favorite fall activities will be Wilson County’s newest pumpkin patch. Located just one mile off of 840 (Exit 67 - Couchville Pike ) in the Gladeville area, the Pumpkin Place will offer pumpkins for the picking, hayrides, corn mazes, children’s games, animals, inflatables and much, much more.
So when Becky first mentioned that Jackson was playing junior pro football and thought Neill might also like to play … I just continued talking right over her.
You see, we are soccer people. We practice once a week…weather permitting. Play our soccer games in the morning…weather permitting. And hand out snacks and a fruity drink once the game is over. It’s such a civilized sport.
When I wouldn’t take the football bait, Becky did what she always does when I ignore her. She called Brody directly. Next thing I knew soccer was out and football was in!
I’m hiding out; in my bedroom, on a Friday night, watching the Golden Girls. Don’t pity me. I love those girls. In fact, they’re the highlight of my evening. You see, this week I have played hostess to my brother, his wife and their three children (two of which are in pre-school). They stay with us every year after making the trek from California to Tennessee. And just to add a more variety to the mix, my oldest niece, her husband and their new baby joined us. So every night since they’ve been here (6 days, 16 hours, 41 minutes) it’s been a party with all my brothers, sisters, their spouses and children. It’s been fun. Especially when my 4 year old nephew uses his 9 octave scream when I tell him he can’t drink his grape juice upstairs, when my 2 year old niece locks herself in the pantry and empties a full box cereal or when my dad leaves my house without telling anyone because… he can!
I read a blog recently and the 22 year old blogger requested readers write a letter offering advice to the younger you, a 20 year old you. I tried to think of how many times I’ve heard people, my dad in particular, say, “If only I could go back and do this (or that or the other thing) differently my life would be better.” We’ve all said it. But most of us, if given the chance wouldn’t take it. Because we know that cutting out some of the poor choices, embarrassing moments or just plain awful experiences of life would most likely mean cutting out the breathtaking, lesson learning and indescribable moments as well.
The reason the blogger made this request of readers was so that she and other 20 something’s might learn more about the bumpy road us older folk had already traveled.
They say that nobody knows what heaven looks like. They - would be wrong. I know exactly what heaven looks like and, I’m here to tell you, it’s grand!
As we vacationed this week by the beach and strolled around the town of Seaside, I explained to my husband that “If heaven doesn’t look like Seaside, I’m going to be really ticked off when I get there.”
Not missing a beat, he responded, “Really? What makes you think you’re getting into heaven?”
I was on a cleaning gag last week and during said gag I found an old roll of film. Yes, film. For those readers who may not remember, film is what us old folks put in cameras to take pictures. So this set me on a mission to find out what this little piece of history had stored on its cellulose.
When I picked up the developed photos I couldn’t wait to see the faces and places that would show up. Was this the long lost photos from the summer I lived in California? Or the film from my oldest son’s first birthday party? Or, even better, completely embarrassing snapshots of my college roommates? Either way, I couldn’t wait to see. As soon as the clerk handed over my purchase, I immediately started perusing.
On Saturday, after a long day of swimming, Neill and Jackson (Becky’s son) raced inside to find me.
Neill: “Mama, can I go to Jackson’s house for dinner?”
Jackson: “Please, please can he come?”
I looked at the sunburned and tired little boys and said “No, its already late, you probably should just stay home.”
Then in unison it started:
I love shopping for bathing suits. I love it like a cat loves a bath, like a 2 year old loves naptime or like my husband loves complete strangers giving him hugs. The very process of finding that perfect suit is poetic. There are many things to consider before purchasing a piece of material so small even the larger ones would be considered indecent in some countries. There’s the print, the color, the amount of medication you will need to feel comfortable wearing that thing in public.
Not only does it cling, it’s tiny too. I’m not talking about just the bikini. Those became a thing of the past after having my first child. Since then my tummy has more closely resembled a deflated balloon with a sad face for a belly button. And this is why I opt for a one piece but even those don’t hide the parts I think they should.
When my oldest was in preschool, his teacher sent home a paper feather and directions for the children to decorate it with anything found around the house. According to the steps, it was critical that this should be completed by the child and not the parent. I obliged, and the next day we turned in a feather decorated with dry rice, beans and a few sequins we found.
That afternoon I walked into the classroom to find all the little feathers hung proudly on a wall. I was in shock! Apparently, my little boy was going to school with 4 year old equivalents of Picasso. There were feathers that looked like they belonged on Bob Mackie couture and some were so detailed it was as if they had been plucked right off a turkey. And there in the center was my little boy’s feather. It was like a pop up camper surrounded by million dollar homes.
So the afternoon went something like this:
Picked up the kids from school. Drove all the way home. Unpacked the car, went inside, let the dog out, looked at the mail, changed into comfortable clothes, watered the plants, called Becky, swept the floor, thought about what I’d make for dinner and one hour later as I was just about to hit defrost, my middle child says, “My photos for my Tennessee Notebook are due tomorrow. I need 10 photos of me at interesting places in Wilson County.”
I immediately saw the other two children look up from their perch upon the sofa. My eldest appearing more attentive than she had been in weeks. My youngest literally grabbing a bag of popcorn, as he knew this show was about to get good.
When Jack Norworth penned the tune, “Take me out to the ballgame,” I wonder if he pictured a little league set of 11 year olds; mouths stuffed with Big League Chew, black out under their eyes and grass stains on white baseball pants?
Like a lot of you, our spring and summer months are packed full of sports. When my oldest started playing ball, I wasn’t prepared for how much time we would spend eating ballpark faire like hot dogs, hamburgers and sunflower seeds.