Wilson Post Blogs

While watching Man vs. Wild last week I realized two things. One, if I were ever stranded in a jungle with nothing but my wits to survive, I wouldn’t make it. (I don’t even think I’d try. Instead search and rescue would find me curled up in a fetal position sucking my thumb.) And two, Bear Grylls accent can get annoying after about thirty minutes.

I do admire how industrious the star of the show is and freely admit I’m no match for his knowledge about all things survival. But, I wonder how well he’d do in my jungle?

In this jungle, you don’t need to know the proper way to disembowel a wild boar before eating it. You will however need to know how much time it takes to cook 3 slices of bacon -in the microwave- to get it to the crispness needed to be appetizing to your 5 year old before a meltdown ensues.

If you plan on getting the kids to school on time, you will also have to make sure the 10 year old has all homework in folders, those folders are in the backpack and that backpack is in the car BEFORE you pull out of the driveway.

I would much rather remove a leech from my leg, than get half way to work and remember I forgot to turn on the crock-pot that has a twelve dollar roast in it just waiting to go bad. There’s no time to think about being late for your meeting though, because you’ve got to MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!

Survival in my world isn’t being stranded in a desert and resorting to drinking urine to pull through dehydration. Survival is managing to find a half full water bottle under your seat and giving it to your son during baseball practice because you forgot his at home.

Spearing a catfish, cutting its head off and eating it raw? Try looking under the seat of the car and finding a half eaten pack of peanut butter crackers and deciding to go ahead and eat them because you don’t have time to stop. Besides, you left your wallet at home.

When the show ended my oldest said, “He’s awesome! Daddy, what does it feel like to get stung by a scorpion?”

I could tell my husband was already envisioning our child in a survival vest and using a compass deep in the jungle to find clean drinking water. He was proud of his soon to be adventurer. Almost as proud as I’d be if he came home and told me he wanted to do anything that would not involve contact with poisonous insects. “I’d say it’s painful. But with training, you could handle it.”

He looked at his dad with all the confusion his 10 years could muster before asking the real expert. “What do you think mom? Does it hurt to get stung by a scorpion?”

“No more painful than say childbirth honey and until Bear does that in a jungle, I’m not impressed.” Then we changed the channel.

Email Becky Andrews, This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

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Telling Tales 

Angel Kane and Becky Andrews live in Wilson County. This is their story (or tale) about their life, families and times that they share. Besides their weekly column Telling Tales Angel and Becky Co Founded Wilson Living Magazine. The idea of developing a magazine for Wilson County first came to Becky and Angel one afternoon while they sat on her back porch watching their children play in the backyard. 

They were discussing the outpouring of emails, calls and responses to their column “Telling Tales” and wanted to find a way to capture that community spirit. People were stopping them wherever they went to share their own “tales.” They suddenly realized everyone has a story to tell and many of these stories were amazing. And in that moment, Wilson Living Magazine came to life. Be sure to check out Wilson Living Magazine at www.wilsonlivingmagazine.com

You can read Angel and Becky's weekly column on-line at www.wilsonpost.com under the Style section.

As I get ready, I am so anxious. What to wear, what to wear? Do I go with the capris, the jeans or the summer dress? Do I wear my hair up or down, big loop earrings or tiny pearls?

My little sister was my first best friend. Mom was a close second, followed by my big brother, Mike. I think he put up with me out of pity but I didn’t care, we were buds. This is where I got my first lessons on what it means to be a friend. When my little brother came along however, I got my first lesson on why it’s a bad idea to put makeup and nail polish on a little boy and parade him in front of your parent’s close friends.

A friend of mine’s husband recently passed away. There were obviously lots of tears as he was one of the “good guys” that was destined to only be with us 47 years. His wife asked me to go to the funeral home with her in order to make the funeral arrangements.

After a weekend spent cleaning everything from baseboards to cobwebs, I was exhausted. I even cleaned all the little fingerprints from around switch plates and walls. I gave specific instructions to my husband and our offspring on how “we” were going to work as a family to keep this house clean. This was going to work. Because if I had to spend one more Saturday trying to scrub the smell out of each bathroom floor I was going to lose my mind. They all appeared to be listening but, should have known better.

It was chaos. Long lines, screaming kids and sighing parents blanket every corner. One might think we were waiting in line for Jonas Brothers concert tickets. Nope! We are all waiting to get our hands on wide rule paper. It’s back to school and with that comes back to school shopping. The supply list rivals that of an assignment given to the Impossible Mission Force. But even Jim Phelps’ quick improvisational skills couldn’t have helped complete this task.

As I sat in the Dekalb County Community Hospital Emergency Room last weekend, I knew one thing - I was in big trouble! Even the lady behind the admissions desk knew it. She avoided eye contact with me, so I just sat in my chair staring at the EXIT sign above the emergency room door. As I waited, I had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I sat at my desk recently and stared at the headlines coming in on the CNN website. “Unemployment rate soars in third quarter”, “Healthcare Crisis Looms over US”, “Professional Athlete victim of Murder/Suicide” and it went on and on. As much as the news of the day was seriously starting to affect my mood, I just couldn’t turn away. As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about, now I had to add the national debt, unemployment rates and swine flu to my list of problems to solve.

Like all classic “Who Done It’s”, this one began on a non-descript Saturday evening. There had been a warm breeze blowing all that day and the smell of imminent rain was now lingering in the evening air. The murmurs of children could be heard in the dark night as they chased lightning bugs oblivious to the foretelling rumblings of thunder. And the adults were comfortably sitting around the back yard listening to classic 80’s music, enjoying the company of friends while debating whether the rain would wash out the fireworks show.  It was a simple Fourth of July cookout that became  - - - not so simple.

Every year millions of women make the pilgrimage to the shopping mall, outlet store or boutique in search of the only item of clothing that can induce tears and anxiety at the mere mention of its name. That’s right, it’s bathing suit season.

A few months ago I realized that my obsession had gotten out of hand. My morning ritual of making coffee and reading the paper had sadly turned into my getting up and checking my phone for emails   - - before even making it to the coffeemaker. Blasphemous – I know!

Everyone thinks their children are the best. I am one of those parents. Although, I will admit there are times when I want to tape their little smart mouths shut, they seem to redeem themselves before I can tear tape from the roll. But there are times when I am so proud of my kids you might see me floating down the isle of your local grocery. Recently I had one of those experiences with my oldest son.

It’s getting to be that time of year again. The time when I catch up on my drinking and praying. You got it, the Kane family will be flying soon.

Something has happened over the past 15 years or so. My dad has developed his own language. Part of the blame goes to the influx of information and gadgetry that has saturated the country. He just can’t keep up. But, I must say he gives it a shot.

Let’s be honest, most of us have quirks. If left untreated, these little quirks can quickly morph into something more serious, like obsessive compulsive disorder or OCD. My OCD takes the shape of hypochondria where the slightest pain, discoloration of skin or cough has me worried that my life expectancy has been cut in half.

So the other day, as my middle child and I were walking into the grocery store – out of nowhere she said, “It was Wear a Sports Shirt to School day and YOU forgot to give me a sports shirt.”

When I had my children I knew that I would be a cool parent. My kids were going to be fully aware that the only thing a stork drops as he flies over our house is something that likely carries the bird flu. When it comes time for “the talk” we-my husband and I- were going to be honest and open for any questions.

Do you guys remember this movie? If you’ve seen it, I’m sure you remember that gut wrenching moment when Meryl Streep was forced to pick between her two children. She was given the choice of deciding which would live and which would die. Her choice led her to madness.

A few years ago, right after the birth of my youngest child I decided to take up a new sport that would help me get back to my pre baby weight. I tried a lot of different activities. There was step aerobics, yoga and racquetball. But I never really developed that “love” athletes talk about when describing why they do what they do. I needed something simple, something that would fit into my busy life and something that would take almost no effort on my part yet yield phenomenal results. I needed a magic wand but instead my husband bought a treadmill.

Mine was a two-door, hatchback, Honda Accord, with red velour seats and tinted windows. The previous owner had been a smoker, so no matter how many air fresheners I hung from the rear view mirror, the car always had a musty smell …with a tinge of vanilla.