Second Blooming

Spin Cycle: The Box

After Mama died in 1993, I spent about a month cleaning out her house. Anybody who has gone through this horrible experience can understand. Anyone who hasn't can't. No matter how sympathetic or empathetic you are, you can't really understand. It's not just the pain of losing your parent, it's a feeling of complete dislocation. Of losing your home.

My parents were gone. My childhood was gone. As an only child, I had no witness to my childhood. And now my place, my home, all the details of my upbringing were disappearing.

But as I sorted through room after room of all of the belongings I grew up surrounded by, all the "things" that made up my childhood, I did make a few amazing wonderful discoveries.

Underneath Mama's bed, I found a box. Just an ordinary box from a department store, the size you'd put a sweater in. But inside, I found a treasure trove. Mama had kept all of her favorite things I had made for her throughout my childhood.

Crayon drawings, poems, Valentines. Letters I'd written to her from Girl Scout camp. A house made out of a small milk carton. A turquoise naugahyde wallet. Earrings made out of bottle caps covered with glitter.

I'd had no idea that she'd kept these things. It was so dear, so...motherly. That she'd kept these silly little things, and held them dear all of those years.

And finding it felt as though I'd been given a gift from her. Tangible proof of a happy, love-filled childhood. Knowing that I'd loved her enough to make all these things for her, and she loved me enough and treasured what I'd given her enough to have kept them in her safe, hidden place.

Of course, I couldn't keep everything. When you're faced with sorting through and dealing with every single belonging which someone has accumulated at the end of their life, you have to get a little cut-throat. Did I, a 32-year old woman,  really need 6 Christmas sweaters? The complete works of James Herriot? 15 crystal candy bowls? My grandmother's entire set of Fostoria glassware? Well, yeah, I did need that, but the other stuff, not so much.

And so, most of the treasures in the box went into the bin. But I did manage to save a few of my favorites, two of which I will now share with you. These two were the ones Mama treasured the most, each for a very different reason...

Happy Mother's Day y'all!

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 As always, visit each and every one of this week's "Mother" spins!

Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie

Claire at Incognitus Scriptor

VandyJ at The Testosterone Three and Me

Nain at View From Down Here - RETURNING to the SPIN CYCLE!

SuziCate at The Water Witch's Daughter - NEW on FRIDAY!

Jan at Jan's Sushi Bar - NEW on FRIDAY!

Jen at Sprite's Keeper - NEW on FRIDAY!

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Pictures

I thought I'd follow up last week's "Words" with next week's "Pictures".

Picture Perfect? Picturesque? Picture worth a thousand words? Motion picture? Moving picture?

Write your Picture spin some time this week and let me know you did in a comment here. I'll link you up. Any questions? Click on the "Spin Cycle" tab up top.

See you then.

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And the Living Was Easy

Ten Favorite Things About My Summers Growing Up -

(in no particular order)

Barton Springs -

An Austin institution. Barton Springs is a public pool, made by damming Barton Creek, and filled with natural spring water from Barton Spring. The water remains a nippy 71.6 degrees year round. And if you've ever endured a Texas summer, when temperatures may remain over 100 degrees for a couple of months, that 71.6 is like a little piece of heaven.

When I was in Junior High/High School, we'd get our moms to drop us off there in the morning, and we'd "lie out" all day. The routine was to grease ourselves up with Bain de Soleil and bake in the sun as long as we could stand it. Then we'd get up and dive into the water until we'd lowered our body temperature to the point we'd start to shiver, then we'd climb out and start the process over again.

Water Wiggle-

 

I LOVED my Water Wiggle! It was probably the most unsafe, violent toy ever made, in fact, they were all recalled and taken off the market in 1978 when a bunch of kids...mmm...died. That thing would whip around like crazy, wrap around your legs, smack you in the head and shoot a spray of water into your eyeballs. FUN!

Cokes -

Used as a generic term. In Texas idiom, the word "coke" refers to any soft drink, what you people from the rest of the country might call "pop" or "soda".  Example: "May I please have a coke?" "Sure what kind do you want?" "Dr. Pepper, please."

I seldom if ever drink cokes of any kind any more, I gave them up years ago. But when I was a kid, there was absolutely nothing as refreshing as an icy cold Coke or a Dr.Pepper or maybe even a Big Red. Served over ice. Preferably out of a blue Solo cup. Ah! That carbonation rush! That sugar rush! That caffeine rush!

Dang, I might have to go buy me a Dr. Pepper now.

Kaysie's Pool -

My best friend Kaysie's family had a pool. I think that I could safely say that I spent half of my time during the summer days of my youth in that pool. We would stay in the pool for so long that we used to get something we christened "pool toe", a painful malady which involved little sores on the bottom of each of your raisiny toes from walking around on the bottom of the pool. We sunbathed, we floated, we "Marco Polo"ed, we practiced diving, we practiced synchronized swimming. When we got hungry, thirsty or too hot, we'd wrap up in towels and head into the air conditioned sanctuary of the kitchen, where their family's housekeeper, Onita, would give us tuna salad sandwiches and a coke. And by "housekeeper", I mean maid, as in The Help. Onita took good care of us.

Kaysie's Ranch -

Kaysie's family also owned a ranch, out in the Hill Country near Johnson City. I loved that ranch as much as any place in the world. They had 400 acres, and we had the run of the place. The house was a modest version of South Fork, but we spent most of our time on the land. We rode horses and mini bikes. We fed the cows. We went swimming in the creek. By the time she was about 10, Kaysie knew how to drive a car, so we could just drive the old ranch truck around the property by ourselves.  In the summer, my family let me spend weeks at a time out there - it was such a wonderfully freeing experience. I am so blessed to have had this opportunity. And I'm blessed that I can still take Jude to "The Ranch" when we get to Texas.

Days of Our Lives -

During the rest of the year, I only got to watch Days of Our Lives when I was home sick, but during the summer, I got to watch it every day! Mama and I would arrange out lunch around the soap schedule so we could watch together! The romance! The scandal! Julie and Doug, Maggie and Mickey. It was fodder for many of my childhood romantic fantasies. I can't believe I actually found this on YouTube  - still made my heart flutter...

 

Mimosa -

The tree, not the beverage. Daddy had planted a mimosa tree in our yard, and it was my official climbing tree. I spent a ridiculous amount of time up in that tree. I was a climber. When I think about it, I can still remember the smell of the bark and the way it felt against my skin. And the flowers had the most heavenly smell. I remember picking the feathery blossoms and brushing them back and forth across my face. Aaaaah.

Tubing -

Another very Austin activity. Austin is surrounded by creeks and rivers, and and the best way to enjoy these natural phenomena is in an innertube. When I was a kid, we used to go to a place called Pedernales State Park, where you could tube down rapids and fly over waterfalls. The closest I have ever come to death, was once when I went off a waterfall at Pedernales and the water held me down. I struggled and struggled and finally was able to get to the surface before I drowned. Sadly, people are no longer allowed to go tubing at Pedernales because too many people drowned. Spoil sports!

When I got older, tubing always included tying a six pack of beer to the back of your tube with a rope. The water kept the beer cool, and all you had to do was haul the rope in when you got a little parched. A good time was had by all.

My Portable Record Player -

One year, my parents gave me a record player much like this one...

It was an amazing machine. It ran on batteries, and I could take it outside while I sunbathed in the backyard. I would slather myself with baby oil mixed with iodine, then rub lemon juice in my hair and bake in the sun while listening to Chicago or Barry Manilow or The Captain and Tennille or the soundtrack to A Star is Born. The only hazard was that you had to be careful not to put the record player in the direct sun, or you'd melt your album. Which was very sad indeed. Please do not comment on my incredibly dorky teenage taste in music.

Texas Peaches -

The Texas Hill Country is peach country. Most of you have probably only eaten peaches which have been stripmined in California or Mexico or something. The real deal is incomparable. I'll never forget once bringing some peaches back to LA after a visit to Texas, and my boyfriend at the time ate one. He looked as if he had achieved nirvana. "It's like candy!" he kept saying, peach juice running down his face.  They are a phenomenon which has to be experienced to believe. Every summer of my childhood, Mama would go to a peach orchard where you could pick your own. And Kaysie's mom actually grew her own at the ranch. The smell of those peaches absolutely defines summer to me.

As far as I'm concerned, there are only three ways to eat Texas peaches. 1. fresh. 2. as peach ice cream - either homemade or from Bluebell Creamery or 3. in peach cobbler. Or for complete overkill, peach cobbler with Bluebell peach ice cream on top! Here are peach cobblers at Kaysie's ranch...

 

 What do you miss most about your childhood summers?

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This post was inspired by...

Prompt #4 -  List your top 10 favorite things about summer growing up.

Spin Cycle: The Best Compliment I Never Received

As much as my Mama and I adored each other, we had a fairly contentious relationship. We bickered. A lot. My teen years were particularly hellish. Daddy spent a lot of time separating us and mopping up tears.

Maybe we were just too much alike. And therefore, competitive. Or maybe we were just different enough that those differences made us crazy. Mama tended to be an emotional weeper. I tended to have Daddy's more logical, linear mind. Mama was passive aggressive. I was just aggressive.

While in many ways, Mama was my biggest supporter, she could also be extremely critical. She told me I was such a pretty girl...if only I'd stand up straight/do something about that hair/wear a little lipstick/wear some "nicer" clothes (i.e. the style of clothes SHE wore). I always felt that I never quite lived up to what she'd hoped for me.

And I, for my part, was that nasty teenage girl who thought her mother was the stupidest woman on the face of the earth.

But once I reached my 20s, things mellowed out between us considerably. And after Daddy died, we became what I think I could call "friends".

In December, 1991, I went home to Austin for Christmas, and Mama and I decided to throw a cocktail party together, inviting both her friends and my friends. One thing that we both LOVED to do was cook and entertain, and this was a rare opportunity for us to do that together. Mama was a terrific cook - one of those few '60's housewives who ventured outside the traditional casseroles and canned goods. Mama was always experimenting. I'll never forget when she decided to introduce my very Texan Daddy to curry. And guess what? He LOVED it.

Being a "good cook" was a highly prized quality to Mama, and she had taught me everything I knew.

So for the party, we each chose several dishes and desserts to make, and cooked up a storm. I have to say, that between the two of us, we put out quite a spread.

At some point during the evening, Mama was standing in the dining room next to the food, chatting with one of her friends. I was in the kitchen. They couldn't see me, but I could hear them talking.

The friend complimented Mama on how delicious the food was. "Oh Doe, you are SUCH a wonderful cook."

Mama answered "Well thank you. I like to think I'm a pretty good cook. But Gretchen? Gretchen's the gourmet."

I remember standing there in the kitchen - stunned, with tears welling in my eyes. Mama had not only told someone that I was a good cook, but that I was a BETTER cook than she was! There she was, going on and on in a completely unsolicited way. She was proud of me.

It was the nicest compliment she ever gave me.

And she ever knew that I heard it.

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Please visit each of this week's spinners, and while you're there, leave them a nice complimentary comment!

CaJoh from Ca-Joh 

Kendra at Life in the Slow Lane

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me  

Peg at Square Peg in a Round Hole - NEW on FRIDAY!

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Words.

Jen handed out "Words" once when Sprite's Keeper was the keeper of The Spin Cycle, but it's been a couple of years, and I thought I'd bring it back for an encore.

Bad words? Words of advice? Words of wisdom? A few choice words? Words With Friends? I'd like a word? Word count? Word of mouth? WordPress? Word one?  The Word? Microsoft Word?

Write your spin! Link it here!

If you're new to The Spin Cycle, click the tab up top to read all about it.

See you next Friday!

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Spin Cycle: The Cow Story

My precious Daddy had a peculiar hobby. He took and collected pictures of Texas courthouses. Every Texas courthouse. This was no small feat, as Texas has 254 counties.

He kept a huge Texas map at his office on which he kept track of which courthouses he'd taken pictures of, and which ones he still had to get. He also spent a tremendous amount of time fiddling with the pictures, labeling slides and arranging them in trays for his Courthouse Slide Shows. And yes, he did subject our dearest friends to these slide shows. I would show you some of these pictures, but I'm afraid they're all on slides in a box in my attic. And frankly, if you've seen one courthouse you pretty much seen them all. Though I would never have said this to Daddy.

So over the years, my poor, patient mother, who would much rather have been seeing Broadway shows in New York City, or shopping at Neiman-Marcus in Dallas, was dragged around on grueling road trips to every county in the state. Often, Daddy would plan elaborate, circuitous routes that criss-crossed the state, stopping in every tiny podunk county seat in Texas.

Which leads us to...The Cow Story.

One summer, my family had gone on a vacation through the Southwest - New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado - pulling a little travel trailer behind our station wagon. At some point during elementary school, I rebelled about the boredom of these long car trips, and insisted that we bring a friend along so I'd have someone to play with. This particular trip (and actually most trips), it was my BFF Kaysie. Kaysie and I sat in the backseat squealing and giggling for mile after mile after mile. And while this must have driven my parents crazy, it was, no doubt, preferable to listening to me whine about the boredom for mile after mile after mile.

We were driving home to Austin through the endless nothingness which is West Texas. We were on a lonely two-lane highway which was straight, but with large rolling hills like waves. Much like this...

Daddy was driving, and Mama was cross-stitching or some such thing in the passenger seat. Kaysie and I sillying in the backseat.

Suddenly, we drove over the crest of one of these undulating hills and there, in the middle of the road, was...a dead cow.

Daddy was forced to make a choice. He could either try to swerve the station wagon around the cow, almost certainly causing the trailer to jackknife and crash, or to simply run over the cow.

He chose the latter.

Sound made when the station wagon/trailer ran over the cow = 

WHACK, BUMP, BUMP, SPLAT, BUMP, BUMP...........

Sound made by females in the car =

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKK!!

Sound made by females in the car when they realized that there was now blood splattered all over the back end of the station wagon and the front of the trailer.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWW!!

Hysteria ensued.

The one thing my daddy never had patience for was hysterical females.

"QUIET, ALL OF YOU! Just settle down now! We're fine and dandy. Stop all that screaming! It was just a cow. Look, we're driving fine! No harm done."

"ROY!!" my mother shrieked "Pull over! Pull over! That poor COW!"

"There's no reason to pull over." Daddy countered stubbornly, "That cow was ALREADY DEAD! And look, there's nothing wrong with the car, we're driving just fine."

We all looked. The car did, in fact, appear to be driving fine.

"So just settle down now. There's nothing to get riled up over!"

We sat back, trying not to get riled up, but unable to stop from occasionally looking back at the blood splatter and "Eeeeeewww"ing.

We drove on another several miles until we reached a small town, one of our scheduled county seats, where Daddy was planning to take a picture of the courthouse.

Lots of townfolk seemed to be waving at us as we drove by. "What a friendly little town!" my mother remarked.

When we reached the courthouse in the little town square, we all piled out and posed and smiled on the courthouse steps while Daddy clicked away with his Kodak.

As we walked back to the car, Kaysie suddenly started to scream.

"MR. GERMAN! MR. GERMAN! MR. GERMAN! IT'S THE COW!"

We all ran around to the back of the trailer.

And yes, there was the cow. Attached to the rear bumper of the trailer. A bit worse for wear. Apparently, we had been dragging the thing for about 20 miles.

"ROY!" screamed my mother "It's the cow! It's the cow!"

A crowd of townspeople began to gather.

It was nasty. All blood and bones and...parts. Kaysie and I were screaming. Mama was gagging. People were staring.

"Get in the car!" Daddy barked "Just get in the car!"

We all jumped into the car as quickly as possible.

"But Roy, what are we going to do?!"

Daddy started the car and we drove away.

Pulling our cow with us.

When we got a couple of miles down the highway, Daddy pulled over, and told us all to stay in the car. He got a broom out of the trailer, and proceeded to whack at the cow carcass until it came off. Mama, Kaysie and I continued to squeal and "eww" and gag.

Daddy got back in the car.

"Alrighty, that is IT! The thing is off the trailer, and I don't want to hear another sound out of any of you! We'll just leave it here on the side of the road."

"But Roy..." Mama began.

"That is enough! There's nothing else to be done. I don't want to hear one word out of any of you. Let's have a little peace in his car."

We drove away, leaving our cow for some roadkill cleanup crew to pick up. After about two minutes of silence, my mother couldn't resist.

"I knew we should have pulled over."

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Don't forget to click by all of the other Spin Cycle Car Trip spins!

Peg at Square Peg in a Round Hole

Michele Renee at Must Be a Full Moon

Kendra at Life in the Slow Lane

SuziCate at The Water Witch's Daughter

Michele at It's a Dog's Life

Claire at Incognitus Scriptor

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

Nadine at All Along the Hightower - NEW ON FRIDAY!!

Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie - NEW ON FRIDAY!!

CaJoh at Ca-Joh - NEW ON FRIDAY!

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Role Models

Since March is Women's History Month, I thought it might be nice to talk about women who have inspired us.

Who was your role model as a child? Was it your mom? Grandma? A favorite teacher?

Or were you inspired by a famous person? Who did you want to emulate? Sally Ride?

Jane Goodall?

Samantha Stephens?

I always wanted to be Julia...

Do y'all remember Julia? She was neat. She was a nurse. And a widow, who was raising her little boy Corey on her own. I wanted to be her. I even had these exact same paper dolls...

Julia got to wear a groovy nurses uniform, and went out on dates and...

Oh sorry. I seem to have digressed.

Anyway, who inspired you?

Spin it up. Write it up. Post it up. Link it up.

Any questions? Click on the Spin Cycle tab up top. And LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO GET THE SPIN CYCLE TOPIC EMAIL.

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The Lie

FADE IN:

Texas, 1967. A little girl named Gretchen is playing in her room by herself. Like most only children, she often plays alone, creating a lively and complex fantasy life inside her bedroom. On this day, she is playing with her blanket, Nicey, using him as a lasso to catch an ornery troll doll, who has escaped his home, which has been elaborately constructed inside an old suitcase.

GRETCHEN

You come back here! I'm gonna get you!

She takes Nicey, and starts to swing him around and around, wildly making circles with her little arm, flinging that blanket around as hard as she can.

GRETCHEN

(continued)

You're not getting away, you naughty troll!

Suddenly, while being flung around, Nicey the blanket catches the corner of the glass ceiling light fixture, yanking it down, where it smashes into about a million shards of glass all over the room.

GRETCHEN

(continued)

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!

Gretchen freezes amidst the rubble. Mama runs in from the kitchen

MAMA

Oh Lordy! Lordy! Lordy! STAND STILL! DON'T MOVE!

(she surveys the situation)

Are you cut?!! Let me see your face!! What happened?!!

GRETCHEN

(deer in headlights)

I was...playing...the light...just...mmm...it just.......

...........................................BOOM!

MAMA

It just exploded?! Oh my goodness!! It must have overheated!

GRETCHEN

(starting to cry)

Uh-huh.

MAMA

Oh my baby! I am SOOOO sorry! You poor thing!!!

Oh thank the Lord you are not cut! Oh my goodness,

oh my goodness!

Gretchen runs to Mama for hugs and kisses. Mama cleans up the horrible mess.

FADE OUT.

Thus began my mother's lifelong obsession with wattage. After examining the fated light fixture which had "exploded", Mama discovered that it had been fitted with two 100 watt light bulbs. Clearly, this had been a fateful error on her part, causing the fixture to overheat and shatter.

She was henceforth extremely careful about how much wattage she put in a fixture. We were not allowed to EVER put a 100 watt bulb into an overhead light, only in lamps. It could only ever be two 60 watt bulbs.

For twenty years, every time my mother discussed bulb wattage, I cringed with guilt.

CUT TO:

Texas, 1987. Gretchen, now 26, and Mama push a cart into the grocery store. Mama fishes her grocery list and reading glasses out of her Coach bag. She pulls on her glasses and reads the list.

MAMA

Okay, I'll go get the milk and the bread. Why don't

you go get the light bulbs.

GRETCHEN

Okay.

MAMA

Now don't get the 100 watt bulbs. Get the 60 watts ones.

NOT the 100 watts!

GRETCHEN

(starts to walk away, then stops and comes back)

Mama? Do you remember the time when I was little that

the light fixture in my room exploded?

MAMA

Oh heavens, I'll never forget that! It scared me silly!

GRETCHEN

Mama...I lied.

MAMA

What do you mean, you lied?

GRETCHEN

It didn't explode. It was me.

MAMA

Now don't be silly, of course it exploded.

GRETCHEN

No, it didn't. I was swinging Nicey around, being goofy,

and I broke it. I hit it and knocked it down.

MAMA

No, honey. I had two 100 watt bulbs in the fixture, and it

overheated and shattered. That's what happened.

GRETCHEN

No, Mama, it was me. I lied to you!

MAMA

That is just silly. It overheated! It scared me to death!

I have been very careful about this ever since then.  Very careful.

GRETCHEN

Uh-huh.

MAMA

Now you run along and get the bulbs, and I'll get the milk and

the bread.

GRETCHEN

Okay.

MAMA

But DON'T get the 100 watt bulbs! Get the 60 watt ones.

GRETCHEN

Yeah, okay.

Mama pushes her cart to the dairy case. Gretchen sighs, shakes her head and goes over to pick up the light bulbs. The 60 watt ones.

FADE OUT.

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This post was inspired by...

Prompt #3 - A lie you told. 

Spin Cycle: Hair Raising

I was born a curly-haired girl in a land of high humidity.

And thus began the long and windy odyssey of...my hair. Short, long, curly, straightened, au natural, or tamed with product. My hair has always been a constantly evolving work-in-progress. Unlike most women (like Mommy) who have had the same hairdo for most of their lives, I've never had the same haircut twice. I believe that this is partly due to the creativity of my hairdresser for the last 15 years, Jesse, but also to the fact that can never decide what I want to look like. And I'm never satisfied. Sigh...

Here, thanks do the diligent use of my scanner, is a pictorial essay I will call...

The Hair of Me

In the beginning, there was blonde...

And bangs.

Cute, but short-lived.

Followed by the bangless awkward period...

Eventually, I convinced Mama to take me to an actual hairdresser, instead of cutting it herself, and the Farrah-inspired-hot-roller period evolved...

Notice that, despite the AquaNet and hot rollers, the humidity-induced frizz still abounds.

In college, my style devolved into a hippie-dippie-drama-girl-disco-be-damned look...

SOOOO dramatic. And stylefree.

It's at this point that you might start noticing the other hair on my head that has a mind of it's own...the eyebrows - crazy, man.

When I left college and started acting/modelling professionally, I made an attempt to do a little something with the hair, but unfortunately, there was still the frizz...

...and the eyebrows. Jimmy calls this my Vampire Look.

[NOTE ABOUT THE HEADSHOT - The one big perk for parents of actors is that they regularly get attractive, professional photographs taken. My mother had all of my headshots framed and arranged on a bookshelf. I called it The Shrine. Creepy. For actors, the headshot is a nightmarish experience, neatly drawing together all of the actors greatest insecurities - looks, talent, marketability - and defining them in one single 8 X 10 glossy. It's ridiculously important to get a great headshot, and a tremendous amount of cash is invested. A good headshot is supposed to look like you, but not too much like you. Like you at your very best. An uber you. In theory.

Some of the following pictures were quite good. Others were MOST unfortunate. You can be the judge.]

Finally, in the mid-eighties, my life was saved by the invention of...PRODUCT! Thus spawning a lifelong obsession  - mousse, gel, hairspray, straightening gel, curling gel, styling cream - I have drawers filled to the brim with a variety of tubes and jars. I've spent years blending and tweaking to achieve the perfect product cocktail.

Here was a combination of mousse and a diffuser and some ridiculous '80s attitude...

Alas, still frizz. And thankfully, the Ray Bans cover the eyebrows.

At long last, I moved to Los Angeles and removed my hair from the grip of the dreaded humidity. It was at this point that the hair began...to grow.

Big...

Bigger...

Biggest...

This is what I think of as my Seinfeld Hair Period.

Oh dear God, was that a lot of hair.

And then, of course, the hair began to shrink, both on top of my head and my eyebrows...

Until I went too far...

Boy Short. It seemed like such a bold and sassy move. I HATED IT! For one thing, I had to get it cut CONSTANTLY. Drove me nuts. Also, you have to remember that my hair is curly, so in order for it to look cute, I had to blow it straight. So forget the idea of an easy short style. This was majorly labor intensive. And if I didn't blow it out, it did this doofy poofy thing. Sad. And just as soon as I got the new headshots...I grew it out.

Next stop? The Rachel. Naturally.

...which involved wrapping my hair around ginormous Velcro rollers, and massive amounts of products. I used so much Kiehl's Creme with Silk Groom that I think I may have put the Kiehl's children through college.

I went through a brief retro/Elizabeth Taylor thing...

Until the eventual invention of the flat iron. Which I NEVER got the hang of. Evidenced by this horror...

That's me with Jude and Cousin Steve, and looking slightly insane. What the hell was that look? It looks...dirty and...flat and...my only defense is that I must have been extremely sleep deprived with the new baby and all, and I guess I misjudged the amount of product I needed and just wielded that flat iron like a mad woman.

The flat iron didn't last long (duh!) but that evolved into the blow out...

I blew my damned hair out EVERY DAY for years. Until finally, I wised up (or should I say...gave up) and just went curly...

So there you have it. The evolution from short and curly to...short and curly. Sigh.

So much work, so little progress.

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You MUST visit our other spinners this week! There is a wealth of AMAZING and often gravity-defying hair pictures out there. NOT to be missed.

SuziCate at The Water Witch's Daughter

Patty at Pancakes Gone Awry

Stacy at Stacy Uncorked

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

Jen at Sprite's Keeper - NEW ON FRIDAY!

Peg at Square Peg in a Round Hole - NEW ON FRIDAY!

Jan at Jan's Sushi Bar - NEW ON FRIDAY!

Aimee at AimeeWrites - NEW ON FRIDAY!

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Luck

St. Patty's Day is almost upon us, good people. So it seems like the perfect time to think about Luck. The luck of the Irish. Actually, I don't think the Irish are really that particularly lucky - between the Vikings and the Tudors and the whole potato famine thing. So perhaps 'tis all a bit a blarney.

Are you lucky? Do you believe in luck? Is there a time when you were particularly lucky?

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So what are ye waiting for? Don't be a gobshite. Up the yard!

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Life Partners

Prompt #4 - On "The Bachelor" a rose is given to the women he could really see himself spending the rest of his life with. What six things in your life would you like to give a rose to and why?

And so, in my own personal rose ceremony, I am hereby asking the following things to stay with me for the rest of my life.

Grandma's Iron Skillet -

For many, many years, Grandma's iron skillet lay unused in a drawer. I was suffering from Fear of Iron Skillets. I had been seduced by the promises of Teflon. Then a few years ago, I pulled Grandma's skillet out of the drawer and put it into use, and we have been living happily ever after. Things to know about iron skillets - 1. They are not dirty. 2. They are not hard to clean. 3. They are easy to "season" - a quick Google will give you about 5 million how-to demos. 4. They heat so quickly and evenly that you will never want to ever use a lousy Teflon skillet again. For everything you ever wanted to know about the Iron Skillet, please visit Michele's post HERE.

Lavender Blue Tablecloth -

Every year, a French linens company called Lavender Blue sells their wares at Jude's school's Christmas boutique, which I run/organize. A couple of years ago, I spent hours staring and thinking and worrying and fretting and finally deciding to actually purchase one of these gorgeous tablecloths. It cost way more money than I should have been spending on a tablecloth for MYSELF right before Christmas, but I just couldn't resist. It's pretty and timeless and WASHABLE. And it fits my dining room table perfectly, no small feat. I use it all the time. And it's so classic and well-made that I like to think that some day, Jude's family will have it on their table and it will be referred to as "Grandma's tablecloth".

Ugly Old Comforter -

It's old. It's ugly. I love it. This ugly old twin comforter was on my bed back in college. At the time, it had matching curtains and a pillow sham, now long gone. It's made of a faded peach floral print. Remember when when everything was peach? Is peach even a color any more? It is now terribly worn and very soft. It goes on every camping trip, and is what I want to wrap myself up in when I have a cold.

The Necklace -

Several years ago, I stuck these three gold charms on one chain, and started wearing them all the time. I hadn't realized that I was really wearing it ALL THE TIME, until one night when I didn't have it on, and Jude gasped "Mom! Where's your necklace?!" I love each of these charms very dearly. The one on the left is a James Avery open heart charm, which Mama and Daddy gave me for my high school graduation. James Avery is a beloved Texas Hill Country jeweler. The middle charm is a Miraculous Medal, which Jimmy gave me just after Jude was born, and the charm on the right is a Black Hills gold cross, which Mama and Daddy gave me for my baptism. I love them all, and sort of feel naked without them.

The New Throw -

Okay, I know I've only just started it, but already, I know that the new throw that I am knitting will be a KEEPER. I started it on Ash Wednesday as a replacement for the stupid games I have given up for Lent, and here it is so far...

...it needs to be finished and edged and steamed. It's soft "like buttah" and the coolest kind of grayish/greenish color. Can't WAIT to get it finished and curl up with it!

My Church Choir -

I've been singing in the A Cappella Choir at Blessed Sacrament Church in Hollywood for 12 years now, and I can't imagine ever wanting to leave. I'll end up being that little old church lady who, despite an aged, crackly voice, still sings in the choir until her children move her into "the home". It's always a joy, always challenging, always a learning experience. I adore the people. I adore the music. I adore being an active, productive part of my church. And I love my weirdly liberal Catholic church.

Here are a couple of recordings I have dug up, which hopefully will illustrate to you why I love my choir so much. First is from The Seven Last Words of Christ by Theodore Dubois - The First Word. Our baritone soloist is John Schaefer and our tenor soloist is Louie Ulanday...

 

BSC First Word

The next is an African-American spiritual called Every Time I Feel the Spirit...

 

Every Time I Feel The Spirit

So, what things do you want to spend the rest of your life with?

 

Spin Cycle: High Anxiety

My Mama was a strong woman. Over the years, she endured serious hardships, triumphing over them all. She was a wonderful example of "improvise, adapt and overcome". 

But Mama had one major weakness. And it was a whopper. She was absolutely, grippingly, painfully, paralyzingly terrified of heights.

Bridges, balconies, tall buildings, mountain roads - all seized her with terror.

She would drive miles out of the way to avoid a particularly treacherous bridge. She would never look out of of an upstairs window or get anywhere close to the edge of a balcony.

For years, Mama worked for the Texas House of Representatives on the third floor of the Texas Capitol building. Occasionally, she would need to deliver something from the House side of the building to the Senate side of the building. And in order to do this, she would be forced to pass through (cue the ominous dum, dum, dum, DUM music) the ROTUNDA (add reverb echo effect)...

...the granite-lined, terrazzo-floored domed room in the center of the building.

I often spent afternoons after school in the Capitol with Mama, and I remember attempting to walk with her around the Rotunda. She would step tentatively out onto the balcony and stand clinging with her back to the wall. She would then slowly inch her way around from one side to the other. It was ridiculous. But she never seemed embarrassed that people would walk back and forth around her, staring at the crazy lady hyperventilating against the wall.

I learned early on that it was rather fun to torture her. Hehehe. I would run up to the railing of the Rotunda balcony and lean way over the edge. "NOOOOO!!!!" she would shriek. But she was too scared to leave the safety of the wall to actually come and grab me.

I came by this cruel taunting of her fear honestly. Daddy tortured her all the time. He was basically fearless, and I think he thought this acrophobia thing was silly.

The worst fight I can remember my parents ever having was once when we were on vacation in Colorado. Mama and Daddy both loved driving trips around the country, and Daddy would plan out elaborate routes so we could take in every landmark and historical location. One year, we made our way to Royal Gorge in Canon City, CO.

Yes, that would be a bridge. A suspension bridge. In fact, the highest suspension bridge in the world, hanging 955 feet above the Arkansas River. A must-see tourist attraction for most people. But for Mama? Her biggest nightmare.

A major showdown ensued. Mama dug in her heels and refused to go anywhere near that bridge, and insisted that he was not going to TAKE HER BABY ONTO THAT THING. Daddy dug in his heels and said he hadn't driven all this way to MISS THE GORGE. In the end, Mama got out of the car and actually sat on the side of the road while Daddy and I drove on and toured the bridge. He stubbornly insisted on taking a picture of me at the midway point.

I don't think she ever forgave him.

But now, after all of my taunting and teasing of my mother because of her acrophobia, I now suffer from the same thing. It's not quite as bad as Mama's was, but believe me, I finally sympathize with the poor woman.

Oh Mama, I'm so sorry! I apologize for all the times I teased you for having to put your head between your knees while Daddy drove us through mountain passes. My penance is taking Jude to Cub Scout Camp up in Lake Arrowhead. I apologize for all the times I teased you for refusing to go into skyscrapers. My penance is taking Jude to the top of the Empire State Building TWICE. And I'm sorry for torturing you in the rotunda. My penance is my weekly trek up the winding staircase into the choir loft at church. Where Jude almost always runs up to the railing and leans his head way over.

Ain't karma a bitch?

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Don't be afraid! Run on over to each of this week's spinners and give them a little therapy!

Jan at Jan's Sushi Bar

Aimee at AimeeWrites

Claire at Incognitus Scriptor

Vandy J at Testosterone Three and Me

Dawn at Mino and Man-Man

Kendra at Life in the Slow Lane

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Thank you to everybody who has taken my Spin Cycle Survey thus far, I can't tell you how much it helps! If you haven't had a chance, please do - it really truly only takes a minute -

Click here to take survey

As a result of what I've heard so far from the survey, I am adding one thing to the Spin Cycle starting next week. In addition to announcing the next week's Spin Subject here every Friday, I will also be sending it out in an email. This should help serve as a reminder to everybody to get their butts in gear and get their spin in.

If you would like to sign up for my Weekly Spin Subject e-mail, please let me know in a comment here, and I'll add you to the list.

Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Hair.

Yes, hair. I had actually brainstormed this idea on a list when I first began my job as your Spin Mistress, and then somebody suggested it in the survey and I thought "Let's do it!" Unfortunately, it's an anonymous survey, so I can't give credit to the person who suggested it! But you better join in!

Hair. Our crowning glory. And the source of much anxiety and humiliation. As anybody who survived the 1980s knows.

Oh dear God, how much time and effort went into my attempts to achieve Farrah-hair? And baby, I had some big hair! I was a Texas girl, after all. It was BIG.

I want PICTURES, y'all, so dig out those yearbooks. And just to make you feel better, I will share just one with you today. A teaser if you will. My friend DeeDee (the amazing Fiddledeedee!) and me circa 1990ish, back when we were slutty LA actresses before we both became respectable mommybloggers...

Now THAT is some hair! Try to outhair THAT! I dare you!

You know the drill. Write your spin. Include my button. Let me know.

And don't forget to let me know if you want on the email list!

 

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Spin Cycle: Friday Night Lineup

I belong to the television generation.

Raised during the '60s and '70s. We didn't have computers or electronic gaming devices. We didn't have cable TV, DVDs, DVRs or even VCRs. All we had were ABC, NBC, CBS and PBS (if you didn't live too far out in the boonies). Our favorite shows aired when they aired, and if you missed it you just had to wait for the summer rerun. We carefully planned our activities around the network TV schedule.

Every week, Mama would buy a TV Guide magazine at the grocery store, and I would pore over it, reading what was happening the next week on my shows and planning my viewing for the week.

On Tuesday, I'd watch The Mod Squad at 7:00 on ABC, then switch over to CBS for Hawaii 5-O at 8:00. Then on Wednesday, I'd start on CBS with The Carol Burnett Show at 7:00, then at 8:00, switch over for The NBC Mystery Movie (Columbo/McCloud/Macmillan and Wife).

The worst was when the stupid networks put two of your favorite shows on at the same time, and you were forced to choose. Laugh In or Gunsmoke? Happy Days or Good Times?

But in 1971, when I was 10 years old, all the TV stars aligned and created the ABC Friday night lineup - all of my favorite shows, all in a row. I'll never forget the order...

7:00 (CST) - The Brady Bunch

 

I always thought it was kind of a silly show. But Greg Brady was SOOOOOOO cute. And I used to pray every night that my hair would look like Marcia Brady's. It never even came close to her grooviness.

7:30 - The Partridge Family

 

My FAVORITE show! I loved David Cassidy with every fiber of my gangly tween body. I had a Teen Beat magazine with him on the cover, which I kept under my bed and kissed goodnight every night. I had all their albums. I never, ever missed an episode.

8:00 - Room 222

 

I wanted to go to Walt Whitman High School! They had the grooviest teachers. And I desperately wanted to be Karen Valentine. (TANGENTIAL NOTE: When I first moved to Los Angeles, I happened to drive by John Marshall High School in Los Feliz and had one of those Movie Deja Vus I've talked about - it was the exterior of Walt Whitman!)

8:30 - The Odd Couple

 

A really, truly funny show. Wonderfully acted, wonderfully written. A classic.

However, I usually missed the last 15 minutes or so of it. Because 9:00 was my bed time.

But here's the deal.

Mama knew that the show I MOST wanted to watch, the show that my dreams were literally made of, came on at 9:00. And she was indulgent. And sneaky. And loved me.

And luckily for us, Daddy was an early to bed, early to rise kind of guy. He too would go to bed at 9:00. So I'd bail for the last 15 minutes of The Odd Couple, and Mama and Daddy would tuck me in and turn out the light. Daddy would then go to bed himself. Then Mama would come into my bedroom and sneak me out into the living room, where we'd both curl up on the sofa and watch...

9:00 - Love, American Style

 

For those of you too young to remember such things, Love, American Style was an anthology series, with different stories and a different all-star cast every week. (TANGENIAL NOTE #2 - the L,AS theme song was sung by The Cowsills, the real-life family rock group that The Partridge Family was based on!) Every week it would have two or three little stories - all about love, love, LOVE. It was a little...sexy. And every week some people would kiss. I LIVED for it. And I loved Friday night from 9 to 10pm.

But not just for the TV show. I also loved it because it was Mama and my little secret. It was our special time together, doing something a little naughty. Mama would bring in a couple of pillows and a blanket, and we would cuddle up on the sofa together and be very, very quiet while we watched the show we both loved.

And then, Mama would make a us a special treat. Our mutual favorite late-night snack - Milk Toast. Mmmm. Hot milk, buttery toast. Yum. Mama made mine sweet, with cinnamon sugar on top. But she made hers savory with salt and pepper. Both were delicious and comforting and made with great love.

Mama's Milk Toast

4 slices of white bread

butter

2 cups plus 1/2 cup milk

1 tbsp. flour

either salt/pepper or cinnamon/sugar

Toast bread and butter each slice generously. In a small sauce pan, heat 2 cups of milk. In a separate small bowl, whisk flour into remaining 1/2 cup milk, then add to the sauce pan with the other milk. Heat until it thickens just a little (you don't want it like gravy, just a little bit creamy). Put two slices of toast in each of two shallow bowls. Pour hot milk over the toast and sprinkle with your choice of seasonings, either savory or sweet.

Sit on the sofa watching TV with the lights out and slurp it up with a spoon.

Makes two servings, just right for a sweet Mama and one happy little girl.

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Please, please, pretty please visit all of this week's Spin Cycle participants and you'll find some amazing recipes and the amazing stories that go with them!

Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie

Peg at Square Peg in a Round Hole

Jan at Jan's Sushi Bar

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

Aimee at AimeeWrites

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

It's almost Valentine's Day everybody! So to celebrate that most lovey-dovey of all days, I thought we'd all think back, way, waaaaay back. Back before children. Back before money problems and the same old/same old. Back before years and years of snoring and morning breath. Back before the bloom had left the metaphoric rose. Back to your...

Honeymoon. Aaah. The beginning of your lives together. Everything was shiny and new and sexy. The panic of the wedding was over and you got to really get a look at that person on the other side of the bed.

Was your honeymoon everything you dreamed of? Or a rained out disaster? Were you blissful or did you fight every day?

Or maybe you never got to take a honeymoon? Where would you like to go now? Make a plan for us. Or maybe the marriage is over and the honeymoon was the first clue that things were headed south? Yikes. Or maybe you're not married, but want to share your perfect dream honeymoon? It's all good.

I want your story! And I want some pictures people! So haul out the old picture albums and rev up the scanner.

See you next week for some romance. Hmmm. I think I'll go up and click on that Love, American Style theme song. Still makes me all gushy.

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Nemesis

My childhood nemesis was a girl named June.

Okay, she wasn't really named June, that's a pseudonym, chosen in order to protect the mean.

But she was my childhood nemesis. Not a nemesis of the Professor Moriarty/Dr. Doofenshmirtz type, but of the true definition - "an opponent or rival whom a person cannot best or overcome".

June was my friend. In fact, she was one of my best friends. We played together all the time, from the time we were in Tiny Tots preschool together through junior high.

But June had a mean streak. She could be cruel. She could also be a lot of fun, and had a strong personality. She was an instigator and leader of girls. I'm afraid that early on, she figured out that I was extremely gullible, and easily led by the nose. I became her...yes man.

June's parents got a divorce when she was just 4 or 5 years old. Which was a little shocking and exotic at the time- none of my other friends' parents were divorced. But June's parents had married young, and had her when they were just 19.

This was Austin in the '60's, so there was a whole lotta experimentation/spreading your wings/letting your freak flag fly going on. June's mom became a full-fledged hippie. While my mother wore a French-twist updo, bright red Revlon Fire and Ice lipstick and her good pearls, June's mom wore long, flowing hair, peasant skirts and halter tops with no bra. She was cool and artsy. She macramed and threw pots. She even had a kiln in the garage. She had boyfriends and smoked pot and listened to Joni Mitchell really loudly.

June's dad, in what I now know was probably an attempt to buy her love and make her forgive him for leaving his family, built her amazingly cool stuff. She had a tepee. A REAL tepee. She also had a log cabin! The cabin was in the backyard, and was fitted with four bunks, air conditioning and a telephone - perfect for a slumber party.

June had every thing I wanted. Blond hair, blue eyes, freckles, glasses, braces. All the cool stuff. Her mom got her shirts with Nehru collars and peace sign necklaces. She got to pierce her ears! And when we were in junior high she got...a waterbed. I can still remember the smell of it. I desperately loved playing at her house, and envied everything she had.

But looking back on our long friendship, I'm a little shocked by how many "Mean June" incidents I can remember.

In 2nd Grade, we were playing some kind of chase game on the playground, and June shoved me from behind, making me slam my face into the monkey bars and chip one of my brand new front teeth. It took about 20 years for that tooth to even off and look normal.

She had this game she made me play with her. It was called "Little Bat". June got to drape herself in a long black cape and be Little Bat, a poor orphan bat, who had lost her way and needed to be returned to her cave in the wild. I never, ever got to be Little Bat, but was forced to play the far less interesting role of the kind lady who helped her. I would have to pick her up and give her food and liquids and wrap her in a blanket and help her find her mommy. June, as Little Bat, revelled in her pain and sadness. She was the flying mammal Camille. You have to understand how difficult it was for me, a performer at heart, to always be stuck in the stupid, boring supporting role. I would have been a FABULOUS Little Bat, but, alas, was never allowed.

In about 3rd Grade, June convinced me that I should eat the cat food, because it tasted just like chicken. It did not.

And then came...dum, dum, dum, dum...4th Grade. The year of misery. I must have been going through an awkward phase or something, because my two most traumatic elementary school incidents happened that year. And both were instigated by June.

The first was a time when my best friend Kaysie (who was also under June's evil spell) had invited a bunch of girls for a sleepover at her house. As Mama drove me up the hill to Kaysie's house, all of the other girls jumped out from behind a bush on the side of the road and screamed "YOU'RE LATE!". Apparently, Mama had gotten the time of the party wrong, and we showed up an hour late. The girls continued to taunt me for the rest of the party. I was deeply shamed.

The other was what Kaysie and I have come to call the Dreaded Bean Dip Incident. It was a terrible and scarring experience that involved my being pelted with bean dip at a slumber party in June's log cabin by an out of control gang of 10 year old girls - a hideous event which haunts me to this day.  Kaysie won't even let me mention it in her presence, she is still so filled with shame over the incident. But such was June's power of persuasion.

Which brings me to one of the most shameful experiences of my life. Something I look back upon with such shame and guilt that I would prefer to think it didn't happen. But it did.

Around 6th Grade, a girl named Karen came to our school. I liked Karen. She was sweet and fun and smart, and we played together often. We both had guitars and I remember us learning how to play Leaving on a Jet Plane together. I guess Karen was kind of dorky, but...so was I.

At some point in Junior High, probably 7th Grade, June decided that Karen was not cool enough to be our friend. She decided that everyone in our little gang of girlfriends needed to...snub her. June laid out the plan for us all - that day, every time Karen came up to us, we were to completely ignore her, and pretend she wasn't there. And being the June sycophants that we were...we did.

I'll never forget how Karen reacted. The look of hurt and injury on her face. Of disappointment and betrayal.  Over and over that day, every time she came near us, we ignored her and she walked away quietly.

Karen was a smart girl, and took the hint. The next day, instead of sitting with us in the cafeteria at lunch, she walked across the room and sat with the other outcast girls. A group of girls who were all deemed "uncool", but managed to forge their own little subculture, their own little clique. A group of girls who I am now friends with on Facebook. We play dorky games together, and have a great time. But at age 13, I was too worried about my own public image to admit that I had a lot in common with those girls. Certainly more than I had with June.

I've looked for Karen on Facebook, but haven't found her. I'd like to tell her how sorry I am.

Soon after this incident, Kaysie and I pretty much stopped being friends with June, and not long after, she changed schools, and we never saw her any more. It was such a relief. But I still wish that this friendship had ended because I'd stood up to her and done the right thing instead of just following the herd.

I've looked for June on Facebook too, but haven't found her either. I'm kind of interested in finding out how she turned out. What life gave to her, and what she made out of it. She was so smart, so creative and such a natural leader. But the last thing I heard of her was a few years ago, when Kaysie ran into her brother, who said she wasn't doing very well. I think her demons were too much for her.

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This post was inspired by...

#4 -  Describe a time you saw someone getting picked on.