Summertime Lessons

I drove into the middle-school parking lot and caught sight of parents huddled together, clutching each other in fear. Tears flowed. Peeking through windows, I saw knuckle-bumping, bear-hugging and dancing on desk-tops. Margaritas flowed.

Ah, school let out for summer.

After the initial shock - and bottle of White Zin - wore off, Contessa turned to Merlotta for help weathering the next couple of months. After all, Merlotta was the emergency relief block captain during Hurricane Ike. Her yummy tuna baked-bean and just-out-of-date cream cheese casserole saved more than a few from dry Cheerios.

"Keep 'em busy," she said, emptying my cat's litter box. "Establish a routine," she added, as I handed her the bag of Tidy Cat.


read rest of the column here

All For Cheerleading, Stand Up and Holler

I was just telling The Big Guy how it’s that time of year when twisting and gyrating, jumping and yelling, turning back flips and cartwheels abound. In the end, there are smiles, tears and hugs of either congratulations or condolences.

“Time for Macy’s annual swimsuit sale already?” the Big Guy said, flipping the television channels during a break in the Rockets playoff game.

“No. I’m skipping that this year. Merlotta’s sewing ours. She got a great deal on slightly used blue tarps. It’s time for cheerleading tryouts and Cat is going out for the seventh grade squad.”

The Big Guy nearly spilled his beer. The last time that happened was when the doctor delivered Pinot and Grigio. After steadying his Pabst Blue Ribbon, The Big Guy channel-hopped back to the game just as the Power Dancers bumped and grinded their way onto center court. They sure had a lot of power but not much in the way of clothing. He looked at the screen, then at Cat, and then tried doling out a teachable moment.

“Real cheerleaders usually wear more than a handkerchief, and they don’t bust moves that make men dribble beer down their chins,” he said in his Cliff Huxtable voice.

“Dad, it’s a middle school tryout. Kids. Get real.” It’s amazing how far back into her head she can roll those eyes. “Oh, and two things: First, don’t say ‘bust moves.’ That’s so lame, coming from an old guy. Second, what’s a handkerchief?”

read rest of the column here