Being Stevie Nicks

 She did it to me again, alone in my living room, she sang for me. And I sang back. I can’t sing a lick, but I can sing Stevie Nicks.

Mentoring American Idols, there she was. Unbelievable. The chic who sang my high school heartache out, “alone in my room I will not wait for you.” And she loved the idols I did, Phillip and Elise. I’d take you any day Philip, you with your heart that comes out your mouth, and Elise, a chic who rocks Led Zeppelin. What a star.

So Stevie already had me at hello, but then she had to go and give advice to one of the girls who has a voice bigger than her passion. “My mother died two months ago. I have no problems.” Sing that, she said. Feel that. Damn you Stevie Nicks, still singing my story.  Alone in my room, she made me sing again. 

Thank God for her. There’s no one like her. She is my past, and she’s still with me.

He Who Dies with the Mostest Toy Hauler Wins

By Sheilah

We’re off to South Carolina, to look at the toy hauler the boys must have. They have too many toys is what this whole adventure tells me, and now they need a big wagon to carry them in. I picture Dylan at 2 in the backyard lugging his Red Ryder wagon around, chock full of sand toys and sticks and stones and all the things he acquired that he cannot let go off. I see my husband when we first met 27 years ago in that huge Ford truck with the off-road tires and the lift package on it, near monster truck-like. The size of those tires was awesome, I concede that.

But now, they tell me, the dirt bike racing requires a hauler/camper. There is no way around it. They cannot tent camp any longer. It rains too much, gets muddy, their backs are stiff. They refuse to stay home the night before and hit the race early Sunday morning. No, they must be there the night before to walk the track, get the lay of the land, roast marshmallows. I get it. I do. Half the reason for racing is so Dylan can hang out with his friends, run in the night, complete the whole dangerous life of boys thing by camping.

Does it all really require an expensive camper, though? I ask quietly. Of course it does, silly thing! They’ve spent weeks looking at campers vs. toy haulers, and the final result is in: it must be a toy hauler, which is the camper turned trailer with the back that opens like a ramp to load the bikes in the back. The couches-sleepers fold in and up to the sides to make room for the bikes. The queen bed is on a hydraulic lift so it easily raises to the ceiling to make room for the bikes. Clearly, the bikes are the thing. There is a bathroom and a kitchen, if you cared about such, but I don’t think they do.

So a toy hauler it will be. Wi-fi, stereo surround, microwave, shower, stove, fridge and freezer, beds and dinette—all the creature comforts. You can open the windows and sleep by the sound of the cicadas. You can open the back and pull a screen down. You can mount a flat-screen TV to watch motocross. You can primitive camp where there are no facilities. You can dream of your hare scramble race through the woods the next morning, your Suzuki tucked in safely beside you, amping your dreams.

And you can hitch your toy wagon to your truck, with stars in your eyes, dreaming. Everything you want on your back as you travel down the back roads to some random land in the woods that a farmer has devoted to this dangerous sport, so boys can be boys finally, like they used to be when we were all farmers.

And Mommy, the most important thing, remember, is that YOU will be there, cheering me on at the race. Oh, who wouldn’t want one?

Julianna, We Need To Talk

We’re in the middle of supper; both children are talking at the same time while trying to gain our attention. We’ve all put in a long day, we’re all tired and that's when I notice the frown on my hubby's face. Being a good wife (Okay, so I’m not Julianna Margulies, or a lawyer, or a brunette, besides, TV keeps raising the fictional bar on what a good wife is.), I shush the children and ask my husband if everything is okay. He proceeds to tell me he’s worried, because he lost the envelope with….wait for it….his coupons.

A month or so back I wrote “Toilet Paper is Just Like Fine China, Right?” explaining how the hubby has started on a coupon clipping bonanza that might not always meet with this wife’s approval. Julianna Margulies has nothing on me when it comes to the cross examination on coupons. “Is it something we use? Is it buy two for fifty cents off, and can you double the coupon? Are you sure it’s a better bargain than the store brand? Do we need it or do you want it because we have a coupon?” I swear I would have dropped my fork at the dinner table when he told me he was worried, but we were eating sandwiches and that would have been too messy.

I honestly think the kids looked at him a little cock-eyed, especially when he said he was calling his mother to see if she had the paper and could cut out the coupons for him! It’s almost like he left me for another woman, kinda like what happened to poor Julianna’s character. Still, ya gotta love a man who is willing to go to those depths to save the family a dollar, but I live in fear. What will I find in the pantry tomorrow? He doesn’t seem to come home with just “one” item, it’s always multiples of one item and I may run out of storage space. He did promise me he would stick to certain brands, which is progress since our toilet paper fiasco.

I used to wonder what to get the man who seemed to have everything except the big, HUGE, ticket items, like a boat or a 98 inch flat screen TV. (How do people watch those things without having serious eye damage?) He has a big birthday coming up and I figure with all the big bucks he’ll be saving, I should get him more than an envelope to put his coupons in. I can see it now, a manly leather three ring binder with dividers and protective plastic sheets! Yes, I am a good wife.

Bless Their Pointy Little Heads, Someone Has To

Tell me that I’ve stepped back in time and this is the reason I’m so confused by the maddening mess of minutia reported in the media. This week yet another slice of news came in via a Bloomberg report that stated, “six jobs with the largest gender gap in pay and at least 10,000 men and 10,000 women were in the Wall Street-heavy financial sector.” Really? Wall Street? This vast place of making or breaking the financial back of America (where women make most of the purchases), can’t come to equal terms where salary is concerned? SHAAAZAM! All of this and glass ceilings too, why we must be back in the Eighties!

Speaking of blasts from the past, Rush, I’ve-been-married-four-times-so-you-know-I’m-an-expert-on-women, Limbaugh has pulled yet another low blow, twisting facts (Really Rush, if you’re going to call yourself an expert, it’s the insurance companies that would have to pay for birth control pills, not our tax dollars, and you don’t take a birth control pill every time you have sex, just saying!), and calling Sandra Fluke a slut and a prostitute. People are enraged, as they should be, but not nearly enough. When asked what he thought of what Rush said, Romney stated he would have used “different language.”  Say what?

Not once did any of the major bigwig, grand poobah, yuckleheads currently running to be the Republican candidate for President think to say, “Dang Rush, but ain’t you a big ole NEEE-ANDER-THAL!” A young lady was speaking on behalf of a friend to make employers have comprehensive health insurance that covers birth control pills. Sandra Fluke only wanted to tell her friend’s story, but because she dared to speak out on such a controversial subject (What year is this again?), she gets labeled a slut. I swear, if Rush so much as eluded that about my daughter, he’d have a whole heap of Southern Mama whoop ass on his hands.

I guess Romney would have called her loose, misguided or something else. I guess those would be oh so much softer words. Gee, but I hope his daughters, if he has any, or Santorum’s, the good ole Catholic family man (I am a Southern Catholic, and I can tell ya, ya don’t get more confused or guilt ridden than that), never have daughters with open minds who want to control their own bodies. In the meantime, I shake my head at those men who believe they stand tall and yet refuse to defend the honor of a lady, no matter what her opinions are. Shame on them and heaven help their daughters.

Someone Is Watching You!

I am a good citizen, and I know I am. I do not litter the roads or sidewalks, I keep within the law, and I will always help people out when they need it. However, just lately being a good citizen has taken on a new perspective in my neighborhood, leaving me to question the so-called helpful acts of some.

The neighborhood, situated around a renowned golf course, is middle-class America at its best. Neat houses of substantial sizes with well-tended lawns line paved sidewalks. You hardly ever see junk cars and never see sofas on the porch, only tasteful rocking chairs synonymous with the South. Nevertheless, with that said, it has its other issues – namely the ‘We are Watching You Patrol’.

Big brother has nothing on these folks. It all started with a neighborhood Facebook page. The original idea, I suppose, was to help us network, swap ideas, advertise items for sale, and any other everyday business. At first it worked, that was until the issue of speeding and stop signs came up.

Speeding is a problem, I totally agree and I will admit I have myself received one speeding ticket. I was in the common situation of kids screaming in the back seat whilst I was trying to get them to school. My concentration slacked for a moment and my foot hit the pedal, hard. Within seconds, Mr. Policeman was there, lights flashing and a severe face. I paid the price. Well, the price of asking an attorney to claim instrument failure, as is common here in the USA. I learned my lesson and am very careful now. 

I got off lightly I think, especially compared to what happened to some neighbors of mine. A while back, a few interfering, oops sorry, well-meaning residents decided it was a good idea to name and shame individuals who they thought were speeding. Each day one or two people in particular would plaster descriptions better than a police APB all over the Facebook page. Nothing was sacred, hair color, sex, estimate of age, car type, car color, and license number. Thankfully, we didn’t learn if they were caught picking their noses or the color of their underwear but it was heading that way. 

It didn’t stop at drivers. The conversations moved onto pedestrians who walked on the road, school bus drivers who did not stop properly at stop signs, nothing and no-one was exempt. 

At one stage, an individual described how they followed a person out of the neighborhood and along the highway. We learned that the girl in question was talking on her cell phone, her exact speed, and which direction she turned at a traffic light some 3 miles away. Could this be stalking? If not it seems close, well I think so.

The whole situation went on for a couple of weeks until one day the do-gooders took one-step too far. They named a private license plate, which described the name of its owner. What ensued I could only describe as defamation. A long dialogue started with more people looking and reporting on the so-called culprit. It culminated with one person insisting and I quote “****** must be stopped!”

Thankfully, others and I decided enough was enough and posted our disagreement with the whole episode. I mean, unless these people are saints, they would do well to remember their glass houses are as fragile as the next. The persecutors defended themselves, stating it was for the good of the neighborhood, but did concede and agreed to stop. 

I am all for neighborhood watch and looking out for each other but starting a witch-hunt should not be part of the agenda. We are not in Nazi Europe, just small town America, and those people would do well to remember it!