Lela Davidson's Blog, page 37
July 5, 2011
Lessons From the Elk River
Yesterday we went on a float trip down the Elk River, known for its varying water levels and rednecky goodness. For the Fourth of July, I donned my cutoff Levi shorts, packed up the leftover hotdogs and hamburgers, and headed out with my family for a 9-mile ride–little of which I would describe as floating.
I wanted to name this post "Things I Learned on the Elk River" but I realized the lessons here are actually not new, but ancient wisdom, life lessons we all know but seem to forget over and over. Maybe that's just me.
Here are a few lessons from the Elk.
Never stand up in a canoe. Just don't.
Climbing into a boat is easier on shore than mid-stream. Almost always.
In related good news, bleeding into a river does not attract sharks.
City girls aren't the only ones who seem to find out early, how to open doors with just a smile–or a lift of a beaded crop top. ("Mom, why is that man wearing all those necklaces?")
Speaking of children, for maximum relaxation, place competitive siblings in the same boat.
You never know who will push you out of a low spot, and sometimes people surprise you.
There is no such thing as too much river beer.
Believe the guy who says, "By noon, this will burn off."
Not everyone needs SPF 600. But I do.
Tube tops and string bikinis should have an expiration date. Maybe they should be burned at your fortieth birthday party. Or you thirtieth, depending.
One sandwich is never enough.
The last quarter-mile is always the hardest.
Always bring your phone. And duct tape. No exceptions.
"We should do this more often," for me, translates to, "We should do this again in a few years."
And again, in case you forgot already–never stand up in a canoe.
People in these parts consider a trip down the Elk River to be the peak of redneck bliss. Maybe, but where I come from, there are no canoes–only inner tubes, lifted from a nearby junkyard under cover of night and courage of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Top that, people of the Ozarks.
Image Credit: Ivy Dawned, Flickr
More Summer Fun:
We've Made It Past the Fourth of July
The Trouble with Car Trouble
Virtual Classmates: Why Facebook is Better Than Your 20-Year Reunion
June 28, 2011
From Pillow to Pedometer in 6 Easy Steps
I texted her last night. Run – 6:30? The response came back… something about getting home late from a "business dinner" and having a "presentation" due "early" in the morning and although she "wanted" to run, she wasn't going to.
Fine. No worries. I'm a big girl. It's not like I NEED the knowledge that she's waiting at her doorstep in the pre-dawn light to pry me out of bed. I can do it all by myself. Besides, my husband is leaving town and this will give me a chance to have coffee with him and say a proper goodbye instead of dashing off while he's still in the shower. You know what this is? It's a BLESSING IN DISGUISE! (I have to shout that last part in my mind to drown out the voices telling me that I know damn well that it will be too hot to run by the time I finish "drinking coffee." (I know, the quotes, I'll stop.)
At least I didn't change the alarm setting. I still got up at 6:00. After I hit the snooze a few times, it went down like this:
"Hey, Babe, let's have coffee." And I'm talking actual coffee here. Who can run after drinking coffee? Not me, that's who! I'm not willing to pee myself in the name of fitness. For funny anecdotes, sure, but not merely for shapelier thighs.
Ooh, look! Laundry! I should totally fold that load before I leave. (Also, it's important to have certain domestic duties witnessed, to back up the occasional tirade. "I slave away ALL day for you people and where is the GRATITUDE???"
I'm not yet in my running clothes when I kiss my husband goodbye, shut the door, and notice a neat stack of bills on the desk. That looks fun! No–I'm strong–I WILL run… just as soon as I dust the bookshelves.
There is a dilemma in the closet over whether or not the black of my tank matches the black of my running skirt. And I should really get some new socks. By the way, hello sock drawer! Do you need organizing, Little Buddy?
When I stop to pee (***coffee***) I notice the ring around the toilet bowl. It's not the first time I've seen it. Since vacation, with catching up on work and unpacking and stocking the pantry and all that LAUNDRY, I haven't gotten to the bathrooms. Suddenly I crave the scent of Comet cleanser. I need a HIT of Comet in my lungs, Baby! My husband is gone, so it's not like I'm in it for the Holly Homemaker points. I actually want to clean the toilet more than I want to run. I may need help.
Dragging myself away from the scrubbing bubbles, I emerge, victorious, on my front steps. (I'm not going to burden you with the bandaid-on-my-heel detour.)
Today… I run! Those are, after all, "my" legs on the cover of Blacklisted from the PTA.
If you only knew what's pumping through my earbuds…
Image: Robert S. Donovan, Flickr
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June 23, 2011
How My Husband Got Kicked Off My Sales Force
You may have heard I have a book launching next month. July 12th to be precise. Blacklisted from the PTA is available in paperback and Kindle. In case you hadn't heard. I'm also having this big party to launch the book out into the world in style, and *god willing* sell a bunch of books — like enough to cover the cost of the Asian nut mix and the DJs at this party. I have a team of Uber Salespeople. All my best girlfriends really know how to move product! They set me straight several weeks ago about my meager sales goals.
"That's your goal for 2011?" one of them said, face all scrinchy like I'd tried to serve her a virgin margarita. "No, no, no. That's NOT your goal for 2011. It's the goal for your launch."
How could I say no to that kind of optimism? So off I went making posters and plans.
Cut to last night. I told my husband I needed to find someone to work checkout, run the credit card swiper. "I can do it," offered my sweet, well-meaning better half.
"Oh, no," I said. "I need you to help with sales. Work your charm on all the ladies."
"Okay, gotcha," he said, puffing up. I had already mentally settled on a suitable checker when he added, "What if somebody wants a refund?"
Seriously? A refund? Is this the first question my top salesman — my only salesMAN — should be asking? I'm not selling ill-fitting tops or outdated meat. It's a book, MY book. Most of the people coming to the party are personal friends and acquaintances, or at least those who'd like to sell me life insurance.
THERE WILL BE NO REFUNDS. Got it?
That wasn't the worst. I explained the discounts — you know, the cash incentives that compel people to purchase multiple copies of the most amazing collection of stories ever compiled behind a gratuitous image of legs and stilettos? He looked at me with the scrinchy face.
And said…
"Why would anyone buy more than one copy?"
My turn for the scrinchy face.
"Are you kidding me?" I said, "Friends, sisters, moms, birthdays, stocking stuffers, hostess gifts book clubs—"
Followed by his stop-acting-like-a-crazy-bitch calming gestures.
"Okay, okay. I didn't know your marketing plan."
My marketing plan, to be clear, is this: sell a lot of books.
So if you're coming to the party, my husband will be easy to spot. He'll be the one running the credit cards.
Image Credit: meghannash, Flickr
May 23, 2011
Some Thoughts About SkyMall
Domestic air travel is never complete without a flip through the SkyMall catalog. Although I have never made a purchase, I have been tempted. But mostly I'm just confused.
A lot of children need caring homes so if you think your dog needs a compression sweater to quell canine anxiety, you might consider getting an actual child.
Anyone modeling a shapewear system has never needed shapewear.
Reading a 5-page abstract of a 500-page book does not make you smart; it makes you an asshole.
Cat owners, I beg you, do not potty train your pets. Pawprints on the toilet seat? Not to mention that once they learn to flush they will quickly figure out the password to your bank account. Finally, they call your attorney and change the medical directive. Slippery slope, that toilet seat.
Speaking of cats and potty, you're not fooling anyone with that clever catbox hidden in the "handsome furniture."
People who spend their days like a rotisserie chicken next to the pool are not concerned with proper spinal alignment. Ergo, no ergonomic beach lounger required.
Why are there no Mickey Mouse topiaries? Some of us would like to transform our foyers into the happiest place on Earth. Get on it, SkyMall.
$1,284 for 10 leather placemats and matching coasters? Marketed as a conference room set? Jokes on you, Corporate America!
Thank you for making the Meerkat Gang statue nearly two feet tall. Nothing worse than midget meerkats.
Laser hair comb: the male version of instant wrinkle reducer?
28-day mascara is non-toxic and does not contain coal tar! And it is approved by the Cosmetology Board. I'm in.
It's not all crap. In fact, if you love me, please send an authentic bluegrass autoharp. Or, The Wedge. I've heard those are good.
May 11, 2011
The Dalai Lama: Shallow Thoughts on a Deep Man
Say what you want about Arkansas, but before I moved here I didn't have the opportunity to be in the presence of both David Sedaris and the Dalai Lama – within a few weeks and a half mile of one another. While I had intended to read up on the Holy Dude before seeing him this morning, I didn't quite get to that. I was busy with more important things like filling out enrollment paperwork and cross referencing my calendar with my to-do list. This was all for the best, it turned out. As I had few expectations.
"I'm in the spirit, right?" I asked my companions as we walked across the University of Arkansas campus.
"Yes, release yourself from the attachment to permanence," one of them quipped.
"That's easy to say," said the other, "when you've been reincarnated fourteen times."
Not exactly devotees, the three of us, but seekers still, hoping for a bit of inspiration, a moment of clarity while in the presence of the Great Man.
And then he came out, looking like a cuddly red frog, using far fewer words than the others on the panel. (Sister Helen Prejean and Vincent Harding). I held back laughter reading the following tweet:
@Ozarkbahner – Dalai Lama lowering from arena rafters on stage wire, crowd ERUPTS as opening hook from "Panama" plays! #HHDL #1984
But despite the dramatic lighting and the theatrical drapes, HHDL was surprisingly mellow. He was at once wholly authoritative and wholly humble. His style was not showy or arrogant, but calm and knowing. He wasn't preachy, never once speaking of BEing anything, but that we practice compassion and tolerance. Practice.
And he was funny, utterly charming, even though it was tough to make out each and every word.
Then some woman at the top of Bud Walton Arena screamed "Louder!"
Only in Arkansas.
I cringed. But His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama was unfazed. He checked his mic and then said, "I think the sound is sufficient." No drama. All while sitting crossed legged on a couch, and scratching himself as needed. We could use more leaders like this, spiritual or otherwise.
I like to think our talk on the way out was a bit elevated by all the holiness, that the message of compassion and connection would last longer than the commute back to Bentonville. We shall see. One thing's sure, I'll never hear Van Halen the same way again.
April 28, 2011
My Bubbly Great-Grandmother
This is me with my great-grandmother. She died yesterday at the age of 96, leaving me with some kick-ass DNA.
And this, my kids' favorite exchange:
"How do you feel, Granny?"
"How do I feel? I feel with my hands!"
Goodbye, Mary Lucile.
We will miss your humor.
April 17, 2011
Sexy Things My Husband Won't Do
My friends and I like to dance. Our husbands don't. So we go out without them. Occasionally, boys talk to us. They are extremely subtle. Take for example this recent exchange:
"Hey, what are you doing after this?"
After this? What is he talking about? There is no after this. This is this. In fact, he has reminded me to check the time because this needs to end in 45 minutes before the taxi fare doubles. Instead of explaining this and the raging "after party" that is my facial cleansing routine, I tell him we are here to celebrate my friend's impending nuptials.
"Why don't you give me your phone number?"
"You know what," I say "I'm married, so you probably don't want my number."
"Married, huh?" He pondered a moment. "Give me your number. I'll do everything your husband won't do."
Really? Everything my husband won't do? Everything?
Was he actually offering to do windows, grout, stop for directions, clean the crumbs around the toaster, watch movies starring Reese Witherspoon, and use the last of the mustard before opening a new one?
Who says you can't meet quality men in a club?
If you liked this one, check out these:
Clubbin' OKC Style
A Night at the Wine Bar
Match.com's Got Nothing on This
April 11, 2011
Showered in Miscommunication
If there's one thing the relationship experts harp on, it's communication. Almost all the best-selling books about marriage include the words language, communication, talking, or conversation. Whatever works for you, I suppose, but through more than 16 years of marriage I have learned that communication is overrated.
Sex, now that's a worthy goal. It's a form of communication, after all. And hotel sex? Even better.
To this end my husband and I packed an overnight bag and tossed a twenty at the kids on our way up to Eureka Springs for some much needed time away. We had reservations in a lovely haunted hotel, complete with tall ceilings, warped windows, and hundred year old furniture. After we'd settled in and opened the same riesling we drank on our honeymoon, I showered and started to get ready for our big night out. (Where big night out = eating pasta on a deserted balcony at the only restaurant that stayed open past 8pm.) Anyway, I was at the sink setting up the hair infrastructure when my husband started opening the drawers to the dresser.
He pulled out a penguin made of terry cloth and that soft but scrubby material, something you'd find overflowing from a basket at Bath and Body works during penguin awareness week.
"It's a penguin loofah." He turned it around in his hands.
"It's not a loofah," I corrected, "and I can't believe you're touching it."
He looked at me and then the penguin.
"Seriously," I said. "Put it down."
He set the penguin back in the drawer and closed it slowly, methodically.
"What's the big deal?"
"What do you mean what's the big deal? You touched someone else's scrubby. That's disgusting."
What he wanted to say: Get over it, freakish germaphobe. What he said: "Yeah, I guess you're right."
I applied a second coat of mascara as my husband came up from behind me and put his hands around my waist.
"Seriously, wash your hands. I don't want someone else's ass germs."
Confusion washed across his face. "Oh come on. The face thingy?"
I stopped applying blush. "That's not what it's for."
Confusion was replaced by realization.
"So that thing hanging in our shower– that fluffy thing? You use it– on your– "
"Ass crack."
"No!"
"Yes."
"You're lying."
"You don't really use it on your face, do you?" It took several more minutes for me to convince him that I wasn't just messing with him, torturing him for sport, as is my custom. "It's scrubby and soft. That's what it's FOR! It's an ass scrubber."
He sat on the ancient sofa and shook his head in disbelief, saying more to himself than to me, "I specifically don't use that thing on my ass because I know it's for your face."
"That's funny, Babe," I said. "Because I specifically don't use that thing on my face because I know it's for your ass."
March 22, 2011
Blacklisted from the PTA: The Google Search
This is the type of thing that distracts me from paying work.
Sadly, they wouldn't let me to use the search term "Mexican Xanax."
Enjoy, show your friends, go to Amazon and pre-order the book. Because I need money for jeans.
It's true, the book is available for pre-order now on Amazon. Publication date is July 12th, just in time for the pool!
March 16, 2011
Match.com's Got Nothing on This
Last night my husband and I were watching TV when a Match.com commercial came on. Did you know that 1 in 5 relationships start online? I did not know that. Being an online kind of girl, it doesn't really surprise me. I meet a lot of people online. Then again, I'm not sleeping with any of them.
The last time I was on the market, you had to do things the old-fashioned way, face-to-face with lipgloss and cheap beer. There was no easy weed-out mechanism and you couldn't multitask a first date while simultaneously finishing up a work presentation and watching The Bachelor on DVR. Okay, I'm exaggerating. Nobody worth dating watches The Bachelor. Don't get me wrong. I fully grasp the allure and I understand the desire to use an elaborate system of checkboxes to find the ideal mate, but, like unicorns and fat-free pizza, I don't believe such a thing exists.
I turned away from my MacBook to face my husband, "Do you think we'd be matched up?"
Personally, I doubt any man-made algorithm would have put us together. Which may account for why we are still together.
My match looked at me and held back a sigh. "Did the internet even exist when we met?"
"No," I said. "But we did have Match.com. It was called a bar."
If you liked this one, check out these:
Clubbin' OKC Style
A Night at the Wine Bar
Sexy Things My Husband Won't Do
