Entry #51

Entry #51

Saturday, March 24

3:00 p.m. Who knew that there would be a line at 8:30 in the morning for a 10:00 a.m. showing of The Hunger Games? We figured that most teens would want to sleep in, so there’d be less people seeing the movie. David did buy tickets the day before (Noah’s been anticipating this movie for months), but we still had to wait in line for quite some time. I’m just glad I didn’t need to sit behind the 6’7” man who was in line behind me (I have that kind of luck—once a man with an Eraserhead haircut sat directly in front of me; another time I had to look around a lady's teased bouffant).

We saw countless trailers before the movie started, with an army ad thrown in—an attempt to make being in the military look like an action-adventure film. Another ad showed a plump teenage boy smiling as he wedged his way in-between two attractive girls on an elevator, who then looked at each other as if to say, "Ew, gross." What followed was an ad to celebrate Easter in The Woodlands. I didn't understand where Easter came into play, unless the boy suddenly sprouted ears and gave each girl a chocolate bunny. I just stared in confusion as Aidan whispered, “That’s really mean. All it does is hurt that guy’s feelings.”

Another trailer featured a reality TV show called Duck Dynasty. It takes place in Louisiana and features real-life Beverly Hillbillies, though they still live in the back woods, despite making millions on duck calls and decoys carved from swamp wood. The preview showed a bunch of guys who look ZZ-Top groupies taking turns riding on a conveyor belt and falling into a pile of cardboard boxes. I imagine the folks who like watching Hillbilly Handfishin' would enjoy this show, too.

Sunday, March 25

11:00 a.m. If the weather were like this all year-round, people would flock here by the droves. The birds certainly have—real birds, even (unlike the filtered sounds at the Model Homes Center), and they’re singing some merry tunes. 

Now that the temperature is in the mid-to-high 80s, Izzie’s not too crazy about going for walks in the afternoon—she wants to turn around and come back home, then go out in back and wade along the second step in the pool. When it’s over 75, she’s just too hot, despite her light-colored coat. Good thing we have a giant puddle of cold water out back for her.

9:00 p.m. I just signed up for weekly delivery (conveniently at the kids’ school) from Home Sweet Farm, whose bi-line is “We grow righteous food.” I’m excited to get fresh, organic produce each week, though I must confess I don’t recognize a few of the vegetables on the list, specifically mibuna, mizuna and tot soi.

Just looked them up. Seems they’re all variations on green leafy edibles.

What’s great about this delivery service, besides the fact that I’ll be getting local, organic food (hurrah!), I’ll also get farm-fresh eggs (and other goodies like cheese and yogurt if I so choose...). Rather exciting. It’ll be a refreshing change from the waxed, flavorless offerings from the local grocery store.

Monday, March 26

10:00 a.m. I woke up to the smell of skunk—in the bedroom, in the kitchen, and then in the van. Haven’t seen the critter, but we know it’s not the water hose this time.

Despite the fact that mosquitoes are swarming and the place is a muddy swamp pit, I decided to take Izzie to the reserve today. I just needed to get away from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood and see something other than suburban landscaping.

The first person I saw at the park revealed a great deal about herself at first glance. She was wearing a Houston Texans t-shirt,  a sizable wooden cross, and showed me the bite marks on her arm she received from her neighbors’ Rottweiler just a few days ago (after putting herself at a healthy distance away from Izzie). So, in a matter of minutes, I could tell she was a religious football fan who was terrified of dogs.

This woman was also wearing the requisite attire that most women in The Woodlands don in the morning—workout pants, t-shirt and a visor. The other day I counted five women in pastel-colored shirts, black capris and visors within three blocks of our home. The unspoken uniforms we wear...

Tuesday, March 27

9:30 a.m. I just learned that Texas has more bird species than any other North American state—a whopping 600 (out of 900 species that can be found throughout North America). It’s pretty amazing to walk around and see Blue Herons, Great Egrets, colorful blue jays, cardinals, hawks—I even spotted an eagle once. I’m sure there are a zillion birds I have yet to recognize, but if I were a birder, this would indeed be paradise.

Another things that’s wonderful about springtime here are the flurry of colorful wildflowers—far more alluring than the predictable, orderly blooms that are regularly planted and replanted in front of homes and shopping centers. Granted, I enjoy fresh flowers, regardless, but nature beats man hands down when it comes to horticultural wonders.

I wish I could be satisfied with the birds and the wildflowers and call it a day, but truth be told, I’m still hankering to “blow this popsicle stand.” I’ve always liked this odd saying and just discovered that it originated in San Francisco, ironically:

“The origins couldn’t have been earlier than the 1920s. The San Francisco invention of the Popsicle was in 1924. ‘Let’s blow this joint’ (leave this less-than-interesting place) may have been first and later the many variations including ‘Let’s blow this fire-trap’ or ‘Let’s blow this popcorn stand.’ In some parts of the U.S. a soda shop was called a pop stand, so the phrase may have originated with ‘Let’s blow this pop stand,” with ‘blow’ being slang for ‘leave.’” (Yahoo! Answers)

Truth is, most of my days are spent solo, albeit in the company of Izzie, and while she’s a great companion and an excellent listener, I still miss the company of longtime (human) friends. Even when I go to pick up the kids at school, I’m the only person who actually parks the car and walks out to get the kids. The other parents stay seated in car line, tapping on their cell phones, windows closed. There's not much of a chance to interact with fellow humans unless they, too, happen to be out walking their dogs.

11:00 a.m.  I went to the ninth grade campus to get paperwork for Noah’s high school application and parked next to a minivan decorated with more than a dozen decals. They indicated that the driver was a marathon runner (26.2 sticker) and completed the Houston Marathon, had two kids (by the names of Brandon and Courtney), one of whom was in cheer, the other a soccer player, attended the University of Texas (or was a college football fan), and a Southerner (union flag). I have never met the owner of the van, nor even seen her, and yet this is what I learned about the driver from a furtive glance around her vehicle. 


Seems people around here feel quite comfortable advertising their beliefs, loyalties and devotion to sports via clothing, bumper stickers and lawn ornaments. With Easter soon approaching, many lawns are now adorned with two-dimensional rabbits and plastic eggs, springtime and Easter flags, and of course, announcements of which sports or instruments their children play.

The only sticker we have on any of our cars (besides the obligatory registration ones) is a bumper sticker on the granny mobile that our friend Lynn, the previous owner, placed on it. It was for an independent radio station called STFU. It meant something different back then, as you can imagine.

4:00 p.m. My aunt in Phoenix sent me a YouTube video featuring Kenny and Ziggy’s Deli in Houston. It was funny to hear the interviewer attempt to pronounce such specialties as kreplach, kasha varniskhas, shmaltz and the like. And even though I no longer eat mile-high corned beef sandwiches, there is something comforting knowing that a place like this exists in nearby Houston. I’m just sorry I didn’t know about it when my parents were here to visit. My dad would've loved this place.