Entry #32

Wednesday, January 11

9:00 a.m. While I’ve become accustomed to putting The Woodlands’ Living magazine directly in the recycling bin (it’s basically one big advertisement for cosmetic enhancements), this one caught my attention due to its sheer absurdity. The cover featured “The Real Housewives of The Woodlands.”

Aidan commented that these women didn’t look real, and asked if the tuxedo-clad “boy” in the photo was “the butler.” Turns out he’s the son of the owner of Body Benefits, a skincare spa on which the advertorial feature is based. He does seem out of place, though he’s clearly wearing a touch of makeup and hairspray, too.

11:00 a.m.: One thing I can say for The Woodlands is that there are a lot of walking paths, which is great. It’s easy to get lost, however, because of the homogeneity of the architecture, so the powers of observation are very important. There are no bright pink houses to guide you (as in San Francisco), or even a Dunkin’ Donuts along the way (a popular landmark in Boston). Just lots of beige homes, big trucks, and wooded trails.


(Spot the typo—win a prize!)

Because the reserve is a mud swamp right now, I decided to take Izzie in a new direction today, which led us to a flock of Muscovy ducks. I remember them wandering around my  grandparents' neighborhood in Florida, but I have yet to see so many of them here. Not the most attractive specimens, but they definitely know how to stand their ground.

There was one duck sitting solo on a guard rail, looking incredibly confident and unafraid of us (that would be me and Izzie, my incredibly intimidating (white, fluffy, smiling) dog. I don’t know how much the duck weighed, but it was definitely the biggest, baddest dude in the flock. Only when Izzie finally came within inches of it did it mutter a few sounds (very likely some cuss words in duck-speak) and fly away. Scared the bejeebers out of Izzie, too. Those are some tough ducks.

Thursday, January 12

9:30 a.m. While the weather is supposed to reach the low 70s this afternoon, it was about 38 degrees this morning. I was cold despite being layered in a shirt, sweater, jacket, etc. and was amazed to see a gaggle of women (continuing the bird theme), all dressed in teeny tennis skirts and cap-sleeved shirts. And they weren’t even playing yet, so I can’t imagine they were remotely warm. Brrrrrrr.

11:00: It’s remarkable how many ads there are for gun sales here. This morning I heard one advertising Collector’s Firearms, a gun “super store.” Turns out there are more than 1,500 places in the Houston area that sell guns (according to Reuters online), with 84 dedicated “gun shops.” In other words, no matter where you go (Wal-Mart, Target, the gas station, Gap kids, candy shop...) you can buy the ammunition you’re seeking.

What’s even more alarming is the increase in firearms sales just this past Christmas. CNN reported that there were 1,534,414  inquiries by gun dealers to the National Instant Criminal Background Check System (NICS), with almost half a million done the six days prior to Christmas. Really changes the meaning of “last minute shopping.”

“Don’t know what to get your loved one this holiday season? Start Christmas with a BANG with our new 38 special, now in an array of seasonal yuletide shades...”

Friday, January 13

9:00 a.m. We woke up to an interesting sight this morning: The pool was steaming. Turns out someone accidentally turned on the spa, resulting in the pool warming to a whopping 95 degrees while the air outside was 31 degrees. Wanna go for a swim? Just beware of getting "hair icicles" when you come out. (Turns out Aidan did take the plunge after all. Gotta give him credit for making the most of the pool, unlike my wimpy self.)

Noah got a kick out of a bumper sticker he saw on the way to school: “Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.” Little did I know (until just now) that this is a George Carlin quote. It was a refreshing change from the ones see on a daily basis, including: "Don't mess with Texas," "I wasn't born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could!," "You may all go to hell and I will go to Texas (Davy Crockett)," "Texas Proud," "God Bless Texas," and last but not least, "I'm from Texas. What country are you from?"

Entry #31

Entry #31

Saturday, January 7

7:30 p.m. We’ve decided that it would be a good idea for the kids to start cooking meals with us, and Noah's first suggestion was homemade pizza. He got as far as pouring the yeast into warm water, then ended up talking to a friend for more than an hour. Guess who ended up learning how to make pizza dough?

David and Aidan didn’t get home until nearly 7:00 p.m., since they went to the archery range, something that David promised Aidan since he purchased a bow with gift money from his uncle. (Aidan likes to point out that he does NOT want to hunt; he just likes aiming at targets, most of which he’s drawn on a large cardboard box.) 


David told Noah he should come with them the next time, forewarning that the store/office was decorated with taxidermy. Before Noah had a chance to respond, Aidan said, “There are trophy heads on every wall in every place in Texas, so get used to it.”

Sunday, January 8

7:00 p.m. We ventured to Houston today, taking the kids to their first art class at The Glassell Junior School, an affiliate of the Houston Museum of Fine Arts. While they were at class, David, Izzie and I walked around the Museum District.

What’s really unusual about this area, and Houston in general, is that the layout of this sprawling metropolis is completely unpredictable. While most museum areas are strictly public spheres, in Houston there are two enormous private residences just across the street from the MFA, one of which has a topiary “herd” of longhorn bulls displayed in the manicured front yard. (The bull’s balls are big enough to see clearly from the sidewalk.) Sidestreets are all residential, too, with lots of sprawling yards and gracious homes.

After class, we drove through an area called The Heights, and were pleasantly surprised to see an array of charming Victorians, bungalows, Craftsman homes, and interesting contemporary ones, too. We also drove by some esoteric museums, including a Dali-esque “art car” museum and a telephone museum. (I imagined the displays there getting smaller and smaller and smaller...)

Before crossing the railroad tracks, we got stopped by a seemingly endless train, so we parked and went in a place called “Heights Station,” which looked potentially interesting. The entry featured the usual tired furniture and trinkets, but the back of the store was chock-filled with an array of entertaining (and wildly overpriced) memorabilia.

There were countless signed autographs by musicians, entertainers, and athletes, Southern artifacts, a vertiable Elvis shrine, and a surprising amount of Grateful Dead memorabilia, including a guitar pick signed by Jerry Garcia. I had no idea that John Travolta recorded his own album, nor that an sloppily autographed magazine cover of George Lopez could fetch $99 (or at least be priced this high).

I can understand that the Frank Sinatra/Sammy David Jr./Liza Minelli ticket might be valuable, since two of the three are now-deceased legends, but George Lopez?

What surprised me most were the ebony-glazed Aunt Jemima and Uncle Mose salt and pepper shakers, asking $199 for the pair. I guess they can be viewed as historic artifacts or purely offensive. Take your pick.

We quickly learned the meaning of “the wrong side of the tracks” once the world’s longest train finally departed. Within minutes, the area changed from charming to downtrodden. Now I understand how the guy who sold David his car said he lived “near” The Heights. It was close in distance, but otherwise, a complete world away.

Monday, January 9

11:00 a.m. For the first time since last night, the rain is finally starting to abate. I think Texas might be heading out of the drought if this keeps up. I’ve never seen so much water pour down for so many hours on end, with nonstop lightning and thunder. Aidan asked if school was going to be canceled because it was so dark and wet. I grew up having the occasional “snow” day, but never a “rain” day. The only time schools shut down here is when they have ice storms, which I have yet to see.

4:00 p.m. To keep the kids upbeat at the beginning of the school week, I told them we’d have “Ice Cream Monday” on Mondays (as opposed to sundaes on Sundays, I guess). We usually end up going to one of the frozen yogurt places around here. Today, the kids wanted to go to Orange Leaf, mainly because they like tasting as many samples as possible then serving themselves in cauldron-size cups. Aidan also likes the fact that they have mochi bits there (a type of Japanese dessert made with sweet rice flour).

The yogurt store is adjacent to a tanning salon. I happened to look into the salon as we passed and noticed that the very bored-looking receptionist talking on her cell phone was a distinctive shade of orange. It’s good to take advantage of employee discounts, but there comes a time to draw the line...

Tuesday, January 10

9:30 a.m. While driving the kids to school, someone was trailing me a bit too closely. I said something like, “I wish people would stop driving up my rear,” to which Noah retorted, “Seems like you need a ‘back horn.’” Now that would be a great invention!

It’s cold and gray and overcast today, a far cry from the balmy weather we had last week. I wore my duck boots for the first time in awhile and really appreciated the fact that I could walk through deep puddles with Izzie and still have dry feet. However, I realized that between my down vest, turtleneck and duck boots, I might as well be wearing a sign that says, “I'm not from around here" (or "Damn Yankee," more aptly). Perhaps I should bedazzle my vest.

Entry #30

Entry #30

Tuesday, January 3

10:00 a.m. On the radio this morning, the hosts at 93.7 FM were in prime form. I turned it on just in time to hear them say that Obama’s "people" have recommended that listeners ban this radio station. I now understand why. The hosts talk about Obama as though he's the reason for the war and economic crisis, as well as whatever else is wrong with the world. Amazing how quickly Texans forget that it's their own homeboy who inspired this whole shebang. Regardless, it's quite a shame that the U.S. is so incredibly polarized these days—certainly doesn't help anyone in the long-term. So much for the word "United" among the North American states...

I can only listen to 93.7 in fits and spurts, but Kenneth (the host who sounds like Minnie Pearl) is pretty funny. This morning he said he believes that bible stories like Noah’s Ark are just “sweet little tales” that you can’t take literally, which appalled his fellow hosts. “Do you really think that one man was able to take a pair of animals from Asia, another from Africa, two from North American, two from Antarctica...and build an ark?” 

One of the hosts asked Kenneth how he will explain this act of blasphemy when he “meets his Maker.” They were serious, too (as were many listeners who called in to remark upon this), which made this discussion all the more absurd.

1:00 a.m. One benefit of making a wrong turn while driving around The Woodlands is that you might end up discovering an interesting new street name. Today’s wayward adventure led me past “Lazy Lane.” The other day, we saw a road called "Barkdull." I have yet to see "Apathy Ave." or "Get-Off-Your-Ass Blvd.," but you never know. The woman who named all these streets might've lost it toward the end...

Thursday, January 5

8:00 a.m. The front page of this week’s Villager featured a photograph of an infant, with the headline “Shepherd woman gives birth to first South County baby in 2012.” Both David and I did a double take. Little did we know (until we read the article) that Shepherd is the name of a town in South Montgomery County. We’re evidently still in yuletide mode.

Friday, January 6

11:00 a.m. I spoke with a co-founder of H2ecO, a company that delivers purified water because the water here tastes awful, even when poured through a Brita filter. When I spoke to the salesperson, he said that he won’t let his kids drink the tap water here because there are trace levels (labeled “acceptable” by the FDA) of arsenic and barium,"though not enough to glow."

I thought perhaps this guy was pulling my leg, or just trying to get sales, so I did some research, and there are a surprising number of articles supporting these facts. Yikes. Good thing we’re getting some jugs delivered soon.

3:30 p.m. Izzie has become something of a celebrity at the kids’ school, at least among the little kids who flock to her like she’s a farm animal and try to feed her leaves. I told the kids she prefers pine cones, which inspired them to scatter like they were on a treasure hunt, picking up as many pine cones as they could. One kid brought back a bucket of them. Izzie gently accepted her bounty of gifts and crunched on them like popcorn balls. When we left, it looked like she'd created a small pile of mulch.

There’s one girl who always calls our dog “Itchy.” Seems the other kids have followed suit. Noah commented that all we need now is another dog named “Scratchy,” and we’ll be all set.

Saturday, January 7

10:00 a.m. David took Aidan to a babysitting course today that runs from 9:30 until 3:30, so he can earn an official certificate (sponsored by Red Cross, I believe). Both kids initially wanted to take this class, and Noah’s more qualified to babysit now that he’s 14, but he opted out. Was it the fact that he would have to bring a “baby doll” to class (to learn how to diaper, administer first aid, etc.)? Or maybe he's just a low-key teenager who's not crazy about the idea of entertaining Energizer Bunnies for hours on end. Aidan was still keen on taking the class, even after his big brother cancelled, which really says something about how much he loves kids.

Noah got up around 10:00 a.m. this morning, and brought me two pairs of jeans: one had a tear all the way up the butt, apparently a casualty of a football game; the other he said were too baggy and short. So, I have now inherited my first pair of hand-me-down jeans from my SON.

In this morning’s Huffington Post, there was an article about a robbery at a beauty store in Texas that involved not only clearing out the cash register, but also stealing hair extensions:

A man robbed Main Beauty Supply in Dallas this week at gunpoint, demanding all the cash in the register—and a little something extra...The perpetrator..had her surrender all the money in the register, including the change, which he said he needed because he had kids. Then, the thief tossed in a stranger request: he demanded the hair extensions behind the counter.Jackson says the man explained: he needed the best ones for his girlfriend....The demand might sound silly, but hairpieces typically aren't cheap: premium hair extensions can cost upwards of $200 per piece. And surprisingly, this isn't the first hair extension thief on record this year: back in September, four men robbed a Georgia beauty store of an astonishing $100,000 in packages of hair. In May, another Texas hair heist occurred when someone stole over $120,000 in wigs and extensions from a Houston boutique.

Southern gals apparently take their coifs very seriously, and will go to extreme measures to make their hair look as full and flowing as possible (or at least hire their boyfriends to get the best supplies for them). As I write, I'm wearing my semi-damp hair in an unkempt bun...

Entry #29

Entry #29

Sunday, January 1

Happy New Year! We disembarked the plane about a half hour before midnight and drove back to The Woodlands just in time to see fireworks exploding from both sides of the highway. Not just rinky-dink fireworks either—some were show-stopping, light-up-the-sky varietals. Seems that explosives of any kind are here for the taking, where you can legally shoot-‘em-up, light-‘em-up, and even blow-‘em-up. There’s no mistaking that we’re back in Texas.

Having spent the last two weeks in Berkeley and San Francisco, I can now safely say that the Bay Area is as different from Houston as two places can be. I think I was beginning to forget, having lived in Texas now for a whopping four months. (According to Noah, time moves more slowly here, so four months in The Woodlands is equivalent to at least a year spent outside “The Bubble.”)

What struck me most of all is that the Bay Area still felt like home. It seemed like we simply picked up where we'd left off, which was reassuring.

While we weren’t able to see everyone that we would’ve liked to, we did manage to touch base with several longtime friends and relatives, both in the Bay Area and Southern California. These get-togethers were a gentle reminder that more than anything, it’s the people who make a place.

As places go, however, San Francisco is pretty extraordinary. After all, how many cities welcome you with an expansive view of the mountains and ocean, as well the Golden Gate Bridge? You can hike among the palm trees, evergreens and maples simultaneously, drive to the beach or the snow, spend the day in Wine Country... It’s easy to get spoiled there.

Within hours of touching ground in California, I found myself pushing a shopping cart around the Berkeley Bowl, an enormous market known as a “foodie’s paradise.” The kids' "honorary grandmother" needed to get groceries and I was happy to accompany her, only I’d forgotten what it would be like to go “bumper carting” on a busy Saturday afternoon in a place where aisles are not quite big enough to fit two shopping carts (hence, the bumping).

The first person I noticed at The Berkeley Bowl was a mom with a sweeping blue tattoo across her neck, accompanied by two Asian children dressed in earthy clothing and tiny Crocs. Shortly thereafter, I passed a groovy dad in flip-flops, with long hair peering out from his wool cap, and two multi-ethnic kids in tow. Two older women with loose, flowing garments (a la Stevie Nicks) brushed past me, as did a hip, twenty-something gal toting esoteric ingredients I barely recognized (kohlrabi anyone?).

I had the assignment of searching for Celtic sea salt, Ancient Organics Ghee, pasture-raised organic eggs, and Bariani Olive Oil, among other specialty items. Although it was like going on a scavenger hunt to find them, they were surprisingly available. So were every fruit and vegetable on the planet, grass-fed meats, sprouted grain breads, olives of every conceivable variety, milk from cows, goats, coconuts, soy beans, hemp seeds, almonds...The Bowl might be crowded and overwhelming, but it really does have everything (except, perhaps, Wonder Bread).

I had another culinary adventure the following evening when I went with some friends to Gather, an organic restaurant located at “the greenest building in the East Bay.” We ordered the recommended “vegan charcuterie plate.” It was so intricately prepared, the waitress spent about three minutes describing all the ingredients, then gave us a pre-printed card in case we needed reminding of what in tarnation we were about to consume. Quite a far cry from Texas barbecue, where what you see is what you get.

While waiting for a friend at the Guerilla Café one morning, I realized that this place could never exist in Texas, simply by virtue of its name. Can you imagine a patriotic cowboy walking into a café named after insurgent forces (even if its bi-line is “art, coffee, vibes”)? Don’t think so. To its credit, The Guerilla Café has incredible coffee (served Euro-style in a bowl) and delicious brunch offerings, but you do need a shoehorn to ease your way into one of their densely packed seats. 

While we’ve gotten so used to seeing luxury cars and mammoth trucks in Texas, it was refreshing to see people of all socioeconomic strata driving weathered station wagons, eco-conscious Priuses and other unassuming vehicles around Berkeley. There was nary a Hummer or Cadillac SUV to be found (though I did drive behind a truck that had a “Don’t mess with Texas” bumper sticker on it.)

Recycling, composting and reusing are the norm in California, and plastic bags are actually banned in San Francisco—something that would be unheard of here, where plastic bags are doled out like Kleenex (and recycled paper goods are nearly impossible to find). Mom-and-pop businesses still prevail in the Bay Area, despite the looming presence of big box stores. Chain stores predominate in The Woodlands, like so many other places in Anywhere, USA.

In the Castro district of San Francisco, we passed a salon called Hand Job Nails & Spa. In The Woodlands, a British friend recommended another privately owned salon, The Shag Spa. Perhaps there are some commonalities among these towns after all...

While the Bay Area still feels like home, one thing I don’t miss about it are all the homeless people there. "It makes me sad," Aidan said, and I concurred. Having been away for just a few months, I was struck by the number of people pushing shopping carts and panhandling (not to mention the awful smell inside the parking lot stairwell). 

Oddly enough, I have yet to see a single homeless person wandering around The Woodlands. I haven’t spotted anyone doling out mysterious wafers (remember "soylent green?"), so perhaps homeless people who’ve tried to inhabit this Stepfordian oasis are quietly carted back to the city. It remains a mystery.

The most welcome (and welcoming) sight upon returning to The Woodlands came in the form of our tail-thumping, tongue-lolling pup, Izzie. Seems she had a blast at the Texas Doghouse and was returned to us happy, healthy, and freshly washed. She did sleep on top of me most of the first night back, however. That’s one way to prevent me from going anywhere anytime soon...