Entry #54

Entry #54

Thursday, April 5

Noon: My chauffeur duties were extended this morning, first to take David to work because he left his keys in a co-worker’s car following an off-site lunch, and then I got a message from Noah at school that he had left his global warming report on the counter. (You think David and Noah are related?) All this driving back and forth has not helped me reduce my carbon footprint.

When I got to the kids’ school for the second time today, Aidan was out in the preschool yard hiding Easter eggs for the little kids. Easter is a big holiday around here, and it’s assumed that everyone celebrates it. “Do we celebrate Easter?” Aidan asked me. “Have we ever celebrated Easter?” I responded. “Um, no,” said Aidan, thinking. I explained very quietly the religious significance of Easter, to which Aidan responded, “Oh. I thought it was just about bunnies and candy and eggs.”

Driving around here is a daunting task, not because the routes are tricky, but because people are so busy doing other things behind the wheel. David noticed that a woman in a Range Rover next to us was smoking a cigarette, texting and applying lipstick while driving. Was she steering with her knees? 

Texas would make a ton of money if they made a no-driving-and-cell phone use law. I, for one, would rather walk or bike. If only I could learn how to balance two kids on a bicycle like they do in Holland.

After dropping off the kids, David took us to an uber-posh section of The Woodlands, where homes are the size of hotels and the lake’s periphery is adorned with dragon sculptures. From the back, David thought the dragon sculptures were squirrels, then realized that they were just dragons with curlicue tails. He suggested they should be called “dragon-squirrels” or just “squagons” for short (“drirrels” might be too hard to pronounce). 

While the sidewalks in this muy exclusivo area aren’t paved with gold, they are inlaid with gilded dragons. The lake itself features a dragon sculpture—a favorite perch for shoreline birds. 

I braved going into a store called “October Gave a Party” today after dropping off Noah’s report because I needed to get a couple of cards. Judging by the over-abundance of get well and sympathy cards, I imagine this store has an older clientele. Noah’s actually scared to go in there—it’s stuffed to the gills with scented candles, chatchkes, sparkly decorations, crystal bracelets and charms—pretty much the antithesis of minimalism, a "maximalism" store, if you will.

When we first happened upon this place, it was October, so I thought that maybe the store's name changed with each passing month. Turns out I was wrong. As the holidays approached, the window displays changed, but the "October" name remained the same. I thought this was very confusing. Then again, I seem to be closely related to Amelia Bedelia, storybook queen of literal interpretations.

While waiting at the checkout, I asked about the origins of the store's name. The clerk proudly retrieved a clipboard and showed me a printed poem on a well-worn sheet of blue paper (I'm obviously not the first person to ask):

October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came-
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band....

(—George Cooper)

Friday, April 6

11:00 a.m.: After going outside to get the mail, I ran into my neighbor and her daughter, who’s a freshman in high school. Since it’s Good Friday today, there’s no school. Instead, she was going to spend the day with a male friend and his dad, who were “going hunting at a place with African animals.” “What do you shoot?” I asked. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe zebras?” She showed me an iPhone photo of her friend standing next to a dead zebra and something that looked like a water buffalo.

The daughter was pretty excited about going on this “date” and was dressed for the occasion in teeny white shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops—not exactly hunting gear. I just hope there aren't any endangered animals there.

Out of curiosity (and alarm), I looked up “hunting in Texas” and “African animals” on Google and got several listings for “Exotic Game Hunting.” The place closest to Houston (that I found) is called Circle E. Here’s their homepage advertisement:

“For the discriminating Elk, Exotics or Whitetail enthusiast, the Circle E Hunting Ranch is paradise. Over twenty species of African, European and native big game animals thrive on 3000 acres of prime habitat...Whether it is a specific, elusive trophy or a hunting package with lots of variety, count on fantastic animals and first-class hunting when you come to the Circle E hunting ranch.

The Circle E Hunting Lodge in Texas is the perfect place to bring important clients, reward that successful executive, or enjoy quality outdoor experiences with family and friends...”

Among the animals innocently roaming throughout the ranch are addax, Asian water buffalos, bison, Corsican rams, wildebeest, zebras, kudu, and impala. I do hope the people who shoot these creatures are forced to eat them. Somehow I don’t think many people eat zebra meat.

The extensive photo gallery includes clients of all ages posing next to lifeless animals as if to proudly say, “Hey, Ma! Look what I just killed!” I prefer to think that the beautiful, fuzzy bison in this picture just sleeping.

My sister and I once ran into the middle of a busy street to save a baby sparrow. I rescue spiders and take them outside. I could not dissect a frog, let alone kill one, and I feel bad when I hook a fish. To say that I’m out of my comfort zone here is a massive understatement, especially when I look at the photo below of the “fantastic gold medal Scimitar” (i.e., Asian oryx with a bloody nose) shot by a smiling teenage girl.

Sunday, April 8

4:00 p.m. Happy Easter! Happy Passover! At the checkout line this afternoon, a girl wished me a “Merry Christmas!” “Did I just say that?” she asked me. “Yes!” I said, “And a Merry Christmas and Happy Easter to you!”

We just returned from visiting relatives in Dallas, about three hours away. On the way out, we picked up some sandwiches from Hubbell & Hudson. As we turned in to the store, we saw a woman standing next to a man, only she looked like mannequin with a grayish blue painted face. When the light turned, she walked across the street.

“That was the first weird thing I’ve seen in The Woodlands,” said Aidan. “Weird things just don’t happen here. If you want weird, you go to Austin. If you want really weird, then go to Berkeley.”

After asking Aidan if he wanted a hamburger, Noah said, “I think I’m the only person in Texas who has never eaten a hamburger. That might be some kind of record or something.” Turns out both kids ended up having portobello mushroom sandwiches.

We felt immediately at home at my aunt and uncle’s house, despite never having been there before (they would come to Cleveland while we were growing up, since that’s where the rest of the family lived). David commented that it seemed much more similar to where I grew up in terms of the ranch-style 1970s houses, mature trees and spacious yards.

The first night we enjoyed a delicious Passover seder with my aunt, uncle, and their middle daughter, Micki. Their youngest daughter, who is currently living with them, along with her two daughters, is a devout Orthodox Jew and left to join her religious community for the weekend, kindly allowing us to use their bedrooms. 

Naomi, the younger daughter, left a message for Noah taped to her door: “Dear Noah. I hope you like my room. I hope you fit in the bed.”

We basically had one full day with my relatives, with the main event being a Passover seder on Saturday night. During the day we were going to go to the arboretum following a morning hike, but instead ended at an enormous Bass Pro Shop store to get a backyard target and some new arrows for the boys.

From the moment we walked in the door, we were visually bombarded with taxidermy—heads and antlers and stiff, glass-eyed wildlife trophies. I thought about the mountain lions, antelope, birds, wild boars and other creatures whose lives were taken for the purpose of retail store displays and felt the need to leave as soon as possible.

In order to escape, I had to weave through a crowd of families with kids that I initially thought was a crazy-long checkout line. It turned out to be a queue for a free photo with the Easter Bunny. Noah immediately saw the irony in this and said, “I can’t believe there’s an Easter Bunny with all those hunters in there." 

I passed the kids’ section on my way out, which included countless weapons, firearms, toys for girls (including a pet dog and pink tent) and boys (including a deer—to shoot, I’m guessing—and a camouflage tent). There were plush taxidermy deer heads, one dangling at a strange angle, and camouflage outfits for kids of all ages.

There was also a food section that seemed to specialize in melt-your-innards hot sauces and wacky food gifts. My favorite was the "make your own bubbles" bubble bath (a container of mixed beans with Tabasco sauce).

I found a bench outside the exit, which proved to be an entertaining people-watching zone. I saw a man in a black leather Harley-Davidson jacket with the words “Riding for Jesus” embroidered across his back. There was also a dad pushing a cart with a baby sleeping in a camouflage car seat. “Where’d you manage to find a camouflage baby seat?” said a guy handing out flyers outside. I’m sure the dad was proud of this manly find—one is never too young for camo, apparently.

By the time we got home, all we could do is catch a few zzzs, try to alternately help my aunt and stay out of her way, shower and get ready for the seder. There were about 30 people expected, most of whom we didn’t know.

My relatives still read from the Haggadah published by Maxwell House, the version that we used when I was a kid. According to the New York Times, "the coffee company...hoping to improve sales to an important demographic group in the New York City market, first offered the soft-cover Haggadah as a giveaway for every can of coffee purchased." Last April, the prayer book was updated for the first time since it was originally published in 1932, "with fusty language updated and gender bias removed." Apparently, President Obama uses a Maxwell House Haggadah to conduct seders in the White House.

We ended up sitting near one of my dad’s first cousins, his wife and 15-year-old daughter, which proved to be really fun. Plus, my aunt and uncle’s friends were really nice—and the food was amazing. Still, we managed to embarrass ourselves, as we often do while reading the the Passover prayer book. 

When it was Noah’s turn to read, the paragraph started out with a reference to Rabbi Jose. Noah, having grown up in California, assumed it would be the Spanish pronunciation, Ho-Say. Evidently, the correct pronunciation was Jo-See. That made Aidan start giggling. He continued to giggle when Noah had to read about the “finger of G-d,” as though G-d was giving Rabbi José “the finger.”

Because Aidan was giggling (now uncontrollably, trying to hide his face behind his Hagaddah), Noah started to laugh, as often happens between siblings. Then, to make matters worse, a little girl who had left the table and gone to play down the hall started shouting “Meow! Meow! Meow! Meow! Meow!” which made the boys erupt into major guffaws. This all happened in the span of a single paragraph.

While taking turns reading from the prayer book, I enjoyed listening to the range of accents from Southern twangs to native New Yorker, with some native South Africans and Eastern Europeans, too. I particularly enjoyed the woman with the European accent, because it reminded me of my grandmother. I found that somehow comforting.

The drive home was relatively uneventful, though trying to get food for the kids is always somewhat challenging when it’s Passover and your choices are limited to fast food restaurants and gas station mini marts. We ended up getting off at the Palestine exit (as opposed to Jerusalem—both actual towns in Texas) to tide the kids over with an unhealthy combo of french fries and chocolate frosties. 

We took one more stop in Huntsville so David could stretch his legs. While Huntsville is largely affiliated with Sam Houston State University, as well as the Texas Department of Criminal Justice and Prison Museum, it also is home to a beautiful state park. David wanted to check it out, so we drove into the park. On our way out, David asked a ranger if it was possible to do archery practice there. “Anything that is a projectile is not allowed at Huntsville State Park, sir. So even if you have a rubber band and an acorn, it’s not allowed.”

I think this is a wise idea, considering the park's proximity to nine state prisons, which explains why Huntsville is called "the Prison City of Texas." The Texas State Penitentiary opened in 1849 and houses the State of Texas execution chamber—the most active execution chamber in the United States. The original electric chair was built by inmates and named “Old Sparky.” It’s now on display in the Huntsville Prison Museum. 

I don’t really feel the need to pay homage to Texas’ prisons, nor their trigger-happy approach to the death penalty. Then again, tours for Alcatraz, another former penitentiary, are often sold out, especially for creepy night tours.

Entry #53

Entry #53

Sunday, April 2

4:30 p.m. I am so glad to be home and out of my car. Not a good car-ma day, so to speak.

While driving on the freeway, a pickup truck nearly sideswiped me. I was driving on the left middle lane of a four-lane freeway when I noticed a big black truck veering straight towards me. I had to swerve and beep for him to get out of the way. I can see how I might go unnoticed if I were driving our wee granny mobile, but a minivan? It's basically a large metal rectangle.

While trying to find parking, a girl in a crunched turquoise beater was headed straight towards me. “Sorry,” she said, “At least I was driving slowly.” She was also going the wrong way. Poor Izzie nearly flew through the windshield.


After these near-misses, I wanted OUT. But I'd promised our friend who'd visited for the weekend that we'd bop around while the kids were in art class. So when a parade of people crossing the street stopped traffic for a few minutes, I was actually relieved. Hundreds of people were leaving church, all holding some sort of greenery. At closer look, I saw they were palm fronds. It took me a little while to realize that it was Palm Sunday.

Seeing the kids’ artwork after class made the whole crazy drive seem worthwhile. While it’s too bad that the classes involve little more than sitting on metal stools copying a still life for two hours (Aidan said they're not allowed to talk), the kids have managed to create some wonderful art pieces. Their creations are, in fact, my primary source of wall décor these days, a fine alternative to taxidermy.

On the way home, we passed a billboard advertising an Easter buffet at the Aquarium. This made me wonder, would fish be on the menu? If so, which ones? Perhaps it would have been easier to have a Passover seder there. No one would really care which species were used to make the gefilte fish, as long as the patties were uniformly beige and served with plenty of horseradish.

Tuesday, April 3

9:30 a.m. I took Izzie to the dog park today, despite my better judgment. I hoped this time would be different (than the last half dozen), that there would be some sweet dogs for Izzie to play with, perhaps some like-minded humans, too.

Things actually started off okay in the first minutes, with the dogs chasing balls, frisbees and the like. Then the dogs simply wandered around sniffing as I listened to a group of people casually chatting about their dog’s park-related injuries. 


“You see that bare patch on his side?” said a woman pointing to her Weimaraner. “He just came home one day after my husband took him here and there wasn’t even any skin there—nothing to sew up. I don’t know how it happened.” The owner of a young Visla piped up, “My dog got bit in the back of the neck...I guess the other dog just wanted to show his dominance.” These folks were so nonchalant, they made it sound like getting mauled every now and then was just part of being a dog.

A few minutes later, the Weimaraner went after Izzie. “Oh, you’re being too rambunctious!” said his owner. I quickly put the leash on Izzie and called it a day. I didn't want to wait and see if she would be the next pup inducted into the Open Wound & Bloody Bite Mark club.

11:30 a.m. A friend from New York asked me if I was able to find Passover goods in The Woodlands. I told her there were slim pickings. Thus far, I've encountered one five-pack box of matzoh (a brand that I’ve never seen before), some macaroons, matzoh meal and Lipton-brand matzoh-ball mix (labeled "Not Kosher for Passover"). There were no individual boxes of matzoh to be found, let alone any Ring Gels, chocolate-covered pink marshmallows, or sugar-coated, rainbow-colored fruit slices. Where’s the fun in that?

5:00 p.m. Today marked the arrival of the first HomeSweetFarm delivery at the kids’ school, and while I was really excited to get farm-fresh, organic produce, I was left wondering how I was supposed to cook the collard greens. It seems like something I should do, being in the South and all. Most recipes, however, call for some sort of pork part.


I was curious as to why these large green leaves became so popular in the South. Here's what I learned:


With the arrival of the African slaves to the southern U.S. colonies came the Southern style of cooking collard greens. Like many foods that originated at the time, this way of cooking greens grew out of a need to provide food for their families and satisfy their hunger with the scraps that were thrown their way from the master's kitchen. They would be given ham hocks, pig's feet, and the tops of greens and would turn these leftovers into a meal that created the famous southern greens. But they would keep at least one tradition from Africa - drinking the juice, called pot likker, left over from cooking the greens.

There are some superstitious traditions associated with collard greens as well. Every New Year's Day those who believe in the tradition, or just like to play along, will serve up collard greens with black-eyed peas and hog jowl for a year of good luck and good finances. Others might hang a fresh collard leaf over their door to keep bad spirits away, and a fresh leaf on the forehead is said to promis a cure for a headache.  (Yahoo!)

8:00 p.m. I can now say I’ve officially cooked and consumed collard greens. I can't say I cooked them like a real Southerner, however, not having used ham hocks or pig's feet or hog jowl. I did braise them for a good long while after sautéeing a chopped onion and mushrooms in plenty of butter. I figured I could stick some old socks in that concoction and it would still taste good, so it would be a safe bet for bitter greens.

When David tasted them he said, “You could’ve cooked them a little bit longer. They’re kinda chewy.” I told him they’d been cooking for more than 45 minutes. “Oh. Well they still taste sort of like seaweed,” he said. Noah braved a taste and noted that they tasted “interesting,” politely declining an actual serving (though he ate the mushrooms). Aidan declined to taste the limp, greenish strands altogether.

Wednesday, April 4

1:30 p.m. I finally took Izzie for a walk through the park just beyond The Woodlands Parkway, a place I’ve only recently learned how to access. After parking at The Cove, I walked toward the park and met a woman with two enormous Leonbergers. “I’m taking them for a walk before it gets too hot,” the woman said, wearing a Leonberger Association of U.K. zipper jacket. They made Izzie look like a pipsqueak, though she didn’t seem intimidated by this large, drooling duo.

After walking through a wooded path (that separates bicyclists and pedestrians from the adjacent six-lane roadway), I got to see the birds up close. I’ve never seen vultures casually hanging out with pigeons and ducks before. This is truly the ornithological mecca of The Woodlands—Great Blue Herons, Great White Egrets, Muscovy and Mallard ducks, black vultures, swallows, grebes, sandpipers, and songbirds seem to cohabitate peacefully. The only bummer was all the garbage washing up along the shore, if you can call the shallows of a man-made lake a “shore.” Regardless, it was indeed a (feathered) feast for the eyes.

On the way back I counted 23 vultures, some of whom were standing around the periphery of the garbage can—really an odd sight. There’s so much roadkill around here, I can well understand why so many vultures congregate in The Woodlands. It might also explain why they’re so low to the ground. They’re just too full to fly any higher.

Entry #52

Entry #52

Wednesday, March 28

10:30 a.m. I was just rear-ended while waiting in my van at a stop sign. The guy who rammed into me got out and said defensively, “I thought you were going to go.” “Well, I would have," I said, "but a jogger ran across the street and the car on my left decided to turn."

Moments later, the man confessed: "I leaned down to put my cell phone away and my foot slipped off the brake." Luckily he was driving a small sedan—a rarity around here. Most of the time we’re surrounded by Dodge Rams and Chevy Suburbans and other top-of-the-food-chain vehicles. The damage could've been a lot worse.

Ironically, the car was a pest control business car. I noticed this and told the guy, “I could’ve used you a few days ago. We thought we had an animal stuck in the wall.” He said he was on his way to check on a house with the same issue. I didn’t tell him our “animal” ended up being a whiney garden hose.

About an hour later, the doorbell rang. It was the guy who'd crashed into me. “My boss asked if I could take a photo of your van.” I quietly said, “Okay,” not knowing what else to say, but it felt kind of creepy having this stranger come directly to the house.

Thursday, March 29

9:00 a.m. It’s remarkable how much a sudden tap on the back of your car can whollop the body. I’m feeling mighty sore today. If only I had a taffy stretcher nearby...or maybe a Flinstones-sized aspirin.

I had my last writing class last night, and per usual, I was late, despite having left an hour earlier. There was zany traffic en route to the freeway and all I could think was that I was never going to get out of The Woodlands. It made me even more determined, however, to burst out of The Bubble.

When I got home, Aidan was still reading The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, a book assigned by his teacher about a German boy who befriends a boy of the same age who’s next door in Auschwitz (they refer to it in the book as Out-With).

Aidan was was on the last chapter, and since it was late (and I wanted to know what happened), I offered to read it to him. The end is haunting, and really upset Aidan to the point of tears. “I don’t think the teacher should’ve assigned this book,” Aidan lamented. “It was too sad.” 


This led to a mini-existential crisis: “The world would be much more beautiful without humans,” he said. "There would be more trees and animals and less pollution and no war..." I told Aidan that all we can do is to try to make a positive difference in the world. But he wasn't in the mood to hear this, and maintained his stance that humans are basically lame. All I could do in the end was keep him company.

10:00 a.m. I had to get a few things from HEB this morning, and for lack of a better idea, took Izzie for a walk from there. I walked around the shopping plaza, passing a donut shop, a “wings” restaurant and tanning salon...then walked around to the back to find a garbage can, only to encounter a mass of rotting, smelly litter and cigarettes—a stark difference between the pristine storefronts and the behind-the-scenes wasteland.

After leaving the shopping plaza, I spotted a narrow strip of land that was, to my amazement, completely untended. It was located in-between a small housing development and an outcropping of condos. There were beautiful wildflowers and tall grasses and squirrels running around and birds aplenty. This must be what the area looked like pre-suburbia. Never have I been so happy to see an abundance of weeds. Izzie literally bounded with joy.

Despite the presence of greenery here, it’s hard to find nature that hasn’t been tampered with by the corporate folks who created this planned suburban community. I'm just glad the birds don’t mind. I saw a beautiful blue heron yesterday along one of the man-made ponds here (complete with central fountain).

7:00 p.m. While chatting on the phone, someone rang the doorbell. Turns out it was a woman passing out flyers with the following cover: “How do you view Jesus? As a Newborn Baby? A Dying Man? Or an exalted King?You are invited to hear the answer...” It was an invitation on behalf of the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

The last three people to ring my doorbell have been as follows: the Jehovah's Witness person, the man who crashed into me the other day, and my next-door-neighbor complaining about Aidan’s wayward arrows (one of which landed on her roof). I’m inclined not to answer the front door anymore.

Saturday, March 31

11:30 a.m. Aidan and I watched Harry Potter I for the zillionth time last night while waiting to hear from Noah, who was playing Magic (a card game) at Fat Ogre Games & Comics, about 15 minutes away. Trying to stay up on a Friday night proved to be incredibly challenging, so when it was 11:30, I figured that I’d just get in the car and drive there, then wait for the final round to be over.

Earlier that day, I asked my sister if she knew anyone who might like a “Fat Ogre” t-shirt. There are only certain people who can get away with wearing a t-shirt that says "Fat Ogre," but I think it's pretty funny. Noah gave a friend of his one—but he’s a slight, friendly-looking kid, so no offense was taken. It would be perfect over a Shrek Halloween costume.

Noah said that there was a big bear of a guy with a crew cut at the Magic tournament wearing a t-shirt that said, “I f****ing love cuddles.” Another person wore a shirt with a series of identical photos of Darth Vader, with the headline, “Expressions of Vader.” Happy, sad, confused, cheerful—they were all exactly the same. 

This week’s HereHouston.com had some interesting listings, as well as some truly hokey ads. Moody Gardens' Hotel headline was especially cringe-worthy: “Hop Down to the Island for an Eggciting Easter.”

“How do you spell exciting?” was the header for the forthcoming Houston PBS Spelling Bee. I really don’t think the word “exciting,” correctly as it may be spelled, is something I affiliate with kids standing up and spelling out words for hours. Giggle fits, gaffs and even goofy expressions can be mildly entertaining, but spelling bees are largely nerve-wracking, nail-biting affairs.

One event that sounds like it might be worth attending, though it could go either way (it’s being held at the Home of Santa’s Wonderland) is the Bluebonnets & Bluegrass Festival. There will be “bluegrass music, horse-drawn wagon rides, a World War II exhibit, living history, unique shopping, nostalgiac foods, chuck wagons, a mechanical bull and a blacksmith.” Could be fun. I wonder what they mean by “living history.” Aren’t we all? 


Nostalgiac foods could mean a lot of things, too. Are those gigantic turkey legs considered nostalgiac? They seem to be what people are always gnawing on at Renaissance faires. For me, nostalgiac foods that come to mind are Swanson TV dinners, Ho Hos, and Jello 1-2-3. Then again, they're more like tasty chemical experiments of the 1970s than authentic foodstuffs.

As a kid, we used to go to the annual Yankee Peddler Festival in Ohio (“Step back in time 200 years and visit pioneer America...”). There were town criers and Civil War reenactments, artisans and musicians, people making apple fritters and churning butter—it felt like the real deal, at least when we were kids. My brother once slept through a 64-gun salute, a tribute to my mother’s excellent sleep training.

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.