Loud-Girl

There is a superhero living in my house, one you may not have heard of: her special power is her VERY LOUD voice, which enables her to split eardrums and crack nerves at over 50 paces.

Loud-girl's voice varies in tone and decibel level (starting at loud and moving all the way up to I-can't-take-it-anymore-loud). "Throttle it down," we tell her as the noise level escalates. She complies for about 30 seconds, then her voice rebounds.

On the playground, she is the only child whose voice you can clearly make out above the others. At an indoor playspace, with literally hundreds of kids screaming, she is easily heard. Playing alone in her room, she sings as if she's on Broadway. Out in the backyard, she is loud enough for every neighbor in a 2-block radius to make out her complaints. Out shopping or in a restaurant, her voice carries easily to strangers as she proclaims "That little girl is drinking soda" or "I saw that lady picking her nose."

Loud-girl is immune to other loud noises. I have turned the radio and the TV up full-blast to get her attention; still she carried on in her own loud world. She occasionally responds to other ear-splitting outbursts (me shrieking "Quiet down!" like an insane person, for example), but only as a 'break.' She stops...and then she reboots, with the vocal system right back at full power in short order.

For the ultimate break, there is one way for sure to quiet her down: take her over to a friend's house. She is suddenly "Silent Sue," barely capable of mumbling her name and age when asked. This ploy works for 30 solid minutes of peace, after which she whispers "Can we go home now?"

So we do, and she turns from her mild-mannered self to the all-powerful Loud-Girl, just like magic.

An Expectation of Service

There I was, standing in the checkout line of a high-end home decor outlet store. As I waited for my transaction to complete at the cash register, I heard the woman behind me ask the checkout clerk, "Is there someone to help me get my purchases to the car?"

I looked back and saw a couple of serving plates on the counter, that was it; but maybe she had a larger item leaning on the checkstand out of my view. The clerk---a teenage boy putting in hard time to earn his beer money, I guess---shrugged his shoulders and answered "I can, ma'am." The woman in question was perhaps 50, definitely of the moneyed set and overdressed for her little shopping excursion. The clerk handed me my receipt and I started manouevering to my car, juggling my purchases and 2 little kids.

As I got the stuff and the kids back into the car and started buckling everyone in, I saw the woman walk out; the clerk was in fact 'assisting her to her car' with her purchases: a bag containing the 2 plates I had seen at the checkout. THAT WAS IT. He carried the bag to her car, then placed it on the back seat and closed the door.

My mind raced with explanations: Did she have some extreme disability which prevents her from carrying 2 plates? Well, she looked OK; besides, she carried her purse and didn't seem to have a problem with that giant bag. Maybe she wanted to arrange some "personal services" with the teenager, at a much-higher-than minimum wage price? Ugh. Banish the thought. Does she just have an expectation of service from everyone she comes in contact with?

Wow.

Cactusfornia Produce

Artichokes come from..."Cactusfornia!" my 3-year-old announces with confidence. Learning about the states (and their claims to fame in terms of produce) can be a daunting task, particularly when there is a tricky uncle on hand to validate your crazy mistakes. Look for meat in "Innilois" and maple syrup in "New Vermont," in case you were wondering.

The same brother who conned a dollar bill out of me as a child ('That bill says legal tender on it," he advised me solemnly, "only banks should have that kind of money. I'll trade it in for you and get the kind you're allowed to use.") now torments the next generation of our family. Whether they are being cheated in a backyard race or teased in a fairly standard way, the local kids can't get enough: there is crying and complaining, but ultimately they go right back for more.

Payback? Lead the witness and the little boy will affirm all manner of fibs in his testimony against his clever uncle: What happened? "He made me cry." You weren't doing anything wrong were you?" "No, he started it." The older girl attempts to shore up the defense she since was typically the only eyewitness to these events, but Grendel holds fast to his version of the melee. Hopefully he will never be called upon as a subject matter expert in any trial of consequence.

Mashed potatoes do come from "Idaho!" and the Yankees come from "New York!" so it's not all bad. Just don't go looking for "Abraska" or "North Mexico" on any map of the USA.

SUPER "Superstar"

Months and months ago, a not-so-random email popped into my InBox from my old pal TicketMaster. With my longstanding ticket-purchase history in its mighty virtual brain, TicketMaster thought I'd be a good bet for the upcoming national tour of Jesus Christ Superstar. Easy prey, I immediately did my search-and-destroy on the seating charts, methodically working through each available show until I hit pay dirt: row 4, center orchestra. A few clicks of my mouse and the tickets were printed and saved to the PC.


As the months wore on, I completely forgot about Superstar. Not hard to believe, considering we were all-consumed with building the house, selling the house, and moving. October and the State Fair rolled around in the wink of an eye, and suddenly---Superstar, calling me from my very own TV! Watching the commercial, I felt some clicks in my brain: tickets? tickets? when? did I miss it already?! I looked in the typical places for the tickets, which I remembered tucking safely away in an envelope, pre-move...no luck. With a smile, I headed up to my trusty, ancient Mac; with about the same number of clicks as it took to buy those tickets, I located the copy on my hard drive and was right back in business. Not a moment too soon, either: the show was only a week away.


A couple of hours later, fresh from the show, I asked my date: "Why doesn't this show get the respect it deserves?" Lumped into the popular repertoire of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Superstar has I suppose a hard-core following, but for most theatergoers it doesn't even seem to be a contender against Phantom or Cats. "Wall-to-wall music," my date proclaimed, "does not work for everyman." Does it require too much thought process? No 'easy' place for applause? "Maybe it's the material?" I asked. "Pretty controversial down here in the Bible Belt." This is the second time I've seen the show staged in Texas, and both times the audience seemed less-than-appreciative of the "superstar' treatment of Jesus.


Although my date did not agree with me that Webber should have just done this show and called it quits right there ("That would have cut things a bit short for him, wouldn't it?"), he did concur that it is impressive when a show can hold its own after 30 years. So I guess it's okay that not everyone would drop this on their Top Ten list, I'll hold steady on my opinion here.


Thanks, TicketMaster---email me anytime for a repeat!

Wednesdays at the Council

The Dallas City Council, that is. I'm not actually a member of the Council, of course; nor have I ever seen the Council in person: I'm a member of the vast eavesdropping public, who listen to the Council meetings each Wednesday on the radio.

I stumbled onto the Council meeting completely by accident: the lone classical-music FM station suspends the soothing tunes on Wednesday in favor of the always volatile Council meeting. Too lazy to get up and change the station (well, the radio is at least 5 feet away!), I first ignored, then tolerated, then actually listened to the weekly community battles.

Whether it's a fight about cable-TV boxes being placed in yards, zoning concerns, or potholes, there is always a screaming local 'activist' on hand to lay out the word of the common man. The City Council I suppose is one of the last places a less-than-average citizen can still get his 2 cents in, on the record. The Everyman demands respect in his council: "Stop talking to each other! Pay attention to what I'm saying!" I heard one day; apparently the speaker didn't think the Council Members were giving him their undivided attention as he ranted on. The Mayor-ess is brutal in her remarks, cutting long-winded speakers off instantly and shutting off their microphones with a perfunctory "You're done."

Today the main fight was in regard to a proposed tax exemption for a historic building, now the site of a nonprofit organization. The curators of this very large mansion were asking for a free ride on the tax rolls, provided they remained nonprofit and open to the public. "Open to the public?" one of the Councilmen laughed. "You're a private club for society ladies." They kept insisting that they were in fact open for tours, etc., at which point the Mayor asked "How do people know you're open for tours?" The curator replied very matter of factly "We say it in our newsletter." The newsletter that goes to those society ladies, we must assume. Suffice it to say this matter did not even come to a vote today.

My co-worker overheard the yelling on the radio and asked about the broadcast. I explained it was the weekly Council, then asked, "When we get old and retired, will we have time to go hang around the City Council and gripe about stripclubs and speedbumps, power lines and library hours?" All that and more, he promised...until our microphones are cut off, that is.

Shirts will someday flow free

Picture a small child, a child who thinks nothing of wiping his leaking nose all day long on the front of his shirt. This is a child who will smear his ketchup-stained face on another person's clothes without asking. This same child has eaten a cookie remnant from the floor of a public bathroom, ancient cheerios from under the couch cushion, and gummi bears in a 'lost' easter egg from last year's hunt.


How is it, then, that this same filthy child can be so delicate a flower that he must--simply MUST--immediately change his nightshirt because a microscopic drop of water has spilled on the front? "See, I'm wet," he complains, holding his shirt out from his chest for me to check. And then the new, clean, dry shirt is also offensive: he has noticed a slight discoloration on the sleeve. "I need to change my shirt."


"NO MORE SHIRTS!" the Laundry-Man announces to all. "The pile of your shirts is like a mountain!" When we are all old enough to wash our own clothes, he explains, then shirts will flow free.

Worm-shag & the Suggestion Box

The dilemma of the last two months: new house, old things. Having either tossed or 'spontaneously donated' numerous home furnishings on moving day, my husband is now concerned about the lack of stuff to fill the larger (and fashionably different) new house. I, as usual, am heading up the procurement team to satisfy his decorating demands: it's my task to search both brick-and-mortar and virtual storefronts, presenting him with appropriate options to choose from. He is the worst 'client' imaginable--gives very minimal specific direction, doesn't ask for much in the opening act: but then he wields his veto power for any offending potential purchase.

With new furniture now in place after 7 weeks of waiting (special order of course), I have been advised that there is not ENOUGH of it to fill the room in question. So, back to the drawing board I go, ordering the 'missing piece' (to arrive in another 7 weeks, i must assume) without even feeling confident it will be received with acclaim. The upstairs storage room---my art studio---is filling quickly with the cast-off furnishings now deemed out-of-line with the current decorating regime.

To compound matters, the new furniture is now resting atop an old (custom-made) rug; this of course cannot be tolerated! The color, the shape---it's all wrong for this new space and time! I am immediately dispatched to the rugmaker, with a whispered 'shag' comment as the only suggestion. Looking over thousands of rug samples, I am not clear on whether the shag should be of the "thin-hair" or "worm" variety; a sample board returns home with me for clarification. "Grab the sample from my car," I yell down the stairs after dinner. When the garage door opens and he enters the kitchen, sample in hand, I immediately recognize the VETO look on his face.

Why? Why? Too multi-stranded? Not light enough? Wrong color family? Too shaggy? It's a mystery still, nothing specific could be pointpointed aside from the OBVIOUS answer "It won't work with this furniture." Defeated, I will return the sample tomorrow; with the sofa cushion in hand, I should probably throw myself on the mercy of Kami the rug-man and ask him to make the final selection.

And the suggestion box sits idly by in the other room, papers and pen ready to go.

It's Shiny Time!

Confusing the usual "Rise & Shine" morning greeting, Grendel alerts everyone with a cheery "Get out of bed, it's SHINY TIME!" Resistance is futile, as they say: he pulls on your hand until you do in fact get out of bed. Aside from his big smile while announcing Shiny Time, morning is not happy around this house...whether it's the wrong breakfast offerings, complaints about the dress code, or incorrect TV volume, there's always a reason to act like a crab in the AM.