From Hot Dogs to Handcuffs

Once upon a time, as the newspaper accounts tell it, there was a whole pile of parents with nothing better to do than sit in the school pick-up line and talk about life and love and what to wear to Wal-Mart. As time went by, they came to school earlier and earlier until they started getting there before their grits were even cold, and since it’s just natural to get hungry doing all that waiting and talking, they began bringing snacks. Everybody knows a sausage dog is no good unless it’s been sizzling on the George Foreman for a little bit between the Pledge of Allegiance and Recess. So these folks lined up in the elementary school pick-up line four hours early, popped open the campers, set up the grill, and tailgated til the cows came home. Or until school let out, whichever came first.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m all about tailgating. I’m not above getting out grandmama’s stainless and grocery store china and grilling corn dogs from the back of the Toyota whenever there’s a high school football game worth going out in the cold for. Nothing says “party” like Hi-C punch in a Dixie cup. But there’s a time and place for everything, and it’s just downright tacky to pull out your cocktail weinies while you’re waiting on your first grader to get out of show and tell.

For some reason, the principal of the elementary school felt it wasn’t conducive to good study habits to have the students’ parents giving each other high fives and downing SteakUms in the parking lot all morning. Maybe if the parents had invited the principal to join them, the police wouldn’t have got involved. A little tact and adherence to good manners might possibly have headed off the jail time, or at least cut down on the assault charges. When school let out and the principal headed off to shoo the partiers away, one of the Mamas took it personally. Threats regarding the principal’s future health plans filled the air, phrases full of colorful adjectives and a more than a few unseemly nouns were exchanged, police came to visit, and a whole pile of bright-eyed grade-schoolers just getting out for the day learned some new words. And all the while there was the naughty woman’s husband, rubbing his face and shaking his head, saying, “I TOLD her to get in the camper.”

I’m just glad it wasn’t me. If the police were leading me away from the scene in a set of fancy bracelets, all the members of my family, from Dad to Dachshund, would queue up in a nice receiving line by the squad car to witness the festivities. As I drew near, Son Number One, who at 19 has his priorities firmly in order, would lean out to me and whisper softly in my ear, “Mom if you’re not cooking, we’re going out for pizza. Where do you keep the coupon's for meat lover’s?”

You're It!

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t lack the competition gene. If it were up to me, not only would the National Football League still allow excessive displays of emotion after every goal scored, the victory dance would stand on its own as a separate event, complete with judges murmuring together over technique and holding up cardboard placards with the scores. Interpretations of the Chicken Dance would rate extra credit.

I don’t mind coyly pointing out that I’ve been known to perform my own ritualistic dance of victory, choreographed with vigor and soul to a stirring rendition of Aretha Franklin’s version of R-E-S-P-E-C-T. I used to trot it out after family games of Parcheesi, Scrabble, and Monopoly until that unfortunate incident with the dog got me banned from participating in Family Game Night. That turned out all right because I ate all the leftover roast and blamed it on him, so his name is still on the naughty list right beneath mine and he’s not trusted alone with a roast. Anyway, a victory dance, although still satisfying to the soul, is not completely effective after a rousing game of computer solitaire.

It is my opinion, and therefore accurate, that appreciation of competition need not go hand in hand with rigorous physical exercise. Therefore, when I got tagged by the ever-gregarious Wordsmith, I immediately checked the rules on her insightful and well-written (Erika, you owe me extra for the infomercial) blog (Musings From the Mitten) to see if any actual physical exertion is involved. While an enthusiastic proponent of competition, I’m not a fan of sweat, and have often considered dressing the dog in baby clothes so that I can avoid the physical exertion of a long walk by grabbing the parking spot at the front door of the market marked for mothers with small children. However, the dog is still harboring a grudge from the roast beef incident and refuses to cooperate.

Thankfully, the only aerobics involved in this game of tag are fingers flying low over the keyboard. I’m clear for take-off.

The way I understand the rules of the game, bearing in mind that rules are often subject to my own colorful interpretation, is this:

Link to the tagger and post these rules on your blog. Share five facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. (Although random and weird are often synonyms in my case.) Tag five people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Alrighty then. Sit back and prepare to be entertained. Amused. Well, just sit still long enough to count to five.
1. I’ve been in a building that was on fire. It was a church. I came out okay. Well, not with anything I could bill the insurance for, anyway.
2. I wear my husband’s socks. Girl socks just won’t stay up.
3. I broke my arm in high school. I fell three inches. I don’t feel that this incident is in any way indicative of my physical coordination. (Perhaps I should disable the blog comments at this time.)
4. The blog entry I wrote about the results of my son’s personality test showing he has the same traits as Hannibal Lecter was true. Except for the part where I mowed down the stop sign. I barely touched it.
5. My husband took the same test. Same results. I’m afraid to open meat tenderizer in the kitchen.

Okie dokie, for the fun part: I’m tagging. . . let’s see a show of hands now. . .KODB at TheDoggerelKing, Wynter at FlibbityGibbet, Ltd. at Mama Needs A Book Contract, Janna at Something She Wrote, and Sdarb at From Rebel Deb to Doublewide.