Yesterday, we took Robinson to his very first baseball game, Rangers vs. Angels. Steve won four tickets and a parking pass in a silent auction to raise money for Meals on Wheels. We invited Scott and his little boy Holt, who turns three tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Holt!
On the way to the game, I sat in the backseat with the boys. Robinson was fascinated with Holt and couldn't take his eyes off of him. Holt was really sweet with him and would smile at him and show him his book about trucks. Holt is really into transportation right now. As we are driving to the stadium we pass a lot of road construction, and Holt would excitedly point and shout, "Truck!" "Train!" "Tractor!" and "BIGGGG TRAC-TORRR!" It was hilarious seeing how excited he was. It reminded me of Jarred when he was a little boy. He loved pointing out and identifying all the different types of construction equipment we would pass on the road. It's really sweet how even though times change, these little boys stay the same. I also learned that everything that isn't a truck or a train, is a tractor. Bulldozers, cranes, doesn't matter. When you're three, they're all tractors.
Watching a baseball game with little boys is so different than sitting with a bunch of adults. Holt gets so excited seeing the "tractors" on the baseball field, and the mascot riding around in the "tractor". It's fun getting to be silly and excited with him and point out things to Holt, like "Look at the tractor!"
Robinson sat in my lap during the game. He kept fake-coughing loudly and making obnoxious fart noises for so long, the elderly lady seated in front of me turned around to see just who was sitting behind her. She laughed when she realized it was a baby.
Robinson was in pretty good spirits, especially considering how close it was to his bedtime. We did one feeding and one diaper change while we were there, and this was my first adventure in changing diapers in a public restroom. I think it went pretty smoothly. What complicated matters was that I too was in need of a bathroom break, but being loaded down with an infant and a diaper bag made this impossible. So I had to carry Rob all the way back to our seats and give him to Steve so that I could return for a solo trip to the bathroom.
Back in the bathroom by myself, I'm washing my hands at one of the six sinks. As I walk towards the wall of seven paper towel dispensers, I discover what the woman directly in front of me has already found: only one dispenser has paper towels, and for reasons unknown, an old lady is standing directly in front of it, preventing anyone from reaching around to take paper towels for themselves. She doesn't seem to realize that there are other people in the bathroom. Why is she bogarting the paper towels? What in the hell is taking her so long? She's not drying her hands anymore...she's using the paper towels to polish an apple. Who brings an apple to the ball park? Who meticulously polishes apples in the ladies' restroom? Now she's carefully wrapping the apple in a paper towel. Now she's wrapping it in a second paper towel. Now she's wrapping it in a third paper towel. It's not a large apple. The woman and I are forced to just stand there while our hands are dripping with water. I'm about to just give up and dry my hands on my jeans. But I'm curious. Did she bring the apple from home? Why does it need such polishing? Is she about to eat the apple? If so, why does she have to wrap it up in three paper towels? What is she trying to protect the apple from? Is the apple for Snow White? These are the questions that run through my mind. She is sure she has secured the apple in her purse before walking away, still never acknowledging us. I totally bust the woman in front of me making bitchface at the old lady. Shannen Doherty just got a royalty check, thankyouverymuch. I'm amused.
Rob lasted until the bottom of the sixth inning. I consider that a huge success. Of course, in the grand tradition of Samantha attending Dallas sporting events, the Rangers lost. I'm ten for ten at this point. I'm like some kind of victory assassin. So now we refer to this phenomenon as "The Curse of the Sambino"
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Building a Mystery: My New Obsession with Ancestry.com
I have fallen into the rabbit hole that is Ancestry.com. What I have uncovered in just a few days has been illuminating. Most ancestry research findings wouldn't interest anybody outside of that family, but I'll share with you some general, interesting discoveries. It has to be more interesting than the post I wrote about baby bibs. I'll need to separate it into a few posts, and this post explains my motivation for doing this in the first place. If the mention of geneology is making you doze off on your keyboard, at least skip ahead and read Reason 3.
I broke down and signed up for three reasons:
1. The damn commercials got to me. You know the ones, they start out looking like eHarmony ads, but instead of meeting a real person who found their soulmate online, we meet people who discovered extraordinary facts about their ancestors. I wonder what my family tree will reveal? Whatever it is, it has to be more interesting than whatever Khloe and Lamar are doing.
2. While you're drinking appletinis at the club on Friday night (or whatever it is you hip, single people do) I'm sitting on my couch watching TV. Who Do You Think You Are?, the show where famous people unlock family secrets, has captivated me. It's amazing what you can learn about family members who have been dead a hundred years. Sometimes I sip on a glass of chardonnay while I watch it. It is the weekend, afterall!
3. My son. When I evolved from daughter to mother, my perception of previous generations also evolved. People I once viewed only as parents or grandparents now appear as more dynamic figures with complex histories. I suspected all along that the people I know as Mom, Dad, Nannie and Bobby had lives and stories that stretched beyond parenthood. I've seen the photos of the leggy blonde in hot pants (Mom). I've read the yearbook inscriptions of a precocious teenager (Nannie). I've seen the tattoos (Bobbie). I guess in my new role as mother, I have a new awareness that I don't know the whole story.
Becoming a parent in and of itself isn't the only factor driving my curiosity. I named my son Robinson Reid after my maternal grandfather who died when I was ten, who I've always called Bobby. This shared name has caused me to think of my grandfather a lot. That entire limb of my family tree is nothing but ghosts whose names I don't know. I didn't ask many questions as a little girl, but I knew a few facts:
1. Bobby was raised in Ohio, and represents the only segment of my family that isn't southern.
2. Bobby lost his father before he reached adulthood. His mother died from childbirth--his birth. His brother died when my mom was a kid.
3. Bobby lived in military boarding school from the age of seven.
Perhaps understandably, I didn't push the issue. In the absence of information, I drew my own conclusions. Whether accurate or not, I always felt sadness over what must have been a lonely childhood for Bobby. I'm sure a shrink would want to explore the symbolism surrounding my decision to name my son after a motherless child.
My Robinson's birth ushered in a new generation, which forced me to acknowledge my previous generations in a more meaningful way. I know virtually nothing about a major part of my heritage. Realizing that many of the answers are at my fingertips has proven too tempting, so I'm just diving into it.
I broke down and signed up for three reasons:
1. The damn commercials got to me. You know the ones, they start out looking like eHarmony ads, but instead of meeting a real person who found their soulmate online, we meet people who discovered extraordinary facts about their ancestors. I wonder what my family tree will reveal? Whatever it is, it has to be more interesting than whatever Khloe and Lamar are doing.
2. While you're drinking appletinis at the club on Friday night (or whatever it is you hip, single people do) I'm sitting on my couch watching TV. Who Do You Think You Are?, the show where famous people unlock family secrets, has captivated me. It's amazing what you can learn about family members who have been dead a hundred years. Sometimes I sip on a glass of chardonnay while I watch it. It is the weekend, afterall!
3. My son. When I evolved from daughter to mother, my perception of previous generations also evolved. People I once viewed only as parents or grandparents now appear as more dynamic figures with complex histories. I suspected all along that the people I know as Mom, Dad, Nannie and Bobby had lives and stories that stretched beyond parenthood. I've seen the photos of the leggy blonde in hot pants (Mom). I've read the yearbook inscriptions of a precocious teenager (Nannie). I've seen the tattoos (Bobbie). I guess in my new role as mother, I have a new awareness that I don't know the whole story.
Becoming a parent in and of itself isn't the only factor driving my curiosity. I named my son Robinson Reid after my maternal grandfather who died when I was ten, who I've always called Bobby. This shared name has caused me to think of my grandfather a lot. That entire limb of my family tree is nothing but ghosts whose names I don't know. I didn't ask many questions as a little girl, but I knew a few facts:
1. Bobby was raised in Ohio, and represents the only segment of my family that isn't southern.
2. Bobby lost his father before he reached adulthood. His mother died from childbirth--his birth. His brother died when my mom was a kid.
3. Bobby lived in military boarding school from the age of seven.
Perhaps understandably, I didn't push the issue. In the absence of information, I drew my own conclusions. Whether accurate or not, I always felt sadness over what must have been a lonely childhood for Bobby. I'm sure a shrink would want to explore the symbolism surrounding my decision to name my son after a motherless child.
My Robinson's birth ushered in a new generation, which forced me to acknowledge my previous generations in a more meaningful way. I know virtually nothing about a major part of my heritage. Realizing that many of the answers are at my fingertips has proven too tempting, so I'm just diving into it.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Diagnosis: Freak of Nature
I have been living with chronic and acute back pain, stemming from accidents and injuries that are various, unrelated, and span nearly fifteen years. Wow. I just summarized fifteen years of medical history in one sentence. Yay, Samantha! I would pat myself on the back, but as you'll read on, you'll understand why I need to leave my back alone.
My back is like an accordion straw. It's remarkably flexible, but weak, the product of more than fifteen years of ballet, tumbling, and cheerleading. This, in combination with my accident-prone nature, creates a perfect storm for frequent and sometimes severe injuries. What I'm saying is, I fall down a lot.
I've fallen off a bed, a deck, a horse, a merry-go-round, a flight of stairs, a bike, a mechanical bull, a six-foot ladder, monkey bars...
Aw, forget it. That list is tedious. It would be easier to list the things I haven't fallen off of: a tree, a roof, a moving car, a tight rope. Yeah, I think that's it.
So, my back hurts, but I'm flexible and self-reliant. What is a girl to do? To alleviate my pain, I stretch, twist and manipulate to feel the sweet relief that only comes from popping my back. This goes beyond simply twisting from side to side. Over time, I developed fourteen distinct techniques for popping seemingly every vertebrae from my skull to my sacrum. I would describe them, but I would need a diagram to illustrate, and I'm just not set up for that.
By 1999, I no longer said I was "cracking my back". I called it "adjusting my spine" to "realign my vertebrae". And I wasn't indiscriminately cracking bones. I would sit up straight, Indian style in the floor, and using my hand, I would reach behind my back and feel each individual vertebrae, including the space in between the vertebrae, to pinpoint the primary source of my pain, and I would perform whichever maneuver would adjust that vertebrae. I'm pretty sure that actual chiropractors don't adjust their own spines, and that I am insane. If you're wondering whether I've been treated by a chiropractor, the answer is Yes. Many. I got some of my best ideas from them. They don't know that.
Many people informed me that the sights and sounds of me cracking my vertebrae like walnuts was disturbing, so I began doing my adjustments in private, rarely discussing it. Kinda like how you privately over tweeze your eyebrows and obsessively examine your pores in search of blackheads. Sidenote: If you say you're "performing extractions" due to your "congested pores" instead of saying that you're "picking your face", you will feel instant credibility. Go ahead, next time you're mashing on your nose, tell yourself out loud that you're just in need of some facial extractions. It will free you from the shackles of your zit-popping shame.
If I had to gauge my pain on a scale of 1-10, with a 10 being excruciating pain that severly limits my mobility and is accompanied by nausea, crying, difficulty sleeping and concentrating, I would say that my pain number varies from day to day, and hour to hour, but since the birth of my son, I live between a 4 and an 8. Since 1998, my baseline is a 2. I can't remember a day without pain. Pain feels normal. I just assume that everyone is in pain, all the time, and that each of you reading this has a shoulder or an ankle or a knee that flares up. Otherwise, I'm not normal. I never considered that possibility. Regardless of how "normal" my problems may be, I've decided to finally, after years of pain, to see a doctor and learn once and for all if there is something serioulsy, medically wrong with me and if there is anything that can be done about it. Wish me luck!
My back is like an accordion straw. It's remarkably flexible, but weak, the product of more than fifteen years of ballet, tumbling, and cheerleading. This, in combination with my accident-prone nature, creates a perfect storm for frequent and sometimes severe injuries. What I'm saying is, I fall down a lot.
I've fallen off a bed, a deck, a horse, a merry-go-round, a flight of stairs, a bike, a mechanical bull, a six-foot ladder, monkey bars...
Aw, forget it. That list is tedious. It would be easier to list the things I haven't fallen off of: a tree, a roof, a moving car, a tight rope. Yeah, I think that's it.
So, my back hurts, but I'm flexible and self-reliant. What is a girl to do? To alleviate my pain, I stretch, twist and manipulate to feel the sweet relief that only comes from popping my back. This goes beyond simply twisting from side to side. Over time, I developed fourteen distinct techniques for popping seemingly every vertebrae from my skull to my sacrum. I would describe them, but I would need a diagram to illustrate, and I'm just not set up for that.
By 1999, I no longer said I was "cracking my back". I called it "adjusting my spine" to "realign my vertebrae". And I wasn't indiscriminately cracking bones. I would sit up straight, Indian style in the floor, and using my hand, I would reach behind my back and feel each individual vertebrae, including the space in between the vertebrae, to pinpoint the primary source of my pain, and I would perform whichever maneuver would adjust that vertebrae. I'm pretty sure that actual chiropractors don't adjust their own spines, and that I am insane. If you're wondering whether I've been treated by a chiropractor, the answer is Yes. Many. I got some of my best ideas from them. They don't know that.
Many people informed me that the sights and sounds of me cracking my vertebrae like walnuts was disturbing, so I began doing my adjustments in private, rarely discussing it. Kinda like how you privately over tweeze your eyebrows and obsessively examine your pores in search of blackheads. Sidenote: If you say you're "performing extractions" due to your "congested pores" instead of saying that you're "picking your face", you will feel instant credibility. Go ahead, next time you're mashing on your nose, tell yourself out loud that you're just in need of some facial extractions. It will free you from the shackles of your zit-popping shame.
If I had to gauge my pain on a scale of 1-10, with a 10 being excruciating pain that severly limits my mobility and is accompanied by nausea, crying, difficulty sleeping and concentrating, I would say that my pain number varies from day to day, and hour to hour, but since the birth of my son, I live between a 4 and an 8. Since 1998, my baseline is a 2. I can't remember a day without pain. Pain feels normal. I just assume that everyone is in pain, all the time, and that each of you reading this has a shoulder or an ankle or a knee that flares up. Otherwise, I'm not normal. I never considered that possibility. Regardless of how "normal" my problems may be, I've decided to finally, after years of pain, to see a doctor and learn once and for all if there is something serioulsy, medically wrong with me and if there is anything that can be done about it. Wish me luck!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Why Do I Know This?
I have a slight reputation for being kind of good at pop culture trivia. This semi-talent doesn't win me money or fame, but I have garnered a modest level of notoriety in various social circles and have won a few free pitchers of Natural Light in college. I know. I'm feeling boastful today.
Sometimes a person will ask a question that is pop culture-related, often to nobody in particular, and I find myself blurting out the answer the way my baby burps up formula. It's an involuntary response, and sometimes I even surprise myself with the truly random tidbits of knowledge rolling around in my brain. Here are just a few examples. You may not think they're that remarkable, and you can feel free to tell me so. But remember this: Each example I'm about to list occured within the last seven days. I'm on fire.
1. At dinner last Tuesday to celebrate our friend Bean's promotion, Brad jokingly called Bean "Mr. Bean". Then somebody at the table asked nobody in particular the name of the British actor who portrays the character Mr. Bean.
After racking my brain for a half-second (just as I do when trying to remember my 12-times tables), I blurt out "Rowan Atkinson". Everyone within earshot just stares at me.
Why do I know this?
2. While waiting in the doctor's office on Thursday afternoon, I receive a text message from Steve: "Scarlett Johansson dead...she fell onset at a movie shoot in France 70 feet".
What the what? I only had time to fire off an "Are you sure?" reply before being whisked away for an x-ray. While I'm standing in the x-ray machine, I'm considering this possibility. First of all, I have a healthy level of skepticism whenever my husband is the first person to break a piece of major celebrity news. In 2008, he called me at work, breathless, to announce that Jessica Biel was tragically killed when she fell off a yacht in international waters. I seriously don't know what that man is looking at on the Internet, but he apparently likes to visit web sites that erroneously report the untimely, accidental death of celebrities with famous figures and questionable acting ability who are travelling abroad. AccidentalDeathOfCelebritiesWithFamousFiguresAndQuestionableActingAbility...I wonder if that domain name is taken? That would be a great website. Anyway, I don't believe Steve. Also, I don't think she's even in France. This is what I said to Steve when I finally got to call him:
"I think you're wrong about ScarJo. She was photographed by paparazzi jogging in Malibu with Owen Wilson and Sean Penn just a couple days ago."
Why do I know this?
3. While lounging on the couch and flipping through channels on Sunday, Steve poses this question: "Is it bad that I think Lois Griffin is hot?
Me: No. She is hot. ["Us redheads gotta stick together," I think to myself]
Steve: Yeah. I think so, too.
Me: That's random. What made you think of that?
Steve: [points at TV, showing an episode of That 70's Show.] The mom on this show is the voice of Lois Griffin.
Me: No. She isn't.
Steve: [very firmly] Yes, she is.
Me: That's not right.
Steve: Yes it is!
Me: [sigh] Debra Jo Rupp plays Kitty on That 70's Show. Alex Borstein is the voice of Lois Griffin.
Steve: Oh, yeah right. Like the voice of Lois Griffin is a guy! [Shakes his head and laughs, like I'm so dumb and he's so smart]
Steve: Alex can be a girl's name. Like Alexandra.
Steve: Oh yeah. Well, are you sure she's not the voice of Lois?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Why do I know this?
Sidenote: Mila Kunis, who plays Jackie on That 70's Show is the voice of Lois Griffin's daughter Meg on Family Guy. But you knew that, right? That's an easy one.
4. Later on Sunday night, Steve is flipping back and forth between a baseball game and The Wizard of Oz, which is airing on cable.
Steve: Do you know who Judy Garland's mom is?
Me: Um, no...Judy Garland's real name is Frances Gumm, and her parents were Vaudeville performers. But I don't know her name.
Steve: Oh. I'm sorry, I meant to ask if you know who Judy Garland's daughter is.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Liza Minelli. You know that. Why are you even quizzing me?
Why do I know this? (Not the part about Liza, of course. The whole Frances Gumm-Vaudeville thing).
So, yeah. That's all for today. The moral of this story is: in the absence of Google or any other search engine, there's a possibility that I can answer your obscure pop culture trivia question. I'm adding that skill to my resume as soon I finish typing this.
Sometimes a person will ask a question that is pop culture-related, often to nobody in particular, and I find myself blurting out the answer the way my baby burps up formula. It's an involuntary response, and sometimes I even surprise myself with the truly random tidbits of knowledge rolling around in my brain. Here are just a few examples. You may not think they're that remarkable, and you can feel free to tell me so. But remember this: Each example I'm about to list occured within the last seven days. I'm on fire.
1. At dinner last Tuesday to celebrate our friend Bean's promotion, Brad jokingly called Bean "Mr. Bean". Then somebody at the table asked nobody in particular the name of the British actor who portrays the character Mr. Bean.
Why do I know this?
2. While waiting in the doctor's office on Thursday afternoon, I receive a text message from Steve: "Scarlett Johansson dead...she fell onset at a movie shoot in France 70 feet".
What the what? I only had time to fire off an "Are you sure?" reply before being whisked away for an x-ray. While I'm standing in the x-ray machine, I'm considering this possibility. First of all, I have a healthy level of skepticism whenever my husband is the first person to break a piece of major celebrity news. In 2008, he called me at work, breathless, to announce that Jessica Biel was tragically killed when she fell off a yacht in international waters. I seriously don't know what that man is looking at on the Internet, but he apparently likes to visit web sites that erroneously report the untimely, accidental death of celebrities with famous figures and questionable acting ability who are travelling abroad. AccidentalDeathOfCelebritiesWithFamousFiguresAndQuestionableActingAbility...I wonder if that domain name is taken? That would be a great website. Anyway, I don't believe Steve. Also, I don't think she's even in France. This is what I said to Steve when I finally got to call him:
"I think you're wrong about ScarJo. She was photographed by paparazzi jogging in Malibu with Owen Wilson and Sean Penn just a couple days ago."
Why do I know this?
These pictures caused a huge stir because people thought Scarlett looked pregnant. Boy, I'm so glad that I'm not famous enough for paparazzi to take my picture while I'm jogging. Those would be some unflattering photos! Oh, who am I kidding? I don't jog.
Steve: Yeah. I think so, too.
Me: That's random. What made you think of that?
Steve: [points at TV, showing an episode of That 70's Show.] The mom on this show is the voice of Lois Griffin.
Steve: [very firmly] Yes, she is.
Me: That's not right.
Steve: Yes it is!
Me: [sigh] Debra Jo Rupp plays Kitty on That 70's Show. Alex Borstein is the voice of Lois Griffin.
Steve: Oh, yeah right. Like the voice of Lois Griffin is a guy! [Shakes his head and laughs, like I'm so dumb and he's so smart]
Steve: Alex can be a girl's name. Like Alexandra.
Steve: Oh yeah. Well, are you sure she's not the voice of Lois?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Why do I know this?
Sidenote: Mila Kunis, who plays Jackie on That 70's Show is the voice of Lois Griffin's daughter Meg on Family Guy. But you knew that, right? That's an easy one.
4. Later on Sunday night, Steve is flipping back and forth between a baseball game and The Wizard of Oz, which is airing on cable.
Me: Um, no...Judy Garland's real name is Frances Gumm, and her parents were Vaudeville performers. But I don't know her name.
Steve: Oh. I'm sorry, I meant to ask if you know who Judy Garland's daughter is.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Liza Minelli. You know that. Why are you even quizzing me?
Why do I know this? (Not the part about Liza, of course. The whole Frances Gumm-Vaudeville thing).
So, yeah. That's all for today. The moral of this story is: in the absence of Google or any other search engine, there's a possibility that I can answer your obscure pop culture trivia question. I'm adding that skill to my resume as soon I finish typing this.
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Beer Dance
I don't post videos often, and perhaps you've seen this one before, but it's astounding. This guy is stumbling into the convenience store for more beer, and he's way too drunk to function. This weeble wobbles and he does fall down. This shining moment was captured on security camera and set to "Puttin on the Ritz" by some clever yet sensitive soul. Be sure to take note of the time stamp on the video.
Here's the link in case the video doesn't work on this post: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LiX-81WlLlE
for Brad
Here's the link in case the video doesn't work on this post: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LiX-81WlLlE
for Brad
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