Fashion Takes a Holiday

(in honor of summer re-runs, here's one of my favorites)

We’ve had a rash of fashion melt downs lately. It always happens like this:

We should have left five minutes ago for the store/doctor/movie. Everyone is ready, and was ready 10 minutes ago. Then Mireya says she’ll be right back.

Never, never let her go back in the house. I know this. But somehow she’s like an eel and before I click the seatbelt around her she’s running in for one last thing. Which always involves a wardrobe change.

She’s five and already she’s staring in her drawer in horror and saying “I don’t have anything to wear!”

I used to get involved in the selection process only to be firmly rebuked. And, to be fair, for good reason. My fashion sense is restricted to jeans and travel related t-shirts. Still, I’M dressed when it’s time to go.

Besides, there’s plenty to wear. I can’t even close Mireya’s drawers half the time. Fifty percent of our laundry items are hers due to the three outfit a day rule. I end up standing in the doorway to her room about to pull my hair out, thinking “who are you?” and “are we related?”

The last time this happened I had to physically carry her out of her room while she screamed her head off and I grabbed what I thought was a perfectly rational fashion choice for her to get dressed in once we arrived the gift store.

She stomped into Miss Mellie’s store, took one look at Miss Mellie and said “I did not want to wear this. I hate these pants.”

Miss Mellie gave me an arched eyebrow and I shrugged in my Grand Tetons t-shirt.

So it was a bit of an eye opener when we were at the family reunion and I was telling this story to the gathered moms. Everyone laughed and was sympathetic with my side. Except for my aunt and my own mother.

“I know just how she feels,” my aunt said, adjusting a beautiful earring. “The same thing happens to me all the time.”

There it was. The gene. This intense fashion gene was passed through undiluted from my aunt, whom I’ve called the Mexican Martha Stewart, and my mother, who wears heels to the hardware store.

Fine. Next time we’re in front of the overflowing drawer of “no clothes to wear,” I’m calling them on the cell phone. Maybe they’ll be able to talk her into wearing something. Anything.

After all, I can’t have her wearing the wrong pants again. She may disown me.

Can I Take Your Order Please?

I don’t know if it’s because it’s been 100 degrees for so long or because of the whole spirit of summer, or because there’s just been a breakdown in discipline around here.

Whatever the reason, it was time to put my foot down.

We used to eat like a normal family. Someone would cook. People would eat. Everyone would scatter, trying to get away with not helping with the dishes. Someone would slip up and end up to their elbows in plates, whining about how they have to do EVERYTHING around here.

Pretty normal. Then, somewhere along the way, somebody stopped eating hot dogs. Someone else stopped eating pizza. Chicken was on the no way list. Only two people would even pronounce the word fish. Macaroni and cheese became the only food for one person.

We had entered the short order cook’s nightmare zone.

It became increasingly impossible to pick a restaurant let alone make dinner at home. Suddenly everyone had become some exotic zoo animal with extremely sensitive diet requirements.

Given that I fulfill most of our dining needs I had had it. I was starting to prepare four totally different meals every night. Who do I look like, the galloping gourmet on the run? Julia Child on a double espresso? The naked chef… streaking?

Sunday I finally resorted to the one thing I haven’t tried, but seen on television.

“That’s it! We’re having a family meeting!”

Everyone stared at me for a full 3 seconds while I stomped into the living room. Then they quickly followed, yelling about claiming the sofa versus the chair.

“We can’t keep doing this crazy food thing, we’ve got to find things to agree to eat,” I said.

“I’m not even hungry,” said Mireya.

“Anything but chicken,” said Sierra.

“You’re Mom’s right,” said my husband. “We have to work together on meals.” I beamed at him. We were a team!

We proceeded to lay some ground rules, and things looked pretty good. And then:

“Okay, I’ll grill some chicken.” I said, heading to the kitchen.

“And I’m going to have a sandwich,” said my husband, following me. I whirled on him, and he smiled weakly.

“I really just want a sandwich.”

Et tu, Brutay?

Sierra saw her opening. “Peanut butter for me!”

“I want chicken,” said Mireya. “Do we have macaroni?”

Next time, I’m not calling a meeting. I’m calling for take out.

Riding the heat wave

Is it me, or did it just get ridiculously hot?

Usually I pride myself on my desert heritage where we lived in the 90s for nine months out of the year. I’m rolling my eyes at all the northerners, the ones going on and on about how it’s soooo hot.

But even I have to admit, this last week has me trying on the phrase “Summer Minnesotan.”

After all, there are Winter Texans, right?

The last time I remember this many 100 degree days was when I was pregnant during the Summer of ’98 and we hit a record for the most 100 degree days in a row. Then when I was pregnant over the Summer of ’02, we had the flood that sent water over the spillway at the lake.

We should all be grateful that the Prosapios stopped with #2.

Anyway, given conditions out there, I’ve discovered there are certain things I simply refuse to do when it’s over 100 degrees.

I refuse to bake. This is in a vain hope that by banning all forms of heat we’ll stop the insanity. I like to think of it as my bit to stop localized global warming (which is a contradiction of terms, but hey, it’s hot).

I refuse to go shopping because there is just something about walking across an asphalt parking lot when it’s 104. When your shoes are sticking to the parking lot, it’s a signal there’s nothing in that you need that bad. Except ice.

I refuse to stand outside for more than 30 seconds unless dragged kicking and screaming by dogs who insist that I’m the one who’s all unreasonable about house training.

I refuse to exercise unless it involves cold water or unless it’s 5 am.

I refuse to get up early because it’s already hot anyway. An there is no water within 300 miles that’s still cold.

I refuse to remember my pledge to get one box out of the attic every day and get rid of things because I’m fairly sure I will go up in flames if I even OPEN the attic door.

I refuse to turn on lights because I’m convinced that most of our house is glowing with radiant heat until 2 am.

Let’s hope that the early sightings of El Nino, which would bring rain and coolness, turn out to be true and not just the ravings of weathermen who have run out of “it’s so hot” jokes.

Because otherwise I’m not going to get anything done around here.

We don't get too into the 4th of July...

We believe there's no such thing as getting TOO much into the 4th.



Here's small town Texas on the 4th.



Course, the dog has to get dressed up.





Love this bus!


Well, you know Mireya always dresses for the occasion.





Party barge in action.


The fly over by the vintage planes...




Okay, the other dog got a bandana too.




And big sister Sierra wanted a matching dress and Roxie
broke out the stars outfit. And Daddy is not one to be left out either




I just noticed someone is riding in the bucket of the bucket truck. LOL




These racing kids probably give their mother a heart attack with their antics.
They were doing 360s and peeling out all over the place.




Okay, maybe we do get into the 4th a little.



Hope yours was happy!