Thursday, October 29, 2009

Blogger Block

Ladies and Gentlemen, we all feared this might happen and it has.  I have a cause of blogger block.  I am stuck on one blog and can't get past it. 

So I am hosting an ask the audience session and allowing you to submit reader suggestions.

Hopefully, I'll be back next week... but I suppose that all depends on how fun my weekend is... so it's up to you, Houston.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Grab a Spatula and Rise Up.

This article appeared in ESPN Magazine.  Rick Reilly says is better than I can, so I'll let him.  I simply have this to say... if the tailgates around DKR Memorial Stadium ever disappear.  Well, I just might consider only watching the games on TV.

Of all the gates -- Watergate, Monicagate, Spygate -- there is only one gate this country can be proud of: the tailgate.

A parking-lot spiral, a cheese brat whispering sweet nitrates and a decent ticket in your pocket. Buddy, that's more American than deficits. So why is America trying to kill tailgating?

Look around: Outside Soldier Field -- home of the Chicago Bears -- fans are getting kicked out of the parking lot once the game starts. Heresy! A lot of Bears fans can't afford tickets ($245 for a nosebleed), but they love pulling into the south lot (for which they pay $46), opening up the camper van, putting one satellite dish on the tailgate and one on the roof and living and dying for their Bears. Tailgaiting is a tradition that's been in place for 90 years, and now it's forbidden? Why don't they just clean our Weber grills with the American flag!

In Arizona, the Cardinals did the same thing. And this coming off a Super Bowl year! These are Cards fans who stuck with a toothless team through a barren 21-year wasteland until it finally made the Super Bowl last season. Now they're getting the bum's rush? Blasphemy! And the Cards have banned postgame tailgating, too. So waiting in lawn chairs by your car with your friends while the traffic clears is now forbidden. Get in line and waste gas like everybody else!

Grab a spatula and rise up!

This crap is going on everywhere. In Dallas, the Cowboys moved tailgaters to the far back outreaches of their lots. What are we, contagious? This kills one of the most fun tailgating traditions of all: mooching. Get an outlying parking spot and wander through tailgaters on the way to your gate. If you're not offered a brew, a burger or a brownie in the first 100 yards, you need to try smiling.

But it's in the state of Michigan that tailgating is dying the fastest. Imagine! The state where the first tailgate came off the assembly line!

What they're doing at Central Michigan should be investigated by Congress. Tailgategate. The geniuses there banned external sound systems. What? Think about our lives. It's just us at the computer. Just us and our CrackBerries. Tailgating is one of the few experiences we have together. We listen to the game together. We sing Queen together. On one set of speakers!

Worse, CMU isn't letting any cars leave the parking lot until the third quarter. Reduces congestion, the school says. Isn't that kidnapping?

Terrified mom: "Please let me go! My baby's climbed out onto the roof of my house!"
Cop: "Sorry, ma'am. Still 1:48 left in the half."

At Western Michigan, tailgating is permitted to begin no earlier than three hours before the game and must end at kickoff. Hell, I know guys who need that much time to set up their radar ranges -- forget moving the Barcalounger out of the truck.

Not only that, but vehicles that take up two parking spots aren't allowed at WMU either. No Winnebagos? No Airstreams? What is this, Sweden?

The bosses will tell you it has to do with curbing alcohol-fueled rowdies inside the stadium. But a guy can sit in a bar 100 yards away and drink enough to drown a Carnival cruise ship, and they don't stop that. If it's drinking you want to stop, have a guy with a Breathalyzer at every gate. If a fan blows more than .08, he doesn't get to enter.

These are families getting screwed here.

If you've ever loved the smell of chili and exhaust together, if you've ever worn a beer helmet, if you've ever made a diving catch onto the hood of a Buick, grab a spatula and rise up! Lock yourself in your Explorer! Grill up liver and send it to the university dean until he relents just from the smell!

Because if you let them take your Winnebagos now, they will take your cornhole game next. If you let them take your sound systems now, they will take your football-field green shag next. If you let them take your tailgate party now, they will take your political party next.

It's already working at CMU. The students were so torqued off at these jackbooted rules that they formed a committee, protested to officials and got the idiotic speakers rule reversed. Solidarity!

I saw the wimps and the lawyers and the insurance companies kill dodgeball and diving boards, but I never thought they'd get tailgating.

Over my cold, dead kielbasa.

Monday, October 26, 2009

I Am Not Crying... It's Just Been Raining on My Face

"I know now why you cry. But it's something I can never do." 

That's from the Terminator.  I have a friend that cannot stand when people cry.  She has to leave the room.  This is tough for me cause I am a big crier.  Is crier even a word?  She got me to thinking about this; about the fact that maybe, just maybe, crying all the time makes other people uncomfortable.

But what do you do if you don't cry?  I cry at everything. Always have.  When I was a little girl I loved biographies.  I read the biography of Mary Todd Lincoln. And I BALLED when she died.  I went downstairs and woke up my mom and had to tell her the whole story through tears.  She was less than pleased.  She thought my out-pouring of emotion was a bit dramatic since I knew when I started the book that Mary Todd Lincoln was dead.  But I cried, none the less.  Buckets and buckets of tears.

When I was a kid and I got in trouble my dad would say he was going to spank us again if we didn't stop crying.  I could never stop crying ... those hiccups, and shaky crying... and I typically got spanked again and that just made the crying even worse.  It was a vicious cycle. 

If you tell me something and you start crying, rest assured I will cry with you.  Probably harder than you are crying and it will become about me.  I cry in Hallmark commercials, I cry at songs, I cry at weddings, I cry at funerals, I cry at the news, I cry when I stub my toes, I cry when I am tired, I cry anytime I have to do math, I cry when people don't like cheese, I cry in books, I cry the morning after bootcamp, I cry at Christmas carols, I cry when I talk about home, I cry when I am sick, I cry when you are sick, I cry when babies are born....

The problem with my crying is that it starts with something small.... and then next thing you know I am crying because I'll be 40 someday, or that my house is a mess, or that my hair is too short, or that my ovaries are aging... I will rattle off any and everything that could possibly ever be or go wrong in my life.  It's a little ridiculous and can be hard to follow my logic.  But I always feel so much better afterwards.

I just cannot imagine not being able to cry at everything.  Its like one of my favorite past times.  I mean I've had to switch to waterproof mascara just to camoflage my outbursts.

But my friend can't cry unless she's laughing (which is awesome and so much fun to make her cry laughing) but I am not sure how she is going to react when I have my first outburst - which could happen anytime.  And I just don't understand how she gets through the day without tears. 

So, be careful how you respond to my blog today, you might make me cry.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Cheese Glorious Cheese

When I was in the sixth grade our choir did a riveting performance of Oliver.  Austin Amos had the role of Oliver Twist.  I might have been in the back of the chorus, if they even let me on stage.  The reason I mention this is that song "cheese glorious cheese, hot sausage and mustard...." keeps running through my head.

And here's why....

I have recently met a number of people that don't eat cheese.  And frankly, I find it really hard to trust them.  I don't understand this.  I can assure you that if I was the most lactose intolerant person on the planet, I would still find a way to have queso. 

What's with people that get pizza with no cheese?  Yes, Jonna - I am talking about you.  That's just bread with Ragu.  What's the point?  Pizza should have that perfectly melted cheese with the layer of grease on top.  The white box that it comes in should have grease spots.  This is how pizza was meant to be consumed. 

*I am sure I am going to get some negative press about that statement from my co-workers at the American Heart Association... but, hey, everything in moderation, right?*

So if you are reading this and you don't eat cheese... I want to point out some of the things you are missing out on in life.  Cheese Sticks.  Cheese Its. Cheese Nips.  Cheese Flavored Goldfish.  Pizza.  Queso. Queso Blanco.  THE BOB ARMSTRONG DIP from Mattito's... (oh my God that shit is so freaking good... now I miss Dallas.) Cheese Blintzes.  Baked Brie.  Blue Cheese Fries.  Cheesecake.  Better yet, my Aunt Gladys Cheesecake.  Cheesy Artichoke Dip.  Twice Baked Potatoes.  Grill Cheese Sandwiches.  Turkey and Cheese.  Cheesesteak Sandwiches.  Cream Cheese in general.

I just don't get it.  And don't get me wrong, one of my most beloved parent figures doesn't eat cheese.  I accept it in Bruce because a) I've had years to adjust to it and b) well, he just so nice and fun that you kind of overlook it... and c) his wife still makes queso by the gallon for Saturdays by the pool. 

But back to just not getting it, what isn't there to love about cheese?  You can even still have cheese on the Atkins Diet.  And it compliments wine.  I can't imagine my high school years without Chili's Queso.  There's a place in College Station that serves BBQ on butcher paper with a block of cheese and only a knife.  See how much cooler the BBQ was cause it came with a block of cheese?

Anyway, I could sit alone in my apartment and blog about cheese for days. So, I'll send out my question to the cosmic void today "What gene are cheese haters missing?  Was something in their brain damaged?  Can they be trusted?  Do they really know what they are missing out on?  And how can I... a lowly public servant... help them to see the light?  To discover that "cheese glorious cheese"?" 

I don't think there are answers to these questions, I don't think there is a solution... but just know this... if you don't like cheese... well, I am watching you...

Thursday, October 22, 2009

To Err is Sherry

I believe in the Tao of Carrie Bradshaw.  I believe the lessons learned in any episode of "Sex and the City" are worthwhile. 

Maybe mistakes are what make our fate... without them what would shape our lives? Maybe if we had never veered off course we wouldn't fall in love, have babies, or be who we are. After all, things change, so do cities, people come into your life and they go. But it's comforting to know that the ones you love are always in your heart... and if you're very lucky, a plane ride away...

Let's be honest here, I make and have made, a lot of mistakes.  There are the simple unimportant ones like the frequest grammatical mistakes that appear throughout this blog.  Then there are the medium sizes ones like the butch hair cut I got few years back.  Short blond hair is not becoming on someone with my huge head.  And there are the bigger ones, like not apologizing. Then there are the doozies, the mistakes in judgment... the mistakes about people, the mistakes about ourselves.

Its the doozies that stay with you.  Its the doozies that you can't shake.  They are the ones that haunt me.  ... There are so very many things that I wish I could do over.  Go back and change.  Shit, there are things from today that I want to go back and change. I have a terrible fear of regret.  Don't you?  I am so terrified of saying "I wish I had..."

How do we forgive ourselves and accept our fate? But more importantly, when in God's name are mistakes going to start paying off... when are the idiotic things I do, and say going to end up allowing me to fall in love, to have babies.... cause right now, as far as I can see ... the mistakes I make are mostly just making me look like an ass. 

I wish I had some kind of buzzer that would start going off when I entered the "Doozie Zone"... a warning that shouted... "you are about to make a HUGE mistake."  Moreover, (my mom will love that I used that word) I have started to notice that I am most frequently seen entering the "Doozie Zone" with at least a bottle of Maker's Mark.  Cause I have to tell you from where I sit ... everything inside the "Doozie Zone" looks the same as everything else.

But I think my bigger question for the cosmic void today is "Does everyone feel this way?  Does everyone overthink the things they do?  And how, sweet void, can I stop worrying so much about the things I do and wondering if every decision is a mistake?"

But better yet, "Am I totally mistaken about the mistakes I think I've made?"

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Leaving on a Jetplane...

For about the past 5 years or so, my friend Ricky has tormented me with the same joke.  At least I think its been a joke. 

I just talked to him and he doesn't think this story is going to go over well in my blog.  He doesn't think that I'll be able to make my adoring public truly appreciate the joke.  So I am going to start with the punch line and then I'll give you the backstory.

Some of you have experienced the joke because you've been on planes with me, you've sat at the airport and you've heard my cackle, because everytime he did it, it was funny.

Tonight when we were talking - I was torturing him by asking for feedback on this very blog.  We started to talk a little bit about my irrational fear of serial killers.  Or rather the fact that I am certain I've been stalked by the same serial killer for many years now.  (See Yesterday's Blog for more on this topic.) 

So, in screenplay form again:

Ricky:  Yeah, I don't really think serial killers are your biggest threat.
Sherry:  Really, what do you think is my biggest threat?
Ricky:  Well, me picking you up from the airport.

**insert my hardcore cackle and trying to say between laughs that was the funniest thing he'd ever said to me.... cause it absolutely is....unless you count his repeated insistence to be allowed to simply email a few words that someone could read for my funeral ...instead of actually attending and providing a meaningful, funny and poignant eulogy for his ole pal, Sher Bear**

The Backstory
In my previous job, I traveled A LOT.  Which meant a ton of time spent driving to airports, taxing to airports, sitting in airports, waiting to take off, waiting for a gate, driving to hotels, taxiing to hotels... what have you.... you get it... lots of down time.  A pretty good portion of that time has been spent on the phone with Ricky.  It works out well, he gets to try out his latest material and I get entertained for a bit.  About a hundred years ago on one such call I mentioned that was headed to the airport.  To which Ricky replied with the following story:

Did I ever tell you about the time I saw a plane crash? I was a little kid and my mom and I went to pick up my dad at DFW airport.  I was standing at the window watching all the planes land and that Delta plane that crashed and killed all those people hit as I was standing at the window.  It was freaky.  You know, I've never seen weather like that night.  Well, until tonight. Tonight is exactly like that night.

So, basically, I have this asshole telling me a plane crash story before I took off on a flight.  And so began a very ridiculous tradition in our friendship.  The tradition of Ricky reminding me before every single flight about how he saw that plane crash when he was picking his dad up.  Sometimes he thought I was testing him, I would say something about AN AIRPORT and he'd bring it up... and I would have to let him down by saying that I wasn't getting on a flight.  Hes even dropped me off at the Austin airport with the reminder of the crash he saw.  He was always at his best if I was in bad weather. He'd make up dramatic stories about why the Delta plane crashed and how he heard things about the air traffic coming out of Newark. Blah, Blah, Blah ...

But it became part of my travel tradition. I don't much like getting on a plane anymore without hearing him tell me about that crash.  I need to know that's it out of the way, so that I can sleep peacefully on the flight. 

Apparently I need to be worried less about serial killers and more about Ricky picking me up from the airport.  I haven't yet figured out how to leave behind forensic evidence that Ricky just has shitty luck and seems to see dramatic catatrophies on a fairly regular basis.

None the less, I hope in some part I have been able to make this story relatively funny.  Its was always so funny to me, especially in the beginning because I would forget about it, but he never did.  Every flight, if I so much as said plane, or flight, or airport.... boom... "Did I ever tell you about that time I saw a plane crash?"  And the surprise always made me cackle.  Trust me, people at the Admiral's Club don't really appreciate someone cackling that loud in their special private lounge space... but I did anyway.

So, Ricky, don't forget, I head to Cabo on Thursday morning.  We take off about 9:35... talk to ya then.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

CSI: Sherry

So I've become a little bit addicted to forensics and detective shows.  Forensic Files, the First 48, The Investigators, etc... the real true life crime story shows.  I am totally hooked.  I heart them.  However, last night I had an epiphany... they are real... and now I am scared shitless.

My apartment makes weird noises and I just know that the knocking noise is NOT THE ICE FALLING, its a serial killer, the Houston Killer coming to kill me in my sleep.  I've had this fear before and my friend Grant will attest that for years I was terrified of the New York Killer.  Apparently there was one very specific serial killer that was looking for me during all my trips to the city.  I named him the New York Killer.  He knocked on my hotel room doors and I just know he was following me.  Which is why it was totally unsafe for me to ride the subway, carry my own luggage, walk on the outside of the street and why I had to always be picked up for events and couldn't get myself there.  But I am regressing into New York Killer conversations and this blog is about the current serial killer after me, the Houston Killer.

I have found it quite helpful to watch these shows and to watch Criminal Minds, as I now feel much more qualified to profile him and feel confident in my ability to leave behind good forensic evidence.  I want to make it as easy as possible for the hot dude from Criminal Minds to find my killer.  I am not sure how I feel about the name I have selected for my personal serial killer, though... I mean I like it... I guess.  Anyhoo... below are the steps I am planning on taking to ensure that the Houston Killer does not go unpunished.

  1.   I am going to make an evidence kit.  A little baggie with a lock of hair, my spit, maybe a finger nail clipping and some fiber from my sweater.  I will take one of these with me everywhere.  If you ever find one in your car, pocket, or in your bag... well, then you know that I suspect you of being a serial killer and we probably don't have too much of a future.
  2. I will scratch any man that takes me anywhere.  That way in case he kills me and I forget to fight back, well, there will still be evidence under my finger nails.
  3. If we go out more than once, you can bet your sweet ass that I'll be throwing a map up on the wall with little pins in all the places we go.  This way, I got the geographical profile started for the team early.
  4. Ummm, I am for sure never naming anyone in Houston the beneficiary on my life insurance.  This way, you can't marry me, then kill me for the insurance money.  That all goes to Elizabeth Woodard Porterfield. 
  5. So, sidenote about #4... if I mysteriously die over Thanksgiving or Christmas... check out Elizabeth and Eric... they are doing a lot of renovations on their house and I don't wanna die just so my sister can get new hardwoods throughout the house.  Ya know what I mean?
  6. Antifreeze.  Apparently this is a big killer.  I had no idea.  So, first I am starting a petition to the antifreeze maker people that they change the taste.  This silent killer should not easily masked in a glass of sweet tea.  And second, you can bet that I'll have some kind of testing strip with me to find out if there is anything in my tea.  I will not be felled by a glass of sweet tea.
  7. I am scared of being murdered in the shower.  I don't want to be found naked.  I have gone 32 years without having naked pictures of me taken and I would like to keep it that way even in death.  So, Houston Killer, if you follow this blog... please don't kill me in the shower.  Second, if any of you really love me... and you find me murdered in my shower ... do me a tinsy tiny favor, throw some clothes on me, THEN call the cops. I would do it for you.
  8. And finally, maybe just maybe, I am gonna think about not watching these shows anymore... they might be making me think irrational thoughts about being slayed by a serial killer.  Maybe. 

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Happy Birthday

Today is my dad's birthday.  He would be 61 years old. My dad called me "pad'nuh" (partner for those that don't speak Southern) my whole life.  Pods for short.  He was something special, my dad.    I wonder what I would have gotten him for his birthday as an adult.  Or would I still be a kid, be the daughter and not get him a thing and let him take me out to celebrate.  That actually sounds a lot more like me.

On my last birthday with him, my 16th, we drove around the country together-looking at land.  I drove him around while he smoked cigars.  We drove for hours.  It seemed a little ridiculous to me at the time.  Its the best birthday I've ever had.  I've been trying to remember his birthdays and how we would celebrate.  I can't remember them at all.  I can't remember if we celebrated him.  I hope we did. 

I think he'd like the life I've made here in Houston.  I don't think he'd like the fact that I wasn't within arm's reach of him... but he'd like it none the less.  I wish I could have known him now, as an adult.  I am pretty sure he'd be my best friend. 

I recently met a man that reminds me so very much of my dad that sometimes it hurts.  I am caught off guard by little things he does that are "Bubba" and it surprises me that it still makes me sad.  It surprises me how much I missed those things.  Its made me think about my dad more than usual and its a consistent reminder of him.  Like how he wore deck shoes everywhere and called them "his deckers", like practicing duck calls, the ways his ankles popped when he walked, how he'd rub the top of your head when he walked by, the way he pushed the envelope, found your weak spot and teased you about it, or the way he'd put his arm around me when we walked somewhere.  But try as I might I cannot remember the sound of his voice. 

So, I guess my birthday wish for him today would be to remember that sound.  That sweet sound of comfort and safety, the sound of my daddy's voice.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

Love, Pods

Friday, October 16, 2009

Well, I Believe....

Well, I believe in the power of prayer.  In Cowboy boots, songs on repeat, and putting your feet up on your desk.  I believe in sitting on counters and smiling at strangers.  I believe in the power of a song.  I believe in Willie Nelson and I believe my mama loves me.  I still believe in butterflies and beautiful blue eyes.  I believe in myself.  I believe in you.  I believe in Colt McCoy and Jordan Shipley. 

Well, I believe in getting tucked into bed.  In singing hymns, winks from across the room and pick up trucks.  I believe in saying "I Love You" and lazy Sundays on the couch.  I believe the best sound in the word is the sound of a screen door slamming.  I believe my mom's Gumbo is the best and my grandma's dressing is the best. And I believe that running laps is pointless... you end up where you started.

Well, I believe we all have a purpose.  In slow dancing, watching the rain and flirting.  I believe in making people laugh.  I believe we all need a shoulder to cry on and that Scooter's is mine.  And I really, truly believe that the man that makes me snort laughing is the man I want to be with.

And, well, finally, since its October... well, I believe that OU still sucks.  Hook 'em Horns.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Football as Religion

I owe this post to Ricky Brennes.  He reads this blog, though he refuses to admit that its hysterical.  He's my biggest fan that does not acknowledge my genius.  But ladies and gentlemen, today is all Ricky.  I didn't come up with this, he did.  I'm going to write it out like a screenplay so hopefully you can enjoy the genius of this conversation.  I don't know if he thinks about this stuff ahead of time, I don't think he does.  But this story still makes me laugh and as we approach the big Red River Rivalry this weekend, I thought we could all use a little football humor. 

Ricky:  So, how are you meeting people in Houston?
Sherry:  Well, I've met a lot of people through church.
Ricky:  What church are you going to?
Sherry:  Chapelwood, its a Methodist Church not to far from my house.
Ricky:  Methodist, so that's like the coach that slaps the player on the ass and tells him he's doing a good job and its all gonna be ok.
Sherry:  Yeah, its pretty much like that.
Ricky:  So, Baptist... that'd be like the coach that grabs the kid by the face mask and yells at him for f-ing up.  Spitting in his face.
Sherry:  Yeah, that's about right.  What would Catholic be?
Ricky:  Catholic, well, that'd be the quarterback that freaks out if he has to get out of the pocket and scramble.  He has to follow the playbook.  And then he feels like shit cause he let the team down.
Sherry:  Awesome.  So, Jewish... what would Jewish be in football?

Ricky:  Strictly a first half team.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Happy Halloween

This may come as a surprise to many of you.  The more people I've told about this the more I realized that I probably needed to explain myself.

I don't like costumes.  Mascots terrify me.  Clowns are the devil.  I don't want to dress up.  Its a miracle that I get up everyday and put on my "Professional Sherry" costume.  And I am not going to lie - there are a lot of days that I don't even manage that.

My fear exists on several levels.

First, I think people willing to put on costumes like Mickey Mouse or Daffy Duck are probably pedifiles.  Or at the very least really, really weird people.  I don't want to be around that.  Characters that sing and dance and talk funny are not natural.  They have always scared me and they always will.  Don't try to convince me otherwise.  They are just down right freaky and I don't want anything to do with them.

Second, Halloween scares me.  Not the scary haunted houses or the ghosts or pumpkins... although those are scary.  Just the idea of not really knowing who you are talking to.  Adults dressed up as something else is just bizarre to me. And guys, calm down... she will NEVER put on the slutty nurse costume again.  She wore it once.  Because her friends dared her to... she isn't a slutty nurse.  Kids dressing up I get.  Its so cute ... little lions, and pumpkins, and bears and lobsters... those are adorable... but past a certain age you just look awkward and a little bit uncomfortable.  And frankly, there is good TV on and all that doorbell ringing keeps interrupting my shows. 

Third, mascots are terrifying.  I have no problem with the real deal.  I will stand next to Bevo, or Ralphie or Reveille... but put me next to Pork Chop that motorized pig from Arkansas and I will faint dead away.  I can't explain it, but it just isn't natural.  It scares the shit out me.

I have dressed up for Halloween once in my adult life.  I was an ovenmitt.  It was awesome.  Marla's mom has pictures.  There was even a freak cold front that blew in that day... all the slutty nurses, and slutty maids were freezing.  I was toasty warm in my giant ovenmitt costume.  I did it to prove a point, to prove that costumes were ridiculous.  That plan backfired.  The ovenmitt was a huge hit.  A pain in the ass to drive in, but a huge hit none the less.

So, as we approach Halloween, I felt it right to let my public know that you won't see me shopping for a costume... slutty or otherwise.  You won't see me dressing up with a knife sticking out of my head and you won't see me on the sidelines with Rowdy (that annoying guy that is the mascot for the Cowboys.)  However, you might just catch a glimpse of me as I run home to turn off the lights and lock the doors before anyone knows I am home.

Happy Halloween.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

The Break Up Part 2

Thanks to one of our loyal readers for sending in this response to yesterday's blog:

I can't believe you would dump your pair of shoes for a new, younger model. This sort of behavior really pisses me off, Woodard. Maybe if you had taken proper time to take care of the shoes, the shoes would still be able to take care of you.

But instead, the shoes are worn out and have nothing left to give.

And so you just give up on them... you’re just going to throw them out for a new relationship with a tighter, prettier version with fewer miles on them. Those old shoes were there for you during your hard times... they got you through.

When you were beat down and reduced to nothingness... they loved you and carried you... they never complained about the sacrifice they were making... and now what are they supposed to do... they'll never find another someone to love them... they are all used and washed up... and you just abandoned them.


Wednesday, October 7, 2009

So This Break is Really a Break-Up?

Dear Tennis Shoes,

I remember the first day I met you.  When my friend Andrew at Luke's Locker first pointed you out to me.  You were so beautiful.  And we seemed to just fit together so well.  I was so excited for our first walk together.  The joy I felt in those first few trips through the park together.

You were good to me.  But my schedule got busy and I found it harder to spend time with you.  I saw you there, available, willing to spend time with me.. but I couldn't.

And then you took from me and it hurt.  You took the skin off the back of my heel, you took the skin off my big toes... and you gave me such pain in the calfs.  I could tell you where trying to hurt me, to prove to me that you shouldn't be neglected.

But relationships are hard to maintain and frankly, you started to lose some of your charm.  You got dirty, your soles weren't as bouncy, the shine on your stripe was just a little less. 

So, I know that we've both hurt each other and I know its time for me to move on.  I need to feel the joy of  the first test step, to see the sparkle in the stripe and to feel the hope in the first trek around the park.  I know that we'll see each other again, for lake trips, maybe for some house work or even on a muddy day.  But I think we both know that it will never be the same.

Love, Sherry

In case you didn't catch on... I simply need a new pair of running shoes.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Its Not Like You're a Phi Beta Kappa

My father was a poet.  Not literally, no one named Bubba would have ever been accepted in literary circles.  But I spent the first 16 years of my life being educated by a man with colloqial wisdom that truly bordered on poetry.  For those of you that knew him, you know exactly what I mean... a few little samples from the wisdom of Bubba Woodard.

  1. What, Sherry, you think your shit doesn't stink like the rest of the worlds?
  2. Referring to his two beautiful daughters:  Snotty little curtain climbers.
  3. That dog just ain't gonna hunt.
  4. Sherry, you are not the only pebble on the beach.
  5. In response to something I MIGHT have said that was less than intelligent:  Well, its not like you're a Phi Beta Kappa.
For YEARS, I had no idea what a Phi Beta Kappa was.  And in case you don't... its some kind of honor fraternity for truly brillant people.  And my dad was right, it wasn't like I was a Phi Beta Kappa.  And here is the point of my story today.  I actually know a Phi Beta Kappa.  Yup.  I am even related to him now.  My sister married a genius. 

Today, I wanted to tell you guys a little something about my brother in law.  He's a badass.  He is the nicest, kindest human being I know.  During my sister's wedding I was really sick.  A couple days after the wedding I actually had my gall bladder removed.  Eric was traumatized that I didn't get to eat the tenderloin and seabass at the event.  I thought he was going to cry when they brought my two course of soup.  I don't think any other member of my family even noticed. 

Eric is also a badass lawyer.  This kind, gentle giant is tough, too.  The reason I want to tell you about him is because my boy Eric is busting his ass right now for a trial and I couldn't be prouder!  So now my prayers go like this:

Dear Baby Jesus, thank you for Mack Brown and Colt McCoy's arm.  Please give Eric wisdom and look over my mom, my sister and my future husband.  But most of all, thank you for Will Muschamp.

So, really the point of this blog is to introduce you one my heros, and someone I respect more than I could articulate.  Todays blog is dedicated to the Phi Beta Kappa that was smart enough to marry my sister.

Go get 'em Eric!

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Can't Take My Eyes Off of You

I saw the best thing ever last night.  I don't know if I can put it into words and truly give it justice.  Last night my friend Kathy got married.  She absolutely without question is marrying the love of her life.  Kathy and Chap are PERFECT for each other. 

And last night, they danced their first dance as man and wife.  And it was F-ING AWESOME.  Seriously.  OK, how do I explain this.  Well, lets start with the fact that the crowd SANG ALONG.  I have mad respect for the fact that they danced to Frankie Valli... but they had a routine.  A routine that was awesomeness.  You know what,  I can't put this into words. I just know that the crowd cheered, clapped, laughed and then sang "oh, pretty baby, if its quite alright, I need you baby... trust in me when I say... I love you baby" at the top of our lungs. 

There were twists and turns and dips.  It was truly fun to watch.  From now on, I have a new rule.  Everyone should choreograph routines for their first dance.  Its so much more fun that way!!!

She danced with her dad next.  And it was crazy fun too. When Kathy was a little girl her mom would play "You Light Up My Life" on the piano and she and her dad would dance and sing along.  She danced to that song with her dad.  They looked like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers... and once again the crowd SANG ALONG.

Wait, you know what... maybe it was the crowd that was awesome.  Yup, that's it... we were badass.   

I honestly can't believe that I am writing about wedding dances but they were so great that I had to talk about it.  I am not doing them justice.  So if you're getting married anytime soon, give Chappy and Kathy a call ... they can tell how to do the dance part of the night up right.  And if you need an awesome crowd and you've got an open bar, give me a call.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

There are Rules for Everything

 My friend Kathy is getting married today.  I am thrilled for her.  She has spent the past year planning every detail.  And it got me to thinking...  There are always a few elements out of a brides control. The one that has been on mind the past few months is the wedding party.  So, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to present you with wedding party rules by Sherry Woodard.  If you are goingo to be a bridesmaid, a maid of honor, best man, usher, house party or anything in a wedding anytime soon.  I recommend you read these and take them to heart.

  1. Do whatever the bride wants.
  2. Do whatever the bride wants.
  3. Let me be more clear... do whatever the bride wants.  Do not be difficult.  You do not matter in all this.  You are replaceable.  Whatever your role, there is someone else they can put in that spot.  Do not add to her stress.
  4. Don't ask too many questions.  The bride has already belabored over every decision.  Asking questions just makes her think more.  Just don't do it.
  5. Do not get drunk at the rehearsal dinner.  No bride wants hungover friends on her wedding day.
  6. Going home with a groomsman, bridesmaid, usher, whatever is not acceptable from the rehearsal dinner.  You wanna hook up after the wedding, fine, do whatever you want but Friday night before the wedding - the bride still REALLY cares what everyone thinks.  She does not want her aunt talking about her slutty high school friends. 
  7. Give a toast.  If you are terrified of speaking, fine... write something out and tell the bride ahead of time.  Apparently being toasted is kind of a big deal.
  8. If you have a speaking part - practice. Our friend Tammie is speaking at Kathy's and you know what - she has practiced - I applaud that.  Do not be the funny part of the ceremony.  The bride and groom are really the only ones that should do anything funny.  If you do it, well then, you just ruined her perfect wedding.
  9. Do whatever the bride wants.
  10. Don't be difficult.  No one, I repeat, no one gives a shit about your needs.  Our friend Margaret... she gets this rule.  She will eat what she is served and by God if she has to use the Epi Pen cause it was cooked in peanut oil.  Well, then she'll use it.  But quietly, in a bathroom, so as not to pull attention away from the bride.
I say all these things with love and offer them to you now - so that you will all be real, real clear about my expectations when my turn comes.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Childhood Comforts

So many thoughts, ideas, fears and woes are crashing around in my head.  I worry about this, did I do that, did I say the wrong thing, did I imagine my success.... always worrying, always, doubting.

So tonight after a little tossing and a little turning.  I decided to find the cure for my worries as a child.  I always escaped in a book.  A few specials ones were frequently visited.  So tonight, to help me rest, to clear my head and maybe find a little peace.  I would like to read you two special poems to me.  They both come from one of my very favorites "A Light in the Attic" by Shel Silverstein.  I could quote most of his poems to you as a little girl and as I juggle my 30s now - I find his wisdom still holds true.

INVITATION by Shel Silverstein

If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

God's Wheel by Shel Silverstein

GOD says to me with a kind
of smile, "Hey how would you like
to be God awhile And steer the world?"

"Okay," says I, "I'll give it a try.

Where do I set?
How much do I get?
What time is lunch?
When can I quit?"

"Gimme back that wheel," says GOD.

"I don't think you're quite ready YET."