Guns

I generally prefer a more lighthearted approach to blogging - both in reading and writing - but some pending legislation in Texas has captured national attention.

Senate Bill 17
"The bill would amend various codes to authorize individuals to obtain a license to carry openly a holstered handgun in all the places that allow the licensed carrying of a concealed handgun. The bill would also amend the Government Code to authorize the Department of Public Safety to issue a license to carry an unconcealed holstered handgun, using the same criteria currently in place for a concealed handgun license."  (Feb. 11, 2015, Fiscal Note, 84th Legislative Regular Session).

The Texas Senate passed the bill on March 17, 2015,  and it is now being reviewed by a House committee.

Senate Bill 11
"The bill would amend the Government Code and Penal Code to authorize an individual possessing a valid concealed handgun license issued in the state of Texas to carry a concealed handgun on premises associated with certain public institutions of higher education. The bill would allow an institution of higher education to establish rules governing the storage of handguns in dormitories, and would stipulate an institution, officer, employee, peace officer or handgun instructor may not be held liable for damages or cause under the provisions of the bill."  (Feb. 13, 2015, Fiscal Note, 84th Legislative Regular Session).

The Texas Senate passed the bill on March 19, 2015, and it is now being reviewed by a House committee.

The likelihood of the imminent approval of both these bills causes my heart to beat faster, and, my response to anxiety--as always--is to research and arm myself (figuratively, not literally).  It's surprisingly difficult to find unbiased sources to research clear and current guns laws in the United States.

According to Internet lobbying organization, Open Carry (an undeniably biased source), Texas is one of only six states that currently prohibit Open Carry.  Prohibiting states are a diverse group including California, Illinois, Florida, New York, South Carolina and Washington D.C.  Proponents of Senate Bill 17 eagerly point out that the bill lets Texans exercise rights freely enjoyed by residents in the majority of the U.S.

Campus carry (SB 11) is more contentious with only three states specifically authorizing on-campus carry (Oregon, Utah and Colorado) and 23 states specifically prohibiting on-campus carry.

It makes me wonder, though.  I lived in Seattle for many years and visited Colorado last year.  My kids are still young, but I've never considered not letting them go to college in either of those places due to the gun laws.  Do people know the gun laws in their state?  Are Texas laws attracting attention because they are changing existing laws?  Or is this legislation attracting national attention because, well, everything is bigger in Texas?

Fringe

For a time I was a big fan of Portlandia - watched every episode on Netlix.  The show became a warm blanket, a memory of the quirky weirdness of living in the Pacific Northwest.  One of my favorite bits lampooned the peculiarities of craft art:

CLICK HERE

I realized that the same thing happens here in the south.  Instead of a bird, adding FRINGE transforms objects from classic to country.  See:

CLASSIC

Put Some Fringe On It!: Country

CLASSIC

Put Some Fringe On It!: Country

CLASSIC

Put Some Fringe On It!: Country?

Emergency Centers

An Easter Sunday chocolate coma has put me a few days behind on the challenge!  It's time to pick up speed.  I struggled with what to write for 'E,' so much so that I briefly considered focusing this post on some of my most Embarassing moments since moving to Texas.  Settle down people!  I'm not quite ready to make the shift to 'Inappropriate' Oversharing.

So, I ask you what is the deal with all the stand-alone Emergency Rooms in the area? I pass five on my daily commute.  Some are affiliated with local hospitals such as St. Luke's and Methodist but others sport consumer friendly names like First Choice and Neighbors.  Every time I see ground prep for new construction, I gleefully dream about seeing the bones of an independent school being built--a school fostering creativity and allotting lots of time for free play . . . Sigh . . . I downgrade to an independent restaurant . . . a park? . . . a grocery store?! . . . anything but another medical center.  What do they know that we don't?  Does our community need special medical  attention due to an as-yet-unidentified environmental hazard? Are we a hotbed of accidental and violent injury?

Now, in the event that I actually do need emergency  help, my health won't be more only problem.  Analysis paralysis - Decision anxiety - WHICH one is best?

DRINKING

Drinking. There's lots of it.  I like it.  Not much more to say . . . 

When learning that our family would be moving to Texas, friends immediately started sending their condolences as well as helpful videos on how to navigate our new life--videos such as Toddlers in Tiaras and Friday Night Lights.

I'm skeptical by nature and understand that TV--even 'reality' TV, maybe especially 'reality' TV--is fiction, but I've been surprised by the number of practices that I assumed to be make-believe that have proven to be actual things that happen in Texas:

• Dance moms - totally a thing.  I'll never forget standing outside my daughter's 2nd grade dance class and hearing a mom scream at her daughter, "I don't care that you don't like it!  If you are going to have a chance of being on the Cheer Squad in high school, you need to take dance and gymnastics until 8th grade!"

• The team pride placards placed outside the home of the quarterback and other members of the football team?  I pass them in every neighborhood around here.

• Powderpuff Football--where the football players dress as cheerleaders and the cheerleaders play football--yup, it's an annual event at our local high schools.

You'd think I'd be used to being surprised by now.  But I suppose that's the thing about being surprised, you never see it coming.  My latest surprise was learning that Cotillion is still a thing.  What is Cotillion?  Well, according to Merriam Webster:

cotillion

noun co·til·lion \kō-ˈtil-yən, kə-\

 

1. a ballroom dance for couples that resembles the quadrille

2. an elaborate dance with frequent changing of partners carried out under the leadership of one couple at formal balls

3. a formal ball

Sheldon Cooper, of The Big Bang Theory, explains it a little differently:

CLICK HERE

Until recently, I thought that Cotillion was . . . Honestly, I hadn't thought about Cotillion at all!  That is, until, I saw a notice on our neighborhood online discussion board advertising sign-up for Junior Cotillion in the Fall.  Soon, neighborhood parents were posting with comments like:

• "It's always a popular, super fun activity."

• "I've had two children go through this program.  It's a great experience."

• "SPREAD the word to the BOYS- it seems they always have plenty of girls but need boys as they partner kids up to dance."

That night, I went to dinner with friends and asked what they thought of it.  They both had already signed up their kids.  The thought of signing up my daughter had never crossed my mind.  Maybe I was stuck thinking about what torture a manners and dancing class would have been for my socially awkward child self.

Do I want my kids to have manners?  Yes!  I'm always telling my kids to get their elbows off the table, eat with their mouths closed, cut their food into smaller pieces, etc..  It's an uphill struggle, but I struggle because I think its worth it.  Do I want them to be polite?  Yes!  We practice our pleases and thank yous and I try to model the courtesy that I want them to learn.  Do I want them to know how to dance?  Sure.  I'm just not sure that that goal is as realistic.  Do they need to know how to Fox Trot?  Not really, but learning new skills is always useful.  Is it harmful?  Not unless the social costs of being unsuccessful would outweigh any benefit.

I wondered why I was so hostile to the mere suggestion of sending my girls to Cotillion.  Maybe it's the gloves, the white dresses, the reinforcement of what I think are archaic gender roles.  Would I feel differently if I had sons?  Would I be more open to dressing up my little gentleman and having someone else reinforce the lessons I teach at home? (All except the dancing that is.  I have no idea how to Fox Trot and the closest I've come to waltzing was in a production of Pygmalion.)

When I talked to my husband about it, he had no interest, but he didn't have the anxiety either.

"If anyone asks you why you didn't sign the girls up,"  he said, "tell them we teach them manners by watching Downton Abbey."

B is for

One afternoon, many years ago when I lived in Singapore, I went shopping on Orchard Road with a Chinese friend.  I loved shopping with her.  She was the type of friend I'd dreamed of as a pre-teen.  The kind of friend who told me what I should wear and what I shouldn't.  The day she came over to my flat and excavated my wardrobe is a story for another time. 

On this day, I was shopping for a dress and jewelry to wear to a friend's summer wedding.  "Ai yo," she exclaimed when she caught me peering at cubic zirconia necklaces.  "You're a teacher. Everyone knows that isn't real."  In that moment, she taught me that, in Singapore, it's better to wear a small diamond and a real diamond than grandly fake it.

What would Suzanne make of Houston, I wonder?  Where any t-shirt, pair of jeans, even tape dispenser can be improved with a layer of bling-the brighter, the flashier, the better.  She'd adjust, I suppose.  Suzanne was always a 'when-in-Rome-type of girl.'  Still, I wondered what she'd make of it all.

When I first moved here, I balked from the gaudy displays and cursed my inability to find a pair of jeans without any sparkles.  But I wonder.  It seems as though-despite history or intention-when you live in a place, the culture somehow seeps into you, slowly, until you have become part of it and reinforce its rules.

Clothes I wouldn't have thought fit for an indoor cleaning day in Singapore suited me fine for a trip to the mall in Seattle.  I'm still no diva, but I now wear eyeliner more days than I don't.  Still, there are times when the level of my enculturation surprises even me.  

A week before my college reunion, I treated myself to a pedicure with a friend.  With a sense of summer splurge, we opted for the SPA PEDICURE complete with paraffin treatment.  When asked if I wanted any art, I thought, why not.  My big-toe orchid looked so unremarkable next to my friend's full floral that, as we were set to dry, I wondered whether I should've asked for more.

The next week in New York, I happily greeted friends that I hadn't seen in years.  As I checked into the hotel, I ran into one of my best girlfriends feeling at home for the first time in months.  After we had been talking for a few minutes, her gaze slipped to my new sandals.  "Nice sandals," she said.  "Thanks," I replied. Then, seeing her gaze linger on my toes, added "Isn't the flower fun?"  "Sure," she replied smiling.  "It must be a Texas thing."  In that moment, the cloud outside the window behind where we stood shifted just enough for a tiny beam of sunlight to break through.  The strip of light fell on us, and, in that moment, for the very first time, I saw a flash - a swift sparkle.  In the middle of the Orchid-glued in place-lay a teeny--, teeny-tiny rhinestone.

I guess it's true what they say.  You can never really go home again.

We could

REMEMBER THE ALAMO-or-talk about what matters much more to new Texans - the discovery that, in Texas:

"You're just renting from the ants."

                      --Darren Evans, local storyteller

You may remember that one of my biggest shocks when moving from Seattle to Houston was moving from a place so cold and dreary that no bugs called it home--seriously, there weren't any mosquitoes in Seattle-to Insectopia.

• S kicked an ant pile during our first visit to an Open House thinking it was a pile of dirt.  She still claims that a dark spot on her toe is from one of the ant bites of that day.  (I still can't believe that the hosting realtor asked me if he should write up a contract.  I think he was kidding.  He was kidding right?)

•  A plopped down on the curb at the park not long after, accidentally settling herself down on a huge nest.  I thought that the other mom at the park would think that I was insane as she watched me tear off A's clothes and frantically slap her little thighs.  No.  Not a Texas mom.  She calmly handed me her water bottle to splash over A's little body with a smile and nod of sympathy.

I learned eventually.  I learned to scan the ground as I chatted at the playground looking for signs of underground life before spreading out my blanket.  I learned to bring a blanket everywhere since grass that looked green and soft might be hiding something nasty.  I learned that mint toothpaste neatly takes the sting out of of an ant bite, and I learned that cowboy boots are not just for fashion.

Nothing, though, could have prepared me for what I would face when we moved into our house after renting for six months.  The house had only been vacant for two weeks, and, with due diligence, I had hired an exterminator to spray the property before we moved in.  What I didn't know is that an ant infestation--there is no other word--had been building for some time.  Fortunately, our new dream home wasn't hosting a colony of fire ants.  No, if fire ants are your cousin Vinny, big and tattooed, showing off at the family reunion, our ants--ghost ants--were your cousin Myron.  Small and pale, Myron didn't bite.  In fact, Myron was hardly noticeable at all, until he joined up with your cousins Vera, Myrtle and Claire, and their cousins, Ethel, Simon, Dennis, and so on.  You would never notice Myron on his own, but, as part of the big cluster of otherwise unremarkable cousins, he was a force to be reckoned with. 

On move-in day, after all the boxes were in the house, I looked over at A's doll that she had plopped on a window sill as she toddled off to explore her room and saw that it was covered in ants.  Horrified, I ran the doll under water, thinking that she had dropped it outside.  Later, in the office, I saw a thick ant trail leading into a box that I knew held our computer cables and keyboards and, I suppose, lots of juicy crumbs.  Our pre-move in treatment had flushed the ants from their hiding spaces, and now they were everywhere.

For the next month, every cheerio left in the sink would be surrounded within minutes.  I could never see them on the black marble counter tops, but when I swept the counters with a wet paper towel, it would be littered with tiny black specks.  When I came home from work, my first thought was always "Where will the ants be today?" We chased them from room to room, but they kept moving - up the walls, down the floors, an inescapable enemy plucked from a 1970's budget horror movie.

In my 20's, I'd been a intermittent fan of King Of The Hill, laughing at the antics of Hank, Peggy and the rest of the crew.  Now in Texas, I understood so much more.  Yes, BBQ is a big deal.  Drinking beer on the sidewalk - why not?!  Dale and his Dead-Bug truck - yes - we need Dale.

Friends from Seattle came to visit soon after we moved in.  The doorbell rang one day.  I answered.  Who was it, they asked.  "Oh, just Matt." It was Matt. Matt, the pest control guy.  I've been living here for five years, and I still don't know the name of the lady who drives the postal truck.  But, Matt . . . Matt and I talk often.  Thanks to Matt, I haven't walked into a house of horrors in years.