BBQ BATTLES

So, it's been a while since I've posted. I guess that I'm becoming used to the pattern of the days, going to the splash park, naptime, playing at home in the air conditioning and then going out late afternoon for swim lessons, playdates or whatever. Life is routine. Life is good. Then come Friday nights and . . . BBQ battles at the pool!

The pool in our apartment complex is surrounded by a nice deck with armchairs and tables and has a propane BBQ. Throughout the complex, there are charcoal BBQs for resident use, but only at the pool can one grill one's steak with propane. There is no sign up. It is first come, first serve. So, every Friday night, it's a race to the grill, as bearded and burned Pearlanders show up with their platters stacked high with meat, hoping to be the first to the grill. I've never seen two groups share the enormous grill, which I would think could handle multiple servings. No, those unlucky enough to be number two, find a table on the other side of the pool.

They might go for a swim while they wait. They might have a beer . . . while in the pool. They might have a smoke, again, while in the pool. But for the grill, they must wait.

PRE-K PROM

Much of my recounting so far has been to clarify assumptions that Texas is some foreign country with dusty roads, tumbleweeds blowing down deserted streets and every man wearing a belt buckle the size of his head. Baring a few creature encounters, the stores sell clothes that you can find anywhere (more sundresses of course); hair styles are remarkably unremarkable; and I see about the same number of cows and horses as I did driving around Snohomish County.

In order to get to know some folks locally, I have signed up for a moms meetup group--basically a group of moms that has an online message board and hosts occasional events. I'm basically a lurker but I like to check in. The other day, I saw a post: "PRE-K Prom & Graduation!"

My curiosity peaked. I read the post where a mom waxed enthusiastically about her daughter's PRE-K Prom, Graduation and Daddy Daughter dance. Other members chimed in with messages of support "such fun!" "make sure to post pictures" and "I'm sure she'll have a great time" as she described how her daughter was going to wear a pageant dress that she had only worn once; was looking for the high heels that her daughter insisted on wearing; and described the route that the limo they had rented was going to take to lengthen the five-minute journey to the event hall. Have a mentioned that the graduate in question is FIVE YEARS OLD!

This morning's update recounted the trauma that ensued when Pre-K Mom's husband had to work on the night of the dance, so Pre-K Princess' older brother stepped in as her escort. With corsage and boutonniere purchased, Mom was off to get her own hair done.

I can only hope that this is an isolated incident of insanity. Apparently, we're not only pushing academic expectations into the lower grades--reading before or during Kindergarten and three hours of homework in third grade--but we're also importing the social expectations as well. How wonderful that a five-year-old can experience the joy of a limo ride and a manicure, as well as the despair of having your date cancel. This is madness. No wonder folks today have little concept of delayed gratification.

Now, I'm sounding like an old curmudgeon.

Maybe, it's just this one school. Maybe it's just Texas. At Shantih's swim lesson on Friday morning, I looked around at one point and realized that out of the twelve women in the room, I was the only one who wasn't a shade of bottle blond. Maybe it's just me . . .

Feral Fowl

So, life in Texas seems to have calmed down a bit. No terrifying windstorms; no wayward crustaceans. We go to the park. We go to Little Gym. We go the grocery store. Besides noticing a copy of Ammunition Today being displayed next to Good Housekeeping or passing the overstocked gun aisle in the local sporting goods store, everything seems pretty, well everyday.

That is, of course, until we tried a new park last Thursday. There was no one else there, which I attributed to the 90-degree heat. I would have been safely ensconced in air conditioning as well, if I hadn't promised Shantih a trip to the swings as a reward for cooperating during a tour of a potential rental house.

After slathering both girls in sunscreen--an increasingly fruitless exercise with Shantih who literally absorbs the sun regardless of her SPF shield--I walked with the girls over to the picnic benches where I first observed a new possibility for the deserted state of the park.

Eek. Eek. The rusty creak of a swing rocking in the wind was the only sound as we approached a beach volleyball court that looked too much like a beach for Shantih to pass by. Both girls began playing in the sand and only I noticed that our approach had been noted. A group, a gaggle?, of six ducks lead by a large black male with red markings started waddling towards us. In an amazingly organized "v" formation they approached, with the leader staking me out coming closer and closer.

As I pulled out my new Samsung Gravity cameraphone, the flock charged mistaking my phone for some kind of white chocolate delicacy. I moved left. So did they. I moved right. I was followed. Every step I made was matched by the ever increasingly throng.

No! Alexis charged into the group yelling "Ducky" "Ducky" and holding out her hand to pet them. Fearful that they would mistake her fruity toddler fingers for a forgotten french fry, I pulled her into my arms but even her screams for me to put her down did not disperse the ducks. They were fixed, focused. I had never seen birds so intent and lacking fear. Were they beset by some avian-flu? I'd once read an article that said that animals who approach humans are likely to be rabid. I looked closely at their beaks for froth but saw only teeth--small but sharp little teeth. Were they just hungry?

I finally returned Alexis to the grass and she proceeded to toddle after the waddlers telling the birds who had moved closer to the nearby stream to "stay here." I knew it was time to leave when she climbed under a recently vacated picnic table and attempted to stick her fingers in some avian leftovers.

As we were leaving, the birds received the visitors they had been expecting. A father and daughter loaded with crumbs who proceeded to feed the entire group. Although part of me felt irritated that these feedings were what domesticated these ducks to the point of harassment, another felt simple amusement to see the lead duck wag his tail feathers like an overly-excited puppy waiting for a treat.

We'll return to the park, but in bigger numbers . . .

Crustacean Frustration

"Excuse me, ma'am, I think that there is a lobster under your car."

I challenge anyone to find a context for this sentence that would make sense without referencing a Douglas Adams book.

Yet, there I was, getting Shantih and Alexis into the car after a My Little Gym class, that a neighboring mom left her Honda Odyssey running to alert me to the crustacean lurking under my rear right tire. I bent down and looked. Yes, indeed. Red, black mottled body. Two claws. Spindly legs. A nice tail. I surmised to her out loud that it might be a large crawfish. Never having seen a crawfish this was a leap, but it looked a bit small to be a lobster and I've seen many a crawfish sign around here. Granted, the signs advertising crawfish are usually attached to a supermarket or restaurant: "Crawfish by the pound. LIVE! $4.99" or "Boiled Crawfish, ready to eat. $5.99" I've somehow missed the--DRIVE SLOWLY. CRAWFISH CROSSING--signs.

I fetched our steering wheel clamp from the car and extended the bar in an attempt to shift the creature to the middle of the car, so I wouldn't run over it on reversing. It spun around, lowered its tail, and raised its claws. I swear, the thing hissed. Hmmm, not friendly. Of course, any creature endowed with two large claws that have to be rubber banded in captivity is not likely to be the type to scuttle up and say howdy do. I tried again to shift it, but every attempt caused it to wedge itself further against my tire. Understandable I suppose. It felt safer in the shadows.

I got in the car and slowly reversed, trying not to squash him. Why, you may ask. Well, my neighbor who smirked and drove off as I took photos of the moment, proclaimed that she didn't want me to get my tire all dirty. Thanks! But, for me, I felt that any crawfish who was brave enough to end up alone in a suburban parking lot deserved a better fate than to be smooshed by a Suzuki Vitara encrusted with cheerio veneer and fruit snack lacquer.

Where did he come from? Was he washed ashore by the flooding earlier in the week, hiding in the drains until he attempted to make a break for a local creek? Was he packed in a Styrofoam cooler of brethren unexpectedly knocked over before being loaded into a car headed for a home boil? Did he leap out of a restaurant kettle making a narrow escape from being a lunchtime special?

I didn't crush him. Shantih and I waved goodbye as we headed home. However, I doubt that he made it out of the parking lot alive. But at least, I hope, that he met his end under the wheel of a Ford F350 or a Hummer or, at the very least, a Chrysler Town and Country.

RIP