Dear Spring,

Dear Spring,

Say something. I’m giving up on you.




“It’s creepy.”

“No, it’s good.”

“So you want people to follow you?” New blogger sounds unsure.

“That means they’re going to get “tequilaandlemonade” posts in their inbox or on facebook.” Old blogger explains.

“How do they follow me?”

“They have to scroll all the way to the bottom and hit the blue button from wordpress, right here. Then you can follow them too.”

“What if I think their page is stupid?” New blogger asks.

“Ignore them, but the more affiliates you have the more traffic you generate. You can even get people to advertise on your site.”

“I hate those annoying ads. I thought if I paid money, it’d keep them off my site.”

“These ads give you money.”

“I like money,” New blogger sounds a bit more excited now.

“Each click on the pad pays you like ten cents or something.”

“Oh, that’s hardly worth the trouble.”

“Do you want people reading your stories or not?” Old blogger asks.

“Only the good ones,” New blogger says.

“People will hit like on the good ones. It’s like recommending them to other bloggers.”

“What about the bad ones. Will they hit a you suck button and send that out to friends?”

“As good as that idea sounds, no. They just ignore it. But you should send your you suck idea to wordpress. It’d probably eliminate about two-thirds of the blogs out there.”

New blogger considers it before saying, “Let’s not get too cocky. I’m new at this. I don’t want them eliminating “tequilaandlemonade.”

“Mom, you’re too funny for that,” Old blogger says.

“Suck-up,” New blogger replies.

“Well, I was hoping you’d spring for that new dress for homecoming.” Old blogger says.

“That one that’s so tight it’d hardly fit a first grader?” New blogger asks.

“You exaggerate. I want Zach to notice me when I walk in with Ben.” Old blogger explains.

“That’s shameless.”

“Exactly, and that’s how youneed to be with your new blog. Shameless self-promotion, that’s how you get noticed.”

“So you’re telling me that I need to have a video of myself with my boobs flopping out shaking my booty in a skin tight dress on my blog?” New blogger asks.

“Oh, God. Now that’s creepy,” Old blogger replies.


A Day at the Beach

“Maybe we should just jump right in,” Lexi suggested.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Rachael cautioned

“Where did all these jelly fish come from?” Penny asked.

“I’ve never seen so many,” Rachael said looking around at all the sunbathers standing at the edge of the breaking waves too afraid to venture into what should have been soothing ocean waters.

The occasional clueless tourist ventured into the water only to emerge screaming and rubbing sand, vinegar, and any other internet cure all for the sting of the poisonous tentacle.

“I can’t take it anymore. This heat is killing me,” Lexi moaned. Her mom only dropped her off at the beach once or twice a summer. She didn’t want to waste it looking at the water.

She inspected the water and walked down the shoreline a few steps. Not seeing any jellies, she bent down and using her hands scooped up the water to splash on her chest and neck allowing it to trickle down and cool her sweltering flesh.

“Ahhhh, that felt good,” Lexi told her friends. “And it’s the only way to avoid a heat. Go ahead, just be careful.”

After a few minutes a small crowd began to form around the gentle waves close to the shore bending and scooping; allowing the cool sensation to replace the scorching heat on their skin. Children joined in while mothers cautiously stood look out for any sign of floating tentacles.

Feeling confident, Lexi returned to the water’s edge and scooped up the soothing ocean water. Immediately she felt a burning like a lit match searing into a particularly sensitive area of her feminine mystique. She started splashing more water, faster, frantically keeping her mouth clinched tight to muffle the involuntary squeal.

Penny asked, “What is wrong with you?”

“Ice, I need ice,” Lexi was jumping up and down while waving her hands like she was about to take flight.

“There’s ice in the cooler. What’s wrong? Did you get stung?” Penny asked. The girls noticed that a handful of people stopped fanning themselves and were watching them while trying to look like they weren’t watching them.

Lexi tried to walk nonchalantly to the cooler not to let on that she had a poison filled tentacle shooting flames into her left nipple. She reached in the cooler for some ice and slipped it into her bathing suit top as discretely as possible and, “aaahhh . . . sweet relief.”

As soon as she could speak again she whispered, “I got stung by a jelly fish . . .  in the boob.”

Penny and Rachael broke into roaring hilarity.

“It’s only funny when it doesn’t happen to you,” Lexi spat at them, causing them to laugh even harder.

Rachael hopped up and began mocking Lexi with a silly dance where she alternately lifted one foot then the other like she was running in place and squeal loudly while flapping her arms. Rachael’s dance inspired Penny to change the lyrics to her favorite Alicia Keys’ song. While Rachael did her ridiculous dance parody, Penny sang, “It’s just a boob, but it’s on fi-yaaaah.” And then they’d fall over laughing again.

“Maybe we should perform our song and dance routine at the dance this Saturday in front of Lexi’s hot date,” Rachael suggested.

“Or maybe you shouldn’t.” Lexi warned.

What’s off limits??

When it comes to a joke, what’s off limits?

I guess the answer is different for everyone. Last night, Jon Stewart presented a long, hilarious parody of the most recent “stand your ground” ruling in Florida. I think he’s a comic genius but I couldn’t laugh. The mother in me sat stoically with tears threatening to expose just how not-funny I found that story. I understood the parody. I got his point. But I did not smile. Not once. I could hardly stop myself from crying.

At least he’s dealing with it. I can’t. Every time I see a show about Trayvon or Jordan I have to turn away. I have a son that age. Sometimes he’s rude, mouthy, and plays his music too loud. Sometimes he makes stupid decisions. I’m terrified by the realization that so many people think an appropriate response is a bullet to the chest.

Sorry. Not funny. Not even a little.

Ain’t No Story Like a Fish Story

“A catfish party?” She said incredulously while swishing and spitting the toothpaste into the bathroom sink, “Whose idea was it to have a catfish party?”
“It’s a catfish tournament/fish fry and it was my boss’s idea,” He responded while deciding which tie would complement his grey suite and white shirt.
“So we have to catch them and fry them ourselves?” She asked confused. “What about that sounds like a party?”
“Randal’s planned a big team building afternoon that starts with a cat fishing tournament at their fully stocked pond. The three biggest fish earn their captures a ribbon. Then Randle and his wife fry the food and we enjoy a feast. It should be fun,” He sounded less than convincing.
“So this is an excuse for Randle to show off his new house and fully-stocked catfish lake.”
“Ah, you are a quick study,” He kissed her on the cheek while tightening his tie.
“Do you know how to catch catfish?” She probed.
“How hard can it be? Hook, bait, sinker, and reel them in,” His answer sounded overconfident.
“Remember that time we visited the fail-proof Texas Fisheries to show the boys how to fish?” She reminded him.
He winced at the memory. “But those were very well trained fish,” He teased sardonically.
That’s what the woman at the fisheries joked about when she handed out the corn for bait and special catch and release hooks, “They’re extremely well trained fish.” Everyone chuckled at the thought.
Nine year-old, Jordin dropped in the first yellow kernel of bait. Three eager fish hungrily dashed toward it. The fastest swam away satisfied; the other two drifted off disappointed.
“That was easy,” Jordin said. So Mom and Dad added the corn bait to the special hooks of all four fishing lines and simultaneously plopped them in the water.
Jordin checked his bait about a tenth of a second later. Nothing.
Another thirty seconds later, Jordin reeled in his line sure something had taken his bait. This time he was right. Dad added another gold nugget and splashed the line in a third time.
Jordin immediately started to reel in his line when Mom stopped him, “Jordin, I’m no fish expert but I think you actually have to leave the line in the water before the fish will bite the hook.”
Three hours, two cups of bait, and no fish later, they resigned to simply dropping the corn in the pond and admiring the fish happily munching away.
“I think they’re laughing at us,” older brother, Thomas said.
“They’re definitely laughing at us,” Mom concurred.
He willed the image of the failed fishing outing out of his mind and replied to his wife, “That time at the fisheries was totally different. Those hooks were rigged so the fish could get off too easily. Randall’s got real hooks and bait and guarantees everyone will spend next Saturday morning successfully reeling in plump, well-fed, tasty catfish.”
The morning of the tournament/fish fry was unusually cool for a spring day in Louisiana. Mom was prepared with extra sweatshirts and fleece leaving them no excuse to avoid hiking down to the lake to “rustle up some grub.” Whatever that meant.
The unsuccessful foursome relived the failed fish routine of hook, sinker, bait, bobber, plop – with the same predictable result. Fish swim up. Fish see bait. Fish swim away laughing.
“We really are fish repellant,” Thomas moaned.
“Persistence pays off. You just have to stick with it,” Dad encouraged.
“Does it unnerve you in the least at that between the two of us we have advanced degrees from two of the leading universities in the entire nation; and yet we are routinely outsmarted by fish?” She asked her husband with a endearing grin.
He grunts, “We’re going to catch one, just be patient.”
Thunderous cheering and splashing disrupted their conversation as the couple to the left of them reeled in their first catch of the day.
“See,” He told his family. “The fish are biting.”
At that same moment, cheering and splashing once again filled the air as the couple to the left pulled in a second fish. The woman proudly held the slimy trophy in the air like a scene out of The Lion King while we all cheered and made exaggerated “whoa” sounds.
Before the excitement died down, the now obnoxious couple to the left reeled in their third catch in about 15 minutes, an accomplishment that’s met with the loudest applause of the day.
“Get that one weighed. That’s a blue ribbon contender ya got there,” Her fellow fishing buddies cried out in excitement.
She scurried up to the weighing area with an excited grin beaming from her lips. Her fishing line hung dangling just above the water, bait precariously sagging from her overworked, bent hook.
While the fishless foursome sat less than two feet away with four baited hooks dancing provocatively in the water to lure fish, that damned obnoxious woman managed to catch a fish on her unattended, just hovering over the water fishing line.
Fishless family was understandably stunned. “What luck,” Jordin exclaimed.
“I don’t believe in luck. You make your own luck,” Mom said while scrambling across the damp earth to drag the already hooked line on to the blanket of mossy grass at the pond’s edge. Seizing the unlikely opportunity, Mom barked orders to her family before the other fishermen notice. Both boys stood victoriously by the borrowed line and its miraculous trophy.
Dad smiled, flashed the photo, and high-fived his resourceful spouse.
“Who needs hooks, bait, and bobbers? With a little luck and ingenuity, we created a little “fish story” of our own,” Mom beamed.