Spanning the years, there are certain issues one can count on: death, taxes, and sisters fighting over clothes. Growing up with my own four sisters the never-ending clothing drama took center stage. Here are the rules: do not covet your sister’s garments if tags are yet dangling. Only a dodo brain does that. Everyone else knows they must touch you sister’s skin first. Yes, there are certain issues one can count on: death, taxes, and sister’s fighting over clothes.

My sister once chased me out the front door, wagging her fist and screaming, “She’s wearing my pants and I haven’t even worn them yet!” Yes, I’m the dodo brain mentioned previously. She tackled me on the front lawn. There I was, sprawled face down and de-pantsed. Not sure how many neighbors witnessed the horrific scene over their special K., but I’ve tried to put that out of my mind. Was it worth it? Yes. That slick pair of blue jeans fit me like a great dream if only relishing them for an instant.

There are special reprieves when it comes to your sister’s moods, times when she doesn’t give you the stink eye, but they are not the norm. How delightful to have your sister wake up with the warm fuzzies. Passing you in the hallway she even mentions how gorgeous you look. And you know the hormones are at bay when SHE VOLUNTEERS to lend you something to wear from her own closet.

This, people without sisters, is comparable to spotting a white squirrel!

The pants, held out as tempting as a Hershey Bar, makes you do a double take. You swipe sleep from your eyes. It could be a booby trap. When she grows impatient, you gently slide the pants from her hands. Even as you wear them your head pounds with the thought of a possible ambush.

Yet despite emotional drama’s, the flip side of sisterhood is oh so sweet. There is no one who knows you better, character flaws and all, yet still loves you. And even though your sister might charge to scratch your back, as one of mine did, if I couldn’t pay she didn’t fling me into the street. She scratched for free, but only when she knew I wasn’t trying to dupe her.

Sisters. The only people who can yank your hair yet love you powerfully at the same time. And lets not forget the surprise when your sister stands up in your honor when someone is trash talking you. This is only acceptable when she’s doing it.

Yes, when I watch my girls together it brings things around full circle. As they grow up and away, I know they won’t always hear from their sisters as often as they’d like, yet know they are there, reliable as seasons. Like diamonds, sisters are rare and precious even if they occasionally wear your pants.

Feel free to share your sister stories here. You know you have some!

Cheers,

Dorraine

Generally hairspray suffices for all manner of bugs and spiders. Well, if it works for bugs, then why not lizards? Spray that stuff on those suckers and it makes them momentarily powerless. Mean, I’m not. My goal; to get them out of the house. No harm. No foul. Let them and me get back to business. Here’s a tidbit you might not know about the power of lizards.

Once, when I spotted a good-sized one on my fireplace, I initially tried to suck it up with my vacuum hose. I had read about this and it seemed an amazing way to go. Take the vacuum outside where the critter can escape at its own leisure. Keep in mind a friend was over, who was just as petrified of them as I was. This was a team effort. After the vacuum attempt failed, because I feared the lizard would pounce on me, I resorted to hairspray. One shot. Two shots. Nothing. He reared his head but nary made a move. On the third shot, the story turned. The lizard fell to the floor, his bubblegum pink dewlap flaring, transforming him into the prehistoric creature he truly was. Picture a lizard, no longer than your hand, standing up and charging you on its hind legs! Did you know they could do this? I assure you, we did not. There was ear piercing screaming and somehow my friend got the front door open while I cowered on the stairs. The lizard eventually ran out, cursing. At least I imagined he was. Here’s a tip: never use hairspray on a lizard. They don’t take kindly to it. Lesson learned.

This weekend we were in Utopia, Texas. What’s that got to do with lizards? Plenty apparently. Anticipating an afternoon cup of coffee, I was happily washing my hands at the kitchen sink. Washing, washing, washing. I was whistling, too, so happy to be there. When I looked down, a bright green chameleon was wrapped sideways around the bottom of the fixture. See Jane scream! See Jane run! My husband saved the day by catching it. He didn’t even chase me around with it like he normally does. Bless his heart. At that point I poured myself a honkin’ glass of wine. Vacations are good for that.

Now, the second night in Utopia, we were all hyped about doing a fire outside. The first night we had our butts glued to lawn chairs, staring gape-jawed at a swarm of stars. It is true what the song says: The stars at night, are big and bright…clap,clap,clap,clap…deep in the heart of Texas. Our little place was tucked in next to the Sabinal River, complete with 400 hundred-year-old cypress trees, their tired spines reclining over the water.

Oh, back to the fire. Twigs were piled high. Newspaper tucked between cracks. After dinner we walked to the fire ring, a short distance from the cabin. It was pitch dark, the dang flashlight we knew we had, we didn’t have. I got there first and a piercing animal scream cut the night. Two more followed. Close. Very close. The sounds reminded me of a particular raptor in Jurassic Park. “Hurry, hurry, hurry. Come on baby light my fire!” That was me, shouting to my husband. Lighter fluid ignited, flames exploding. We never saw the thing. Must have scared him silly. Later that morning, 5:30 am. to be exact, I heard the raptor again, out yonder, by the fire ring, going to town. One eye popped open. “Go take a gander at it,” I told myself. The other eye was sealed shut. “No. Let it have its prized territory.” That eye won.

We are back home now, familiar traffic and neighbor noise. We do have our share of wild animals. A raccoon here. A possum there. Nothing like what we heard but never saw in Utopia. Of course, I will always have those dang lizards to keep me company no matter where I roam.

There is nothing like tubing down a swollen river for five hours to remind you how alive you really are. Canoeing I’ve done. Rafting, too. But tubing was a first. There should have been a tubing 101 class. Just the basics. Like how to avoid getting a bruise on your backside the size of a shoe. Or how not to slam into trees. Or how to go over a minature waterfall without exposing anything. These are things you can and do figure out. But not without risk. You can put on quite a show in five hours time!

After the water, there was food and drink. All outside, of course, which makes everything taste better. When the stars paid a visit, we didn’t neglect their hospitality. Our backs were pressed to a blanket and we communed with diamonds. Many dreams have hatched under starry skys, many answers received. If bugs hadn’t been hostile, my sleeping arrangements would have been set. If you did nothing more than share the sky in west Texas with friends and family your time there would be well spent. Lets just say whenever I visit, a renewed zest for life comes back in my suitcase.

Now, back to the real world.

Yesterday, I paid a visit to Poopy Pants Corner. What? You’ve never been there? Well, you should go at least once. But first let me tell you what it is and what it is not. It is a gathering place in the mall for toddlers. There is a huge green tree and little plastic stumps to romp on. There is a prevading smell that screams “change me.” Many a stuffed diaper zips through this playyard. It is also a place to see brightly lit children. Children brimming with zest and vigor. More than most adults possess in their pinkie fingers. Don’t despair, though. It is contagious.

Here’s what it isn’t. If you like the smell of grandma’s kitchen on a Sunday afternoon, it is not that. There is no peace and quiet. The decibal level of screeches should require earplugs. It is not a place to eat, read or otherwise engage in adult activity. Your job, while there, is to pay attention. Watch for unexpected smiles and giggles. These come from you.

One daughter, a nanny to four kids, was the reason I was there in the first place. Two of the four qualify for Poopy Pants Corner. Bye the way, this is not the offical name. It just seemed an appropriate title.

While we sat, the two eight graders we were with, one, another one of my daughters, and the boy, one of the four children, took off to visit a couple of stores. At least that’s what we thought. They came back all smiles and twinkles. Because they had no cash, I knew it couldn’t have been from anything they’d purchased.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“De-pants a mannequin,” the boy said.

“Oh!” My usual storehouse of words escaped me.

“Yeah, it was great! An employee flew out of the store and asked me If I didn’t have anything better to do. I told her I couldn’t think of one thing better.”

Time to go. On our way out of the mall, we passed the particular store. Pants were back up on the mannequin. The mall back to normal. Peeking from behind a shirt rack in the front window was the employee. She scowled at our white headed friend. Actually, looked like she could hurt him.

“There’s your friend,” I said.

“Yeah, she likes me.” He grinned and waved to her.

This is my conclusion: who knew a trip to Poopy Pants Corner could be as adventurous as a Frio River adventure? Until next time, keep your eyes on the sky. And the mannequins!

Sincerely,

Dorraine

I would like to call this my random rambling column; a place to share information with you, the reader, or sometimes just share my thoughts, which might not be much at all. You never know what you will find here, so please come back often to check the site. I will try to entertain you if all else fails, but please don’t expect miracles. Depending on what color my mood ring is, you never know what tone this page will offer. Right now, at this very minute, I am happy thinking of summer.

The ice cream man comes to mind. He has been mysteriously showing up in our neighborhood again after a long absence. Needless to say his timing is bad. BAD! Any respectable ice cream man would not come around the dinner hour. They would not blare their horn and expect kids to blast out the front door, which is exactly what two of mine did, one breaking her toe on the doorframe in the process. She groaned yet still gave chase. She never caught him. A speed demon is what that ice cream man is; speed demon and dinner wrecker. That broken toe cost us a good three-hundred dollars! You know how much Extreme Moose Tracks ice cream you could buy with that?

Now back to other summer things. Hopefully, if you’re lucky, your summer is a marriage of travel and relaxation. Depending on where you live you might or might not have unbearable temperatures. Here in South Texas it’s a given, which reminds me why our family spends much time in and around water. There is Galveston if you like your water warm and wavy or the Frio River if you prefer a cold glassy effect. Our preference is both.

There is nothing more thrilling than being on the beach and having a sandwich plucked right from your fingers by an aggressive seagull, while hordes swirl and swoop above your head as though you are the main course. That only happened to me once. That day we ate in the car. Our family also enjoys combing through shops along the beach. But first we must smell ripe with salt, grains of sand sticking to us as though our suntan lotion were Elmer’s glue. Then and only then can we find tacky seashell thingies to bring home. Later, after we’ve showered and come to our senses, we unwrap each treasure and wonder who those sunburned, sandpapered people were who picked that stuff out and what, if anything, they planned on doing with them. That’s where friends come in. Let them figure out the mystery. Many a steamy summer day has been whiled away on the beach, building sandcastles, riding waves, or just protecting sandwiches from seagulls.

Now the Frio River is a whole other story. The area reminds me of the Buffalo River in Arkansas, with its limestone cliffs and crystal cold water. If you’ve never been to either please put them on your must do list. First let me tell you about something we saw on the Buffalo, and then I’ll get back to the Frio.

Canoeing on the Buffalo River, my husband Bob and I passed another canoe, a lady sitting high up on a chair and painting her fingernails. Her husband was single-handedly getting them through rapids and all manner of crazy water, while she remained atop her throne, her only concern not smudging her nail polish. Our driver later said, “Did you see that queen sittin’ on her chair and polishin’ her fingernails?” The driver shook his head. “I’ve never seen nothin’ like that.”

I smiled at my husband and hiked my eyebrows. “Don’t be getting any big-headed ideas,” he told me.

Okay, I’ve run out of time. Stay tuned for a Frio River update. I’m sure a story will emerge from the woodwork when we visit in June. Hopefully, it will be something to tickle your funny bone. Please go dig it up and stay tuned.

Happy summer!

Dorraine