THE ADVENTURES OF THE JAC ATTACK!

A Blog about a clever boy and a mom determined to out-smart him.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Small Town Rodeo

 The rodeo is deeply appreciated Texas tradition and indoctrinating my son as a Texan remains one of my mother's highest priorities.  I am not a Texan.  I was raised in the high desert plains of New Mexico and feel the pulse of the Rockies in my blood.  But on a slow day in West Texas I am willing to concede that the rodeo, even a small college rodeo is good entertainment.

The wind swept wildly over the West Texas grasslands and the clumps of dark green juniper bushes spotting the yellow landscape did little to halt it.  The wrought iron stadium stood just outside the small town of Cisco and a collection of pickup trucks had begun to gather.  A few beleaguered horses backed slowly out of rusting horse trailers led by slim cowboys wearing narrow blue jeans.

The "cowgirls" had abandoned the traditional tight jeans and snap shirts that have long been associated with the profession and instead wore the trappings of the even older occupation of harlotry. They sported tiny denim shorts barely covering their buttocks and bits of fat escaped from the edges.  These shorts were paired with cowboy boots and the ensemble finished with a bikini top.

The cowboys were somewhat flabby young men in need of a shave, wearing cut off t shirts.  The college football team recruited from urban settings stood hesitantly in the distance and seemed mostly wary of the cattle.

The main even was shoot dogging.  Half grown bulls were placed in a metal shoot.  These bulls lacked any form of beauty and shared no resemblance to the grazing cattle in picturesque landscape paintings.  They were awkwardly arranged, covered in spotted hides and adorned with rough little horns.

The cowboys stood in the shoot anxiously fidgeting while the tiny professor announced their names and made other important proclamations to include, "STOP SAYING THE F WORD! MY DAUGHTER IS IN THE CROWD."

A bull was released and rushed from the shoot with a young man holding desperately to its horns.  The bull spun in reckless circles and the young man finally relinquished his hold after being repeatedly stepped on.  The dance continued for ten iterations of ill fated cowboys.  The bulls stumbled triumphantly from the arena while cowboys dusted their pants off and attempted to regain pride lost in the dust.

Trey Rey a male member the the Cisco College Cheer leading squad jumped into the shoot.  He was a short young man with broad shoulders and an unproven swagger.  His compatriots lined the shoot sitting high on the metal fence and cheered wildly.  The bull lilted back in forth eager to escape the noise and confinement of its metal prison.  Trey Rey practiced his grip on the bull's stubby horns and gave the signal.  The shoot door swung open and the bull raced into the dirty arena dragging Trey Rey who tightly clung to the bull's horns.  Trey Rey fought to regain is footing and the bull snorted in protest. Trey Rey dug his heels into the deep dirt pulling his weight backwards.  The unexpected shift in momentum caught the bull off guard and Trey Rey flipped it head first into the dirt.  The crowd went wild and the dazed bull stood up giving the victorious Trey Rey an extra kick before exiting the ring and Trey Rey was the hero of the college rodeo.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Waiting

We are stuck in the airport waiting. Stormy West Texas weather has us festooned in Washington D.C.  In the last few weeks we have spent an entire day waiting in airports.  We have created airport games.  We have had long discussions about airport fashion and set up camp with blankets, airline pillows and portable movies.  Mostly, we have waited.

The airport in D.C is sterile and gray.  The floors are cold granite speckled with bits of embedded shiny rocks.  Passengers walk slowly to their gates anticipating a delay or race wildly across the hallway hoping to catch a flight, trailed by out of control rolling luggage.  Each seem inherently annoyed with the other.  In D.C we eat.  We eat pretzels soaked in butter, and covered with sugar.  We eat platter sized cheeseburgers and frenchfries so greezy that they discolor the paper bag with glossy oil marks.  Finally, we walk.  We walk up and down the airport corridors shopping for things we don't need.

The Doha airport is dirty but not overtly.  Secret bits of dirt hide in un-dusted corners and wedge between the gaps of off white tile.  Passengers arrive from all over the world.  Arab women seem like moving shadows.  The are covered head to toe in black, and move noiselessly past.  Only their eyes speak through the a rectangular window cut in the dark cloth.  A family or tired women disembark in brightly covered saris and reapply makeup in the airport restroom.  We drink coffee and then purchase more coffee.  We take turns chasing our son around the play place and we groan when they announce yet another flight delay.

Pigeons are roosting in the Kathmandu airport.  They are occupying a space purposed for humans and raising their young in the rafters.  We are herded into narrow rooms with shabby plastic chairs and fight for a space together to wait.  I roll my pants legs up before I go to the toilets.  The floors are perpetually wet and I squat awkwardly over a pit toilet.  There are no delay announcements but the time for our flight has long since passed.  We trade bits of information with the other passengers - some of it fact and other bits of fiction.  When the gates opens we rush the doors and I hold tightly to my son's hand.  We elbow our way up a movable staircase and onto the plane.  We join the other passengers in ignoring the flight attendant led safety briefing and wait to depart.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Easter in D.C

Yesterday I bought an Easter dress.  Actually it was an Easter skirt paired with new Easter heels, and a Madmen inspired blouse.  The Easter dress is a time honored tradition in the South.  Most years my mom hand crafted coordinating outfits for my sister and me.  Her hard work often went under-appreciated, but the pictures still bare witness to her handiwork.  Somewhere buried in a stack of fading snapshots in an awkward photo of us in matching cow jumper dresses and who could forget the year of large puffy hats with handmade rosettes?

Since I have no little girls to dress in frilly dresses I instead forced my husband and son into matching green checked shirts.  I was of course deeply proud of my little family and my son spent the morning trying to take his pants off during church.

Yesterday the Easter bunny showed up at our barbecue.  The dads hid plastic eggs across the terrace and seven small children raced around screaming in excitement.  As the largest kid in the group JAC dominated the egg hunt only to find his stash raided by the little kids when he left it unprotected to use the potty. 

I love Easter church service.  The building is packed.  The singing is beautiful.  After service we ate ham, mash potatoes, and mac-n-cheese.  Good food makes for a great holiday.  I told my son he would be more likely to find his Easter basket if he hopped everywhere - so he did.  He hopped and hopped and hopped.  And when we finally arrived back at our hotel he was exhausted and fell asleep in two minutes. 

Thursday, April 5, 2012

On Running and Kathmandu

What do you like about Kathmandu?  My best friends have all asked me this question.  I ask about their kids and their husbands.  I ask about career changes and we all enjoy spring weather and fattening American food together.  I am mentally assessing and summarizing their lives in our short time together.  I am looking for indicators of well-being that cannot be seen through truncated emails.  I am savoring bites of delicious conversation with people who know my back stories.  I relax into familiar patterns.

I like the challenge of Kathmandu.  This is the first answer that tumbles from my mouth.  I like that every day I must try being brave.  I open our front gate.  It is made of heavy gray steel.  A few weeks ago it betrayed me, crushing my left index finger and now my fingernail is failing off in hard yellow pieces.  I walk down my driveway to start my morning Kathmandu run, trying to pick my route.  I dodge buses, and motorcycles so plentiful that they are a plague of locus swerving and narrowly missing my back heel.  Dogs sleep curled up in potholes or paw through open sewers looking for edible scraps.   A black dog with a curled tail and sagging chest lunges at me and barks an aggressive warning.  When I return home my teeth are coated in grit and my nostrils covered in black dirt.  The run was hilly, mostly unpleasant and felt dangerous but I was brave.  I feel like I have conquered a piece of the wild city of Kathmandu.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Travels

As we prepared to board the plane I confirmed our seat numbers.  Jesse would be sitting in row 31.  I would be sitting in row 45 and JAC would be sitting in row 38.  I walked JAC onto the plane, buckled him into his seat, gave him a his toy bag and hoped the young man sitting next to him would take him to the potty.  I sauntered to my seat on the other end of the plane grateful that I would not have to sit next to a wiggly preschooler for the 14 hour flight.

When faced with prospect of sitting next to a preschooler passengers practically jumped at the opportunity to trade seats with me.  So, I sat next to JAC despite the  airline booking error. JAC and I were a team for the long journey to Kathmandu.  I made a dark tent with our airline blankets, draping them over our seats.  I used the airline issued eye mask to attached the too big head phones to JAC's ears and we watched endless hours of movies.  We slept piled on top of each other and used every bathroom break to walk laps around the plane.

After a five  hour flight, a ten hour layover followed by a fourteen hour flight we existed in some version of delirium.  We were jetlagged, dirty and hungry as we exited the airport.  JAC dragged his car shaped carry-behind him like a neglected puppy as we searched for luggage.  We had been moving constantly for two day but when I stepped outside I stopped.  I was overcome by the quiet.  I have grown so used to the never-ending car horns blaring in Kathmandu that they seem like a soundtrack playing constantly in background.  Their absence seemed almost palpable. The air was clean, the roads were organized and the trip suddenly seemed worth it.  I realized all over again how much I love the U.S.A.