Making the Most of Opposite Day

“I love eating peas for dinner!” my offspring blurted out.

“You DO?!” My mind ran through the many tearful dinners where we pleaded and threatened to sell his DS to the neighbor just to get him to eat three peas.

“Ha!” he giggled. “Today is Opposite Day! I tricked you!”

Kids get all the luck. They can say exactly what’s on their minds, unfiltered, and get away with it simply by claiming it’s Opposite Day. So, I’ve made an executive decision.

Today is my Opposite Day.

I take pleasure in my son wiping his hands in his hair instead of his napkin, my daughter asking me where her shoes are, my cat yakking up a hairball on the kitchen table and my husband taking out the garbage but not replacing the bag. It makes me happy when the smoke alarm decides that 2:14 a.m. is an appropriate time to signal that it needs a new battery, seeing kids ride their bikes to school sans helmet, having my name spelled “Crtny” on my Starbucks cup (buy a vowel, Ms. Brrsta!) and when the heat gets so oppressive that my backyard is awash in the lovely scent of Linebaugh’s landfill.

If you really want to make my heart swell, stand behind me in line at Publix, then rush over to the newly opened lane when the cashier says, “Next!”

Or drive up the far right side of Veterans Expressway, and, right before the toll booth, jump four lanes of traffic to cut me off in the SunPass lane.

I’d give my right arm to sit next to your screaming toddler at the movies or have you cough all over me while we dine al fresco at Tijuana Flats. By all means, bring your barking, shedding, smelly dog and take his leash off while you’re at it. I can’t think of anything I love more than a muzzle in my crotch while I eat my Dos Tacos.

But, if your desire is to lather me in sumptuousness, kindly drive the wrong way into the newly opened parking lot at Westchase Elementary and take the space I was waiting for. Your kid wants to get home faster than mine does anyway…since I sold his DS to the neighbor.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

By Courtney Netta

A Wry, Experienced Diva’s Take on the Holidays

You are reading this after the holidays but I’m writing it before.  Doesn’t matter.

For 45 years they’ve all been the same, give or take a relative, new child, new grandchild or someone who doesn’t want to talk to me this year. 

Yes, I also have friends with that issue.  Their wonderful “Norman Rockwell” holidays came to a screeching halt when their two married sons decided they can’t be in the same room, house or city at the same time. 

Unfortunately they live next to each other. 

Up went the fence and the boys’ Grandma almost had a stroke. 

“Not in my family!” she screamed on the street while the neighbors laughed. 

And so their holidays became split. My friend’s husband came up with a plan for the boys’ grandparents. “You take Dad to Thomas and I’ll take Mama to Michael.  Have your appetizer then leave by the front door.  Mom and I will enter by the rear door and we’ll switch again for dessert.”  But my friend changed the plan. “No,” she told him, “you take your Dad because he won’t stop pinching my butt.”

Now my husband and I have a new granddaughter, born on Nov. 18 up in New York.  Sadly we haven’t seen her yet.  Shortly before she was born, my son asked us to give them two weeks to get her on a schedule.  I was careful not to laugh. What do I know? I’m just an old Grandma. 

So, the first night they’re home, they text us a photo of our beautiful little girl sleeping in her bassinet.  The time is 8:20 p.m. and the message is: “Asleep for the night.”

Yeah, right. 

At 10 p.m. my daughter receives a text. “Changing diapers and feeding again.”

Surprise, surprise…the little angel was up all night.  As I write this she’s a little over two weeks and hasn’t slept a night yet.  We are hoping to be up in New York meeting “the perfect child” after Christmas.  Until then photos will have to do.

I have to end this now because it’s time to take down our Christmas decorations.  As a gentle reminder: please take down your Halloween-changed-to-Autumn-changed-again-to-Christmas decorations. 

Remember, Valentine’s Day is right around the corner.  If you don’t believe me, visit your local pharmacy for all the latest cards, candy and decorations.

Happy New Year. 

By Roberta Fallon

OMG, It’s AOAD!

My name is Helen and I suffer from AOAD, Adult Onset Attention Disorder.

I have four kids, a busy husband and a sick cat. Most moments I have to be in four different places at the same time. I schedule appointments, play taxi driver, read bedtime stories and play tooth fairy. Is it any wonder I leave random dollars under the cat’s pillow?

There’s just way too much multi-tasking multihappening. Take the evening news. I’m talking on the phone, helping with homework, cooking, and listening to the newscaster – all while a ticker-tape scrolls across the screen with weather, traffic, SPF conditions and our current Homeland Security Decorating Theme Color. Hello, can it wait? How can I listen if I’m reading the bottom of the screen, talking on the phone and burning dinner – all while gluing a bald eagle on a history project poster board that was due yesterday. What are they thinking?

Have you tried to drive? Children bickering, radio blasting, digital billboards, teen drivers, cell phones, texting. No wonder I struggle to flash my blinker while chugging my venti, non-fat, sugar-free, 3-pump, extra caramel, double shot, half soy latte. Yummmm, tastes like diabetes…

What about eat this not that? Some say eat bacon; some say don’t eat bacon. Last year they said, “Eat more fish.” This year they say, “Fish has too much mercury.” Last year three eggs, this year two eggs. Last year gluten-free and this year casein-free.

How can I shop for groceries with all that hanging over my head? I can’t even write “milk” on the shopping list. There’s skim, part skim, low fat, one percent, two percent, whole, large curd, small curd, curds and whey, soft, semi-soft, semi-hard, hard, cream, whey, no whey, soy, organic, hormones, no hormones, farm-raised, cultured, mild cultured, ill-cultured, culture club, cotton club, Sam’s club...somebody stop me please!

Like I said: Too many distractions, too much multi-tasking, too little time. On second thought, maybe I don’t suffer from AOAD, OCD, BDD, BMI, BMW, OMD, OAR, REM, DWTS, SYTYCD, LOL or OMG.

Maybe instead of simplifying our words we should just simplify our lives.

By Helen Vasiloudes

Helen Vasiloudes lives behind the gates in Harbor Links and can be reached at hvasiloudes@me.com during visiting hours.

Motors That Just Don’t Stop

A few dozen wrestlers hustle up and down the center courtyard staircase, then sprint double-time around the upper hallways.

They run in a straight line, going up and down, out and back. Over and over, they go. After an hour of non-stop running, they are done.

It’s a typical afternoon at Alonso High School.

“It takes a special breed of kid,’’ Ravens wrestling coach John Moore said.

Alonso’s wrestlers are at school for weight-lifting by 6 a.m. Then there’s a quick shower and a change of clothes before reporting to homeroom. They will go outside to handle a 250-pound tire, flipping it about 15 times along the ground while sweating through their shirts. They will fling sledgehammers, climb a rope to the ceiling of the Alonso gymnasium and do some long-distance running.

“If you want to get into the best shape of your life and push yourself mentally and physically, this is the sport for you,’’ Alonso senior Eric Silvers said.

Silvers, a resident of The Greens, should know.

He played on Alonso’s golf team through his high-school career. He was about 245 pounds and 35 percent body fat. He was convinced to come out for wrestling and has conditioned himself like never before. Now he weighs 195.
“What you try to do is get a little bit better every day,’’ Silvers said. “You never give up. You always work hard. That’s wrestling.’’

And that’s the lifestyle espoused by Moore, who is the only wrestling coach in Alonso’s 11-year history.

“We want kids who have motors who won’t stop, kids who don’t mind physical confrontation,’’ Moore said. “It’s one on one. It’s all up to you.

“In basketball, you’ve got somebody setting a screen for you. In football, there’s somebody blocking for you. If you’re a baseball pitcher, somebody else has to catch the ball. In wrestling, it’s you. No matter if you’re wrestling a state champion or the weakest person around, you still have to show some fortitude. It’s a commitment level that you might not see in a lot of other activities.’’

Sophomore Leo Rea, a resident of The Vineyards, said he gains a new level of respect around school when fellow students learn that he competes in wrestling.

“It’s definitely the hardest sport and I think people realize that,’’ Rea said. “It might not get the exposure of football or baseball, but you definitely have to earn everything you get. If everybody on the team gets committed, you can accomplish some great things.’’

The Ravens are retooling a bit after losing 13 seniors from last season, but Moore said there’s still a corps of experienced wrestlers that creates optimism.

Moore said 106-pound senior Laz Perez, who was 35-6 last season and finished one match away from qualifying for the state meet, has the biggest expectations.

Junior Nic Anderson (113 pounds), senior Jorge Borgos (138) and senior Calen Crowder (150) should fill valuable roles.

In the first few weeks of practice, Moore was pleasantly surprised that the Ravens had acquired Hansel Ruiz, an experienced wrestling transfer from Southwest Miami High School.

“We’ve done some good things in wrestling around here,’’ Moore said. “We always expect to be a good, competitive team.’’

Alonso has never had an individual state champion, although Kendall Ivy placed third in 2009. That was also the Ravens’ best season as a team – 28-5 in dual meets and an 18th-place finish at state – a high-water mark that Moore uses to motivate his wrestlers.

Moore grew up as a wrestler himself when he attended high school in Colorado Springs, CO. He said the sport taught him more about life than any other endeavor.

“You learn that hard work is the only way to accomplish something worthwhile,’’ Moore said. “You learn when you get knocked down, you’ve got to get back up. You learn about how to weather the bumps in the road you always come across.

“I’m one of the football coaches and the head football coach might not like me saying this, but if I had to choose between the two sports, I would choose wrestling. It’s in my blood. I love it. I really think it helps mold you into a better person.’’
Moore said it doesn’t take great athletic ability to be a wrestler (although it helps). He said inexperience can be overcome.

“You condition your body and you condition your mind,’’ Silvers said. “Every day, it’s about giving it your best shot. When you walk off the mat, knowing that you worked hard and gave it your best, it’s a great feeling of satisfaction. That’s what I like about it.’’

By Joey Johnston

Joey Johnston is a resident of The Shires and always looking for great sports stories to cover. E-mail him at akjohnston@verizon.net.

Drug Kingpins and the Coupon Queen

After an hour of sweating, swearing and crying, it finally dawned on me that maybe, possibly, my car had been stolen.

It was 2005. I was very pregnant with my very cute son and had gone to the mall for some window shopping. When I emerged two hours later, I couldn’t find the car. Figuring it was pregnancy-induced memory loss, I decided I must have parked at Macy’s rather than Dillard’s. I carried my ample self to the other side of the mall.

Nothing.

When I called my husband to alert him of my victim status, he informed me I was crazy. I was one of the most affluent malls in Florida. The car was parked somewhere.

“Listen, Fathead!” I said sweetly. “Unless you want me to deliver your son in this parking lot, you will get here right now!”

Fathead arrived 15 minutes later. I was spread out on the sidewalk outside of Macy’s, where my car was not parked.

We drove up and down every aisle in the mall parking lot while pressing the panic button on the key fob. Images flooded by brain of my beautiful new car, now stripped and sold for parts. Then, the real horror struck.

“My coupons!” I screamed.

“Your coupons!?” Fathead asked incredulously. “What about all the gifts from the baby shower?”

“You emptied the trunk last night.” I dismissed

Except. No. HE. DID. NOT.

My baby shower had been the day before. The trunk was packed with blankies, diapers, bibs and a diaper bag festooned with images of ducks wearing plaid pants.

But Mr. “I Was Tired And The Sopranos Was Starting In 10 Minutes” neglected his one and only baby shower duty – emptying the trunk. The first phone call I was making after the police was a divorce attorney.

The sheriff’s deputy arrived, “Ma’am,” he asked. “Are you sure you didn’t park in front of Dillard’s?”

He must have seen Fathead flinch, because he immediately added, “OK, what kind of car is it?”

Twelve sleepless days later, the phone rang. “Mrs. Fathead? We found your car. Can you come down to the lot to identify it?”

Like a dead body.

We drove to the impound lot. There she was. My poor, sweet, innocent car, dirty and dented. I couldn’t speak. We weren’t even allowed to look inside. They had to dust for fingerprints and photograph the evidence. Mr. Fathead processed the paperwork. I sat and cried.

Two days later, we got the call.

We arrived and my husband popped the trunk.

There were all the gifts. In perfect condition. All of my CDs sat snuggly in the visor holder. My cell phone charger was still plugged in. There were even 80 cents in loose change in the ashtray. The car was littered with cigarette butts and fast food bags. Black fingerprint dust covered everything.

Except my coupon binder was missing. “THEY STOLE MY COUPONS!” I screamed.

“Ma’am?” The impound lot employee inquired.

“My coupons! Eighty-four dollars in CVS Extra Care Bucks, free movie tickets, receipts for rebates, My life’s work! Ruined!” I wailed.

The guy just looked at Fathead and got a knowing nod. The officer explained. Drug lords had stolen my car to run drugs up and down the state. In 12 days they put over 9,000 miles on it. According to the officer, this was actually common. “Is it common practice for them to leave all of the personal belongings in the car?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. They usually take anything not bolted down. They must have been nice guys.”

I laughed out loud. “They stole my coupons,” I reminded him. They were scum of the earth.

Scum who must have had a fascinating conversation after dumping my car.

“Hey!” the kingpin must have asked. “Did you make the drop at 34th and Main?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “I got $4,000. And 35 cents off Rice-A-Roni.”

By Courtney Netta

Courtney Netta is a resident of The Bridges and can be reached at thenettas@gmail.com.

Trading Flip Flops for Cowboy Boots: Suburban Diva Says Farewell

For the last seven years I’ve been writing the Suburban Diva and Casing the Bookshelf columns for WOW. For a time, I even covered the Westchase Voting Member meetings (and lived to tell about it!).

One year ago, my family got an awesome opportunity to move to Nashville. We packed up the four kids, dog, and eleven years worth of sand- and salt-coated memories. It hasn’t always been easy, but it has been the right move for us.

One piece of advice I’ve given my children as they’ve shaken off the “new kid” label is the importance of investing themselves. What do I mean? While they should hold on to old friends and memories, they need to fully invest themselves in the place they’re living. Make new friends, try new things and become a native.

By example, I think that’s where I am with the amazing World of Westchase. I’ve made some wonderful friends, have had loads of fun, learned a great deal, but it’s time for me to fully invest myself in my new home.

I want to sincerely thank everyone who has allowed me into their homes (even those who just let me sit sweating in a plastic bag in the driveway before tossing me into the recycle bin) by sharing a story or a laugh every month. It has been an honor I won’t soon forget. I would especially like to thank Chris Barrett and Tracy Urso for giving me this opportunity and creating such a quality publication. It really is a gift to the community.

As I’ve said, I’ve learned a lot here. Among my many lessons is to always have a copy of Robert’s Rules for Parliamentary Procedure handy – and that neighbors can become friends with a simple act of kindness.

Above all, don’t forget to invest yourself.

It yields the highest return.

By Tracey Henry

WOW thanks Tracey Henry for all the laughs. She will be sorely missed!

Celebrating L.A.B.O.R. Day

Labor Day is not a holiday. In our house it’s an acronym of the weekend’s events: Lowe’s, Ace, Bed, Bath and Beyond and Operating Room.

Hard to believe.  It’s my husband’s least favorite holiday.

Me: Are you ready to hear about the home improvement project I have planned for the weekend?

No response.

Me: You know I can see you behind that remote control and foam finger.

Husband: (heaving sigh) What do you want me to paint now?

Me: No, that’s the good news – no painting! Today I thought we’d mix it up and try something new.

Husband: Can’t we just have a relaxing weekend without another project replicated from a picture you found in House Beautiful?

Me: It was from Elle Decor, but whatever. I think you’ll actually enjoy this one. It’s tiling!

Husband: (brightening slightly) I get to use a diamond blade saw?

Me: (laughing) Ha! No, of course not. Your mother and insurance company strictly forbid that so I got you a pizza cutter and karate lessons instead.

Husband: How can you expect me to complete these crazy projects without the proper tools?

Me: There’s also a case of beer in the fridge.

Husband: That will help dull the pain from the karate chopping, but it will make the tile uneven.

Me: No. The beer’s for me as I watch you try to grout with the old spatula and butter knife I found you.

Husband: Why can’t you be like a normal person and want a weekend getaway over Labor Day?

Me: Oh, come on! It’s like a staycation right in our kitchen backsplash. Even the tile name suggests exotic. It’s Tuscan Sunrise. Or maybe that’s my nail polish color.

Husband: (reading label on tile box) It must be your polish because this is called something I can’t pronounce but is probably Italian for “ridiculously small grout lines.”

Me: Nope, that’s actually the name of the color I want you to paint the dining room over Columbus Day.

Husband: (going back to couch and picking up remote) C.O.L.U.M.B.U.S. Day? As in Call Other Laborers Unless Marital Bliss Unravels Swiftly?

Me: If you were as quick with the construction of mosaic backsplashes as you are with acronyms, our holiday weekends would be so much less laborious...

By Tracey Henry

Henry is a published author whose work can be found at www.suburbandiva.com.