Off Season Post 9: Shams and Shotguns

Hello patient, loyal readers. I have to tell you that I’m embarrassed to have missed my Tuesday deadline again, but when it rains it pours. Between traveling, my pre-holiday work load at my “real” job, and being sick, this week and last week were stressful. I don’t often bring the office to the blog, but this week, it’s relevant. I’ve been working on a contentious divorce case involving a lot of property and—most importantly—three small children.

Those cases are extraordinarily draining on me both emotionally and physically. Sometimes it’s a bad thing to have a heart when you practice law—at least from a personal perspective. At any rate, if I lose this one, it’s not some insurance company or giant conglomerate that has to write a check. Three kids lose a parent. Ergo, I haven’t felt very entertaining. Truth be told, I’ve been cranky and unbearable to anyone who did not have the capacity to serve me a Lone Star beer. I was a lot like Tommy Lee Jones in that Fugitive movie with Harrison Ford or Jessica Tandy in Driving Miss Daisy.

Although I’m still a bit under the weather, I’m feeling better now and I apologize, especially to those of you who were nice enough to send me supportive emails. Special consideration goes to Lori from Chicago for the “Geez, will you post already” email she delicately composed and forwarded and to Wendy from Vancouver who sent me a “Come out, Come out wherever you are” email. Thanks for at least pretending to care. Those both made me smile.

The good news is that you’ll all have a time killer while you’re digesting the holiday turkey and stuffing from your office party provided by that one lady in your offices who has been working there since Truman was inaugurated. Sure, everyone secretly despises her and her stuffing is dry and inedible considering it comes out of some weird, discolored, old Tupperware container she got as a wedding present in the early 40’s, but the boss likes her and you have to pretend. There’s always that one person who brings her “signature” dish and expects everyone to convulse on the floor in ecstasy after tasting it. It usually sucks. At any rate, it’s the effort that counts and we all eat it and then complain about it over email later. I’m sure you all have a version of this story in your respective offices.

While exploring the deep vicissitudes of my character and wallowing like a hog in slop in my sickness, I managed to have a couple of interesting adventures this week which, upon reflection, reminded me of the duality of my character. I plan to share that with you this week. But first, the shout out section of the blog must be addressed.

This week’s shout out goes to the Fabulous Lincee Ray, author of ihategreenbeans.com, who gloriously killed two birds with one stone by topping my priceless “gift” of Wes Hayden tickets for her birthday by presenting me with my birthday presents and simultaneously taking my Dr. Pepper picture for her contest. I hate the picture, by the way, but hey, it’s nice to feel needed. I was in Houston on business and Lincee jumped at the chance to give me my birthday gift.

What did she get me, you ask? A “Some Guy in Austin’s Greatest Fan” sign autographed “What’s Up Dawg?” by none other than Wes Hayden himself. She even took video of him signing it and wondering aloud if I was “gay for him.” Good Lord. Homoerotic narcissism aside, it’s nice to know he can write, I guess. Oh, and for the record, Lincee giggled like an eighth grader at Justin Bieber meet and greet as I opened the wrapping paper. Also for the record, I’m not “gay for” Wes Hayden or anyone else.

Touche, Lincee. Nice job. I’ll treasure it forever. In addition to that, Lincee was kind enough to throw in an I Hate Green Beans long sleeve cotton shirt and one of her patented Mix CD’s featuring every #1 Billboard Top 40 country song from the year of my birth until today. Thanks, Lincee. You’re a class act and I appreciate the gifts—even the first one. That gift will now officially be referred to as “The Gift Whose Name Shall Not Be Mentioned” (TGWNSNBM) on my site. I will frame it and put it above the toilet in my guest bathroom. It might come in handy if I run low on toilet paper. With that said, let’s get to it.

I traveled on Thursday and even though I’m a Platinum Points Big Shot and what I’d consider a professional domestic flyer, traveling this time of year is always excruciating. I have absolutely no idea why the security procedures at any given airport present such a problem for the general public. No liquids over 3.5 ounces, remove shoes and metal stuff, take jackets off, put laptops in a separate bin, and hang on to your boarding pass. How hard is that?

Apparently, it’s harder than calculus to the vast majority of the American public. Thank God for the Fly By Lanes. Travel safely everyone, but please, don’t clog up my security line. Come prepared and when in doubt, check a bag instead of trying to carry on your mini-refrigerator and cram it into the overhead bin. I suppose the delay in boarding does get me an extra whiskey in First Class, but even I’d be willing to forfeit that in exchange for less aggravation. No wonder that Slater guy went nuts—no pun intended.

When I arrived back to my beloved Austin on Friday morning, I spent rest of the day under the medication-induced delusion that I would be perfectly fine if I went out and downed a few Lone Stars. I had a few friends playing gigs at a local honky tonk and decided to go for a listen. I killed a few Lone Stars, listened to the music, and even had the self-discipline to be in bed around midnight—which for me is tantamount to a leopard changing its spots or Charlie Sheen not sleeping with porn stars. In short, it’s a big deal.

I awoke Saturday morning and stared regretfully into the Hunter ceiling fan in my bedroom, watching the blades circle slowly and silently around as I relived each of last night’s beers. I felt like Martin Sheen in the opening scene of Apocalypse Now except I didn’t cut my hand while trashing my room in my tighty whiteys and I wouldn’t be given the assignment of heading deep into the jungle to face and destroy my alter ego.

I turned on the television and noticed a motivational speaker’s infomercial. He encouraged me to “get amped up” and “fight” each day of my life. Vagueness aside, I imagined him talking directly to me and pulled myself out of bed in search of cold medicine and hot coffee.

While sitting there waiting for my coffee to brew, I Googled the speaker on television. I’m always curious when I see one of their ilk to see what qualifies them to motivate me into adopting their “method” and how they can unabashedly guarantee “success” if I follow it. The fact is that most motivational speakers—including motivational messiah Tony Robbins--haven’t done anything but “motivate” people to buy their motivational products and attend their motivational seminars.

I’d be one motivated MF’er too if I could talk someone into paying $1,500 to see me gesticulate in a headset and enthusiastically speak in generalities for a couple of hours. Whatever works, right? For the record, if a person finds inspiration in anything one of these guys has to say, then I’m all for it. Those who can’t do, teach. Those who can’t teach, coach. Alright, Woody Allen said that last part, but Tony’s “method” is just not for me.

Regardless, I was inspired and motivated by my cup of coffee. I looked around my bedroom and decided I was content with my new bed, shams, comforter, duvet cover, accent pillows and blanket, fancy sheets, and goose down pillows. Browsing my “fan” email, I came across an email from Danielle, a reader in Dallas, who suggested that I skip the bolster pillows and add three “Euro Shams” behind my regular king sized shams in order to complete my bedding. It was at that moment that I decided to explore her suggestion rather than take my stuffy head to Saturday morning Spin class at my gym. All I had to do was find out what a Euro Sham was and I’d be in business. After that I planned to go to the Gun Show. Life is, after all, about balance.

Hmmmm, I wondered. Where would I learn about Euro Shams? Smiling to myself, I facetiously typed in www.eurosham.com into my search engine and was surprisingly redirected to www.euroshams.org. Go figure, I thought. Convinced that there is a conspiracy between the highest internet content authorities and any company geared to sell unnecessary crap to disposable cash bearing consumers, I began reading.

“Euro shams are typically coverings used for big sized European style pillows. They are highly decorative and will create most pleasing bedding aesthetics. These coverings are designed for special types of pillows that are large and also square in shape. Furthermore, they cover the pillow as well as the pillow cases.” So basically, it’s a big useless square pillow that goes behind my useless rectangular pillows and I “need” three of them.

The site offered some more helpful hints that made me unequivocally grateful that I am a man—albeit one who entertains his audience by subjecting himself to this. Some of my favorites are below.

“Before you go to sleep on your bed, it is normal to remove the shams.” Thank God. I’d hate to be ostracized like Quasimodo crouching in the shadows of the bell tower if I’d chosen not to remove the euro shams prior to sleeping.

“From their origins in the middle to late nineteenth century till the present the shams have undergone many changes but still remain very impressive.” While the Irish were starving for lack of potatoes, the euro sham was enjoying its nativity. No wonder the Irish hate the English.

“They are ideally suited for propping up your head while lying in the bed and wanting to watch television or do some serious reading.” I’d be willing to bet that I need another type of sham for actually watching television or doing some casual reading. The euro sham is the “save the date” card of the pillow world, I thought. Incidentally, can someone explain to me why the save the date card is necessary. Why not just send the invites out early? Also, why does the damn thing have to be a refrigerator magnet? Not only do I have to sort through your junk mail, now I have to look at you and some dude your about to marry in some softly lit pose in white matching shirts staring meaningfully into each other’s eyes every single time I want a beer. It’s a waste of refrigerator space and postage. Just send me the damn invite, would you?

Back to my shams.

In addition to the shams, I needed some artwork to add whimsy and pop to my walls. The room, although nice, needed something to tie it together. I texted my sister, the fastest, most prolific texter on the face of the Earth. She’s like the Usain Bolt of text messaging. At her suggestion, I decided to go to a store called Garden Ridge Pottery. W.A.S.P-Y name aside, I was assured that they had aisles of euro shams and artwork at an affordable price. If I couldn’t find suitable euro shams, I told myself, I could probably find that Dogs Playing Poker painting or the Velvet Elvis I’d always wanted. Off I went in search of whimsy.

I arrived at the Mecca called Garden Ridge Pottery at approximately 10 in the morning—the exact moment they opened. When I pulled into the parking lot, I was surprised beyond expression to find that the lot was substantially full. It was the female version of the football tailgate party. I expected to see shirtless women painted orange with Garden Ridge foam fingers swilling wine coolers and grilling paninis on the backs of their SUV’s. Man, holiday cheer is some serious business.

I parked approximately 7 miles from the store and began my trek toward the Everest of holiday stores. I fancied myself a sort of Edmund Hillary venturing where no man had dared go before him. Incidentally, the history books have been corrected to reflect that Hillary’s Sherpa, Tenzig Norgay, was also able to summit Everest. Prior to that, only the white guys got the credit. Think about that. That’s like taking the Black Eyed Peas success and only listing Fergie on the Grammy. Alright, it’s not EXACTLY like that, but you get the idea. Annnnnyyyyyhoooo . . . .

As I entered I have to confess I was a bit overwhelmed. “Discover Acres of the Latest in Home Décor Ideas” read the giant mural on the back wall. Acres indeed. How in the hell am I going to find a euro sham in here, I wondered. As a stepped gingerly into my realm of the unknown I noticed hoards of middle-aged, semi-overweight women in outdated jeans, t-shirts, and either Crocs or flip-flops buzzing around like bees in a freshly disturbed hive. I longed for one of those smoker things that beekeepers use to sedate the bees. I actually feared being hit by an oncoming cart.

As I wandered aimlessly through the acres of the latest home décor ideas, I quickly discovered that most of the acreage was filled with the most unnecessary and ridiculous garbage I’d ever seen in a store. There was about an acre and a half of things made from sheet metal that I assume were meant to be displayed in some decorative capacity because for the life I me I could not envision a practical use for any of them. Metal roosters, howling coyotes, and life sized metal knights stood there like the terracotta statues in Qin Shi Huang's Tomb in China (Google it). I wondered if Qin Shi Huang wasn’t the first owner of a Garden Ridge.

After successfully avoiding the sharp edges of the sheet metal army, I wandered past the fake ficus section. I have to confess that I own several fake ficuses? fici? and they make a lovely addition to an empty office corner and add a delightful accent behind a lonely club chair. However, it was odd seeing an entire forest of these things. Occasionally, I’d notice one of those middle aged women pushing her cart around the store with one of those giant trees in it and I’d wonder how she was going to fit that in her Plymouth Voyager along with all of the sheet metal figures she’d be buying that day.

On my way to the pillow acre, I spotted the bedding section and decided to make a detour just to see how the Garden Ridge selection matched up to my recent purchases. They had 4 aisles of the Bed in the Bag. How pedestrian, I thought. Bed in the Bag, I said, nodding my head in disapproval. Everyone knows that it’s essential to purchase a down comforter and a duvet cover separately. After all, how can anyone be expected to sleep well if he doesn’t obtain a quality duvet cover and a set of sheets with a high thread count. Bed in the Bag, indeed.

Proud of my newly obtained bed snobbery, I continued to the pillow acre with my nose in the air. Literally aisles and aisles of pillows encircled me. It was like some bizarre scene from Alice in Wonderland except I wasn’t high and there wasn’t a smiling cat messing with my head. Euro sham, Euro sham, I repeated to myself in an attempt to stay focused.

When I finally found the euro sham section, I noticed that there were many different sizes of the same pillow. Then the male in me kicked in. At this point, my shopping patience tank was running on fumes and I immediately made a b-line for a euro sham with the identical colors I had in my fancy schmancy bed. The pattern was whimsical, yet masculine. I grabbed three of them. Done. See how that works, ladies. See. Decide. Grab. That simple.

I carried my shams across the store to the “art” section of the acreage. I got many strange looks from the Garden Ridge veterans. I think they assumed I worked in the stock room or something. They comforted themselves by thinking that I was an employee who removed some defective shams rather than some dude who entered the nest in order to gather some honey. Row after row of assorted sizes of pictures beckoned for my browse. There were literally a dozen versions of that “Live, Laugh, Love” picture that every woman absolutely must have in her kitchen or sitting room and I took great pleasure in discovering the source of that sign. I felt like Jonas Salk or Enrico Fermi. That picture is the Dogs Playing Poker of the female universe.

I searched in vain for my dogs playing poker picture and eventually ran out of patience with the acres of the latest home décor ideas. Shams in hand, I made it to the check out line and stood there as everyone silently waited to pay for their junk while simultaneously judging the selections of everyone around them. I paid, walked the 5K back to my car, and went home to acclimate my euro shams. They looked astounding.

Pleased with my selection, I stood there at the door of my bedroom and admired my color scheme. Visions of nubile young fairies floating effortlessly through my room in praise of my heavenly bed danced through my head as I congratulated myself. I strongly considered having an open house in order to show it off. I envisioned the throngs of beautiful women who would see the bed and melt like a stick of Velveeta in the microwave. Incidentally, I prefer to make love with the lights on but find that most women prefer that I shut the hatchback despite the fact that the cargo light does give off a romantic glow. Alright, that last part is a joke. Bottom line is that I’m happy with my bedroom. I will post a picture or two on my Facebook page in conjunction with next week’s post. Stay tuned. And thanks to all for your suggestions, support, and assistance.

I’ve mentioned before that all of this running around and doing fancy things is not really my bag of tricks. I take a lot of grief from male friends who somehow think that writing about the Bachelor or shopping at a particular store will actually change my sexuality. I find that amusing considering the fact that most of those guys are busy watching mixed martial arts fights which consist of a couple of muscular, sweaty men rolling around in their underwear.

At any rate, I have fun writing about it and one reason I think it works is because I am so out of my element. Dark honky tonks and outdoor places make me tick and, although I’m not afraid to explore my feminine side, I have to admit that my weekend trip to Garden Ridge in lieu of the gym had me feeling a little off base. Fortunately for me there was a gun show at the Travis County Expo Center for me to attend.

Let me just preface this section by saying that I know good and well that the vast majority of the audience probably thinks that gun shows are for reactionary, Second Amendment fanatics with an unwarranted, irrational fear of the government looking to compensate for life’s failures and the size of certain parts of their anatomy. Well, that’s true, but they are also for everyone else.

I like guns. I like the Second Amendment. I like the fact that I can walk into a gun show with a few hundred dollars and walk out with a gun. I don’t hate The Man and I don’t plan on moving to Northern Montana and founding my own country. I’m also not interested in turning this into a political debate. My ONLY point here is that I went to a gun show after I went to Garden Ridge.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of going to a gun show in Texas, let me take a minute to explain how it works. Various gun dealers from across the state obtain permits to exhibit their guns and sell them at the show. In addition, private individuals can either pay a fee for booth space or simply bring their guns to the location and sell them. Dealers are required to do a background check on anyone they sell to in Texas. If you pay your taxes and don’t have a felony on your record, you can get a gun. That gun is registered to its new owner and reported to the state.

Private individuals, however, are not required to check on anyone when selling a gun. In Texas, a gun is like any other piece of personal property. For instance, if I want to sell my lawnmower, I just go out and sell it. It’s the same with a gun I own. I know that sounds absolutely insane for those of you in states where the local government does everything but post a guy in a black suit at the base of your bed to ensure that you don’t obtain a firearm, but that’s how it works around here. Growing up I can still recall seeing a gun rack in the back of every pick up truck on the road. Those racks usually had a rifle or a shotgun secured to them. I suppose that’s like seeing a Hassidic Jew on the streets of New York or an Amish family in a horse drawn buggy in Pennsylvania. If you’re from there, you just don’t think much of it but to an out-of-towner, it’s as shocking as the day is long.

I drove out to the Expo Center and entered the show. At the door were several police officers. Their job is to take one of those plastic locking mechanisms and place it around the trigger of any gun on site after making sure it’s unloaded in order to prevent it from being fired. I think that’s a good policy. I bypassed that step since I didn’t bring a gun. I paid my five bucks and entered the show. Frankly, it didn’t look a hell of a lot different from Garden Ridge save the fact that instead of sheet metal coyotes and a plethora of pillows the aisles were filled with pistols, knives, and semi-automatic weapons.

Middle aged women were replaced by scruffy middle aged men in jeans and camouflage. Believe it or not, a lot of children were there with their parents as well. Various booths featured treats like cotton candy, roasted nuts, and soft drinks. Understandably, you can’t get booze at a gun show. You have to go to the General Store in order to obtain beer with your ammunition. Why am I telling you all of this. Well, here’s the reason:

It struck me as I was walking from aisle to aisle eyeing the proud WWII veterans displaying their artifacts and weapons from the war, chatting with various semi-automatic gun dealers about the latest and greatest guns, and haggling with several Regular Joes over the price of a pistol, a rifle, or a shotgun that all of the men in there were doing the exact same thing the women in Garden Ridge were doing: they were GASP! Shopping!

I chuckled to myself as that realization hit me and I made a note to write about it. At the end of the day, it’s all about what we’re really interested in seeing, isn’t it? Which brings me to my point of the day. The next time your husband, boyfriend, or male friend refuses to accompany you on a shopping spree just remind yourself how you’d feel walking around aisles upon aisles of guns or whatever it is that doesn’t interest you. THAT’S how a man feels when he is forced to go shopping at the mall.

It’s not that we oppose your shopping or that we don’t appreciate the end product. Clearly, I’ve learned the value of being selective in my bed purchases. The simple truth is that most men absolutely hate to follow someone around a department store where they are forced to comment on things they really have no opinion on in the first place. To top it off, we’re usually asked these questions while simultaneously missing a sporting event and holding your purse.

So, as we all enter willingly or unwillingly into this holiday season, please keep your heads about you. Please treat each other kindly and remember what the season is truly about. Unbridled consumerism and overconsumption tend to cloud the fact that we all get a little extra time off and a little more of a chance to make a difference to one another. Enjoy Black Friday, football games, giant meals, seeing loved ones, blowing off the in-laws, napping on the couch, drinking too much, Christmas tree shopping, watching Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, playing backyard football, staying up late, and please give thanks for the things we take for granted every single day.

From the Great State of Texas and from the bottom of my heart, I wish you all a safe and happy Thanksgiving and I’m thankful that all of you take the time to read and comment each week. You’ve all made this year rich, fun, and gratifying for me and you’ve all made a significant difference in my life. Thank you.

I’ll post next week after the holiday and I plan to include some surprises in the next few posts. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be fluffing my sham pillows with my rifle. DP