Camry's, Cartwheels and Comments - oh my!

Uhhhhh....I just wanted to mention in case you didn't see it, that I had 55 comments yesterday. Yep, 55.

And it was just about Catfish King.

Imagine if I had written about Red Lobster. Sweet mercy. We'd have had to close this place down (as my grandpa used to say...I don't know what it means, but it sounds right to use it right now.)

By the way, I would like to go on record as saying do not - under any circumstances - try to track down a Catfish King. Do you remember loving a restaurant when you are a child and it being one of your favorite places in the world to go to........and then you grow up?

Well, it's kinda like that. It's kinda like McDonald's. But with hushpuppies.

So I'm sitting here with my family watching So You Think You Can Dance. Because obviously, we think we can. And I'm wondering this...

How do you spot this kind of talent, that these kids have, in your child?

You know what I mean, right? You've seen those kids on every episode of American Idol whose parents have told them they could sing. But clearly...

Or what about that kid on the last row, far right, at the local dance recital. Who picks their nose and pulls at their tights the entire time?

I mean, how do you know when you're raising a...
Venus and Serena Williams?
Or just a Melba and Rita Williams?

A Micheal Jordan?
Or a Marvin Jordan?

I mean, Remi fell into the pool and didn't drown. So that's something, right? Should I start booking a room for Beijing right now - or should I give it a while?

I mean, how do you know?

And here's why I ask. As we were sitting here watching these kids lift their body weight into the air we couldn't help but be reminded of the time I TRIED TO LIFT MY BODY WEIGHT INTO THE AIR.

It was 1991 and all I wanted was to be a cheerleader. Problem was, I couldn't' do a back flip. Or a round-off. Or a cartwheel.

Fine. I couldn't' even jump. There I said it. Happy?

What I'm trying to say in a delicate fashion is that there was never anything but immediate gravity felt when I tried to lift myself up off the ground. Nothing, nada. Just cement. No air. I couldn't get "air" (as the kids would say.)

Now, there are many parts to this story - yes indeedy there are.

I could go into the part where my mom begged me not to try out for cheerleader "because you can't jump, baby. Nobody will be honest with you like your momma. And the truth is - you can't get off the ground. Have you tried to jump in front of a mirror?"

But I can't go there. My therapist says I'm not ready yet.

Or there was the instance when the cheerleading captain took a look at me practicing and actually said, "OH MY GOSH I hope you make it. You could totally be the bottom of our pyramid."

That should have been a tip-off.

But I think it was that dagblasted cartwheel. That thing has always been the thorn in my side. I tried to turn one years later. My family actually has it on video camera. I fell in the middle of it and screamed so loud that the nosy neighbor called from down the street to see if everyone was okay. My mom actually told her, "Yes, Melissa's just trying to turn a cartwheel again." The neighbor simply said, "Ohhhhhhh, really?"

See? Even she felt sorry for me.

It really was pitiful.

Until one day.
Picture it:
Dallas, Texas.
1994.
Outside the Steak-n-Ale restaurant.

The place is packed. We've just eaten a good meal with my parents. The Attorney General and I are walking back to our car when my dad makes this offer, "Hey Melissa, I will buy you a car this weekend if you can turn a cartwheel for me right here in this parking lot."

We freeze.

We need another car.
We only have one.
I look at the Attorney General, "I can't do it."
He sweetly replies, like any newlywed would, "You better run the length of this parking lot and at least give it your best shot."

But on cement? What if something snaps? Like the cement?

But Lord, help us, let me tell ya. I went for it. There was nothing standing in between me and that teal green Honda Accord that I wanted. Nothing. And lo and behold you ain't never seen a fat girl move so fast.

I took off across that parking lot like I was on fire.

I ran till I almost passed out - just for the sheer reason that the longer I ran the longer I had to think this thing through.

And finally, I just went for it.

And a more perfect cartwheel you have never seen.

I mean it was nothing like those kids on SYTYCD. I mean, they can withhold their body weight. But my parents gave me a reprise just for the sheer effort. And also, for the sheer enjoyment of getting to watch it unfold before their very eyes.

I would also like to go on record as saying, your legs don't have to go completely over your head for you to feel a sense of accomplishment. (uhhh...that sounded weird.)

So there you have it folks. I did a cartwheel. And the very next weekend my parents pulled up in a new teal green Honda Accord. Now before you go getting all "you are so spoiled" on me...we are still driving the thing. Only it sits about 2 inches from the ground, has no AC, the back window won't roll up and it looks like we are smuggling bodies across the border for cash.

I will never be able to turn a cartwheel again. Never. It was a once in a lifetime kind of thing. I can admit that. But that leaves me wondering how I, as a new parent, can spot a talent in my child?

I mean, just last night she came out of the bathroom with no pants or diaper on, said "Come on, Poppy" and proceeded to sing and dance with him while singing "Shake, shake, shake. Shake your booty." Now y'all...that's a gift. Unfortunately it's not at all the gift I would prefer her to have, but at least it's something.

Although I've made her father promise to never have her strip down at a steak restaurant and serenade us with a KC and the Sunshine Band song. But you never know when a girl will need a Camry.