Recently Read

How you see a country depends on whether you are driving through it, or living in it.

How you see a country depends on whether or not you can leave it, if you have to.

I am reading Alexandra Fuller’s “Scribbling the Cat”. The words are hers but I liked them so much and they made me think of really great countryside (here and elsewhere) seen from a car window.

What’s with this hair on my chinny chin chin?

A month or so ago while driving to work my hand brushed against something on my chin. After further, frantic inspection, I found I had a rogue whisker on my chin. A long, blond, whisker! As soon as I stopped at the next light I yanked down the cosmetic mirror on my visor to inspect the interloper. Yep, it was a whisker where none had been for the past THIRTY FIVE years of my life. Where did this bugger come from? Without the benefit of a set of tweezers in the console I began frantically plucking at it with my fingernails. When the offender was successfully extracted, I sat there holding it up to the light inspecting it as if it were a diamond. Realizing I was not the only car sitting at this light I began to look around to see if anyone was looking. I could not have been more embarrassed if I were caught picking my nose.

For the couple of weeks following my discovery I constantly checked for another unusually long hair on my face. Was this going to become commonplace? Had my hormones gone crazy? Was this the beginning of early onset menopause? How long before I looked like George Michael with his five oÂ’clock shadow? Should I immediately begin waxing? Why had no one seen that sucker?

Months have passed without incident since that hair-raising revelation, until this morning. Standing in front of the mirror putting on my make up something caught my eye and there on my chin was a long blond whisker shimmering in the light. This time with tweezers in hand I eradicated the freaky follicle, taking out a few of his friends who had the unfortunate fate of growing too close. WhatÂ’s next hot flashes? Clearly these things crop up overnight and I will just need to be more diligent in my weed control efforts.

Carrio Andretti

Carrie drives like a woman trying to outrun a nuclear mushroom cloud. I lose seventy five percent of my water weight every trip we take to and from the ranch, from my sweating palms. I try to read, I try to listen to music, I try to imagine the impact of the air bags, but nothing really soothes my safety first nerves. Yesterday’s trip home was no exception. Seeing that the car in front of us had slowed to a modest 86 miles per hour, Carrie decided some passing was in order. She moved to the right hand lane which lo and behold was ending. That’s right it was ending, merging with other moving traffic. She could have slowed down, accepting her place behind ole pokey who at this point had slowed to a 75 mph crawl or she could do the very Carrie thing which was punching it so when the lane ended she could be the first to merge and consequently the first to slam on her brakes to avoid the cars taking a Sunday drive in the fast lane.

For my part, during the actual passing I sucked in the biggest breath I could, curled my toes, gripped the arm rest with my sweaty palms and shut my eyes as tight as they would go. As soon as we were safely in the fast lane I let loose a tirade of insults about her driving. At one point letting her know that in all the time we have been together I wanted to ring her neck more at that moment than any other. Sure, she could have apologized for endangering me and poor innocent Isaac sleeping in the back, unaware of his impending doom. She could have even argued her point. Instead she put us in danger once again because I am sure there is no way she could have seen through the tears of laughter in her eyes. As an insult to injury she laughed about it all night. Next week I think I’ll drive and see if she doesn’t want to strangle me.

Owning Up

Reflecting on the degree of drunkenness she achieved last night C said the following at lunch:

"Someone must have slipped something in my seventeenth vodka."

Nighttime is for Day Dreaming

This morning over our normal breakfast of coffee and cigarettes, C asked if I had slept well. I told her I guessed but I wasn’t sure because I remembered having trouble getting to sleep and the next thing I knew the alarm was going off. I usually wake up several times during the night but last night was like those nights when you drink too much and the last thing you remember is saying “sure I’ll have one more but then I really am going home.” I turned out my light last night and rolled over to C, spooning her back. That lasted all of two minutes before my legs were restless and the need to turn on my stomach was too great. Onto my stomach it was but which way to face? Left didn’t feel right, right was hurting my neck and so it went as I tried to think of something to keep my mind off the fact that thirty minutes had elapsed and I was still wide awake.

I tried thinking about what I had ahead of me today at work. Ugh! That only made me more agitated. I tried counting which works sometimes but once you get past two hundred you simply have to surrender to the fact that by the time you go to sleep you will have counted dollar for dollar the size of the national debt. So I turned to method three. Where would I be if I could be anywhere? What would I be doing? What would my surroundings look like?

Soon I was sitting on the back porch of our tiny cottage by the water. Its exterior is wood plank painted mint green with white trim. We bought the plans from the back of Southern Living and built it ourselves. Inside the antique iron beds are covered with white chenille spreads. C is watering the garden we can see from the kitchen window. She is standing over rows of tomatoes, purple hulls, and tall stalks of corn smiling with the possibility of fresh vegetables. I am on the back porch watching her taking slow sips from a cold glass of champagne. There is a ring of condensation on the table in front of me from the glass. I move my book so the cover doesn’t get wet. At my feet is our dog, stretched out on his side, his legs straight in front of him. I am rolling my ankle back and forth mushing my toes into his downy fur. His tail makes a soft thump thump on the boards that rises to my ears where it mixes with the trill trill of cicadas in the trees. The alarms sounds and I am immediately cranky from the dreamless night sleep until I remember my dreams played out in my mind before I even nodded off.

A Mother of Invention

My friends and I have always joked about the odd combinations of businesses you find across the border. Is there a great need in Mexico to have your bicycle repaired while getting a root canal? Did some unnamed man go out one day armed with a list of to-dos: 1) pick up prescription at pharmacy 2) pick up bottle of tequila for later 3) stop by tailor to order custom made shirt 4) get new car battery 5) laser hair removal on chest and back. Wouldn’t it be nice to do one stop shopping for all of the above he thought and an idea was born. Again, I admit I have always found the combinations odd but on the other hand all very practical tasks. Ingenuity I think it’s called.

Necessity is the mother of all invention after all and no one I have seen can top the woman in front of me at the convenient store this weekend. When I stepped in line behind her to purchase cigarettes, my eyes were immediately drawn to the little boy at her side. He was adorable, small perfectly round head with a white bandana do rag on top, white wife beater tucked into his dark denim shorts and tennis shoes. Cute as a future rap star button! Mom was desperately trying to keep him from pulling one of every candy for purchase. When she bent down to point to a few choices he could have, it was then that I noticed mom had her very own fashion sense. Flip flops showing off painted toes, denim Capri pants, tank top, all very common trends these days. Ah, but look above the neck and there, there is where her true ingenuity shined through. Junior must have borrowed mom’s bandana and not wanting her hair to frizz in our humid weather mom wasn’t about to go out without covering the mop. So, she put his underwear on her head. It is one thing to do this in the privacy of one’s bedroom with enough wine in one’s system to kill an elephant. It is quite another to wear underwear on one’s head in public. Took everything I had not to burst out laughing at the tufts of pink toned hair sticking out of the leg holes on either side of her crown.

Two Weddings, Four Funerals and a Host of Other Painful Events

My cousin is getting married at the end of July in Denver. My mother, the queen of family functions, the woman who uses every vacation day to see her family has started hammering me on whether I will be attending. Last week she called me at work to have what I thought was a perfectly normal “how is your day” conversation then out of the left field drops the “Are you and C going to your cousin’s wedding? It is really going to hurt my feelings if you don’t go” bomb in my lap. I told her we haven’t decided which led to the run down of every wrong I have ever committed. I did not:

Go to my great aunt’s funeral at a convent in Pennsylvania.

Go to my other great aunt’s funeral in Washington.

Go to my other great aunt’s funeral in Washington.

Go to my cousin’s wedding who I have no more than two words to say to at any given time. Nor does he have much more to say to me.

Go to my cousin’s graduation in Denver. This was a toughy because he graduated Mother’s Day weekend and I STILL didn’t go.

I did:

Go on vacation with my father last summer (it must be added that this was the first vacation I have gone on with my father since I was eight)

Go to Belize with C’s father (this is how my mother says it but in reality I went with C for her 30th birthday which her father and four other friends joined her to celebrate therefore this does not technically count as a vacation with C’s father).

You get the idea. I went home fuming. How could she try to guilt me into going? If she was going to bring up places I went eight years ago I should be allowed to go back as far as possible to dredge up enough places I went with her to counter those she was mentioning. I could have ended the cycle of abuse right there but instead chose to hammer C all the way to Yorktown that I want her to go with me in July. If you are wondering, yes, I started listing all of the places I have gone with her, trying to fill my column with enough selfless attendance that she will come with me in July. Like mother like daughter. It pains me to admit that.

A Tomato for your Thoughts

This morning when I got to work, I noticed plump, red, home grown tomatoes on my boss’s desks. I knew they were from a gentleman in our office whose past gifts have included homemade jelly and other fresh vegetables. I went into my office feeling dejected but talked myself off the ledge by reasoning that he must have only given his peers the tomatoes. I am for all intents and purposes a rung or two down the ladder and therefore didn’t warrant a tomato at this time.

Come lunch time I ventured into the kitchen for a cup of water. I hate office kitchens. There seems to be no way to make people realize that parmesan cheese should NEVER be heated in a public microwave. Or broccoli for that matter. You who drain your tuna can in the sink leaving slimy pink chunks marinating in fish juice for the rest of us to smell- you are the reason I hate our kitchen. So, I am holding my nose and getting my water when I see two women who hold close to the same status around here as I do cutting up fresh ripe tomatoes. Coincidence that they too brought in fresh tomatoes? I don’t think so.

Back to my office again and now I begin wondering. Did I say something inappropriate to this fellow? Was it at a happy hour? Because if you get me around a bar and a corporate card at the same time I can become very happy. No, couldn’t think (remember) a thing. Hours pass with me letting this push me deeper into a funk. I will never get ahead. I will never be on the same level as the tomato recipients. (At this point I think it is only fair to point out that this week I am a bit more hormonal than usual which results in a bottomless pit of need to feel worthy).

Tomato man walked into my office a few minutes ago to see if my boss would be in because he had put a tomato on her desk from his garden (saw it, thanks). He said he ran out but would bring me some next week. What’s that you say? I am vegetable worthy? This is excellent news. I am leaving now to get my weekend started a red tomato in hand. My boss is out today so I figured I would take hers and she can have mine next week.

Internet Palm Reading

Duly Inspired tagged me with this and seeing as it is the end of a LONG day and I just got out of LONG appointment, I decided to give it a go.

Jacqui needs to ensure she has saved enough during the first twenty-years to have this.
Jacqui needs to open and sing.
Jacqui needs eye drops to help her vision.
Jacqui needs more bread…
Jacqui needs to talk about someone named Jack.
Jacqui needs to improve her speed around the field.
Jacqui needs more help with fundraising committee.
Jacqui needs help solving a baffling public folder calendar.
Jacqui needs Bert and John.

Jacqui wants her Virgins and saints on shelves facing her bed.
Jacqui wants to write a book
Jacqui wants a Darwin show bag
Jacqui wants to suggest a joint event with local scouts…
Jacqui wants a tummy tuck
Jacqui wants to go shop for yarn…
Jacqui wants to study vet science…
Jacqui wants to find out more about alternative therapies…
Jacqui wants to believe Patrick but she is unsure therefore keeps this from Phil.
Jacqui wants to sue a major company.

A bit like having your palm read except I don’t know a Jack, Bert, Patrick or Phil. I do however need to increase speed on the field, need help with a fund raising committee, want to write a book, and want a tummy tuck

Like Chinese Water Torture Only Worse

My father called while C was watching the NFL draft this weekend and when he found out she had it on he began asking me question after question about who was picking who. Does this man know me at all? Not only do I not know, I am not going to ask C every two seconds and relay an entire conversation (about football no less) back and forth over the phone. So he asked which station it was on. This too I had to ask C. Before I got off the phone with him he walked into his living room where my 8 year old sister was watching Discovery Kids or something similar and said; “Hey Morgan, I’ve got something better to watch.” I would have given anything to see the look on her face when he changed the channel.

Too bad it wasn’t a prayer chain.

I’m not sure how James Carville and Mary Matalin do it but I’ll bet it can’t be easy. In our house I am the bald little man with the crazy eyebrows screaming that The Conservative Movement is RUINING THE WORLD. Only I’m not bald or a man. I take great pleasure in repeating newscasters (aloud for the Compassionate Conservative in the red leather chair next to me) when they report Bush’s approval ratings at an all time low. Dick Cheney does remind me of Darth Vader and I will not call Condi anything less than Condosleeza.

C for her part is partially to blame for all that ails the world or at least that is what I tell her when I remind her who she voted for in the past two elections. I say you’ve got to learn from your mistakes or all is naught. She either disagrees or it was too late to take back that second one. I have most of our friends on my side of the fence but not all. One friend in particular has been the target of many, many, many drunken political rages of mine. In the beginning it was a bleeding heart Liberal's dream come true, a real live person that will fight back while you bleed all over her. Not so anymore. I must have made the mistake once of giving up too soon and as they say an elephant never forgets because these days it’s harder and harder to get her to bite when I really need a good political bloodletting.

Today it was me with the hook in my mouth swimming in a sea of hell. C forwarded an e-mail to me and Duly Inspired . They were both Duly Inspired to Make Me Crazy. I could feel the shared glee they took in raising my blood pressure. Just so you both know you have bought yourselves a very long night listening to why that e-mail was all wrong. Duly Inspired this does not replace your grand prize of a good slap.

Suburban Cowgirl

For awhile when I lived with my father he insisted on hiring live-in housekeepers through an agency. The first go round was a very sweet lady from Brazil who I liked enough, with the exception of her insistence on trying to read me the Bible every night, in Spanish. He left it up to my stepmother the second go round and she hired a sweet, elderly woman named Esther. Her theory must have been that an old Southern woman would cook dishes for my father more reminiscent of what he was used to instead of the fried tofu he was turning his nose up to when she would cook. Esther did try to cook but her toast always ended up looking like a freshly polished black loafer.

Once (and only once) on her night off, Esther decided to drive from my father’s house in Katy all the way to Gilley’s for a hair raising good time. It must have been a doosy because at around 3:00 a.m. my father awoke to our neighbor, one that he had been feuding with for years, pounding on our door. Esther who had been in the house all of three seconds came running down the stairs screaming “It wasn’t me. He’s a liar!” Note to readers: Wait until you are accused to deny.

It seems our neighbor, who hears everything, (The feud was because he claimed to actually hear my cat walking around on his roof at night. So much so that he installed a tiny electric fence where the roof eave was close enough for Kitty to jump from the fence) claimed he heard a crash and that when he looked outside his white brick mailbox was gone. Esther was then seen fleeing her car for the safety of our house. My father calmly asked Esther if she had in fact run over the neighbor’s mailbox. Again Esther denied any involvement. It was then that the neighbor asked my father to step outside. Upon doing so he was faced with Esther’s brown, wood paneled station wagon parked in our driveway. The hood and roof were covered in brick and mortar.

Esther left us shortly after that night. She has probably since left this world for the big honky tonk in the sky. It is a shame she will never know just how much secret satisfaction we got out of her running over that mean man’s mailbox.

April Showers

After our flaming mishap at the ranch last weekend I vowed I would find the Patron Saint of Rain. Well that's him, Saint Isidore of Madrid. His picture has been my desktop background for a week and every morning I've said a little prayer that he bless us with some rain. This morning the little guy answered my prayers and we woke up to thunder, lightening and a pouring rain. It didn't last long but beggars can't be choosers and I am just down right giddy over the storm. The ranch got an inch and a half last night. Let the green grass grow! Now, today I think I'll search for the Patron Saint of Weight Loss.

Stop, Drop and Cry

I am not good in a crisis. That is to say that during a crisis my normal reaction is to drop to the fetal position and cry. Actually it is one, the other, or a combination of both. Now, so as not to confuse you, I deem a “crisis” anything remotely unpleasant. My definition ranges from cutting my finger to funerals. It is my Scarlett O’Hara syndrome and I have had it for as long as I can remember.

When I was seven or eight, my father took a night job to make ends meet. During the day he would sleep late then attend classes at LSU while my mother worked all day. I cannot remember why I was home with him one day, but can only assume it was spring break or teacher's in service. My mother had left for work and my father was sleeping in. I had the brilliant idea to clean the house. Not wanting to waste any time, I stuck a couple of barrettes in my hair to keep both sides of the mushroom back and rolled up my nightgown sleeves.

I decided to start with the dishes. Seemed easy enough since all this really requires is a good rinse, load said dish in the dishwasher, throw in some soap and push a button. Simple really. But we were out of soap. Thinking back I thought I recalled that this had happened once before and my mother used laundry soap. Considering the results, I think I probably made that memory up to spread some of the blame. I loaded the entire little door thingy with laundry soap then for good measure filled up that little cup next to the one with the door for really tough baked on dirt.

Dishwasher loaded and turned on I went about dusting the living room the entire time patting myself on the back. I was the perfect daughter. I was letting my father sleep after a hard nights work and helping my poor overworked mother at the same time. I was definitely in the running for special treat. Maybe my parents would buy me a Wonder Woman comic book or give me chocolate pudding for dessert. My mother would tell all of her co-workers the next day who would have no choice but to ooh and aah at what a great daughter Connie has. Yes, in my mind I was a star. That is when I noticed the four inches of white foamy bubbles escaping from the kitchen.

A person without the proclivity to freak out at the slightest bump in the road would have waded into the bubbles and shut off the dishwasher. I am not that person. Not even a shadow of someone that sane. No, I ran crying out the door, nightgown flying behind me, mushroom hair bouncing with every desperate step I took to find our apartment maintenance man. Who, by the way, upon accessing the situation, waded through the bubbles and shut off the dishwasher. My father was awakened from a dead sleep to the sight of his daughter staring into a kitchen buried two feet deep in bubbles, crying. For his part, he shook his head, and told me I could have just woken him up. Clearly I did not get my penchant for drama from him.

There's nothing you can do about it Sugar!

The last time it rained in Yorktown was last Memorial Day. We had spent the afternoon following a cow in labor through the pastures waiting for her to lie down and calve. Thunderheads rolled in from the South and gray sheets of rain began falling. We watched from the front porch as the cows huddled in the pasture against the stinging rain.

Next month it will be one year since that storm. One year since any rain has blessed this part of the country. We are obsessed with news of this historic drought. Three months ago we watched a grass fire on the horizon. Yellow smoke filled the air like a thick curtain. The volunteer fire department's siren echoed through our pasture as men were called from their daily duties to offer assistance. Later, we prayed that they were able to contain the fire before it destroyed too much land. We prayed that whoever's pasture had burned did not lose livestock. Sadly it turned out he had.

Today Fate's wheel stopped and it was our turn. We had spent the early afternoon parked under an Oak tree in the back pasture taking photos of the cows. We sat with the wind whipping through the field and watched the new calves sleeping or playing. After awhile I said I smelled smoke but we didn't see any on the horizon so it was just a fleeting thought. A forgotten comment that later comes back to haunt you. How could we forget that "where there's smoke there's fire".

We were up at the house around thirty minutes later when the phone rang and a neighbor asked C's father what he was burning in the back pasture. Knowing there is a burn ban in effect and taking into consideration the strong wind, she couldn't fathom what he would be burning back there. As it turns out the catylitic converter on C's Suburban had ignited the grass underneath it and that was what we had smelled earlier. C's father called 911 while C and I raced to the back to make sure the cows were out of harms way. I have read articles on ranchers who lost cattle to fires. I always assumed it was because they had been trapped by a rapidly moving fire. Not so. When we arrived in the back pasture two of our favorite cows were standing less than three feet from flames that were rising two feet off the ground sniffing at it as if it were food.

C went into Mario Andretti mode as she did donuts in the pasture herding the cattle out of the gate with her car. I was running behind them screaming, waving my arms like a mad woman. We were able to get everyone we could see out of the pasture but until the fire was under control there was no way we could be sure we had moved everyone.

I can name at least three country songs that poke fun of the VFD but until the day comes that you need them you have no idea how dedicated these men are to do such a selfless job. In less than fifteen minutes three trucks were on the property fighting the fire. One man must have been out shopping for Easter Sunday because his wife and kids were in the car as he sped past me (having my first of a few miny breakdowns that day) to fight a fire on someone else's land. In addition to the volunteer fire department, two neighbors immediately came to help on their tractors, churning the fire line to dirt that wouldn't burn. This is what we lack inside the city limits. It is a sense of community where any one man's tragedy is a communal tragedy and therefore the community goes to all lengths to help.

In the end approximately fifteen acres burned. The fire department was able to extinguish the fire in two or so hours. We didn't lose any cattle. Now if it would just rain that patch will be the greenest reminder of a day that while traumatic taught me a very imprtant lesson. On the porch that evening still shaken from the day's events, I commented to C's father that he had kept amazing composure while this was all going on. He looked at me in all honesty and said "It's part of life. There's nothing you can do about it Sugar."

Rounds 2-4
Beaten but Not Broken

Ah, two days later. Tuesday started out on the right foot. A walk in the morning for the Tasmanian devil then off to work. He and Isaac spent the first part of the day lazing in the sunshine in the backyard. Not a stick, pool cushion, garden glove, dog brush, or plant was chewed. No one escaped and we were pretty pleased with ourselves when we got home. After work it was time for another brisk walk then C and I went to dinner.

Now, a friend in need is a friend indeed, but a friend in need with a big backyard is the greatest! After dinner we went to a friend’s house around the corner dogs in tow to sit outside, solve the world’s problems, and let the dogs play. All was well until we got home. One second C was on her way up the garage stairs the next she was flying backwards, rolling down the concrete steps. It seems in his rush to get in the door for some more play time, crazy man clipped her just right. She hobbled up to bed while I sat downstairs waiting for him to go to sleep before I tiptoed up to our bedroom for some much needed rest.

With C injured it was up to me yesterday to run the ship. Dogs get breakfast, cats get breakfast, play time, then off to work. I was home early but too exhausted for an early walk so he of boundless energy was forced to wait until after dinner when we once again headed out the door. Me and my shin splints hobbling along, this big brown bouncing puppy taking a walk that was sure to make him sleepy. Not so. He laid down for a total of five seconds when we returned home then promptly picked up a tennis ball and began throwing it at me. Back to our friend’s house for more backyard ball play.

Again, when it was time for lights out I curled up on the couch as if I would be sleeping right there by him and waited for his breathing to become a slow, soothing rhythm. I think his sleeping from 10:00 p.m. to almost 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday had made me overly confident that last night would be much of the same. All went well until around 4:00 a.m. when the cat decided he would walk right up to the back door and meow at the dog through the glass. Lots of barking and whining later (on his part and mine) we again settled down with me back on the couch and him on his bed keeping a close eye on the porch through the door.

I should have just fallen back asleep but I’ll be damned if I didn’t need to go to the bathroom. Choosing to step over the dog bed to go to the bathroom in the sunroom, I felt all of this rubbery stuff under my feet. Again, if you find yourself in this position just go back to sleep. Do not turn on the light. Because if you do you will find you are walking on what is left of your girlfriend’s favorite sandals. You will want to spend the next two hours gluing tiny pieces of rubber back together because when she wakes up in a bad mood over her broken rib you don’t want to be the one to tell her that she can wear the sandals but only one heel will have something separating it from the ground.

There is a bright side to all of this. First, the sandals cost $9.99 a pair. Second, C has a couple of pairs. Third, it is only fair that their dog went after C’s shoes because when Isaac was a puppy he chewed a MUCH more expensive pair of loafers of said puppy’s mother. Fourth, tomorrow we will be heading down to the ranch, puppy and worry free.

Round One:
Dog 1 ~ Dog Whisperer 0

It’s true that all of our friends call C the dog whisperer. When we go to people’s homes, dogs flock to her like cats in a room with someone they somehow know is allergic to them. She has an affinity for making dogs mind her and love her with little effort on her part. Sadly her reputation is now at stake. We are babysitting our friend’s puppy for the next four days while they toast margaritas in Cabo soaking up their sunny puppy free environment.

Yesterday was day one and it gave us just a taste of what’s to come in the next week. Sort of like tasting milk that expired in December. When we both got home from work it looked like the sunroom had been ransacked, the kind of Law and Order job where the perp is desperately looking for the one thing that could put him away for life. Not an inch of the floor was toy free. Okay, we can handle him playing all day if that exhausts some of his energy. It doesn’t.

Plan B: We’ll take him for a walk and expend just a little bit more of that energy. We took turns RUNNING with him on the walk. By the end of the second block C and I are panting messes where as he of boundless energy is just gearing up. Back at home after our walk and feeling pretty good about himself he took the opportunity to relieve himself on the sunroom floor. A pretty good size puddle I might add. It left us both asking; “What was wrong with the hundred trees we passed?” Water bowl picked up and clean up crew to the rescue and again we settle in for the night.

Or so we thought. When we moved into our house we babysat another friend’s dog who took it upon himself to claim our bed as his own with a hike of the leg and a little squirt. Well, you know the story one dog smells another dog and MUST reclaim the property in question as his own. So, we brought him downstairs to sleep in the room that he felt comfortable with ALL DAY LONG. A room free of other dogs previous markings. Turns out he only likes that room when we are gone. When we are home he doesn’t want to be in that room. He told us in no uncertain barking terms that either one of us was going to spend the night downstairs or he was coming up. Consequently while my dog and my girlfriend collapsed in exhaustion upstairs, I laid on the couch until said puppy went to sleep.

This morning when I would normally be loading up on coffee and cigarettes doing the crossword puzzle, I was out walking him again. Again his energy is no match for my sedentary self, but at least I tried. Who knows I may lose a pound or two this week. Tonight we revert to Plan C which is play ‘til he drops. Maybe at the very least we can even the score.

7 Years 363 Days

C and I are a mere 48 hours away from celebrating our 8th anniversary. Up to now my relationships all seemed to follow a three year plan. The first year spent in the throes of honeymoon bliss. The second year in a state of utter complacency and the third year spent in a variation of the old Coyote Ugly metaphor where you would chew your own arm off just to get out.

This relationship has been different in every way. They say timing is everything and it is true. C and I met in 1992. Unfortunately at the time she wasn’t single. More unfortunate is the fact that when she was finally single I wasn’t. So, it took us 6 years but at last the timing was right.

A psychologist that spoke at our conference last week said every couple has 12 chronic unresolved issues at all times. I couldn’t help thinking is that 12 each? Because if you were to ask me to list my issues and ask C the same thing I am pretty sure we could come up with 24 easily. The trick however is to get past things like leaving your shoes under the coffee table despite the near death heart attack it causes when your partner sees them. The trick is laughter. If you don’t have a healthy dose of humor in your relationship I truly feel it will never work.

I think you know when something is right when 7 years and 363 days after you made a commitment you can still look at someone and be blown away by the love you feel for them. You want to go to lunch everyday, you want to fall asleep next to them every night and you can’t imagine a day when you won’t want these things.

I have always thought the term “soul mate” was a bit too hippy and touchy-feely for my taste but I can honestly say I have met mine. We don’t always like each other but we do always love each other. Eight years down and an infinite number to go!

When Sally Met Chinatown

I have always been a picky eater. I see nothing wrong with dressing on the side, no beans, rice with a side of rice, no veggies, is there broccoli in that because I don't want broccoli, and so on. I despise most waiters who don't write down my order because if I'm ordering you can bet I've changed something and if you don't write it down odds are I'm going to be sending it back.

I also have weird ideas on cross contamination. Although I have been told that our mothers would wash a chicken in the same sink as the veggies and we all lived, I am sure that salmonella and e-coli are at all times lurking in my kitchen waiting to strike. One of the greatest inventions are those little Clorox wipes that kill 99.99% of germs.

On a recent business trip to Philadelphia, I went sightseeing with a co-worker through Chinatown. First it was this:

Now, what is so disturbing about this is not the Peking duck hanging in the window. It is the RAW duck hanging there contaminating the rest of the ducks. One might as well walk in and order up a plate of salmonella.

And if you're not in the mood for salmonella try the seafood.

I have no idea what some of this stuff is but apparently if it comes from the sea and it can be caught, you can buy it at this market. The creepy elephant clam thingy in the right back bin made my toes curl.





We didn't eat in Chinatown that night. Thankfully. I'm afraid I'd still be there ordering.

"Peking duck please and if you wouldn't mind can I have one that was far from the raw duck. I'd also like one with extra crispy skin. A brown sauce but I want it on the side. No broccoli. No bamboo shoots. No water chesnuts. No peas or carrots. Extra spicy. And an order of steamed rice. Are you writing this down?"

Paul Tagliabue Where are You?

Dear Paul,

First let me say congrats on your retirement! I know you’re worried about who will be running the ship when you’re gone so I thought I might make a suggestion, Condoleeza Rice. Stop laughing, I’m serious. I know she has said publicly that this opening came around at the wrong time but I think you should really consider making the push. She has everything the NFL is looking for in a commissioner including a cool nickname, “warrior princess”. That ought to scare TO straight.

Now, I read somewhere that in 2004 only about half of your players had a college education. Condoleeza graduated with a degree in political science at the tender young age of 19. When she assumes the helm perhaps the NFL could start actively encouraging players to get their college education first as something to fall back on when their careers end in their twenties or thirties and they’ve blown every dime on fancy cars and women. Great idea huh?

You’re thinking no way, she’s a woman. Paul, 43% of your fan base are women. You add some of that Mrs. Munster, I’ll eat your heart out with a big gap toothed smile Conleeza style to the NFL and I’m seeing millions more in merchandising. It’ll be the greatest thing since the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.

Paul, come on, take one for the team. Team America! Get this woman out of the white house before she is on every news station defending the fact that we’re at war with the rest of the world.

Thanks,
Team America

World Traveler

In May, 1994 I did something so uncharacteristic it truly amazed everyone that knows what a wimp I am, I enrolled in a student exchange program in Campeche, Mexico. Below are excerpts from a journal I kept while in Mexico that only recently resurfaced when my mother (cold hearted space hog that she is) decided at thirty-five I really shouldn’t be storing stuff at her house any longer.

Regarding the shower in my room: “It took me ten minutes to get it working because there are four knobs and two have to be on, one off, then when you turn the other water comes out.”

In reference to being a passenger in the car: “No one must take drivers ed around here because riding in the car is terrifying.”

The bathroom again: “I tried working the bidet. Not a good idea to turn it on while bending over it.”

Later in the trip, lowering our standards or perhaps just getting used to a different way to describe full service hotel: “We went to a hotel in Ticul which looked great from the outside. The rooms were painted bright turquoise. The bathroom had no toilet seat or shower curtain but there was hot water- a plus!”

Rocking the palapa bar: “They had four American cd’s Def Leopard, Bryan Adams, Ace of Base (of course) and The Mutant Ninja Turtle soundtrack. Steve, Cindy, Kim and I danced on the small dance floor.” (I wish I could remember which of this wide array of music we danced to but alas the memory died at an early age of consumption)

From my follow up entry titled aptly “Things I forgot until now”:

Should have practiced Spanish before going: “The family kept calling me “Linda”. I thought they didn’t know my name but it means beautiful in Spanish.”

Disco dancing: “The disco had a ship theme with wooden columns, a small dance floor, 350 pesos for a bottle of champagne.” (Note to reader: on two previous occasions before our last night at the disco I had called my parents requesting additional funds. The fact that I was spending 350 pesos a pop for a bottle of champagne shames my adult heart but truth be told I’d do it again. I girl has to have priorities.)

How the other half lived: “Kay’s neighbors had pigs, chickens and goats. Mary Lou’s shower was in the middle of the room and the toilet was hidden from view by a curtain that blew up with the wind.”

At last the sun sets on Campeche: “Our last night before going to the disco we got a six pack and sat on the malacon for awhile, while we doing so a rat ran up from the ocean.”

Would you like to sample our new scent?

Sitting at my desk this afternoon I have laughed aloud several times at a little secret that has recently come out about one of our near and dear friends. She is a sample queen. Entering a department store she heads straight for the perfume counter and begins spraying not one, but multiple scents on herself. This alone was cause for laughter but it is the image of her ripping open the perfume sample inserted in a magazine and rubbing it vigorously on her neck and wrists that has me laughing like a loon. I love the innocence of it and how it reminds me of how excited I would get when my mother would give me the samples from a shopping trip. How I would horde the tiny glass tubes in my cheap vinyl purses using them sparingly lest I run out before our next trip to the mall.

I remember my first bottle of perfume. A whole bottle?! You could fit at least a hundred of those glass tubes in this sucker. It was Charlie, no doubt purchased at the local drugstore. I have actually sniffed at a bottle or two when buying mascara or something at Walgreens. Ugh! My poor parents having to smell that scent all day every day. It wasn’t until adulthood I was told a good three or four squirts on your neck, wrists, and chest were not necessary. I was a toxic cloud of cheap perfume roaming the halls of junior high leaving my peers to gasp for air when I walked by.

Oh, and then there was Tea Rose. My mother actually gagged every time I wore the stuff. I thought it made me more feminine and again applied it like a fresh coat of paint leaving no body part uncovered. For her own part my mother to this day wears four ounces of perfume every day. She doesn’t stop there either. She buys the box sets. Perfume, lotion and bath powder. Après shower it is lotion, powder then perfume. If you hug her at 10:00 a.m. you will still smell like her at 10:00 p.m. (the next day). That is actually one of my pet peeves. If I wanted to smell like someone else’s perfume I would buy it myself. Then again I could just subscribe to a few more magazines and be set.

Rockin' at the Rodeo

Carnival Tickets: $20.00
Blue Furry Hat: $15.00
Program with over 1,000 Photos: $15.00
Pink T-Shirt: $30.00
Funnel Cake, Bottled Water, Souvenir Beer and a Hot Dog: $20.00
Finding out Hillary Duff is a HOTTIE and having a legitimate excuse to be at her concert: Priceless

64,999 Screaming 8 Year Olds and Me

I have a serious case of the guilts today. My grandmother called and very sneakily during the conversation managed to slip in that my stepmother is going out of town tomorrow so she will not be able to take my sister to see Hillary Duff at the rodeo. I was aware of all of this information as the topic arose during my father and stepmother’s birthday dinner and my grandmother knew that when she mentioned it again. There was a time she would have stepped in to take Morgan herself, like the time she took me to see Flashdance because no one else was interested, but those days are long gone. So, I am left to weigh my options.

On the one hand I would score BIG points with my father, my stepmother and my sister. I would be the hero, the big sister who is fun and cool. It might be fun to take her to the carnival and torture her with rides that scare the sequined jeans right off her. At least I would have someone there that has the same insane passion for junk food that I do. This is a girl who dips her Thanksgiving turkey in ketchup! Also I took off from work the day after the concert so it really isn’t that big a deal if I stay out late.

On the other hand, Hillary Duff doesn’t have a ton of fans my age. I picture me and thousands of other mothers walking back to our cars with the glazed eyes of the living dead, our eardrums still ringing from the shrill cries of joy at seeing the anti-Britney. Would I show my age if I wore my bright pink foam earplugs? Is there anything worse than going to a concert where you don’t know one word from one song the artist is performing?

I just can’t get the picture out of my mind of Morgan going with my father who doesn’t even like music let alone preteen pop music. Decisions, decisions. I’ll let you know how the concert goes.

White Shoes, White Rabbits and White Chocolate

As a kid I looked forward to Easter with an excitement normally reserved for bigger holidays. To my mother’s dismay it had less to do with the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost as it did with clothes, a visit from the Easter bunny and chocolate.

Weeks before Easter we would hit the shops for a new dress. Something frilly with satin ribbons around the waist. White tights that by the end of the day would poke out at the knees, permanently stretched beyond their original form. The real prize was the pair of new white Patten leather shoes. The first scuff was like a dagger to the heart. Not to worry it’s nothing a squirt of Windex can’t fix. No Easter would be complete without a big, white floppy hat, preferably with the same color satin ribbon accenting the brim. At last I looked like a piece of chalk carrying a wicker basket in one hand and a stuffed bunny in the other.

Friends who joined us for Easter brunch at my grandmother’s house were always a little leery of the deviled eggs. My grandmother would always dye eggs before Easter but they were not your ordinary half one color half another color eggs. She would get the cups of dye ready, the kitchen smelling of vinegar and natural gas, then light a white candle. She would dip the blunt end of a stick pin in the wax and create intricate designs on the eggs before dipping them into the dye. I would do this with her but never with the same detailed results. My eggs had wax smears, my flowers and paisleys lopsided. Never one to waste food, she would peel and serve the dyed eggs at brunch as deviled eggs. There is something not quite right about eating a pink egg and the apprehension showed on every friend's face.

My father gave Easter Eve a sort of “too excited to sleep” kind of atmosphere. Before going to bed we would sprinkle white baby powder outside the front and back doors. That way he said we would be sure to know if the Easter Bunny visited because we would see his tracks. Once I was sleeping soundly, he would make potato stamps of bunny prints and arrange the tracks going in one door and out the other. Like rushing to see what’s under the Christmas tree, I would rush to the door to see if the Easter Bunny had visited. Once confirmation was made the search was on. I don’t know if most parents hid their children’s baskets but mine did. Would it be behind the curtains, inside my toy box, or maybe underneath the dining room table? A world of chocolate awaited me and I was not about to give up until I found my treasure.

I am thirty five years old now but sitting upstairs in a storage closet is an Easter basket my mother gave me last year. Only difference between this one and those of my childhood is I didn’t need to hunt for it, but don’t be fooled I would have done it in an instant.

Rawhide

A couple of years ago before C’s dad relinquished season tickets to the rodeo, this time of the year represented a sort of a drunken hell week. We waited patiently for the performers to be announced then snapped up the performances that seemed promising and in an instant our calendars were filled. Our daily routine went something like this:

Wake up go to work
Rush home from work to change
Rush to rodeo
Visit main Chorral Club for a few handfuls of Spanish peanuts and stale popcorn to wash down the drinks
Head off to the Chute Club for more drinks (no snacks this time thanks to full blown buzz)
Watch entire rodeo from Chute Club
Run to seats to see performance
Stop on way home for a night cap (or two)
Go to sleep (a.k.a. passout)
Next day do it all over again

One night somewhere between number eight and nine, C and another friend of ours decided we should go to the hideout for night caps. I protested. They whined and nagged. I protested. I really didn’t want to go. They whined and nagged me into submission, but a funny thing happened on the way to the hideout and I can only look back and call it KARMA.

Walking through the carnival, C decided to empty her Vodka filled bladder in a Port-O-Potty. Although some are in well lit areas so the already creepy, germ infested inside is not quite as scary, this one was not. There she stood, squatting over the smelly abyss wondering why there was no splash. As she tells it, she thought the thing was so full it might overflow at any moment. Alas, it wasn’t too full. Someone had left the lid down.

When she emerged from the Blue Palace her camel colored pants betrayed the stream that had run down the lid and filled the seat of her pants. Where once there was nothing a BIG dark spot covered her backside. I could have been understanding, but what sweet revenge after the whining and nagging. Instead I bought a book of carnival tickets to ride the greatest ride in the world The Scrambler. Unfortunately Karma wasn’t through with us yet because before the carnie could close the gate and start the car a’spinnin, a nice gentleman gave C his ride pass. There is nothing like being stuck in a two-seater glittery car slinging back and forth on someone else’s pee.

Tag (or a version thereof)

Duly Inspired tagged me as a reminder that there is no point having a blog if you don't post. Only problem is she sent me this musical exercise which leaves me to do one of two things; play along and out myself as Captain and Tenille's biggest fan or change this little exercise to a less embarrassing pursuit. I have chosen the latter. So Duly Inspired my answers are as follows:

1. Name an author: Stephen King
2. Are you male/female? The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon
3. Describe yourself: Firestarter
4. How do you feel about yourself? Desperation
5. Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend: Misery
6. Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend: Carrie
7. Describe where you want to be: Children of the Corn
8. Describe how you live: Everything's Eventual
9. Describe how you love: Storm of the Century
10. What would you ask if you had just one wish? Thinner
11. Share a few words of wisdom: Sometimes They Come Back
12. Now say goodbye: Quitters, Inc.

Probably not what you were expecting but I had a fun time doing it nonetheless.

Growing Pains

My eight year old sister has been learning a few of life’s less appealing lessons lately. It started with her fencing tournament this weekend (Thank you Lindsey Lohan in Parent Trap for making fencing so appealing to eight year olds. Let’s hope she doesn’t find your bout with anorexia as appealing). The organization that runs her fencing school has allowed a boy who JUST TURNED 9 to compete in the 8 and under group. When my sister found out she went nuts with indignation. She began planning what she would say if he won. How she would point out the unfairness of it all. As my father put it he couldn’t wait to see all of “her inbred, genetic aversion to injustice” kick in and hoped the guy was wearing a cup when it happened. As it turns out lesson number one is life isn’t fair.

She fenced the 9 year old who, again as my father put it, “whupped her ass”. Well this threw her off for the entire day, screwing with her confidence in every other match. In the end it was left to my father to let her know that life isn’t fair and that if the rules let him compete in her age group she will just need to deal with that fact. This particular lesson resulted in a lot of crying which the rest of us are not supposed to know. Realistically, did he expect anything less from an 8 year old? C, I can hear your response and no, I don’t want another lecture on sportsmanlike conduct. In this family we like to win and if we don’t we like to cry. Have I ever let you get away with one game of Skip Bow or Scrabble if you win the first?

To add insult to injury, my sister came home yesterday upset because a boy had hit her at school. She said he just kicked and punched her for no reason. Knowing the unlikelihood of an out of the blue ambush, my father asked for the whole story. As it turns out the boy and some of his friends were making fun of her because she had made a mistake during a soccer game. What really got her is one of the boys was her friend and even he laughed. So she kicked the boy who started it all and he hit back. Lesson two: boys do not hit girls.

My father agreed with her that boys do not hit girls under any circumstance. In fact, he told her, when he was young he once went on a trip up North to visit some cousins. At this time my father wore his hair in a white blond buzz cut just like every other boy in his hometown. He was introduced to his cousin Carey who proceeded to repeatedly beat the crap out of my father. Knowing that he could not hit her back, he went to my grandmother for some advice on what to do about the girl who kept hitting on him. My grandmother’s reply “That’s not a girl”. It seems my father didn’t know any other boys who wore their hair longer than a quarter inch and therefore assumed this cousin was a girl. Poor little Carey got his in the end.

In a way these stories make me smile and reflect on the hard learned lessons of my own childhood. In another sense it makes me sad to know that soon enough she’ll learn the bigger lessons; that life is unfair a lot more than you think. Today it’s a fencing match tomorrow it will be a boyfriend, a job, or something else just as heartbreaking to lose. That although boys aren’t supposed to hit girls, many of them aren’t taught that and become men who hit women. Hopefully she will carry this lesson around and if it ever happens she’ll have the courage to walk away. After kicking his ass.

Target Practice

Yesterday was a beautiful day. Lots of sunshine and fresh air. C and I had lunch outside then sat on our back patio drinking mimosas looking through photo albums. Hmmm! Sounds innocent enough but those mimosas mixed with the four or five we already drank at lunch thus becoming much more of problem. At 5:30 we met friends for dinner and since we were at a Mexican food restaurant that doesn’t serve mimosas we switched to vodka. At this point the mimosas and vodka introduced themselves to each other and decided that impairing my better judgment was in order because after we left dinner we went for “one more” drink. You’ve been there and know how this works. People only say “one more” when they can no longer count how many they’ve had up to that point.

So, a bit late for a work night we dragged ourselves upstairs and promptly “fell asleep” (a.k.a. passed out). If you know me you know that I have a case of OCD when it comes to going to sleep without asking C if she set the alarm. I ask every night. Most of the times she will roll her eyes and answer in the affirmative but when she is feeling particularly evil she will say no then laugh as I squirm for five minutes. When I have had all I can take I get out of bed and walk to her side to confirm the alarm is set. Last night however my OCD was temporarily medicated and the alarm remained unset.

At 7:45, fifteen minutes before C has to be at work, the cat started screaming to be fed. Thank God, I thought. He is a hero. Or he was for all of fifteen minutes. C rushed out the door and I went back to sleep. Back to sleep that is until the cat decided I should get up NOW and feed him. He stood in our doorway meowing with everything he has. I tried screaming NOOOO but to no avail. The high pitched kitty speak continued.

Drastic times call for drastic measures. The first time he meowed after I told him NOOOO I threw a pair of C’s jeans at him that were on the bed. He curled up on them and continued to meow. The second time I threw a stuffed animal that for some reason has been in my nightstand since we won it at the rodeo carnival last year. He used it as a pillow and continued to meow. The third time I threw a book of matches at him. These he took as a toy, rolling over on his back, biting them and kicking with his back feet. Not wanting to admit I was awake at this point I put my head back down comfortable in the knowledge that the book of matches would keep him busy while I grabbed five more minutes. Not a chance. He meowed again and this time I threw a tube of chapstick right at his ass. Realizing he was in the direct line of fire for the remaining contents of my nightstand he hurriedly exited our bedroom and began screaming from the hall.

American Idol

I had my shot. I did. The year was 1978 and Grease was playing in the theaters. My friend Doots and I had seen it at least fourteen times (That is a Freyism but what can I say? In my mind it was no less than fourteen times). We sat for hours next to the record player listening to the soundtrack, opening up the cover to stare at the photos inside, wishing we were Sandy dancing in Danny’s arms at the carnival. We hated Rizzo with a passion except for her solo Look at Me I’m Sandra Dee. We belted out the words “Hey, fungu, I’m Sandra Dee!” without ever realizing their meaning. We belted out all of the words and committed ourselves to imitating the casts every move. Skipping around the living room singing Summer Nights as if we were right there eating lunch outside Rydell High.

Sure that our talent should be shared with the world, we decided to put on Grease LIVE for our apartment complex. Doots was older and therefore trumped me when it came to picking her character. She had long blond hair (like Sandy). My mother kept my hair in a sort of dirty blond mushroom so it would be easier to grease back (like Danny). Eventually, I agreed to my role in the show but not before some very heated arguments.

What to wear? I wore jeans, rolled up at the ankle, a short sleeve t-shirt that I rolled up very Danny-like to show off my biceps and my father’s jacket. In my mind I was a T-Bird. In reality I was a scrawny, greased down mushroom hair, girl trying my best to look like a badass and failing miserably. Doots wore an outfit as close to Sandy’s dirty girl, hood outfit as we could find. I had these dress up shoes that used to be my aunt’s that I begrudgingly let her wear for the performance. The had a solid cork heal with two read cloth straps that crisscrossed each other on the top of the foot. Sexy, disco shoes!

Where to set up the stage? You know what they say, location, location, location. We decided the grassy yard adjacent to the pool would probably afford us the largest audience as people could watch from their lounge chairs through the iron metal fence. The upside. If they ran they would need to leave the pool area. Poor unsuspecting souls just wanted a tan.

Sadly the show closed after only one performance but I would bet if you asked anyone who lived in Tiger Plaza back then that happened to be walking their dog, or attempting to get some peace and quiet by the pool, they would tell you that we rocked. We were karaoke when karaoke wasn’t cool. Oh, how I miss that lack of embarrassment. These days it takes me three glasses of wine to sing You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma before a room full of geriatrics at the neighborhood steak house.

No Place To Go But Up

When I moved to Lubbock I knew it would be an adjustment. I had very few friends with the exception of those I met through the girl I was dating at the time. All were soccer players so I volunteered as a team manager. I managed to sit on the sidelines of every practice and game reading or studying, making half hearted attempts at learning the rules of a game that I can say today I am no more knowledgeable about than I was then. Never playing sports in high school I didn’t understand the whole team camaraderie element so when I was included in the plan to pierce our noses before Thanksgiving break I jumped at the chance. At least we weren’t shaving our heads.

We piled into the goalie’s SUV and headed to the tattoo parlor in town. It was nothing like where I got my tattoos in Houston. There was no Westheimer in front carrying car loads of people out on the town on any given night. There were no characters hanging around; street kids, bikers and punk rock queens. No, this place was D-E-A-D. We were the only customers. This, as it turns out, served to limit my humiliation to only those who would bear witness to my cowardice of the night.

I didn’t want to go first so as girl after girl got her nose pierced I watched intently for signs of pain. A few winced. I saw a few tears collect in their eyes but all in all they all treated it as a non-event. When it came my turn, my heart raced and my palms began to sweat. I thought, “I can do this. My ears are pierced. TWO PLACES.” I remembered the gun when you got your ears pierced at cheap accessory shops in the mall. The POP of the gun then the whole ear lobe getting hot. Seconds later it would start throbbing so hard that I was sure if I looked in the mirror it would look like my heart left my chest for higher ground and settled in my ear lobe. How when it was over I always breathed a sigh of relief and thought to myself that wasn’t such a big deal after all.

I sat down on the black metal chair prepared for a similar piercing experience. Problem number one: they do not use guns to pierce your nose. They use a needle. Yep, that’s it. I could pierce my nose and fix a hem with one instrument. Problem Two: It hurts like hell! So much so that I promptly fell faint right out of the chair the second he pushed the needle through my nose. Coming to lying on the floor of a tattoo parlor in Lubbock, TX with a needle hanging out of my nose and a 500 pound biker named Ozzy peering over me I knew my life had hit a low the likes of which it had never seen.

I thought happiness was Lubbock Texas in my rear view mirror…
But memories like this just get nearer and dearer.

Lovin' Labs

On our weekly trips to Yorktown, I have been reading Marley & Me by John Grogan aloud to C. We have laughed and cried at his experiences with his self proclaimed “world’s worst dog.” At once bonding with a fellow lab owner who sums up so well how they convey emotion, make you laugh, cry and comfort you. So many times we thought of Maggie who we lost just before we moved into our new house and couldn’t help but think that was a tiny blessing that she never had to brave our stairs.

In the backseat, head perched just behind my seat, staring longingly at C is our own little comedian, terror, and empathizer Isaac. Every now and then we read something in the book that makes us look back and ask him if he remembers when he did this or that.

Does he remember chewing? Do you remember eating your dog beds boy? Do you remember the time you squeezed your nose through the bars of your crate and ate right through the sheet rock? How about the first time we left you out of your crate? The teeth marks still ingrained in the wooden knob on the bed that told us you weren’t quite ready. The endless bags of charcoal you stole from beneath the barbeque pit? We were lucky with this one; he never really ate anything that couldn’t be replaced. C says we are due for a terror the next time.

For now however we’ll enjoy our time with a big lug of a canine who will let us dress him in anything, displays the greatest appreciation for any morsel of food you give him, sits right in front of you when you cry with the most worried look on his face, and when you yell at him will actually pout until you end up offering a heartfelt apology.

Go to Hell, I'm Reading

Yesterday at lunch C gave me a very big surprise. It seems her mother had read in the paper that an author I like, Greg Iles, would be signing his latest book at Murder By the Book and C agreed to take me. A book signing you say? The last signing I attended was when Ernest Gaines came to town and I thoroughly embarrassed myself. There he was this great writer of Southern African American literature, right in front of me, and all I could think to say was “Your wife’s dress is pretty.” Humiliating? Sure, but I think it made an impression.

So, on our way to the signing I tell C how excited I am and thank her for doing this which is surely not nearly as fun for her as watching football with one thousand strangers in a smoky sports bar. In return, and to ease the pain, I suggested we eat at a Cuban restaurant that we both love but is usually too far away from home to get the early bird blue haired special. That got her thinking maybe this artsy fartsy book stuff wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

My excitement level grew as we got closer. I wondered out loud if I would be able to see him clearly? Would we have to wait in line a long time before getting our book signed?

She looked at me like with this worried expression that betrayed her outer calm and says “Do you think there will be that many people here?”

“What did you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You and maybe ten or so people. Maybe just you.”

Insert eye roll non-verbal response here.

The evening went great and I walked out of that book store feeling like I had just attended an Aerosmith concert.

PWT

When I was seventeen I entered what would be the first of five colleges I would end up attending. My days were filled with backgammon, soap operas, and smoking cigarette after cigarette in a room the size of a prison cell. Evenings often involved driving the winding rural roads surrounding San Marcos listening to Guns-n-Roses drinking beer. Sometime during this year of freedom to exercise stupidity, I decided to get my first tattoo.

It was Christmas break and for the life of me I don’t remember what brought us to the seedy Montrose area that night. I remember drinking a bottle of cheap champagne (a habit I unfortunately have not kicked since that first year of college) then the next thing I know I have my leg hiked up on a stool while a fat man in leather shoots ink under my skin with a needle. I would love to tell you it was something cool, or at the very least something people would recognize, but alas my first permanent marking was nothing but the infinity sign. Yes, a sideways figure eight smack dab on my ankle that matched the one my girlfriend at the time put on her ankle. At least it wasn’t a name!

A year later when infinity ended and the relationship took a sharp turn in the downward direction, I attempted to cover the infinity sign with a shark. Why a shark you ask? It was on a model’s ankle in a magazine. The entire shot was of her ankle so I am not even sure what product the ad was for but boy did that tattoo speak to me. It said “you are a beach bunny with sandy blonde hair that glistens in the sun as you frolic in the waves on white sand beaches.” Truth be told, even after the tattoo I sadly remained a bleach blond, beer drinking, flunking out college student. A girl can dream.

After the tattoo, I wore socks whenever I was around my parents. Willing to fight the independence fight when it came to my curfew (“But I don’t have a curfew at the dorm”) but not yet willing to fight the doing the same stupid thing everyone is doing fight (“All my friends are getting them”). One day driving in the car with my father I had forgotten the all important socks. It took awhile but he noticed and asked, “What is that on your ankle?” I replied “A tattoo” with all the confidence I could muster. His response was “Congratulations, you have finally graduated to poor white trash”. Oh, but if he only knew what I did when I was twenty-one.

Ghosts of Christmas Present

Well, we survived another Christmas…barely. Christmas morning I woke up (unknowingly) next to Scrooge. Gone was my girlfriend and in her place was this mean spirited, bad mood, Scrooge. She even threatened to leave the house while everyone was over. She just needed a little reminder that if I stay she stays. Like the Marines we leave no man behind. This rule applies even more when twelve family members are going to descend upon our house in four hours. So Scrooge pulled it together and we were able to have all but the turkey and crab cakes ready when the nut house stopped the bus in front of our house and released its wards to our care for the afternoon.

Immediately following their entrance, our family members congregated not in the living room, not in the sunroom (both rooms with sufficient seating where nothing was going on) but in the kitchen. Not even the flames rising from the skillet could drive them away (the fire was minor and did not spread). When all food had finally reached the table everyone grabbed their plate and started filling up like we were running an all you can eat Chinese buffet.

My sister however exercised some restraint putting just two items on her plate; turkey and my grandmother’s spinach salad. Scrooge made it a point to sarcastically state that she was really branching out putting spinach on her plate at which point Morgan exclaimed “Spinach!! You mean there is spinach in this salad”. If I were my parents I would have called the private tutor and asked for my money back. This is the “spinach” salad served at every special occasion. We don’t call it “grandmother’s special salad” or “mandarin orange salad” it is always referred to as “spinach salad”. Throughout the meal Morgan shot side glances at everyone around her trying desperately to have someone, anyone, verify that there was in fact NO spinach on her plate.

After lunch we exchanged gifts then everyone packed up to head home with one exception, my aunt’s boyfriend who had been sleeping upstairs on our guest bed since arriving. Presents were in the car and he had not yet resurfaced. Scrooge and I dropped subtle hints then finally leaned in to ask my father if maybe someone had forgotten Ed upstairs. Seizing the opportunity to throw me into a panic he started telling everyone to hurry up and leave. In the end we did end up getting rid of Ed but not before I followed my aunt out to the car to verify that she would be taking him with her.

In the end it was a Christmas filled with family, good food, and lots of laughter but if the mother ship insists on giving me Scrooge again next year I may hop the bus back to the loony bin.

Nectar of the Gods

My grandmother recently advised me that if I had enough wine at Christmas dinner everything would be fine. This was in response to certain family members who will remain nameless (my father) that think 1:00 is too early for Christmas dinner. My grandmother doesn’t even drink that much wine anymore but back in the days that woman was a wino.

One year for a birthday we went to eat at a quaint Italian restaurant. It wasn’t too froo froo but it wasn’t plastic red and white checkered table cloths either. Most of us had a fabulous meal. My grandmother drank her meal and proceeded to get schnockered at the table so when my mother commented on how much she liked the breadsticks she began throwing them at her saying “Put them in your purse. You paid for them. They’re not going to serve them again. Put them in your purse!” I thought my grandfather would drop dead right then and there. My mother not knowing what to do began stuffing her purse full of bread so my grandmother would stop yelling. She had to vacuum the thing out when she got home to get rid of the bread crumbs.

For years most of the family would not lift a finger to help her clean the table. She would retreat to the kitchen alone. Well not alone. She had her wine. We could always tell when her buzz was kicking in because her singing and whistling would increase to deafening volumes. “You say toe-may-toe! I say toe-mah-toe! Oooooo, let’s call the whole thing off!” Hey, whatever made her happy washing a million dirty dishes. Who were we to break up the party?

Grandmother has stopped drinking as much but if you go to her house the telltale signs of her wine days are everywhere. She drinks Ernest & Julio Gallo Chablis… in a screw top jug. She has recycled countless jugs by propagating ivy vines in them then placing them strategically in every room of the house. If anything happens to her I am giving them to Christo and Jeanne-Claude. They could line them up along I-10 from one side of Texas to the other and call it art.

Third Time is a Charm

C and I started a new tradition for the holidays whereby our families come to our house for Christmas dinner. This year will be our third year hosting anywhere between twelve and sixteen people. By now we have the whole affair down to a science but the first year did not go so smoothly.

We realized early in the day that when we built our house we chose to install only one oven. Great when we are making dinner for ourselves but how do you cook three side dishes when the entire thing is filled with a giant turkey that will take at least six hours to cook? Solution: we were watching our neighbor’s house so the rest of the day was spent walking back and forth to use her oven.

C’s father bought a ham to go with the turkey but he didn’t think to look at it before Christmas day. I wouldn’t either but when we did it was green. Green eggs and ham is one thing but a green ham is a bad sign. About the time C was discovering the strange tint to our meat I was cutting up iceberg lettuce to put in a salad. The knife slipped as it is wont to do in my hands and sliced a nice chunk out of my finger. In my typical melodramatic fashion I ran to the sink and fought off a fainting spell while C demanded to know why I had the knife pointed towards my fingers while cutting.

Once I had three inches of bandage wrapped around my finger, I began calling restaurants and hotels to replace the rotten ham. One hotel said yes they were in fact serving ham but that no they wouldn’t sell me one. Denied by some Scrooge and on Christmas day no less! The search seemed fruitless until I called the Matamoras Meat Market. In what little Spanish I remember from studying it multiple times throughout high school and college I was able to ask if they sold hams. Success at last, they were open and had ham.

I jumped in the car, throbbing finger still wrapped in three inches of bandage and headed to the meat market. With a spring in my step I walked through the doors and asked where I would be able to find the hams. With a smile, the gentleman behind the counter lifted a large, rectangular, slimy ham LOAF out of the cooler and asked how much I wanted. There was no ham for Christmas that year but what I didn’t eat in pork I made up for in wine. This year we will look at the ham, my grandmother will bring the salad, and we will definitely offer to watch the neighbor’s house.

Excuse me waitress, there is an eye in my salsa.

I admire people who really live by the cliché “when life gives you lemons make lemonade”. Personally I live by the adage that if life gives you lemons throw a fit, cry, yell then have the world’s largest pity party for yourself. Call it a pity prom and invite all your friends. It isn’t a successful party unless they all go home unhappy.

My mother’s brother has four boys. The oldest is also the most successful. He attended West Point, made great grades, played football, met the woman of his dreams and settled down about half a mile from my uncle’s house. This side of the family has a relationship that can only be found by taking your nose out of a book and talking to one another. Hence the reason my father’s family is about as close as one side of Texas from the other.

My cousin’s first child had a broken chromosome. This caused her to be born with severe mental problems, open heart surgery immediately after birth, physical handicaps, and only one eye. Amy has outlived all of our expectations but the experience has been a trying one on my cousin and his wife, but they chose to make lemonade.

Case in point, the entire family attended a rehearsal dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Amy was sporting a brand new glass eye which she was fixated on playing with at the table. Ed told her several times to “put your eye back in and leave it alone” but she just went right on popping the sucker out. At one point she threw the eye in the salsa. For grins, my uncle called the waitress over to complain about the eye in his salsa. Is it sick that my family would laugh at the expense of an innocent (and equally horrified) waitress? No, it’s squeezing a little bit of pleasure out of life’s less shining moments.

35

I woke up this morning a whole year older. Ugh! It did get me thinking on past birthdays:

The cake with “Happy Birthday Jacqueline from Ronald McDonald” that I got at my McDonald’s birthday party. Oh yeah! They know how to suck you in young and start the French fry addiction early.

The 10 speed bike my parents bought me that I had trouble getting the hang of. The first time I came screeching up my grandmother’s driveway I hit only the front breaks causing the back of the bike to come up over my head hurling me into the garage door.

Getting ALL of the Nancy Drew mysteries that I was missing on one day and having to decide which one to read first. Go by the numbers of course. These are still at my father’s house waiting to be read by my sister.

My 21st birthday spent with a good friend at a dive bar named Juliet’s. Standing on the barstools drinking Cactus shots. Mature, really mature.

The birthday I spent alone in a one bedroom efficiency in Lubbock, TX. All of my friends had finals the next day so no one would celebrate with me. I ended up going to the strip for a bottle of wine and drinking it in front of my tiny gas space heater.

The luau C threw for my 30th. It was a beautiful day until the temperature dropped a trillion degrees and we had to use propane heaters in the big tent to keep semi-warm.

My 31st in New Orleans. This was a fun one! Casinos, Cajun food, champagne, a drag brunch. Our most proper friend showing up at the hotel a bit tipsy wearing no shoes and a Café du Monde paper hat.

Going to NYC with C. She woke me up the day of my birthday by throwing a snow ball on me in bed that she had collected from the window sill of our room. That is one of my favorite memories. We captured Sadaam Hussein that day.

Merry Christmas Y'all...
From your Pistol Packin' Grandma

The following is an excerpt from my grandmother's annual Christmas newsletter:

"End of June a half naked man appeared at my patio door at 10PM!! Next day I put padlocks on my gates--told neighbors, Epernay Town-house manager since their esplanade is at my back fence, and then the police. Bought me a .38 revolver and laid my .22 across the chair. Then I needed an anti-depressant!!"

To steal a quote from Prince of Tides "and that's what I love about the South".

Precious Cargo

When my mother met my stepfather in 1978 he was somewhat of a free spirit. His main income source was rent on a couple of houses he owned in Belmont, NJ. To supplement his income as a slum lord, he also played saxophone in a jazz band and had a paper route. He lived in an old Victorian he also owned in Ocean Grove, NJ, twelve or so blocks from the shore and close enough to Asbury Park that you could ride a bike.

Tom’s only mode of transportation was a vanilla colored cargo van that had but one seat, the driver’s. After they were married I used to love helping with the paper route, driving in the van with the side door wide open throwing papers on people’s porches. My favorite was pay day when I would run up to everyone’s door and collect the monthly fee in a tiny brown envelope.

For my mother’s twenty-ninth birthday, Tom arranged for them to spend a night on the town in Atlantic City. After years of nothing but fighting with my father, my mother was ready for some romance. She bought a new red dress, did her nails, and had her hair done for her big night.

Tom arrived at my Uncle’s house where we were living at the time in his cargo van. He came up to the door to collect my mother and escort her to the car. When he opened the door, mother realized he had set up a lawn chair in the back for her to sit on. Mother didn’t balk but climbed right into the back of the van and assumed her throne for the evening. A window in his van had recently been broken so the ride was a windy one. Oh to have a picture of them riding down the road, an old hippy driving around a woman dressed up sitting in a lawn chair in the back.

Pete

After lunch with my mother today, as she drove me back to the office, we began discussing my grandmother. It is that time of year when family members who don’t live close begin to descend upon Houston like tornados from the sky. First my Aunt Sharon on the 17th followed by her daughter on the 18th. The 21st brings my Aunt Laurie. On Christmas day my Aunt Sharon’s boyfriend Ed is coming. Not one of the above mentioned will be leaving at the same time and as you see arrivals are spread out. Enter my mother who has been offering to pick everyone up. My father flat out doesn’t offer and this is his family!

Here we are in the car after a perfectly pleasant lunch and my mother begins talking about how my grandmother is not going to be around forever. How my mother already sees her declining. Back up a damn minute. I spoke to my grandmother on Tuesday morning. She was getting ready for her weekly tennis match. Does this sound like an 83 year old who is “declining”?

My grandmother is my hero. I have always been close to her. Looked up to her. Admired everything she does. She is a painter. She plays tennis. She can cook (although you really should ask how long the meat has been in the freezer). She likes to sing, drink wine, garden, read, do the crossword puzzle and truly enjoy life. She took care of me when my parents were in the midst of their separation making crepes for my school home economics project.

I tried to stop my mother from saying these things. Quantifying my grandmother’s existence by predicting how many years she may or may not have left on this Earth. I didn’t want to hear about her decline because the second she senses we think that she is declining I think she won’t try as hard not to be the same person. The chink in her armor is there I just can’t see it right now.

Right now I want to hear about her kicking ass at tennis on Tuesdays. I want her to bring me spinach salad every special occasion. I want to see her finally discarding my grandfather’s home office to set up her painting studio. I want to watch her pick out her Christmas tree, strolling through the Scotch pines, grabbing a big handful of branches that she will stick her face right in the middle of to smell if it is fresh. This is my hero and if you never get to meet her I am sorry, you would truly enjoy the visit.

Dear PETA,
This Winter I’m Wearing Fur

Funny that when I was young I wanted to shave my legs. Couldn’t wait to start shaving my legs. It was like wearing lipstick or piercing your ears. A rite of passage so to speak. When I was around eight I decided to just try to shave a little of my leg to see what it was like. I perched my leg up on the side of the bathtub, grabbed my mother’s razor then proceeded to slice a four inch line from my heel up. My bathwater turned pink as I yelled for my mother who immediately asked if I had tried to shave. No, the razor fell into the tub and I set my foot down on it thereby cutting myself. Right. She didn’t push the issue probably thinking I wouldn’t try again too soon after that experience. She was right.

These days it is a completely different story. Although C and I fell asleep with the fire place ablazin last night and woke up to a bedroom hotter than the Sahara desert, when I stepped into the shower I couldn’t get the chill out of my bones or the water hot enough. I stood there turning the knob, turning it some more, waiting to be surrounded by the steam. Nothing.

Resigning myself to the fact that it just wasn’t going to happen I proceeded with my shower. I looked at the razor, perched on the side of the bathtub, outside the glass doors of the shower. I thought I had two options; brave the cold of the bathroom to retrieve the razor, effectively giving up what little heat I had built up or shave tomorrow. Looking at my legs it was clear that today would have been a good choice unless I was willing to use a new blade on each leg. I opted for comfort over practicality.

This morning when I left for work the temperature outside was hovering in the thirties. That’s when it hit me. I am growing myself a winter coat (one particular reader is laughing about a completely unrelated story). Why do I need smooth legs that won’t see the light of day until February at best? Come Spring I’ll get some industrial clippers and sheer myself. Maybe make a sweater or two. Until then, PETA if you see me walking down the street please don’t throw red paint on my legs.

Putting the Christ You People Need a Life back in Christmas

For all of the conservative, right wing, evangelical, Bible thumping, hating in the name of the Lord, Christians who are trying to put the Christ back in Christmas, I have this to say. You can have it back but it will cost you.

I am taking Santa Claus back. He is too good for you. You don’t deserve Saint Nicholas, who according to Wikipedia is “revered by many as the patron saint of seamen, merchants, archers, children, prostitutes, pharmacists, lawyers, pawnbrokers, prisoners”. Got that! Prostitutes and pawnbrokers. Prisoners. Santa Claus is a democrat. I am sure Rush Limbaugh wouldn’t mind revering the patron saint of pharmacists and Tom Delay might want to light a candle for any saint that might help his attorneys. We can only hope he is in prison soon praying to good old Saint Nick for himself.

Guess what?! I am taking your Christmas tree also. You don’t want something in your house that started as a pagan tradition do you? No. You are chaste. You are compassionate conservative Christians who want to follow the Bible by the word when it suits you. So no more trees for you. You can however keep the nativity scene.

You want schools to start calling it “Christmas holiday” instead of “winter break”. Sure is going to suck when little Johnny and Suzy have to call it “Kwanza holiday” and “Chanukah break”. Oh, you didn’t think you were the only ones who got two weeks off of school named after you did you? You see this is America. The same America that embraces all cultures or used to before you hijacked our government. If you want Christ back in Christmas start with the person in the mirror.

Turtles and Mice and Bulls, Oh My!

Ah, another weekend in the country. When C’s father is not at the ranch we cube the cows (give them treats) from the back of an old orange Jeep that has been fitted with a hunting tower and seats with gun racks on the front. We have a system so to speak. C drives out to the pasture while I sit in the passenger seat until we get close then I hop in the back to pour out the cubes. First, however you must load the bags in the back of the Jeep. This weekend we removed the doors and as I walked around to the back where we would load the bags, AAAAGGHHHH! There half in, and half out I might add, was a turtle with a bullet hole through his shell. C took one look and said “Well, get him out.” Hmmm, why must I be the one to remove the offending corpse? Because she said if I didn’t we would just not cube the cows at all. I bucked it up and removed the turtle. You thought I touched it didn’t you? No, I found a silver bucket top, slid him off the tailgate and quickly covered him up with the lid. Perfect.

Cubes loaded and ready to go, we set out along the gravel road that leads to the back pasture. A few minutes into our journey, I see a mouse high tail it from the console, straight up the middle of the cab between our seats and somewhere in the back. Before I could quite warn C of her impending doom, the scared shitless part of my brain took over and I jumped right out my door while the Jeep continued on. C seeing her passenger bail knew it must be bad. By this time I have yelled into the dust cloud the Jeep is leaving in its wake “MOUSE”! A split second later there is C jumping out of her door. What else was there to do but watch the Jeep slowly rolling away from us with nothing but a field mouse for a passenger. The Jeep finally stopped but before climbing back in we looked everywhere for the mouse. At last we came to the conclusion the mouse must have seen us bailing ship and thought he would do the same.

Now you may know how spoiled our dog is, but what you may be unaware of is his tendency to not think before acting. It is a trait he inherited from me. C’s father has been feeding one of the bulls outside the gate of his pasture because despite being the Alpha (only) Male in his pasture, the female cows will beat the crap out of him and take his feed if given the opportunity. We let him out of his gate which went as smooth as silk. It was on reentry that he had some trouble. He didn’t want to go back. Instead he went halfway in the gate, stopped and stared. C was shooing him in but he wouldn’t budge. I came out with all the confidence in the world (as well as a piece of conduit) and poked him in the rear to move the process along. When an animal the size of a Honda turns around and shakes his head at you after you have just poked him in the ass it is time for Plan B. Before we could really come up with Plan B, Isaac decided he would crawl under the barb wire fence separating him from safety and certain death and come bounding towards us both. I panicked. I screamed. C retrieved the dog and pulled him away from the danger zone. The cows took the opportunity to start making their way out of the pasture to see if there was anything left in the feed bucket. At this point I was high on adrenaline with a bit to spare so I went nuts. Screaming at the top of my lungs and waving my arms around. My hair was standing on end. They cows gave me one look, looked at each other as if to say “whoa, she has lost all her marbles”, then walked calmly back into the pasture. I’m telling you I can be scarier than a dead turtle, fleeing field mouse or a two ton bull when panicked.

Designed With Quiet in Mind

In the past couple of years, C has begun snoring every night. Two seconds after her head hits the pillow great waves of sound begin filling the room. It sounds like she is snorting gravel. Interspersed with the snoring is the “puh”. This is the sound of a big intake of air followed by the “puh” sound her lips make on exhale.

In addition to C’s snoring, Isaac chimes in with his own brand of keep you awake make you cringe noises, lip smacking. He sounds like a dog that has been deprived of water for a week. Smack. Smack. Smack. I do however have Isaac trained to immediately retreat to the closet when I say the words “quit it” real loud. This trick doesn’t work so well with C.

As C’s snoring habit has developed into full bloom, my own inability to sleep has grown to irritating proportions. I toss. I turn. I shake her and tell her to turn over. I toss. I turn. I shake the bed violently to make her wake up. Nothing worked until now.

At the ranch one weekend, C placed a small fan on the bedside table next to me to see if the quiet humming would lull me into a deep sleep. It worked. It is a rare occasion that I don’t sleep through the night at the ranch. What works in the country should work at home so last night we went to the drug store and bought me a fan.

The box said “Designed With Quiet in Mind”. What the hell? I don’t want a quiet fan. I need noise. Humming, whirring, something. We bought it anyway with the intention of returning it if it should prove too quiet. First thing when we got home we unpacked the fan and plugged it in. Zzzzzzzzz, tik tik tik, zzzzzzzzzzz, tik tik tik, zzzzzzzzz clink. The box lied! This fan was designed with revenge in mind because when I turned it on last night to settle in for a good nights sleep, C was almost kept awake by the noise. Alas, she did fall asleep and promptly began snorting gravel but with my trusty noise maker I was able to sleep also.