Tootsie Roll Pups

I walked in today to find the equivalent of a Labrador Kegger. First were the guilty faces staring back at me. Then, barely visible over the brown and blond fur, an EMPTY brownie pan. Blood pressure: Elevated. One step into the sun room revealed what was left of THE UNTOUCHED BY HUMAN HANDS pound cake that last I saw it was resting nicely on the kitchen counter this morning. Blood pressure: High. To add insult to injury when I rounded the corner there on the bathroom floor, as if they were looking for a tissue to wipe their choclately, sugary snouts, were the contents of the bathroom trash can. Blood pressure: Somewhere over the rainbow.

As a side note, the photos you are about to see in NO way absolve my dog from guilt. He's just too stupid to look at me with a guilty face!

LBD

She's sleek and a vixen. My girlfriend and my dog love her but who loves her the most? Her mother who has to keep herself from calling in any 24 hour period to ask how she's doing. Our answer has always been the same: "She's fine. Driving Isaac crazy. Kicking all of the pillows off the couch. Well, tonight we all say see for yourself......































































































Ed would be proud of the last two. I am personally jealous of how good she looks in my fur wrap. See you next week.
J, C & C

The Ranch

Carrie and I go to the ranch almost every weekend. We have been doing this for almost the past two years. It is a place full of everything. Hope: every sunrise brings the promise of a new day and an unsurpassed view of cattle waking to the new day to begin to graze. Anticipation: each calf crop brings with it the excitement of speckled babies bedded down in the grass as new mothers stand guard nearby. Love: the love we bring for each other to this environment as well as the love of animals who trust you to feed them and scratch them behind the horns now and then. Trust: they trust us to care for them, we trust them to provide that love mentioned above. Dread: when a calf falls ill and you spend the following days hoping it will make it through. Thanks: for the rain, for the wind, for a cloud covering the beating sun, for fresh air, for the ability to bask in the joy that is the ranch. Regret: I would love to say there is none but at times we all think we waited too late or did too little. As a part of human nature and mother nature I feel the need to include regret although we all try not to dwell on the past. The ranch is the circle of life in its purest, most basic form and every Friday night I am hopeful, full of anticipation, in love, and trusting there will be no dread or regret. If there is I accept that it is the circle of life and we all have to sit back and enjoy what we can. There is also sharing. Share in my experience with the photos below:

Who Is That Masked Girl?

We are heading out of town this afternoon (again). We worked half the cows on the ranch last weekend saving the really mean ones for this weekend. I thought I should pick up on this blog again since after tomorrow I may be short an arm from one of them slinging their heads in a tight space making future blogging highly unlikely.

Carrie had four new tires put on her car yesterday. She had taken it in for a routine tire rotation and balancing. Routine for A-type anal retentive people like her, rare occurrence for change your oil only when told to people like me. They called to tell her all of her tires had splits in the sidewalls and would need to be replaced. I immediately attributed this to her careless, break neck speed, driving but apparently it was just a defect. The tire man did say however that it could have been really dangerous if she had had a blow out. “Really dangerous” because we would have been going 95 to 100 miles per hour. That is miles per hour not miles per day.

This very scenario is what I think about for two hours and fifteen minutes every weekend on the way to and from the ranch. I imagine the sound of the blow out and then my life flashing in front of my eyes in my final moments. My stomach is a hard ball of wax the entire trip, flipping and turning circles. Carrie says there’s medication for my condition. In lieu of medication she and Alison have also suggested putting a dog mask on my face for the duration of the trip that they found in, thank you, Bark magazine.

Young at Heart

Striking Her Silent

From time to time our office receives marketing, promotional items from companies that we deal with. Today we received two large golf umbrellas. My first thought was we could pass these along to a couple of clients who play golf regularly. Then for no reason at all I started thinking that having an umbrella that large on a golf course on a wide open fairway is like having your own personal lightening rod.

Only once have I been on a course when it started raining and all teams were brought inside to the cart barn to wait out the thunder and lightening. I was part of a foursome which included Carrie and two of our best friends at the time. None of us are all that spectacular at golf but our bags contained a full bar so we were happy. After a few minutes of sitting around waiting everyone was getting restless.

The caddy for the course insisted that we did not want to go back out until all threat of lightening was gone. He went so far as to say that a lightening strike was how he lost his own leg. Not one to be taken advantage of easily, one of my teammates told him “Suuure you did. Prove it.” He promptly pulled up one pants leg on his coveralls revealing a metal prosthesis. She turned as red as the Bloody Mary she had been sipping and didn’t say another word. Back on the course we could hear her muttering to herself every time she teed off “Suuure you did. Prove it. Ugh!”

Times They are a Changin’

My sister turns 9 on Sunday (if you don’t know already she is my half sister and there are 27 years between us). My parents are having what they refer to as the family party that day and then on the ninth she will have another slumber party. The family party consists of my father, my stepmother, my grandmother and me. Sometimes I think he separates the two so he can have two cakes. I feel for my stepmother because my father tends to go a little overboard every year. Year before last he planned make overs, panning for gold, swimming, make your own pizza, and movies among other things as activities for the slumber party. Are kids that much more difficult to entertain these days? When I was ten I had a slumber party but all we did was eat pizza and sit around giggling. No make up, no panning for gold, no swimming. Last year it was rock climbing then swimming then on to the house for cake and ice cream before the slumber party started.

I called her Monday night to see what she wants for her birthday. Last year it was Neopets. If you don’t know, look them up. They are these creepy Pokeymon looking things with the weirdest names and they are hard to find. This year she tells me that she has made a list of movies for family members to buy her. Her friends it seems have another list. So I asked which movies. My dad maintains the family gift list so he got on the phone and gave me the following:

“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”

“The original?” I ask.

“No the new one”

“Shaggy the Dog”

“The original?” I ask again.

“No the new one”

At this point I am beginning to see a pattern and I can honestly say I do not like it very much. These are classics! I guess much like everything else her generation needs more special effects to enjoy. What are we teaching them by over sating their desire to be entertained? I can’t help but think that imagination is going to be loser in the long run.

Lend Me Your Ear

Love Letter

Dear Nola,

Sorry to have not written sooner. It’s not that I’ve forgotten you but things have been crazy here this last year. Just after tragedy befell you, we dodged a bullet of our own. I thought of you as we awaited Rita’s visit. We knew we would probably lose power so we started cooking everything in the refrigerator in preparation. I was able to throw together your famous barbeque shrimp. Knowing what it is like to evacuate via water, we blew up all of our pool floats just in case the boats took awhile to get to us again. In the end our preparations were all for naught as Rita chose to visit our neighbors in the East instead.

I am thinking of visiting again for my birthday. I miss your food, your music and your culture. I want to wake up to sounds of laughter outside my window from people intoxicated on your never ending entertainment. I want to sit at Café Du Monde licking sticky, sweet powdered sugar from my fingers. I have thought of having Central Grocery UPS me muffalettas but know that eating them on a bench in Jackson Square cannot be beat. Later maybe we’ll stuff ourselves on oysters at Desire. Last time I visited the shucker behind the counter kept them coming until we finally surrendered, unable to eat another bite.

When I get there can you arrange street musicians to welcome me? In particular make sure the little boy who always stood outside of the drug store in the Quarter is there playing his spoons. Oh how I love to watch him dance and play. If he’s not available don’t worry, I’ll take any jazz or Dixieland band you can find. I promise to be generous with my tips.

I hope the weather is nice because I am really looking forward to strolling through Audubon Park and visiting the zoo. I heard how the animals were lonely for awhile so I am ready to lend them my ear for a few hours at least. When we leave we’ll be taking the streetcar from the Garden District back to the Quarter. I hope that it too is up and running.

Nola, do you remember the time Mom and I brought Uncle Phippy for Mardi Gras? I remember sitting on her shoulders screaming “Mister, throw me some beads”. I remember standing in line at Popeye’s to get free chicken with the doubloons we caught. Mother and I still laugh about her forgetting I was on her shoulders and grabbing at beads on the ground. I thank God that police officer grabbed me before I was crushed by a float.

Now I know you think I have lived in Texas so long I have all but abandoned you but I assure you my roots stretch from my home here in Houston to Zachary, Daddy’s birthplace, to Baton Rouge, the city of my own birth and right to your doorstep. To me you are a bloom on a big Magnolia. Your petals may be a bit bruised and brown by last year's events but you still smell just as sweet. I’ll see you soon.

Love,
Jacqui

Special Delivery

My magazine arrived yesterday and by the way it did come in a slender, brown cardboard box stuffed full of Holly, Bridget and Kendra. No identifying marks on the return address. No averting my eyes from the mailman every time I see him. First thing I did was plop down on the couch with my magazine on my lap. I was awed by the sheer masculinity of it all, the ads, the music and movie reviews and obviously the pictures. I think the last time I looked at a Playboy magazine I had taken it from the stack my father had under his bed. Safely locked in the bathroom at my grandmother's house, I did a comparison study between my flat as a board body and the buxom blonds. This time I read the articles.

Ghosts of Friendships Past

Old friends have been visiting me in my dreams. It has happened a few times the past week. I have been racking my brain to figure out what is triggering these visits. Am I repressing a need to relive my past and that need gets its only release when I lose consciousness? I wouldn’t mind so much if these dreams didn’t leave me with the most profound sense of loss the next day when I realize that I truly miss them.

My first ghost was the girl I called my “best friend” for years. Back when everyone had a “best friend”. Back when we weren’t too old to use the expression “best friend”. We met when I was thirteen after she stole my boyfriend and formed a close friendship that continued until I was twenty-five at which point we grew apart. Occasionally we call each other and catch up but ever increasing amounts of time have been wedging themselves between those calls. Before long I fear we will only see each other at funerals. What I miss about her is how well she knew me. It was a bond that had no need for verbal communication.

My second ghost was the opposite. We met when I began seeing Carrie eight years ago and for the first year she didn’t like me. It is always hard when your friends break up to see someone replace one partner or the other and besides, I am not the easiest person to get to know. Our friendship moved in baby steps until eventually we arrived at a comfortable spot. She has a wit that awes me and a sense of style I always envied. We didn’t so much grow apart as she went in a new direction. A journey she didn’t want to take too many of us from her past on with her. I miss her and the little ones she brought into this world. I consider calling but feel disappointed when we make plans that are canceled or changed or only promised that I shield myself from the possibility. Instead I wait to see them in a store or at a restaurant or any number of places you run into people in passing. If I never see them again at least they are visiting in my dreams and I guess that will just have to do for now.

Weekend Wonders

The Bull Pen

Missing Fatty Lumpkin

Our New Flock

Snakes in the Water

It is too hot these days to do any big projects at the ranch. Lately we’ve been thinking of a couple of small things that need to be done, things that don’t take too much effort in the broiling sun. This weekend one of our projects was to remove the hay ring that has been sticking out of the pond for the past two months. I was selected to perform the task because I am a veteran in pond retrievals having recovered a skull from its murky water this time last year.

With no rain and the pond at a record low, the water is a greenish brown that you absolutely cannot see an inch into. I stepped in wearing my rubber boots, took a few steps then panic rose in a giant wave inside me. I ran back to Carrie who was waiting on the banks saying, “I can’t do it, I’m scared.” She gave me sufficient encouragement that I entered the water again. This time I tried to throw a ratchet strap with a hook on the end from about three feet away. Instead of hooking the ring, I released the whole thing watching as the strap sank from the weight of the metal hook. Turning around Carrie informed me that now I would be expected to get the sunken strap out as well. I once again retreated to the dry bank to regroup.

My third time in the water I reached the hay ring. The water was up to my chest and I was shaking from fear. My rubber boots were full of nasty water and all I could think was in a second I am going to feel something crawling into my boot. I grabbed the hay ring and started to rock it towards me trying to get it to roll along the muddy bottom. When the first couple of inches were exposed, on the other side of the ring, there were two snakes coiled around the metal staring directly at me. I began running for the banks screaming “SNAKES IN THE WATER! SNAKES IN THE WATER!”, while Carrie for her part started laughing so hard I thought she would pass out.

It took me two more attempts to shake off my fear and the snakes but eventually the task was accomplished. I don’t know if there is any truth to “they’re more afraid of me than I am of them” but at least they had the decency to swim away from me after uncoiling. If anything else goes in that pond it’s going to have to stay there. I am not tempting fate another time.

Hello from Kampala!

We are opposites. She has a creativity and talent for writing I have never processed. She would write my grandfather poetry books that she illustrated herself with colorful paintings sharing the pages with her words. She is quiet at family gatherings while I consume too much wine and debate with the others. She graduated Princeton last month with highest honors from her department. Five mentions in the official programs. Five! All were properly tagged by her mother for easy identification.

I called her last month to say congratulations on her graduation and to see what we could buy her as a gift. She had not sent out announcements because she doesn’t like to be the center of attention. A friend told me on the phone yesterday when I told her about the lack of any formal announcement, “If I had graduated from Princeton I would have taken an ad out in every newspaper in the nation.” No doubt I would have done the same. That congratulatory phone call was my first real conversation with her. During the call I realized that I had let jealousy come between us for all of these years. I wanted to impress my grandfather the way she did. She in turn wanted to be close to my grandmother the way I am.

She asked for a water bottle to carry fresh water in because she was leaving for Uganda to work with the CDC and World AIDS Organization for a year beginning August. We bought her two and a couple of shirts that are supposed to keep the sweat away from your body. It was more than she asked for but again she is the type who won’t ask. She and I agreed that once she was overseas she would e-mail me every month. I would print them out and mail them to grandmother who refuses to get e-mail and make it easy on us all to stay in touch.

Today I received her first e-mail. Hello from Kampala! is the subject. There was a mix up with her fellowship while she was in Spain hiking the week before she flew to Uganda. It seems the CDC no longer has the funds to employ her but they are working that out so she can stay. While they work it out, she is exploring the city. There are women in brightly colored African dresses carrying plantains and tomatoes and storks which are as common as squirrels resting on top of her apartment building. She feels full of color and sound at the end of each day. I in turn feel full of pride and love for this cousin I have neglected for far too long.

Reaching an All Time Reality Low

Friday night, as we sat around with a group of friends visiting, the conversation turned to guilty television pleasures. One most unexpected revelation from a friend was her obsession with Dog the Bounty Hunter’s recent wedding. Should she watch the wedding or Rock Star Supernova? Rock Star won out on the logic that the Dog episode would likely be replayed soon. Other favorites among friends included Lock Down: Life in Maximum Security, American Idol, Big Brother All Stars and Intervention.

Feeling safe with the conversation I put it out there that I am obsessed with The Girls Next Door, the reality show chronicling the lives of Hugh Heffner’s three girlfriends Holly, Bridget and Kendra. So much so that I had Carrie DVR all new episodes in the event I miss one and consequently don’t know what’s going on the next week. Carrie groaned when I admitted this but was soon comforted in the sympathizing faces of our friends that she has to put up with me at all.

Last night was an all new episode centered on The Girls second photo shoot for Playboy. I know you would think there would be more but apparently dating Hef doesn’t get you too much special treatment. So I’m watching thinking I must have that issue of the magazine. Why? Not sure but it must have something to do with my absolute fascination with these girls who live with a man my grandfather’s age and seem to really love him. It is a fascination I can’t quite explain myself but it is what it is and I am positive it won’t last like my fascination with all things Asian didn’t last. This obsession is so much more tawdry than wanting to learn calligraphy and wear a kimono. At the end of the episode I found myself online at Playboy.com ordering the upcoming issue. Oh how I hope that sucker comes in a brown paper wrapper.

When The Mind Takes An Unannounced Vacation

A good friend is having to care for her mother who in addition to a stroke is now suffering dementia. I speak to her every morning and my heart goes out to her as she recounts the previous evening’s events. Fortunate to have parents that are very young, I have not idea what it feels like to care for one of them. What her stories have brought to mind however is memories of my grandfather when dementia settled inside his head like an unwelcome visitor. One who moves all of your furniture and places things out of reach where no amount of searching yields the desired object.

Before we knew Parkinson Disease was taking a neurological toll, we assumed he had gone a little nuts. Common variety craziness is what we thought. He had other thoughts. For a long time he was convinced of the knowledge that the FBI was after him. His crime? Transporting a typewriter over state lines. You didn’t know it was a illegal did you? It’s not. The trash men? My father sent them to spy on him. Why? Not sure since my parents had been divorced for nine years at this point. The smoke detectors in his apartment? Listening devices. He would call the apartment manager to ask that she do something about the residents upstairs who were so obviously spies sent to listen in on his conversations via the smoke detectors.

The first time Carrie met him he showed her his emergency kit. He kept it nearby in the event he had to flee at a moments notice. Inside were the essentials; clean underwear, clean socks and lottery tickets. Yep! He was going to run away from home with nothing but underwear, socks and lottery tickets.

Eventually it became clear that he could not live alone so my mother moved him in with her. She would wake up to him crawling in the dark into her room to let her know “they were out there”. A few times he actually got out the front door before she woke up and convinced him to come back inside to safety. We laugh about it now. Not because it wasn’t serious but because sometimes life throws stuff your way you can’t do a damn thing about. It sucks and you find yourself mourning a person who is living and breathing right in front of you but you know it’s not really them. What was that line in Steel Magnolias? Laughter through tears.

A Conversation I Would Have Never Had Prior to Turning 30

Her: "You're hungry already?"

Me: "Yes, I'm starving. What are we eating tonight?"

Her: "You have worms."

Me: "I know but not the good kind because I'm not losing any weight!"

Happy New School Year

The Yorktown News View and the Schulemberg Sticker both published school supply list this week for returning students. What joy it gave me to read through the lists and remember how much I loved buying supplies for back to school. Spiral notebooks with their covers and pages clean. Ready to be filled with class notes, doodles and notes to friends when I should have been paying attention. The smell of No. 2 pencils being sharpened. Brand new colored pencils standing at attention in the yellow Crayola box.

One year my mother bought me a folder with a picture of Nadia Comaneci on the front doing a back bend on a balance beam. Oh how I coveted that folder. Unlike the others that sported stains and drawings, this one remained perfect the entire school year. In fact I saved it for years in my closet. Nothing it in just sitting on a shelf like a shrine.

School supplies embodied hope for a new beginning every year. It was a do over wrapped up in a three ring binder. This year I will make friends. This year I will try playing a sport. This year I will make all A’s. How could I fail with all of these tools at my disposal? Most school years ended the same. I didn’t make many new friends because I was too afraid to make the first move. I tried a couple of times to play a sport always with the same disastrous conclusion. As for the all A’s, never did happen until my fourth year of college. Still I look at these lists of school supplies for kids I will never know and I think how lucky they are to be getting a do over once again.

The Jury’s Still Out

I don’t know about anyone else, but from time to time I read a book and so relate to the character it feels as if I have found the missing link in our family tree. My long lost twin. You get the idea. So this weekend I started ‘Just Checking ~ scenes from the life of an obsessive compulsive” by Emily Colas and I am starting to have that old familiar feeling.

She:
Worries incessantly about contracting any and every illness.
Won’t eat out for fear someone has slipped drugs into her food.
Drives her husband nuts with her constant worry.

Me:
Have at one time or another believed I have a brain tumor, breast cancer, lung cancer, among other life threatening illnesses.
Will eat out but don’t like my foods to touch on the plate (not one word about "what do you think it does in your stomach?").
Drive Carrie crazy with the fact that if we leave through the front door I MUST click the handle THREE times to make sure it is locked, cannot sleep at night without asking if she has set the alarm (I’ve been really working on this one), and am always touching the tips of my thumbs to each finger's tip then first knuckle. Once the finger tapping has begun it MUST go one full round (all five fingers) then back the opposite direction. Stopping, I am certain, would be fatal.

I am beginning to believe I have OCD but can’t decide if it I really do or if it is just another imagined illness. Hmmm?

Over The Ledge

My father has at last finished his novel. I finished reading it last night. The really fun thing about reading his book is that I recognize so many of the characters. One in particular was almost my stepmother until she went completely nuts. We’re talking about loony bin nuts here. I won’t mention her name but bear with me while I tell you my favorite episode. The three of us, my father, me and Nutso, packed up for a weekend at Aquarina Springs in San Marcos. It is no longer there but if you visited it as a child you remember it well. There was the old west depot with the dusty saloon that housed the tic-tac-toe playing chickens. You would put a quarter in the slot then push the square you wanted for your X on and the chicken would scratch a square in response. I was much too young to suffer the humiliation that should come from losing to a chicken so this was one of my favorite games. You could also dress up in old west style clothes and take a sepia tone photo next to the long bar. I have one of these to this day that shows my father smiling in a confederate soldier uniform with me sitting on a saddle mounted on a saw horse next to him in bar maid garb, my right hand pointing a small pistol to the sky. In addition to the wonders of the old west there was Ralph the swimming pig and glass bottom boats. Ah, the fun.

So we get to Aquarina Springs and I am busting a gut to get to the chicken. First we check into the hotel and that is when all hell broke loose. I was sent to the bathroom and told not to come out until my father told me. I could hear them arguing so I laid my cheek against the cold tile and tried peeking beneath the door. No going. The room had carpet that elevated over the tile bathroom floor. I made an individual pot of coffee since really there isn’t much else to do sitting in a bathroom by oneself. At last my father opened the door and said let’s go glaring at Nutso sitting on the bed crying.

My father and I exited the building hand in hand when we heard our names being called. We turned around to see if it was someone behind us. No, no one there, but why is everyone looking up? Leaning over the ledge yelling our names was Nutso telling us to look so we could see her jump. My father sprinted back into the hotel as I stood there contemplating if I had enough quarters to get in a couple of mean games of tic-tac-toe before anyone noticed I was gone. I ended up waiting in the lobby watching hotel staff run around in a panic. It was my father who pulled her off of the ledge and dragged her straight back to our room to call someone to pick her up. This was not the beginning of the end but the end of the end. It was but one episode in a long line of insanity that my father had put up with for months. We didn’t wait to see her off but she was still waiting for her ride when we returned. There she was in the lobby with a big old shiner covering one eye that she was telling anyone who would listen my father had given her. He didn’t. She gave it to herself with the handset of the phone in the room. At least this time the police didn’t think he had murdered her but that is another story for another time.

Jolly Green Lab

A Musical Collection No Thief Would Bother To Steal

I have found a radio station that plays old rock (well, okay mostly oldies) and have been having a ball while I work. The occupant of the cubicle outside my door must want to throw a stapler at my head but that’s okay because I love some of the songs they play. For instance today I was working on this incredibly boring, long spread sheet that not only doesn’t challenge my brain but I am pretty sure if you took a look inside right now you would find nothing but mush. So, I have my radio at a modest volume listening to my new favorite station when what should come on…… Bad Bad Leroy Brown. I ask you who would be able to resist turning it up and singing along…”Leroy looked like a jig saw puzzle with a couple a pieces gone”! Oh yeah, I was jammin. Then as a follow up they played Cats in the Cradle. What a tear jerker when the dad calls his son who doesn’t have time for him anymore. So, if you are reading this from home be thankful you are not C and married to the biggest musical dork in the world. If you are reading this from work thank your lucky stars you won’t need to use that stapler as an instrument of death.

What would you do?

Reading this article I have a couple of questions:

1) If you were going to die would you want it quick and painless or drawn out?

2) If Dr.'s and nurses who stayed to care for the ill for four days without electricity in over 100 degree heat are being arrested do you think we could arrest the assholes at the top who left them there in the first place (Brownie? Bush? Nagin? Blanco?) and charge them with second degree murder?

Walk Tall, Carry a Big Stick, and Scream Real Loud

Growing up in Baton Rouge, my father and I would go bass fishing at my Maw-Maw’s pond. Her nickname would lead you to believe she was of some relation but Maw-Maw was the mother of a boy my father had mentored in Big Brothers. She and her husband, Doc, welcomed us into the family, sharing their lives including the pond on a piece of land they owned close by.

Dad and I would pack up our tackle box, a bucket of worms, our rods, and a cooler then head off in the green Torino. You had to park quite a ways from the pond and walk through thick, tall grass. My father would gather up all of our gear and begin to head off. It didn’t take long for him to realize I was frozen at the edge of the grass, too afraid to proceed. “Come on, Jacqueline” he would say “walk right where I walk.” Thus began my pleading for him to carry me. I was terrified a cotton mouth would bite me if I walked through that grass. I don’t know why I thought the snake would leave him alone and bite me but it made perfect sense at the time.

Back he would walk to where I was standing and explain that it was impossible to carry me and everything else we brought with us for the outing. I could ride piggyback I argued. It was too hot, I was too big and nothing was going to get me in the grass he said but he did have the answer. Sharing with me a word passed down from generation to generation, he taught me how to say “go away snake” in ancient Indian. “Geeeee ya” I screamed walking through the grass. “Geeeee ya”! We never caught many fish and in hindsight it is easy to see why they fled to the cool waters of the bottom when they heard an insane child approaching screaming gibberish.

That was twenty-seven years ago but when I walk through the woods at the ranch I still mutter “geeeee ya” under my breath. It can’t hurt and its kept me alive this long.

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.