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.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Thursday, December 15, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
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".
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".
Monday, December 12, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, December 09, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, December 05, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Geaux Tigers!!
My life has been inundated the past couple of weeks by football. Of course I live with a woman whose eyes light up when the Monday Night Football song comes on. At eight o’clock she starts leaning closer to the television, waiting, then here comes Hank Jr. and when it is all said and done there is an audible sigh. Can you feel my muscles tensing? Unlike me with a good Lifetime movie, C wants me to share in this moment with her. I usually try to have a good book handy.
This past weekend however, LSU was playing and I did not have to fake my interest as this is my father’s team. I don’t care so much about them winning but it makes me feel strangely closer to my father to cheer his team on. The game was closer than anyone thought (a statement shamelessly stolen from overheard conversations between people who actually know what they are talking about). With me uncharacteristically involved in the game, our conversation went something like this:
Me: “I’ve been to that stadium”
C: “Uh huh, I know.”
C (at top of her voice): “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”
Me (a few minutes later): “Did you see Mike the Tiger just now?”
C: “No, did they show him?”
Me: “Yes. I hear he has a new habitat”
C (again at top of her voice): “COME ON!!”
Me: “Are you going to help me with the Christmas lights?”
C: “I thought you wanted to watch this game?”
No, clearly I had no interest in the game. What I preferred was to watch my own childhood in my mind’s eye. I wanted to tell her again that the one time my father took me to Tigers Stadium it was snowing in Baton Rouge and that I didn’t have a heavy winter coat so I wore my Smoky the Bear Halloween costume. That we watched the teams warm up on the field and before kick off my father lied and said we had won. Now that was my kind of football game.
My life has been inundated the past couple of weeks by football. Of course I live with a woman whose eyes light up when the Monday Night Football song comes on. At eight o’clock she starts leaning closer to the television, waiting, then here comes Hank Jr. and when it is all said and done there is an audible sigh. Can you feel my muscles tensing? Unlike me with a good Lifetime movie, C wants me to share in this moment with her. I usually try to have a good book handy.
This past weekend however, LSU was playing and I did not have to fake my interest as this is my father’s team. I don’t care so much about them winning but it makes me feel strangely closer to my father to cheer his team on. The game was closer than anyone thought (a statement shamelessly stolen from overheard conversations between people who actually know what they are talking about). With me uncharacteristically involved in the game, our conversation went something like this:
Me: “I’ve been to that stadium”
C: “Uh huh, I know.”
C (at top of her voice): “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”
Me (a few minutes later): “Did you see Mike the Tiger just now?”
C: “No, did they show him?”
Me: “Yes. I hear he has a new habitat”
C (again at top of her voice): “COME ON!!”
Me: “Are you going to help me with the Christmas lights?”
C: “I thought you wanted to watch this game?”
No, clearly I had no interest in the game. What I preferred was to watch my own childhood in my mind’s eye. I wanted to tell her again that the one time my father took me to Tigers Stadium it was snowing in Baton Rouge and that I didn’t have a heavy winter coat so I wore my Smoky the Bear Halloween costume. That we watched the teams warm up on the field and before kick off my father lied and said we had won. Now that was my kind of football game.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Baby Jesus Drives a Hot Rod
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas around our house. C and I put lights up on the house this weekend and around the crepe myrtles in the front yard. I have a great desire to go Clark Griswald on the place but she is keeping me in check for the most part. I will be holding out for that snow machine I asked for on Christmas Eve but won’t be too disappointed when it doesn’t arrive.
On Thursday we called our friend with the twins to wish them a Happy Thanksgiving. It is so great when kids get to the age that you can ask to speak to them on the phone and they will actually talk to you. So, I interrupted their playtime which included two Rubbermaid bins formally containing Christmas ornaments to see what they want for Christmas.
J. went first and asked for a blue truck. Not just any blue truck but one that does a whole bunch of stuff because he went on and on. It is too bad I have no idea what he was saying. Miss. May wants cookies and milk. I guess if it is good enough for Santa it is good enough for her.
When I made a follow up call to Mommy today to see if the Christmas ornaments that were displaced from the Rubbermaid bins had made it to their respective spots around the house she said they had but that she had made an effort to keep everything breakable on higher ground. One thing that does keep popping up is a shiny red Hot Wheel in the nativity scene. I guess J. thinks the Baby Jesus deserves a nice car after being born in a manger and all.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas around our house. C and I put lights up on the house this weekend and around the crepe myrtles in the front yard. I have a great desire to go Clark Griswald on the place but she is keeping me in check for the most part. I will be holding out for that snow machine I asked for on Christmas Eve but won’t be too disappointed when it doesn’t arrive.
On Thursday we called our friend with the twins to wish them a Happy Thanksgiving. It is so great when kids get to the age that you can ask to speak to them on the phone and they will actually talk to you. So, I interrupted their playtime which included two Rubbermaid bins formally containing Christmas ornaments to see what they want for Christmas.
J. went first and asked for a blue truck. Not just any blue truck but one that does a whole bunch of stuff because he went on and on. It is too bad I have no idea what he was saying. Miss. May wants cookies and milk. I guess if it is good enough for Santa it is good enough for her.
When I made a follow up call to Mommy today to see if the Christmas ornaments that were displaced from the Rubbermaid bins had made it to their respective spots around the house she said they had but that she had made an effort to keep everything breakable on higher ground. One thing that does keep popping up is a shiny red Hot Wheel in the nativity scene. I guess J. thinks the Baby Jesus deserves a nice car after being born in a manger and all.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Close Encounters of the Bar Kind ~ 3
Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple
When C took me to New York for my birthday two years ago the smoking ban had just gone into effect. You have no idea just how addicted you are until you stand outside in twenty-eight degree weather smoking through blue lips, trying to cup the cigarette so a giant snowflake doesn’t put it out causing a nicotine induced meltdown. In addition to seeing the usual tourist traps, it became our mission to find the secret smoking bars in the city.
My aunt, who lives in Brooklyn, told us to go to Campbell’s Apartment because she had heard you can still smoke inside. Campbell’s Apartment is inside Grand Central Station so needless to say we were skeptical but our dinner reservations weren’t until 11:00 (p.m. that is) so we decided to give it a try. Walking into Campbell’s Apartment was like taking a drink of water after forty days in the desert. There was a big toasty fire, fluffy couches, a long dark wood bar and best of all an ashtray on the table. We couldn’t get our coats off fast enough.
The only thing Campbell’s Apartment does not have enough of is seats so when three couples approached us about sharing our space we were more than happy to oblige. Sharing with these people ended up making my birthday a truly unforgettable experience. They drank, they smoked, they told funny stories of children left at home while the adults grabbed a weekend in the city.
While sitting there on our big fluffy couch our little group incorporated another patron into the fold. A woman sitting on the couch behind us was clearly alone and wanting to join in. She was missing her tap recital by being in NY for the weekend so she performed her routine for us all. Very interesting seeing a grown woman tap dancing.
A few bottles of champagne and a dozen or so Vodkas later, we were all a few sheets to the wind so at the time bad ideas sounded really good.
Bad ideas disguised as good in chronological order as they occurred on December 14, 2003:
1. Ordered not just glass, but bottle of champagne at 6:00 when dinner reservation was not until 11:00.
2. Allowed new friends to buy me second bottle of champagne because at this point I really couldn’t feel the giant hole bottle one was burning into my stomach lining.
3. Blew off dinner reservation at one of NY’s top dining establishments because we were having way too much fun.
4. Met fellow Sound of Music fan and began singing “I Am 16 Going on Seventeen” (in public no less).
5. Decided to make the experience more authentic by pretending to be Liesl while new friend pretended to be Rolf. Was asked by waitress to please stop jumping on the couches.
Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple
When C took me to New York for my birthday two years ago the smoking ban had just gone into effect. You have no idea just how addicted you are until you stand outside in twenty-eight degree weather smoking through blue lips, trying to cup the cigarette so a giant snowflake doesn’t put it out causing a nicotine induced meltdown. In addition to seeing the usual tourist traps, it became our mission to find the secret smoking bars in the city.
My aunt, who lives in Brooklyn, told us to go to Campbell’s Apartment because she had heard you can still smoke inside. Campbell’s Apartment is inside Grand Central Station so needless to say we were skeptical but our dinner reservations weren’t until 11:00 (p.m. that is) so we decided to give it a try. Walking into Campbell’s Apartment was like taking a drink of water after forty days in the desert. There was a big toasty fire, fluffy couches, a long dark wood bar and best of all an ashtray on the table. We couldn’t get our coats off fast enough.
The only thing Campbell’s Apartment does not have enough of is seats so when three couples approached us about sharing our space we were more than happy to oblige. Sharing with these people ended up making my birthday a truly unforgettable experience. They drank, they smoked, they told funny stories of children left at home while the adults grabbed a weekend in the city.
While sitting there on our big fluffy couch our little group incorporated another patron into the fold. A woman sitting on the couch behind us was clearly alone and wanting to join in. She was missing her tap recital by being in NY for the weekend so she performed her routine for us all. Very interesting seeing a grown woman tap dancing.
A few bottles of champagne and a dozen or so Vodkas later, we were all a few sheets to the wind so at the time bad ideas sounded really good.
Bad ideas disguised as good in chronological order as they occurred on December 14, 2003:
1. Ordered not just glass, but bottle of champagne at 6:00 when dinner reservation was not until 11:00.
2. Allowed new friends to buy me second bottle of champagne because at this point I really couldn’t feel the giant hole bottle one was burning into my stomach lining.
3. Blew off dinner reservation at one of NY’s top dining establishments because we were having way too much fun.
4. Met fellow Sound of Music fan and began singing “I Am 16 Going on Seventeen” (in public no less).
5. Decided to make the experience more authentic by pretending to be Liesl while new friend pretended to be Rolf. Was asked by waitress to please stop jumping on the couches.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Close Encounters of the Bar Kind ~ 2
Cantina Calamity
Bound and determined to add some authenticity to our trip to Cancun, C and I inquired about a local salsa bar and were told it does not get hopping until at least 11:00 p.m. In an effort to stay awake we dressed and ate around 6:00 (an hour late for those of you who know us) and decided to relax in the hotel lobby bar until it was time to catch a cab.
Before taking our order the waitress informed us that it was happy hour. Two drinks for the price of one. Imagine our surprise when she came back with four drinks. So as not to seem oblivious to local customs, we accepted the four drinks vowing to only order one the next round. This had less to do with excess and more to do with keeping our ice from melting before we made it to the second drink.
Not halfway into the first drink the entertainment arrived in the form of a tank top wearing, short-short sporting, twenty sheets to the wind, VERY Southern sounding woman named Lucinda. Lucinda is from Tennessee where her father knew Elvis. I know this and the rest of her past because ten feet away from her perch at the bar everyone could listen in. In fact, it would have been more difficult not to hear her.
Lucinda was extremely thrilled about the happy hour tradition of two for the price of one and you don’t even have to wait for the second. She ordered Corona after Corona all the while babbling on to the any man brave enough to sit at the bar. At one point she did shut up to take a tiny cat nap, head hanging over the back of her barstool while her bare feet were propped up on the one next to her. Not one to sleep through a productive happy hour she quickly woke up to choose her next victim.
Ready and willing was a single guy with a mullet to match his mustache who owns an appliance store somewhere in the Midwest. I know this because before hitting on Lucinda he struck out at our table. Mr. Appliance was more than happy to shell out the sixty pesos for Lucinda’s double Coronas. She was equally as happy to have him until a young, mocha skinned boy of half Mr. Appliance’s age made the mistake of walking up to the bar right next to her. Lucinda moved in like a black widow and just as quickly was turned down. You know the expression “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”? Well, add a few cocktails to fuel that scorn and see what happens. Lucinda jumped off her barstool and began screaming racial epithets at the man. For his part he did the best thing and walked out without saying a word.
Not one to be easily let down, Lucinda again turned her attentions to Mr. Appliance who asked the woman to dance!! She could barely walk! However, she did manage to begin dry humping his leg during their Dirty Dancing routine. She also kept a hold on her Corona the whole time. Problem is those glass bottles get slippery with condensation and have a habit of just slipping out of your hand which hers did. A moment later, Lucinda followed landing in heap on the broken glass.
As if they were waiting in the closet for a moment such as this one, three paramedics were on the scene in a matter of seconds. They sat Lucinda in the table directly behind us. C and I could not believe our luck! While the paramedics doctored Lucinda’s bleeding hand, the bartender came over to check on her and their conversation went much like this:
“I’m a gooood tipper hunh?”
“Yes”
“Will you get me a drank?”
“How about some water?”
“No, I want a draaaank.”
“I can give you some water”
“Come un bay-bee. Brang Lucinda a drank.”
“I can’t bring you a drink.”
Leaning over to get as close to his face as possible, Lucinda musters her exorcist voice and says:
“Assface!”
Cantina Calamity
Bound and determined to add some authenticity to our trip to Cancun, C and I inquired about a local salsa bar and were told it does not get hopping until at least 11:00 p.m. In an effort to stay awake we dressed and ate around 6:00 (an hour late for those of you who know us) and decided to relax in the hotel lobby bar until it was time to catch a cab.
Before taking our order the waitress informed us that it was happy hour. Two drinks for the price of one. Imagine our surprise when she came back with four drinks. So as not to seem oblivious to local customs, we accepted the four drinks vowing to only order one the next round. This had less to do with excess and more to do with keeping our ice from melting before we made it to the second drink.
Not halfway into the first drink the entertainment arrived in the form of a tank top wearing, short-short sporting, twenty sheets to the wind, VERY Southern sounding woman named Lucinda. Lucinda is from Tennessee where her father knew Elvis. I know this and the rest of her past because ten feet away from her perch at the bar everyone could listen in. In fact, it would have been more difficult not to hear her.
Lucinda was extremely thrilled about the happy hour tradition of two for the price of one and you don’t even have to wait for the second. She ordered Corona after Corona all the while babbling on to the any man brave enough to sit at the bar. At one point she did shut up to take a tiny cat nap, head hanging over the back of her barstool while her bare feet were propped up on the one next to her. Not one to sleep through a productive happy hour she quickly woke up to choose her next victim.
Ready and willing was a single guy with a mullet to match his mustache who owns an appliance store somewhere in the Midwest. I know this because before hitting on Lucinda he struck out at our table. Mr. Appliance was more than happy to shell out the sixty pesos for Lucinda’s double Coronas. She was equally as happy to have him until a young, mocha skinned boy of half Mr. Appliance’s age made the mistake of walking up to the bar right next to her. Lucinda moved in like a black widow and just as quickly was turned down. You know the expression “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”? Well, add a few cocktails to fuel that scorn and see what happens. Lucinda jumped off her barstool and began screaming racial epithets at the man. For his part he did the best thing and walked out without saying a word.
Not one to be easily let down, Lucinda again turned her attentions to Mr. Appliance who asked the woman to dance!! She could barely walk! However, she did manage to begin dry humping his leg during their Dirty Dancing routine. She also kept a hold on her Corona the whole time. Problem is those glass bottles get slippery with condensation and have a habit of just slipping out of your hand which hers did. A moment later, Lucinda followed landing in heap on the broken glass.
As if they were waiting in the closet for a moment such as this one, three paramedics were on the scene in a matter of seconds. They sat Lucinda in the table directly behind us. C and I could not believe our luck! While the paramedics doctored Lucinda’s bleeding hand, the bartender came over to check on her and their conversation went much like this:
“I’m a gooood tipper hunh?”
“Yes”
“Will you get me a drank?”
“How about some water?”
“No, I want a draaaank.”
“I can give you some water”
“Come un bay-bee. Brang Lucinda a drank.”
“I can’t bring you a drink.”
Leaning over to get as close to his face as possible, Lucinda musters her exorcist voice and says:
“Assface!”
Friday, November 18, 2005
Close Encounters of the Bar Kind
C and I meet a lot of interesting people in bars. I don’t know if we secrete some undetectable pheromone that screams “Here, right here, tell us your deepest, darkest secrets” but that is exactly what happens everywhere we go. Two cases in point:
Last weekend we attended a cow show and sale in Fort Worth. By Saturday at four, the sale cows were all beginning to look alike and the auctioneers droning was putting me to sleep so we decided to cut out early. We headed back to a restaurant in the historic stock yards that caters to out of state tourists. Half of the bar stools are saddles. No self respecting Texan would sit in a bar stool that is a saddle. We grabbed two normal bar stools, ordered drinks and settled in.
The woman next to us struck up a conversation and before long was revealing her idea for a new strip joint in Fort Worth named “Chubbys”. All plus size all the time. This would be perfect she thought for other men like her husband who are “chubby chasers”. I had never heard this term before and it more than struck me as odd that when her friend’s called her husband a chubby chaser she didn’t turn around and eat them on the spot. We began discussing livestock (of course that would be the natural progression of any conversation about a larger than life strip joint) and bad quickly went to worse. How long should you know someone before they tell you that they walk around in their pasture naked? She was a great girl and as far as entertainment factors go it did not get much better than this for free.
Last night was yet another chance encounter of the bar kind. We weren’t even there to drink but were being forced to sit at the bar to eat because Houston has passed this crappy smoking law that limits where we can eat and smoke in peace. Health nuts be damned! The woman at the bar next to us was going on and on and on to the bartender a mile a minute when (and I am not sure how) we began a conversation with her about her recent bout of depression. In a nutshell, she was estranged from a family member who left her quite an inheritance which became a problem with her loser boyfriend then they broke up and now she is depressed. Rich and depressed, but depressed none the less. This woman listed the medications she is on and I am telling you there is not one second of the day her mood isn’t being controlled by one chemical or another. She could medicate the state of Texas with one swipe of her medicine cabinet.
These are just two of the recent stories. My memory is overflowing with many more that vary from the strange to deranged.
C and I meet a lot of interesting people in bars. I don’t know if we secrete some undetectable pheromone that screams “Here, right here, tell us your deepest, darkest secrets” but that is exactly what happens everywhere we go. Two cases in point:
Last weekend we attended a cow show and sale in Fort Worth. By Saturday at four, the sale cows were all beginning to look alike and the auctioneers droning was putting me to sleep so we decided to cut out early. We headed back to a restaurant in the historic stock yards that caters to out of state tourists. Half of the bar stools are saddles. No self respecting Texan would sit in a bar stool that is a saddle. We grabbed two normal bar stools, ordered drinks and settled in.
The woman next to us struck up a conversation and before long was revealing her idea for a new strip joint in Fort Worth named “Chubbys”. All plus size all the time. This would be perfect she thought for other men like her husband who are “chubby chasers”. I had never heard this term before and it more than struck me as odd that when her friend’s called her husband a chubby chaser she didn’t turn around and eat them on the spot. We began discussing livestock (of course that would be the natural progression of any conversation about a larger than life strip joint) and bad quickly went to worse. How long should you know someone before they tell you that they walk around in their pasture naked? She was a great girl and as far as entertainment factors go it did not get much better than this for free.
Last night was yet another chance encounter of the bar kind. We weren’t even there to drink but were being forced to sit at the bar to eat because Houston has passed this crappy smoking law that limits where we can eat and smoke in peace. Health nuts be damned! The woman at the bar next to us was going on and on and on to the bartender a mile a minute when (and I am not sure how) we began a conversation with her about her recent bout of depression. In a nutshell, she was estranged from a family member who left her quite an inheritance which became a problem with her loser boyfriend then they broke up and now she is depressed. Rich and depressed, but depressed none the less. This woman listed the medications she is on and I am telling you there is not one second of the day her mood isn’t being controlled by one chemical or another. She could medicate the state of Texas with one swipe of her medicine cabinet.
These are just two of the recent stories. My memory is overflowing with many more that vary from the strange to deranged.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Hoo-Ah
C and I saw Jarhead last night. This is a miracle in two ways. First, we see a movie about every six months so the fact that we chose to go is special enough. Second, C doesn’t agree with the Marine Corps so the fact that I got her to sit through two hours of nothing but the Marine Corps is another act of God. We both enjoyed the movie but what I really enjoyed was the tiny glimpse I got into my father’s past.
My father enlisted in Vietnam. He felt it was his duty and that is why he enlisted in the Marine Corps. This morning when I spoke to him (you should stop now if you haven’t seen the movie) I was telling him about the main character saying “I may have made a big mistake” his first day at boot camp. My father said not one man didn’t lie down on his bunk that first night thinking “What have I done? It can’t get any worse.” Unfortunately for every one of them it did.
Like the Marines in the movie my father was at Camp Pendleton before being shipped overseas. This was the staging area before he was sent to Vietnam. He also took a commercial airliner to war. Traveling from California to Hawaii and then on to Vietnam. Strange the contrast between stewardesses in prim uniforms, familiar with serving tourists and business men, serving soldiers going off to war. I wonder if it was hard to look at so many young faces and know that very few of them would return uninjured and many of them would never return at all.
The movie was predictable in some ways. There was the Marine who is mentally slow but committed, the Marine who wants nothing more than to be a soldier and sees it as his job to instill honor among fellow Marines, the Marine that is a sociopath who wants nothing more than to smell the blood of his enemies and the main character who mixes a bit off all of them. I relayed this formulaic cast to my father who said “That is what all of these movies about the Marines get wrong. Ninety percent of them are the sociopaths who are barely literate while only ten percent are normal.” Yes, he is in the ten percent.
Ending my call with my father I wished him Happy Birthday to the Marines. The Marine Corps celebrate 230 years today. My father got off the phone to go hang his Marine Corps flag in front of his house. I am proud of my father and his service. I didn’t walk away from Jarhead with any life changing revelations but I did get the a small look into a world so unfamiliar that at times you feel no one on the outside can ever fully understand.
C and I saw Jarhead last night. This is a miracle in two ways. First, we see a movie about every six months so the fact that we chose to go is special enough. Second, C doesn’t agree with the Marine Corps so the fact that I got her to sit through two hours of nothing but the Marine Corps is another act of God. We both enjoyed the movie but what I really enjoyed was the tiny glimpse I got into my father’s past.
My father enlisted in Vietnam. He felt it was his duty and that is why he enlisted in the Marine Corps. This morning when I spoke to him (you should stop now if you haven’t seen the movie) I was telling him about the main character saying “I may have made a big mistake” his first day at boot camp. My father said not one man didn’t lie down on his bunk that first night thinking “What have I done? It can’t get any worse.” Unfortunately for every one of them it did.
Like the Marines in the movie my father was at Camp Pendleton before being shipped overseas. This was the staging area before he was sent to Vietnam. He also took a commercial airliner to war. Traveling from California to Hawaii and then on to Vietnam. Strange the contrast between stewardesses in prim uniforms, familiar with serving tourists and business men, serving soldiers going off to war. I wonder if it was hard to look at so many young faces and know that very few of them would return uninjured and many of them would never return at all.
The movie was predictable in some ways. There was the Marine who is mentally slow but committed, the Marine who wants nothing more than to be a soldier and sees it as his job to instill honor among fellow Marines, the Marine that is a sociopath who wants nothing more than to smell the blood of his enemies and the main character who mixes a bit off all of them. I relayed this formulaic cast to my father who said “That is what all of these movies about the Marines get wrong. Ninety percent of them are the sociopaths who are barely literate while only ten percent are normal.” Yes, he is in the ten percent.
Ending my call with my father I wished him Happy Birthday to the Marines. The Marine Corps celebrate 230 years today. My father got off the phone to go hang his Marine Corps flag in front of his house. I am proud of my father and his service. I didn’t walk away from Jarhead with any life changing revelations but I did get the a small look into a world so unfamiliar that at times you feel no one on the outside can ever fully understand.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Life Couldn't Get Any Better
There are moments in life you wish you could live inside. It is when you feel totally at peace. You are not thinking about work, or family, or friends. All you think about is how totally right this moment feels and that you wish is would never end. It is a moment that you want to capture on film to replay over and over again in your mind’s eye.
I had one of these life couldn’t get any better moments this weekend. We were at the ranch in the front yard. C was using Isaac as her pillow and I was using her leg. We just lay in the grass looking up at a perfectly blue sky. The wind was blowing. The temperature was perfect there in the shade. A bird flew right over us and the sun seemed to shine through his wings. The bird was a buzzard who must have thought he hit pay dirt. C raised her hand to let him know we were alive and well and to keep on flying.
If I could relive those few minutes at will it would be the best thing in the world.
There are moments in life you wish you could live inside. It is when you feel totally at peace. You are not thinking about work, or family, or friends. All you think about is how totally right this moment feels and that you wish is would never end. It is a moment that you want to capture on film to replay over and over again in your mind’s eye.
I had one of these life couldn’t get any better moments this weekend. We were at the ranch in the front yard. C was using Isaac as her pillow and I was using her leg. We just lay in the grass looking up at a perfectly blue sky. The wind was blowing. The temperature was perfect there in the shade. A bird flew right over us and the sun seemed to shine through his wings. The bird was a buzzard who must have thought he hit pay dirt. C raised her hand to let him know we were alive and well and to keep on flying.
If I could relive those few minutes at will it would be the best thing in the world.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Field Trials
It’s opening weekend and at 4:00 we’ll be hitting the road with every red neck, weekend warrior in Houston. Nothing like a convoy of pumped up hunters in their pick up trucks pulling four wheelers. It is a weekend we dread if we know we will be on the road. I can’t stand the thought of killing a deer. Before anyone goes responding with statistics on over population, culling the sick and diseased, I said I can’t stand the thought of killing a deer. I did not say that I disagree with hunting or that I don’t enjoy a nice venison medallion now and again. It is just the thought of me doing it that gives me the creeps.
I have gone hunting with my father. Once. Not for anything with fur, but birds down in South Texas and just across the Mexican border. In preparation my father bought me a brand new gun, a green vest and boots. We loaded up the motor home and took off. I shot my gun exactly one time before he realized his mistake by bringing me and banned me from shooting the rest of the trip. It is apparently very serious to shoot a bird other than the species one is actually hunting. In my defense, unless you have done this before they all look similar when flying overhead.
With my gun now resting safely out of reach my father went to Plan B. He would shoot the birds and I would retrieve them. Okay, I agreed. After his next shot I ran in the general direction I thought the bird went down. I found it, took one look and, yep you got it, turned right around. There was NO WAY I was touching a bird that had been shot.
Plan C. My father would go with me and actually touch the birds which he would put in the large back pocket of my vest. I had wondered what the big pocket was for but never did I imagine. Plan C failed also and I ended up spending the rest of the trip pretty much hanging around the motor home. I wonder if there are any other men taking their daughters hunting for the first time this weekend that will have quite the trouble.
It’s opening weekend and at 4:00 we’ll be hitting the road with every red neck, weekend warrior in Houston. Nothing like a convoy of pumped up hunters in their pick up trucks pulling four wheelers. It is a weekend we dread if we know we will be on the road. I can’t stand the thought of killing a deer. Before anyone goes responding with statistics on over population, culling the sick and diseased, I said I can’t stand the thought of killing a deer. I did not say that I disagree with hunting or that I don’t enjoy a nice venison medallion now and again. It is just the thought of me doing it that gives me the creeps.
I have gone hunting with my father. Once. Not for anything with fur, but birds down in South Texas and just across the Mexican border. In preparation my father bought me a brand new gun, a green vest and boots. We loaded up the motor home and took off. I shot my gun exactly one time before he realized his mistake by bringing me and banned me from shooting the rest of the trip. It is apparently very serious to shoot a bird other than the species one is actually hunting. In my defense, unless you have done this before they all look similar when flying overhead.
With my gun now resting safely out of reach my father went to Plan B. He would shoot the birds and I would retrieve them. Okay, I agreed. After his next shot I ran in the general direction I thought the bird went down. I found it, took one look and, yep you got it, turned right around. There was NO WAY I was touching a bird that had been shot.
Plan C. My father would go with me and actually touch the birds which he would put in the large back pocket of my vest. I had wondered what the big pocket was for but never did I imagine. Plan C failed also and I ended up spending the rest of the trip pretty much hanging around the motor home. I wonder if there are any other men taking their daughters hunting for the first time this weekend that will have quite the trouble.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Farm Living is the Life for Me
This was written last weekend, never finished, and not published until now because quite frankly I forgot all about it until now.
Anyone who has never traveled two lane back country roads in Texas needs to do so. The drive up here was so beautiful. Rolling fields of freshly cut hay. Big round bales sitting in a row waiting for the winter. Cows grazing. The sun rising in the East and throughout it all we had some of Willie Nelson’s greatest songs blaring on the radio. Can’t tell you how wonderful it is to be sitting next to a girl who knows the words to every song. Oh, and who could resist the face in the side mirror. All yellow fur and lips flapping. A truly happy city dog.
When we arrived the cows all came up to beg for cubes. Cow crack that is, a true addiction. Our mission this weekend was to take photos of all the cows on the ranch for a new program that keeps track of everything for you. While the cows were pleading their case for cubes we walked through them squatting for pictures. There we were, perched precariously above giant piles of shit making sucking noises trying to get them to look our way. The morning hours yielded fifty-five photos. A handful will be good enough to import into the program.
Midday our bellies were grumbling and mimosas had begun to burn holes in our stomach linings so it was off to Westhoff for chicken gizzards. Disclaimer here: I do not eat gizzards but the love of my life loves them so that is where we went. Again, the drive was spectacular. We ate at tables covered in vinyl tablecloths, drank long necks and for dessert- played a game of pool. I lost. For those of you who know me this is no surprise.
Anyone thinking of moving to the country must know there are some rules:
Before your home is complete you MUST have an old piece of farm equipment that is no longer functional. This equipment must be so rusted that no amount of refurbishing could bring it back.
You must place this piece of equipment in the front or side yard. Putting it in the back where no one could see would completely defeat the purpose of having said equipment in the first place.
It’s hard keeping landscaping looking pretty in the country. With all of the livestock and fields to tend to there is just no time left to water regular ole yard plants. To remedy this, place plastic flowers in your yard. Stick those suckers right in the dirt next to the painted wood cut outs.
This was written last weekend, never finished, and not published until now because quite frankly I forgot all about it until now.
Anyone who has never traveled two lane back country roads in Texas needs to do so. The drive up here was so beautiful. Rolling fields of freshly cut hay. Big round bales sitting in a row waiting for the winter. Cows grazing. The sun rising in the East and throughout it all we had some of Willie Nelson’s greatest songs blaring on the radio. Can’t tell you how wonderful it is to be sitting next to a girl who knows the words to every song. Oh, and who could resist the face in the side mirror. All yellow fur and lips flapping. A truly happy city dog.
When we arrived the cows all came up to beg for cubes. Cow crack that is, a true addiction. Our mission this weekend was to take photos of all the cows on the ranch for a new program that keeps track of everything for you. While the cows were pleading their case for cubes we walked through them squatting for pictures. There we were, perched precariously above giant piles of shit making sucking noises trying to get them to look our way. The morning hours yielded fifty-five photos. A handful will be good enough to import into the program.
Midday our bellies were grumbling and mimosas had begun to burn holes in our stomach linings so it was off to Westhoff for chicken gizzards. Disclaimer here: I do not eat gizzards but the love of my life loves them so that is where we went. Again, the drive was spectacular. We ate at tables covered in vinyl tablecloths, drank long necks and for dessert- played a game of pool. I lost. For those of you who know me this is no surprise.
Anyone thinking of moving to the country must know there are some rules:
Before your home is complete you MUST have an old piece of farm equipment that is no longer functional. This equipment must be so rusted that no amount of refurbishing could bring it back.
You must place this piece of equipment in the front or side yard. Putting it in the back where no one could see would completely defeat the purpose of having said equipment in the first place.
It’s hard keeping landscaping looking pretty in the country. With all of the livestock and fields to tend to there is just no time left to water regular ole yard plants. To remedy this, place plastic flowers in your yard. Stick those suckers right in the dirt next to the painted wood cut outs.
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