Tag: personal

Dear Peggy,

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OMG! I went to the racquet club today. They should really call it the “racket” club. HA HA! You wouldn’t believe what a low rent place that is! It’s barely on the cusp of privilege. I mean, I was the LEAST tat2ed person there (having no tat2s – I missed out on that rite too)! Half the cars had bumperstickers promoting Obama, all the rage, I’m sure you’ve heard. One truck spoiled the otherwise burgoise rows of Honda minivans. The bumpersticker on that rattle trap read, “The day they outlaw guns is the day I become an outlaw.” However clever the thought, the sticker had too many words. GLUG!

AND there were fifty bajillion parents from the kids’ schools there. Some of them were totally rad. They say, “Hi!” At least I think they would say that to you if you’d come. Dude! There was a parent there with her chair totally oriented toward the pool as though she was supervising her ankle biter, but PLEASE tell me how she coud do that with her nose in a book. It was a pretentious book at that. Seriously lady, IT’S FREAKIN’ SUMMER!

Also, someone should tell the old bat constantly bugging the lifeguard to COOL IT! I mean, c’mon, lifeguards aren’t there to tell you the time or direct you to the locker room. How can they guard lives if you are jabber jawing at them? All I can say is, YAY to the kids who cannonballed all over her ass! Awesome, they were mine.

The club is not the best place for mere mortals to go hang out. There’s a way ton lots of tan, fit women there in their fancy swimsuits who don’t need the control panel, modesty skirt, and push up bra. Seriously, I GET IT! I’m not as fit as you and even if I were I wouldn’t look like you in that suit. For one thing, I got a topo map on my belly and for another I’ve seen my grandmother in a swimsuit and, believe me, the future is now (& not in a Mirren kind of way).

One last thing, and this is top secret, I grew up in Midwest City with two kick ass bitches for friends. Outside of Purple Rain and John Stamos, there wasn’t much ado about anything. We made up half our abbreviations. I’ll decode a few for you:

LYLAS – love ya like a sis
WBS – write back soon
TTFN – ta ta for now

The thing is, we were light years ahead of our time. Note writing was just about the only literacy we got, & for one of us that is all too sadly the absolute truth. I needed Norman AND Tucson to get here, just as you needed college generated goth script. Say, if you get a handle on the make-up/hair thing, let me know. Your tips might help me infiltrate the burgoisese.

OH! And BTW, this season is all about accessorizing the bathing suit. So… can I borrow your big ass hammered metal necklace?

Ever your friend, R

What a Rush!

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At age 14 I lived in the last house on the left (the literal one, not the movie one*). The tree shaded dead end street played home to three main residences, but so many more of us lived there. My grandmother and great grandmother resided across the street. My current computer guru lived in a tiny cottage out back making stuff on his Mac for the Oklahoma Film Society or something cooler than whatever I was supposed to know about Algebra. Various people moved into and out of our basement. There were others.

Our House* was a very very very spooky house. I foolishly didn’t want to live in Norman. Midwest City was much less pretentious and much more edgy. Big bro and I used to sneak out to find an oasis from the land of upturned Polo collars, of which I totally would have been a citizen if I owned more than one Polo. We would catch the midnight show of Rocky Horror* or run around the cemetery or see who was at Cafe Royal. We didn’t have to sneak out. My folks were way lenient about that sort of thing, but sneaking out made it all the more fun. Once we returned home about 2 a.m. running down our little street in spite of the fact that our dad was standing in the middle of the road smoking a cigarette under the full moon. He just hung his head. It made no sense to him at all that we would sneak out but neglect to sneak back in. I don’t recall that we got in all that much trouble, however, the shame of our dumbassary clouded the next couple of days.

It was about this time that my taste for Alternative Music, whatever that was, hit my radar. Big Bro was listening to 88 Lines about 44 Women by The Nails* (mental note, put that on the iTunes list). He picked it up at the used record (vinyl, I said it) store on Campus Corner before Harold’s bought the whole damn place up. I also caught my dad singing Dead Milkmen*. Or was it Dead Kennedys*? Eeww. Dad had to tell me that he knew a thing or two about hep – a fact I seriously doubted and yet totally believed.

Soon after, Dad’s friend Rush (pictured above and ripped off the LA Times) arrived for a visit. I had met Rush by a different name, but he was the same impossibly cool. He said things like, “Better dead than mellow” and “Bury Dali in Lichtenstein.” I used that latter line to end a Blue Book essay on First Amendment Law in college when it was clear I would run out of time without a conclusion. It won big points. I asked Rush why he thought Dali should be buried in Lichtenstein. “Why not?” he said. And he was right. After all, isn’t The Lizard King* buried in Paris? He also played a song for me that he’d been working on. The lyrics were as follows:

I’m sick of everything.
So sick of everything.
I’m sick of everything.
I’m sick of you,
And people like you!
I’m sick of your shit,
And I’m not going to take it!

Ah, the beauty. It was my anthem.

Rush is famous.

* Did I mention I am a sell-out, er, Amazon Associate?

What’s Blooming

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Our night blooming cerus attracted a visitor. Is this a cerus? I think so. It is now anyway. Sometimes we have more than 30 larger-than-your-hand-sized blooms on that cactus. Have you met our new pet bee? We are taking up bee-keeping. Not bees-keeping. Just the one. Doing our part to prevent Colony Collapse Disorder and therefore world destruction.

My great-grandmother in Alabama had a gorgeous backyard with a fishing pond. Along one side was a vegetation-covered corridor and I loved to walk around the pond to get to the fantasy world under those arched green shadows. Depending on which way you walked around the pond, you either passed her beehive before the tunnel or afterward. The bees terrified me, especially in those swarming massive numbers, so I made myself inconspicuous as possible when in their general area.

Do I need to state explicitly that we aren’t getting a hive? Well, there you have it, and our vari cacti don’t all bloom at night. My prickly pear blooms in the daytime and I have three sorts.

I have orange flowers (lots of them):


I have yellow flowers (just this one, but the promise of more):


And I have orange and yellow flowers (not sure this one is prickly pear):

I’m thinking of doing some tuna harvesting and making stuff.

On edit: I didn’t pay much attention to sizing, but the photos are much prettier when really big, so click on them to see up close.

That’s Right, Kale Chips

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The most insanely fantastical librarian gave Hawt Mz. Molly a tip on kale chips, which she then passed on to me in lieu of getting emotionally involved in my daily drama. Now all ya’ll will benefit from a resourceful woman-to-woman, educator-to-educator network.


Right prior to the kids’ spring break, the perfect storm of crazy busy, interpersonal frustration, and a visit from Aunt Flo hit like police brutality. I met my teacher guru in a dim corner of the breezeway where she gave me excellent advice, which was to get as ugly as I needed to get in private, then use that to inform a more calm voice.

Hawt Mz. spied me purging my soul and afterward brought me from the dark into the garden’s light with a gift of beets and kale. The produce was about to go to the chickens because it was time to harvest, but our farm stand wouldn’t be open until after spring break, or so she claimed. Then she passed on the kale chip recipe.

Washed & dried kale
Oil to cover
Salt to taste

I translated this to 1 Tbs Kosher salt, 1 Tbs oil, kale.

The sheet on the left is straight up. The sheet on the right uses 1 Tbs of apple cider vinegar. The photo doesn’t do it justice, but the vinegar kale took on a deeper green.

Here they are, crunchy, over-salted chips. That’s right, “salt-to-taste” is way less than 1 Tbs of Kosher salt. FYI, the vinegar chips were mo’ betta’. Generally speaking, kale chips taste like paper thin, ultra crisp Veggie Booty.
You could totally replace the salt with Lowery’s or BBQ seasoning or popcorn seasoning or powdered cheddar or qual quiere.

The kale chips were a fun diversion from my bad attitude, but keeping me emotionally afloat is a community where people recklessly embrace each other with new ideas, thoughtful advice, and perceptive support.

All Well and Good

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Speaking of jejune, I totally forgot the truest jejuney thing ever! I couldn’t stop picking at the imperfection. Turns out it wasn’t a birthmark, nor was it even a pimple. Nay, it flaked off rather easily reminding me of the importance of exfoliating. The routine sloughing off of dead cells is an important part of the revitalization process.

Shrugging off or heading off this invented drama helps me appreciate the hilarity of the kids who allow me to be a member of their learning community. It ain’t always easy and they frequently frustrate the bejesus out of me, but rare is the interaction that leaves me void of synaptic stimulation. Yesterday four kids and I planted tomatoes. Badly, I might add. The kids made a connection between the tomato plant and the mesquite tree. Both flower then fruit/seed. The seeds die, are eaten, or are harvested to grow another plant. They are studying cycles, so when they recognize a cycle – fireworks.

That is all well and good, but expected. The students accompany me into the garden or the bird sanctuary expressly to learn something. The fantastic part is their language. At one point a kid asked, “Can I put the worm poop in my hole?” “Not yet,” I said. “Okay. Is it time to tickle my bottom?” Right? Because everyone knows that you loosen entangled roots before planting and save the compost to sprinkle on top.

*******

My friend, the Caddo Artist, has a nascent blog focusing mostly on how she’s trying to quit smoking. You can do it! Today she offered up her experience volunteering for her youngest’s field trip to the zoo while jonesing. In part, she writes, “Isiah ate a rollypolly. He threw up in a trash can, and it gagged the other boys.”

Jejune Reflections

The usual opening for this blog lately: I feel acutely. I may be an empath.

The 6 YO girl wound up her swing to enjoy the thrill of spinning, spinning. As the ropes turned back on themselves, a lock of her hair got caught up and twisted until her hair was pulled out at the roots leaving a nickle-sized bald spot. Her little feet didn’t reach the ground and Mom-a-Tron was inside washing dishes. I keep thinking about how powerless she must have felt as each precious strand was plucked from her scalp. The following day while she attended school and I tended to the chickens, I saw that silken lock. As I untangled the hair, I couldn’t help but think how it had been a part of her and being maaaad at that stupid, ridiculous swing! Children should not be allowed to swing. Later that day, the parent teacher conference about my adorable, wonderful, perfect in every way 6 YO girl left me on Cloud 9.


Coming off the low/high roller coaster, I expressed to my carpooling buddy that I felt like I’d been sobbing, but I think it must be the emotion combined with allergies. Because, oh, yes…

These bloomed:
Feathery Cassia – sweet yum

Then this:
Citris – Lazy blogger Alex describes the scent as arousing

Followed by:
Texas Laurel – grapey

Finally these:
Palo Verde (state tree of Arizona, though Mesquites are more numerous)

Did I mention all this bloomed IN MY YARD? Oh, and the wind is like a zillion miles per hour so the pollens are EVERYWHERE. It tickles your nose, leaves your head fuzzy, and makes your breathing irregular. I described the feeling to my friend Connie, who relayed it to a client. “Oh, yes,” the lady said. “I know exactly what you mean. Crired.” Crired = Tired + Cried. That’s exactly how it feels.

Yes, once the emotion goes away and the allergies hit, the mind goes foggy. The tank is empty. Only jejune reflections remain.

(Yes, I wrote this whole entry in service of the word “jejune”.)

Popping Zits Leaves Me Crired

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I’m deeply distracted. My head is a zillion miles away, so when I get in the hot seat, I don’t really know what I’m saying. I think I know what I’m saying and I certainly sorta know what I mean. Until my head is right, I need to learn to take a deep breath and say nothing to let people think I’m a fool rather than open my mouth and prove it. Or I need a “so what if I said it” sort of attitude. I used to have one of those. In 7th grade a bully said to me, “I heard you called me a bitch.” “Yeah? What would you do if I did call you a bitch?” “I’d kick your ass.” “Would that make you any less of a bitch?” Exit bully.

I had not in fact called her a bitch; she was looking for a fight. Sometimes, people just look for fights. This morning I had a similar experience and instead of shrugging it off, I said, “That’s ridiculous!” But in a game of he said/she said no one really wins. There are no re-dos. I’m tempted to contact all the “right” people and set the record straight, but I’m not going to. I will not do it. I really want to, but I had better not.

In The Birthmark by Nathaniel Hawthorne, Georgiana attempts to rid herself of what her husband convinces her is an imperfection by consuming a potion that kills her. Possible interpretations of this story include the effect of psychology on sexuality, the inability to achieve perfection in life, a critique of epoch reforms, the disastrous affect of scientific study on the natural word, and blah blah blah. Now, wake up! I’m trying to tell you something.

The temptation for me to pick at something that may or may not be an imperfection is a horrid thing that isn’t likely to yield good results. Still, I want to pick, pick, pick. When you pop a zit, you are left with a bloody, pussy mess. It’s no good. Seriously though? Regardless of my sizable mental powers, not thinking of a white horse yeilds nothing but thoughts of white horses. Resistance is all but futile. Not popping that zit means you have to live with it until it goes away. In the case of a birthmark, IT NEVER GOES AWAY.

Apparently at a school meeting I said fifty thousand things that I didn’t know I said and wouldn’t have said if I were conscious. Or was it the gossip that colored it all? What it listener bias? I don’t know. I was hit upside the head by the rumor that I hated teachers. What? In turn, teachers hated me. What? Now that we know how evil you are Mom-a-Tron, kindly get on with your day.

And here’s how that went:

I was doing my weekly thing in the 9 YO’s classroom. The kids just completed more than a week of testing on top of a week of testing prep. Plus, there’s a big presentation tomorrow, so I assumed the teacher would need the classroom time. For these reasons, I hadn’t prepared a discussion. I should have known to run when I saw there was no fluoride to distribute. The room was not the same.

An observer sat at the side of the classroom to evaluate the teacher, who just received a pink slip. The teacher wasn’t leading the discussion. I was. The teacher’s aid was zipping out packing tape to secure name tags to desks. ZZZZZIP. STICK. ZZZZZIP. STICK. Things were discombobulated. I sincerely wished for an alien abduction (if that meant I could be at home under the covers). I spoke off the cuff about how a bill becomes a law to a room of students who were bored and a million brain miles away. The thrilling morning ended with a sound critique of my son.

Next week the kids are going to write, introduce, and pass laws and it’s going to rock the Houses. Today, I’m too crired.

(And now time for true confessions. I wrote this whole blog because I just learned the term “crired” from my pal Connie and I knew I must use it.)

Bocal Sandwich

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Last night I went to a school meeting and made comments that I wasn’t ready to make. I drew blank and felt caught with my pants down. Instead of terror, some folks read passion in my voice. I guess that’s better? In any event, I woke up with “I should have said this instead” thoughts. At the school this morning, a few pals said they appreciated my emotional honesty, which totally grossed me out because, as Anneliese pointed out in a meme, this is the Midwesterner’s nightmare.

Later, I went to pottery and busted out the bottom of a casserole dish that otherwise would have been awesome. I’d worked on the dish for, oh, a month of classes. On the bright side, I still have an intact casserole dish lid. Now, what am I going to do with that?

The day wasn’t a total loss. Anna and I went to the Maderas Bassoon Quartet performance, which was the finale of St. Philip’s In the Hills Lenten Recital Series. Even if it wasn’t a Lenten recital, you could have guessed the host was an Episcopal church based on the music hall’s decor. Check it out.

The deep burgundy velvet draping, the gold gilded alter behind the piano, and hanging from the exposed industrial metal beams? Chandeliers. These are my peeps. No one questioned how enjoying this little concert helped us with our meditations in reflection of the sacrifice of our savior, Jesus Christ. Also, the quartet itself had just the tiniest hint of irreverent attitude. Take, for example, this excerpt from a bassoonist’s biography:

Cassandra Bendickson first became enthralled by the bassoon when a curious group of four bassoonists gave a concert … . She passed the time until her hands could finally fit the Great Bassoon by playing lesser instruments such as piano, viola, and clarinet. Finally, she could grasp the beast…. She is currently enslaved by the mantle of graduate studies in the great quest of Bassoon Mastery.

Can you believe that!?! She didn’t even mention me. All will be forgiven in time and just to show my own good will towards her, I’m providing a little lesson on the difference between a bassoon and an oboe, which is apparently a sticking point.

  1. You can hit a baseball further with a bassoon.
  2. A bassoon is better at a camp site because it burns longer.
  3. A burning oboe is useful when setting bassoons on fire.
  4. Bassoonists form very tight social bonds with other bassoonists because they are far too exclusive to mingle with other instruments.

I kid, of course. And I’m a hack. These must be the only bassoon/oboe jokes out there and I’m sure bassoonists are weary of them. I do realize this is a sensitive topic. I think the main difference is the bassoon is totally twisted. Seriously. See?*


Did I mention my jeans were too tight all day long? Oddly, they only got tighter as the day extended to night. I ended the day so overstuffed with melted cheese that no amount of metabolism in the world can take care of the bloat. If today were a sandwich the bread would have been livestock fodder, but the meat would have been hearty and uplifting.

* These images were totally stolen from here and here.

Puberty Love

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If you found this blog because of a dirty Google search, get help you perverted bastard. This is not a sick tale. I mean it is, just not in that way.

The sick part is how I take such pleasure in the routine torture of my family with remnants of my somewhat twisted childhood. My brother and I are products of the slight neglect of parents who had a great sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic. The Hubster and company tend to think I’m making stuff up about my childhood as my brother and I always believed my father made up every song he sang while grocery shopping.

I have to prove my childhood memories. “I swear Attack of the Killer Tomatoes* is a real movie!” My brother and I watched it every chance we got. Again, being the children of parents who tended to leave us be as long as we didn’t burn down the house (not that we didn’t try), we got lots of chances, late at night, when the Boogey Man roamed the streets.

My brother used to cue me to scream like this:

I rocked the crazy scream. It made big brother giggle. I did it silently during confirmation classes (divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived). If I were not the old lady soccer mom that I am (I am that I am*), I would make a great scream queen.

The hardest sell for those in tow of my thrilling reenactment is that the killer tomatoes are defeated by:

That’s right. As Video Killed the Radio Star*, so too Puberty Love killed the killer tomatoes. My family might argue that my rendition of the same killed any interest they had in hearing more of my childhood memories, but that won’t stop me from spending the next few days singing Puberty Love.

* Did I mention I am a sell-out, er, Amazon Associate?

Round 2 with Happy Hour Car Hop

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I’m not wrathfull any longer, just perplexed by a world in which I can no longer communicate with today’s car hoppers. An update:

“Hi, yes. I would like an unsweetened iced tea with sugar on the side [and some other stuff].”

“Okay, so you want unsweet iced tea with sugar on the side [and some other stuff].”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have that right out to you.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Tea is delivered, you guessed it, sans sugar by the same bitchette whose face spreads a slow smile as she recognizes the minivan mom who can’t come to terms with her sweet tooth. “Oh, that’s right. You need sugar. How many packets?” Clearly, what she wanted to ask was, “Why don’t you just order sweet tea?”

“Three will do.” Apparently, ordering it correctly doesn’t guarantee a correct delivery. That’s where I rolled my eyes at her (secretly, inside my head where she couldn’t see). After delivering half our order she heads back inside for the sugar and returning moments later with no less than a fist full of packets. Great thanks.

I drove away and the 9 YO boy digs into the fried mozzarella sticks. Of course the gooey fried goodness came without condiment. Rooster plucking mother trucker!

Of course, I still haven’t done a darn thing for Lent.