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New Beginnings

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My landlord wants to move in with us, which is totally unacceptable. There’s just not enough space here. It doesn’t seem right that I suggest she find someplace else as the house belongs to her and all, so I’m taking 30 days to move my family out of the home we’ve occupied for five years. After checking out the rental $cene, my plan is to beg her to hold off on the contractor, renovations, and moving in for another nine months. She seemed fairly determined that the contractor come this week and so until I convince her that my bright ideas are always the best, I’m going to act as though she is serious about her move. At this point what that means is that my recycle bin is full to capacity.

In going through the ginormous piles of spelling worksheets, old correspondence, and outdated “to do” lists I discovered a box of letters I sent to my father-in-law. Rather than working on one of the eleventy seven brain blog posts floating in my head and in my drafts folder, I’m just going to reprint an update on my first pregnancy. I’m just lazy like that.

Subject: Asexual Alien Baby?

So, I gained a little extra weight. That’s is good. The baby is growing. But the growth came rapidly and my girlfriend and I decided to see if there was a miracle cream that prevented stretch marks — not that I have any. Palmer’s had been recommended, so off to Target we went. Looking at the ingredient list, we came across the substance urea. Sounds frightful, huh? We left the bottle on the shelf and went to consult our old pal, Webster. He told us that urea is mammalian urine. I’m as vain as the next woman, but I don’t know if I am that desperate yet. People keep telling me what is good and bad for me (my underwire bra will give me cancer; if I don’t have two eggs a day I will birth a hermaphrodite), and I wonder how good can rubbing a belly with urine be for a baby? Granted my sister-in-law tells me that it usually comes on powder form. I must agree that if you have to have hairy animal urine slathered on you, powder is probably the way to go. I have also heard of a convent in Italy where nuns donate their urine for such a product. Perhaps pristine powdered offerings of divine virgins warrants consideration. Nah, of all the things recommended to me, this is by far the scariest.

But this isn’t about lotions or potions, this is about my neuroses. I have plenty, you know. I went my entire life without a cavity and now I have one. This is definitely the baby’s fault. Doesn’t a mother suffer enough?

But this isn’t about my dentist visit, it’s about my OB Visit. Dr. Anderson says my uterus is looking good. Of course, she only looked at my stomach (thank God she isn’t into vaginal look-sees). She said that I could have a walking epidural during labor but wondered why I would want to walk around a hospital hall with my fanny hanging out. She has a point. She said that she doesn’t give episiotiomosectomies as a rule, unless they are necessary and not more than a centimeter of slicing. Mmmm, more fun. She promised that I will have to have an IV and that there are things more frightening than needles, but I don’t believe her. She supports the Bradly method of labor and delivery because they teach you about what is happening to your body, but at the same time she is a doctor and has her own way. Best of all, she blamed my weight gain on heavier clothes. You see why I think she is wonderful?

The kid is still kicking constantly. The other night the baby’s wiggle made me giggle. Mostly, the movement feels like involuntary muscle spasms but this movement was deliberate. I had Handsome Hubster do the laying on of hands thing and every time the baby kicked he said, “DAMN!” Being the generation that we are, we can’t help but think of the birth scene in Alien. This baby is strong I tell you. I imagine that soon he/she will pop out of my stomach via my belly button. Now that I think of it, I broke no ribbons at any of my bridal showers. I did snip one with scissors and my sister-in-law’s mother-in-law, you know how these extended families are, said that meant I would have a cesarean. Ah, one more thing to think about.

You may be able to tell that I am loving pregnancy. The weight gain, the back pain, the abdominal strain. For all this work, I expect some goods in return.

Oh and I did get some goods as evidenced here pictorially. I can only blame the pose on inexperience with mommy hormones. On closer inspection of my face it appears as though I just finished crying.

If you are good, I’ll post some other self-obsessed pregnancy rants. Maybe I’ll tell you about the time I was accused of smuggling a basket ball out of Wal Mart, which also happened to my cousin, so I guess it’s a family tradition and not so much a unique experience.

Dayna is a Few of My Favorite Things

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Last Friday, I got my panties tied in a knot. If this has ever happened to you, you’ll agree that it ain’t pleasant. It’s about eleventy million degrees in the desert and any business who has a customer come in the door in this weather (and economy) should fall to their knees in gratitude. Okay. Maybe my attitude was skewed, but honestly the Universe should have been on my side.

Have you ever been into an Apple store? There is a culture there that I just cannot crack. I went to one such den of iniquity to purchase iPods for the kiddos at Christmas and, did you know you can’t just go there and buy some? Nope. You cannot. You can go there and order them online. Of course you can do that at your own damn house too and get them monogramed for free. Also, you might foolishly wait in line to buy those only to discover BUZZ wrong line. Also, there is a sign-in sheet, but you gotta know it’s there, where to find it, and what to do once you’ve approached it. I feel like a moron every time I darken their doorstep.

For these reasons, I’ve been delaying the trip to get my laptop fixed. Friday, I decided to bite the bullet, head to the hills, and get a new battery. If you think I could just go in and buy one, then you weren’t paying attention when I told you about the iPods. Nor was I.

So, it’s eleventy million degrees outside and I pack the kids up for a 16-mile trip to RichMan’s Land to get a new battery at the Apple store. I ridiculously wait in line with my MacBook before realizing that this line is a fantasy. I remember that you have to catch as catch can a, uh, what do you call them? They have a name, those applets walking around. They always send me straight home. Let’s make this long, agonizing story short to say, the kids and I embarked on our next errand – me still lugging the dead MacBook.

Next stop, the dry cleaners to retrieve the on-loan dresses belonging to my Fairy God Sister (I changed her designation as she is decades too young to be my mother). You’ll remember there were two borrowed dresses. Additionally, I dropped off a kid’s dress and a kid’s tie. The kid’s dress went in without stains and came home with rust stains. The kid’s tie went in with a chocolate stain, which I pointed out, and was returned with the same said stain. I didn’t have the guts to check Yvonne’s dresses. The bill for these four items? $47! I should have known to stay home. Nothing good happens in Hell.

I gave up on errands and retreated to sanctuary where I know loveliness awaits me. Handsome Hubster’s great grandmother Inez was a quilt maker. I washed and set out to dry four of her quilts. I thought they were in fairly good condition, but I was wrong.
Even raggedy, I love these fans both traditional and electric. That’s what I’m calling the designs. If you are a purist and want to correct me on the names, then I will require you to send me a handmade quilt, you quilt snob. I may just fill my house with handmade quilts. I’m not sure if you can see in this photo, but Inez cared enough for these beauties that she repaired them. I will find a way to honor her work.
Alas, the dry lines are near the alley by the car port. Once out of the car and en route to the back door, I ran into my pathetic garden. The death sentence of any living thing with the unfortunate luck to be planted here is why, Denveater, you haven’t had an update on my garden. The basil looks great, the hens ate the pepper pant’s leaves, the tomatoes died one at a time with this one croaking while I was in Oklahoma. Sad.
Through the house and to the street out front where we keep the mailbox. Inside, I found something that took away the sting of the Apple shunning, being taken to/at the cleaners, quilts in sad repair, and triple black-thumb death.
Dayna. Dayna. Isn’t that a lovely name? Dayna sent me a gift. It was completely unsolicited. I didn’t even pay her. Frankly, I’ve never even met her, but I love her. I love you, Dayna. Thank you for Going to Seed: Finding, Identifying, and Preparing Edible Plants of the Southwest*and for the encouragement as well. I think I will keep writing, even if I suspect you and my dad are in cahoots.

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

Oklahomie Eats

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I packed two cut-up melons from Tucson Community Supported Agriculture, along with French bread rolls, turkey, yogurt, sun tea, water with ice, chocolate milk, grapes, pineapple, and of course yellow mustard. Plus, the backseat barfers get to pick a big bag of chips all for themselves as is our tradition.

We ate here (I’m calling this “White Sandwiches, NM”)…
and here (Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, TX, without any appropriate puns).
Of course in Oklahoma, you get food from the backyard including berries
and tomatoes.
That was just one tomato variety of the at least four growing at my mother-in-law’s house. Anything we didn’t find in the yard, we could have purchased at the Farmer’s Market. We only walked away with a watermelon, which was all it took to turn this frown upside down.
I can’t think of my hometown without thinking of The Diner. Handsome Hubster had an eggurrito (Eggarrito? We don’t ever actually read at the menu.) just like he did the day the 9 YO boy was born.
And squeezing it in on the last day, The Greek House.
That plant is more than a little freaky. You know what else is freaky? After you order, pay, and find a seat in the SRO dining room, they FIND YOU without ever asking for a name, assigning a number, or even questioning if it was you who requested the extra yogurt. I didn’t take a photo of the food because I was too busy eating.

I pretty much plan my visits home around food. Winter break we’ll hit Victoria’s*, where the marinara has tarragon and red pepper but tastes cinnamon-y and Misal of India, even if moving by the interstate put the kibosh on the atmosphere. Unfortunately, if the rumors are correct we’ve sadly seen our last meal at Pepe Delgado’s*, who catered both my wedding and the christening of my first born.

We had some good eats outside Oklahoma. Hideaway was consumed in Texas.

Does it count as outside Oklahoma if the food was leftover from dinner in Oklahoma? We definitely ate in Santa Rosa, NM.

The service at Lake City Diner was, uh, er, well, let’s just say relaxed, though I knew that from the reviews. Apparently, not all the diners were familiar with Google. We had already seen The Big Blue Hole, so we weren’t in any hurry to go anywhere. Also, slow service doesn’t automatically mean bad service. Besides, the architecture was interesting and the green chili everything was worth the wait.
Best of all, on this entire trip, not one single person or animal barfed.

* Sorry Denveater, I think Victoria’s Pasta Shop and Pepe Delgado’s are both possessively named restaurants.

My Fairy Godmother

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Dashing out of town to attend my 20th high school reunion (I graduated early, yes I did), I breathlessly told my friend Yvonne that I had given up finding a decent outfit for the formal turned semi-formal turned dressier than church clothes event, which was, or could have been the first or second night. I wasn’t all that clear. I supposed I could find a cotton skirt or, uh, something not grease/dirt/snot/food stained.

Yvonne is a native Tucsonan, which I find fascinating since they are so rare. Her parents at some point in lineage were from Mexico. With her black-as-night hair, porcelain white skin, and splashy red lips, I can’t help but see her as the visage of 1940s era Tucson, although with four boys aged 9, 7, 3ish, and not yet 1 it has to be the case that she’s sweaty, disheveled, and exhausted at least some of the time.

In any event, Yvonne dashed into her closet, pulled a few hangers off the rack, and sent me on my way. MIL pressed my lightly rumpled dress and the 7 YO girl helped edit my jewelry for the first night. I love this BCBG dress. I’m just a breath too big for it and probably should have used scaffolding to hold stuff in. As it was, my pantyhose only lasted an hour or so before being stashed in Caddo Artist‘s handbag. The pre-prom photograph doesn’t do the dress justice.

Yvonne had me doubly prepared for Night Two. I forget the label on this draped-neck number. Also, sadly, I don’t have a photo of the bottom half of the dress and its soft sweet double ruffle at the hem. I do have this.

I’m sure I was saying something endlessly fascinating like, “Yes, I did so go to Norman High School. I did too. I swear to God we went to high school together.” Alternatively, it may have been, “Yes, I do remember the time I got involved with that ridiculously good crowd of smart, kind-hearted, and responsible kids who for whatever reason committed 7 felonies and 13 misdemeanors together.”

What I lack in photographic evidence of Yvonne’s excellent taste and generosity in loaned dresses I have in spades regarding shoes. Yes, Yvonne even sent me forth into reunionland with footwear more lovely than Cinderella’s. While the dresses and shoes must return to the owner, this photo of my feet with my sweet’s is mine forever, just as Handsome Hubster is mine to have and to hold (unless, of course, we have some sort of hard drive failure).
Thanks big time Yvonne. I would have been nekked and barefooted were it not for you.

Freshly Mopped

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The Senior Warden and I recently marveled at how predictable our behavior can be. For example, both she and I rearrange the furniture when we are looking for new perspectives or needing to reunite ourselves with our under-the-couch pets. I also like to clean my house prior to embarking on a journey. That’s a metaphor, you know, and it’s related to the moving of furniture and my struggle for perspective because the dust bunnies can be damned. Unfortunately, my brain isn’t working that way right now.

The way my brain is working right now is that you can go on an actual vacation that leaves you feeling slimed – gooey, not skinny, because that would be “slimmed” and I just don’t care that spell check prefers not to recognize my noun verb; though you might feel slimmed, an adjective verb, if you are surrounded by of the sort of people who starve you. In either case, those are usually called home visits. Did I mention I’m going home? Well, I am and when I return, I want clean floors. I spent an hour in the kitchen on my hands and knees, first with a scrub brush (’cause it’s a hard knock life) then with a rinse mop.


Saltillo tiles really look dirty, I mean hide the dirt don’t they? Upon completion of the kitchen tiles, I did the same in the dining room (they’re going to shine like the top of the Chrysler building!). Hello, kitty.


Shut up! Those are the after photos. The kitten isn’t circling her own poo, that’s the original concrete stain showing through the peeling concrete paint. So… uhm… the moral of the story is you can shower as much as you want, some of the dirt just ain’t never going to wash away.

Denveater Blogs from Okie Noodling Tournament

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Still longing for news from Oklahoma as I do? I’m hearing from all ya’ll, “More, more, more!” Well, I won’t disappoint. Or should I say my pal Denveater won’t disappoint. She’s blogging from the Okie Noodling Tournament (we will let the term “Okie” ride for just now) and I’m scraping her content — well part of her content. To understand my Oklahomies is to understand noodling, local music, and most of all people because community is king. The noodling tourney epitomizes the very sort of thing that I’ve always admired about my home state, when populist ideals seep up from the iron-rich dirt.

Go to her blog to read her full posts, because Denveater tells it best:

First she posted this:

Like megamesmerizers The Flaming Lips, like notorious Normanite & owner of great gourmet shop Forward Foods’ Wampus, like doc-directing dynamo Bradley Beesley & spell-casting yarn-spinner

BPSPhil2
Phil Henderson—

fisheries biologist & proprietor for the past 3 decades plus of the beloved 76-year-old BBQ pitstop Bob’s Pig Shop—I grew up in the Sooner State.

(So did I! Oklahoma! Oklahoma! Oklahoma!)

Then she posted this:

Horse***Over the course of the next few days I’ll spill all the half-baked beans I happily gathered at the 10th Annual Okie Noodling Tournament in Pauls Valley, Oklahoma, while hanging with an array of insiders whom I’d now count among the coolest, kindest, oldest souls a person can be lucky enough to encounter all at once.***

Let’s get a few things straight:

Noodling, also called grabbling, is fishing for catfish with your hands, or, in some cases, feet—essentially grabbing hold of them from the inside by letting them clamp down on your arms & legs, risking digits in the process, & then wresting them loose from the riverbed nooks & crannies they occupy.

It’s legal in a handful of states, including Oklahoma, where flathead catfish are the favored catch (& excluding Missouri, whose die-hard noodlers do it on the down-low while grappling with local lawmakers to get the papers pushed).

The tournament is held one day every July in the parking lot of Bob’s Pig Shop, a venerable BBQ joint & de facto antique showcase of curios I’ve only begun profiling here.

(Handsome Hubster and I have logged many dinners at the Pig Shop.)

And most recently, this:

***Part 2 of a miniseries about the kaleidoscope of scoundrels, souses, smartasses, shit-kickers, schookids, septuagenarians, flathead catfish & barbecued pigs that is the Okie Noodling Tournament in Paul’s Valley, OK; see Part 1 here.***

To have even heard of noodling is to know Lee McFarlin. To look “noodling” up on Wikipedia is to see his picture. To Google “noodling” & “Gordon Ramsay” is to catch a slide show of the respective stars of Okie Noodling & “Hell’s Kitchen” gurgling à deux amid the red swirls of an Oklahoma fishing hole. To scan article after article on noodling on the New York Times & ESPN websites is to learn of his legend.(Uhm… I enjoyed the doc and could enjoy the tourney, but I have not, nor would I attempt, noodling. Just FYI.)

Thanks Ruth for the awesome posts. I wish I could be with you to be crowned queen, enjoy the exfoliating back rub, and hang out in walk-in freezers.

Hubster’s Travels

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Handsome Hubster went to Montana. He promised photographs. By the way he talked I imagined sweeping images of romantic vistas that reminded him of his beloved (that’s me), who he’d left behind. An image along the lines of …

Yessss. I imagine a picnic with pink lemonade, potato salad, coleslaw, and roast beef sandwiches. I can smell the beef now.

HO-LY COW! WTF? [Gag, wretch] HH, are you serious? When you were talking about the amazing sights, I didn’t realize you were referring to amazing sites. Though I admit, the bison jump and the bison kill are marginally interesting.

Not as interesting as the tipi rings.

Those are cool, but what I really want to see pictorially is you, babe.

You’re squirrelly, it’s true, but I want a picture of you.

Ahhh… so handsome, even in silhouette.

Nugget Update

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Perhaps you remember a nice family who, out of the kindness of their hearts, fostered a sick or injured bird in their peaceable kingdom. Not knowing the extent of Nugget’s problems, we opened our home to her. Everyone pitched in. The people set up a private space. The dog and cat kept predators at bay. The birds shared their food and bedding. Yes, we stepped up in service to one of God’s creatures when the pathetic Nugget pleaded for sanctuary.

After much tender loving care, it became clear that Nugget was not ill nor egg bound. Nugget came to us after being on the losing end of a fight with her peeps that left her temporarily paralyzed; then walking like a drunk; and now, almost fully recovered. We’ve taught her to take treats by hand; we’ve taught her to free range, and we are working on teaching her to properly perch. I don’t know what she was learning at that school she attended, but it wasn’t how to be a chicken.

Nugget is no chicken. Nay, she’s a pit bull. The Mom-a-Tron homestead is a place where we all get along – no exceptions, and frankly, I’m struggling. My sweet flock, who had risked illness and sacrificed their resources for the sake of this damn bird, has been sucked in by an impostor! Oh, yes. Today, Persephone innocently passed by Nugget who then jumped on her back and pecked away. Persephone said, “Screw this,” and booked it far away from the pesky pecker. Persephone is a lover you see. I don’t think Flower cared for the gross display of bullying and she barked at Nugget, who then attacked Flower.

“Dude!” I said. “You weigh like half what my lightest bird does and you still aren’t secure in your footing. They will take you down.” Clearly, we have to keep working on unschooling Nugget. She may be ready for the school yard or more likely the prison yard, but not yet for my yard. Even so, I thought her spunk was newsworthy for those who love her and would like an update on her progress. I grabbed my camera. This is what I caught.

Ho, yeah. She pecked at Sailor Moon. Nugget is lucky that I had put her back in the crate after she got onto Persephone and Flower. Sailor Moon likes her space and everyone else’s. She likes her food and everyone else’s. She can keep the banties warm or she can make them miserable. Better I distract Sailor Moon with a treat. Not fully expressing her aggression, Nugget then goes after Fireball. That’s right. The only hen Nugget hasn’t fussed at is Buttercup, who is my most haughty bantam. Even so, you can tell how much better Nugget feels by how she’s standing at full height and showing off those tail feathers. I’m thinking she has less physical rehab left and much more social rehab in her future.

And so if you were thinking good thoughts for Nugget and the kids who love her, you can quit. Instead, think good thoughts for my computer for the battery is deceased and think good thoughts for my work because they need traffic and think good thoughts about loose nukes and stuff like that. Nugget will be just fine.

For the Hawt Voyeur

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The Hawt Mz is amazed by Oklahoma’s beauty. That’s understandable. Peaceful contentment emanates from all who live there, including this guy.

One of my favorite things about Oklahoma is the generational connection. Irises were harvested from Handsome Hubster’s grandmother’s garden in Sulphur by his aunt who then sent them to me as a housewarming gift. Just look at how happy they are snuggled up to the house!

After moving in, we hired a plumber to bring the fireplace up to date. After a wicked winter when we lost a good bit of the pecan tree and the whole of central Oklahoma was out of power but not gas, it seemed like a good idea to replace the gas furnace as well. MIL found the perfect replacement.

Walking through the house on my first tour, I was struck by lighting. This window seat runs the entire length of the dining room and provides storage too.

Yes. It’s home. And I’m looking forward to seeing it again.

I’m Going Home

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In September 1995 on a random drive-by situation, I saw a man place a FOR SALE sign in the yard of a cute little house near the University of Oklahoma. I arranged for my sister-in-law of six months to check out the place with me. I loved it straight away, but didn’t have in mind buying it. I did think it would be a good way to get Handsome Hubster out from underfoot while I set up his surprise birthday kegger, so I set up a date for him and his sister to check the place out. Here, you can check it out too:
See? I did not lie. The house was built in 1930 and has a gas fire place, wood floors throughout, and all the odd characteristics of an older home. When Hubster and SIL arrived at the party after seeing the house, a fifty eleven people yelled, “Happy birthday!” and Hubster said, “We gotta buy that house.” “Seriously, dude. Happy birthday.” “I’m telling you I want that house.” I looked at SIL. She nodded in agreement. Damn! The party wasn’t enough; he wanted a whole house!

Buying a home wasn’t on my radar. Besides, my new husband and I were flat busted broke, as always. What I didn’t know is that this home was picked up by a prospector for a song. The previous occupants, by legend, were fans of hookers and blow (that phrasing is for you Jacques, but it’s also true). Also, the house hadn’t even been listed so we sorta got in at a good time.

We put in a ridiculously low offer – $54.6K, seller pay closing costs and refinish the floors, retile the kitchen, mud room, and baths, paint the whole thing inside and out, and install new kitchen cabinets and appliances. That moron took our offer. We waited five months to close, but in the end the house was ours. I planted azaleas. Aren’t they lovely?
Yes, they are. Take another look. Green grass, pecan tree, cute as a button home-sweet-home. My mother-in-law lives there and takes immaculate care of the place. I look forward to seeing it again. I’m going home. I’ll let you know when.