Author: Big Mama

It’s a tough job but somebody has to do it

Last night P and I were discussing our plans for the 4th of July weekend. He’s in the middle of a huge job right now and has been working long days digging holes and building rock walls, in temperatures that would make the equator feel like a refreshing garden spot, for clients who are actually picky enough to specify that they want landscaping that won’t attract bees and doesn’t have any smell.

Of course. Because who wants the annoying fragrance of nature messing up their yard?

Anyway, I told him that I totally understood if he just wanted to hang out and do very little to celebrate our nation’s independence. “In fact,” I said, “it’s been kind of a hectic week for me too and I wouldn’t mind the chance to just relax and do nothing.”

He asked, “Why has your week been hectic?”

“Well, on Sunday we had that birthday party at the pool. Then my mom was in town on Monday and we spent five hours swimming at the hotel and yesterday we had the party at Chuck E. Cheese. On top of that, I had to drive Gulley to Firestone to get her car serviced today before we could go to the pool.”

He just stared at me for a minute and said, “Wow, I feel bad for you with all your pool obligations. Your life is really hard.”

I’m not totally sure, but I think he was being sarcastic.
Chuck E. Cheese, where a kid can be a kid or get a stomach virus

Yesterday was my sweet niece Sarah’s fourth birthday. It’s hard to believe that she’s already four years old because it seems like just a few days ago that I was sitting with my sister while she was in labor as she went on and on about how easy it was to give birth to a human being. I didn’t mention the fact that it wasn’t that easy for me because I had some crackpot of a labor nurse who kept telling me I wasn’t in labor until she realized I was ten centimeters dilated.

Yes, yes I am. That’s what all the screaming has been about. I wasn’t faking.

In reality, I’m sure I did remind my sister of my experience because I am just that petty and slightly bitter about the whole thing. Even so, I am thrilled for her that her particular birth experience was basically watching “Dancing with the Stars”, getting an epidural, and having a baby. We should all be so fortunate.

Sarah’s birthday party was at Chuck E. Cheese, largely because that rat is the reason she is potty-trained. It’s all about hitting them where they live and she was willing to do anything, even something as horrible as going to the bathroom on the actual toilet, to earn a trip to Chuck E. Cheese.

Caroline was so excited about a trip to Chuck E. Cheese because it’s generally a place I avoid like the plague that can be found on every single game located therein. In fact, she asked me why Sarah always gets to go to Chuck E. Cheese and she doesn’t. I didn’t know how to explain to her that her mama generally tries to avoid all kid-themed restaurants due to all the children that eat there and the tendency of the staff to dress up as animals, so I just told her she gets to have fun doing things Sarah doesn’t get to do, like killing betta fish with a diet of pet Sea Monkeys.

As soon as we made it into the restaurant, Caroline grabbed her cup of tokens and was off in the pursuit of big, germy fun. She fed tokens into one machine after another in the quest for tickets. Her eyes began to glaze over as she discovered the high of winning a long strand of tickets and I made a note to myself to keep her away from Vegas. Thanks to her great-grandfather, she has a bit of gambler in her gene pool and apparently it’s lurking just under the surface.

After a while it was time to eat pizza and participate in all the birthday festivities. The birthday girl got a little overwhelmed by all the hoopla, but I couldn’t blame her. If a big rat in a half t-shirt with no pants walked out of a back room to sing me happy birthday, I’d be freaked out too because it would be like my 21st birthday party all over again.

Once all the kids had gotten their second wind thanks to some pepperoni pizza and pink Barbie cake, they hit the floor again to use the rest of their tokens. I followed Caroline around like a video game waitress, holding her cup of tokens and storing her increasingly large stack of tickets in my pockets.

I wasn’t sad when I realized she was down to her last two tokens. I warned her that all the big fun was about to end and she would once again be just a normal kid whose mama doesn’t take her to Chuck E. Cheese on a regular basis. We took her pile of tickets to the ticket-eating machine, which is much more efficient than the days of my childhood where you’d just pile all your tickets up on a counter while some surly teenager begrudgingly counted them.

Her grand total of 181 tickets printed out on the receipt. We went up to the counter and I showed her what she could get with her winnings. And thus ensued the most arduous deliberation process I have ever witnessed. Seriously, the jurors in the O.J. trial came up with a verdict faster than it took her to decide between a fake bug and a piece of Laffy Taffy.

Just about the time my head was about to explode, she decided on a fake plastic ring, a bracelet, and a clip for her hair because everyone knows there are no finer accessories to be found than those at the Chuck E. Cheese prize counter.

The best part is it only cost about $10.00 in tokens to win prizes valued at thirty-five cents.

I think I smell a rat.

In a half t-shirt.

But, seriously, it was a great party and Caroline told me on the way home it was the BEST PLACE EVER.

Happy Birthday, Sarah! We love you and your fondness for Chuck E. Cheese.
Every party (hopefully not every pool) has a pooper

This is pretty much the same face I get every day when I tell her that it’s time to leave the pool.

I realize it’s 115 degrees and there is no better place to be than in what has quickly become a lukewarm swimming pool (please let it be due to the extreme heat wave and not little kid pee), but at some point after five hours of non-stop swimming it’s time to go home.

I believe this a look that wordlessly conveys “My mama is a big downer because she won’t let me fry to a crisp or drown due to exhaustion”.
A better place

I’ve always heard that celebrities die in threes and that certainly seemed to be the case last week when Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson all passed away. However, there are two more deaths that need to be added to that list.

The first is Shifty Powers. If you’ve never watched “Band of Brothers” then you probably have no idea who I’m talking about and all I can tell you is that you need to get yourself to Blockbuster Video or use the Netflix that all the kids are using these days and rent it. It will make you weep at the sacrifice that was made for our freedom during World War II. They were truly the greatest generation.

P couldn’t believe that I talked about Michael Jackson and the moonwalk and neglected to mention that Shifty Powers, a great American hero, had died. I told him it was mainly because I had no idea that Shifty Powers had passed away because the mainstream media neglected to report it. Of course it could also be due to the fact that I get my hard news from People.com and Entertainment Tonight.

Anyway, there was another death that hit a little closer to home. Brace yourselves.

Nemo is dead.

Last Sunday before I left town I decided I should clean his bowl because I knew the chance of P or Caroline remembering that his bowl needed to be cleaned were about the same as the odds of going to Walmart and not seeing someone in a tank top with no bra. In other words, not good.

So I went into Caroline’s room, retrieved Nemo and his (her?) bowl from the nightstand, and brought him (seriously? how do you know?) into the kitchen to clean out the bowl. I quickly realized that Nemo was in bad shape. And I mean bad shape in like it was probably too late to call the priest to administer last rites. Of course that’s assuming that Nemo was a Catholic fish. We never really discussed religion because we only knew each other a week.

I knew I was leaving for the airport in about an hour and I was conflicted about whether or not to tell Caroline that her beloved pet of one week was on his last fins. Finally, I decided that I needed to prepare her for what seemed to be a fairly imminent demise.

“Caroline, baby, Nemo isn’t looking too good.”

“What? What do you mean, Mama?”

“Well, see how he’s just lying there. I think he’s about to die.”

Drama and tears ensue.

So I did the only thing I knew to do in this type of situation. I spun the bowl around really quickly to give the illusion of Nemo robustly swimming around the bowl and said, “Look, I think he’s fine!”.

I know.

It’s like I was Jimmy Lee Farnsworth in “Fletch Lives” and faked a faith-healing ceremony.

(P, I apologize a thousand times. I was desperate and you’re much better at dealing with faux grief than I am. I love you.)

Later that night when I was hundreds of miles away, I told P that he may want to check on Nemo because I was pretty sure he was about to die. I didn’t admit that he may have already died that afternoon and was saved only by my strategic bowl-spinning efforts.

About noon the next day I get a text from P that reads, “Fish dead. Total meltdown.”

It was a high level of drama for a fish that she never showed any interest in other than the three minutes when she fed him a sea monkey. Fortunately, her grief was assuaged when she realized she could flush him down the toilet.

We are consoled knowing he’s in a better place. If you consider a better place to be a sewage system in Texas.

It is with great sadness that I report we’re going to the pet store tomorrow to buy a new fish.

Of course I’m probably not as sad as the poor fish that will end up living in this death trap.
Ma Ma Se, Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Ma Coo Sa

Michael Jackson has moonwalked for the last time and I am sad.

After I heard the news yesterday, I immediately called Gulley to see if she’d heard the news because I felt like I needed to share the moment with someone who, like me, spent a better part of 1983-1984 memorizing the choreography to the “Thriller” video.

I told her I’d never forget sitting in the stands at a junior high pep rally when the eighth grade cheerleaders came out on the gym floor and performed a routine to “Beat It”. At the time I had no idea what that song was or who sang it because I spent all my time listening to Rick Springfield and practicing my clarinet, even though I really wanted to play the flute but couldn’t because my mouth was shaped wrong according to some hack of a band director.

But, really, I harbor no ill will towards the man who ended my career as a world-famous flautist before it even began.

A few days later I saw the “Beat It” video on MTV and it made me love the song even more, though something in me intuitively knew that there was no way Michael Jackson could take on an entire street gang. It didn’t matter because the music was just so good.

By the time I was in seventh grade, I’d quit band due to clarinet frustration and moved on to choir. Choir was so much better, mainly because it didn’t require me to carry an instrument to school every day in a big black case. It didn’t seem to matter that I had little to no (leaning heavy towards the no) singing talent, until the day I auditioned for the special show choir by singing the theme from “Arthur”. Needless to say, I am no Christopher Cross and was informed that my voice was better suited to being part of the large regular choir, which we all know translates to “Bless your heart you can’t sing a lick”.

But ultimately I didn’t care because the perk of being a part of the regular, average-to-no-talent choir was that our choir director, Mr. LaForge, would wheel in the T.V. and a VCR that was bigger than the space shuttle and let us watch Michael Jackson’s performance on the American Music Awards over and over again while he worked with the special show choir. I have never been so thankful that I couldn’t sing.

We would all ooh and aah over that single, sequined glove, the band uniform and the sunglasses while we argued over who could do the best version of the moonwalk. There was a boy named Marcus who could do it pretty well in his socks, but we didn’t believe it really counted unless you could do it in your penny loafers because that takes real talent.

Mr. LaForge even threw the regular choir a bone and let us perform “Human Nature” during our spring concert complete with some stellar choreography that included jazz hands as we sang “Why? Why?” that turned into a waterfall effect as we finished “tell her that it’s human nature”. I think it goes without saying that we totally smoked the show choir and their lame rendition of “Ave Maria”.

Over the years it became apparent that Michael had his share of problems, just another example that fame and fortune are no guarantee of peace and happiness; that sometimes the people who seem to have it all can be some of the loneliest people around. Still, you can’t discount the incredible talent he possessed and the effect he had on the music world.

And, for me personally, on my fashion world.

That homecoming dress that looked like a band uniform gone awry never would have existed if not for the influence of Michael Jackson.

I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

Or black or white.
And I shall name these new five pounds “butter”

Listen.

Those cinnamon rolls were just the literal icing on the cake of food sins I committed in the last few days at the ranch. Forgive me, Jillian Michaels, for I have sinned; it’s been one week and 80,000 calories since my last confession or Shred workout or whatever.

I love that so many of y’all left comments or sent emails and have been all “Yeah, yeah, yeah you rode a horse. WHO CARES? What about the food?” It’s why I feel so close to you. Because as much as Peso and I had some precious time together riding on the prairie, it paled in comparison to how good this bread was that we ate with dinner Tuesday night.

When I took my first bite, I felt tears come to my eyes as I shoveled more in my mouth while asking, “Oh my word what is in this bread it is the best thing I have ever tasted.”

(Because apparently I use run-on sentences when I ask about delicious food)

Ree replied with an answer that would cause cardiologists everywhere to go ahead and buy that summer home on the lake they’ve been thinking about, “I just put a stick and a half of butter on each half of a loaf of french bread and bake it at 350 degrees until it kind of carmelizes.”

A stick and a half of butter.

On each half loaf.

Sure, it sounds like a recipe for heart disease but think of all the calcium.

The first night we were there we ate some jalapenos filled with cream cheese and wrapped in bacon, which was perfect because I love any recipe that combines my three favorite food groups.

And then Tuesday night we started with some homemade pico de gallo that was later mixed with some avocado. Together they were the most perfect pair since Donny and Marie.

(Please keep in mind that I am not a food photographer. I just play one on the blog.)

(Also, I didn’t get a picture of it mixed with the avocado because that would have required me to stop eating.)

When dinner was served, this is what it looked like.

I wish I could give more specific details, but I’ll tell you what I know. The meat was slathered in more butter and sprinkled with salt and pepper, then cooked. The corn had some sort of cream in it and something else and it was delicious. And the potatoes were full of yet more butter and some sour cream for good measure.

(The above descriptions are not exact recipes given the vague and probably inaccurate list of ingredients)

I could cry just thinking about the goodness.

I could also cry because I miss the Sponge Bob figure that Ree’s youngest son left at the Lodge for me to play with if I wanted to.

It’s not everyday that a little boy lets you borrow his horse and his Sponge Bob.

But it’s also not everyday that you eat about a pound of butter on one plate.

Sadly, it was time to head home yesterday so we said our goodbyes, grabbed our cinnamon rolls and hit the road, but not before I took one last look at the view from my bedroom window.

And at the pantry that caused me to add coveting to my list of sins.

And then we said what felt like an inadequate thank you to Marlboro Man and Ree for all the good times and good food. They are the best.

However, our day wasn’t over because when Shannon dropped Sophie and me off at the Tulsa airport, we met up with Kelly, her mama, and sweet little Harper. It was so much fun getting to meet them in person and I’m never one to pass up the chance to hold a sweet baby.

You can tell I have a real way with babies by how calm and peaceful Harper was in my presence.

Finally, I got on a plane and headed home to where my peeps were waiting on me.

And so was Jillian Michaels.

She’s going to make me pay the butter-filled piper by around 9:00 a.m.

Or maybe 10:00.

There’s no need to rush into anything.