Author: Big Mama

  • For my Sunday viewing

    I can’t really express how disappointed I am about The Golden Globes being done in some sort of press conference format. I mean, does anyone really care to see who wins if there is no celebrity fashion to mock and/or admire?

    Yeah, me neither.

    So, I’ll be on my couch watching “Comanche Moon”. And while I hold no illusions that anyone else could ever portray Gus like Robert Duvall, it should at least be more fun to watch than some low rent version of The Golden Globes.

  • Edition 12: Fashion Friday

    Welcome back, Fashion Friday. At least five of us have missed you oh so much.

    Earlier in the week when I mentioned all of my various hallucinations, I didn’t mention the one that caused chills to run down my spine. It was too frightening, too horrific. I’m not in the business of writing horror stories, people.

    Apparently, I’m in the business of writing nonsensical things about my life.

    But, in the interest of sharing and because it is relevant to Fashion Friday, I will share with the group.

    In the midst of my fever breaking and being all cracked out on the Tussionex cough syrup, I dreamed (hallucinated? imagined?) that I pulled my very favorite pair of Seven jeans out of the dryer only to discover that they had become faded beyond repair, tapered at the bottom and, worst of all, high-waisted.

    In fact, in my vision they appeared very much like the jeans that I am depicted wearing here at church camp the summer before my junior year in high school.

    Make no mistake, the fifteen year old me worked very hard with a mixture of Clorox and razor blades to achieve that particular look back in 1987. Because I believed with all my adolescent heart that those jeans made me a little edgy and mysterious in spite of the fact that I wore large bows in my hair on a regular basis.

    However, it would be a travesty to have this damage done to my favorite pair of Seven jeans. In 2008.

    So, y’all can imagine my relief when I went to my closet the next morning and found my jeans hanging exactly where they should be in their present dark rinse, non-tapered leg, low-rise state. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to weep with relief.

    And, really, none of this relates to Fashion Friday whatsoever. Except for this nugget of truth, Cloroxed Guess jeans aren’t really a timeless classic.

    Now, let’s get to the questions.

    1. Jen P asks: “Am I missing the boat on jewelry? Because I am all about the COMPLETE LOOK. I want to make sure I am complete, all framed out, no loose ends, sort of thing.”

    I related to Jen’s email because she mentioned that she usually sticks with the safe diamond stud earrings and not much else in the way of accessories. This is something I have really wanted to work on in my own fashion world. Unless I’m going somewhere like a party, I tend to stick with earrings and my wedding ring. Which is fine. Boring, but fine.

    I just know that when I see someone with great accessories, it makes the outfit. It can be a plain black sweater and jeans, but the right earrings or necklace takes it from ordinary to extraordinary. I think the key is to remember a little goes a long way. Make sure you don’t have too much going on, but ladies, we are seriously missing out if we don’t take advantage of jewelry that looks like this.

    Or this.

    Or this.

    Or this.

    Bottom line, jewelry is your friend. Let’s all encourage each other as we work to accessorize more completely in 2008.

    2. Lisa asks: “What is the deal with outerwear? More specifically, must it match your outfit?”

    Great question. I personally do not think outerwear has to match your outfit. I recommend having one good long coat in a neutral color that you can wear with everything. Then, you can buy various scarves, hats, etc. to change the look around.

    I’d look for a winter coat in a classic style, like this one, and best of all, you can probably find one on sale this time of year.

    However, I am a big fan of jackets and coats, so while I have a long, camel colored coat that I wear alot, I also have various courdoroy blazers, velvet peacoats, and sweater coats that I wear with various outfits. I think the key to how well these have to coordinate with your outfit is based on whether or not they are truly just outerwear that you plan on shedding once indoors or if you plan to leave them on as part of your overall outfit.

    Here are a few great jackets and coats.

    I love this peacoat.

    Look at this cute jacket from Anthropologie. It could be dressed up or down.

    Here’s a twill peacoat from Old Navy.

    And, of course, I have always been a loyal fan of the denim jacket. For me, it’s a wardrobe staple.

    3. Hunter Dave asks: “It being deer season here in South Texas, I need some advice. I haven’t been camo shopping in almost two years, and so I’m worried I’ll look like an out-of-style reject in the deer blind. But with a baby on the way, I can’t splurge at Cabela’s like I want to. Does camo ever really go out of style? If so, how can I put together a fashionable ensemble without busting my wallet?”

    Oh, Hunter Dave, just the fact that you’re asking about camo styles warms my heart. And really, take heart in knowing that most hunters do look like out-of-style rejects. It’s just their way.

    According to P’s hunting closet, I can safely say that, apparently, camo never goes out of style. Even though we have several examples of why it should. The best advice I can give you is to forget Cabela’s and their high prices and just go to Walmart like the rest of the rednecks. Just look at what I found on their website.

    At $79.98, that is a steal. And it gives whole new meaning to the term “out-of-style reject”.

    Or come raid our closet while P’s not home. There’s so much camo in there, he’d never know the difference.

    Let’s just say he has camo that’s older than the Cloroxed jeans I’m wearing in the picture above.

    And that, my friends, is old.

    Happy Friday!

  • The camera loves her

    This is Caroline’s new preferred method of transport from one end of the house to the other.

    I figure it’s just a matter of time before she’s hitting the mean streets as part of some vicious scooter gang.

    But, for now, she’s content with me taking pictures of her while she rides. Right after I took the first picture, she turned back around, looked at me and said, “Get me from this angle”.

    After I obliged, she said, “Now get one of me coming right towards you.”

    It’s like living with Giselle Bundchen.

    If Giselle had a Disney Princess scooter.

  • I’ll write this down before I fall asleep again

    I know I said I was going to quit talking about the flu, but I lied. Either the flu has completely drained me of all my energy or I have become a narcoleptic. Not that I really mind, the spontaneous napping creates a nice break in the day. Except for the part where I wake up with someone trying to stick stuff up my nose or in my mouth. And then I have to tell P to quit messing with me and leave me alone.

    Yesterday morning I woke up with a little more energy than I’ve had in the previous week, so I decided it was time to go to HEB since we were out of juiceboxes and Donettes, which according to P and Caroline are household staples. Plus, it’s Caroline’s turn to bring snack to school today and those teachers are so picky and act so put out when you bring in a bag of stale pretzels and a few Hershey kisses leftover from Christmas. I mean, these kids are four, it’s not like they’re expecting gourmet items.

    By the time we found ourselves on the cereal aisle, I was about ready to lay down and take a nap. I can’t believe a normal trip to the store was so tiring. It’s like I’ve developed the physical stamina of a 97 year old woman. And not the ones that do water aerobics at the Assisted Living Facility.

    We finally got home and Caroline was excited because she had scored an orange helium balloon with a sucker attached. Oh, and it had a lollipop on it, too. I let her eat the lollipop even though it was lunchtime because the exhaustion, my word, the exhaustion. I had no will to fight the battle.

    After the lollipop was gone, all that was left was the balloon with a long string attached. While I slipped into a coma-like state on the couch, she entertained herself by letting the balloon float up to the ceiling and then jumping up to grab the string and pull it back down. I don’t know how long this went on because, like I said, I was passed out cold.

    At some point P came in and she talked him into playing the balloon game with her. They were throwing it back and forth, trying to catch it before it could float back up to the ceiling. And that’s when it happened.

    She didn’t catch it in time. It floated back up to the ceiling and then something went awry. I guess the string wasn’t tied around the balloon opening tight enough, but it came undone. We all stared up at the balloon in horror as it slowly deflated and then dropped to the ground like it had been shot.

    Two things happened at that moment. P and I began laughing uncontrollably. Caroline began to scream and cry like I had just set one of her Polly Pockets on fire. It was a scream so unprecedented and so filled with horror that it caused P and I to immediately quit laughing and rush to her side to offer her comfort in this time of balloon loss.

    At least that would have been our reaction if we were normal, caring people. Instead, her over-the-top reaction caused P and I to double over with laughter until we both had tears streaming down our face.

    I have no doubt this will be something she’ll discuss with her therapist some day.

    However, once she saw us laughing and realized her balloon wasn’t permanently damaged, she began to laugh too. And then P took the opportunity to show her the annoying sound you can make by blowing up a balloon and then stretching it out while you let out all the air. Hilarity ensued.

    And the sound of balloon flatulence was enough to keep me awake for the rest of the afternoon.

    It was a precious time.

  • I’ve been mocked by the mocha

    Have I mentioned I’ve had the flu?

    I couldn’t really remember until I looked at my last 15 posts that seem to ramble endlessly about my ill health, so I’m putting you out of your misery and talking about something else.

    Gulley and I usually go to Starbucks every Monday morning after we drop the kids off at school. Neither one of us have ever been serious coffee drinkers, although Gulley did date a boy named Juan Valdez in college.

    That isn’t true at all, but it just made me laugh so I’m leaving it there.

    Anyway, on cold mornings we like a little pick me up in the form of liquid caffeine, and more importantly, to catch up on the events of the previous weekend.

    A few weeks ago, we walked into Starbucks and I ordered my favorite holiday drink, a Grande, Non-fat Peppermint Mocha with no whip.

    I’m embarrassed to say that I feel a sense of pride in having mastered the Starbucks terminology, although I’m sure they are still secretly laughing about the amateurish nature of my order.

    It lacks a certain sophistication and discriminating coffee drinker’s palette.

    Oh, and on a completely different note I once worked for a man that thought it was hysterical to go to Starbucks, walk up to the counter and just tell them he wanted “whatever tastes the most like Folgers”.

    I’m pretty sure they spit in his coffee when he wasn’t looking.

    Anyway, Gulley followed behind me and ordered her standard drink, a Grande Caramel Macchiato.

    As they handed us our drinks, Gulley wondered aloud about the calorie count of her drink and if she wasn’t inadvertently consuming more calories than she realized.

    In a fit of coffee legalism and judgement, I said, “Well, actually, I didn’t want to say anything before but a Caramel Macchiato is pretty much THE WORST thing you can order.”

    “Really?”

    “Oh yeah. If you look at Starbucks.com at the nutritional value, it has, like, the highest calorie count of ALL the drinks.”

    Well, let me tell y’all, do not point out the Caramel Macchiato in your friend’s eye, when you have a Peppermint Mocha in your own.

    I went to Starbucks.com to check it out for myself.

    And yeah, the Peppermint Mocha is pretty much the worst thing you can order.

    Thank you. Thank you very much.

  • Purple haze

    John Boy Walton breaking up with his girlfriend at my dining room table

    Lime green Calphalon cookware with polka-dots

    Rhett Butler moving in next door

    Dale Earnhardt, Jr. shopping at our neighborhood Gap store

    Purple hippos dressed in butterfly costumes

    Paula Deen hosting a cooking show on my back porch

    What do all these things have in common?

    They have all been the subjects of feverish, hallucinatory dreams I’ve had while taking my prescription cough medicine.

    And, if this is any example of what is floating around in my subconscious, WOW.

    It’s a little disturbing.

    I spent the better part of the weekend lying in bed trying to find the will to live or at least the will to get up to go to the bathroom. I don’t know that I’ve ever been as sick as I’ve been the last few days, except for maybe the day I found out that Dr. Phil was getting his own talk show.

    Mimi took Caroline most of the day Thursday and Thursday night. P had her during the day on Friday and then she went back to Mimi and Bop’s to spend the night Friday night. Unfortunately, no good deed goes unpunished and Mimi succumbed to the plague on Saturday morning, so P picked up Caroline and they headed to the ranch.

    In the meantime, I was trying to keep my lungs from seceding from my chest cavity and attempting to breathe through my nose. Both efforts proved mostly futile.

    However, Saturday afternoon, just as I didn’t know if I could go on living, I turned on CMT and “Urban Cowboy” was on. It was better than any prescription medicine. If you haven’t layed around half-drugged, watching Bud and Sissy fall in love, fight, break up, fall in love again, and put their matching license plates back up in the window of his truck, then you’ve missed out on one of the finer things in life.

    But seriously, the scene where Bud describes how you know when your hand “gits broke” is a timeless piece of American cinema. It sustained me in my darkest, cough-filled hour on Saturday.

    I woke up Sunday morning with my head a little clearer, although concerned about why I dreamed about John Boy Walton and his relationship troubles, and discovered that my people were gone. And judging by the fact that “Max and Ruby” was still playing on the T.V. and breakfast was still on the table, it looked like they left in a hurry.

    I was right. They left in a mad dash. Otherwise known as trying to get to church on time when you have a four year old who likes to dress herself.

    I climbed back in bed with the Sunday paper and fell back asleep while checking to make sure my name wasn’t in the obituaries. A short while later I heard P and Caroline walk in the back door, home from church.

    She walked into the bedroom, shirt on backwards, hair unbrushed, mismatched socks, and a jumper that was in desperate need of ironing. God love her.

    And God bless P for just letting her go with it, although I’m a little concerned that her Sunday School teacher may think her Mama’s on drugs.

    Which, I guess technically speaking, I am.