Year: 2009

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.
Breakfast of champions who don’t mind a lot of sugar and fat

Ree brought some homemade cinnamon rolls to us for breakfast this morning and I’m pretty sure they’re the reason God made Oklahoma.
Just like the Hat Creek Cattle Company except they might rent pigs

I realize I’m posting a little later than usual today, but I am trying to overcome my OCD ways and the inevitable twitch that comes when I don’t have something scheduled to go up by 6 a.m. every day. It’s a sickness really.

And before I continue, can we please have a moment of silence for Ed McMahon? I erroneously announced he was deceased about a year ago, but now that he is actually gone I feel I need a moment to reflect.

Okay, I’m all done.

Anyway, I mentioned that I was in Oklahoma for a little girls’ getaway. Ree from The Pioneer Woman invited Sophie, Shannon and me to come spend a few days at the ranch so I spent the morning working cattle.

There’s a sentence I never thought I’d write.

Actually, I didn’t so much work the cattle as stand around and watch the cowboys work the cattle while I said helpful things like, “Man, that looks really hard” or “Wow. You get really dirty working cattle.”

However, I did ride a horse.

Let’s all have another moment of silence for my bottom. It may never be the same.

I was a little hesitant about riding a horse but then Ree emailed and said she assumed I’d be riding. The night I read the email, I turned to P and said, “Ree assumes I’ll be riding a horse. Do you think I should ride a horse?” He looked at me and said, “Maybe you should ask if they have a small donkey you could ride.”

I don’t know why he didn’t feel my four years of riding trails at summer camp combined with various pony rides as a child didn’t qualify me for true horsemanship status.

Apparently they aren’t kidding around with this whole cowboy thing because Ree told me she’d be around to pick me up from the Lodge around 5:15 a.m. I didn’t even finish watching “The Bachelorette” last night so I would be rested and ready. Let the gravity of that sink in. I’ve only been here 24 hours and ranch life has already changed me.

Also, I can watch “The Bachelorette” on my DVR when I get home.

When I walked outside it looked like this.

Who knew that’s what 5 a.m. looks like in the middle of nowhere?

Ree drove me over to where the cowboys were waiting with the horses and that’s when I met Peso for the first time. Peso is the horse that her four-year-old son normally rides and all he really likes to do is eat and walk. In other words, we were a match made in heaven.

The other good news is that Peso was content to just follow along behind Marlboro Man and his horse, so I was able to not really think about where I was going and instead imagine that I was in a scene from “Lonesome Dove” except without Robert Duvall and Tommy Lee Jones.

Before the cattle round-up or whatever it’s supposed to be called was over, Peso and I had both trotted and loped while I repeatedly murmured the Lord’s Prayer. It was seriously so much fun, but have I mentioned that my bottom will never be the same?

Once all the mama cows and their babies were in the pens, they began to separate the mamas from the babies so that they could vaccinate, castrate, and brand the calves. Just another day at the office.

Look at this one giving me the eye. I think he was hoping I might help him.

There’s nothing I can do for him now.

But I think he held a grudge because he kept staring at me with disdain.

Seriously, quit looking at me. I am helpless here. For goodness sakes, I can barely ride a horse.

If you don’t believe me, just ask my bottom.
Planes, but no trains or automobiles

We had a great Father’s Day. P was especially happy because he was able to spend it catching fish, which next to manufacturing his own ammunition and talking back to the political shows on T.V. is his favorite past time.

I’d made plans several months ago to go visit some girlfriends for the next few days so I spent most of the morning cramming things in a suitcase because I am strong believer in waiting until the last minute and also because I ran out of laundry detergent and didn’t have any clean clothes until about noon.

Caroline was all broken up about me leaving town for a few days as evidenced by this conversation we had on Saturday.

“Is tomorrow the day you’re leaving, Mama?”

“Yes, baby.” (preparing myself for the tears and sorrow)

“OH YEAH! That’s when the fun begins!”

In all honesty, it doesn’t hurt my feelings because she knew she was getting to spend the night with Mimi and Bops. And they have a pool. And two new puppies. And no enforced bedtime. Who can compete with that?

When I arrived at the airport, toting my suitcase that is embarrassingly too large for a three-day trip, I checked in at the gate, dropped off my (large) suitcase, and headed to the security line. Because I am a seasoned travel professional, I had my I.D. and boarding pass at the ready.

I handed them over to the security guy, he looked at my I.D., looked at me and said, “You look a lot like Jamie Lee Curtis.”

Sir, have you seen Jamie Lee Curtis lately?

It’s not that I don’t think she’s a lovely woman. It’s just that I don’t really aspire, at thirty-seven years old, to look like a woman who has graced the cover of AARP magazine. Maybe I just look like someone who could put away a lot of Activia yogurt.

I tried to console myself with the thought that his eyesight must not be very good, but found it strangely discomforting to think that the person standing between me and some kind of terrorist incident has sub-par vision.

After getting through security, I went to the bookstore in search of some reading material for the plane. I believe there is no better opportunity than a plane ride to enjoy some cultural enrichment in literary form, but unfortunately they were sold out of “Mommywood” by Tori Spelling which was the only book I was interested in reading, so I settled for the latest issues of People and InStyle.

It turned out to be a good thing because I had no idea that Chace Crawford is going to star in the “Footloose” remake. Last I heard Zac Efron had dropped out and I was not aware that they’d found another young actor with impossibly well-coiffed hair to replace him.

Also, did you know that a hot new past time is something called “cupcaking”? I was worried it might mean something dirty because I am just that up on cultural trends, but as it turns out it actually means that people now enjoy staying home and making cupcakes.

I’d like to think I helped start that trend because I have enjoyed making cupcakes for years now. Finally, I am back on the cutting edge. Or baking edge. Or whatever.

Eventually it was time to board my flight to Tulsa. We were supposed to have a quick stop in Dallas, but it turned into a long stop. As we sat on the runway, waiting on a gate to open up according to the pilot, they decided it would be a good time to cut the air-conditioning because everyone knows that metal tubes filled with hundreds of people and no ventilation stay surprisingly cool in 100 degree heat. After thirty minutes of pure torture, we finally taxied to the gate where the pilot confessed that the real story was that a suspicious package had been found in baggage claim and they had to evacuate the airport.

Basically, airport personnel are liars who tell you that a gate isn’t available when there is a terrorist threat and that you look like Jamie Lee Curtis.

Finally the plane was ready to head out, but due to the delay I’d finished all my magazines and was left with no reading material. In desperation, I picked up the Southwest Airlines magazine because if I let myself look through the Sky Mall catalog I’d become convinced that my life is incomplete without a gadget that warms up my house shoes before I put them on. And I don’t even wear house shoes.

I thumbed through the magazine, checking out all the places where Southwest flies and discovered the games in the back. Out of sheer boredom, I began to play one of them even though I am terrible at crossword puzzles and Sudoku and basically anything except the Word Finds in Highlights Magazine. Surprisingly, I was really good at this game. Like really, really good. I filled in all the blanks and decided that all those nights of playing Pathwords must have really sharpened my mind. My game-playing prowess was balm to my ego that had been bruised by the comparison to Jamie Lee Curtis.

Then I looked at the top of the page and saw the title, “GAMES FOR KIDS”.

Perfect.

I have the intellectual capacity of an eight-year-old and the face of someone who’s fifty. It’s no wonder I often feel conflicted.
The care and feeding of Nemo

So last week I totally got conned into buying a fish for Caroline. I don’t know why I haven’t mentioned it yet because, heaven knows, it’s about the most exciting thing that’s gone on around here in days, but I realized I needed to let y’all know we bought a fish so when it dies in the next few weeks and I write a post about our fish dying, you won’t be all like “What fish? You don’t even have a fish”.

Here is our fish.

Caroline really thought outside the box and named him Nemo. It was an exceptionally original choice, not only because of the movie “Nemo”, but our last fish was also named Nemo. I asked her if maybe she wanted to call him Nemo II, but she insisted on just Nemo.

It kind of reminded me of when we took in a stray dog for a few weeks a couple of years ago and Caroline decided to call him Uncle Bruiser. For three weeks, we had Scout, Bruiser and Uncle Bruiser. Although you have to admit that adding Uncle to a moniker really gives it that extra something special. Just ask Ted Nugent.

Anyway, it all started when we went to the hardware store to pick up some paint swatches. There’s a pet store right next to the hardware store and she asked if we could just go in and look around. Clearly, the heat has made me insane because I said, “Sure!”.

I have every reason to believe she walked into that pet store with a strategy in place. She immediately saw the bunnies and asked if she could have one. When I refused, she moved on to the birds. Oh right. Like I’m going to have a bird in my house. There aren’t enough sedatives in the world for me to have a bird that has the potential to learn to talk. It was bad enough that one of the birds in the store knew how to make a sound like a dog’s squeaky toy. Every time that dang bird squeaked, I jumped out of my skin like a nervous cat on amphetamines and Red Bull.

After she received the no on the bird, she began to look admiringly at the hamsters and gerbils, otherwise known as dressed-up rats. By the time she asked me for a betta fish, I was relieved to buy just a fish. I felt like I’d escaped some deeper level of pet hell, when in reality I’d just been totally played. There is not a doubt in my mind she was gunning for the fish the whole time.

We brought Nemo home in the requisite plastic bag with a rubber band and I began to search for our old fish bowl. You can imagine my delight when I found it out in the yard, filled with water and covered in algae. Apparently, Caroline had been using it to conduct “science experiments”. If her hypothesis was that leaving a fish bowl full of water out in the South Texas sun would cause it to grow green fur and drive her mama crazy with the all the bleaching, then she absolutely proved her theory.

After the bowl was clean, we dumped Nemo in the water, then I pulled out the instructions on how to care for your betta fish and read number one, “Leave your fish in the plastic bag and put bag in new water to give fish a chance to acclimate to the new surroundings.”

Oops.

I guess it would have been helpful to read the instructions beforehand.

P came home around lunchtime and we introduced him to the newest member of our family. P is a fan of fish. In fact, he brought an aquarium into our marriage that we kept in our dining room for the first two years of our marriage. It was a dark time that I don’t like to dwell on for too long.

(Having the aquarium in the dining room was a dark time, not the first two years of our marriage. Just wanted to clarify.)

(It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the fish, it’s just hard to decorate around a wooden aquarium stand that screams “Bachelor Pad”.)

Caroline told P all about her new fish and P said, “Hey! I wonder if he would eat one of your Sea Monkeys?”

“Oh Daddy! Can we feed him a Sea Monkey?”

What kind of sick people do I live with?

Those Sea Monkeys are pets. I have been through a lot with those Sea Monkeys. My sweet friend Amanda gave Caroline those Sea Monkeys about two months ago and in that time I have managed to kill them countless times only to have them rise from their overfed ashes like the Phoenix. I am emotionally invested in those Sea Monkeys.

I should have known Caroline didn’t feel the same way when she wore them around her neck in the Sea Monkey Friendship Locket to go eat sushi. It never even dawned on her that she was eating the larger version of her pets.

P told her they could feed Nemo a Sea Monkey when he got home from work. Sure enough, later that evening they sucked one of the Sea Monkeys out of its tank and took it into Caroline’s bedroom. I stayed in the kitchen because I couldn’t bear to watch. Two minutes later I heard excited squeals and laughter as Caroline yelled, “HE ATE IT!!! HE ATE IT!!”

And that’s the last thing Nemo has eaten. Ever since he had a taste of live Sea Monkey, he refuses to eat his normal fish food. Or maybe it’s not the Sea Monkeys. Perhaps we bought the fish version of Ghandi and he’s protesting something. All I know is boyfriend won’t eat.

(He may be a girl for all I know. He just seems like a manly fish.)

This is why I’m telling you we bought a fish. Because if he keeps up this hunger strike, it won’t be long before I have to inform you that Nemo has gone on to a better place.

Y’all have a good weekend.