July 22, 2007 -
Hello Brother. I’ll bet on Friday, shortly after lunchtime, a gaggle of strippers checked in, then some big, stocky men wheeled in the kegs. Sorry I didn’t get the invitation, but a happy belated birthday to you, all the same.
The world is in the grips of Harry Potter Mania with the release of author J.K. Rowling’s seventh and final book, something that you probably could give a rip about. At least half of our family does, though. As I sit here discussing this with you, my husband and his girls are discussing, in a very serious tone (a tone reserved for action committees or board meetings) the ministry of magic and why a certain spell was cast at the beginning of the show. Ali has just told Raye to “shut up” so it is heating up in there.
The last month has just been a blur. We have been hosting my husbands family relations, a week at a time, a family at a time, and Sunday Raye and Ali will fly home. We will then commence to resuming our normal, or something like normal anyhow. This morning I woke to a dumped box of cereal on the floor, which I have yet to pick up. Obviously the dogs are still outside, for their potty. (My husband's first chore of the day) It could still quite possibly be good for breakfast. Is it a 10-second rule or a 10-minute rule anyhoo? I would blame that incident on my son, except he is at his Dad’s this week. His typical breakfast usually consists of something like Smart Start Multigrain cereal, Lays potato chips and a Dr. Pepper.
I am exhausted and have cooked everything I know how to cook for this clan, and now I am craving fast food. The only problem with that is…it is now Saturday night. Tomorrow is Sunday, and my favorite, favorite joint (Chic-fil-A) is closed in observance of the holy day. (sigh) My second-favorite fast-food joint USED to be Taco Bell, until I went into their restroom one evening. Some zitster had pinned up a home-made sign over the sink that read, “Employees must stick finger in ass before returning to work.” Kris always used to crack me up by telling me that Chic-fil-A is “healthy white Christian meat.” ) Pointing out the fact that you never, ever see a brother in one, plus alluding to the Sunday closure) My children just…torture me.
Speaking of children…
It is interesting, if one were to be a fly upon the wall around this home, observing my children and step-children. For instance, the fly would overhear Raye and Ali discussing female golfers, classes they are taking next semester, football conference games (??), current chic-flick movies, summer camp nightmares, Harry Potter and the latest Christian best-sellers and their authors.
Same said fly would overhear my daughter and her pals having discussions such as… “A big portion of my hair is broken off pretty bad from when I got in a fight with that girl at Ozzfest -- so the bitch pulled my hair, and since I had just bleached my hair the day before, the second she grabbed hold, that shit just snapped off.”
(sigh)
Or THIS is classic…. “I'm going to be starting cosmetology school in the fall -- and I'm very fucking excited about this.”
And this is the absolute richest…from the pregnant friend, of course… “like…I guess I will have to, like, get rid of my cat now since, like, there’s some chemical in cat poop that will make my baby retarded, or something.”
My teens have a vague language that is baffling to me. For example, I dispense with wise advice to my daughter such as... Honey, you will regret every single tattoo once you are a mother. She responds with her big girl voice, “Yeah, except for not really.”
Whuuu (?!?) Seriously, I do not know from where my children harken. Amazing….
*** August 1, 2007 -
Hello, I’m back. Many weeks later. I think of you every single day, especially this time of day, when I crave being in the sun room with a cup of coffee and some poor, captive soul to vent to. I have made notes for topics to discuss with you, but I just haven’t found the necessary block of time, plus the required mental spunk it takes to fire off my shit cannon for you. And then…attempt to print, drive to Best Buy to get more toner, reprint, find postage and walk this puppy to the mail box. Excuses…
In the middle of August I will be joining three awesome girlfriends in Dallas for a full week of half-assery -- and also a court reporting convention may factor into it somehow, I just don’t know. I’m required to earn CE (continuing education) points to keep my licenses current.
I haven't told you much about my most recent work assignment -- in case you want to know. Lately I've been doing a lot of captioning for a production studio somewhere in California. It is about the coolest thing I've ever been blessed with. Remember Byron Allen of "Real People"?He is a very charismatic character and has great Hollywood connections.
From Wikipedia online ….
Byron Allen (born Byron Allen Folks on April 22, 1961, in Detroit, Michigan, USA) is an American stand-up comedian and television talk show host.
Allen is one of many notable graduates from Fairfax High School in Hollywood, California. He began doing stand-up comedy as a teenager in Los Angeles.
In 1979, he was named one of the hosts of the weekly NBC television series Real People. After that series was canceled in 1984, he returned to stand-up comedy, and in 1989, became the host of a short-lived weekly (eventually becoming daily) syndicated late-night interview program in the mold of The Tonight Show called The Byron Allen Show. Two years later, he also started hosting and producing a seasonal music video countdown program syndicated to local TV stations called Jammin. This show later was renamed Kickin' It.
In the Fall of 1994 his talk show, Entertainers with Byron Allen, premiered and is now running in its eleventh season. [1] Since then, Allen's Entertainment Studios production company (formerly CF Entertainment) has expanded. Today, he produces and distributes about a dozen lifestyle-related and interview programs for television syndication. He currently hosts "Comics Unleashed", a comedic talk show similar to that of Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn. Many of Allen's shows, Entertainers in particular, are produced on an extremely low budget and are some of the few programs produced for the express purpose of occupying low traction timeslots.
While being interviewed by Byron Allen, Ronnie Lott said that he and Marcus Allen would not have graduated from college without cheating with the help of Byron Allen [1] [not in citation given]
Well…Byron now has an online entertainment empire. Sorta fancy-pants, B-rated stuff -- which our young, nouveau riche (but how??) society just gobbles up. There is a celebrity chef segment -- and they are rock stars, brother, I tell you. These guys work at hoity resort/spa restaurants such as Azur, Spago, The Bellagio, Rockenwagner’s, all types of celebrity- and chef-owned resorts.
Then there is the Entertainment segment, interviewing famous actors and comedians. There is also a Beautiful Homes segment, basically a luxury home show. I have a blast doing this work. There’s also an automotive segment that is very cool called Automotive Vision.
Back to the RecipeTV show, the French chefs just kill me, though. I don't think anyone could ever polish off a French brogue completely… and make it 100% understandable to the English-speaking clans. It’s like listening to a Spanish TV station, and you know enough Spanish to think you are a smarty pants. The words simply blaze and blur by you, and then you finally understand what they are trying to say -- when you hear it for the FOURTH time. Things like… lope-stair’ (lobster), and boot-air' (butter).
And then when the celebrity chef accents aren’t fluffy French, they are usually rich, boisterous and very Gaybonics. They all give really pretentious, high-brow aliases for common foodstuffs. For example, “pea tendrils” are the new bean sprouts. “luscious bibs of micro greens” are molested little pieces of lettuce, plucked before full maturity. Also, there seems to be a foie gras renaissance going on (goose and duck liver pâté’) -- and that’s just damn gross and cruel, if you ask me.
Nah zwee zwill poot a tush of boot-air' on zee sheek-en'…. and then very shortly afterwards… my ears start to bleed.
The new generation of young men are now comfortably metrosexual (the new-age Marlboro Man) who comfortably saunter into these restaurants, wearing expensive, embroidered girly jeans, Broke Back Mountain boots & buckle, and confidently instruct the waiter to inform the chef to hold the crème fraiche in their girlfriend’s pasta
(the chatty, self-important 22-yr-old girlfriend is gabbing on her $500 cell phone about really important things and can‘t order for herself. She is also garbed in what appears to be a cross between Frederick’s of Hollywood and astronaut gear (??) The boyfriend continues…“Oh, and please add jicima to the salads, with a spritz of black truffle oil, please.
And I’m serious. Just as comfortably as our generation uses “pass the salt and pepper, please.”
It is especially puzzling watching this society evolve and gentrify through my own children. When we go out, and during the salad-ordering phase, in lieu of Ranch Dressin’, my kids now chime in with, "Balsalmic Vinegrette, please, with some feta cheese sprinkled over the top. Oh, and do you have toasted pine nuts here?" The waitperson doesn't even flinch.
Also, the kids can now detect various herbs in food, especially the ones that they are not crazy about. One evening we were having green beans and my son says, “Mom, gross. Why did you put Rosemary in these?” (Well, because I found this new recipe, Son… OK!) I had also served grilled chicken with crushed garlic, Kosher salt and dried Lavender (which he likes.) All of those trendy herbs are becoming commonplace and expected. As Stephen King would say in his “Dark Tower” series, “The world has moved on.”
Maybe you are laughing -- or just have a perplexed look on your face -- but can you believe that Sam's now carries all of these fancy-pants herbs in the grilling section? Another thing you need to know, before you get sprung in May 2009, is the world is also "going greener by the day”.
I happen to think this is a pretty excellent idea, by the way. Humans burn through natural resources like birthday candles. And when you start paying attention to things such as urban sprawl (flooding that results), polar ice caps, ozone alert days, the water table and such, it’s pretty darn alarming. People are starting to get the old proverbial ball to rolling by opting in favor of gas sipping hybrids (they look like a Dutch boy shoe) instead of SUV’s. Oh, except for a few aging soccer moms, who buy certain things because they want to feel sexy -- opting for obnoxious yellow Hummers instead.
I’m getting pretty sick of opening up a vein just to fill up my little car, then opening up a damn artery to fill my daughter's jeep. I can’t even imagine a Hummer. I told her that she is on her own, as far as gas and maintenance go from now on. Maybe she‘ll stop burning up the roads all willy-nilly if I pull her off my teets.
My gawd, is lovely El Reno getting all of the rain that we have been getting? My yard is not likely to be featured any of the weekly radio shows around here. Unless perhaps there is something called "The Natural Way." Or perhaps a show that gives examples of what not to do. And I’ll bet you’d rather be in a dentist’s chair than having this one-sided discussion with me right now. (sigh)
We are now at the phase in life that my little one has started to wear the state of his genitalia on his sleeve. He’s angry, confused, goofy, hysterical and funny all at once -- and he’s announced he’s moving in with Chadd. This should be interesting, considering that Chadd only eats country-fried steak, chicken wings, corn and hamburgers -- period -- and Jacob has a hankering for things seasoned with Lavender, smoked Paprika and Oregano. But... our boy is also an immensely loyal young man and insists that it is “his Dad’s turn.”
I am confident that he will be ready to return home by the fall… but isn’t confidence usually what one feels before one fully understands the situation? To be perfectly honest, I look forward to being the fun, novelty parent. Chadd’s and my motto used to be “anything worth fighting for is worth fighting dirty for.” But that is a maturity issue the we have worked though. Plus, it is horrible for the kids to be caught up in that.
I know you already know this, but while we’re over in Iraq, killing for peace, I’ve just found out that Kris will be sent there in October. Actually, he volunteered for this. And that’s all I’m willing to talk about on that subject for now.
About the Pea patch… an amazing, full week of frivolity and fun was had by everyone, but I’ll start with a low point -- one that is quite memorable, embarrassing and entertaining.
This year I, unfortunately, had to break my lifelong vow to never, ever, ever take a crap in the presence of other people, especially in the woods, downwind of other people. Well, I shattered a 20-plus-year streak of being master of my own colon.
It all started with an organized group of trail riders meeting up at Topher and Gigi’s house. There were about 20 of us, roughly about 12 or so four-wheelers. The customary launching pad would be at Melba’s Diner -- through the hills and over the woods literally, in the next township.
In case you are wondering about the photo of that gorgeous blue plate meatloaf special I have included… that is the perpetrator that caused me to break my solemn vow. To add insult to injury that morning, I ordered a side of onion rings. First off, I never order sides; secondly, I never eat onion rings. Good Gawd, was it ever delicious -- as you can probably deduce from that picture. Greens, smothered meat loaf, lima beans, corn bread, fried okra, a side of onion rings….then our little posse was out of the starting gate and down the road. Almost immediately this really sharp abdominal pains hit. I go through my mental “abdominal pains” checklist, and pretty right away I rule out everything -- except for delicious, greasy, low-brow, soul food.
Ohhhh….noooo….
My husband is on his Yamaha, I’m on the back of a 4-wheeler with another friend named Shane. Instantly beads of sweat began breaking out on my forehead. I’m in such pain now that I’m about to go into animal instinct mode, anything to relieve this ridiculous pain. Concentrate, concentrate, squeeze hard, sister, make it go away! Not now, not here! Dear Lord Jesus Christ, please heal me!! Well…wrong again.
I will skip that story, other than to say Shane stopped that beast on a dime. I barely made it into the thickets. It was the first time I had ever “cleaned myself up” with leaves and various forest foliage. And quickly my prayer changed from, please heal me to, please do not let chiggers and ticks attach to my ass! Someone very kindly tossed in a big bottle of Ozark water. Whew. Have you ever been so relieved from pain that you couldn’t possibly be embarrassed by anything? Like pulling your leg out of a bear trap, I suppose. Everyone (mostly people our age with their kids) was so awesome, offering help and big, dumb-ass grins. Their kids will always think of me as that crazy lady who came out of the woods, smelling like poo-poo. If that had happened to me 10 years ago, I would have been so embarrassed that I would have never, ever shown my face to those people again. Some things just take a little maturity to laugh at, ya know? Good times.
We cooked, visited, kayaked, cooked, visited, floated the river…over and over and over. To sum 4th of July 2007 up in a few words: It was a huge success -- and then everyone stampeded out by 7:00 a.m. on the following Friday morning, hangovers be damned.
On the way home from the Pea Patch (to Houston), we took a detour in Jefferson to go to Springhill to see Papa Ro. My husband about shat himself and immediately starts spouting out all of the more direct interstates that could have gotten us to Springhill -- an hour ago!! I start crying and getting all emo. And all of this emoting is totally fake, because my happy pills do not allow me to accidentally cry anymore. He knows this, but still, tears in any form manipulate him into action.
(**Dear Gawd, hold on. I’m being distracted)
I just walked outside to hear the music my daughter is listening to. It sounds like a Riccola cough drop commercial from hell. Echoing chants, fast rockabilly guitar and such. The guys sound like the Sex Pistols but are not. I forget what she said. “The Havanas“ or something like that. “Bela Lugosi is dead” is the name of the song. Well, that’s not surprising, is it?)
All right, where were we? My husband gets manipulated to drive to Springhill -- and he’s wearing a real crappy expression on his face. I spill my crocodile tears, my face puffs and I start working on my makeup five miles out of town. I have this weird de ja vu. I vaguely seem to remember mom and dad doing a lot of this frivolity on the way to Springhill years ago??
As soon as we pull into town, I am gripped with charity and concern. We really cannot afford to do this after vacation, but I instruct my man to please pull over at Piggly-Wiggly to buy dad some groceries, promising to take no longer than 15 minutes and to only come out with one bag. ( -- so what of it? I’m my mother’s child.)
An hour and three minutes later, I am accompanied out by a young football star/sacker. I have been gripped by charity, therefore the young man is having a tough time with a fully-loaded basket of goods: Fresh fruit, canned vegetables, perishables of all size and shape, dog food, cat food, toilet paper, paper towels, razors, deodorant, tooth paste, you name it.
My husband has already called dad to see if he felt up to going to Dock Masters for catfish, so now the charity tap is wide open. We get there and knock at the garage entry. No answer. Hanging in front of the garage are tattered sheets of plastic tarp. The whole garage is carpeted with green shag carpet, matted with animal hair and heaven only knows. Stacked against the wall, under the window unit, are cases and cases of Bartles & James wine coolers -- all empty!! What the hell??
That old German Shepherd, Trixie, has been SHAVED, except for her big, old puffy head and tail?? She is growling uncharitably, so we back off and go to the forbidden front door. Knock. No answer. My son is nervous. I tell him to wait and I go in. Dad is kicked back, passed out on a big smelly recliner in front of the TV. The only way that I can possibly describe to you how this man looks now is think Civil War Soldier. Long, gray hair and beard, missing teeth, tattered clothes, swollen legs, wheezing lungs and a limp.
I thought, my God, he’s dead. I shook him awake eventually. He was thrilled to see us. He immediately chided himself for not writing you a letter. He thought his grandson was his granddaughter -- because of the grandson's “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful” locks of golden hair. My boy turned pretty red but got over it. I instructed my fellas to start hauling in the groceries and went to the kitchen clear counter space. I wasn’t prepared for how run-down the place had become. The ceiling was sagging and covered in water stains. The counters were covered in -- I just don’t even remember. Cats were jumping off of everything. I started opening cabinets and the refrigerator to stock him up and…holy cow, if I had only known, I could have saved myself the money and effort at the PIG. Apparently different friends and charitable groups around Springhill are doing a good job. I honestly had to cram that stuff wherever I could find a place.
There were stacks of dog and cat food against the wall in the dining room. He said the guy from the SPCA and the vet keeps him loaded up with animal food. Well…I guess so.
The best way that I can describe that house is that it looks like a house boat that’s been under the ocean for 20 years, then someone finally came along, pulled it up and started living in it again, sans repairs.
He has unusual things lying around there. I about wet myself when my hand brushed against something cold. I looked down and it was a cane -- with a big, nasty, brass cobra head for a handle!!! He uses his money/disability(??!) on stuff like this -- and also old guitars, stereo equipment, gadgets, VHS tapes of sucky B movies, and who knows what. Grandmother’s bedroom is now an indoor barn. Her furniture is gone (??) I guess he donated it to somebody that really needed it. The carpet is so matted down with mud and ??
The back door was standing wide open. The air conditioner was running full-blast. It was freezing in the whole house. I said, “Dad, we’re going to the restaurant now, and shouldn’t we close that back door?” He replies, “Oh, no. I need to leave it open for my animals. It’s so hot out there.” Well, I was so bowled over by his response that I did not have one of my own. I was pretty torn though, especially since Ken had just told me that Dad had called him a week ago because the air conditioner was not working. It was a hardship on Ken. A big financial hardship and a pain. He had to convince the repairman to go back to the house (the repairman eventually stopped returning Roland’s calls) The repair guy sent Ken a whopper of a bill. Ken pays the utilities and taxes also. And here is my crazy, old dad leaving the back door wide open (not cracked open) for the animals. I don’t understand. It makes me crazy. Ken should be retired by now but can’t. My dad doesn’t have a clue. I wish I had sent that money to help Ken pay that bill.
Enough. I’m done with that.
Speaking of Uncle Ken and Aunt Donna, it was great to see them. They are quite a pair together. They are so much fun to be around. They are definitely joined at the hip. They have finally, after 40 or so years, built their home. It is a steel home. Just plain-damn awesome. Aunt Don designed it. It has an Asian influence. (She never forgot her trip to China 15 years ago) She does not care much for decoration, yet the beauty and design make it incredibly beautiful and peaceful. (slate floors, black marble counters, contemporary cabinets, lighting and fixtures, Pella windows, full open porch with Asian-influenced ironwork) It is a testament that one can build a lovely home without wasting money on crap. It is nestled into the side of a hill and overlooks the bury garden and hills. Below them is the goose pond and tomato garden. They are very proud, as they should be. I would live there in a heartbeat.
Just up the road Chris and Gigi have just finished their new steel home also. It is a lodge, let me tell you. Chris does well with his dozer business and Gigi is an oncology research nurse. They lived in the trailer for years and just stuck all that money into the bank. It has paid off. Their home is gorgeous. It is seriously like a ski lodge. The high ceilings are all cedar planks. The smell is amazing. The cabinets are monsters and custom. The light fixtures look like something in Cabella’s or The Great Outdoors. Their floors are all buffed and stained concrete. The fireplace is double-sided and serves the den, as well as the screened in porch/bar area. They have taken huge, misshapen logs on the property and made mantles and furniture with them. The bathroom sinks are big, stone bowls. They have one upstairs room that can be shut off if need be. It serves as a game room and guest room. The house is on a hill and their view is amazing. They have a huge deck with a fire pit on it. It is like heaven. Just down the road, Bridgette and Marty have a home much like Aunt Don and Uncle Ken’s. Asian influence. Bridgette went to China with Aunt Don. The only difference there is Bridgette is a master gardener (licensed) and they have a long stone wall against their deck with a small water garden. Their back deck overlooks a stream against the woods. Very nice place up there. I am so proud for all of them. They all lived in little dwellings for years and just saved, saved, saved. I need to take that lesson to heart.
I’m not working as much as I did last year (I can’t) and we are feeling it. My husband is looking for opportunities in London -- and there are plenty -- and don’t be surprised when we pull up camp and set down again across the pond. We need to do a little corrective action before we get ready to retire -- plus see Europe on Halliburton’s dime. The plan is to get some teeny little place over there and live simply, stick money in the bank. I think this proverb is Danish. It goes like this: Don’t fret too much about the planning; the outcome will be different anyway.
My interpretation of this means…don’t skip the planning, by all means; the planning ensures a successful means to an end. Or something like it anyway.
Good grief, brother, I need to hang it up and take a shower now, or else CPS is going to show up and take my children away from me. Ha! What am I saying!?! I practically don’t have children in my home anymore. Woo-hooooo!!!!
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