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Saturday, August 28, 2010

Redo! Cowboy Poetry & High Heels

Back in the days of Aqua Net, pegged pants, and L.A. Gear shoes, I was attending high school. I had great aspirations of being the first person in my family to go to college but in those days, money wasn't sprouting from trees and there wasn't much hope for me to attend unless I did so on my parent's credit cards.

Because of this, I pimped myself out to every scholarship application and committee that crossed my path. I wrote essays to dead people, I drank warm milk and socialized with Humboldt "elite" at a local yocal moo-moo contest (name withheld to protect the innocent), and I worked hard to keep my grade point average as high as I could. I did everything I could possibly think of to pay my way into a higher education.

During my junior year of high school, a quasi beauty and talent pageant was annually held which meant big bucks should I place well. Of course, being the money grubbing teenager, I promptly signed myself up without a second thought to the dance routine, talent portion, and fancy dress wearing required of the contestants. Did I mention that I hated cheerleaders? Or how I avoided dancing at any of the dances and normally wore Wranglers and barn boots to school in the morning? Yeah, smart move on my behalf.

Throughout the next few weeks, I slowly picked up the dance moves and began practicing walking in high heels. It wasn't too bad but I was still at a loss as to what I could do for a talent. Some of the gals did dance routines while others played musicial instruments. I had absolutely no talent having sworn off anything remotely close to ladylike ambitions.

The ladies putting on the show approached me, seeing the quandary I was already facing of having to pretend that I enjoyed being a girl for the entire show. One nice gal mentioned doing a poem and I chewed on it overnight. By morning, I had a solution. My favorite teacher used to play cowboy poetry during class and on field trips. It was one of the few types of poetry (besides Sidney Sheldon) I actually enjoyed listening to. The answer was perfect and none of the women seemed too concerned over my decision; that is until they heard me recite the poem in all it's glory on the night of the performance. I guess when I walked out in Wranglers, boots, leather chaps, a cowboy hat, and a painted on mustache - they knew they were in for it.

Here's what I recited:

Story With a Moral
By: Waddie Mitchell

Now I know there's things worse that make cowpunchers curse,
And I reckon it's happened to us all.
Though it's years since, you bet, when I think of it yet,
It still makes my old innards crawl.

I was makin' a ride to bring in one hide
That hadn't showed up in the gather;
I was riding upstream, daydreamin' a dream,
When I caught there was somethin' the matter.

Near some quakin' asp trees, I had caught in the breeze
A stench that was raunchy and mean,
And I reckoned as how it might be the old cow,
So I rode to a bend in the stream.

Shore 'nuff that cow lied in the crick there and died;
Hard tellin' how long she'd been been there.
She was bloated and tight, twas a horrible sight --
She was oozin' and slippin' her hair.

Her eye sockets were alive with maggots that thrive
On dead flesh, putrid yellow and green,
And the hot sun burnin' down, turnin' pink things to brown,
Spewin' oily gunk in the stream.

Well, I spurred upwind fast to get away from the blast
Of the heavy stench the cow made;
And I felt bad seein's how I'd lost the old cow,
And I pulled up near a tree in the shade.

Then I got sick to the core, rememberin' just minutes before
I'd done something that made me feel worse;
Not thirty yards down I'd stepped off to the ground
And drank 'til my belly near burst.

For months after it, just the thought made me spit,
And I'd live it over like a bad dream.
And the moral, I think, is if you must take a drink,
Never, ever remount and ride upstream.

The crowd was silent during my recital and I gave my best cowboy twang voice, making sure to accentuate the parts about the guts and stench. It was great. I got a polite clapping session at the end but I could care less. I rocked good 'old Waddie and I did the talent portion without entirely giving up my tomboy roots.

Needless to say, I didn't win the talent contest or the whole shebang. But... I did walk out with first-runner up and Miss Congeniality (due to all my dirty jokes during practice). I was shocked and so were my parents - especially when they saw the $700 bucks I made for a night's worth of girliness. It was a great experience but one I'd never repeat - even though I did it my way *insert Frank Sinatra's voice here*.

Redo! Grandma's Potato Problem

Have you ever had a childhood memory, that when you really thought about it, was just a little weird? It seems like I have quite a few of those but this particular memory is well, disturbing. And, it's guaranteed to probably buy me a space in Hell, especially after Uncle R reads about his involvement and realizes I'm giving up a family secret that should have died ages ago.

When I was a little girl, my paternal grandmother was a breast cancer survivor. She was faced with getting a mastectomy and back then, reconstructive surgery really wasn't an option so women were supplied with prosthetic breasts. My grandmother's big round squishy breast was kept in the top drawer of her vanity. I don't know why she kept it in a drawer rather than in her blouse, but then again, sometimes Grandma liked to drink her dinner rather than eat it.

Uncle R and I both knew where she kept her booby prize and would often peek in the drawer to check it out, occasionally poking it with a curious finger. We each had a thing for its silky, squishy texture and we would prod it for hours (kind of like a kid's stress reliever ball - but weirder). We eventually got braver and on some days, we freed the little critter from its dark abyss, in order to just hold it for a few minutes of guilty pleasure.

One day, while Uncle R and I were visiting Grandma, we found her lone hooter lying on the bathroom counter, looking rather forlorn and lost. Our little brains worked in symphony and mischievous thoughts raced through our heads; a game of hot potato would certainly entertain her little friend while providing us with hours of endless enjoyment. Back and forth, side to side, we flung that cantaloupe size piece of squishy fun into the air, all the while listening for any evidence that Grandma might be stumbling up the creaky steps. Hearing nothing, our quiet chuckles quickly turned into gut busting belly laughter that echoed throughout the second floor bathroom. Over and over, we pelted each other with the voluminous sphere, until we were left with fresh red abrasions wherever our tender skin was exposed.

I don’t know how long Grandma was watching before she finally cleared her throat and made it known that she did not approve of our new sports activity, however, I’m guessing it was for awhile – judging by the sting left on our little butts and the threat of a “report” being made to our dad. All in all, Grandma never did make the dreaded “report” to our dad and we were let off with a warning. It never really stopped us from periodically checking in on our new little buddy, but we certainly never allowed it to become airborne again.

Redo! As The Skating Rink Turns

When I was in 7th grade, my life revolved around our local skating rink. Every Friday, and sometimes Saturday night, my mom would haul my brother and I down to our local rink to have a few hours of fun times and new relationships. That's right, I said relationships. At the ripe 'ol age of 12, the only way for a boy crazy girl to find new meat was to hit the rink. My friends and I would scout out local boys from other schools and come home with a new boyfriend each week. I "dated" boys from all over the Eel Valley area; sometimes even twice if the pickins' were slim.

I guess I should explain to you the concept of my "dating" so as you do not think my behavior resembles that of a garden tool. Back in the days, dating meant you took the obligatory spin around the skating rink during the couple's dance. The new lovebirds would skate in endless circles, holding sweaty hands to the beat of "Purple Rain" or "Without You." The lights would be down and the strobe lighting a strobin'; It was amazing.

Throughout the school week, numerous phone calls would be exchanged, perhaps even a couple of pieces of snail mail with some pictures enclosed, and then by Friday, drama would ensue and the young love would be terminated....all in time for a new relationship to blossom. This was my form of "dating."

At this particular skating rink, there used to be a couple older boys, actually "men," who had the skills. They were the king of rink and all the girls would do their best to get their attention. Whether it be to feigning poor skating skills to wearing the tightest Bongo jeans your prepubescent body could fit into; it was all done for their benefit - even if they didn't really seem to notice. I remember lathering on as much "Tranquil Moments" as physically possible and then making my hair stand at an amazing height with a can of Aqua Net only to attract a pimply 12 year old's attention rather than the "men" of the skating rink. Rejection seemed to be a bit easier to swallow with the help of a boy who told you how "rad" he thought you were.

It seems like just yesterday, standing awkwardly with my girlfriends and plotting evil against the girls who managed to get a couples skate with these handsome rico suaves. We'd cross our fingers the skanky broads would wipe out or even better, chip a tooth on a railing, because in all fairness these hotties were our property and eye candy, not to be had by these two bit floozies. Clicking our retainers and braced marked teeth in disgust, we'd always go home promising each other to come back the following week and finally get the well deserved attention of our men. *sigh*

Flash forward to current date and time...One of the best things about a small town is that the people you knew as a child will sometimes stick around to remind you of your fun and albeit, embarrassing times. One such example can be found at my daughter's school where they hired several new teachers at the beginning of last school year. As karma would have it, one of the new teachers happened to be one of the "men" I used to fawn over at the skating rink. In fact, he was the one my little girl group was absolutely in love with and probably made the biggest fuss about. The first time I was in a room with him, I was instantly embarrassed - hoping to GAWD that marriage, three kids, and a hair color change would hide the rosy red cheeks of adolescence.

I recently told Taters about my lost "love" and my skating rink adventures. Her reply?

"Wow Mom. I can't even imagine Mr. Hottie skating around with a huge afro and those funny looking bell bottom pants. That woulda been hilarious!"

Yikes. After a quick reminder that dear old mom was only 34 she still looked at me in shock.

"Really? I was thinkin' for sure it was like 1970 or something. It's still really funny Mom. And weird. You were crushin' on a teacher!"

It's kinda funny how fate and past actions can suddenly appear to bitch slap you in the face with a dose of embarrassing reality. We all have these moments so what are yours'? Has history caught up with you yet to provide any uncomfortable, "yes that was me," moments?

Friday, August 27, 2010

Gas Attack - Another Fav

My fish tank has recently taken on a beautiful shade of green due to an anorexic plecostomus and a bunch of snails that decided to croak. Although the green is quite pretty, it's not so appetizing sitting on my kitchen counter looking like it might harbor the creature from the Black Lagoon. After receiving many complaints, I finally loaded the kids up and we drove to Eureka today to buy our fish a girlfriend, or boyfriend - because I'm not quite sure how to sex a fish.

When we got to the store, Taters and I walked to the fish section while C-dub and his little buddy, J-dub, walked over to look for tarantulas. I refuse to look at spiders and reminded C-dub that the only spiders in my house were the ones I couldn't reach with my Dyson. I know they do a good job of eating bugs and such, but they still creep me out and their Halloween reprieve is over.

While Taters and I were looking, a very nice clerk walked up and offered to help us find the perfect fish. She showed us a tank where a friendly little plecostomus was quietly sucking on a plastic leaf, slowly eyeballing us with his little fishy eye. He looked a little irked that we were potentially considering removing him from his watery domain and I swear I saw him try to sequester himself deeper into the tank.

As the clerk fished around with her net in the tank, the following conversation ensued:

Clerk: Oops! I think I may have subjected you ladies to a little gas attack. She continues to try and catch the fish while Taters and I give each other "the look." We thought the tank was going to explode. Are gas attacks a normal occurrence in freshwater tanks?

Taters: What do you mean? I'm glad she was brave enough to ask.

Clerk: Oh hon, you know! When you eat too many re fried beans? That funny feeling? I just passed a little stinky, that's all. The clerk kept her perky gaze at the fish tank, not even batting an eye as she finally captured the fish and took it out of the tank. Taters begins starting at me; half a smile on her shocked face.

Mommazilla: Taking the high road, I whispered to Taters, She just floated an air biscuit? Is that what she said? I couldn't quite believe that an adult had announced such a thing. My kids, yes, but someone I don't know? Not so much.

Taters: Shrugging and whispering back, I think so?

The clerk continues her quest in containing our perfect specimen. She then adds some icing onto the putrid sulfur cake she's baked.

Clerk: My friend had a dog once and blamed the smell on him. But it wasn't the dog! She begins chuckling at her funny story and I see Taters slowly back up, trying to avoid any smell that might have emanated from her odoriferous rump.

As she hands me the bag I notice that the fish is no longer moving, in fact, it's belly up. I point this out to the clerk and she's beside herself. She quickly replaces the fish with another little fellow and tells us that the victim fish probably died from the shock of getting caught. I dunno, but I think her gas attack and the dying fish are strangely coincidental.

It was a strange, surreal moment, as I paid for the fish and left the store with the kiddos (sans Tarantula, thank you very much). We had quite a few laughs about our "gas attack" experience on the return drive. I'm also happy to report that the little fellow did make it home in one piece and is now happily sucking the green goo from the midst of my tank. By morning, I hope to be able to see his other finned cohorts through the gaps in the algae.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

No Food Poisoning Here!

I cooked an entire dinner using my crockpot. I never use my crockpot because I honestly forget I even have one. I think I may have got it for a wedding present ten or so years ago, but it's arrival into my household is truly a mystery.

I really love to cook and when I find a good recipe, it's like Heaven in the kitchen, at least for me. My family, on the other hand, tends to be on the picky side. Well, except for Gunny who enjoys licking floors and sucking on Piper's tail - which I agree, is absolutely disgusting and not much appreciated by the cat.

Anyhoo, back to the miracle at hand. I'm a huge collector of cookbooks with a particular love for fast and delicious recipes. I want recipes that contain few ingredients and cost a minimal amount to prepare. Grandma Linda paid attention to my frugal *cough* lazy ambition in the kitchen and gave me a cookbook entitled, "Fix It and Forget It. 5-Ingredient Favorites" by Phyllis Pellman Good.

I read through the book and was impressed at the ease of the recipes and the normal ingredients it called for. Tonight I made the "Chicken Stroganoff" and it was a hit. I modified the recipe just a bit but this is what I did and it was awesome.

* Four chicken breasts, cut up into chunks
* Half a stick of butter
* Two packages of dry Italian dressing mix
* One can of Cream of Chicken soup
* One block of cream cheese (8 oz)
* Instant brown rice (you could use egg noodles instead but I was trying to lower our Gluten consumption)

Salt and pepper to taste.

I placed the cubes of chicken, butter, and seasoning in my crockpot and cooked it on high for about two hours. Like I said before, I am not at one with my crockpot so I really had to keep an eye on it as far as cooking times went. When the chicken was cooked thoroughly, I added in the soup and cream cheese and then simmered it on low for about an hour. During the last ten minutes or so, I boiled the instant brown rice so it was ready to go when the chicken was done. For the grand finale, I Ioaded up each plate with rice and then spooned over the chicken stroganoff.

It was so stinkin' good. Taters even asked me a couple of times if I had actually made it. Loser. Maybe I should have splashed some flour and water onto my face so I appeared more convincingly domestic. Perhaps I should have donned a maid costume since that would be more fitting to all the crap I do on a daily basis. And no, not a french maid costume because I refuse to try and make my bitching and whining look sexy - I want a pity party, not pervy stares.

Chesticular Fortitude - #1 Fav

If there is one thing that I've learned as a parent it's that each child is different and should come with their own parenting manual. Since no such Baby Bible exists, Hubby and I typically flew by the seat of our pants, with a little help from very knowledgeable grandparents and a stiff shot of whiskey here and there. However, recently there was a situation that neither experienced grandparents nor hard liquor could help; it was how to cope with our five year old son and his infatuation with lovely lady lumps.

Yes, my son discovered the beauty of a woman's breasts and for the past several weeks, we've been fighting the battle of the booby. I'm not sure that I can put my finger on when his infatuation began, but it's sure been a nipply situation to deal with. In hindsight, I remember C-dub being abnormally interested in whether or not I would be changing into my pajamas at night and if it would be necessary for me to remove my shirt. Thinking that this sweet little man-child was concerned with his momma's need for my warmth, I would give him a big hug and he would always squeeze me back. All the while, he’d be pressing his little cherubic face firmly against my chesticles, looking like the Cheshire cat. The saga continued and every now and then I'd find a stray Victoria's Secret catalog curled up under his Fisher Price racetrack, strangely dog-eared and marked up with crayon.

Even with those circumstances, I still wasn't convinced that my sweet little angel was becoming interested in the female anatomy... Sure, he would stop dead in his tracks when a Playtex Cross Your Heart commercial came on and yeah, I did think it was a little strange that he'd always offer to fold my laundry, but then again, maybe he was just earning brownie points for Santa? It wasn't until I had a conversation with his preschool teacher did I learn of the significance of his desire to be closer to the pillow buddies.

After weighing the facts of the case, I asked Miss K if C-dub had ever made any off the wall ta-tas comments while in class. She looked at me with a little surprise and her facial expressions quickly turned to shock.

"You know, last week while we were doing our exercises, C-dub just stopped and stared while I was doing jumping jacks. I thought he was just trying to see how I was doing it, but his eyes were focused on... Oh my!"

That was it. I knew then and there that my man-child had been macking on his preschool teacher. It was time for hubby to intervene before things got even more out of hand and other women were victimized by C-dub’s wandering peepers. I knew this certainly wasn’t my area so I instructed hubby on some of the areas to cover…privacy, implications of being a Peeping Tom, etc., etc... I did my own internet research and spoke with other moms of boys and discovered that his current obsession with lactoids was rather innocent in nature. In other words, he knew what he liked; he just didn't know why he liked them. He was finally noticing that girls and boys had differences, and boy did he like what he was seeing!

Hubby called C-dub into our bedroom one night while I stayed in the living room with Gun-Gun and Taterbug. Taterbug noticed C-dub's absence and asked why the boys were having a talk that she was not included in on. I didn't know what to say but being the brainiac that she is, she quickly asked, "Is it because of that boob thing? I don't know what his problem is but he'd better stop staring at yours Mom. It’s weird."

The conversation was brief yet effective as I am once again safe to dress and undress in the comfort of my own room, and without the offering assistance of C-dub. I still have to deal with Gun-Gun and his hooter infatuation but at least he's a little less vocal and certainly not as obvious with his affections. C-dub seems no worse for wear and he’s back to playing monster trucks and racing his cars with never a mention of his previous bigguns’ affliction. I truly look forward to the day when I can give a copy of this blog to his first girlfriend ;o).

Tiptoeing Through The Tulips...

I'm not sure if that's the best title for a post since in actuality, I've never tiptoed through anything.  Between the Danner boots and off-duty Uggs, I'm not exactly a light stepper.  But I'm back, heavy footed or not, in the Blogosphere.  I'm foregoing my old site at the Times-Standard and started fresh and new with good 'ol Blogger. 

I've gone through some huge changes and 2010 has proven to be the worst and best year of my life.  I've learned a ton about friendship, loyalty, and most importantly, who I am as a person and who I want to be.  It's been a crazy ride but I think the roller coaster is starting to smooth out.

Who knows where this blog is gonna go, but I anticipate still sharing my family secrets, showing off some flashy photography, and of course, my gourmet gut busting recipes.  I think while I'm gearing up for this new adventure, I'll start by sharing some of my older posts that are still near and dear to my heart.