I come from a family of cooks. Not chefs. Not connoisseurs. Not fusion reduction nonsense. I'm talking REAL food. No sissy food here. If you want Sweet &Low, go home. I can't believe it's not butter? Obviously this person has not tasted butter. As my idol, the giantess Julia Child, would agree, if you are not using real ingredients, it is not worth the work.
I take pride in my reputation of being the person , who in a crisis, will come. And bring a ham. People find solace in good pork. Add brown sugar, and pineapple, and you can feel depression lifting. Potato salad with full-on mayonnaise. Not Miracle Whip. That is like believing Cool Whip and heavy whipping cream are the same. The same as WalMart and Neiman Marcus are both stores. Any other similarity is ridiculous and delusional. My favorite family recipe is my Great Aunt Lina Belle's Pound cake. It take 3 cups of flour, 3 cups of sugar, 5 eggs, 1 cup of Crisco, 1 cup of butter, 1 cup of milk. Bake at 350 for an hour. It weighs about 3 pounds and will last less than 30 minutes.
My daddy's people are from rural North Carolina. Our little town is now a tourist attraction but when we were growing up, we lived on family land , on a stretch of road where all the neighbors were family. From the beginning of the road, all the way to the river, my grandfather and his brother, baby sister, and all their children lived. Since we had 4 generations on this road, it was never clear to us exactly who was a cousin and who was an aunt or uncle. Mind now that we were not the proverbial inbred nitwits that you may recall from Deliverance we were just raised with manners(FYI, its Arkansas and West Virginia where you can marry your brother.And for us, those places are considered up North. ). If someone was a teenager and you were a kid, then they were given the courtesy title of Uncle or Aunt. Add into that, the custom of naming children after members of previous generations, it sometimes seemed like Uncle Ernest lived two life times. He did, but just as different people. I digress.
We were like a commune, but tasteful. Everyone had huge gardens, and cooking was a non-stop process. One of my cousins shared with me her fond culinary memoriesof being a little kid and going with her mama and sister to pick berries to bake a pie. One of the keys to success in the prep work was making sure to shake the bushes with a stick so the snakes would scatter as my aunt & her little girls gathered the berries. I'd like to see that Food Network lady that cooks in the low cut shirt, go make snakes run so she can get the freshest ingredients. My family's standard of freshness is without peer.
I love bacon. It is the perfect food. Whether wrapped around something (shrimp, oysters, water chestnuts), placed over something (baked beans with brown sugar, a little ketchup, a little mustard), or solo, bacon is bliss. Bacon comes from a pig. Not a turkey. I really think that the waddle neck is most likely the part posing as bacon. Just gross. Don't do it. Also, those bits of red cardboard chunks called Baco-bits are obscene. Get real or go home.
My grandmother baked big fluffy biscuits twice a day. My aunt describes my grandfather's daily breakfast of a half pound of bacon with 3 eggs "floating in grease", along with the morning biscuits, as "a heart attack on a plate". Granddaddy lived to be just south of 91.
I have an uncle who eat tons of cheese. He is making up for the Great Depression. 70 years is a lot of cheese. Go figure.
Whole milk, half& half, and sour cream should never have the word "lite" or "reduced fat" on the label. Fat is an essential part of the nutrition pyramid. As for those things called "egg beaters", I can't even imagine what nightmare goo comes in that little carton. Eggs come in a shell, straight out of a chicken and should be labeled "Jumbo".
As Tom Berenger reminds me, we did not fight our way to the top of the food chain to be reduced to eating leaves. Or sawdust. Such as the miserable poser known as instant grits. Real grits are cooked slowly, lovingly, and silkened by Land O Lakes unsalted REAL butter. Pepper is allowed. Cheese is encouraged. Shrimp in a creamgravy, to die for. Grits are pure and should be treated with respect.
I once spent 3 weeks in Long Island. I must give it to The New Yorkers, they do know how to eat shellfish. While I loved eating lobster every day, breakfast fare was something else. Bagels and slices of cold pink lox , made me want to hurl. One morning, a co-worker from West Texas announced in the elevator that indeed grits would be making an appearance at the breakfast buffet. I spied the huge chafing dish from across the room. Gingerly dropping my pocketbook at my table, I hurried past the waiting bacon strips that would soon be gracing my breakfast. Rising Star Texas girl was fast on my heels. I heard her start to giggle. Then I saw it. Those beautiful grits sat untouched, embarrassed by a complete quilt of sliced strawberries and a side sprinkling of brown sugar. I could not wrap my head around it. Did they think grits were interchangeable with Cream of Wheat? With oatmeal? Strawberries on grits was like seeing an ice cream sundae on a Porterhouse steak. Like watching a wreck in slow motion. An upset in the universe. Just wrong. Not multicultural. Not readily translated.
I guess after almost a month up North, I realized I could never really live in that climate. Like the Long Island grits, I was not in my element. Like the Panda in San Diego, I looked good but certainly was not really in my natural habitat. Time to go home. And cook.
So, the next time you get ready to cook, remember the basics I have taught you. Whole foods, nothing "lite", bacon is best, and last, but most importantly, scare the snakes out before you reach for your berries.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Yoga on the bayou
I had the wonderful occasion this weekend of being part of a group of like-minded women at a retreat in the woods. Mind you, "like-minded women" refer to truly civilized women of breeding, well read, manicured, appreciate a good glass of wine and know the difference between Peccorino and Kraft's green can of Parmesan sawdust. Most love to garden and get close to the earth but do not feel the need to run with the wolves, bang on drums at the full moon, of any of that new age stuff that would require sleeping outside or letting the hair grow under your armpits. This is my first venture into a women's group since the 1980s when I tried to follow the movement of the moment caused by a book called WomenWho Run with the Wolves. Now, these chicks were hard core. They were out to embrace their womanhood, break the glass ceiling, and grasp their inner femininity. And they were mad as hell.
These girls needed empowerment. They wanted to talk about the men who were running their lives and they weren't talking about their daddys. I could not relate. I guess I hit the jackpot with the gene pool when it came to being empowered. I have come to realize what used to be called, Sassy and Bossy, is now empowerment. It's all good.
These girls did not give me the "growth opportunity" I was looking for ( nor did they suggest they had the perfect male friend who would LOVE to meet me)and I quickly realized I was not feeling the love from our Mother God. I decided I was probably more of a woman who Prances with Poodles, so I turned in my workbook and never looked back. A lot happens to a girl in 2 decades.
So twenty years later, I give female bonding another try. A small blip in an area magazine caught my eye and it seemed that every time I turned around, a copy of this beautifully inviting magazine was in my path. Not just at my house. Or my office, but everywhere I turned in Genoa City, this new magazine was calling me. So I checked my schedule, realized Tom Berenger was ranch bound (again), my shared house keeper Feliciano was planning to clean my house, and all the other things i just HAD to do, had been rescheduled.So I made the call and found that they were indeed full for this retreat but cheerfully found an extra seat for me.
After mapquesting my way out to the woods, getting lost, and then finding someone else who looked lost but respectable, I found my way to our retreat compound. My fellow lost-soul was indeed retreat bound, so together we walked up the stone path to the studio. My professional writer-type friends were waiting and so were some fabu, freshly baked hot scones and fresh fruit. This was starting off right.
When everyone gathered, I found that in this group of strangers was my old study partner from grad school. The last time we saw each other we were grumbling over the hippie guy who was teaching us ancient religion.I remember asking him if he was had a PhD in Religion because he was going to the seminary. He looked at me like I was stoned. He told me he was a pagan.From New York. I'm a Presbyterian. We didn't have a lot in common. Now, my classmate has the hippie dude's job!
A lot of catching up and informative gossip was going on, when one of my retreatees remarked that I had not been on the social scene in AGES. I explained I had been working alot. Without hesitation, the girl asks "Has Tom Berenger left you?!" "I mean working hard , just brings that to mind". Now I like to think I have always worked smart which for many folks IS hard, but I never equated getting dumped as a motivational experience!I guess it is a compliment that I don't have a look of work-camp chic or that I have intimate working knowledge of what it takes to run an offshore oil rig. Just for the record, TomB remains the happiness man in the South ( I cannot speak for men of other places, but I'm pretty sure about regional happiness stats) in his constant state of bliss with The Fabulous Ma'am.
The truth is, I have been working very hard at a new business for this past year. I am doing something I had always thought about doing, but never ventured from the safety of the corporate world. I am tired. Very similar to how our hamster, Junie B. Jones, used to look on that little wheel.
What I took away from my retreat was relaxation and insight. I learned how to take a couple of minutes to just clear your mind (gave up on clearing my desk) and be joyful for what you have or be thankful for what you have been spared.
A yoga teacher spent time teaching us simple techniques that had me almost falling limply out of my seat. Now my previous yoga experiences have been dismal failures, even though I had the latest in outfit, mat, strap, block, and all natural moisturizer. I just wasn't in the right place. And that being said, I think that is part of the problem with most of us. We get all the perfect equipment but never get the pure lesson we are searching for because we are so consumed with the things we have to do after we get all yoga'd up/down. Too much of a hurry to get to the next thing. No wonder we can't relax!
So, I guess the moral to my blog is this: rather than getting lost in the country and ending up in the bayou, find the time to breathe in, feel the sunshine coming through the window, and just take joy in the moment.
And for goodness sake, don't take up with those women who howl at the moon. That will make your voice sound like you've been on a steady diet of Southern Comfort and Camel unfiltereds. just saying.
These girls needed empowerment. They wanted to talk about the men who were running their lives and they weren't talking about their daddys. I could not relate. I guess I hit the jackpot with the gene pool when it came to being empowered. I have come to realize what used to be called, Sassy and Bossy, is now empowerment. It's all good.
These girls did not give me the "growth opportunity" I was looking for ( nor did they suggest they had the perfect male friend who would LOVE to meet me)and I quickly realized I was not feeling the love from our Mother God. I decided I was probably more of a woman who Prances with Poodles, so I turned in my workbook and never looked back. A lot happens to a girl in 2 decades.
So twenty years later, I give female bonding another try. A small blip in an area magazine caught my eye and it seemed that every time I turned around, a copy of this beautifully inviting magazine was in my path. Not just at my house. Or my office, but everywhere I turned in Genoa City, this new magazine was calling me. So I checked my schedule, realized Tom Berenger was ranch bound (again), my shared house keeper Feliciano was planning to clean my house, and all the other things i just HAD to do, had been rescheduled.So I made the call and found that they were indeed full for this retreat but cheerfully found an extra seat for me.
After mapquesting my way out to the woods, getting lost, and then finding someone else who looked lost but respectable, I found my way to our retreat compound. My fellow lost-soul was indeed retreat bound, so together we walked up the stone path to the studio. My professional writer-type friends were waiting and so were some fabu, freshly baked hot scones and fresh fruit. This was starting off right.
When everyone gathered, I found that in this group of strangers was my old study partner from grad school. The last time we saw each other we were grumbling over the hippie guy who was teaching us ancient religion.I remember asking him if he was had a PhD in Religion because he was going to the seminary. He looked at me like I was stoned. He told me he was a pagan.From New York. I'm a Presbyterian. We didn't have a lot in common. Now, my classmate has the hippie dude's job!
A lot of catching up and informative gossip was going on, when one of my retreatees remarked that I had not been on the social scene in AGES. I explained I had been working alot. Without hesitation, the girl asks "Has Tom Berenger left you?!" "I mean working hard , just brings that to mind". Now I like to think I have always worked smart which for many folks IS hard, but I never equated getting dumped as a motivational experience!I guess it is a compliment that I don't have a look of work-camp chic or that I have intimate working knowledge of what it takes to run an offshore oil rig. Just for the record, TomB remains the happiness man in the South ( I cannot speak for men of other places, but I'm pretty sure about regional happiness stats) in his constant state of bliss with The Fabulous Ma'am.
The truth is, I have been working very hard at a new business for this past year. I am doing something I had always thought about doing, but never ventured from the safety of the corporate world. I am tired. Very similar to how our hamster, Junie B. Jones, used to look on that little wheel.
What I took away from my retreat was relaxation and insight. I learned how to take a couple of minutes to just clear your mind (gave up on clearing my desk) and be joyful for what you have or be thankful for what you have been spared.
A yoga teacher spent time teaching us simple techniques that had me almost falling limply out of my seat. Now my previous yoga experiences have been dismal failures, even though I had the latest in outfit, mat, strap, block, and all natural moisturizer. I just wasn't in the right place. And that being said, I think that is part of the problem with most of us. We get all the perfect equipment but never get the pure lesson we are searching for because we are so consumed with the things we have to do after we get all yoga'd up/down. Too much of a hurry to get to the next thing. No wonder we can't relax!
So, I guess the moral to my blog is this: rather than getting lost in the country and ending up in the bayou, find the time to breathe in, feel the sunshine coming through the window, and just take joy in the moment.
And for goodness sake, don't take up with those women who howl at the moon. That will make your voice sound like you've been on a steady diet of Southern Comfort and Camel unfiltereds. just saying.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Reality TV and me
As you know, Tom B. and his youngest son, The Bachelor, have been at the hillcountry ranch since Friday. I am trying to keep myself company by reading and watching the world through Reality TV. My favorite channel is HGTV Divine Design. Go a head and give up, because I am winning the HGTV Dream House in Stowe, VT. Now, I have never been to Vermont, but from the looks of my new house, I am going to love it. All I have had to do to insure we move in soon, is to enter everyday. It sounds like a lot, but I am taking care of my future. Stowe,VT looks very nice, lots of snow and outdoorsy stuff for Tom Berenger, and a FABU house for me.
When I get tired of looking at more apartments at The Dakota that are being decorated by two guys who are "life partners"and probably have more disposable income than some small Texas counties, I then stoop to the level of TV known as "The Housewives of Fill in the Blank". Sundays happen to be marathons of HWof Atlanta. These women kills me. I love when they describe themselves as "classy" and then proceed to curse like longshoremen. I enjoy watching their general crazy just like people enjoy exteme fighting. It is awful and gross but you just can't look away! I am extremely interested in how that big white woman with the wighead comes by all that money? All the others have a legitimate source of income except WigWorld. When I say legitimate, I mean a man that gives it to them or , in the case of Kandi and the lawyerlady, they work for it. WigWorld just seems to curse for a living. I love when she said she is hoping to instill the same good values in her girls as she was taught. Who taught her? A Madam? My favorite quote from WigWorld was to do with fashion when she said " There is a fine line between classy and trashy". REALLY? A FINE LINE? That is like thinking there is a fine line between a trailer and the Empire State Building?Also, they also all have these men hairdressers that show up to do their hair. That part would be great here in Genoa City. Except these fellows are always wearing high heeled ladies shoes. One of them had on a pair of camo-boots with high heels that would have just taken my husband's breath away. Except if he saw it on this man. I know this is progressive and all but this is the South. It just is not safe to be sporting fancy ladies footwear when you are a GUY! Just my thinking but I had to say it. It shames me , almost, to admit I am drawn to watch this insanity like watching a train wreck in slow motion.Happily, this week, the show ended in a wigpulling cat fight, so I was able to turn it off and feel all superior that my friends, The Housewives of Genoa City don't even own wigs, so there is no way we will be up to any of that tacky behavior.
Just because we all probably have a tiara on standby and could be prompted to don it while sipping a Lemondrop, we have no connection to these crazy girls.
You will be happy to know that Tom Berenger has checked in with a kill. The Bachelor has gotten his first deer and feels that it is official that he is fullblown manly man. Not that there was ever any question. The Bachelor is 28, 6'1 and bodybuilder material. Granted, he is not the most cerebral guy you could come across, but he , for some reason, is a LadiesMan. I use the term "Ladies" generously. He is the picture of what is known in these parts as "good old boy". Tom B had a great trip with him and a total of 3 deer gave their lives for the cause.
Well, my quiet weekend is almost over, so I am about to start watching EAT, LOVE, PRAY. I am hoping for some spiritual enlightment before TB comes home and wants to clean deer in my front yard. Zen. Amen.
When I get tired of looking at more apartments at The Dakota that are being decorated by two guys who are "life partners"and probably have more disposable income than some small Texas counties, I then stoop to the level of TV known as "The Housewives of Fill in the Blank". Sundays happen to be marathons of HWof Atlanta. These women kills me. I love when they describe themselves as "classy" and then proceed to curse like longshoremen. I enjoy watching their general crazy just like people enjoy exteme fighting. It is awful and gross but you just can't look away! I am extremely interested in how that big white woman with the wighead comes by all that money? All the others have a legitimate source of income except WigWorld. When I say legitimate, I mean a man that gives it to them or , in the case of Kandi and the lawyerlady, they work for it. WigWorld just seems to curse for a living. I love when she said she is hoping to instill the same good values in her girls as she was taught. Who taught her? A Madam? My favorite quote from WigWorld was to do with fashion when she said " There is a fine line between classy and trashy". REALLY? A FINE LINE? That is like thinking there is a fine line between a trailer and the Empire State Building?Also, they also all have these men hairdressers that show up to do their hair. That part would be great here in Genoa City. Except these fellows are always wearing high heeled ladies shoes. One of them had on a pair of camo-boots with high heels that would have just taken my husband's breath away. Except if he saw it on this man. I know this is progressive and all but this is the South. It just is not safe to be sporting fancy ladies footwear when you are a GUY! Just my thinking but I had to say it. It shames me , almost, to admit I am drawn to watch this insanity like watching a train wreck in slow motion.Happily, this week, the show ended in a wigpulling cat fight, so I was able to turn it off and feel all superior that my friends, The Housewives of Genoa City don't even own wigs, so there is no way we will be up to any of that tacky behavior.
Just because we all probably have a tiara on standby and could be prompted to don it while sipping a Lemondrop, we have no connection to these crazy girls.
You will be happy to know that Tom Berenger has checked in with a kill. The Bachelor has gotten his first deer and feels that it is official that he is fullblown manly man. Not that there was ever any question. The Bachelor is 28, 6'1 and bodybuilder material. Granted, he is not the most cerebral guy you could come across, but he , for some reason, is a LadiesMan. I use the term "Ladies" generously. He is the picture of what is known in these parts as "good old boy". Tom B had a great trip with him and a total of 3 deer gave their lives for the cause.
Well, my quiet weekend is almost over, so I am about to start watching EAT, LOVE, PRAY. I am hoping for some spiritual enlightment before TB comes home and wants to clean deer in my front yard. Zen. Amen.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tom Berenger's Birthday Bash
ANYWAY, I love birthday parties. For one of Tom B's birthday parties, I made all the guests come dressed as him. I have even gone to a block party dressed as him. This was achieved by me wearing chest waders, a fishing shirt, and a hat that had a fish head on the front and a fish tail on the back. I carried a cast rod as a prop. Note: not a good idea to wear chest waders while drinking margaritas outside in 95degree weather in the evening just as the mosquitos start to swarm.Hard to swat when you have a drinkipoo in one hand and your castrod in the other.
For the tots we go whole hog. When Trixie was two, I rented a huge moonwalk (really because I had never been in one) for her and her 1 guest. They jumped until they were limp and then we took them out, put them down for a nap and my best friend and I jumped in it while our husbands cheered us on with margaritas. It was as close as either of those two would get to participating in "The Man Show".
My ongoing attempts at being cutting edge on my parties has lead me to be the person you call if you need the name of a good working monkey for your party. I know two of them but one needs to fly down from Dallas, so that can eat up your budget, so that is something to consider.
So, for Tom Berenger's birthday weekend, I had a spa day (couple massage first , then he can watch ESPN on the iPhone until I get the delux package). After that, I thought we could get dressed up and go into THE CITY and dine at a FABU restaurant. The weekend would be topped off by the aforementioned charity event that I finally scored the perfect outfit for. The weather here at the equator has dropped, so I could even potentially march out the non-PC fur coat. It was to be a dream weekend.
Tom B suggested to me last night that while my weekend sounded beyond breathtaking, he had gotten a better offer.If I didn't mind.
Ranch in the hill country, freezing weather, no cable, and exotic deer that NEEDED killing. Also, the lure of chainsaw action pretty well sealed the deal. As I may have mentioned, TomB and his people are Quite Outdoorsy. He not only hunts, he tracks. This means he does not get in the deerblind (the HideyManHouse, as Trixie calls it) but instead camos-out, dabs eau de fox urine on himself, and then lays in leaves until the unsuspecting prey comes by. He hunts with a bow, black powder gun, pistol, shotgun, rifle, whateven needs killing, he is prepared. His role model is Jeremiah Johnson. That leaves me as the Indian woman (aka Native American chick)that is expected to chew leather to make his moccassins.I don't really see it but Tom B. is always encouraging that this would be such a great life. At least until my porcelain veneers blow.
When there is even any mention of a ranch trip, my beloved behaves like your dog when you tell him he his going for a ride in the car. I can almost see his head hanging out the window of the King Ranch F150 as he prepares for the 6 hour drive. Now we are used to driving a while to get anywhere, but when it comes to heading out West, TomB will work on the oil well fire fighting for 48 hours straight and then "load her up" and not stop til he gets to the high fence.
So, the birthday weekend stands to be his favorite. He'll be in the beautiful Texas HillCountry,on a beautiful ranch where all you can see is wildlife. The song that says "The stars at night, are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas", was probably written while someone was sitting by the firepit on a ranch close by. It is the perfect place. It is a happy place.He has all means of manly stuff to do and most of all, Tom will be with his soul mate. The Captain.
I'll be home, thankful my daVinci smile is intact and TomB's new snakeboots have gotten us off the moccassin issue. Happy Birthday, Babe.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Braille ATMs & platform boots in the Astrodome
I have been having one of those times where things are striking me as kinda more crazy than usual but up until this second, I have tried to keep quiet and watch what is going on and how others are reacting. Try to fly under the radar as it were. Somethings just don't make sense. Case in point: why is there a braille option on the drive-thru ATM? First off, even if blind folks were driving, how would they know they were at the bank, much less at the 24inches available for the ATM box? Ok, let's say they get to infront of the ATM ( I have a hard time doing this sometimes without scraping the side of the car and I'm just in my RayBans), how do they know they hit the one that has the braille option (granted that is where the ability to read braille is key)? I just am glad that I wasn't the salesperson who had to market that extra feature. Just saying.
This morning, while moisturizing, I hear the lineup for the World's Biggest Rodeo. Now this is a HUGE event in my book and requires more planning than a modest wedding. You have to follow western wear etiquette or else risk becoming a social pariah. I mean if you show up in a straw hat during rodeo, you are soooooooooooo gone. OR, if you wear a big rodeo championship buckle that YOU did not PERSONALLY win, it might as well say "POSER". Bling and big is essential but it has to be authentic. It is very tricky and should not be taken lightly. Now, personally, I am so on point in this area, that I am often mistaken for a C&W performer. Perhaps it is the imprint caused by watching Porter Waggoner on the color tv at my grandparents, but regardless, I love wearing rhinestone clothes. The influence of Porter and his discovery of Miss Dolly Parton is not to be taken lightly. My love affair with rodeo fashion is so pure that a vendor tried to sell Tom Berenger an 18k Gold Horse- head ring with ruby eyes that he felt sure would win my heart. Tom B. had to explain that it is "dress up" for me, like Carnivale, only different. One of my favorite events is the annual Go Texan Rodeo Fashion Show. Everyone in Genoa City and our sister community on the other side of the lake, Pine Valley, comes out in full Roy Rogers/ Dale Evans regalia. And starts drinking at 10am. Until 7pm. Some years we have a casino where you play with fake money for drink tickets ( performance=reward).After last call at 7pm, those still able, head out to a real live honkytonk called (of course) BigTexas.Tom Berenger takes off that Friday from his usual gig as a free-lance Oil Field Fire Fighter so we can have "quality time". Tom really can rock that Stetson.And the Jack&Coke. By 3pm, TomB is what I call "All Jacked up". Tom B. does not dance, just laughs a lot and continuously tells me how pretty my teeth are and that I have perfect gums. I digress.
The news that caused my concern was the rodeo lineup of performers. I had to put down my concealer when I heard the blastfromthepast band KISS was included with performers from the Country Music Hall of Fame. This hit me like news of the impending arrival of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.This just does not work for me. This is like dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria. What are they thinking? Granted, the KISS men have big hair (a staple at the rodeo) and leather (MORE THAN FABULOUS on a bullrider but just WRONG on a 63year old Jewish guy with a belly). KISS have boots, but they are 6 inch platforms, not Justin Ropers. Their performance does not make you want to God Bless America, remember your faded love, or take a Louisville slugger to both tail lights.It makes me want take a "medicine" because by now my hat is getting tight and my head is hurting.Since I have "hathair", my look cannot be sacrificed by hat removal. It is unthinkable(both KISS & my raw head at the arena).It has nothing to do with Rodeo. It's just wrong. Didn't they have to send in a playlist? Did't anyone think that a band who is best known for "I just want to rock&roll" does not translate into Rodeo? Am I the only one that understands this is the same as going to see the Giant Penquins at the Tropical Rainforest in Galveston? It is not their natural habitat! If those penquins get loose, they will stand about the same chance in 100 degree weather & 98 percent humidity as those KISS guys in a herd of cowboys.Wouldn't be prudent. Could have been avoided. Should never have been suggested. Just plain wrong. That's all I'm gonna say about that. Until 48 days when rodeo kicks off!
This morning, while moisturizing, I hear the lineup for the World's Biggest Rodeo. Now this is a HUGE event in my book and requires more planning than a modest wedding. You have to follow western wear etiquette or else risk becoming a social pariah. I mean if you show up in a straw hat during rodeo, you are soooooooooooo gone. OR, if you wear a big rodeo championship buckle that YOU did not PERSONALLY win, it might as well say "POSER". Bling and big is essential but it has to be authentic. It is very tricky and should not be taken lightly. Now, personally, I am so on point in this area, that I am often mistaken for a C&W performer. Perhaps it is the imprint caused by watching Porter Waggoner on the color tv at my grandparents, but regardless, I love wearing rhinestone clothes. The influence of Porter and his discovery of Miss Dolly Parton is not to be taken lightly. My love affair with rodeo fashion is so pure that a vendor tried to sell Tom Berenger an 18k Gold Horse- head ring with ruby eyes that he felt sure would win my heart. Tom B. had to explain that it is "dress up" for me, like Carnivale, only different. One of my favorite events is the annual Go Texan Rodeo Fashion Show. Everyone in Genoa City and our sister community on the other side of the lake, Pine Valley, comes out in full Roy Rogers/ Dale Evans regalia. And starts drinking at 10am. Until 7pm. Some years we have a casino where you play with fake money for drink tickets ( performance=reward).After last call at 7pm, those still able, head out to a real live honkytonk called (of course) BigTexas.Tom Berenger takes off that Friday from his usual gig as a free-lance Oil Field Fire Fighter so we can have "quality time". Tom really can rock that Stetson.And the Jack&Coke. By 3pm, TomB is what I call "All Jacked up". Tom B. does not dance, just laughs a lot and continuously tells me how pretty my teeth are and that I have perfect gums. I digress.
The news that caused my concern was the rodeo lineup of performers. I had to put down my concealer when I heard the blastfromthepast band KISS was included with performers from the Country Music Hall of Fame. This hit me like news of the impending arrival of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.This just does not work for me. This is like dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria. What are they thinking? Granted, the KISS men have big hair (a staple at the rodeo) and leather (MORE THAN FABULOUS on a bullrider but just WRONG on a 63year old Jewish guy with a belly). KISS have boots, but they are 6 inch platforms, not Justin Ropers. Their performance does not make you want to God Bless America, remember your faded love, or take a Louisville slugger to both tail lights.It makes me want take a "medicine" because by now my hat is getting tight and my head is hurting.Since I have "hathair", my look cannot be sacrificed by hat removal. It is unthinkable(both KISS & my raw head at the arena).It has nothing to do with Rodeo. It's just wrong. Didn't they have to send in a playlist? Did't anyone think that a band who is best known for "I just want to rock&roll" does not translate into Rodeo? Am I the only one that understands this is the same as going to see the Giant Penquins at the Tropical Rainforest in Galveston? It is not their natural habitat! If those penquins get loose, they will stand about the same chance in 100 degree weather & 98 percent humidity as those KISS guys in a herd of cowboys.Wouldn't be prudent. Could have been avoided. Should never have been suggested. Just plain wrong. That's all I'm gonna say about that. Until 48 days when rodeo kicks off!
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Squirrels and Psalm 46:10
This past couple of weeks have been ones of introspection for the Fabulous Ma'am. After a beautiful Christmas Eve at my sib's,surrounded by the parental units and my suddenly grown up neices and nephews, we repeated the fun at my house with a celebration of Christmas and family, complete with all the fattening food and my homage to pork. The day after Christmas I saw a book review called "Lighten Up." The author points out how we need to lighten our emotional load by lightening our lives of all the stuff, material and imagined that we spend so much time on.I felt he was speaking to me through the power of TV and became determined to sort out my own nonsense and get focused on what is important. My latest "important" concern has been finding the perfect cocktail dress for an upcoming charity event. Certainly nothing in those jam-packed closets would work. I NEED a champagne knockout dress that will break my mold of the LBD (little black dress). I found myself devoting hours to tracking down this elusive item. In addition to that, as previously chronicled, I did my crazy decorating for Christmas that I adore so much.Now I am faced with the reality that (1) Christmas is over (2) Epiphany was 3 days ago and (3) I am now in violation of my rule of tacky : Christmas stuff after Epiphany. To add insult to injury, I have what is commonly refered to in Houston as "The Crud".This diagnosis includes non-stop coughing, headache like an Everclear hangover, aching, congestion, and general bad juju. On top of this, my husband, Tom Berenger, wants to go hunting some more because 5 deer may not be enough if the government collapses and the Kroger is under seige.(Tom Berenger and his issues will be addressed at another time) Since I'm looking pretty pitiful for him to go to West Texas, he is staying to "take care of me" by rooting himself into the couch and watching football around the clock. If my coughing gets out of control enough to block the announcers on ESPN, then he lovingly suggests I take the knockyououtfordays cough syrup and go upstairs. He will check on me. Count on it.
I have learned not to involve Tom Berenger in my projects unless absolutely necessary. Is it a universal ManThing, or is Tom Berenger the only man whose response to the request "can you do ...fill in the blank?" is always "Does that have to happen right now?" Well in my weakened state I asked if it might be possible for Santa and the Elves to be taken out of the yard and put back in storage. Never, I repeat, never did I ask T.B. to do ANYTHING that required power tools. I came home from work to see Santa &Co on the driveway and TomBerenger smiling from ear to ear with a chainsaw in his hand. My boxwoods now look like they have a Marine haircut : high and tight. JarHeads. Santa is flat on his back in the driveway, no where near getting to storage but my shrubs have been scalped. I digress.
I have decided that in order to be less of a control freak I need to "let go and let God" (I read this on a church sign that usually gives me good thoughts for the day). I am embracing the opportunity to take advantage of every quiet moment and to be thankful that I recognize them. And also that I can take this split second to realize how lucky and blessed my life is. That is how I came to be praying while going through the carwash yesterday. I listed all the things that are good in my life and all the things that are happening in this world that I have been spared.
Sure, my yard looks like Camp LeJuene but it IS my yard. Tom Berenger is not interested in my decorating before, during, or after but I didn't marry Nate Burkus.
This morning I was having my coffee out in the sunroom, during what continues to be a severe windstorm. In the crape myrtle tree, I see one of the squirrels I feed and she is looking like she is frozen stiff. BushyTail is not moving a muscle. Upon closer inspection I see a hawk perched in the oak tree, eyes fixed on BushyTail. I knocked on the glass and Mr.Hawk flew away and BushyTail came back to life. As I sit back in my chair and continue to watch as the little sparrows return, I notice the little glass plaque I keep on the window sill. The kids have knocked it over a million times and it is chipped on the corner but I still love it. It is simply etched " Be Still & Know that I am God." Psalm 46:10.
It continues to give me comfort and I think BushyTail is glad that it applies to creatures great and small.
I have learned not to involve Tom Berenger in my projects unless absolutely necessary. Is it a universal ManThing, or is Tom Berenger the only man whose response to the request "can you do ...fill in the blank?" is always "Does that have to happen right now?" Well in my weakened state I asked if it might be possible for Santa and the Elves to be taken out of the yard and put back in storage. Never, I repeat, never did I ask T.B. to do ANYTHING that required power tools. I came home from work to see Santa &Co on the driveway and TomBerenger smiling from ear to ear with a chainsaw in his hand. My boxwoods now look like they have a Marine haircut : high and tight. JarHeads. Santa is flat on his back in the driveway, no where near getting to storage but my shrubs have been scalped. I digress.
I have decided that in order to be less of a control freak I need to "let go and let God" (I read this on a church sign that usually gives me good thoughts for the day). I am embracing the opportunity to take advantage of every quiet moment and to be thankful that I recognize them. And also that I can take this split second to realize how lucky and blessed my life is. That is how I came to be praying while going through the carwash yesterday. I listed all the things that are good in my life and all the things that are happening in this world that I have been spared.
Sure, my yard looks like Camp LeJuene but it IS my yard. Tom Berenger is not interested in my decorating before, during, or after but I didn't marry Nate Burkus.
This morning I was having my coffee out in the sunroom, during what continues to be a severe windstorm. In the crape myrtle tree, I see one of the squirrels I feed and she is looking like she is frozen stiff. BushyTail is not moving a muscle. Upon closer inspection I see a hawk perched in the oak tree, eyes fixed on BushyTail. I knocked on the glass and Mr.Hawk flew away and BushyTail came back to life. As I sit back in my chair and continue to watch as the little sparrows return, I notice the little glass plaque I keep on the window sill. The kids have knocked it over a million times and it is chipped on the corner but I still love it. It is simply etched " Be Still & Know that I am God." Psalm 46:10.
It continues to give me comfort and I think BushyTail is glad that it applies to creatures great and small.
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