Finding my Roots at the Mailbox

Like many people all over the country, the Fabulous Ma'am has been transplanted. Originally from the Old South, I have been happily calling Texas home for most of my life. Still, there remain bits and pieces back in Carolina that I long for. Especially in Spring time.

Possessing a more moderate climate than the heat and humidity of the equator that is Houston, Carolina is at it's budding best at this time of year. Like Mama Walton, I remember the excitement over the first crocus to poke through in late winter. The fields of naturalized daffodils like luscious lemon pie filling waving on green wands. The beautiful peonies and gigantic hydrangeas remind me of a quiet time near my grandparents home on a bluff overlooking the Cape Fear River.With these memories, I have tried, and failed, year after year, to recreate this charming pallette in Galveston Country gumbo clay.

Every few years, Tom Berenger and  I make a pilgrimage back to North Carolina and Virginia, known as  The Roots Tour.  On these meccas we both try and grab a bit of "home" to return to Texas. Readers, you can easily understand why I had to say "NO" to his idea of native flora/fauna when the raggedy 10point buck head was suggested as home decor. There was no way I was taking that startled face with the creepy eyes(aforementioned trophy buck, not hubby) on a cross country road trip.I knew that deer would spring back to life at any moment and kill me on it's way out  the Jeep. After all, it would hardly be the first deer to go through one of our vehicles.Or the last. I digress.

 Instead, we trekked out into the woods with his ancient Granny B and dug up "bloodroot". The orignal naturalist, Granny instructed the nuances of her famous root remedy which  yeilds an alcohol based tonic effective on insect bites or any skin irritations. . The best kept secret came when she instructed me to put a "finger of root" in some Moonshine (doesn't everyone have that in the pantry?) and use a teaspoon of these brandy in my morning coffee. According to The Granniness, this would improve my circulation and remove the  poisons from my body. She has done it for 80 years. Now, I appreciate her insight, but just because I NEED a/c does not mean there is anything wrong with my circulation. Also, introduction of corn liquor and roots into my breakfast really isn't the way of kick starting my day she obviously thinks I need. As for purifying my system, she and her potion could be poster children for the poison control charts.

With Root Medicine in hand, we proceed to my family in Carolina. We pick up 100lbs of cabbage on the way from the Blue Ridge Mountains. My huge extended family  much prefer fresh cabbage to bouquets of flowers when it comes to desirable hostess gifts. Early the next morning with  my partner in crime, Cousin Tinnie,we set out with shovels and drywall buckets. We are on a search for flower bulbs from our family's old home places. We start at our greatgrandmother's yard. One bucket full of daffodil bulbs and we are back in the car. Next stop, our great aunt's yard where we get cutting of  huge moptop hydrangeas in shades ranging from palest pink to indigo blue. Next, we go to my grandmother's land and dig spiderwort, the same flowers I picked as a child. Back at the Cousin Compound, I get the regal rhizomes that are my Great Aunt's White Flag Iris. Endless beds of diaphonous blooms cover her back yard. These are cut and placed in damp soil, wrapped in newspaper, and nestled into boxes for the 1400 mile trip back to Houston.

Finally back home, I quickly planted all my treasures. We distributed the magical root medicine to all potential ant bite victims. My hydrangea immediately dried up like pot pourri. Everything else, amazingly, adapted and thrived. For years. Until Fred, my yardman /event planner started clearing the flower beds last week. As I turned into the driveway, I immediately saw he had done a scorched earth cleansing and my family flowers, my beautiful White Flags, had vanished. That night I saw  Tinnie posted on FB  she had been busy dividing bulbs and moving hydrangeas. Not wanting to admit my flowers were gone, I casually mentioned how I would love to be gardening with her .

 Today I opened my mailbox, pulling out a ton of junk mail, an invitation, and a package with dirt falling out. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and carefully opened my dirt box. Carefully wrapped, my late great aunt's White Flag Iris lay waiting for me. Tinnie had sent my roots to me, along with instructions.

Tomorrow morning, my Carolina roots will return to their bed and I will be glad that a bit of my heritage continues to grow here with me.

I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

March, Madness, and Me

The month of March is full of activities which the Fabulous Ma'am dearly loves. As the bitter cold and rain of February leaves, my yardman/event planner, Fred, arrives to start planning the new landscaping that will start the mayhem of Spring planting.

 Fred has worked with me for several years now and knows my addiction to HGTV. Unlike Tom Berenger, Fred encourages me with each and every project I develop after hours of mind-numbing devotion to all things Candace Olsen.  My dream is to walk into the Giant Circus Tent Landscaper store only to realize Fred and I are on television and are being asked to be a part of Yard Crashers. Until that happens, we must continue to practice on our own. When I got the idea of an outdoor kitchen, Fred was ready with his crew (aka cousins &brother) to lay flagstone and build a pergola. Those pergolas look so refreshing on HGTV. On the show, the project starts out with a quick planning session, just like ours. Then the homeowner goes away and an hour later, the yard is completely transformed into an outdoor room. Tom Berenger pointed out that some heavy editing, not to mention cash, goes into the part that I don't see. Lest you think Tom B is trying to rain on the parade that is the Fabulous Ma'am, I must share he is not without evidence.  I struck out on  a weekened project one March that began with the planning session. On August 8 it ended with me in total exhaustion and Fred rolling in pallets of grass, just as Lupe Tortilla was arriving with the food for my first outdoor party in the new Entertaining Space.

I need to call those HGTV people and ask why I never see the huge shop fans that were needed to keep the giant mosquitoes blown off my guests? Due to the requisite Water Feature, the mosquitoes were able to grow quite healthy and in a concentration usually only seen in Biblical text. I wait for the next plague, frogs I hope, to help with this inconvenience. Also, the HGTV people are always lounging around and laughing. Perhaps this is because they are in Canada, a place automatically associated with fun in a cold climate.  I, on the other hand, am living in a place more like the Amazon jungle within a gated community. I feel certain, had it not been for the Lemon Drop martinis, I would have  been hospitalized with some dreadful insect-bourn disease.

Did I mention I am also Fred's marketing manager? Fred's English is not great. So, it comes as no surprise that his voice mail recording, while festive with the Tejano music in the background, has not been that much of a client builder. Today if you call Fred, you get my voice, telling you we appreciate your business, are either with a customer or on another line, and will have someone get back with you as soon as possible. Also, I decided Fred needed a logo and business cards. Also matching shirts for the cousins/crew made for a more professional look.  My marketing genius must be working, since today Fred arrived in a brand new double cab F350. I digress.

Luckily, an act of God intervened before I had the chrysanthemum oil spray system installed to cut back on the mosquito invasion. Who would have thought the giant oak tree would have been twisted in half and crashed through that hateful, I mean beautiful, pergola? Out of the proverbial ashes sprang my fully enclosed, air conditioned, studio. As Big Daddy reminded me, my mother never allowed me in the sun in the first place, I hate to sweat, and the mosquitoes have killed more people than all wars combined.

  How great is life when all you need is a plan, a purse, and 100 SPF sunscreen to make your decorating dreams come true?

I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

It's all about the Bling. The Making of a Rodeo Cowgirl

The World's biggest rodeo is in full swing so it is only fitting that Tom Berenger and I would trot our tiny tot , Trixie, out for the show.  For some folks, rodeo is about the competition. It is about the dedication to man and beast and the years of training involved to make rodeo the incredible event that our state is so proud of. For me, it is about the outfit. And this year, as Trixie informed me, rodeo is about the bling.
I have spent years, and more money than I can allow Tom Berenger to think about, creating my rodeo persona. Hats of every style, antique leather jackets, turquoise jewelry, and western outfits to rival anything seen on the Country Western circuit fill one closet in my swankienda. When it comes to authentic cowboy boots I am a purist. Only Lucchesse, made in Texas, with a riding heel. I am, to coin a phrase, "All Hat and no Cattle". This week I have been in my favorite black boots, so well worn I can walk all day in them. Since our entire city and everyplace within 100 miles is in rodeo regalia, I incorporate my western flair into my wardrobe sometimes during the week. This past Friday, I had a great casual-money look going on by way of my jeans, crisp white shirt, silver concho belt, and fabu turquoise necklace & earrings. Since it was windy, I threw on a kickin' wrap and headed over to Trixie's school for early-release day. I parked, threw on my RayBans, and walked confidently over to the school yard where my tot was waiting with some other children and their mother. When she saw me, Trix came running, threw her arms around me and said "ma'am, I love when you have bling. Rodeo this year is all about the bling, you know". Well no, I hadn't thought of it that way, but the child is always ahead of her time. In the car she says, " You know what Mrs Cindy said when she saw you, ma'am? She said "My Goodness"!".  I don't know Mrs Cindy but obviously she is a girl of strong opinion. "I wonder why she said that, Trix?". Trixie said it was because Mrs.Cindy was a housewife and only had boys so she didn't really know bling. I would have to agree.

On Saturday we prepared for the Big Day. Trixie was in her jeans and shirt, black boots, and last year's hat. She was rather pleased with her initial outfit, but felt the need for bling. In her dress up box,  hot pink crystal earrings (handy downs from one of the nieces) that work nicely with her color scheme are scored. Combing through the box of"throw down" cowgirl stuff, we find a necklace that says "Cowgirls Rock". It is a must have. I braid her long blond hair, get all her accessories in place, and off we go .Before getting underway, I decide I will need to stop at the local cowboy store for a hat brush.TomB stays in the truck listening to Carolina basketball on the radio, Trixie bounds out behind me.

 While my black Stetson is being steamed and brushed, my little shopper spies a pink Stetson that she will "die for". Of course, now she will need pink boots. After I get those in a size 1.5, she reminds me that if she got a bling belt, she could look just like me. What an aspiration, and to think I can make that a reality if we work fast enough! With the help of the western wear sales lady, we have the child completely outfitted and paid for, my black hat snugly in place and back in the KingRanch Edition F150 before TomB feels the small dent in his wallet.

We arrive at the arena and my family departs for the Fatstock Show. They are off to the swine section and I'm off to serious shopping opportunities. After a few hours, we catch back up. While enjoying my Margarita,  Trixie asks if she can have a pig. Seems that she has been visiting with a little boy who has a big pink pig he can sleep on.  She has also played  with rabbits, watched mama pigs give birth, watched chickens hatching, and even saw a man demonstrate milking a cow named "Ma'am". I order another Margarita.

After leaving our fine dining place advertising "Rednecks at Play", we head on to the animal arenas. Many photo ops of Tom and our pup, then I realize Trixie is getting excited about something important. Mutton Busting. Never heard of it? Me either. Until I watch as my blinged out baby is being weighed ,waivered, and fitted with headgear to compete in a sheep riding event. Tom B is beside himself. He makes sure she is properly suited up in protective gear and then gives her pointers of being a competitor in the mutton racing arena. Head down, squeeze the sheep with your legs, and hold on with all you have.

Like the proud parent I am, I quickly find myself a front row seat, camera at the ready. After several less than stellar rides, a little boy on a sheep named "ShamWow" makes it all the way to the end of the arena. And into the wall. Surrounded by the herd. He is retrieved by the rodeo clown and the announcer gives him a score of 97. The crowd goes wild. Finally, the moment we've been waiting for: Trixie, riding a sheep named Charlie Sheeeep is in the gate. The buzzer sounds and she is OFF and Running! Using the Berenger technique, all 60 pounds of her is squeezing the guts out of the mutton, little fingers embedded in the curly wool. She lopes past me and is heading for the end zone. And she makes it!The clown retrieves her and raises her arms in victory. I go crazy! Back to  the rider box she goes to wait for the finale. As the riders proudly march back out to center arena, we hear the scores being announced. Trixie is the girl high score of the event. We are so proud.

Not since the our nephew, Texas Ranger, and his team won the football championship have I seen my husband so excited. His girl is a champion. Not just any sport. But the elite of Rodeo competition. My blinged out baby girl is an official ribbon winner of the Mutton Buster Competition. You know what this means, of course.  There is a Dale Evans outfit in my future. For sure.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

Lipstick: Don't leave home without it!

These past couple of weeks have been very stressful for The Fabulous Ma'am. Big Daddy gave us quite a scare with  a little cardiac issue. He is and always has been a Man Mountain. His strength is likened to Paul Bunyan sans Babe the Blue Ox.  So the idea of him being in hospital is jarring for all concerned.  Why is it  when anyone has a "procedure" the hospital insists you be there at 6am? In order to be on time, I am the designated morning driver so my sister, Boo, can get the kids off to school and then sit vigil with me and Tiny Mama.My brother, the Baby Jesus, shows up to look scared. He can always be counted on to show up at the hospital and pretend not to be concerned . Mr.Cool doesn't fool us for a second.

The morning of the procedure,I have to pick up Big  Daddy at 5:30. I roll out of bed, brush my teeth, brush hair,moisturize, throw on my Juicy Couture track suit, and out the door I go, pick up Pops and arrive at 5:50am. Dark o'clock. Valet park, go through admissions and then up to preop. I do all the paperwork because Big Daddy is busy with his Kindle, complaining that the British Army section is lacking in detail.He has his hearing aids in their usual place, his desk, so I answer most of the questions. He is consumed with his Hi-Tech Reader Rabbit.

The nurse comes in to do vitals and tells Daddy to give his  Kindle to his WIFE. Is she talking about me? Me with the porcelain skin, and newly grown Latisse eyelashes? Can't be. Then she looks at me and starts talking to me as if I AM the wife.Must think "Trophy Wife", so I correct her before this gets more awkward. I'm his daughter. So young it wouldn't even be legal to think he could marry someone as young as me. What is she thinking?It's early and the lighting isn't the best, so I get over it. Text my sister this info and we both LOL. The "procedure" doesn't happen until 11:30. We have been here for hours but Tiny Mama and Boo look concerned but perfectly put together. When I pass the big windows on my way for my umpteenth Hazelnut Latte, I catch a glimpse of a haggard looking woman in a Juicy Couture tracksuit. OMG! I hate when someone copies my favorite outfits. Then I realize it is ME. Silent scream. I was channeling Edward Munch. I grab for my lipstick as if that can fix the trainwreck that is me.

All goes well with Daddy, so twelve hours after I left my swankienda, I'm home again ready to collapse into my Temperdepic. Like Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow is another day.Thankfully a Saturday. A day I can relax and enjoy now that my housekeeper, Josie Feliciano, is back in action.The plan for today is part of a weekend ritual with my friend ,Hunny. We usually spend Saturdays going to estate sales put on by our favorite Estate expert, Julie Bassett. Julie has the best stuff in the world but strict rules about who can enter her treasure trove.  No kids under 15 allowed. Now this usually is not an issue for us but things with Hunny have changed drastically lately. Hunny has a foster baby, Ginger Snap, who is the most wonderful little redheaded cherub. She has become an appendage of Hunny, so she comes along. Everywhere. Not wanting to risk getting on the No Trespassing List with Julie, we decide to shift work the sale. I go first, scout it out, then come back and grab the tot so Hunny can go through the tool shed (did I mention she is a building contractor?). I always have a picnic blanket in my car so if the opportunity for an impromptu outdoor experience presents itself, I am prepared. I take the blanket and find a nice spot on the lawn for baby and me to bond. As I lay back , my eyes close and I find myself dreaming that this is my baby and we can just stay here and play. The only sound I hear is Baby Girl cooing. A perfect moment. Until I hear rapid footsteps approaching. I have read about this. Criminals stalk attractive young women with beautiful babies and then stealing them, selling both cow&calf into slavery. Before I can go into praying mantis pose on the perpetrator, I see a senior citizen with a weiner dog on a leash peering down at me. "Are you alright, honey? Ma'am did you fall? People fall here all the time. We watch out for each other. This happens all the time."  I assure Weiner Dog Lady that we are just having a little blanket rest, not cardiac arrest. So much for my delusional day dream. I pick up Baby and blanket and head back to the Estate to wait on Honey. It occurs to me just then that we are in a retirement community. Weiner Dog Lady thought I was a neighbor gone down. Just how tired do I look?

We make our purchases and head for Tom Berengers 150 King Ranch. After we load up the must have antiques,I share with Honey my close encounter of the geriatric kind. Like a good friend does, she assures me these communities are rampant with senile dementia and there is no way anyone in their right mind could mistake me for a retiree.Still, I take the opportunity to let her drive while I look up the name of a prominent plastic surgeon and commit his information to speed dial. As we leave The Retreat I see an ambulance loading up one of my potential neighbors. Weiner Dog Lady knew what she was talking about.

I get home and take a look in the mirror. Nothing worse than a pale woman without makeup and I am living proof. To borrow a phrase from Steel Magnolias "There is no such thing as natural beauty." That evening, after I have enjoyed a long hot shower,facial, and eye cream, Trixie climbs into bed with me. This is when we have our best talks. She assures me that Big Daddy is going to be ok. That if the doctors saw him about to pass away, they would grab him back. She tells me that one day she is going to have to get a "procedure" and I'm just gonna have to deal with it. Trixie is a 45 year old woman in the body of a 9 year old. She is one of my great joys.  She reminds me that Big Daddy isn't even very old because GreatGrandma is already 87 and she isn't even dead yet. Such a comfort.

I ask Trixie if she thinks I am getting old. With the kindest, most sincere tone, she tells me "No ma'am! Your no where near getting old.  Well, maybe your neck is a little old". Not being rude, just saying.
They say that youth is wasted on the young. How true.
You will be glad to know Big Daddy is doing great. He got a tuneup, so should be good for another 100,000 miles. As for my neck, I have the call in.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am
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