Farewell to Cheetah

As this year comes to a close, the news media is full of stories covering the passing of famous, infamous, or unsung heroes. I would like to take this opportunity to say farewll to one icon who will not make the cover of People Magazine. Never properly recognized for his part in creating what would later be called "A Blended Family", always playing second banana to the guy swinging through the trees in only a loin cloth, Cheetah the Chimpanzee passed away this week at the age of 80.

I received this news yesterday, just before another round of spinal injections of steroids (continued treatment resulting from unfortunate choice of showing Tiny Tot that roller coasters are really not scary) so I have had time to mentally expound on the demise of Cheetah and what is means to the world we knew more than one might  imagine possible. As you recall, I ponder of lesser facts without pharmaceutical assistance, so this was an event that struck me more profoundly that most.

I attempted to have a discussion with Tom Berenger about the whole family/marital setup of Tarzan & Co. and found that the only person in that cool treehouse that was not an illegal immigrant was Cheetah. Seems Tarzan was found as a baby after missionary parents expired of who knows what. Friendly apes took him and raised him. Why they decided to get him that wacky loin cloth never really made sense, but glad his privacy was protected before he went swinging on vines. However, that could have a lot to do with lack of production when Jane showed up.

 And what was the deal with Jane? Where did she come from? Tom B. said she was part of a safari gone awry. So did she have a Patty Hearst situation of abduction by Tarzan? Was she suffering from Stockholm Syndrome? For a chick with a Vassar accent, she sure did rock that little hide dress and seemed pretty comfy in a giant tree with no mosquito netting and certainly no a/c. More proof that Jane was not a Southern girl. Waaaay too agreeable to be happy with a house of twigs and leaves. Sure she did have that cool elevator, but she had to call Simba the Elephant when it needed to go into operation.  The Fabulous Ma'am would have needed a little less  animal hollering and vine swinging and a lot more trying to rip off a chainsaw and build me a house. How did she expect to keep her skin nice living out in the elements,  while Tarzan and his monkey crew were off to The Escarpment? 

 And how come she never managed to at least get some fabric off the lost Europeans that always showed up? And how did she keep that perm going? I mean, how are you going to keep yourself up when all you got is that one tore up frock, no shoes, and certainly no mani-pedi in your future?  I digress.  The more I think about it, I realize Jane was like  those  girls that date Bull Riders. If you need intellectual stimulation you can always talk to yourself. Not speaking from personal experience, just saying. OK.

Then there is the question of Boy? Just where did he come from? Again, TomB. says he was a baby found in a plane wreck.  What kinda mess is going on in the jungle  that only babies survive? ANYWAY, the only stable thing in Tarzan's crew was the loyal chimp, Cheetah. Cheetah seemed to be the brains of the entire group. He was always the one to give  Tarzan the heads up when trouble was coming. Also,the loyal Cheetah always had the best attitude. Definitely a "glass half-full" kind of guy. I loved watching him laugh. He had some great teeth, kinda like Eleanor Roosevelt, but happier. And he never ran off with some lady chimp, disrupting the family unit.

TomB is of the opinion that Tarzan & Jane were shacked up. I do not agree . First of all, they would have needed a shack for that to be the real deal.  I think this was a clear case of common law. Tarzan's vocabulary would not have made it through even a quickie Vegas ceremony.  So, Tarzan, Jane, and Boy became what is today called a non-traditional family. And Cheetah, well he held the whole deal together. He was the anchor-chimp that kept them in the neighborhood.

So, here's to you Cheetah. Not just a primate, but a visionary.

He died as he lived,

 A Chimp.

I remain,

The Fabulous Ma'am

Happy New Year

Tulips, pork, George Strait, and Me

Good evening, Friends.  Since we last visited I have increased my use of steroids, received my very own personal neck traction equipment, made a quick trip to the liquor store to reinforce my Port reserves, and completely enjoyed an MRI.  What I have not enjoy, until last night, has been sleep.

As you all know, crazy things generally happen to me or in front of me. Or just all around me. I believe I have a magnetic aura for the paranormal or just down right deranged. My usual dreams are the makings of mini-series. The comedy of errors often are so close to reality it becomes hard to distinguish one from the other.  Case in point:  last week I dreamed I was on a business trip when natural distaster was iminent. I was to be evacuated on a priority basis. I reached the airport and was met by my sister. Carrying a Louis Vuitton suitcase full of our shoes. All individually wrapped so as to insure their safety on the life flight .  So real it was scarey.

Since it is now officially autumn, I have begun my ritual of transitional decorating for the long run of holidays that kick off with pumpkins, Halloween goodies, and the race for Thanksgiving. September is the month to start refrigeration of your tulip bulbs for planting on New Years Day if you are going to have any chance of a bloom in Zone 10.  My one success story with Tulips in Texas occurred in the spring of Wilbur.  I had planted imperial purple tulips and they bloomed on 14 inch stems. Spectacular to say the least. Until I looked outside just as my pig finished digging them all up.  Wilbur, the aforementioned pig, had been an impulse purchase on the part of Tom Berenger. Tom tends to take me literally whenever I say I would "love to have" something. Back in the day, Vietnamese Pot Belly Pigs were in vogue and I said, of course " I'd love to have one". On our visit to the fabulous nursery/animal farm, I met my beloved back at the truck as the garden helpers loaded the flats of ill fated bedding plants into my vehicle. I got in  and Tom be tells me to close my eyes and get ready for a big surprise. That is when I received a wiggling bundle of potential joy. A little black pig. Wilbur.  As soon as the truck engine started, Wilbur let out a squeal that could only be described as the James Brown Car Alarm. It went on for 7 miles. Ok, he doesn't like travel, not going to be a problem. He is going to be my yard pet.Not quite. Wilbur refused to eat so we had to bottle feed him.  I have the most beautiful picture of Wilbur wrapped in a baby blanket, taking a bottle, with a proud papa Tom B just beaming.  This is about the time Tom B's people started whispering that I was "touched".
I digress.  Back to the tulip destruction.  Well, there I was watching this porker tear up my pride and joy. Thinking fast, I ran to the garage, grabbed the crab net, raced out the back door and chased the pig all over the yard until I finally snagged the little porkette. Catching my breath, corralling my catch, I suddenly heard loud laughter. It was around this time  I realized I was in my underwear. Holding a crab net , with a squealing pig in it. The backyard neighbor was upstairs on his deck and had witnessed the entire capture.  This is when the neighbors started whispering "she's different".

Just as I got back in the house, hog in tow, Tom B calls me from the site of the oil well fire  just extinguished. I rapidly explained what  happened and asked which gun would be my best choice to put this ham down. I never got an answer since the last I heard from Tom was when he dropped the phone laughing and started telling his crew the latest calamity of The Fabulous Ma'am.

 I attempted reconciliation with Wilbur by getting him a Nancy Reagan Red harness so we could go for walks. No one informed me that pigs can run like marathon man.  Instead of the pleasant stroll I had envisioned, I looked like I was skiing behind this pig.This is when the neighborhood children started saying " I wish we could have a pig".  Tom B finally came home and returned Wilbur to the hog pen from whence he came.

So, last night I slept for the first time in 3 days. I was busy in my dream working in my garden ( I know it was a dream because the plants were alive and we had grass. Something that hasn't been seen in Southeast Texas in 6 months) and just digging away.  My gardener/life coach, Fernando Lamas, was working side by side. Tom B came out and told me since I had been such a sweetheart he had a special surprise.  I opened my front door and there he was. George Strait was on his knees planting tulip bulbs down my front walk.  My first reaction was to grab my iPhone, get Fernando in position for his photographer debut , and quickly pose next to George Strait. It was so real, I woke up.

So, I am on the mend. Physically and hopefully mentally. Not getting my hopes up, but a girl can dream. Time to open the new bottle of Warres, sip a little, and then go off to dreamland.  I wonder if George has been waiting.

Til later,
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

Mama's Chicken

On this most Blessed of Blessed days, Easter Sunday, The Fabulous Ma'am would like to share with you the wonderful family dinner that begins and ends with Mama's chicken.

As many families will experience this weekend, generations come together to celebrate our blessings. With our family, 4 generations converged on Boo's backyard for fun and feast. Extended family from all over Texas excitedly made their way to PineValley. Of course, no gathering is complete without at least a carload getting lost. With GPS and beach traffic all on the fritz, one crew was in the abyss for an hour and a half. Fortunately, when they finally arrived, the cake truffles had just come out and a refill of the beer cooler had just been completed, so all nerves were settled. The Washer Toss game began. TomBergenger  just back from mixing Jack&coke out of the back of his truck, teams up with the nephews. Texas Ranger, opted out to play solo basketball. This is more involved than you might think. Instead of being on the pavement where the goal stands, he gets on the trampoline in the side yard. Bounce, bounce, bounce, he shoots. Nothing but net. The grandmothers toast his athletic prowess with champagne, never leaving their comfy chairs under the trees.

Texas Ranger is 12 and my tiny tot, Trixie is 10, and have hung out since they were toddlers.  She believes she will be his size in 2 years. I hope not. He is nearly 6 feet tall and wears a size 13 shoe. His football team calls him "Pain Train". Today, he bounces hard so she  becomes a human missile straight up on the tramoline.

The older nephews have brought girlfriends. This is fun because as the eccentric aunt, it is expected that I will get "inside scoop" as to the seriousness of the situation. Instead of waiting forever for these boys to give us any information, I find the direct approach much more successful. It's easy. Just get the girl when the boys are on the beer run, and just ask, quietly " is this serious?" Girls are always quick to give details. Just ask.This is the one time when the answer is never "I don't know".

Tunisa has invited NolanRyan and will not stop taking pictures. It is at this point that I insist we must help Boo get everything out to the buffet. I literally lead little AngelinaJolie inside, put her to work, grab a glass of champagne and resume my post under the trees, eaves dropping on the "grown ups" (Teeny Mama and Miss Fancy, the reigning matriarchs). This has been my M.O. for years. The champagne is a more recent addition.  As a child, I found if you just stay quiet you can gain all kinds of information. The kiss of death is opening your mouth, resulting in quick expulsion to "play with the kids".

Soon the 3rd and 4th generation start milling around in a pack mentality. Hunger is setting in.  Trixie tells me it is paranormal to have this many people. (She loves big words. Abnormal may have been the word. or not. I digress). Boo gives the ok that all is ready. I fix Big Daddy's plate then bring out the HUGE basket of fried chicken. Amazing, almost paranormal, the effect  100 pieces of fresh fried chicken has on a group. As I walk over with a full plate and place it at the head of the table, I hear "what's The Fabulous Ma'am doing with a plate". I give the signal " When Big Daddy's plate hits the table, line up to fix your own
!" Luckily, I was away from the serving line because they stampeded from all locations.  This was comfort food heaven. I had joked that we should have bowls of Lipitor on the table in lieu of mints.

By the time I got to the table, the others had waited to eat like one dog waits for another. Not wanting the food to go unblessed, I raised my hands and said loudly, "God bless this food". Trixie cheered "Yay God!". I have her the 'death stare'. She gave me a baked beans smile.  Ever the good hostess, Boo finally dropped into her chair.  Our cousin The Deacon, asked a proper prayer, and the eating went into warp drive. Boo whispered to me "all the food is gone!". At this point, my handsome brother in law, Dennis Quaid, got up and offered a toast. To Teeny Mama and her chicken. Cheers!

Teeny Mama has been up before dawn, preparing to cook for the masses. Three electric frying pans going at once, this little lady cooked 20 pounds of chicken.  Still, there she was,  wearing a summer silk suit, pearls, and cute pumps, sipping champagne as if " oh, it was nothing".  At her happiest, with all the children around her, being the Mama. Always ready, willing, and able. She is the safe haven where the nearly grown children hide out , knowing she will plead their case. Hers is the bed where we all convene to have a sounding board and sympathy. She has a closet full of candles on stand by incase deep prayer is needed. She is the reason Big Daddy gets served before 23 other hungry bellies. Her job is to take care of him and us. And that never changes.

And then there is that chicken. All it takes is a request and she will make the most Southern of all meals. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, real biscuits and real butter. I try to get her to let me either cook or cater but she says the children want chicken and that's what they will get.

As the family peels away like slugs to rest up for the dessert round, I notice several "take home" containers, hidden in the kitchen, all filled with chicken and mashed potatoes. Teeny Mama has two grandchildren in college, so she made sure they would have something to eat later, Poor little darlings.

So today, The Fabulous Ma'am is home, swollen feet up, toes looking like Vienna sausages, planning for the next family gathering next Sunday. It will be Teeny Mama's birthday. My sibs and kids will be here and I will do the cooking. Tenderloin is on the menu. I would cook chicken, but they wouldn't eat it. It's only fried chicken if Mama does it.

Have a Blessed Easter.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

Quality time with my deer

I am taking a moment to check in readers, before I head up to the Hill Country with Tom B. My Beloved started talking about the need for us to get away. The oil well firefighting business is quiet right now, so Tom Berenger has free time and wants to spend quality time at Clear Creek Ranch. With The Fabulous Ma'am. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? This is the prettiest time of the year in the hills, bluebonnets in full bloom, temperatures mild. According to Tom B.  Serenity personified.

I begin packing the essential for the trip:moisturizer, sunscreen, incredible hat, stylish ranchwear. Then it happens. I notice TomB is also packing. 2 chainsaws, snakeboots, camo, and his ClearCreekRanch cap that has a light built into the bill. Clandestine calls to his ranch guru, The Captain begin. The Fabulous Ma'am is a quick study. I have seen this setup before. On the premise of "quality time", I have been tricked into thinking it meant quality time for me. Not so. Quality time for TomB and The Captain involves such incredibly fun things like moving tons of rocks with the tractor . Clearing brush and raggedy mesquite with the Husqvarna.Fixing fences, shooting snakes, and plowing are vacation events for this dynamic duo.

 Now I know you are thinking "Ma'am, the weather is beautiful and the flowers are blooming. It is the Hill Country after all." I thought the same until I contacted PatsyCline, (Mrs.Captain). PC informs me the temperature on April 8 was 95degrees. Since the entire state is in a drought, everything is dead. Except for the cedar which is in bloom. So much so that everything  is yellow with pollen and prescription strength Zyrtec is necessary just to drive through the ranch. One of the perks of the healthy blooming cedar is a condition not mentioned on the brochures that show the beauty of West Texas. Cedar Fever hits you rather quickly. You go from sneezing to watery eyes, to full blown killer-flu body aches and pains within about 15minutes. I need to remember to pack those little MichaelJackson masks. Luckily they are white and will work with all my outfits. I start amending my trousseau. Two pairs of sunglasses since my eyes will be too swollen to open in daylight. Two types of antihistamines, one to use and one for backup. Vicks Vaporub for my soon to be chapped nose. Carmex for my cracked but still full lips. Small personal fan to place 6 inches from my face since I need to ward off the feeling of suffocation. Long lens camera so I will be able to take pictures of Tom Berenger and the deer.

You thought deer season was over, right? Not when they are exotic Axis deer. Remember what Bambi looked like? Well Axis deer always keep their spots. And breed like rabbits. Eating the expensive feed The Captain buys for the white tail deer. So they can be hunted year round. Now you understand why Clear Creek Ranch is as close to nirvana as Tom B can get.

Men of habit, the Dynamic Duo return around 4pm and commence to mixing cocktails. At 5pm, the front field is flush with Axis who come loping up to the feeders. We toast to the good life as we listen to Marty Robbins music. The Captain is quick to remind us that Marty Robbins wrote the immortal "El Paso" while riding the highway that passes right in front of us.It really is pretty perfect.  Especially since the rule of the ranch is no hunting near the house. I  enjoy the beauty of these creatures without getting involved in the food chain heirarcy.

So at crack of dawn one day soon, I will embark on the springtime road trip to the Hill Country. My travel agenda has been altered to include a  stop in Fredericksburg, not has far west as CCR. . I want to sit outside under an umbrella and drink honey wine at one of the local vineyards. I'll delight at the blooming lavendar at the herbfarm, enjoy the brilliant contrast of the Indian Paintbrush against the waves of the Bluebonnets. These highways are a living tribute to Lady Bird Johnson's Keep America Beautiful, begun when we were children. So on this relaxing retreat we have to include a side trip to Luckenbach, a place suspended in time. For a while, we will be college students again, buying beer out of the back of the Luckenbach postoffice, listening to musicians who just show up, guitars and fiddles in hand, playing the music we grew up on. Back to the springtime of the 1970s. Unlike our last trip to Luckenbach, I WILL NOT be a contestant in the Armadillo Races. I will let my champion status at this sport stand.

God Bless Texas.

I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

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
.

When I Got Shot

Now don't freak out, the Fabulous Ma'am is safe and sound. I have not fallen victim to road rage or a random drive by at The Galleria. I have been asked by one of my followers about the common occurrence of getting shot . Let me say from the outset, that these were not crimes, just another high point in the life of a Southerner.

 The excitement surrounding a family member who has been shot is without peer. When my little Trixie was a pupil at Pine Valley Country Day School she quickly realized that when kin get shot, your get all the attention. Shots trump any other news. One of her classmates arrived with details of newborn baby sisters. Trixie burst into tears and announced " My Tiny Mama got shot!". Miss Nell, the head mistress, rushed to the tearful tot, and was told the details that  mother was in the hospital and "her got shot". When I arrived a few hours later, nonchalantly, the entire staff met me at the door. Miss Nell appeared, with a sleeping Trixie in her arms. She explained that under the circumstances, she had personally tended to my little one. "How is your mother? Trixie told us she was shot. What on earth has happened to our community when a nice lady like that is shot!" My mouth must have fallen open as I stood in shock. Had my mother been a victim of violence on her way to the Tik Tak? Had the hospital called the school trying to locate me? Soon the wheels started turning and I came to understand what story had been relayed to these poor teachers.  Yes, Tiny Mama was at the hospital. She did get shot.Flu Shot. Hospital Quick Clinic.

My father's  grandchildren proudly share the fact that Big Daddy has a bullet in his leg. They assume it was from olden days when he was a soldier. Not hardly. First of all,he was a little kid during the Big War so it was not a battle wound. Actually, the bullet didn't come from a gun. The real story behind this great myth of Big Daddy is just as weird.The truth is Big Daddy and his crew had the great idea that they could make a bullet blow up by hitting it with a hammer. After listening to Big Daddy talk with his family and childhood friends, it became clear that getting shot in our hometown of Southport during the course of play was not uncommon.  He never taught us any of his childhood games that required firearms, never encouraged us to tease each other with weapons.However, the fact that he was shot while playing seems like a  rather All- American boyhood  happening to him. . He never makes it sound like a dangerous , potentially lethal experience.They were experimenting and learning the logistics of armaments and the volatility of live ordinance. He is a living example of the rules of physics.He does have a bullet in his leg.
I think maybe this type of childhood is why Montessori Schools became so popular. Getting shot was part of country day care.

It should come as no surprise that I was able to find a husband so similar to Big Daddy that he, too, has been shot. Tom Berenger  carries shrapnel in his chest from a shotgun shell. That he hit with a hammer. Deja Vu or what?

Tom B's father was shot during a rabbit hunt with his older cousin ( he was 10, older cousin was 12). Evidently during the excitement of rabbit extermination, the .22 got away from Wayne William and the bullet got Tom Sr. Nobody got crazy, no police were involved, no Live at 5 report. Just no rabbit.

We have a family member who proudly told people " I have shot myself, stabbed, myself, and set myself on fire". All of these, were true.And no, he was not suicidal. Only difference from the rest of the family is he was a grown man. He shot himself in the leg while practicing quick draw on a hunting trip. He stabbed himself on a ski pole, and set himself on fire using lighter fluid on red ants. Like most good tabloid, the headline is much juicier than the full details.

I have been shot .It was when I was a Prisoner of War.  A Nazi as I recall, and my brother accidentally shot me in the finger with a b.b gun. According to the G.I. that pulled the trigger, I was trying to escape. This was clearly against the Geneva Convention, as my cousin G.Walter pointed out, higher authorities had to be informed. G. Walter was all too excited to go straight to the top with this report of open fire on a prisoner. The Commander of Operations would have to be involved. Especially since, for the first time, G.Walter was not the one about to be court martialed.

Sidebar: We played war all the time. This is before the idea that violence at an early age made you a psychopath. Since I was the only girl with all boy cousins, I was always either a Nazi or later, a Viet Cong gorilla. I preferred being a gorilla because then I got to climb trees and attempt Jane (as in Tarzan &Jane) moves on the huge wild grapevines in the woods behind our house. In the days prior to CNN, it was possible for a child to go about life without realizing that guerrillas and gorillas are not the same thing. I digress.

The Commander in Chief of the River Road Theater of Operations was my Granddaddy.  Rather than wait for the Nuremberg Tribunal to judge  my brother on charges of war crimes,  Old Daddy became the Weapon of Mass Destruction and wrapped the Red Ryder around a black walnut tree.  The next day, a new upgraded pellet gun was purchased at the Western Auto.  The NRA would be happy to know Second Amendment rights were not violated.

Times have changed and getting shot just isn't what it used to be. Still, we will always have fond memories of childhood in Carolina.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

Valentine's Day with The Bachelor

It's Monday, February 14, so I know I will be spending at least an hour with two dozen women and The Bachelor. I know what you're thinking. You think you have figured out who the Fabulous Ma'am really is? Sorry to disappoint. I am not the blonde girl from Georgia who has had husbands die in plane crashes and race car wipe outs. I am a member of a group of ladies from the burbs who share a special moment via the internet every Monday night. Wine is mandatory. Also, those extremely desperate chicks trying to get that mess of a man known as Brad The Bachelor are involved.
Right now my twisted sisters are feeding the family fast and furiously, chilling a tasteful bottle of vino, and getting ready to hunker down with flatscreen and laptop to take part in a running internet critique of every action on this bizarre reality show.
Now The Fabulous Ma'am has already admitted to a mild fascination with Housewives of Atlanta. Until now, I have kept this shady behavior to myself. The Bachelor Bunch is a different story. We have no shame. Since none of us are computer savvy enough to figure out how to "chat", we just get on Facebook and start a running commentary  as soon as the show starts.  If you have just been released from Gitmo and don't know the premise of the show, here's the short version: hard up girls with tramp stamps play, plan, and plot for the affection of a clean looking guy that supposedly has a job and wants to marry someone. Pretty much anyone that can make it to the end of the show. A pivotal point in the show is the hot tub. Hot tub performance can make or break it for a would be bride. The Bachelor always gives credit for the hot tub round. Usually just before he dumps you. A classic line sounds something like " First, of all. I want you to know what you did in the hot tub was world-class. BUT........". You can fill in the blank with phrases such as " I wouldn't introduce you to my parents with a gun to my head you are such a freak. But I will always remember what we had." Sometimes The Bachelor cries. This makes The Bunch go crazy. We can tolerate a lot. But a crying man just doesn't work. MAN UP!!!! You have a house full of easy marks and you're crying? Where are you from?  Mama's boy? Sorry, that was insensitive.
Right now there is a crazy stalker chick ( there is ALWAYS a crazy stalker chick) and she has plans of physically hurting people if they get between her and The Bachelor. The strange part is the guy is kind of freaked out by her but still gives her the cheesy rose. Speaking of the rose, you would think they would be some fine, huge American Beauty roses. Last week the roses looked like they were part of the bargain bin from Kroger. Crooked and skinny. I know this is a minor point, but these women are fighting for the grocery rose like it was the Hope Diamond.  What is happening to our world when healthy, attractive girls are so hard up for a date , they will do anything ( and I do mean anything) to get picked out like a puppy by a guy who has had more hands on him than a basketball in the playoffs!
Granted, I am a charter member of a group of gawkers that prove there is an interest . But then again, look at the fans of NASCAR. Just saying.
Gotta go. I have 10 minutes to give Tom Berenger his Valentine dinner ( shrimp creole I picked up from the Cajun Market) and his romantic present : a box of bullets for the 9mm.
That's amore'.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

Possums and Princesses

Tonight I attempt my biggest organization tackle since the garage episode landed me on steroids and a heating pad. That bastion known as the Play Box. I went through the first pass, sorting out the four versions of Tickle Me Elmo (Chicken Dance Elmo, Hawaiian Elmo, BellyLaugh Elmo, and the all time favorite Baby Elmo). Baby Elmo made the cut, the other Elmos went in the Other Little Girl Box. The Other Little Girl Box is the result of Trixie being the end of the line of children in my family. She received all the "handy downs" from my nieces so when she outgrows her fabulous togs, I tell her it is time for them to go to another little girl. Thus, the OTLGB.

 Next came baby clothes (last baby will be 10 in April). Here, I really became ruthless. Rumba pants, crinoline(anyone who has ever worn one, knows the best thing you can do is give it away),monogrammed diaper covers, headbands with bows that were supposed to keep strangers from saying "what a pretty little boy", ruffle socks, slippers, I was on a roll. Screeching halt. Baby ballet shoes and first tap shoes. not ready for those to go. Back on track, the clothes that still have tags but are 3 sizes too small. Easy call as additions to the Other Little Girl Box.  The Italian leather Mary Janes. I took a moment, remembering how cute she looked in those on the one day they were ever worn. Off they go to the OLGB. Converse tennis shoes with flames on the sides, maybe I should bronze them. No, I get a grip, they need to go. You can only have so many bronze shoes. I mean the hard bronzed kind, not the supple leather perfections with 4 inch heels, those know no bounds. I digress.
Finally, we get to the dress up box. The fairy wings that have a hole in them where Trixie got stuck in the tree have served their purpose. Off they go.  I spy something that looks suspiciously like Snow White's dress. OMG It survived! I made it 15 years and 3 little girls ago. Next to it is the beautiful blue satin of the Cinderalla ball gown I made for Halloween 1995. That little girl is now 5'11, so this probably won't see action in this house again. So I think. On que,Tunisa shows up with her BFF Holly GoLightly. Holly is a sprite who covets Trixie's cool hat collection. After seeing the Snow White costume, she pleads the case that she can wear it for Halloween. Or just in general. Alas, Snow White and Cinderella are saved.  She nabs a pair of Hello Kitty pajamas, and off they go. I'm making progress. Then Trixie comes in.

"Ma'am! That is my favorite thing! How can we give that to the Other Little Girl? Here, give her your creepy baby doll instead.". Baby Girl is my doll that my father bought when I was born. She is the Picture of Dorian Grey. While I'm still looking good, Baby Girl is showing our age. And , for some, it is not pretty. First of all, she has an eye that used to close but now is stuck in mid-blink. She used to drink a bottle and then  wet her diaper just like a REAL baby. That is, until she peed on my brother and he put a BB in her mouth. Urinary issue solved. Her ears show where my grandmother pierced them with pearl earrings that were really sewing pins.  Baby Girl has some issues with her fingers where someone seemed to teethe on her. She is currently wearing a smocked Feltman Brothers dress that originally belonged to Tunisa. One sock is still on, the other long gone. She has travelled more than most people. My first international flight, I wore a yellow dress with a white double embroidered organdy pinafore and Baby Girl wore a batiste sleeping gown. We both got Pan Am wings from the stewardess.  ( The yellow dress and pinafore are in the closet that stores evening clothes and Tom Berenger's tuxedo).  Trixie turns the poor BabyGirl's  head around so it faces the wall and continues on her rescue mission of her favorite things. Beanie babies are the first to go. Next, Webkins that Trixie tells me are "so 15 minutes ago" . (Where does this child get this). Her collection of baby dolls,  Old School. They quickly go in the big box.

Then she spies it. The red velvet emperor robe. I LOVE THIS!  The crown that went with it was eaten by the dog but the pointed princess hat of the Rapunzil dress is still with us, so it substitutes for imperial garb. She stuff tiny panties into the pointy hat so it stands up straight. In her regal robe and pantyfilled princess hat , she heads downstairs to show Da (aka TomB). She settles in with him to watch a National Geographic special, looking like the Imperial Wizard. I come down just in time to see Tom B outside with some creature who is trying to get away. Trixie, in Wizard outfit, has my phone and is squeeling as she videos her Da and the fattest possum I have ever seen. Tom B is bouncing the critter by its tail, making sure the needle teeth of this mad marsupial don't chomp into him.  Trixie is steadily videoing, giving commentary that rivals when TV reporters talk with the folks who have just lost the trailer to the tornado. "This is awesome, people". The girl knows the importance of seizing the moment and rousing the excitement of her potential audience. The child sounds like the excited radio reporter with the Hindenburg. I'm watching the whole thing, trying to decide which is funnier. Tom B and his possum or his cinematographer dressed like a Klansman.

"Can we keep him, Ma'am"? "This is the best". "Da is the MAN". Clearly he is her hero. Or is it the possum? When she opens the door and gets ready to run  out to pet the possum, this memorable moment comes to a screeching halt. I hear my mother's voice saying "don't you touch that thing! It has rabies. It will bite you and you will start foaming at the mouth and then what am I going to do". Wait. Tiny Mama isn't here. I must be channeling her!

 I'm having an out of body experience as I watch this mini-me vibrate with joy and excitement.  For a moment, I am that little girl so fired up , knowing I am the luckiest girl in the world.   Anybody can be a princess, but a possum owner is as close to heaven as one could ever hope for. "Come scrub your hands with soap! Possums carry leprosy! The Home Owner's Association will not allow possums!". Tiny Mama's voice is back. Trixie is me. I am Mama.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
I am my mother, after all.

I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

Bunker Mentality In the Burbs

The sun is up in Houston and we didn't fall victims of global warming. I still don't understand that whole idea. If we are globally warmed, then why am  I wearing Uggs in my sunroom? ANYWAY, Josie Feliciano is back today and we are on another mission of reorganization. I use the term "we" loosely. I made the unorganization, and it means job security for Josie if I just make "baby steps" in this therapeutic endeavor.

The past few days the grocery stores have been packed with freaked out Houstonians buying supplies for survival as they go into "bunker mode". The first store to show the terror, as usual , is Spots. Liquor Store. This is a huge store that offer not only the best assortment of  potent potables, but also a smorgasboard of high fat, decadent yumminess. Also, an impressive humidor, so if you need to drag on a Dunhill during the devastion, this is the place. If push comes to shove,it is possible to prepare for Armagedon with one stop shopping. Pay cash and you get a discount.

When the weather gets in mass destruction mode,  Tom Berenger has to be on emergency mode/lock down with his oil field fire fighting gig ,leaving me to fend for myself. Sort of. I checked in with Tiny Mama and Big Daddy, just in case my power goes out and was able to get a reservation with them early. This is key to survival. Always be prepared. This also shows the importance of calling before your siblings beat you to it. My brother, The Baby Jesus, lives in the city, so if he gotto her  first, Tiny Mama would be busy killing the fatten calf, arranging his pictures, and making sure everything was perfect for the Second Coming and Spouse. He will probably be tired and need a nap after that 20 minute hell on the freeway, so Tiny Mama will have his room dark, with the sheets turned down. Did I mention he is the only son?

If my younger sib, Boo gets her call in first, or more likely goes stealth mode and starts sending in the beloved grandchildren/name sakes, then I'm gonna end up in the back seat of  Big Daddy's Explorer. Luckily, I know where the can of Planter's Peanuts are kept in the console, and since I'll be in their garage, I will be able to make trips to the garage refrigerator.
Upside to being in the garage,  I won't have to listen to my mother's "boyfriend" Bill O'Reilley or venture into THE NO SPIN ZONE during my frigid evacuation.Just exploring my options made me think I better take inventory of just what we did have on hand in case of a blizzard. I have read about the Donner Party, and I could easily become veal if Big Daddy has to go too long without pigskins or ice cream.

I found 6 different types of cocoa. Since I have a gas stove, I would be able to prepare a chocolate fondue, chocolate truffles, or just do a little chocolate molding like the Barefoot Contessa is currently demonstrating on HGTV.
Next, 8 jars of Cajun Injector Spicy marinade. Hmmmm. Don't think I'll be frying any turkeys since I haven't already gotten the basics for that recipe: Eight 10lb turkey and 5 gallons of peanut oil. But from the looks of my pantry, I had planned on it at one point.

Roasted red peppers, Sundried tomatoes, 3 half packages of jumbo pasta shells, 2 silver envelopes with the "cheese stuff" written in Sharpie pen. After a second I recognize these are the packages that come in Kraft Macaroni&Cheese and Tunisa has eaten the box of pasta but abstained from the cheese. She also abstained from cooking it. A weird thing that her father, The Baby Jesus, used to do. At any rate,  pasta is a possibility.

4 pounds of confectioner's sugar. Put that with the cocoa and I'm thinking fudge.Just found 4 cans of Eagle Brand sweetened condensed milk. Fudge is a real possibility. Not traditional, but certainly worthy of a church cookbook variation.

3 gallons of Major Peter's Bloody Mary mix. Why do we still have this? How long does Bloody Mary mix last. I could heat this up and call it soup. Or, nab that big jar of Jumbo Olives, use the partial bottles of Vodka, and attempt to dull the fear of impending disaster. All the way around, this works.

4 pounds of raw sugar. Those brown boxes were hiding in the back. That's why I keep buying it. I buy raw sugar because, as you can tell, I keep my body a temple, and am very picky about what I eat. I only use half&half with turbinado with my morning Nescafe'. Before you start feeling superior that I don't have one of those French-press deals or that fancy schmancy one shot-one cup coffee makers that everyone who is ANYONE has, let me share this tidbit. The Queen of England drinks Nescafe'. If it's good enough for one's monarch, it is good enough for the Fabulous Ma'am.

Cake flour, bleached &unbleached flour, self rising, and all purpose, plus a 4 pound bag (formerly 5 pound bag before our current unfortunate financial climate) of Dixie Crystal, and 10XX Superfine sugar. Crepes are a possibility. Or if I start right now, I can crank out some poundcakes for the duration.

6 jars of maraschino cherries. They don't look so good. Must be from a Mardi Gras party where they were key to the Planters Punch. Oops! Just found a jar that says Madagascar Vanilla Beans. So that's what happened to them. I open the jar and find what looks like fat earthworms that mistakenly got on the flagstone and died. Not to be wasteful, I put them in a cup and add a splash of Dripping Springs Texas Vodka.Those worms are expensive! In theory, they should plump up and then I can go to the next step of putting them in a decorative jar of sugar which I will use on  just everything. Barefoot Contessa is my guru.She gave me this advice. She is a little chubby, so you know she is cooking all that stuff. She seems fun.Also, unlike some other domestic megabrand whose name will not be mentioned, Ina has a husband. And no prison time. I digress.

After perusing the pantry, I realize that if we lose electricity, I could easily find myself with 3 freezers thawing out all manner of God's creatures that Tom Berenger has shot, speared,hooked,or trapped. Let me stop right here and say that I do not eat what he kills. My theory is as long as there is a Piggly Wiggly, I do not need to track and kill dinner. I will not eat a face I have looked at. Not vegan, just citified. Let him be the chef on "Critter of the Day".

Happily, it is now 50 degrees. I plan to finish harvesting my frozen lemons and spin the juice out with my cool little  juice weasel. Since we are not going to die of the coming Ice Age,  I have found pleasure in knowing that my home is equipped for a pleasant survival.
Take the fresh lemonade,2 shots Vodka,  1 shot Cointreau,place in cocktail shaker, shake over ice. Rim the tastefully selected stem of glassware with lemon juice, follow with sugar, pour out a celebratory Lemondrop Martini.
Cheers to you my little survivalist.
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

Freezing at the 29th parallel

It's a phenomenon not seen in these parts in years. Too early, and too often to be a hurricane? Right you are. It is the weirdness that embraces the Great State of Texas when we get the exciting/frightening/" fix me a martini kind of news known as Potential Snow Flurries. As you may have heard, last weekend was nearly 80degrees and beautiful. I, the Fabulous Ma'am, decided to go uber domestic and work on my garage. My  housekeeper Josie Feliciano, was make great progress inside, happily doing some salsa to the beat of the Hoover, so I felt it best to get out of her way. The garage was calling.

Tom Berenger was at the gun range ( we have a new recreation center that is loosely based on a Chuckie Cheese place. Replace Big Gulps with Beer, and that scarey Mouse show with shooting ranges and you pretty well can see the appeal) so I had time on my hands and needed to feel I was tackling my organizational impairments. Things started out slowly but soon I was in my happy place. Stacking, packing, organizing, just like on HGTV. Had the box of clothes for the resale shop that mysteriously kept leaving, visiting Josie's Ford Focus, and returning empty. Can't really see Josie in size 9, 3 inch mules, but she seemed so accomodating today, who was I to stop the dream? After 4 trips to the Focus, I was seeing a clear path and Josie had made her last dance around the living room. I came in, took a shower, and started dinner .Company would arrive at 8pm. Around 5:30, I noticed my back was a little stiff. Grabbing a pinch of a muscle relaxer, I stopped to moisturize before going downstairs to the pork tenderloin. An hour later, TomB gets home, showers, and starts the first batch of Lemondrop martinis. My back wasn't doing the rebound I had hoped for,so I sipped a little martini in hopes of a synergistic effect. Now, I know what you're thinking. The Fabulous Ma'am is living dangerously.Not to worry. Let me explain.

 This medical advice came years ago from an elderly neighbor who told me that when caught in dire straights, such as pain and hosting a party at the same time, you should look up what constitutes an overdose of pain meds , and then take 2 less.  Wait an hour, check for a pulse,  and then have a drink. Since this woman had been such an influence on my early married life, I always took her advice.  The lady in reference was Mrs.Owen. Not Owens, Owen. No S.  She lived across the street from me. 85 if a day when I moved in, she always gardened with her HUGE diamond rings in her brassiere. She said they were the only 2 suckers a girl could trust.  She drove one of those schoolbus length Lincoln Towncars that you get when you have white Barbara Bush hair, a small handgun, and hard liquor at 5pm. Mr.Owen had passed away decades before but continued to represented in the boudoir through a portrait that hung over her bed. She said if he couldn't be in the bed, he would always be over it. On her dresser,a framed picture of Ronald Reagan. The only two men she would ever have considered sharing a bedroom with.
Mrs. Owen taught me the importance of having a sterling pattern that matched your mother's and sister. That way, you could easily accomodate a seating of 36 without any worry. It is important to be prepared. Also, place your tablecloth on the table as soon as it is pressed, a fold line down the middle is acceptable, but by spraying a mist of water, it will settle. Also, you should have your T-Bills with a man your husband trusts. ( at this time in my larvae state, I didn't know what a T-Bill was, let alone who my husband would trust with one or some. How did T-Bills come, anyway? Did you get them in eaches or dozens, or just how?) Since we lived in a neighborhood that was built in the late 1920s, Mrs. Owen had once been a newlywed on the street and now felt it her duty to make sure this generation of new housewives avoided the pitfalls that she had already manuvered.  When my neighbor down the street announced she was expecting a baby, Mrs.Owen said "A baby. My Word! You've not even been on vacation".

 She was quick to come running across the street when she saw me pulling weeds. She said she was hoping to find the reason for me being on hands and knees, was morning sickness. When I explained I had not been on vacation so this was not a possibility, she was livid. This did not look good. I should not be seen looking like a field hand. Where was my man? My husband, she wanted to know where was my husband? Why would she be looking for him?  No!!! Your MAN. The person whom you trust with pruning, planting, and transplanting. My Man. My Mr.Winston. That's who she was looking for. My Man.

Mr.Winston looked like he had been in grammar school with Mrs.Owen. Together they made sure her corner lot of Thomas Road was always perfectly manicured. She knew the name of every type of magnolia tree that grew in Jefferson County. Her daylilies were legend and you knew you had been accepted into her world when you opened your door and found bundles of lily stalks, wrapped in the morning newspaper. Mr.Winston would be back across the street, ready to wave when the gift was received and then report back to Mrs. Owen.

Mrs. Owen had come from a community in Houston known as Rice. Mr.Winston had come from Rice when God was a boy to tend Mrs.O. He traveled back to West Rice University twice a month to make sure  Mrs.Owen's daughter's yard was also acceptable in that realm of propriety. Little Miss Owen, we heard, had a crew that worked under the supervision of Mr.Winston. This daughter was born when Mrs.Owen was 45 years old. Mrs. O. told me the day  Dr.Rubenstein gave her the news, she went to her attorney and made out her will, and then made reservations for dinner at the country club. She knew she would die and wanted everything planned out for Mr.Owen. He was a busy man.

Now I know you are thinking "Driving Miss Daisy". Not hardly.  Mr.Winston rode in the back, braced for flight, as Mrs. Owen slammed the pedal to the metal and made the 80 mile trip in under an hour.  On one of their trips to Houston, Mrs.Owen felt she might be having a heart attack, so instead of pulling over or even letting Mr.Winston drive, she continued on the 610 Loop until she came to an acceptable neighborhood. When the Lincoln finally came to a stop at the ER of Twelve Oaks Hospital, Mr.Winston went on a stretcher right next to Mrs. Owen. She was having chest pains, but he was verging on a heart attack. Both were back in the front yard in the spring.


I loved to visit for a "toddy" and listen to her speak of a time long ago. Randolph(Mr.O) and Mrs. O were both "old South money" but had known bad times. In her living room hung a shadow box with an elaborate fan displayed in it. She said it had come from Randolph's people, originally from the French branch of the family.The court of Marie Antoinette (Mrs. O felt Marie was a hussy. I digress). During the Great Depression, Mrs. Owen noticed Randolph taking it off the wall and wrapping it as if a package. He explained a man from New Orleans was offering $500 for the fan, and it made more sense to make the deal, than to worry and hold onto something that was frivilous. Mrs. Owen said they would always regret the sale, the money would be gone, better times would come, and the fan was part of the family heritage. She personally found it borderline vulgar, but it was from Randolph's people.  Somethings, memories, are worth more than money. As always, she was right. She and the heirloom fan outlasted the Great Depression, The War, the other wars, and eventually Randolph. And Ronald Reagan. 

When I walked over one morning and told  her I was leaving the neighborhood she was quiet. She asked me not to share any details, it didn't matter. It wasn't her business. Besides, she had known him longer than I had and greatly preferred me. He was not considerate about the sound of his car on a Sunday morning while she shared time with Billy Graham.

My winter in the neighborhood with Mrs. Owen and Mr.Winston was my first experience of being a homeowner during a snowy ,hard freeze. For some reason, today's impending freeze makes me think of being that naive housewife. I remember Mr.Winston came over and wrapped my pipes, covered my camellias, and asked that I watch to make sure Mrs. Owen didn't drive. He had hidden the keys but he knew if she got it in her mind, she would get that car started.

Today, I sound more like Mrs Owen than the person who learned so much over mixed drinks. It didn't work out being a housewife. I wasn't meant to be a spouse to a house. I was meant to be strong, formidible, large & in charge. Tom Berenger is The Man. And he knows it's best not to be in the backseat when The Fabulous Ma'am is  behind the wheel. I can't drive 55. But that is another story for another time.Stay warm,
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am

Putting on the Grits

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

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.

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.

Tom Berenger's Birthday Bash

My honey, Tom B. will be having a birthday on Monday. Like many people who have the bad luck of having a birthday near a holiday, TomB was not used to having his birthday be a big deal. Until, that is, he became the luckiest man in the world and married the Fabulous Ma'am. I love any reason for a theme party. Of course, Christmas is easy because it comes with it's own theme. Thanksgiving can go with the pumpkins & turkeys,and the trend-setting Pilgrims who gave us the original black&white palette. However, these days Thanksgiving is known as the "Harvest Festival". If I have my history correct, isn't it the fact that the Pilgrims were not good on the harvest thing and got rescued by the Indians who took pity on them. Why then, do we not see any decoration with the Indians? Now that they are PC and known as Native Americans, things just get all jumbled up since we are supposed to be celebrating the first American holiday but we would have to admit we were squatters. Right?
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.