To collapse in a heap, Episode 2

So, I left off where Day 1 in Boston ended, but there are a couple of things I left out: We had to get up ungodly early to catch the shuttle to the airport, so by the time we were done with dinner and about to head over to Fenway, I was exhausted. I've never done this, but I fell dead asleep on the hotel bed, face-down, and stayed right there for an hour and a half. That's crazy tired.

So, when the game was over that night, I was ready for bed. Besides that, we had to get up kinda early to see a few sights before our Fenway Park tour. Since there's a Dunkin' on every corner in Boston, we grabbed breakfast and coffee (there coffee is surprisingly good, but I forgot to ask for splenda instead of sugar with my coffee, so it was ridiculous sweet, but good nonetheless).

We ate, walked around Yawkey Way and the neighborhood nearby, where there is a community garden that was so cool. Since I live in a state best known for its wide-open spaces, I had never been familiar with not having my own backyard. Some of the plots were beautiful, with koi ponds and climbing roses. Others had neat little rows of veggies, and maybe a stool to sit on and contemplate.

We headed back to the Fenway area, which is so neat because the ballpark is literally carved into the neighborhood. In the area we saw:



Manny Who? (Shortly after Manny Ramirez left Boston for the greener pastures of LA)



So, we went on a very cool tour of Fenway Park with a very knowlegeable young lady named Christina (I think) and we got to go to some really cool areas of the park that I'd probably never get to go unless I bought a heinously over-priced ticket to be there.



From the top of the right-field deck ...



From the 406 club boxes looking at the retired numbers (this was before they retired Johnny Pesky (# 6)...



And of course...



From the left-field foul pole atop the Green Monster.



Best. Tour. Ever.

So, from Fenway we decided to go to Cheers after a beer at the Cask n' Flagon. We also thought we would walk, which is very ambitious because it's REALLY FRIGGIN' FAR!



We got to Cheers, and of course, it was packed. Nobody knew our names, either. Well, besides Norm, nobody knew us.



We hung out for a while with the Cheers gang ...



And then we went on a stroll through Boston Commons.









And then we did some window shopping. I then spied a yarn store!



Then we hoofed it back to a subway station and made it back to our hotel to change and get ready for the game. So, we get to the ballpark and there's all sorts of crazy fun going on.



And Dave and I are drinking a few Octoberfest Sam Adams and we start to get really hungry. We're standing in the beer line, though, not the food line (priorities?) when this guy gets in line behind us with THREE sausage dogs, done up just like I like 'em (plenty of peppers and onions with spicy dijon mustard). Dave turns around and asks him where he got the dogs, and the guy says "You can have this one for $5." Now, I don't know about you, but I have this thing about second-hand food/drink. So we just laughed it off. But the guy was serious. Which is kinda gross. His friend shows up and we all start joking around and Dave says we're from Texas, and the guy says, "I'd have never guessed! You don't sound Texan, but you [me] do a little." WTF? No one says I have an accent. If I have a Texas accent, then Dave sounds like one of the Waltons.

Anyway. We get dogs, we couch our asses down in our excellent seats, and we proceed to watch the longest game I've ever attended. It was 14 innings. Fourteen riveting innings.

I once saw Josh Beckett pitch when he was still in high school, pitching for the Spring Lions. He's still got it.



And we saw Terry Francona get up in an official's face ...



and we saw Kevin Youkilis and his funky stance.



But nothing was more beautiful than cheering with the dedicated fans of Boston for 14 innings. We lit up Fenway until we couldn't anymore.



After that, it was showers and bed, because we had to get up early for the journey to NYC.

More on that, next time...

Planes, trains, automobiles and baseball: Chapter 1

Looking back on what I have started calling "Baseball Odyssey 2008," I now realize that it was a once-in-a-lifetime gig, and that I didn't take enough pictures (I took over 700, yet still that ended up not being enough). I had a great time going places I've never been and eating/drinking things I've never consumed/imbibed, but there's one thing that I can't quite reckon with: Why didn't we just stay in upstate NY? There's plenty of homes for sale...

Anyway. Just as an overview, it went like this: Tusday morning we left D/FW International Airport for Boston. After two days in Boston we left via Amtrak headed to NYC. After three days in NYC we headed to Albany via Amtrak, rented a car at Albany International Airport and drove to Cooperstown, NY. After three and a half days in Cooperstown, we drove back to Albany and departed from Albany Int. to Chicago O'Hare for a (woefully unavoidable) three-hour layover, and then departed Chicago for D/FW.

Now, We left for Boston from D/FW on Tuesday Sept. 9, the fucking day before Hurricane Ike decided to wipe Galveston off the Texas Gulf Coast and shortly after Hurricane Gustav gave Baton Rouge, La., a run for its money. So, needless to say, there was a lot of stormy weather on the coast. Also, with stormy weather comes bumpy flights. Did I mention that Dave doesn't fly all to well. He took a Xanax before we took off, but I still have some slight bruises on my thigh from where he was gripping my leg like it was the only thing keeping him in the plane.

So we land in Boston, ditch our stuff at the hotel after a rather hot and unpleasant subway ride, hop on another subway headed toward the government district area thingy (near city hall) only to find the warm, sunny weather we encountered upon landing in Boston had all the sudden turned into this:



Seriously, in this picture the rain is actually coming down sideways. So, I think to myself, "Self, you've got a new bag on and nothing to keep you dry other than the fleece jacket you just happened to grab before leaving the hotel. You're wearing clogs and long pants, too. You're going to be soaked. Why not wait it out a bit, hm?"

So we waited, at least until I couldn't stand the hunger any longer and the rain at least wasn't nearly so horizontal. We made a mad dash for the Union Oyster House, huddled in a booth and had the best clam chowder I've ever tasted, some oysters on the half shell, and we split some kind of fish casserole that was pretty tasty.

While we're both filling up on good food and the freshest Sam Adams I've ever had, we asked the waitress if the rain is going to clear in time for the Red Sox/Rays game. She said, "Oh yeah, of cowahse. This is nahthin'!" If I've learned anything from my travels, it's trust the locals. I'll be damned if it didn't clear up just before game time. There was a little sprinkling during one of the middle innings, just before the seventh-inning stretch, too, but it was nothing since we were sitting under the covered portion of the grandstands, which happens to be one of the best places to watch the Sox play.



Here, you see the beginnings of my vacation sock. I pretty much took it everywhere, and had it almost finished by the time we touched down back in Dallas. Is it shameful that it took me almost a full week to finish one sock? Maybe, but I don't care. Every time I put on these socks (once they're done, of course) I'm going to be reminded that one of them has been on a journey with me. Pretty cool!

So, our first night in Boston was pretty great, with the exception of the fact that the Sox lost and that it rained. It was Fenway Park, really, that puts you in a good mood no matter what the game's outcome. That ballpark seems alive. Or perhaps it's the fans that make it seem that way. Whether a favorable call, a base hit, as run on a sac fly or the amazing homerun that Jason Bay hit off of the Green Monster while we were there, the people around you, these complete strangers, are there to cheer and to celebrate and to watch this great game with you. From the press box to the box seats, Sox fans make Fenway Park breathe. They give it a voice of its own. It's like nothing I've ever seen.



Next Post, Day two in Boston...

I miss him already

When I was about to leave work today, I got a frantic call from Dave.

"Hey, I'm kind of worried that Mr. Orange got out earlier and hasn't come back yet."

"What time did he get out?"

"About 3 p.m., when I got back from Target and was letting the dogs out."

"That's only about 3 hours. He'll be back soon. He always comes back. I'm trying to wrap things up here, but we'll look for him when I get home. Try not to worry. OK?"

The thing is, it's past 11 p.m. and there's still no sign of Mr. Orange.

Where'd you go, little buddy?



We miss you.

UPDATE: Dave was about to go to bed last night at 2:30 a.m. He decided to check the bowl of food we left on the front porch for Mr. Orange. Still no kitty. So he decided, just in case, to check the back door. Here comes Mr. Orange, casually strolling up to the door like nothing ever happened. Dave snatched him up and brought him to me in bed and then set the little orange adventurer on my belly. He was back, and I swear to Pete, he's never going outside again.

The Three Rs

Rested, Revitalized and Recharged.

I'm back in Big D after a much-needed nine-day desk sabbatical on the East Coast. Get ready for a huuuuuuuuuuuge update with a gazillion pictures and some surprises!

Missed y'all!

I don't know how they did it

Many years ago there was this thing called company loyalty. Often times people worked for the same company IN THE SAME JOB for years and years, usually until they collected a retirement pension and shot everyone the bird while saying "Siyonara, mo fos!" (I made that last part up.)

Today, this is unheard of. Acutally, many people still try to grasp for the role of up and coming pensioner in the U.S., but in the U.K. and in Canada, and I think pretty much anywhere else that has socialized medicine, employment is much more transitional. People are often on contract for a limited period, and after that's up they are left to the fates. Unemployment in the U.S. is a hugely feared condition, mostly because unemployment means no health care.

Not that I think that transitional or contract/short-term employment is a good thing, though I think more people in America would go that route in lieu of being in a stifling job if we had national healthcare.

Checking my list

Goals and aspirations mean nothing without a little friend I call motivation. I got a couple of things done this past three-day blitz of laziness, though I didn't rock my entire list.

1) Make an old pair of jeans into a jean skirt. (Made an AWESOME jean skirt out of an old pair of stretch Levis! Love this so much I think I'll take it on vacation with me!)



2) Finish knitting my socks. (Oh yes I did. Yet something else I love so much I'm thinking of taking them on vacation with me!)



3) Finish knitting my sister's fingerless mittens. (Don't hate. I didn't get this done but I made some serious progress.)

4) Expand the chicken coop's run. (Yeah, so it was 100-plus degrees outside, and well... I'm not big on sweating.)

5) Yoga, yoga, yoga. (Did some yoga. Worked mostly on my inversions.)

6) Start on another knitting project. (I started on a fingering weight pair of plain vanilla socks for Dave out of OnLine 75% wool 25% viscose yarn. Yay socks!)

Caffeine free and easy?

I think that the key to happiness is balance. Small meals during the day balances out a huge plate of chili for dinner with gingerbread a la mode for dessert. Taking a break from physical exertion for a week balances out the insane amount of walking I'll be doing during my vacation. A liter of coffee in the morning balances out the beer and wine I'll be drinking that afternoon, although, getting a mad case of the mid-afternoon latte shakes isn't all that attractive.

So, on Thursday we awoke to no coffee in the coffee pot. This throws everything out of balance. We grind the beans and pour in the filtered water the night before so there will be coffee ready for the two of us to make it to work without murdering small woodland creatures on the roadways. No coffee, no peace for squirrels.

I tried troubleshooting the damn thing on Thursday night, but still no luck. Something is wrong with the system of tubes that connects the reservoir to the drip basket. All worrying about coffee and no coffee makes Jo a very curiously angry girl.

So no coffee on Thursday morning, but I would be damned if I had no coffee on Friday morning, so I ground up some beans at home and brought enough to make a pot at work, though I staged it as one of those "treats" for your coworkers. "Lookee, everyone! I brought gourmet coffee for the office! Nevermind the coincidence that my eyes are barely open. I have dibs!"

Though, without access to the office pot, I had to get inventive this weekend -- a three-day weekend for me at that. So, I'm using my Bodum press instead of a regular coffee pot. It's not bad coffee. It's actually the opposite of bad coffee. The only thing is, it's very strong coffee. Where it would normally take me a good 5 or 6 cups to give me a decent case of the latte shakes, I'm over-caffeinated in only two or three. Yipes!

---------------------------------------------------

With a three-day weekend now half-wasted, I'm looking for things I've been meaning to do but haven't.

(I say it's half-wasted, but yesterday was awesome. Dave and I woke up and drank strong coffee, ate french toast coated in our backyard eggs with homemade wheat bread, hung around doing a few chores until we were hungry again, went to Souper Salad and gorged ourselves with healthy food. I had a nice nap, woke up and watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in bed. Went on a nice long walk just before dusk with the dogs, came home and cooked baked potatoes, had a beer and knitted until I was sleepy. Awe. Some.)

Some things I've been wanting to do:

1) Make an old pair of jeans into a jean skirt.
2) Finish knitting my socks
3) Finish knitting my sister's fingerless mittens
4) Expand the chicken coop's run
5) Yoga, yoga, yoga
6) Start on another knitting project (maybe a hat, maybe a scarf, maybe another pair of socks, who knows!)

All alone in my pajamas

Well, technically here at the House of England, you're never alone. There's always something furry or feathered about.

Just after lunch today I started to feel sick to my stomach. Not the vomity kind of sick, but the real, painfully pervasive, I-can't-stand-up-straight-because-it-hurts sick to my stomach. After running through a few things with a coworker, I went home to dive into my flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt.

Still, I have no idea what I ate or did that would do this to me. I'm still very much in an blerg-y state, and have only been able to eat two pieces of wheat toast and half of a Sprite Zero, totally uncharacteristic for me. Another bummer, I haven't been to yoga this week. I miss my yoga.

Dave is out at the Tom Petty show tonight with our neighbor friends and one of his buddies. So it's me and the furs. As I look around, I realize what awful pet parents we are.

First, there is the state of Hornsby's bed. It is far beyond just unmade:



Then there is the fact that the two of our chickens have fowl pox. I'm sure they'll be fine, and in Texas, it's kind of unavoidable with all of the mosquitoes, but that doesn't make me feel any better for my birds.

And to top it off, Mr. Orange still hasn't learned how to put a wristwatch on properly.



Dawsey, though, thinks I'm just being silly. Here she's telling me that worrying is futile, just take a nap by the window and shut up, you crazy wench.



Oh well...

Dear Time Warner Cable,

Hey guys! This is Miss Dallas! Good to talk to you guys again. What? You don't remember me? You have a lot of customers, I'm sure, but I doubt you could forget me. I ordered RoadRunner High-Speed cable Internet from you guys not too long ago. I knew you would remember!

Well, I have a slight problem. I mean, your network is fast and all, but when it rains, well, there is no network. You see, the guys you bought your infrastructure from, you remember Comcast, right? Well, they never really upgraded it, so now when it rains, the network cable takes on water through these teensy weensy holes in its sheath, and voila, no Internet.

Now, I know this is troubling, because every time I call you guys when it rains I have to wait forever to bitch at you for not replacing the cable. I'm sure you missed my rants because it hasn't rained in some time, but we've been deluged here as of late, and well, all this rain with no internet makes Miss Dallas a very cranky girl.

I hope this isn't too much to ask, but I'm paying for Internet access whenever I need it, and that could be at any time during the day, perhaps even all day, maybe even when it rains. To not have that service means I'm not getting what I'm paying for, and that means that you're not doing your job.

There are two ways this can go. I can continue to hound you guys when it rains and you can upgrade your infrastructure, or you can just go fuck yourself and I can take my high-speed internet needs elsewhere like many of your other customers have done once they get sick of your outages when we get even the slighest precipitation.

All the best,

Miss Dallas

Until the clouds part

Today started out gloomy in more ways than one. This morning I was greeted with more rain. Rain on top of rain that we've had for four days straight. It's like Mother nature left the faucet on while she was brushing her teeth. "Ohmygod! You guys are like, soaked and floating away and stuff! My bad!"

And then, there's the fact that my company is initiating what they call "calculated workforce reduction" and "right-sizing," which means "Hold on to your hats, peons!"

The big boss of the company walks through hordes of peons and lower caste employees every day, and yet he rarely looks us in the eyes. It's good to know, at least, that he feels somewhat guilty for sinking this poor, battered ship.

And, to top it all off, this is what I get to go home to:






We always wanted a backyard pond. Now we have 40.

At least we have some good news:



EGGS! (more on that, later)

Post-modern Emma Goldman

One of my coworkers handed me this far left-wing publishing catalog while I was sorting through some papers. I read through a few descriptions of the publishing house's offerings, but something jumped out at me. It was a book, much like a biography, of Emma Goldman, a famous feminist/anarchist. What struck me was the description of the book, that it was a personal look at a woman reviled for preaching birth control, for being a revolutionary, but didn't mention that although she pioneered a lot of things, she is most known for her preferance toward violent demonstration and the "propaganda of the deed."

Who writes a book about Emma Goldman and glazes over the part where she incited gruesome labor riots, the parts where she helped a friend attempt an assassination, the part where she sympathized with the anarchist that killed President McKinley? That is effing disgusting and entirely misleading. It's one thing to effectively usher in change a la Cesar Chavez or Upton Sinclair, but it's an entirely different thing to barter that change with innocent blood.

What bothered me even more was that my coworker might think I was interested in violent anarchist revolutionaries.

It's cool this morning, thanks to the rain we've had for the past couple of days. The outdoor thermometer says 75 F, which is an amazing respite for the usual parade of 100-plus-degree days in August.

The chickens are LOVING it. They're just running around in the back yard right now, devil-may-care and all. I think the blue jays and mockingbirds are actually petrified of these new, big birds in their territory. Every day I see a recently shed blue jay or mockingbird feather in proximity to the coop, so I know they're at least curious.

I made pizza for dinner last night. It was a really simple creation; whole wheat and spelt crust with a (store bought!) hummus base, sliced roma tomatoes and sliced red onions with low fat mozzarella. It really hit the spot.



It's funny that I broke down and made pizza, since Dave and I always have the Friday Dinner Debate. We treat Friday dinners as the cap of the week, so we like to do something different, whether takeout or going out. Dave had stopped by that hipster mecca that is Whole Foods earlier in the day to pick up a case of mineral water, and I thought that, hey, since he was there he would have the presence of mind to pick up dinner from their prepared food counter. No such luck.

Our pantry was relatively empty since we haven't had the time to make a comprehensive grocery store stop. If I was going to make dinner, I was goin to have to stop at the grocery store to pick up a few things (namely the roma tomatoes, red onions, hummus and mozzarella to make pizza. I also picked up a carton of spicy salmon rolls and brown rice california rolls just in case the idea of holing up in a hot kitchen became aberrant by the time I got home.

But the kicker is that although both of us went to the grocery store on Friday only one of us brought home food.

Let's hope I'm never incapacitated and unable to cook, because we both would surely starve if Dave was in control of the food supply.

Every so often a blind sow finds an acorn

I had a dentist appointment at 8 a.m. Monday morning, but I was really sweating it out on Sunday night. My Friday appointment with the eye doctor went sour (think sitting in an unfamiliar office without glasses or contacts for about 45 minutes, and when you're as nearsighted as I am and you rely on lip-reading for most communication, well, that should be illegal) and I was sure it was an omen for Monday's dentist appointment.

I was sweating it for no reason, though. No cavities, no grave prognosis! Even the cavity I thought I had was all in my head!

So my Monday easy-peasy dentist appointment was the kicker to a pretty decent weekend. Friday night was a work party -- a congregation of Olympic-caliber dorks watching the openining ceremony. Since it was in China, I brought a sixer of Tsing Tao, and I'll be damned if I only got to drink three of them! That's OK, though, because the host sent me home with one of those mini kegs of Bitburger.

It was a decent evening, considering I was 1 for 2 in pool, which was dissapointing since I usually dominate. I suppose I was out of practice. We called it a night relatively early and left at 11 p.m. We had a full weekend ahead of us, so we needed plenty of rest.

Saturday came too early for me, though, so I slept through almost half of it. That'll learn you, damn mornings! When I awoke I had to seriously get down to bidness. Dave and I went shopping and ran some errands. We got cool footstools from World Market for our Adirondack chairs! Yay! Pier 1 was ransacked as well. Great sales going on there.

We hit Lowe's, too, which I think is Dave's new favorite place in the world.

So, after our rash of consumerism, we came back home and cleaned like the wind. Well, Dave cleaned and I played with the chickens. I may have washed a dish or two, but mostly playing with the chickens.

I also had to get ready to go to Denton because one of my dearest friends in the whole wide world, Caff (not her real name), was graduating from University of North Texas. She was on the Dave England Graduation Plan (5.5 years). We were encouraged to skip the actual graduation ceremony, which Caff said would be as pleasant as the vigorous bout of diarrhea she contracted towards the end of her stay in Thailand.

But the highlight was meeting up afterwards for dinner and drinks and drinks and drinks ...



... and drinks ...



... and more drinks. That's Harry (not his real name), Caff's main squeeze.



Dave had a few thoughts he wanted to jot down really quick ...



Awww ...



These people... how could you not love them?



I really missed Caff's mom, who is a splendid lady.



Caff and I stayed up until 4 p.m. shooting the shit and whiskey, talking like we had never been apart. She's going to be working for a winery soon, and hopefully she'll move closer to Dallas so we can hang out more.

Sunday, well, like God, we rested. We needed to recover from the last night's bucket of fun. So did Mr. Orange, who commandeered Dave's leg for a few hours.



I baked bread, I cooked curry, the world rejoiced.

The End.

A swift jab in the eye

Growing up I had the nickname "coke bottles" because I had some of the thickest glasses anyone had seen. When you're a girl, a 12- to 15-year-old girl at that, any kind of derogatory nickname will make you feel like a clump of dirt stuck in between tire treads. My parents said that I had to wait until I was 16 to get contacts, and 16 couldn't come soon enough. I still don't share the yearbook pictures of me in Junior High or High School because, frankly, "coke bottles" still bothers me.

For a year in college I wore glasses full time, but now I almost exclusively wear contacts (at least until I can afford laser eye surgery). But I hadn't been to an eye doctor in a long time until the end of last year, so not only was my prescription wildly insufficient, but I was wearing contacts that were at least a couple of months old.

I knew it was going to be a lot of trial and error trying to get me fitted for contacts. I have a very odd prescription with an astigmatism to boot. And I have a nightmare schedule, making it even harder for me to get into the eye doctors office, which happens to be closed or the doctor is unavailable on days that work best for me. Logistical nightmare, much?

My first visit was in December for an exam and contacts consult, and because my prescription is "challenging" they ordered a trial pair. That pair took two weeks to come in and it didn't work out. Next pair, another two weeks, no dice. Once more (with feeling), another two weeks, and it's better, so let's order 12 mo. and give it a go. But shortly after the contacts came in I had a problem with focusing at a distance. No dice, I say, but the office said that it might be a defective lens, so let's order another trial pair with the same script. OK, I say. A week goes by (we're in July now, for those of you following the timeline) and still, no dice.

I called yesterday to set up an appointment ASAP to get re-evaluated, and they say that because 8 months have passed that I'm going to have to count this as my annual visit, and charge it to my insurance. But I have already planned my annual appointment to get glasses with their office, too. I think to myself, "This is ridiculous! It's not my fault that they are having a hard time getting my prescription right!"

But I can't help but feel bad for being "coke bottles."

Let's not let this get out, OK?

Not too many years ago I was very ambivalent about children. They are expensive, they are a lot of work, they require a lot of your time and once you've got them it's impossible to get your pre-child life back without assessing some kind of criminal charge.

Now, I'm finding myself saying things to the hubster like, "When we have a baby, we'll get this crib," or "When we have a kid, I'll use eco-friendly diapers," and "I'm so excited that my sister is breastfeeding! I'm definately breastfeeding when we have a baby."

Apparently, something has changed.

I'd like to think that buying a house and getting married has made the idea of children a little more accessible. My main issue is that there is SO MUCH I haven't done yet, like I've never been to India, I've never backpacked through Europe, I've never taken a yoga retreat, or taken two solid weeks off for some restorative outdoors time. So much I still want to experience, like Macchu Picchu and the Great Barrier Reef, Japan in spring and Mayan ruins in fall.

But I'm getting more comfortable with the idea of crib midgets.

That's chicken feed

Now I know why I grew up a fat kid. My family is a food family. No, we're not Italian, but we are mostly Greek and all about the food. While I was spending some QT with them this weekend, we all made some fairly interesting observations:

1) When there is a spread out in the kitchen, members of our family gravitate and graze. Entire conversations and gatherings take place around the coldcuts and potato salad. All seven of the J-Clan were in the kitchen munching, while all the other halves were watching TV. For us, food=family.

2) There is always food. Period. What's that? You're hungry? Let me grab about 1 ton of carbohydrates from my pantry on which you can munch. My parents can fill the bellies of a large Bangladeshi township with what is in their kitchen.

3) When my family gathers, the party ends when the food is put away. There could be beer left in the cooler, but it doesn't matter. The crowd will dissapate when you stow away the lasagna.

So when Dave and I arrived home last night from our weekend at S and B's house (by the way, isn't my niece a-friggin'-dorable?) Our dinner consisted of baked chicken breast, brown rice and steamed cauliflower. No dessert, served with mineral water.

I see myself going on a detox diet.

The only time in your life...

... when you're concerned about gaining weight instead of going insane trying to lose it.
... when you can crap your pants and nobody cares.
... when it's OK to eye a woman's breasts and make sucking noises.
... when people will kiss your toes and it's not a fetish.

My sweet niece, T, was born on a Tuesday in July. She's 7 pounds, 15 ounces of beautiful.

We're spending the weekend with my sister S and her husband B in Houston so that we
can soak up as much of little T's gorgeous mug as she will allow.

I was holding her earlier and she cast this spell on me; every fiber of my body knew that everything would be OK as long as she's happy. She's cute when she cries (rare) and sweet when she toots (often). She's got her mother's mouth, her father's eyes and she's every bit as wonderful as God could possibly muster.




Good luck, kid. This world is a doozy. If you ever need help, I'm only a phone call away in Dallas.

Baby, prerequisite

(WARNING! THIS POST REQUIRES SO MUCH COMMITMENT TO READ WE MIGHT NEED A PRE-NUP BEFORE YOU INDULGE! IT IS LONG, SOMEWHAT PERSONAL AND HAS ENOUGH PROFANITY TO MAKE A SAILOR BLUSH!)

Baby showers aren't a great place for people who are less than share-y. Unless you're not above talking about bowel movements these are events to which you may want to steer clear. I wish I had been warned, really.

My sister's baby shower a little over a week ago wasn't my first, and it won't be my last, but it was definitely the most interesting one yet. It was the only shower I've been to that included drinking games and lasted until the backside of midnight, though. It's also the only one to incorporate (unintentionally) full contact fighting, too (thanks bro-in-law!).

I think baby showers are the forte of morbidly pregnant women and women who have already been morbidly pregnant. The rest of us are dearly out of our element. Another given is that there will always be a diaper game component to a baby shower and it will be both ridiculous and embarassing.

I digress. Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

I had been planning my trip to C-town for quite some time. Two days before I left I was excited enough for seeing my family for the first time since Christmas (six months, the longest I've been away ever, and boy did I catch hell for that!) that I did a mock-up of my itenerary and sent it to my immediate, C-town residing family for their perusal:

To: Family list
From: Miss Dallas
Subject: My Itenerary This Weekend

(Editor's Note: Names and addresses and whatnot have been redacted to protecte privacy. After what happened to Martini, I'm beginning to realize that there are a lot of douchebags on the Interwebs.)

If everything holds up, this is how this weekend should go for me. Suggestions? Want to join in on the fun? Let me know!

7 p.m. Friday -- Arrive in C-town at the J(redacted) Clan Compound

8 p.m. Friday -- Dinner of McKenzie's ribs and beer (or scotch) and knitting. (Note to Mom and Dad: Dinner=McKenzie's ribs)

9 a.m. Saturday (or whatever time I pull myself from bed) -- Run and yoga

10 a.m. or whenever I'm done being a hot sweaty mess -- shower

12 p.m. -- brunch and hopefully meet up with K and V to check out their new house (totally contingent on K and V's plans, I realize, so K, do text me and let me know if this is viable!)

Leave K and V's house for S and B's house and pick up a few bottles of bubbly on the way.

4 p.m. -- Baby madness

Post Baby Madness House Madness

TBD time -- pass out drunk in a pool of my own warm vomit at S and B's house

Sunday -- Clean off vomit and eat something to cure my hangover.

Head back to Dallas.

Love y'all

-Bubba (Editor's Note: it's a family nickname)

The. Perfect. Weekend. Well, it would have been perfect had Dave been able to go with me. You see, we now have 3 chickens, 2 dogs and 2 cats. (We're also crazy enough to be digging a koi pond at this very moment.) It's hard to find someone competent enough to watch the house for the weekend, so I found the next best thing: my husband!

So, I departed Dallas a little later than I would normally prefer and embarked on my trip to Houston. The drive was uneventful, save for the gajillion people who passed me on I-45 while I was driving the speed limit, which is 70 mph most of the way. Funny thing is, I drove straight through without stopping, so all of these assholes that flashed their brights, honked their horns and threw me the bird actually passed me twice, once after stopping, too.

There was a total dickface in a Saab convertible that zoomed past me when I was getting close to Huntsville, just as the pine trees start to noticeably tower over either side of the interstate. It's like driving through a canyon, and there are feeder routes on the other side of the trees most of the time. I guess the driver of the Saab didn't notice a State Trooper on the route, because I ended up passing that asshole -- while he was being pulled over and searched! You just can't speed through Huntsville: Jail capital of Texas.

So, I'm on the south side of Huntsville and I call my 'rents to tell them to meet me at McKenzie's Barbecue, because I was dying to bury my face in a plate of ribs! For the rest of the trip to town I'm salivating, just imagining me and these delectable ribs, with just enough of the tangy-sweet sauce, a pickled onion on the side with a slice of bread. Fucking Heaven.

We meet at the joint and I give my parents each the tightest hugs I can muster, hit the can and then I'm ready to order. I tell the gal "I'd like a two-meat plate, both ribs ..." and she says "I'm sorry but we're out of ribs" and I say " ... and a side of potato salad with ... Wait, I'm sorry, what was that?" My mom, sensing an implosion gently grasps my arm. "We're out of ribs, ma'am." My lower lip starts to quiver and I'm thinking, 'Out of fucking ribs?! Just my damn luck! Any other time they'd be swimming in those tasty little pig sticks, but nooooo, I drive 3 and a half hours to fucking Conroe and McKenzie's has no fucking ribs!'

I almost cried. I'm not going to lie. I almost lost it. Right. Fucking. There.

But my dad, quick to quell a crisis, quipped, "Yanno, there's a little seafood joint across the way. They have great shrimp."

"Yeah, OK, we'll have shrimp..." I said, rather dejected. Turning back to the counter, to the girl who had no idea what she was in for, I asked "Will y'all have ribs tomorrow? Yeah? I'll come back tomorrow? That OK?" "Oh sure, we'll have plenty of ribs tomorrow. Just get here early. Sorry 'bout that. Y'all enjoy you're dinner."

So, we went over to Baytown Seafood, which is really a hole in the wall, ate enough shrimp cooked enough ways with enough beer to make me forget, at least temporarily, that I drove 3-plus hours, aching for a plate of ribs, and was given the culinary version of blue balls.

After beer, we went home. I knit. And I rested, knowing that tomorrow was Saturday, and it was going to be epic.

I'm not a real early riser. In fact, only in strange circumstances will I actually wake up unaided by an alarm clock. Since I wasn't dozing in my own bed, I woke up at around 8 a.m. on Saturday, which is about 2 hours earlier than normal if I'm not going to yoga at 9.

I made my way downstairs and my parents were already up and around. We had breakfast together and then I headed upstairs to change into running tights and a tank top. I was really looking forward to running the trails in my parents neighborhood. It's a rather secluded area, you wouldn't know they were just north of one of the largest suburbs in America. Everything is quiet and peaceful, and there's a small lake at the center of the subdivision that has two islands. There's also a smaller pond in another spot.

I set out at from their house at about 4.5 mph, really just taking in the sights. I figured I'd top out at about 6 mph after the hills and taper down to a power walk, about 3.5 mph towards the end. What I wasn't considering was the fact that the air in Houston is much more dense and moist than in Dallas, so by about a mile into my run I had to slow down or I wasn't going to make it. So I slowed to about 4.5 mph and I started down toward the lake. I had forgotten how beautiful the area was, and how lucky I was to grow up there. I slowed even more, to what turned out to be more of a deliberate walk. It was about 100 degrees outside and near 100 percent humidity; I was still sweltering but I no longer cared.

As I was rounding the lake, I found a nice grassy spot near the spillway and slid into sukhasana (easy pose), concentrating on my breath. After that, everything started to bleed together; the hot sticky air, the mirror-like surface of the lake, the trickling of the spillway and the asana. From sukhasana, came cat/cow, then downward dog, to eka pada rajakapotasana (one-legged king pigeon pose), which later bled into ardha chandrasana and its chapasana variation. It all ended with an extended meditation. It was definately in my top-five practices ever.

So I went home and showered and readied myself to go to the baby shower because I knew that V and K were not ready to show off their house just yet. But not so fast. We had to have lunch, didn't we? Hrm... where to go for lunch? I KNOW! RIBS AT MCKENZIES!!!

We went in to McKenzies at lunchtime and it was like being George in It's A Wonderful Life -- everyone knew why I was there. I guess the night staff had spread my tale of woe, my ribless sadness, and when I ordered the double-meat-plate-just-ribs-thank-you, it was like a light shone down on the soggy styrofoam plate and heaven dropped down on it. Gorgeous, succulent ribs. I would have pictures of me scarfing them down with corn, potato salad and a piece of Mrs. Bairds, but it wasn't a pretty sight.

After I cleaned up the barbecue sauce from my face, and my mother and I stuffed Honda Solo full of baby goodies, we headed to my sisters house for "baby madness." Madness is the perfect explanation of the mental state you must be in to spend three hours taking about different viscosities of poop around cooing women as the mom-to-be unwraps YET ANOTHER PINK BABY OUTFIT.



We also played a game throughout the baby shower that anyone who said the word "baby" had to put on an adult diaper for the duration of the shower. I was the unwitting victim of having a sister with faulty hearing and an ax to grind, so, I ended up donning a pair of Depends (Just for the record, if I ever have to buy these in the future, I sure as hell don't want them to be called "Depends." You better name that shit "For Sure" or "Of course" becuase I don't want to be caught with a full bladder on "Well, it Depends").

The night got more rowdy, though when the menfolk came back from their bonding session at a local pub and we cracked open the keg. And the wine, champagne and margaritas. My family likes to get their drink on and we're not ashamed about it! My father showed up later with the scotch and cigars, and then it was officially a party. More baby-related games came later, but didn't top it all off until three of our manly guests had a drinking contest: who could empty a baby bottle full of suds the fastest. Three men sucking beer through a nipple = awesome!

Needless to say, we had a good freakin' time.



The party started to wind down, especially after my brother-in-law started to demonstrate his prowess at "mixed martial arts" (otherwise known as street fighting, cage fighting, or two neanderthals trying to beat each other's teeth out) on a fellow partygoer.

I crashed upstairs on an air mattress because some drunkard passed out on the bed I was supposed to pass out on. Bitch.

Anyway, I woke up the next morning and cooked everyone breakfast (it's not because I'm nice. It's because I can't stand other people in the kitchen when I could be in there doing a better job, by far!). I made coffee and I resuscitated the father-to-be from his outdoor roost (he passed out in a lawn chair).

I had to go back to my parents' house, so I made sure I could help my sister do as much as possible to organize all of the baby junk she got. I figured she already had a system in place, probably a closet organizer and bins. There's a lot of things you need to have handy when a baby's about to spring forth from your nether regions. So I inspected her organization system and was aghast. She had stuff still in their boxes! No organization system! No diaper drawer! No changing mat! We spent the better part of the morning taking stuff out of their boxes and organizing the closet, doing the laundry and stuff. I was much more comfortable with her level of organization after that. Not totally comfortable, but my OCD alarm wasn't at level red anymore.

So I headed for my parents house, where I immediately chowed down on a sandwich and more coffee and fretted about the drive back to Dallas I would have to start in a matter of just a couple of hours. My dad and I sat down as I was finishing lunch and we started to do something I think is mostly akin to torture -- talking politics. Now, I'm not partisan. I'm more of a civil libertarian. I'm not a fan of taxes or government or bureacracy, but my father doesn't like to realize that I'm more politically literate than him, or that he doesn't really know what my views are on important stuff like war, taxes and whether or not Barack Obama is a Muslim (he's not) or whether or not I'm likely to vote for him (not likely). I'm rational, knowlegeable and a good debater.

But this argument that we had goes down in history: It was the first argument between my father and I that we both acknowledged me winning.

After that, I took a walk around my parents organic garden with my mom and we chatted. I started packing up my car (AGAIN!) and getting ready to head out when my mom handed me a plastic sack. I was in a big hurry, so I just grabbed it, kissed them both and backed out of the driveway, disembarking from family again, almost against my will.

Back in Dallas, unloading the car, tears came to my eyes. My mother is a saint and she knows just how to show me that she loves me: she had packed two slabs of McKenzie's ribs, with sauce, for Dave and I to feast on for dinner. The trip had officially come full circle...

Out of the park, out of this world

(Editor's note: Next post will be the epic recollection of my weekend at my parents' house almost a month ago. Those who held out for it will be dee-lighted. Promise!)

Last night I practically raced home from yoga class. As we were leaving the yoga room, I spied people with jaws agape, eyes glassy and fixed on a hanging television (i.e. the American national facade), and I knew they were watching the All Star Home Run Derby. But what was even moreso transfixing was that local Ranger great Josh Hamilton was killing the competition in the first round. I raced to my car, turned up ESPN radio all the way home, ran inside without unloading the car to watch the rest of the derby. I dare you to watch these 28 home runs at Yankee Stadium and not be in total awe of this man. He has beaten addiction to come back and live what can only be defined as a gracious, humble greatness.

Regardless of the fact that Hamilton lost to a very obliging Justin Morneau, Hamilton was and is the star of the All Star break.

Race politics are a "black hole"

You know what else has a hole? Commissioner John Wiley Price's logic.

Folks, we now have video.

I'm still in shock. I was seriously falling over myself after tripping on my jaw, which is still firmly stuck to the floor. This is the definition of ridiculous.

Racial issues, much?

I've talked about the inherent friction of racial relations in Dallas before. But if anyone was looking for a really solid example of what I was talking about, take a read all about our fine Dallas County Commissioners and their congenial back-and-forth during an otherwise uneventful meeting:

Commissioner Kenneth Mayfield, who is white, said it seemed that central collections "has become a black hole" because paperwork reportedly has become lost in the office.

Commissioner John Wiley Price, who is black, interrupted him with a loud "Excuse me!" He then corrected his colleague, saying the office has become a "white hole."

That prompted Judge Thomas Jones, who is black, to demand an apology from Mayfield for his racially insensitive analogy.

Mayfield shot back that it was a figure of speech and a science term. A black hole, according to Webster's, is perhaps "the invisible remains of a collapsed star, with an intense gravitational field from which neither light nor matter can escape."

Stunning. Abso-effing-lutely stunning.

Life is better in a room full of chicks

Ever since I bought chickens I've been a poultry proselytizer. Anyone that will sit still long enough will eventually hear me evangelize about fresh eggs and bird poop: two wonderful benefits off chicken ownership.

The problem comes when I start talking about a chicken's third asset: meat.

Why is it so wrenching, so cruel and crazy, that after one of my dear hens stops laying that we might extend their usefulness in a more brothy consistency?

My mother-in-law thinks it's mean, that they're like pets and that when the time comes I won't be able to slaughter them. She might be right, but I see chickens the same way I see horses, cows, goats, sheep, rabbits and all other agricultural animals: When they can't do their farm job anymore, it's time to help them go back to the earth to make room for animals that can.

That's not so bad, is it?

Growth spurt

I can't believe the chicks went from this:



To this!







I know I need to post about my trip to Houston, which involved barbecue, bad drivers and adult diapers. That's all I'm sayin' for now!

Does headset=tool?

I cannot stand Bluetooth headsets or the people that wear them. I am not fond of the people that wear them even when they aren't talking on the phone.

With that said, I'm getting a Bluetooth headset. I'm joining the precise group of morons I can't stand. Well, only when I'm driving.

I have this thing about driving with a phone in my hand -- I can't do it properly. Ever since I got in my first accident in downtown Houston while talking on the phone and driving I've been quite terrified of driving while on my cellphone. I almost never do it.

There is, though, the occasional call I absolutely must make while driving. So, instead of being scared out of my wits I'm going to do the next best thing, become a complete tool with a blue light stuck in my ear. Fucking cyborgs!

I think I'm going to write Motorola and ask the bastards to at least make the headsets a little more discreet. I mean, a blue light? And making the thing black and all sorts of colors? I don't want to advertise the fact that I'm becoming a frickin' tool!

Before the house lights go up

For weeks I've been wanting to take a weekend to slow down, camp my ass in one of our adirondack chairs and sip iced tea while knitting madly on socks or washcloths (washcloths if I feel guilty, socks if I feel self-indulgent). I got my chance for approximately two or three hours on Saturday before we were due at a neighbor's house for drinks.

Also, I was supposed to meet with a close college friend of mine, Jack, who was due in town sometime on Saturday.

So, I'm knitting and basking in the sun, big floppy beach hat on my head and cold drink to my side. It was a near picturesque day. We had somehow managed to get up that day at a reasonable hour (9 a.m.) and have breakfast and set out to the Dallas Farmers Market. It was an awesome diversion from my normal weekend of backbreaking manual labor (gardening and house cleaning). We picked up locally grown squash, tomatoes, tiny little new potatoes. Three huge heads of crispy green romaine for $2.50! Sweet little early season peaches from just a few miles away, blueberries from a nearby farm, onions from the Rio Grande Valley, limes from a grove close by! And my favorite: freshly shucked black eyed peas and multicolor sweetcorn!

Hornsby came with us, and he was such a good boy! When we take him out with us, people always remark on what a beautiful dog he is, and they ask us what breed he is (he's a Great Pyrenees mix), and they are shocked when we tell him he's a mutt. I guess he's just one well maintained mutt!

So, we stop and pick up some cheap red wine to make sangria, since we picked up some oranges, lemons and limes at the market. This sounded like a great idea at the time.

Flash back to the floppy hat and the adirondack chair, only I'm sipping on sangria after a lunch of lima bean and lentil curry with saffron rice and it's near 2 p.m. We're due at our neighbor's house at around 3 p.m. and still no word from Jack. At this point I'm beginning to get a little anxious on how this all will work out.

Dave took pity on humanity and decided to rinse the stink from his flesh before we went over to our neighbors house (We'll call them Art and Lauren). We met Art whil he was walking his dogs down our street and I was rehabbing an old side table. He's a pretty cool guy, and he works in remodeling. We're dead-set on having him do some work on the House of England.

So, we fix up more sangria and head over to Art and Lauren's. I leave the house sans cellphone because I sent a text to Jack earlier that I would meet him later. We get to their house and Art's very friendly pups take a shine to my skirt and decide to climb all over it and slobber, too. (I figure that's what the huge bruise on my leg is from -- one of the dogs trying to scale my skirt.) Art fires up the blender and all the sudden Dave and I have margaritas in our hands. We quickly dispatch those and are refilled. Repeat this process, oh, about six or eight times and you end up with a very sloppy drunk Miss Dallas.

Oh, how to deal with living down the street from someone now that you've imbibed in way too many? It's a Saturday evening, so I decided to use the good ol' work excuse (luckily I work in an industry where I can say "Gotta go! I'm on deadline!). I shuffled home very quickly and collapsed on my bed to be swallowed by the dangerous trifecta of tequila, sangria and a spinning room.

I checked my messages and lo and behold, Jack had to make a turnaround trip back home.

Sunday morning came, and it was me and a hangover on a desert island. I was beyond repair. Not even my trusty combo of three extra strength tylenols, cranberry juice and club soda could settle my stomach and dispatch the asshole using my brain to play the bongos. I spent the majority of the morning on the couch or over the toilet. What a waste!

I managed to salvage enough of my Sunday to bake muffins, a loaf of bread, a pot of turkey chili and a pitcher of kiwi-strawberry iced tea. I also learned my lesson: When drinking with neighbors, never overestimate your threshold. You will have to see those people again, and you don't want it to be awkward.

Life, cubed

Spending 9 hours a day in a small room made of half-walls and particle board is a lot like living in a house with three nosy sisters. My childhood definitely prepared me to the complete lack of consideration and privacy I would encounter as a cube dweller in a corporate environment.

Shit, I might as well pull a George and build a little bunk under my desk in my cube to sleep in so I don't have to commute during the week. That's how tied down I feel to this cubicle. I've even started to resent the walls and doors off office dwellers.

Ask Miss Dallas: "What's with all the corruption?"

Lucky readers, this is our first installation of an new feature that will focus on the ins and outs of this puzzling yet fabulous Southern metropolis.

Dear Miss Dallas,

I've heard that the FBI has indicted quite a of your public officials in a widespreade bribery probe. One of your former council members was convicted of stealing from one of the most famous historic black colleges. Not only that, but he still maintains his innocence despite overwhelming evidence. What's up with all of the graft in Dallas? Do you guys see it as a tourist attraction?

Hugs and smooches,

Sally Straight-edge


Dear Sally,

Thanks for sending me a fabulous note! What a heady question to start off with; hopefully I can cure your small-town ignorance.

Dallas is a big city, like, the 9th biggest in the U.S. As a big city, there are a lot of ways to hide under-the-table deals and corruption. It's not like, say, the Floydada City Council, where you can't take a shit without your neighbors asking you to use air freshener.

Our former city officials' preferred method of graft was bribery between developers looking to cash in on federal development assistance through minority contracts. Complicated much? Basically, rich and powerful developers used the black city council members and their longtime distrust of the predominantly white, rich area north of the Trinity River (whitey) to get govmint cash.

Still confused? I know you are, sweet Sally Simpleton. Allow me to provide some historical context. South Dallas = Institutionalized ghetto.

Dallas is historically segregated, divided by the Trinity River, and has remained that way mostly from widespread neglect. South Dallas is historically black and poor (though there are a lot of good people trying to change that). City leaders from this area south of the Trinity are wary of people in North Dallas (whitey) keeping them down, so sometimes to cut corners on their way to gain power an influence they make bad backroom deals with shady developers, stuffing their pockets with greedy developer money along the way.

So, there's a lot of corruption that feeds off of racial division and widespread, historic distrust between white power brokers in North Dallas and black officials. While it's not exactly something we're proud of, at least we're not advertising it like Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick (also another area with tense racial relations).

Keep it real,

Miss Dallas

All the Rage

Coffee wasn't what had me energized this morning -- all I needed was a healthy dose of Rage Against the Machine. To some of my colleagues the choice seems all to apropos considering we often work for the Machine. Sometimes we get to fucking piss of the Machine, which is all too fun for words. The fallout of pissing off the Machine, however, is not.

I do have a strange affinity for grunge rock and anti-government anthems. Most of the time Dave and I have very similar taste in music, but this is where we diverge. Dave doesn't like any form of punk, metal, grunge or thrash. Me: I likey.

So, driving up the guard shack at my office today I had "Bulls on Parade" blasting when I rolled down the window of my car. I have never seen whiter whites of strangers' eyeballs in my life.

Safe and sound (cluck!)

I don't know what y'all did, but Scout pulled through. She wasn't looking so hot, and she was really lethargic and not eating there for a while, but she's curious and vigorous now! She's starting to figure out how to make her place in the pecking order, and she's babbling like crazy!





She is the littlest of the three, but I think she'll probably be the best bird of all of 'em! Jane, the little Araucana, is starting to grow little tufts out from her cheeks! So cute!



In other news, I finished my Thai Fisherman's pants:


I know I look gross here. I don't care. I just put in an hour in front of a sewing machine and an hour of yoga.

I also finished Sara's baby sling!



Awesome.

The shower is in a month and I still need to finish her washcloths. I've got 1.5 done, and I need to make 6. I figure if I make them interesting enough I'll want to knit them up fast. Here's hoping!

Cluck, cluck!

Good news folks: I'm a chicken lady!



From left to right: Elaine Benes, Scout Finch and Jane Gallagher.



So frickin' cute.

In other news, Harrison Ford is still smokin' hot.



UPDATE

Dave called to say that Scout isn't looking so hot. EVERYONE, PLEASE PRAY OR THINK OR CLAP YOUR HANDS OR MEDITATE OR WHATEVER. Scout needs your thoughts!

Thanks,

Chicken Lady

Bone tired

I was starting to lose it at work earlier today. My nerves started fraying and my brain started hurting and I started to take a serious turn towards crazy. Fridays are usually like this, but today was different. Today was un-fucking-bearable.

I sucked it up though, and only left an hour early. Given, I did work an extra hour yesterday, so it balances out. But I was dying to get out of that oak-paneled, fluorescent-lighted purgatory.

We got our Economic stimulus payment today! Woo Hoo! Free guvmint money! We went out for pasta and beer at Scallini's to celebrate, and now we're back at the house. Two Heineken's later and I'm trying to work the heel flap on Dave's socks.

Exciting, no? Beats the hell out of smacking my forehead against my desk.

I'm really just dying for an adventure

A lot of my life story can be told through missed opportunities, and most of these opportunities have been missed because of boys. Stupid boys.

I didn't take the full scholarship to a small, East Coast women's college because I wanted to be closer to a boyfriend I would later dump. I didn't take the Washington, D.C., internship because my then-long-term boyfriend said that he loved me and didn't want to be that far away from me. I didn't get the job in Peru because I missed the decision period, meaning that I waited to long to accept. I was too scared to follow-up on a job teaching English in Japan because, well, the only country I've ever been to beside Texas is Mexico, and no offense, but Mexico is no Japan. (I realize this last missed opportunity has nothing to do with boys, but hey, I'll blame it on boys anyway if I want!)

Right now, though, I crave adventure. Crazy food, backpacking, travel, music and being out of my element. Morroco, anyone?

As if you couldn't tell from my blog rate ...

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Take me camping (again)!

I think I've been bitten by the camping bug. Besides knitting, sewing and dreaming of a hen house I've been dying to go camping again! It doesn't help that Texas has so many great state parks within spitting distance!

I think our next outing is going to be Dinosaur Valley State Park. There's plenty of primitive camping (yay!) and there's a river running right through it! I love me some river swimming!

After that I think we'll head over to Lake Tawakoni State Park. Last year there was this crazy communal spider web there! I'll have to bring my fishing rod for this one, because there is some awesome fishing here!

Maybe after those I'll think about going to Lake Whitney State Park or maybe over to Graham, TX for some rock climbing and mountain biking! Possum Kingdom Lake sounds good, too.

A coworker of mine has this thing about visiting state parks. I think I'll rediscover my thing for state parks, too. Now, I've got to go recruit the spouse!

When the cat is away

Dave is out of town, so I've pretty much completely given up on my normal routine. I would, on any give day of the week, come home from the gym, cook dinner and collapse in front of the TiVo. Maybe I'd knit a little, then I'd shower and climb into bed.

So far tonight I have:

Tended my garden
Started on my sister's Thai silk baby sling
Started on my Thai fisherman's pants
Mended one shirt, one suit jacket and one pair of slacks
Had one Heineken and a mish-mash sandwich of leftovers
... and right now I'm haveing a cup of vanilla ice cream with ...
another Heineken.

I'm going to go finish those Thai fisherman's pants.

I have my limits

Sometimes I'm a Type-A person: I want things done and I want them done quickly and correctly. This often makes me a pretty decent leader on projects. This quality, however, is a liability when it comes to marriage.

I asked Dave to help me do some gardening earlier. I needed to put some compost on our beds and plant some tomatos and peppers today. Dave isn't the kind of guy that takes direction well. Actually, he might take it well from other people, but not me. So when I started giving him instructions on what I needed help with, he just walked away.

This doesn't make me angry anymore, but when we first moved in together it annoyed the fuck out of me. He would ask me if I needed any help, and I would tell him, "Yes! Could you grab a spatula?" (I was making an angel food cake) He would act like I was asking him to move Africa over a couple inches, rolling his eyes and letting loose a dramatic sigh.

I don't ask him for help much anymore, but when he offers it, I know to say "Thanks, I got it." I've learned that offering help is just a way to make him feel better about planting his ass on the couch and calling up Baseball Tonight on the TiVo.

Anyway... The peppers and tomatoes and basil and lettuce and arugula are all planted. I'm planning on having some bitchin' salads this summer once everything grows in. I have Super Father-in-Law Bobby to thank for it all. The man is a true gem. One in a million. So is Vicki, my Super Duper Mother-in-Law. I really hit the jackpot in the In-Law Lottery.

Actually, funny thing about Bobby is that we're a lot alike. Dave is very much like Vicki, chatty and personable when he wants to be, reserved when he's out of his element. Bobby and I both love working with our hands, cooking, building stuff and gardening. We also enjoy chatting about business and economics. Bobby works for a multi-national bank as a manager of corporate lending. He was astonished that I could keep up when he was explaining the sub-prime mortgage fallout. He's a smart guy, but unlike his son (le husband), he doesn't make a big deal about it.

Bobby has agreed to help me in my latest endeavor: raising hens. That's right. I'm going to be an urban chicken lady. I ran some ideas for a hen house by him last night and he actually seemed pretty excited about building it. I'm going to draft some plans for him and we;ll go from there. It's not exactly rocket science, building a hen house, but you have to control several variables (heat, light, venthilation, proximity) and still keep the hens safe from predators, the most notorious of which in our area would be the feral cat. Bitches.

There is a ton of information on the Internet about raising chickens, different breeds of chickens, how to build hen houses, etc. Which is awesome, because when it comes to raising poultry I am fucking clueless.

A friend of ours that lives close by has about seven hens. She's a little fast and loose with her wits, mostly because she has three kids, but I think it's awesome that she doesn't have to buy eggs. Chickens cost almost nothing to take care of, they give you fertilizer (also known as poo), they keep your lawn tidy, they take care of pests (boy do they love to eat grubs!) and they're fun to watch! If we get two chickens we'll pretty much have an ark here, though. Two chickens, two dogs, two cats.

Dave has taken a couple of days to get wild in Austin with his best friends for his 36th birthday. I'm OK with it because he is on the back side of his 30s and it does pretty much go down hill from there. I made sure his friends all knew that there would be no strippers/hookers and that Dave is not to do any shots. No tequila, either. I know I sound like a joykill, but if you've ever seen Dave drunk and then hung over you'd know it's for the best.

What's on my needles right now?

Waterfall scarf for Mom

Not your average dishcloth (washcloth) for Sara (1 of 6)

Basic sock recipe socks for Dave

Urchin hat for me!

Once bitten, twice shy

I haven't left the house much lately besides running errands and work. I haven't even been to yoga class in more than two weeks (I plan on breaking that dry spell today). I've been trying to plant our kitchen garden and work our poor soil (black clay) and make the yard a bit more practical for the summer. But that's not the real reason I haven't left the house...

I usually walk our dogs around our neighborhood twice to three times weekly. Dave used to do this before his back went out on him, but I've enjoyed hanging out with the pups when I can. However, I just can't shake the fear I swore I wouldn't have after I was attacked. It scares the shit out of me to think about walking Hornsby out in our neighborhood and a dangerous dog coming after us again. What scares me even more is the thought that this could happen even without the dogs, that a mean dog could jump the neighbor's fence and come after me unprovoked.

I hate what I'm about to say, but it is what it is: There should be no "one free bite" in Texas or in any other state. Dogs that attack unprovoked should be put down, just like Tigers in zoos that attack are euthanized. People should be able to walk through their neighborhoods without fear of attack from mean dogs kept by ignorant owners.

(Note: I'm not talking out of my ass. I have worked in 4 veterinary hospitals, one of which was a veterinary emergency clinic. I have seen the kind of damage that vicious dogs can inflict and I've been a dog bite victim before. I knew that some dogs I was treating as a technician could bite me out of fear. I was prepared for that. This is completely different.)

I am also becoming callous to arguments from people who own pit bulls that are the "sweetest, most loving" dogs they've ever owned. That they allow these dogs to sleep with their children because they are so docile. Good on them. They very well may be responsible owners. But pit bulls are like guns -- in responsible hands, people have no reason to fear the owner, but in the company of ignorance they are most likely lethal.

We don't trust everyone with guns, therefore we should not trust everyone with pit bulls either. In some states we ask gun owners to register themselves. I don't think this is too much to ask of pit bull owners.

Just last night I was watching a neighbor being pulled down our sidewalk by two pit bulls. The leashes were vere long for these dogs, which is dangerous. The hair on my arms stood tall and a shiver went down my spine. If these two very strong dogs are able to pull their owner like this on a normal walk, could this man control them if they wanted to chase after another animal, or even another human?