Confessions of a Pioneer Woman

New Location...

2006-10-20T06:19:00.000-07:00

Head on over!

www.thepioneerwoman.com

And the Winner Is...

2006-10-19T04:04:00.000-07:00

Drumroll, please...

CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT!

"Give That Photo a Name" Contest - Enter Now!

2006-10-18T03:29:00.000-07:00

This photo needs a name. And this scenario needs an explanation. I posted this photo once before, the same evening I captured it. You can read about it here. Immediately after posting it, however, I regretted wasting it on a mere post when it could have been offered up as a Photo Contest Sacrifice for all of you brilliant folks.

To enter the contest, study the photo. Look upon its beauty and irony. Let it slither into your soul and live. Then leave your suggested photo title in the Comments section of this post. One entry per person, no entries after 7 p.m. Pacific Time. The most creative and descriptive photo title wins.

Winner will be announced Thursday morning, in a very special manner; tune in to find out. Grand Prize is something very near and dear to my heart, and most fitting for this very special occasion: a $60 Starbucks gift card. Just think, a week's worth of legal stimulants could be yours! Good luck.

My Rust-Colored Satin Sassoon Panties

2006-10-17T03:12:00.000-07:00

I was in eighth grade. I'd just finished Nutcracker rehearsal that Sunday afternoon and still had time to make it to my church youth group meeting. On that particular Sunday, the meeting was to take place at a local funeral home, where we highly impressionable young people would be treated to the grand tour of the facilities. What a thrill. Running a little late, I asked my ballet carpool to drop me off at the funeral home so I could join the tour, which had already commenced.

I caught up with my youth group in the coffin room---the place where mourning family members were taken and permitted to browse the available caskets in search of the perfect final resting bed for their loved ones. The funeral director, a tall, dark, and most decidedly non-handsome lug of a man, continued his speech, already in progress: "We give the family members all the freedom and time they need to look among our many designer caskets. To touch them. To lift the lids and look inside. To caress the fabric and envision their deceased relatives lying within."

And just like that, it happened, out of the blue, and without malice aforethought. It happened, and I've been trying ever since to figure out the reason I did it. Quietly and deliberately, and without being noticed, I reached into the ballet bag that hung on my shoulder. I felt around inside until I found what I was searching for: the rust-colored Sassoon bikini panties I'd changed out of before Nutcracker rehearsal. Once the panties were in my hand, I pulled them out of the bag, eyeing carefully the casket closest to me. It was light blue aluminum with matching satin trim and brass accents. Better yet, it was half open, half closed. Perfect. And as quickly as you could say, "Sassoon", I tossed my crumpled panties into the closed end of the coffin. Then I simply filed out behind the rest of the youth group, which, by that time, was headed for the embalming room.

To this day, I can't explain why I did it. It wasn't at the prodding of some mischievous friend standing nearby. I didn't do it as a dare or a prank, nor did it stem from any anger I felt toward either the funeral home in which I stood or the patron who would ultimately browse the coffin room looking for light blue caskets to house beloved Aunt Fern or Grandpa Claude or Cousin Bill.

Sometimes I think it was simply a bizarre, isolated release of built-up pre-teen angst. You know, the kind that causes some kids to key cars, to vandalize buildings, to self-mutilate, not to make light of that in any way. My own particular brand of angst was perhaps a little more benign than others, but on that particular Sunday afternoon, it might have been at an unusually high level, perhaps too high for my little eighth grade soul to absorb: "Steve Kerr is cute." "I wish I was skinnier." "I'm not preppy enough." "I think Steve Owen laughed at me when I walked in." "I don't want to ride the bus tomorrow." "My boobs are getting bigger." "I want to quit ballet." "I have a retarded brother." "My math teacher is mean." And on that day, at that moment, tossing my rust-colored satin Sassoon panties into a half-closed coffin while on a youth group funeral home tour provided the very release---and relief---that I apparently needed.

To the mourning person or persons who unwittingly stumbled upon my panties while you were innocently selecting the final resting bed for your loved one: I'm sorry. I hope it didn't worsen your grief or confuse you or make you question the quality of the funeral home you'd chosen. They do good work. I hope the sight of my crumpled panties inside that particular light blue coffin isn't chief among your memories of the days following your loved one's passing. Or if it is, I hope it provides you a moment of levity in the midst of your memory and not horror or shock or additional discouragement.

And most of all, I do sincerely hope that my panties were clean. If you happen to be reading this, will you please call me and let me know? Because this thought occasionally causes me to sit up in bed and scream at night. And I'd really love some resolution.

Thank you. And I'm sorry for your loss.

New "Give That Photo a Name" Contest This Wednesday

2006-10-16T07:13:00.000-07:00

Come one, come all and participate in another exciting, stimulating, riveting, and always-cerebral photo naming contest. If you've never jumped in before, c'mon! Walk on the wild side. Grand Prize will be a f-f-fabulous item from my junk drawer.

Tell your friends, tell your parents, tell your spouse, tell your postal carrier, tell your dental hygienist. See you Wednesday!

You Talkin' to Me?

2006-10-16T05:19:00.000-07:00

Just look at this guy. He's so tough, it's almost scary.

"What're you looking at?"

"You talkin' to me?"

But wait! Look what happens when he holds his baby boy:

Awww, he ain't so tough after all.

Driving Home From a Party With My Punk-Ass Little Sister

2006-10-15T06:02:00.000-07:00

My punk-ass little sister is visiting me this weekend, so she agreed to be my date last night for a fundraising party I planned to attend. And Marlboro Man was all too happy to hand over the reins to her so he could stay home and watch football.

My sister and I had a jolly good time at the party, but once we left we had to drive over 45 minutes to get back home. For awhile, we just enjoyed the drive, taking in the scenery of the small towns we passed through:

But then my sister became a bored and started maniacally snapping pictures of the scene inside the car. Here's me talking to my children on the phone and trying to stay on the road after going blind from the nuclear flash of her camera:

That shot wasn't enough for her mischievous little soul, so she did it again, including herself in the next shot:

And what is UP with my fingers? They look like Freddy Kruger's blade claws. Which of my parents is responsible for those things? My whole life, I've wanted tiny little fingers. I'm going to file a complaint.

By that time, I was sick of driving and bored to tears myself, so I joined in her little sophomoric shenanigans. She made me do it.

It was all for show, I promise. No boogers were harvested as a result of this picture.

Suckers.

2006-10-14T03:04:00.000-07:00

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

2006-10-13T20:29:00.000-07:00

It's the perfect morning to gather some cattle. The sun is shining and the air is deliciously cool and crisp. Better yet, I'm in the car with a big cup up coffee and the heater running, following along with my camera. Life is sweet!

Here are the two middle children, sticking close together as they round up the herd.

Our oldest daughter has become very confident on her horse and is now able to go off by herself and round up a stray. She's a really good rider, Marlboro Man tells me. And I take his word for it since I wouldn't know what a good rider looked like any more than an Eskimo would recognize a good golf swing.

Her younger sister isn't too far behind, you know.

It helps that their dad always takes time to help them.

He even falls back and takes it slow so he can help the kids bring up the rear. I just love that dude.

Have a Beautiful Morning, everyone!

French Fries, Ketchup, Mayonnaise, and Poop

2006-10-12T02:02:00.000-07:00

I took the kids to the zoo yesterday. I forgot my camera (of all things) but it's really just as well because if I'd taken it along, I would now be posting the following shots:

- A chimpanzee with its finger in its bottom.
- Eight African penguins pooping in unison, underwater.
- A tiger licking its bottom.
- An elephant pooping. We seem to have shown up just in time for everyone's morning routine.
- A zoo employee scratching his bottom. Digging, actually.
- A lemur pooping. It became difficult not to take it personally after awhile.
- Children larger than my nine-year-old riding around in strollers.

After a good fifteen minutes of riding the train around the entire zoo, we'd worked up quite an appetite. So we parked ourselves at the zoo snack bar for a little replenishment. Now, because we were at the zoo and not in the real world where 37-year-old women who wish to remain on the western side of the weight continuum don't eat such things, I took the liberty of feasting on french fries dipped in my favorite Freshman Fifteen Condiment: ketchup mixed with mayonnaise. It had been years, but it was so wonderful. I could just feel the pink ooze squeezing out over the waist of my black yoga pants.

Problem was, I didn't have the courage to order my own fries, so I was just helping myself to my childrens'. My food-possessive four-year-old withstood only a minute or two of my stealing his fries before he finally--and very clearly--voiced his complaint:

"Mommy, I'm gonna poke you in a hole and make you dead."

Nonplussed, I asked for clarification. "Do you want me to be dead?"

My younger daughter intervened. "No!" she said, glaring at her brother. "She brought us to the zoo!"

My oldest daughter got involved. "Yeah!" she said. Then, after a long pause, she continued, "And we wouldn't have anyone to drive us home."

I was still staring at the pigeon perched on the ledge directly above me, certain that it, too, would soon be pooping on my spirit, when she continued, "Oh...that's okay. We'd have her cell phone."

I polished off the rest of their fries. Just to teach those punks a lesson.

Marlboro Man Likes Football

2006-10-11T04:33:00.000-07:00

Marlboro Man likes football. It's a lifelong interest. A passion, really. And he knows it like a surgeon knows his science. And fortunately for our marriage, he isn't the obnoxious breed of football fan---the kind that paints each half of his face a different color and parks in his recliner with a cooler of beer and a Playboy and beats his wife on Superbowl Sunday. No, he's rather a silent Football Surgeon, prefering to watch his game in peace, analyzing each and every play within the privacy of his own mind.

My sister had a boyfriend in college named George. He was such a rabid, ridiculous football fan that he'd convulse and scream any time his team made the slightest mistake or received a remotely questionable call. Wetsy tolerated it for awhile, but one day during his football game antics, George jumped up and accidentally whacked himself in the face, causing his eyeglasses to fly across the room and break as they landed on her dorm room floor. This image infested her brain and her heart, and it turned out to be a dealbreaker for their relationship.

I'm not a natural sports fan, but a couple of years ago I took the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" attitude with Marlboro Man, and began watching---and eventually enjoying---football games. It didn't exactly hurt that my alma mater, USC, was just beginning their winning streak at the time. But surprisingly, the interest has really stuck and I've become a pretty steady football fan alongside my Football Surgeon husband.

So I love football and all. But I want to talk about it while I'm watching it. I want to talk about the intricacies of the game as my feeble mind processes it. Last weekend was an example. Deep into the third quarter of the 'SC game, I begin: "Okay, here's what I think about..." I notice my loving husband try unsuccessfully to keep from rolling his eyes as I continue. "You know when one team's about to score and the ball's on, like, the one-yard line, and it's really really close, and they start the play, but the defense is so intense that the offense can barely move the ball even one inch?"

"...Yessss?" Marlboro Man asks, inviting me---practically begging me---with his pained tone to end this torture by finishing my question as soon as humanly possible so he can return to the game.

I surge on. "Well, what I think about is, why doesn't the defense play that well when they're on, like, the SIXTY-yard line?"

My husband shifts uncomfortably in his comfortable chair. He begins, "Okay, first of all, there IS no sixty-yard line." He takes a deep breath and starts again, "But in answer to your question..."

"STOP!" I say, pressing my palms to both my ears. "I don't want to talk about it any more!!!" And I didn't. It just wasn't fun for me after that. And there IS a sixty-yard line. It's just that they---the ESTABLISHMENT---call it the "Other Team's Forty." How euphemistic is that? I'm sorry, but I just can't be expected to be a party to that kind of flawed, ridiculous logic.

I like close-ups. And I like your thoughts.

2006-10-10T03:48:00.000-07:00

Which one do you like?

No, you have to pick one. Even if you don't like any of them. Say a stranger knocks on your door and you answer it and he has a paintball gun and says he's going to pelt all of your white furniture with violet paint if you don't pick one. Or say the proprietor of all the cacao beans in the world says he'd going to withhold international shipments so no one on earth can manufacture chocolate until you pick one. Or pretend Ed McMahon is on your doorstep holding an envelope in one hand and a lit match in the other and he says you have to pick one within four seconds or he's going to torch it.

Which one would you choose? And why?

Tickleback Mountain

2006-10-09T04:48:00.000-07:00

I need to talk about Becky again. I'm sorry, but she's the kind of person who can really get inside one's head to the point that one can't really purge one's self of the thoughts until one talks about her to the point that one can get on with one's life.

There are just some activities in this life that are so tremendously gender-specific, it's beyond laughable even to imagine the other sex doing them. Tickling backs is a perfect example. When girls tickle each other's backs, they take turns, well, tickling each other's backs. It's as much a part of girlhood as slumber parties and Hello Kitty, and there's not a man on earth who can relate to it or even begin to comprehend what it's about. And I suggest they not try. Becky and I used to tickle each other's backs. It was such a normal, everyday activity that we never even had to spell out an entire phrase or say anything like, "Hey! I've got a great idea! Let's tickle each other's backs!" It was always just a certain look, followed by one word: "Tickleback?"

We tickled backs, Becky and me. But Becky wasn't content just to mindlessly tickle. She had to have some angle, some purpose or objective to her tickling or nothing would compel her to do it. So she developed a sort of "Guess That Picture"-type game, wherein one of us would, with our index finger, sketch an imaginary picture on the other's back while the other would try to guess what the picture was.

This turned out to be way too difficult, though, translating the random sensations we were feeling on our backs to a random object in the other's mind like a tree, a shoe, or a cat. So Becky narrowed down the field and declared that we would from here on out limit our Tickleback drawings solely to the characters from Family Circus, a comic book series we were obsessed with during the greater part of the late 70's/early 80's.

Becky's new Tickleback method really took, and soon we had quite a rhythm going. When we drew Dolly, with her long, smooth ponytail, we'd make long, graceful, swooping motions with our finger. Jeffy's short, wavy hair, translated to squiggly, tickly movements, and Billy and Barfy the Dog were easy enough. But PJ? Ahhhh, PJ. PJ felt so good. His little baby crew cut required the tickler first to make a round circle for the head, then quick, abrupt pecking strokes for the short little strands of hair. Gosh, did it ever feel good. "Ahhhh, it's PJ!" we'd guess. "It's PJ! Ahhhh."
It's so fun being a girl.

Family Circus was a good time; a glorious time. But alas, once we mastered drawing and guessing all the characters, Becky soon grew tired of it and felt the need to move on. She announced that the new Tickleback Guessing Game would be based on our second favorite comic book series, Archie. Now, discerning Archie from Jughead was usually as simple as feeling the difference between a normal, oval-shaped head and a clunky, rectangular one. But since Betty and Veronica's heads were similarly shaped and their hair was smooth and the same length, we had to rely on other anatomical attributes to highlight their differences so the recipient could make the most accurate guess.

Becky decided that Veronica's boobs were bigger. I stared at the comic book pages for awhile and really couldn't see it. In fact, on some days, Betty seemed to most definitely out-boob Veronica, if only ever so slightly. But for Tickleback purposes, and because Becky made not only the Tickleback rules but pretty much all the other rules in the tiny microcosm that was our friendship, Veronica's boobs were much bigger. So when the tickler made the finger-drawing of a human form followed by a huge, curvy brush stroke that abruptly left then suddenly curved back toward the body, the recipient knew and could shout out the answer with certainty: "VERONICA! VERONICA!"

We stuck with Archie for some time, but then Becky, to this day my only Baptist friend, unilaterally declared that it was sinful for us to be drawing boobs, let alone with our fingers, let alone on each other's naked backs. And just like that, our Tickleback days were over.

But I wasn't ready to let go. "Can't we go back to Family Circus?" I begged. But Becky said no. There was no going back. Our innocence was gone.

These days, Marlboro Man will sometimes affectionately rub my back and occasionally, when I feel a familiar swoop here or curve there, I feel the words come to the tip of my tongue, words I want to say and words I would have said to Becky 25 years ago had she not lowered the Baptist boom on me and closed the door forever on our Tickleback Days: "Draw PJ! Draw Jughead! Draw Veronica!"

But I don't. It would take way too long to explain. And besides that, it makes me miss Tickleback Mountain too much.

I wish I knew how to quit it.

Sisters on a Trampoline

2006-10-07T17:18:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I was typing the intended title for this post, "Trampoline Shots of the Week." I slipped, and without even flinching, typed "Trampoline Shits of the Week" instead.

I even saved the post to add more photos later, and never even noticed. Just now, when I opened the post and became aware of my massive Freudian Slip, I quickly changed the "i" to "o"...but then it all just looked wrong so I immediately changed the title altogether. Then I started emotionally spiraling downward, wondering what in my psyche could have caused me to refer to my darling daughters as shits, and thinking I must need a break or a massage or a pedicure or something before I really start to go bad.

But then I saw that the "i" is right next to the "o" on the keyboard. So now I'm convinced it was just an innocent typo. Yeah. I'm sure it was just a typo.

Can I still have the pedicure, though?

Six Plaguing Questions I Have About This Photo, Ca. 1986 (alternate title: "Hell")

2006-10-07T05:04:00.000-07:00

1. Why the hell are my bangs that short?
2. What the hell am I looking at?
3. How the hell many hours did I spend in the tanning booth to get my skin that color? (hint: ask my dermatologist.)
4. How the hell many layers of blush am I wearing?
5. Why...why...why the...why the hell did I feel compelled to match my eyeshadow to my clothes?
6. Why the hell didn't anyone tell me?

Hell.

Guess What Happened to Me Once?

2006-10-06T05:05:00.000-07:00

It was 9:30 p.m. I was seventeen and was leaving the ballet studio I'd gone to my whole life. Rehearsals for The Nutcracker had started and we'd gone later than expected that night, and, in a hurry to get home and talk on the phone with the band geek I had a crush on that fall, I threw on my street clothes and left the building before any of the other dancers.

As I walked toward my car, I noticed a few human figures walking on the sidewalk a couple of blocks away, but because I was in the town in which I'd been born and had grown up on a golf course surrounded by trees and green grass and not one person who didn't love me and care about my well-being, I didn't give their presence a moment of thought.

I got into my car and started the engine. My windows were down, and just as suddenly as I heard the pounding of approaching feet on the pavement outside my car, I felt the jolt of a hard, metal object being thrust into my left temple. It was a shotgun.

"Get out of the car!" the male voice ordered. I did. And when I got my bearings and looked around, I saw that I was surrounded by not one, but six men. Immediately, two of the men grabbed each of my arms while the man with the shotgun said, "You're going to get in this car and drive us." And then, just as the two men holding my arms started to shove me back into my vehicle, one of the others suddenly pointed to the house across the street and yelled, "There's someone looking out the window!"

That moment, that fraction of a second, that smidgen of a moment in time, distracted the six men just enough to allow my agile ballet limbs to wriggle loose of their grip and run. I ran, knowing, but at the time not caring, that a shotgun was behind me. I ran, because instinctively I knew that the alternative---getting into the car and leaving with them---was unthinkable. I ran until I found the familiar door of my ballet studio, which I flung open and entered quickly. By that time, the six men had sped away in my car. I was safe. And did I ever have a story to tell my fellow ballerinas.

My car was gone. Along with my purse. And my Chorus Line tape and my Best of The Beatles tape and my Violent Femmes tape. But I wasn't, and the next three days, though rough, were tempered both by gratefulness that I'd successfully fled the abduction and the assurance that those criminals were probably nothing more than punks who'd been hellbent on rabble-rousing that one particular night.

But on the fourth day, my mom came upstairs to my bedroom at 6 a.m. and flipped on the light. The police had just called with the news that my car had finally been found, as had the criminals. They had, the night before, shot and killed a woman while attempting to steal her car. Seems my car had run out of gas on a country road right about the time she'd decided to go searching for her missing dog. They'd flagged her down, she had resisted, and they'd shot her in the back.

I testified at their murder trial, and they're in prison to this day. Though I wouldn't point to this one experience as the only thing that's shaped my life, it has definitely left its mark in definite ways. Some of them are good, some not. But twenty years to the day after it happened, I remain certain of the following things:

1. I was not meant to die that October night.
2. Most women who resist abduction do ultimately survive.
3. Being limber does have its advantages.
4. Life does go on.
5. Oh, and that house across the street? The one with the person in the window who distracted the criminals so I could get away? It was condemned at the time. No one lived there. *Chills*

6. Oh, and one more thing. Thank you, God.

How To Cook a Steak

2006-10-05T04:08:00.000-07:00

It's Thursday - time to think about what's for dinner this weekend. How 'bout a nice, juicy steak? Don't be intimidated; it's one of the easiest things in the world to cook, and it'll make your soul sing.

Let's cook a rib-eye today.

Look for a boneless rib-eye with "good marbling", which refers to the tiny lines of fat distributed throughout the steak. Marbling adds flavor, juiciness, and tenderness to the cooked steak. This particular steak is about 1" thick.

For this lesson, I'll use my trusty (but not rusty) iron grill pan/griddle. Any grill pan will do, or you can certainly use a regular (but not nonstick) skillet.

Go ahead and turn the burner on medium to medium-high heat; you'll want the pan to be very hot when you're ready to start cookin'.

Here's my never-fail arsenal: Lawry's Seasoned Salt, McCormick Lemon Pepper, and a nice stick of regular (salted) butter.

Look no further for steak seasoning, ladies and gents. I've found nothing better.

First, sprinkle a light layer of Lawry's...

...Then follow with a very generous sprinkling of Lemon Pepper.

Now that the pan's nice and hot, rub the stick of butter all over the cooking surface.

For one steak, I'll melt about a fourth of a stick of butter.

Now, let the butter sit on the pan for a couple of minutes...

...long enough for it to become nice and brown, as shown in the second photo. NOTE: Some form of cooktop ventilation is advisable for this cooking method, as the butter smokes like crazy. Turn that fan on high!

Next, place the seasoned steak on the hot pan.

Press it down firmly so the pan will leave nice, black grill marks on the meat.

1 minute, 45 seconds later, rotate the steak 90 degrees.

The purpose of this rotation is to form a criss-cross pattern in the grill marks, and to cook the surface of the steak more evenly. Notice that before I rotated it, the grill marks only went in one direction.

Two minutes later, go ahead and flip the steak over to the other side.

Notice the nice criss-cross pattern of the grill marks.

After 1 minute, 45 seconds, rotate it 90 degrees and finish cooking for another two minutes.

The Finished Product

It doesn't get any better than this.

This is medium-rare, my favorite. Remember, you can always throw it back on the pan if it's too red for your taste...but you can't UNDO it if it's overcooked, so be careful. If you begin with a thinner steak, decrease the cooking time on all sides. And don't be afraid to cut a little slice in the steak to check the doneness as you're cooking. And remember that the steak will continue to cook slightly after you've removed it from the heat.

If you follow the aforementioned instructions carefully, here are some possible scenarios that will result:
1. If you cook it for your boyfriend, he will propose to you.
2. If you cook it for your girlfriend, she will give you a ninety-minute foot rub.
3. If you cook it for your husband, he will tell you he can't imagine being married to anyone else in the world.
4. If you cook it for your wife, she will give you a ninety-minute foot rub.
5. If you cook it for yourself, you'll decide you don't need no stinkin' spouse.
6. If you cook it for your friends, they'll never invite you over to their house for dinner again. You will have permanently raised the bar.

Go get 'em! And report back to me when you've completed the task.

I Have a Retarded Brother. His Name is Mike. Part Quatro.

2006-10-04T04:19:00.000-07:00

Growing up, it was always fun making My Retarded Brother, Mike mad. I tell ya, you just never knew what would come out of his mouth if he was pushed far enough.

In the 70's, my other, more normal, but still kind of retarded, brother, WDS, and I used to fling the typical Welcome Back Kotter insults at each other on a regular basis. "Up your nose with a rubber hose," WDS would shout at me. "In your ear with a can of beer," I'd reply. "Up your butt with a coconut," my loving brother would shout back. Ahhh, the nostalgia. How I miss those days of innocent sibling love.

All that time, My Retarded Brother, Mike was paying attention. He was storing up those choice Kotter phrases in case he needed to pull them out and use them on us one day. And eventually, he did. 'Cept Mike got so mad, his mind couldn't quite process the insults correctly so he came out with this: "IN...YOUR...EAR...WITH A...WALNUT!!!"

From time to time, just for kicks, I'd tell Mike I was going to call the cops on him. This was his biggest fear as a child, to be arrested and booked and put in a jail cell, so when I'd threaten to call the police, he'd get pretty worked up. One time, when I later told him I was just kidding, his face turned beet red and he shouted angrily, "REE!!!! YOU...ARE...A...DAMN!!!"

I am a DAMN?

Then there'd be the typical Mike Holiday Meltdown, which usually occurred either on Thanksgiving or Christmas because he became overtired and overstimulated and overstuffed, and when it happened, look out because the walls could very well come crumbling down. One Thanksgiving, for reasons I can't remember, Mike got ticked off at me and, lacking a well-though-out, more cerebral quip, simply started firing off whatever one-syllable missiles he could manage: "REE!!! YOU TURKEY DAMN BUTT ASS HELL." I'll always remember it was Thanksgiving because of his inclusion of the word "Turkey" at the very start of his list. Another memorable doozie that I think took place around Christmastime was "FART DUMB PIG BUTT!!!"

And I tell you, this stuff can really get in your head. There've been more than a few occasions in my years as an adult that I've become frustrated to the point of wanting to hurtle insults at people, not that I ever have, thank God, because all that usually comes to my mind is "IN YOUR EAR WITH A WALNUT YOU TURKEY DAMN BUTT HELL ASS FART PIG DUMB!" Seriously, I think as a penalty for my years of harrassing Mike, I was rendered handicapped by his repeated use of those insulting words to the point that I generally avoid conflict in my life because I know if I'm forced to be confrontational I won't think of anything normal or coherent to say.

I am a damn.

And a turkey butt hell.

Working Ranch 101: Shipping Cattle

2006-10-03T04:45:00.000-07:00

It's shippin' time! Yes, cattle ranchers eventually do have to actually sell the cattle they raise.

The cattle we shipped today are the same ones we weaned a few weeks ago. Out of that weaned bunch, we separated off the larger ones and sold them to a cattle buyer for a large feed yard in Texas. Once there, our little bovine buddies will live out the rest of their days eating whenever--and however much--they want.
Oh, how I'd love to be bovine...

On shipping day, the cattle trucks show up early and line up on the road to our house. The drivers hang out and shoot the breeze while we prepare the cattle for shipping.

The cattle are gathered and taken to the pens. They follow the call of the sook truck...

...while the rest of the guys bring up the rear on horseback.

Here's Marlboro Man with our oldest girl, keeping the herd moving along. I just love watching them ride together.

And now for the Moment of Truth: it's time to weigh the cattle and see just how much they've fattened up on our ranch. The formula's very simple: pounds equal $$$!

My pesky brother-in-law, Tim, pushes the cattle in groups onto the large scale.

After M.M. weighs the cattle in the small scale house, he hustles out to open the other side of the scale and count them as they file out.

After all the cattle are weighed, the trucks pull in, one-by-one, right up to the loading chute.

Our cowboy pushes them in groups up the loading chute and into the truck for their long journey to Texas.

"Aww, man! And I was JUST starting to like this place.
Oh, well...so long!"

Bye bye, girl. Thanks for the memories.

Hernia? JESUS!

2006-10-02T04:12:00.000-07:00

Ever seen Summer of '42? It's the coming-of-age story of Hermie, a 16-year-old vacationing on Nantucket Island who develops an enormous crush on Dorothy, a twenty-something beauty whose husband is off fighting in WWII. Hermie takes the liberty of helping Dorothy with odd jobs around her house while her husband is away, and one day offers to move some heavy boxes into her attic. Trying to come across as the big, strong male, Hermie warns Dorothy, "You shouldn't try to move those boxes yourself. You could get a hernia." Immediately, you feel Hermie's thick embarassment and later, as he's walking away from Dorothy's house, he chastises himself: "Hernia? JESUS!"

I can totally relate. My mind is positively swimming with heinous memories of times when I said the stupidest things. I've done a pretty good job of pushing them back into the dark recesses of my brain so I can function on a day-to-day basis, but when they do occasionally sneak out to the forefront, I squint violently and my hiney cringes like crazy.

Once during my senior year of high school, I stopped by the house of a junior boy - a boy with whom I was enjoying a friendly flirtation at the time. His parents, who were already somewhat skeptical of my older-woman intentions for their precious boy, were seated at the kitchen counter when I entered the scene. Their little scruffy dog scampered into the room, wet and muddy from playing out in the rain. The mom said, "You'll have to excuse Tippy; she doesn't smell very pleasant at the moment." Nervous and just wanting to make a good impression by being friendly and playful, I leaned down, scratched the dog's ears and said, "Awww, you're such a cute little smelly muff!"

Smelly muff? JESUS!

Then, one Saturday night in college, my boyfriend and his parents dropped by my apartment to pick me up. They had tickets to Phantom of the Opera and were taking us out for a big dinner beforehand. Walking out the door, his dad asked me, "Well, are you hungry?" Not content to leave it at that and simply answer yes, I attempted to spout off an impressive vocabulary word, thereby solidifying my status in their minds as a total keeper that their son would be nuts not to marry because I had such an extensive vocabulary and brilliant mind: "Oh, yes," I said, "I'm simply ravishing!"

Ravishing? JESUS!

A few years later, I was discussing a business concept with a new friend of mine. It was my initial idea, and I wanted her to bring her expertise to the table for a share in the profits. I was making my pitch to her and, trying to appear like a woman who had all the answers, I laid out my terms to my prospective partner as professionally and concisely as possible: "It'll be 60-30 all the way," I assured her.
"Ree?" she said, after a long, uncomfortable pause, "It's 60-40."

60-30? JESUS!

I'm a ravishing idiot. With a smelly muff, apparently.

Not really on that last part.

Cinderella...Dressed in Yella...Went Upstairs to Kiss Her Fella...

2006-10-01T04:52:00.001-07:00

Made a mistake...

Kissed a snake...

How many doctors did it take?

One...Two...Three...Four...

What are YOUR jump-rope rhymes? This is the only one I've ever known.

Lost and Bound

2006-09-30T19:00:00.000-07:00

Congratulations Snafu! Great thinking. "Lost" perfectly describes the forlorn expression on my girl's face, while "Bound" nicely explains the doll's predicament. Email me @ pioneerwoman2006@yahoo.com to claim your fabulous prize. A bevy of Staples paper clips awaits!

This was definitely a tough one, wasn't it? Creating an entire story to accompany the photo wouldn't have been such a challenge, but summarizing it all in a single title was no walk in the park. As usual, however, I was awed by the creativity and cleverness of my readers. Great job, all!

I held this unannounced, surprise contest today simply to reward you guys who took time out of your Saturday to drop by and visit. I also want everyone to know that I won't always warn you of impending photo naming contests; I'm liable to drop one on you at any time. Yeah, that's me - Miss Unpredictable, Miss You-Never-Know-What-to-Expect, Miss Keep-Everyone-On-Their-Toes, Miss Fly-By-the-Seat-of-My-Pants...yeah, that's me.

Thanks again, folks - I always love seein' ya!

* SURPRISE * "Give That Photo A Name" Contest

2006-09-30T03:03:00.000-07:00

Are you here? Are you paying attention? Good! 'Cause this photo needs a name. And this situation desperately needs an explanation. I'm still looking for one myself. It's a completely candid shot of my daughter and her favorite doll, strung up by the ankles. Don't ask; I don't know who, what, when, why, or how.

To enter, leave your suggested photo title in the comments section of this post. No entries after 6 p.m. Pacific Time. Winner will be announced at 7 p.m. Pacific Time. Grand Prize will be a STAPLES $35 gift card I received as a refund and never used and no longer deserve.

A photo like this needs a creative a descriptive name to explain it to the world. This'll be a toughie. Good luck!

Friday Confessions

2006-09-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel like I'm just one post away from running all of you off, I really do. And this is one of those posts. So do I proceed? Do I throw caution to the wind and let it all hang out, despite my fear of losing you? Isn't honesty what this process is all about? Or do I self-censor and post something more safe, like a photo of a box full of testicles or a recording of my burping the National Anthem?

Oh, what the heck. I guess I'll proceed and pray you don't leave me forever.

I received the following note from Becky, shortly after she read the story I wrote about her the other day:

"You forgot to mention that the very few times I did make it through the entire night, we both would pee all over each other and make a giant friendship circle of pee on the sheets. We could have cared less and were not the slight bit embarrassed!"

Confession #1: Okay, yes. I neglected to mention in my story the very few times that Becky did make it through a full night in my house. There were maybe two or three. I should have been fully forthright and honest, but really, what I mostly remember are the times she crumbled and went home.

Confession #2: Okay, yes. Becky and I used to wet the bed like racehorces, if racehorses slept in beds. Those of you who did not wet the bed or have never lived with a bedwetter will not understand this. Please stop reading now. Those of you who did or have will jump for joy that someone else out there did it, too. And boy, howdy, did we ever do it.

Becky and I wet the bed. Becky's younger sister wet the bed, as did my younger sister, Wetsy - hence the nickname. The four of us have tried for dear life to analyze and figure out the possible connections behind this bizarre phenomenon, how four children from two different families could wet the bed so regularly and unabashedly for the better part of their childhood.

I've actually considered that there could have been something in the water in the small town where our four parents grew up. They were all friends in high school, and I wonder if there was some toxin or metal in the water supply that affected the genetic make-up of the town residents' offspring's musculature that affected bladder control. 'Course, the issue really wasn't bladder control (we were perfectly able to hold it during daylight hours), so perhaps the water toxin affected the genetic make-up of the town residents' offspring's sleep areas of the brain, the areas that affect how deeply a human sleeps. I've always been told bedwetting is more a matter of depth of sleep than weakness of bladder, that some children simply lack the ability to be awakened by the urge to go.

I should point out that this theory of mine has a fatal flaw - that neither my older brother nor Becky's older sister wet the bed. So either the mutation doesn't begin to manifest itself until after the first gestation, or, more likely, this theory is dead in the water.

But then I pondered our mothers' treatment of this little, um, problem. At no time in all the years we flooded our beds do I remember either of our moms really protesting all that much. One would imagine at least one of them would have had at least of smidgen of a problem with having to change and wash sheets every day of their life, but they just didn't. There were heavy-duty plastic mattress protectors on all the beds (they were smart women), and I guess they reckoned no permanent harm was being done. Having four children myself, none of whom seem to have inherited this urinary idiosyncracy, I can't begin to imagine being that laid back about something so unpleasant. So was their casual approach actually part of the problem itself? Did they effectively enable our bedwetting? If they had strung us up by our bladders and beaten us a little more - or hung one of the urine-soaked sheets out of our bedroom window for all the neighbors to see - would we have been jolted into sleeping just a little less deeply, just enough to ensure we'd awaken and make it to the bathroom?

Speaking of enabling, there was the issue of the four of us exclusively spending the night at each other's homes because we knew we could wet the bed without consequence. (See Becky's note above.) Our worst fear was to spend the night at a non-bedwetting friend's house and flood their bed and have to explain that we weren't freaks, that we were nice, normal girls from nice, normal neighborhoods who had sweet but pee-permissive moms who didn't really mind it, so why should they, and besides, something might have been in the water supply where they grew up so it's really not our fault anyway?

Some things are better left unsaid.

This fear of ours was well-earned, by the way. When I muster up the courage, I'll share that unfortunate tale with you. It isn't pretty.

My Favorite - and Only - But Still Favorite - Sister in the Whole Wide World

2006-09-28T03:04:00.000-07:00

She really was the cutest little thing, even though she had some nerve being conceived in the first place, totally usurping my six-year reign as Baby of the Family and inflicting me with a nasty case of Middle Child Syndrome that would last the rest of my life.
Little butthead.

I swear, she looked like this all the time. Just look at those dimples. Little brown-noser.

She continued to blossom into a beautiful little girl...

...and had only a few, shall we say, unfortunate fashion slip-ups along the way.

She was even purty with a mouth full of mangled metal.

She was Maid of Honor in my wedding.

...and tried with all her might to catch the bouquet, bless her eager little heart.

And a few years later, she married the man of her dreams.

Yep. She's my favorite sister in the whole wide world. And she's 32 years old today. Happy Birthday, Wetsy!

Punk-ass.

Becky

2006-09-27T03:29:00.000-07:00

Becky is one of my oldest friends. We've known each other since we were embryos, as our parents went to high school together and I think my dad even kissed her mom once, or my mom kissed her dad, or her dad kissed my dad or something. Anyway, we go way back.

As a kid, Becky was always working some angle. In preschool, she broke the Bring Only One Item to Show and Tell rule: she brought a hand puppet and a marble, and when the teacher called her on it, Becky curled up in a ball, shoved the marble in the puppet's mouth, and said, in the voice of a hobbit, "It's his food." When she was seven or so, she called me from a local restaurant. She'd sneaked away from the table and needed to report something of vital importance. "Ree," she said, covertly. "I'm at Tumbleweed Cafe (she pronounced it "calf"). I smuggled about thirty dinner mints into my pockets. What should I do? I'm scared."

She also had a deep-seated psychological inability to spend an entire night at my house, or anyone else's house, for that matter. She loved the idea of spending the night with me and would go to great lengths to negotiate permission from both my mother and hers to do so. She'd get into her pajamas and climb into my bed with an entire loaf of white Wonder bread, which she'd roll into bite-sized balls and pop in her mouth. But by 11 p.m., when the Wonder bread was all gone and the reality of night hit her, Becky would crumble and call her mom to come pick her up, which her mom always did.

But still, she never stopped pursuing the can-I-spend-the-night beast, sometimes with unbelievable tenacity. She was an opportunist in this regard, even at age ten when my beloved Calico cat, Patches, was found splattered on the street near our English tudor house. The death of this cat remains among the more traumatic childhood experiences for me (along with the Full Nelsons and Double Chicken Wings my wrestler brother would practice on me regularly) but because Patches' death fell on a Tuesday, it became merely a chance for Becky to go for the gold.

Two hours after the grisly discovery of Patches, I was still sobbing uncontrollably when Becky pulled me into our laundry room. "You've GOT to keep this up," she ordered. "If your mom feels sorry for you, she might let me spend the night tonight!" That it was a school night only increased Becky's thirst for blood. School nights, in terms of sleepovers, were completely off limits, and if Becky could in any way manipulate my cats' death in order to spend the night on a school night, it would be the coup of her life.

My grandmother, Ga-Ga, arrived bearing flowers, knowing just how tragic Patches' death was for me. Ga-Ga, Becky, and I walked down to the new grave my mom had asked the golf course landscaper to come dig an hour earlier (just another benefit of growing up on a golf course, along with having well over eighteen sandboxes at your disposal and an unlimited number of lemonade stand customers in the summer.) Patches' lifeless body---now entombed in a black trash bag---lay in the dank, dark hole, into which I placed a small stuffed animal and my favorite red t-shirt with a black heart on the chest and a four-word note I'd written on my personalized stationery: I LOVE YOU, PATCHES. Ga-Ga put her compassionate arm around me and said, "Just be happy for all the good times you had with her, honey. Patches was a good cat."

That was simply too much to handle, and I turned on my heels and ran back to the house, the lump in my throat exploding into audible, blubbery tears over the loss of my beautiful, fluffy cat. I rushed into the downstairs bathroom and was reaching for a Kleenex when Becky ran in behind me and quickly closed the door. She grabbed my shoulders just as a football coach would the star quarterback's. "That was...GREAT!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening with anticipation and hope over what my display of emotion might mean for her. Too overcome with tears to say what I really wanted---that it wasn't a performance; that I was so sad, I couldn't see straight; that the world was, at that moment, a cold, heartless place---I simply bit my lip and uttered, "Thanks."

My mom did allow Becky to spend the night that night. It was a school night, yes. But I was in grief and really needed a friend to help soften the blow, my mom figured. Then, as always, at 11 p.m. Becky made the call. Her mom pulled into the driveway at 11:15 and away Becky went, into the dark of night, leaving me alone at the age of ten in my abject, feline-deficient sorrow. No cat or friend would keep me company that night.

Becky was one of three bridesmaids in my wedding and will always be one of my dearest friends. But I don't ever ask her to spend the night anymore. I've learned I just can't set myself up for that kind of hurt.

My Pesky Brother-in-Law, Tim

2006-09-26T04:01:00.000-07:00

He's a pest. He throws calf nuts at me. He teases me incessantly. But I guess I like him okay.

He's a rancher. And he's good at what he does.

He's rugged and outdoorsy. He once gave me a handgun for Christmas. It's the nicest thing he's ever done for me.

But he also has his moments. He's a gentleman. And he's kind.

And he has a great sense of humor.

Which comes in handy, especially when I post photos like this:

Twisted Sister

2006-09-25T19:02:00.000-07:00

Congratulations, Susan in Va! Dang. I tried and tried to pick another winner since you'd already won before, but yours was just too perfect. Plus, so many other folks plugged your entry, I didn't want a riot on my hands. Your Starbucks card is in the mail! Drink one in my honor, will you?

SO many great entries. Julie! I loved "Cowgirl Contortionist." If only she'd been wearing her cowgirl hat. And Pam? "I Channel Gumby" was cute, in a 70's kind of way. Clever Honorable Mentions go to Kiana's "Princess of Knottingham", Mrs. Pea's "Wrap Star!", Heather's "A.D.H.D." (I won't type it all out), and "Knotty Girl", which was taken by more than one person, I believe. And Jenni in KS---"Discombobulatory Ductile Disorder?" Whew. Nice.

I could go on and on, but I need to go change a diaper and pour myself a tall one. You all redeemed my Monday out of the pit to which it was surely headed. Thank you so much for participating. And remember, when it comes to my photo naming contests, there's always a NEXT TIME!

"Give That Photo a Name" Contest - Enter Now!

2006-09-25T03:32:00.000-07:00

This photo needs a name. And this kid needs some help. It's my oldest daughter, displaying the primary talent she's been given by her Creator. I think it's a special ability that will one day distinguish her from her peers. My husband thinks it's all that stuff I smoked in college.

To enter the contest, leave your suggested photo title in the Comments section of this post. One entry per person, no entries after 6 pm, Pacific Time. Winner will be announced at 7 pm, Pacific Time.

Grand Prize will be a $50 Starbucks Card, a souvenir from my 36-hour bliss-filled 10th anniversary getaway in the Big City. The winner of this contest will be able to treat him/herself to lattes, macchiatos, pumpkin scones, and chai tea for at least two days, considering the prices at Starbucks. You'll be the envy of every country person you know! (i.e. me)

A photo like this needs a descriptive and creative title so outsiders might better understand its meaning. You're just the people for the job. Good luck!

A Trampoline Shot, A Close-up, and A Poem. Amen.

2006-09-24T04:44:00.000-07:00

A trampoline shot:

A close-up. Atchoo!

And a poem:

"36 Hours Wasn't Enough"
I want to live
In a hotel.
It need not be
Five Star.

I just want clean
Towels every day
And a stocked
Honor bar.

I want a sign
On my doorknob
That says
"Leave me alone."

I want to dial
Housekeeping
And say
"Bring me a comb."

I want to eat
Food in my bed
And put the tray
Outside.

And stay in my
Pajamas and
Just lose all sense
Of pride.

Love Nest Debriefing and New Photo Contest This Monday

2006-09-23T05:01:00.000-07:00

Back to the real world now. It was great while it lasted:

Movies, uninterrupted.
Shopping, uninterrupted.
Dinner, uninterrupted.
Conversation, uninterrupted.
Se...never mind.

Speaking of dinner? Lobster tail again. Two. Because one lobster tail isn't enough. Sauteed mushrooms with roasted garlic. Little radishes and brie infused with Cabernet wine. Chocolate Lava Cake with chantilly cream and vanilla ice cream served in a sugar cookie bowl. I left the restaurant in ecstacy. I felt whole, complete, satisfied, inspired. I suddenly wanted to paint...to sculpt...to...to...blog.

New photo contest this Monday! Enter to win a FABULOUS mystery prize from my junk drawer. You won't want to miss this!

I didn't gat a tattoo because I couldn't decide upon a body part. There are just too many to choose from.

Movie of the Week: Goin' Sortin'

2006-09-22T17:00:00.000-07:00

12 hours down, 24 to go. Here's the debriefing:
Lobster Tail: check.
No Laundry: check.
Room Service Chocolate Cake in Bed: check.
Tattoo: not...yet.

And yes, I brought my laptop along, so shoot me. I'm sorry, I really am, but I simply couldn't pass up the opportunity to have all this uninterrupted computer time, for pete's sake. It's amazing how much writing one can get done without a toddler's knee digging into one's groin.

If you have a little over four minutes to spare, please enjoy the following video. It shows the process of sorting cattle, the purpose of which is to separate a certain category of cattle (bred, weaned, dry) from the others. We gather the cattle and drive them to the far corner of the pasture, holding them there while My Pesky Brother-In-Law, Tim, my husband, and a cowboy or two ride slowly into the herd and cut out the animals that need to be separated.

A minute or so into things, Marlboro Man takes control of the camera and narrates as Tim and our longtime cowboy, Big John, cut the dry cows (those who do not have a nursing calf) out of the herd. Cattle are herd animals and resist being separated from their fellow bovines, so it takes a pretty skilled rider and a well-trained horse to get the job done. It's always fun to watch.

Toward the end of the video, M.M. turns the camera on me. I would normally have deleted this small section of the film, but it so perfectly illustrates a typical exchange between my macho husband and me. On that particular morning, he'd dragged us all out of bed at 4:00 a.m. I thought I'd just be going along for a short time, so I didn't have any juice or coffee or Cocoa Puffs or even water. By 8 a.m. I was starving and thirsty and hostile, and all the vehicles--and the ice cold drinks therein--were four miles from where we were working. I was trapped. And my darling husband, who's had to do this regularly since he was about four days old, was lovin' every minute of my pansy-ass city-girl plight. I hope you enjoy it, too.

Launch Video: Goin' Sortin' (Windows Media Player)

Pioneer Woman & Marlboro Man

2006-09-21T02:52:00.000-07:00

Do these little punks make an okay couple?

Today, I celebrate ten years of wedded bliss with my strapping husband, Marlboro Man. What can I say? He's my man. We work. We've got rhythm. We're happy.

As reward for reaching this milestone, we're driving 57 miles to the city to stay in a hotel for 36 hours...BY OURSELVES. There's no telling what will happen; the possibilities are endless. We may never come home.

I don't know what my groom has planned (yes I do), but here is My Own Personal 36-hours-In-The-City-To-Do List:

- Go to Starbucks
- Watch eleven movies in the hotel room
- Don't fold laundry
- Go to Starbucks
- Eat lobster tail
- Don't wash dishes
- Get a manicure
- Leisurely browse Barnes & Noble, where I'll buy a book about feudalism, which I'll never read but who cares because at least I can say I own a book about feudalism
- Go to Starbucks
- Get a tattoo of my husband's brand on my left hip

Not really on the tattoo. Or maybe. Or not. Or maybe.

Marlboro Man? Are you reading this? I love you, you big studalicious specimen of a man, you. Happy Ten Years.

How long have you been married? Or how long were you married? Or how long do you want to stay unmarried? What's your marital status? Pioneer Woman wants to know.

Shrunken Heads and Why Dances With Wolves Can't Ever Be on My Favorite Movie List

2006-09-20T04:16:00.001-07:00

Here are some shrunken heads from our museum trip. I used to stare at them when I was a little girl. They were found in Peru and are dated around 700 years ago. According to the exhibit, members of a Peruvian tribe would cut off the heads of their enemies from other tribes. Making a slit at the nape of the neck, they would carefully peel the skin layer away from the skull, then sew up the seam. Hot rocks would be placed inside the cavity to start the shrinking process, and as the heads shrank, a tribal member would constantly mold the head with his hands, maintaining a realistic shape.

That's all fine and dandy. But---and this always bothered me as a young girl and still plagues me today---what's with the hairstyles? Couldn't the original creator of this exhibit have tried just a little to keep the hair more within the period and culture from whence it came? Now, I can understand the long gray and brown styles---those are believable. But what about Albert here, with his cropped hair and nineteenth-century European 'stache?

And the short, brown Aunt Fern?

Who decided on these hairstyles? After all the trouble people went to to unearth these treasures, why would someone carelessly slap inaccurate mops of hair on their heads? I lose sleep over it sometimes.

It makes me think of a movie, one that in almost all respects could have etched itself a spot in my Twenty All-Time Favorite Movies if it hadn't messed so egregiously in one important way. The movie is "Dances With Wolves"---a triumph of a film in so many ways. Kevin Costner was perfect in his role and directed a visually beautiful story about a Confederate soldier who discovers his bond with Native Americans while he lives alone on a soldier fort in the middle of the frontier.

Mary McDonnell plays Stands With a Fist, a white woman who was found, adopted, and raised by Indians when she was just four years old. IMPORTANT: She has lived with the tribe her entire life.

So WHY...WHY, in the name of all that is good and right in the world, would her hair look like this?

All the other women in her tribe had long-to-the-waist hair. Why doesn't she? She's lived in the tribe since she was a little girl. Now, I could forgive this if her hair was just wavy. It's believable that, as a caucasian, she would have some degree of natural curl. But layers? No! Her hair should be all one length, and it should be long. Period.

It makes me so angry, I can't see straight. It's such a perfect movie otherwise. And I KNOW hair extensions existed in 1989, when the movie was made. My roommate in college got herself a cheap set and scratched a bald spot on her scalp because they were so itchy. But I'm certain that Kevin Costner, with all his vast Hollywood connections and resources, could have rounded up a long, black set of extensions that would have made the movie much more authentic and saved me hours and hours of hair-related grief, which I experience acutely every time I watch the movie. Why, Kevin? Why? Call and explain it to me, will you?

"Hello. My name is Stands With a Fist. I was raised by Native Americans and I can't remember how to speak English. But I do have a great layered do, which is all that really matters in life."

Amen.

For Your Listening Pain

2006-09-19T04:17:00.000-07:00

I have a bizarre mélange of audio clips for you, my wonderfully bizarre mélange of readers. Click on the links to listen:

LITTLE KIDS, BIG WORDS
I love few things more than listening to little punks say big words. It makes me feel neat inside. Kind of tickly.

Little Kids, Big Words 3

DON’T LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE BEEP, PART 2
I have issues. I admit it. I haven’t improved since the last time we addressed this. I still allow my machine to fill to the rim with messages until it finally starts beeping at me incessantly, begging me to listen to the messages and acknowledge that there is a world outside my safe little cocoon and that, in some cases, certain citizens of that world need to pass along information to me, or worse yet, need me to return their calls. I’m afraid to let it get that far, so I ruthlessly delete them, one by one, remaining blissfully ignorant as to who has called and what they wanted. I’m going to hell, I really am.

Don’t Leave a Message After The Beep, 2

ROGUE BABY WITH MICROPHONE
You’ve heard what can happen when a spirited six-year-old finds the computer microphone while her mom runs to the store. Now listen to the mayhem that ensues when a one-year-old baby boy finds same microphone. NOTE: On my honor, I have no clue who is responsible for the burp at the end. It isn’t me, and none of my children will fess up to it. Now I’m afraid there’s a belching troll living under my porch who darts inside to mess with my computer when I leave the house. I’ll bet he has B.O. and goes through my panty drawer, too.

Neurotic much?

Rogue Baby With Microphone and Phantom Troll Belch

Freckles, Eyelashes, Pizza and Snot

2006-09-18T04:05:00.000-07:00

Freckles.

Freckles.

They got them from me. When I was little, my mom told me I got my freckles from Uncle John. She said, "They just came over to live on your nose for awhile." I always pictured my freckles having little suitcases and trunks full of their stuff. I wondered what their names were and whether they were homesick. I still think about it once a week or so, my childhood freckles' imaginary, miniature suitcases. It's usually when I'm doing dishes at night, but only if I'm washing pots and pans. Don't ask me why. Brain synapses are a mysterious thing.

And here are the eyelashes. I hope you can see them through the pizza and the snot.

I don't like snot. Have I mentioned that before? Read this to find out why.

Four Years Ago Today

2006-09-17T03:01:00.000-07:00

Four years ago today, I gave birth to my third child. For my previous two births, I had resolved to have my babies naturally--that is, without the aid of pain-relieving medications---and had failed miserably both times, begging for and ultimately receiving epidurals within fifteen minutes of the first severe contraction.

In both instances, after the medication wore off, I regretted whimping out. My pesky brother-in-law's wife had given birth naturally twice, and my best friend had done it three times. As a matter of principle, I was ticked off that I, who had withstood years of blisters and bruised toes as a ballerina, could not, for the life of me, grit my teeth and bear it for a few measley hours of labor.

But labor? Um, yeah. Have you ever experienced it? It ain't no cliche, people. It is, without a doubt, the most all-encompasing, mind-blowing, total-body, hiney-cringing, unfathomable pain I've ever known. And it's not like getting your eyebrows waxed or having an ingrown toenail removed, where it hurts so much it kind of makes your groin tickle and almost feels good. Labor is so bad that you forget the good. As far as a laboring woman is concerned, there is no good left in the world, there's no baby at the end of this torture, and even if there is, who cares? Just make the pain stop. I changed my mind. I don't want to do this. Can't someone else do it? I take it back. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

So guess what? When it came time for me to give birth to my third, I tried it again! And guess what else? I made it. But before that happened, here's what I did:
1. Asked for an epidural.
2. Begged for an epidural.
3. Grabbed the nurse by the wrist, twisted it 90 degrees, and demanded an epidural.
4. Cried when I was told it was too late for an epidural.
5. Cried when I realized I was crying because I couldn't have an epidural.
6. Told the nurse her voice was bugging me.
7. Let out the only primal, blood-curdling scream I've ever uttered in my life, emotionally scarring not only Marlboro Man, my sister, my best friend, and the entire medical staff, but also every candy striper and janitor on duty that night.

Was it worth it?

You decide.

And while you're at it, tell me about your childbirth experiences. Epidural? Or no epidural?

My Stinky, Nocturnal, Sugar-Daddy Taiwanese Roommate Named Jeff

2006-09-15T04:24:00.000-07:00

My last year of college, I began sharing an apartment in Downtown L.A. with a sweet-natured Taiwanese boy named Jeff. His wealthy parents had sent him to America to attend U.S.C., and rather than live alone, Jeff always preferred roommates. We had met through mutual friends and got along very well, so when he approached me about sharing an apartment, I thought it sounded like a fun adventure. He would pay 2/3 of the rent for the larger bedroom, and in return, I'd get to live in a Downtown L.A. high-rise instead of the abysmal swamp of Watts.

Jeff and I were perfect roommates because we lived totally separate lives. And Jeff was, indeed, nocturnal. He'd head to bed after spending all night surfing the then-relatively-new internet (remember Prodigy?) just as I'd be walking out the door for class in the morning. I didn't think much of it at first. But once I graduated and started my job, I began to resent it. As my black career pumps hurriedly clomped down the hall toward the door each morning, I'd meet Jeff, just heading to his bedroom to go to sleep. "Good night, Ree," he'd say with the weary voice of someone who'd just stayed up all night. And in the evening, I'd return home to the sight of Jeff, wrapped in his down comforter, stumbling out of his bedroom, his eyes caked with sleepy sand, his black hair all askew. "Good Morning, Ree," he'd mutter, groggily. It bugged me. Here I'd had a long, stressful day at the office, and Jeff had just rolled around in bed like a sloth all day.

I now know I was just jealous. I wanted to be a sloth, too.

As is inevitable between any roommates, other annoyances slowly began to creep in. Jeff's diet was, at best, curious. Though I frequently offered to cook dinner for him, his preference was, instead, a bizarre bouquet of take-out or delivery choices. He'd typically order from at least two different local restaurants at a time: Enchiladas and Vegetable Potstickers one night; Chicken Tequila Pasta and Fatburgers the next. Another winning duo that's etched in my soul was Shrimp Tempura with Dominos Italian Sausage Pizza. I tried explaining to Jeff that he was not only blatantly mixing nationalities with his menu selections, but socioeconomic brackets as well, which I was certain wasn't the least bit advisable. I don't think he ever really grasped what I was trying to say.

His 130 pounds were also a burr in my saddle. I was in pretty good shape then, but it required early morning treadmill bouts and a virtual abstinence from foods like Chicken Tequila Pasta and Shrimp Tempura, particularly in the late hours of the evening. Jeff's ability to scarf down this array of food without the consequence of gaining weight really started to wear on my patience. It just wasn't right.

I now know I was just jealous. I wanted to scarf down that food, too.

Jeff was also a Sugar-Daddy. He'd learned early on that there was a certain species of Young L.A. Girl that---surprise!---flocked to young, rich boys with hot cars. Jeff played this for all it was worth, and at any given time had an average of three hapless female admirers following him around, hoping to be the proud recipient of an occasional designer outfit or handbag, which all of them eventually were, I might add. It didn't really bother me much, until one particular day when he brought one of his little gals home with him. Struggling to make small talk, I complimented her on the cute black jacket she was wearing. "Oh, thanks!" she said, dreamily. "Jeff just bought it for me. It's Deeknie! ." It took me a couple of seconds to realize she was trying to say "DKNY".

I hadn't given Jeff any trouble about his harem up until that point, but I just couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Jeff, hon," I said later, "Can't you at least start out giving them Liz Claiborne or Guess? Something they can at least pronounce correctly? Then you can always work your way up from there. Make it a requirement that they know how to pronounce the label before you buy them something." He never really understood what I was talking about. Dang language barrier.

The final, and most unfortunate, nerve-grater was Jeff's nightly visit to our hall bathroom, evidently the only consequence of his excessive and gastronomically schizophrenic meals. And the duct system in our apartment was screwed up, causing whatever odors were in that particular bathroom to be broadcast through the remaining vents in the apartment. I won't go any further, as I'm starting to feel faint just thinking about it. Suffice to say, our apartment did not smell the way I always envisioned the apartment of a 22-year-old girl should smell.

For all these reasons, I knew it was time to find a place of my own. I appreciated Jeff's nice attitude and the 1/3 rent he allowed me to pay. But I was a career woman now--waaaaaay too busy and important to share an apartment with a Nocturnal, Taiwanese, Sugar-Daddy Stink-Bomb named Jeff. I moved to Marina Del Rey, where I stayed until I eventually moved back to the midwest and into the arms of Marlboro Man.

Don't feel too sorry for Jeff. Soon after we very amicably parted ways, his parents bought him a sweet pad in Pasadena. A month or so after he moved in, he called to let me know that if I ever needed a place to live, he'd be glad to rent me one of the bedrooms. I told him thanks, and I giggled at the thought inside my head that I desperately wanted to shout from the rooftops: "Only if it's out in the back yard!"

I love ya, Jeff. Every time I smell Italian Sausage and sushi, I think of you fondly.

A Day at the Museum

2006-09-15T04:15:00.000-07:00

We were bored yesterday, so we loaded up, picked up the kids' best buddy, and headed to a museum. I just love the museum.

Here, they're studying "Navajo Fire Dance" by William R. Leigh.

It's an awe-inspiring scene depicting Native Americans performing the dance as a cure for some undiagnosed illness of a member of the tribe. I feel like a lazy cow just looking at it.

Everything's a wonder at a museum.

Here's the new generation, admiring my own favorite painting from childhood. I used to stand and stare at it just like this.

It's called "Visions of Yesterday", again by Leigh, and it shows an old, white-haired Indian, dressed in both White Man's clothes (jeans) and his own native moccasins, beaded vest, and a couple of feathers. As he's trudging along, pushing the White Man's plow, he sees an old buffalo skull in the dirt. For a minute, he remembers the great Buffalo hunts of his youth, shown in the clouds in the horizon. Sniff sniff. Even as a little girl, this painting gave me a lump in my throat.

(Sidenote: If one's daughter wears a "Vote For Pedro" t-shirt while visiting a museum, is the culture she gains immediately negated? Just wondering.)

A museum is a perfect place to demonstrate the great chasm that exists between the sexes. While the girls gazed at the extensive porcelain doll collection...

...My boy was across the room, salivating at the stash of Colt guns. It's staggering how quickly and perfectly they gravitated to their respective places in the room. It was a cultural exhibit in itself.

Oh! The girls eventually did come around, finding one particular revolver that held their attention...

Could it be that the gun's case was embellished with solid gold and a pretty, sparkly diamond?

Surely not.

Working Ranch 101: Girls Are Good Help

2006-09-14T04:20:00.000-07:00

Girls are valuable commodities on a working ranch, make no mistake about it. On this particular day, while we (and I use the term "we" loosely here) preg-test cows, our girls work the gate.

First, they wait and watch as the cow is locked in the working chute and examined in a very special way:

"I'm sure glad I'm not a cow."

Then, after the cow is checked but before it exits the chute, the girls swing the gate in one direction or the other, depending on whether the cow is found to be bred or not. The "open", or non-pregnant, cows are separated from the pregnant cows and taken to a different pasture. As punishment for their inability and/or unwillingness to procreate, the open cows will be sold and shipped off at the earliest opportunity. (Dang, I'm sure glad I got pregnant on our honeymoon. There's no tellin' where I'd be by now.)

The gate isn't actually a gate at all, but a heavy steel panel that's been temporarily rigged for this purpose. Girls have muscles, too!

One of the first words Marlboro Man teaches the kids when they first start going to work with him is "hustle". It's a valuable lesson to learn around here, as lollygaggin' is not a trait that wins friends and influences people.

"Whew. It's tough bein' a cowgirl."

If they become any more useful, we might not ever let them go to college.

Farewell, Dear Readers (Burp #6 - A through P)

2006-09-13T04:20:00.000-07:00

Well, this is it. If the calf nuts and preg-testing photos haven't already run you off, this one's sure to. I'm sorry. I'm...sorry.

If listening to belches makes you nauseated, please do not click on the following link. Just think of me in happier times. If, however, you do make it through to "P" (that was as far as I could make it, bless my esophagus), be sure to stick around for the interviews at the end. I'm sorry.

Burp #6...I'm sorry

Do You Think This Guy is Cute? (post script)

2006-09-12T15:18:00.002-07:00

I'm all about equal time, fairness, goodness, and justice. Plus, my brother is sending disgusting links to my email inbox as revenge for my earlier entry. I want to make things right again, so I thought I'd better post a more recent--though this one is still about ten years old--photo without the bowl cut and the wrestling unitard.

He looks about like this now, except maybe a little more distinguished. He's 6'4" and is among the five smartest humans I know. He's in pretty good shape for 40, but has kind of a big butt for a guy. But that's just my opinion.

Just keepin' it real, brother!

Do You Think This Guy is Cute?

2006-09-12T04:29:00.001-07:00

This is my big brother, ca. 1983. He posts comments here as "WDS".

Do you think he's cute...in an early-80's kind of way? I'm only asking because he's three years older than me, and throughout my adolescence---as if it wasn't painful enough---I was pelted left and right with comments from breathless teenage girls about how cuuuuuuuuuuute my brother was. "Your brother is a HUNK..." they'd say. I also heard, "Your brother is such a FOX!" and "I'm soooooooo in loooooooove with your brother!" with some frequency.

I'm only bringing this up because I never, in all the years I withstood these verbal assaults, could figure out just what in TARNATION these feebleminded girls were talking about. I loved, and still love, my brother...in a sibling kind of way. But I thought, and still think, he's the dorkiest, most bumbling lug in the Northern Hemisphere. Just look at this wrestling (alternative pronunciation for the southern states: "wrasslin'") portrait:

So my question is: Do you think he was a fox? Would you have thought he was a fox in 1983? And if so, is this a universal phenomenon---for siblings to find one another not only unattractive, but disgustingly, vomitotiously unattractive? I can say with a high level of confidence that I'm sure WDS always found me as exceedingly barfalicious as I found him.

Not to be gross, but do you think it's nature's way of protecting against inbreeding?

I'm already regretting that last question.

Just Some Peaceful, Easy Close-ups.

2006-09-11T04:20:00.000-07:00

I can't think of anything else that's even remotely fitting for a day like today.

Which one do you like best? If a law passed today that said you had to choose a favorite, which would it be? If a man knocked on your door and said he'd give you thousand dollars to choose a favorite, which would you choose? If...aw, never mind.

I just like to know what you like. And why.

My Niece.

2006-09-10T04:46:00.000-07:00

My niece likes pink. She eats, sleeps, breathes, thinks, and speaks pink. At all times, pink is on her mind, her lips, her fingernails, and her heart. Pink is her purpose and her mission. Pink is her religion and her song.

Look at this working photo. The cowboys and the rest of the kids are wearing normal cattle-working clothes. But not my niece. She's wearing pink.

I can't take my niece to Wal-Mart without buying her the whole store. I can't help it. I've tried. We go in to get butter; we leave with pink nightgowns, pink fingernail polish, a pink diamond tiara, pink rhinestone sunglasses, and a pink lollipop. And no butter, because I'm swept up in her pink tornado and forget.

Every time my niece tells me she loves me, it's completely out of context:

Me: What do you want to eat?
Her: I love you, Ree.

Me: Come put your boots on.
Her: I love you, Ree.

Me: Do you want milk or orange juice?
Her: I love you, Ree.

Happy Sixth Birthday, Pinkie.

(P.S...I love you, too.)

Dropping My Contents

2006-09-09T05:25:00.001-07:00

Tonight our kids are spending the night at their cousins' house, so Marlboro Man and I have spent the evening watching movies. After taking in the delightfully girl-friendly "In Her Shoes," with Cameron Diaz and my favorite actress on the planet, Toni Collette, we regretfuly moved on to the exceedingly unfortunate horror flick, "The Hills Have Eyes." If you ever have the opportunity to watch it, particularly if you live twenty miles out in the country, don't. Don't. Don't. Oh, and don't. Just don't.

It was so awful that halfway through the movie, I simply had to have a break. There was a baby who'd been abducted by nuclear waste zombies, and I could no longer bear the thought of such a thing, having successfully raised four babies without any of them ever being held by anyone who didn't absolutely love every ounce of them, let alone by bloody, deformed, brain-sucking zombies who wished them harm. I sat down at the computer for a little dose of the real world, while Marlboro Man went outside to get a cold Dr. Pepper from his pickup.

Minutes later, he returned, sporting one of the most disturbing Halloween masks I reckon I've ever seen:

Seems he'd picked it up earlier today and was waiting for the right moment to try it out on me. I caught sight of the face in the mirror above the computer desk where I was sitting, and horror set in; I truly, truly thought---for at least 2.7 seconds---that my love had been eaten by our own brand of hill zombies, one of which was now inside my house, moving rapidly toward me.

I let out a gutteral, primal, embarrassing scream and jumped from my seat so quickly, I knocked over the chair. I almost started running. Then, once I recognized the familiar gray shorts and white t-shirt...

...I started to cry in both relief and despair. My husband cried, too. But it was a gleeful cry, more like the way Rocky Balboa cried when he beat Apollo Creed in Rocky II. This was a huge victory for him; the fulfillment of a continual dream of his to make me scream and cry and squirm.

He's done this before. While my sister and I were deep in the middle of "The Sixth Sense" a few years ago, he barged in the back door, howling like a deranged madman. She and I collapsed onto the floor in terror and instinctively assumed a crab-crawl pose, as if to prepare to flee. Once Marlboro Man calmed down from laughing and we wiped the tears of horror from our faces, my sister and I reflected curiously on just how terrified we had felt at the moment he pushed through the door. My sister made the remark, "I almost dropped my contents."

She was, of course, referring to the flight response that fires up in an animal when a predator is pursuing it. To lighten the load and facilitate better running speeds for the fleeing animal, the intestine and bladder empty at the sign of a threat. That's how we felt that night. Our bottoms quivered nervously for at least an hour afterward. I call it a hiney cringe.

And that's how I feel right now. An hour after my loving husband's surprise attack, my nervous system is in high gear; my body in a state of persistent tingle; my pulse still high; my respiration still heightened. And, most noticeably, my hiney is still cringing like crazy. It's a strange, indescribable, rather uncomfortable quivering sensation taking place; I wish I could make it stop. But my body's flight response was triggered...and so far, it hasn't clicked back off.

What if it never does? I haven't quite figured out the long term application for such a feeling. I'll keep you posted.

Oops!

2006-09-08T04:15:00.000-07:00

I really don't understand why, but my good morning greeting from yesterday didn't go over too well. Imagine! So to prove that I love and care about all of you, and in an effort to escape the testicular pit I've dug for myself, today I want to share with you some non-calf-nut, non-bloody, non-orifice, non-nasty photos to make you forget about the abject ugliness of yesterday morning. I hope these make you love me again.

My latest close-up. It's a mum:

My backyard yesterday morning, just before I posted the fateful photo:

Cute cows looking at their cute calves:

Oldest male child terrorizing youngest male child:

Another bizarre, trippy close-up:

I like close-ups. They make me feel good inside.

Am I forgiven?

GOOD MORNING!

2006-09-07T04:34:00.000-07:00

And how are you all doing this fine morning? Are you awake yet? I'm just here to greet ya with a smile and an uplifting photo of severed calf nuts so you can start your day off right.

Enjoy!

Poetry of a Madwoman, Vol. 18

2006-09-07T04:29:00.000-07:00

Mom?
Why didn't you let me play the flute
In third grade?
I came to you one day with a handwritten note
From a nine-year-old girl
Who shared my name and hair color.
"Mom, can I play the flute?" it read.
A simple want.
"No," you answered. "Not right now."
Which meant hell no. But you said it sweetly.
Was it that ballet shoes already adorned my feet?
And piano lessons beckoned twice weekly?
Carpools already sucked your days dry?
And more time you could not give?
Or did you fear the label, "Band Geek"
For your firstborn female?
Maybe you wanted more for me
Than the cold and drafty brass section.
Or were you merely sparing me
Deep creases 'round my lips
That by now I'd surely hate
And be receiving chemical peels to remedy?
Or did you know good and well
That my orchestral plea
Was just another sanguine belch
From my scatterbrained soul?
Oh, and Mom?
I'm glad I didn't play the flue.
You knew best then and I now understand.
I, too, have four young kids
And I dread them playing soccer
Or joining Scouts. Or anything.
Because I know I'll have to drive them there.
Thank you, Mom.
My lips are smooth.

Marlboro Man, What Are You Doing?

2006-09-06T04:14:00.000-07:00

You bully! Stop hitting that poor, defenseless cow. What has she ever done to you? How could you be so cruel?

Aww, I'm just kidding---my sweet, gentle husband would never hurt a defenseless bovine animal. Actually, he was sawing off the cow's horn with a piece of thick wire:

Seems the poor cow's horn, over time, had curved inward and was beginning to grow into her head. The horn already had rubbed a raw spot in the hide and eventually would have caused a nasty infection. Since he was working the heads that morning, Marlboro Man noticed the horn and began removing it immediately. The thick wire acted as a saw, cutting through the horn as M.M. pulled it back and forth:

Here's the problem horn, now detatched, in my studly husband's gloved hand:

"Ahhhh, thank you. I feel much better now."

...and the cow lived happily ever after.

I actually wrote this story just so I could post photos of Marlboro Man's muscles. And yes, I get to crawl into these massive arms whenever I want...

Grinnin' From Rear to Rear

2006-09-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

Congratulations, Pamela! Boy, you had some stiff competition, but in the end, your entry most perfectly captured all that was going on in this photo. His grin is unmistakable, and the good doctor literally went from rear to rear---over 150 times that morning! Email me at pioneerwoman2006@yahoo.com.

This was a tough one; when I posted the photo this morning, I wasn't even sure there'd be enough clever entries to go around. But as usual, you all came through and floored me with your comedic flair. Thanks so much for participating; you gave me reason to live today.

Runner-up goes to James Cooper. Your entry, "Do I Have Something in My Teeth?" was fabulous. As IslayGirl said, "The delightful oblivion it suggests is just too funny." Email me & I'll send you a dozen chocolate chip cookies. Homeschoolin' Mama's "Take This Job and Shove It" was also great. But since he's enjoying his job so much, it wasn't quite 100% accurate. Timmy's Nana's "Hangin' In There 'Til His Work is All Dung" was very clever, as was Mindy's "In the End, You Just Gotta Love What You Do." Very smart! And Ana's Bapa's Hokey Pokey reference forever changed the way I feel about the classic folk tune. I don't think I'll be singing it with my kids anymore.

It's always tough to pick only one winner. The only way I can live with my decision is by resting in the knowledge that there'll be another contest...soon.

Oh, and here was my entry: "Just Another Day at the Orifice." I didn't win. Maybe next time! See you all then.

P.S. Citygirlinthesticks? Please email me. I'm sending your 6-year-old a package of gel pens so I can sleep tonight.
P.P.S. Pam and Pam's Husband...great minds think alike. :)

"Give That Photo A Name" Contest---Enter Now!

2006-09-05T04:03:00.000-07:00

This photo desperately needs a name. It shows our local veterinarian preg-testing one of our cows last week. Dr. Demento's right hand is firmly grasping the poor cow's tail; his left arm is...deep inside the cow's rectum. Ahh, ranch life. It's a beautiful, idyllic thing.

I just love this photo. The good doctor seems to enjoy his work so much, he's seemingly oblivious to the reality of what he's actually doing: repeatedly shoving his gloved extremity into scores of bovine animals and being sprayed with manure for hours on end. A good attitude covers a multitude of sins, doesn't it?

To enter the contest, leave your suggested photo title in the comments section of this post. One entry per person, no entries after 6:00 pm Pacific Time. Winner will be announced an hour later, at 7:00 pm Pacific Time.

Any office supply addicts in the house? You've come to the right place. Grand prize will be a $50 Staples gift card!

A photo like this needs a descriptive and creative title. You're just the folks for the job. Good luck!

I'm Not What They're Searching For - Vol. II

2006-09-04T04:37:00.001-07:00

Every couple of weeks or so, I like to check my site meter and browse the list of referring URL's. In layman’s terms, this means I get to see all the different web pages that bring visitors to my website.

Most of the visitors to this site intend to arrive here, but every day, at least a handful of folks arrives at my site through no fault of their own. And usually, after I look through the list of referring URL’s, I wind up equally amused and disturbed. A great deal of the funnier searches, unfortunately, also happen to have sexual undertones, and while I will ultimately wind up cowering under the coffee table, sucking my thumb for comfort, I have to first allow myself to have a whale of a laugh imagining what must have gone through the Googlers' minds when they clicked on the search result that brought them to my website.

One thing that really sends me into hysterics is the way many Googlers compose their searches. They type only the key words of what they’re looking for into the Google search field. For instance, “How dispose skunk.” (Anything For a Date led them here, no doubt) and “Toenail separated nailbed” ( Paperclips, Toenails, and Middle Child Syndrome was clearly the culprit here).

While I understand the mechanics of entering search phrases in this manner---it cleans up the search a bit, eliminating the annoying article adjectives, prepositions and pronouns that might complicate the search---all I can picture when I read search terms like these is a Neanderthal caveman, sitting at the keyboard, grunting as he types in his various search phrases with his hairy index fingers. Think “Me Tarzan. You Jane” and “Me Make Fire.”

Another search highlight from the past week? “Camera woman slammed ground kick testicles.” Ugh. You Tarzan. Me Emotionally Scarred.

One of the real standouts was “Yanking nut sack”. Please tell me this particular Googler was an Asian/Pacific Islander looking for some kind of native recipe involving calf testicles. If not, he was sure to be disappointed with what he found here. And I'm getting under the coffee table. Fast.

And finally, some hapless Google freak found me through the search “How Give Woman Lap Dance”. I’m so happy and proud that people looking for this information will be led to my tale, My Lap Dance With Gary Coleman. Once the vision of Arnold from Different Strokes appears in their head, they’ll be cured forever of any sinful lap dance desires that might be swimming around in their soul.

"Give That Photo A Name" Contest This Tuesday

2006-09-03T05:32:00.000-07:00

Enter to win another fabulous prize from the bowels of my junk drawer. See you then!

Trampoline Shot(s) of the Week

2006-09-03T05:00:00.000-07:00

I'm so grateful to Eureka Blyth. Hers was one of the first blogs I ever visited and her photography is an inspiration. Her trampoline photos inspired me so much that I now regularly throw my kids on our trampoline and order them to jump and frolic and while they're at it, look like they're having fun so I can get some trampoline photos, dang it.

Here are some pajama-clad shots from yesterday evening:

Om...om...om. My oldest is becoming one with the trampoline.
She will despise me one day because of this single photo.

Babies can jump on trampolines, too...even with wet diapers.

A Trampoline. A Kid. A Camera. Endless possibilities.

To My Sister, With Love

2006-09-02T05:04:00.000-07:00

When I started this website a few months ago, I had no grand plan. I simply started writing, belching, and posting photos of calf nuts. Months later, here we are. Throughout this process, I've tried not to impose many limitations on myself; I'm all about keepin' it real, after all. There is, however, one rule I've pledged to myself I won't break: that in the process of maintaining this website, I will never intentionally hurt anyone close to me.

I never said, however, that I wouldn't intentionally embarrass the hell out of anyone close to me.

On yesterday's guy-dancing-in-the-background post, my sister left the following comment: "I'm begging you now...please don't ever post that shot of me going for the bouquet at your wedding. I just don't know if I'll be able to recover from that."

So because that particular request does not fall within the scope of the one rule I've placed on myself in relation to this website, here is said photo, circa 1996:

That's her in the front. In the lavender.

Just Keepin' It Real,
Pioneer Woman

Always Assume There's a Camera Around

2006-09-01T04:50:00.000-07:00

It's New Year's Eve, 1993. I'm dancing with friends, having a ball, looking relatively normal. No, I'm no longer that thin, dammit.
But enough about me. Let's look a little closer...

You think it even once occurred to this fun-lovin' guy that there might have been a camera on the premises? That it might be prudent to keep his dancing style in check because someone just might be on the scene snapping photos that just might wind up on someone's blog thirteen years later? He was having such a ball, I'll bet it didn't.

Always assume there's a camera around.

She...

2006-08-31T04:02:00.000-07:00

...sat still for this pathetic photo shoot when she was just two months old:

...had legs like a Shar Pei puppy:

...was an exceedingly happy baby:

...is always delightfully bizarre and strange. (Click to listen.)

...brings tears to my eyes with her unbearable sweetness.

...is seven years old today.

Working Ranch 101 - Class Three

2006-08-30T05:00:00.000-07:00

Thank you for joining our class session. Today we'll be looking at the dirtier, less glamorous side of cattle ranching. As I said yesterday, we preg-tested many of our cows last week. In other words, we examined the cows to find out how many of them are pregnant--or “bred”--and how far along they are.

We begin the day by gathering the herd of cows and placing them into a holding pen. Then the cows begin their journey down a narrow alley leading to the veterinarian, who will examine them. The cowboys keep them moving along:

Our trusty vet puts on a fresh glove in preparation for the dirty work ahead:

It's a weighty job, but somebody's gotta do it.

Once the cow is locked in the chute, the vet begins slowly and gingerly. (Girls like it that way.)

Then he takes the plunge, inserting his arm…

…as far as it will go into the cow's rectum. Once his arm is all the way inside, the vet goes through a series of checkpoints to ascertain whether the cow is pregnant. He checks the position of the cervix and whether the ovaries contain fluid. The next step is feeling the embryo to determine its age.

It's important for a vet always to wear a smile, even when his arm is deep inside a cow's rectum.

This is exactly how I feel when I’m at the obstetrician:

…and this is how quickly I run from his office. I know exactly what the poor cow is thinking: “Get me the hell OUT of here!”

As with all other ranch activities, preg-testing is a family affair. Our girls separate the bred cows from the non-bred cows by opening or closing the gate as the cows exit the working chute. They think nothing of the grotesque goings-on a mere ten feet away.

And now, my dear, dear readers, we’re almost to the end of this particular class. I would withhold the following photo if I allowed myself to be ruled by fear that you'll leave me if I post gross photos. I would withhold the following photo if I weren't all about…keepin’ it real.

So here it is…

The grand finale…

You can still back out if you’re squeamish…

I’ll miss you…

Class dismissed.

I'm OUTTA HERE!

You'd Look Like This, Too...

2006-08-29T16:40:00.000-07:00

...if the local vet had his entire arm shoved inside your bottom.

We preg. tested a bunch of our cows last week. In the ten years Marlboro Man and I have been blissfully wed, this was the first time I'd been a witness to this particular brand of ranch activity. Let me tell you, dear friends, neither I nor my previously-virginal Nikon will ever---ever---be the same.

If you still want to have anything whatsoever to do with me tomorrow, tune in for an in-depth look at the entire process of preg. testing cows. I promise you, it will be an education.

I Have A Retarded Brother. His Name Is Mike. Part Trois.

2006-08-28T04:02:00.000-07:00

Today I found this old photo of me and My Retarded Brother, Mike. It made me think of him, so I decided to give ol' Mike a call and mess with him a little bit. It's one of my favorite pastimes.
Click to listen:

Messin' With Mike

Making Out With My Macro Lens...Again

2006-08-27T03:04:00.000-07:00

Once, just once, would you like me to back up at least two feet before I photograph a flower? I wonder if I even could. I'm afraid I might start convulsing and be overcome with extreme agitation.

I like close-ups. Have I mentioned that before?

The Humiliation Chronicles: A Bikini, A Bike, and a Crosswalk

2006-08-26T04:01:00.000-07:00

Growing up, we vacationed on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. One of our visits happened to be the summer after my sophomore year in high school, shortly after I became No Longer Ugly, shortly after I realized there just might be hope for my ridiculous redheaded appearance. My braces were gone, my teeth were slick, my curves were coming out of the woodworks, and I did three hours of ballet, five days a week. I had also become quite boy crazy by then, and was well aware that Hilton Head was swarming with them.

So when we arrived in Hilton Head that summer, I was feeling good. It was 1985, and I had used up all my pre-paid tanning sessions back home at The Golden You to ensure that my fair skin was no longer fair. I also had spent a week dousing my hair with Sun-In to ensure that my auburn shade was no longer auburn. I was a tan, toned, strawberry-blonde, sixteen-year-old hottie, pure and simple. The rest of the world just didn't know it yet.

We usually stayed in Harbor Town, a healthy bike ride away from the beach, which was fine because we rented bikes and enjoyed traveling to the beach that way. The day we arrived at our rental home, I simply couldn't wait. It was time for my unveiling. Leaving my mother and little sister---and effectively, my childhood---behind, I jumped on my bike, wearing only an aqua bathing suit and a bright white pair of Keds, and headed for the beach by myself---a good twenty minutes ahead of my mom and sister. I rode two miles until I came to the crosswalk; the crosswalk at the busiest intersection on the entire island; the crosswalk that separated my tanned, bikinied body from the beach.

Just as I began to cross the intersection, a shiny black Trans Am stopped at the light. And of course, the car contained three blonde, tan boys wearing black Ray Bans and no shirts, clearly on their way to the same beach. This was it, I thought, as I proceeded across the street. My grand entrance. My first real appearance as a full-blown woman. My....SMASH! Ouch. My shoelace had become tangled in the chain of the bike and I was now splayed out on the wide, yellow stripes of the crosswalk---knee bleeding, Coppertone thrown 100 feet away, confidence completely destroyed.

I can hear it now as if it was yesterday: "Jesus! Are you okay?" Seems the Trans Am boys were southern gentlemen and had rushed to my aid. I tried my darndest to play it off, to hop up and ride away gracefully. But my shoelace was inextricably caught in the bicycle chain and besides that, I couldn't put any weight on my mangled leg. My bathing suit was marked with tar. My Keds were stained with yellow road paint and blood.

The Trans Am boys helped me hobble to the sidewalk. They untangled my shoelace from the bike chain, and even retrieved my Coppertone bottle from across the street. And despite the pain and humiliation I felt, I remember thinking, deep down, that they might give me a lift back home. Ask for my number. Take me out for crabcakes that evening. But instead, they headed back to their Trans Am and yelled, "You need us to call your parents to come get you?" No lift home. No crabcakes. "Um, no, that's okay," I waved. "My mom's on her way."

She was. The Trans Am sped away, along with the high hopes I'd had for my first Hilton Head vacation as a grown woman. For when my mom arrived on the scene, put her arm around me and gently asked, "Are you okay?", I knew I was still a little girl. I buried my head in her neck and sobbed. Because of my knee. And my bathing suit. And the Trans Am. But mostly because, at that moment, I didn't like how it felt to be a woman.

After I got cleaned up and bandaged, my mom, my little sister and I went out for lunch in Harbor Town. We had crabcakes.

Movie of the Week

2006-08-25T04:52:00.000-07:00

For your viewing pleasure, here's a music video I put together for our family last year. Hope you enjoy it:

Movie of the Week: Family Tradition

If you decide to sit through its four-minute length, here are some of the highlights to make your cinematic experience more enjoyable:

* Marlboro Man admonishing his nephew for poking a calf with a stick. He warns, "Hey! Bring that stick over here and I'll beat you with it for a little bit." Then he looks at me through the camera lens, tries not to smile, and says, "I'll beat you with it." It's my favorite part of the whole movie.
* My pesky brother-in-law, Tim, rubbing a calf nut sack when he didn't know I was filming.
* My son and my niece, both discovering a calf nut sack for the first time.
* The back of my cowboy hat, where Tim has sneakily placed a bloody, messy piece of calf nut.
* Marlboro Man revealing the piece of calf nut to me.
* Me shaking my head at Tim in frustration and disgust.
* My three-year-old ("Juice Bag") boy, falling down and mugging for the camera.
* Miscellaneous ranch activities.

If you have trouble viewing, try upgrading your Windows Media Player. (Version 10...not 11 Beta)
Mac users, try this: Windows Media Components for Quicktime Player
*Both downloads are free

Another Escape Foiled by the Border Patrol

2006-08-25T04:45:00.000-07:00

Good one, Ria! Congratulations. Email me at pioneerwoman2006@yahoo.com. Yours was great on many levels. First, my baby really does look like an illegal alien who's hurriedly grabbed his belongings to flee to a better land. Also, the "Border" Patrol reference is a perfect nod to my dog's Border Collie breed. Finally, I always appreciate entries that poke fun at any hot-button political issue (such as illegal immigration) without revealing any particular leaning.

Hohohahaheeheehehhehhahahoho. Ha. Ha. That's what I sounded like all last night as I perused your hilarious entries. I'm so lucky to have such clever and comical readers. Co-runners-up are Pamela ("Buns and Noses"---love it) and MCClaire ("Howlin' at the Moon"---very fitting). Jenni in KS, "The Dingo Ate My Baby"...I don't know what to say. :)

The Laugh Out Loud Factor was more pronounced than ever last night; I was in a particularly sophomoric mood. Here are a few knee-slappin' ones that caused me to let out a great guffaw (line borrowed from Nan):

"Maw, Help, He Likes the Wiggle in my Giggle"--Nekked Lizard Lady
"Moons Over My Hammy"--Kimbalee
"Free Willy"--Emmakirst
"Hey, Mate, How Ya Gonna Explain Your Bum to your Mum?"--Delia (This one made me laugh especially hard. I kept picturing my dog uttering those words and...hahahahahahaha!)
And from my dear, sweet, ever-proper and appropriate older brother, WDS:
"No More Yankie My Wankie...the Doggie Need Food!" Good salute to Sixteen Candles, WDS!

The Twin Entries Award goes to both Darla ("You go in first, I'll bring up the rear") and Anonymous ("I'm goin' in---cover my rear"). Great minds think alike.

And Willowtree, you get the Cerebral-Obscure award for once again coming up with an entry that took me over three hours to fully understand. How do you do it?

Thanks to all for lending me your sharp and witty minds for a day. I'm the luckiest bloggin' ranch wife west of the Mississippi!

"Give That Photo A Name" Contest

2006-08-24T03:00:00.000-07:00

This photo needs a name. And this baby needs some help. My oldest daughter snapped this photo several weeks ago. I'm not sure what circumstances led up to my baby being outside naked with our Border Collie, or what my baby's emotions might have been as he was yanking at the detatched door screen in an effort to get inside. But I do know that this photo needs a creative and descriptive name to tell its story.

To enter the contest, please leave your suggested photo title in the Comments section of this post. One entry per person, no entries after 6 p.m. Pacific Time. Winner will be announced tomorrow, 5 a.m. Pacific Time.

Grand prize is this ultra-hip, never-worn, edgy, fabulous Nanette Lepore brown velvet short-sleeve jacket, size 8:

Gals (and Guys with gals in their lives), this is as cute as it gets.It's brown velvet with beautiful floral embroidery and gathered sleeves. Perfect with your favorite jeans.

I've been in love with this jacket since first I saw it, but alas, it's just never looked "right" on me. It's a tad short-waisted and I'm a tad tall, plus I tend to steer clear of wearing things that require me to empty all the air from my lungs in order to fasten them. It is a size 8, but will actually fit a range of sizes from 2 to 12 if you wear it open.

Women, you need this Nanette Lepore jacket in order to feel whole. Men, the women in your life need this Nanette Lepore jacket in order to feel loved. Go forth and conquer. (Note: alternate prize is available just in case the winner is a big, hairy male who doesn't know any women.)

Good luck!

Making Out With My Macro Lens

2006-08-23T04:46:00.000-07:00

What is your reaction to these pictures? How do they make you feel? Happy? Depressed? Confused? At peace? Serene? Happy? Homicidal?

They make me feel strangely content. Whether they're particularly good or not, I like that the subjects appear to be something more than what they actually are: wilting flowers that came wrapped in cheap plastic in a jug of water at our local grocery store. I paid $1.75 for the bouquet yesterday; in return, I got to crawl up on my kitchen counter and nuzzle close to them with my Nikon for an hour or so.

Oh, and I chose this activity over the following items on my eternally incomplete checklist: 1,864 loads of laundry to do, a car to clean, meals to plan (as if I've ever done that), a husband to love, and children to raise.

Ah, what the heck. That stuff can wait, right?

Men.

2006-08-22T04:01:00.000-07:00

Speaking of my three-year-old...

One day while we were weaning calves last week, the head of our state's Cattlemen's Association visited the ranch with a camera crew. They wanted to film our operation for a piece they're producing about area ranches, so they tagged along for the day as we went about our normal weaning activities.

After gathering the cattle with our three-year-old son in tow, Marlboro Man hopped off and tied up his own horse, then lifted our boy from his. Just as he set our son down on the ground, my husband's horse began to urinate. This, of course, did not go unnoticed by our sharp-eyed son, who exclaimed loudly, "Daddy, your horse is PEEIN'!" My husband replied, matter-of-factly, "Yep. He is."

Our boy continued to stare. He noticed something that warranted further discussion. "Daddy, is that you horse's PENIS?" Marlboro Man replied, matter-of-factly, "Yep. It is."

Our son looked around for a bit. He seemed to be taking in the surroundings, thinking intently as his eyes surveyed the world around him. Then suddenly, with a satisfied smile and a proud voice, he cried out, "Daddy, YOUR horse has the BIGGEST penis!"

The Cattlemen's Association guy had been standing right next to Marlboro Man during the entire exchange. The two men looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and simply nodded to each other as if to say, "Yep. Good point."

All I could think was man, they start young. It's all about biggest. Biggest penis, biggest TV, biggest tires, biggest bank account. My two older girls would never in a million years have noticed the horse's penis as it related to all the other horses' penises. It never would have entered their minds. They might have caught a glimpse of it, yes. But I feel certain if they had, they would have done what their mother's instinct would have mandated they do: Run. Run away. Run far, far away. And never look back.

Juice Bag Progress

2006-08-21T03:30:00.000-07:00

I'm going to hell. In a shameless effort to document my three-year-old boy's utter lack of progress in the Juice Bag department, I casually removed a Capri Sun from the fridge yesterday, then quietly sipped it at the computer as he played nearby. I knew it would only be a matter of seconds before he'd spot my juice bag and launch into a highly recordable session just like the one I was able to capture. Take a listen:

Juice Bag Progress

It's been almost three months since the most recent Juice Bag installment and over three months since the original, and sadly, I don't detect any improvement in his pronunciation.

I'm beginning to get a little worried. What if they only serve juice bags at the college he ultimately attends? He'll be laughed off campus. What if his future wife's family serves only juice bags at their wedding?

Now I really won't sleep tonight.

Pioneer Pinup #8

2006-08-21T03:22:00.000-07:00

Guess who wears the pants in OUR family? Honey, I AM the law.

Well, sort of the law.
Well, maybe kinda the law.
Okay, not really the law.

But I still like dressin' up and playin' sheriff from time to time...

Poetry of a Madwoman, Vol. 17

2006-08-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

I’m a shriveled, dying Dahlia
Unraveling more each day
As the hellish winds blow through me.
I thirst.
I thirst much.
I’m hot and I’m dry and I thirst.
Finches feed upon my crumbs
Like vultures upon a rotting deer
On the highway.
I shrivel more.

The tuber beneath my stem
Has long since given up the ghost.
I have no foundation
Or future.
A lady once loved me.
She ordered me from Oregon.
She ripped me from my homeland
And made a garden plot my bed.
She gazed upon my bloom with reverence
And breathed in all my charm.

But now the lady’s hot, you see,
And has forsaken the outside world
To daily dance with Freon.
The lady won't stroke the garden hose again.
That green source of life for me is an enemy, it seems
For her. She's too hot.
So no vase will I see
It’s ashes for me
I just want to flee
To Oregon.

Ree
Copyright 2006

I like close-ups (aka Fondling My Macro Lens)

2006-08-19T04:20:00.000-07:00

Who knew dragonflies were so docile? They’re my new favorite photo subject. This green one landed confidently on my daughter's shirt, then migrated to her small finger, where he stayed until she had to go to the bathroom so badly she finally had to place him on a tomato plant and go inside.

What's the brown spot in this shot? It's a tiny mole on my daughter's finger. The dragonfly kept mistaking it for a chocolate truffle, as he would occasionally brush his tiny foot against it and bring it to his mouth.

Did someone say chocolate? Mmmm...Cocoa Puffs, here I come.

Working Ranch 101 - Class Two

2006-08-19T03:14:00.001-07:00

We weaned calves all last week. I don't even know what the frig that all entails, but in general terms, it's the process of separating year-old calves from their mamas, i.e. getting them "off the tit".

We begin very early in the morning in order to avoid working the cattle in the hellish midday heat, which is extremely hard on both man and beast. Marlboro Man has to wake me and shake me and slap me about the face, chest, neck, and head and drag me out of bed by 4:45 am, and I sometimes feel like crying. I wake the kids, dress them, feed them, and endure a meltdown or two as their little bodies adjust to being roused from a deep, dreamy sleep. We all weep and wail and gnash our teeth for awhile, but then we get to climb on our horses and ride out into the pasture and look at this and then all is right with the world:

The cowboys ride out a couple of miles to the back side of this pasture and start gathering the cattle:

From here, we still have two more miles to go to to get the pens, where they'll be weaned.

The feed truck leads the cattle in the direction we need them to go (the cattle follow it everywhere, expecting abundant morsels of food to drop from its tank, as it does during the winter months) while those on the horses control the herd from the rear and sides:
A good feed truck driver can make or break the gathering, but keeping the cattle from escaping and running away is an equally important task for the riders behind the truck. On this particular morning, we combined three pastures of cattle together, which included over 300 mama cows and their calves, and a few very evil-looking bulls who clearly have only one thing on their mind.

Our highly-skilled crew consists of my Marlboro Man, my Pesky Brother-In-Law, Tim, his wife, Missy, five punks ranging in age from three to nine, four cowboys on horseback and one driving the feed truck. Oh, and one former city girl tagging along and taking photos. Here's the youngest member of the punk crew, riding my favorite horse, L.B.:

Once we approach the pens, we lead them down the fenceline so they have fewer opportunities to escape:

Tim counts each animal as it passes through the gate:

After the cattle are in the pens, we separate the cows and bulls from the calves. Here's an 1800-pound bull, up close and personal. Don't look too closely or you may not like what you see:

Then we separate the calves by sex:

And give them immunization shots:

And weigh them on a large set of scales, twenty at a time:

Then the newly-weaned calves are left in the pens for a time in order to acclimate to life without their mothers. And the mama cows are taken back to the pasture to get on with their non-lactational lives:

And here's what they say:
"WooHoo---NO MORE NURSING! Let's PARTY!!!"

At least, that's what I'd say.

Breastfeeding and Livestock Comparisons

2006-08-17T03:38:00.000-07:00

I knew I was in trouble after my first baby was born. I had married into a ranching family for no other reason but that I was madly in love and lust with Marlboro Man, and I hadn’t given any thought at all to what it would mean to be part of a family whose main focus in life was agriculture.

A mere nine-and-a-half months after my wedding day, my Pesky Brother-In-Law, Tim entered the hospital room as I was nursing my newborn baby . Tim hadn’t grown up with sisters and wasn’t yet married, and I didn’t want to presume anything about his level of tolerance for female bodily functions, so I discreetly laid a blanket over my nursing infant, respectfully shielding Tim from the gory, lactational goings-on.

Tim began a casual conversation with me, asking how I was feeling and conveying his and his parents’ excitement over the first grandchild having just been born. Then, thanks to the gulps and slurps of the feasting baby beneath the blanket, the subject suddenly shifted to breastfeeding. Tim inquired, “So, how long are you plannin' on nursing?” Already squeamish at the thought of discussing this with my husband's brother, I quickly answered, “Oh, a few months, I guess.”

Then, mustering what must have been the only reply he could pull out of his livestock-contemplating head, Tim looked at me and warned, matter-of-factly, “Just be careful you don’t get a sour bag.”

Tim, thank you. I don’t know what I ever would have done without that sage advice.

Long Legs Run In My Family

2006-08-16T05:56:00.000-07:00

One morning last week, I just didn't feel like taking pictures of cattle anymore. So I found a different, more willing subject.

My shadow stands still when I want to take its picture, unlike the cowboys & kids & cattle & horses. It even waves to me. Hi!

It poses for me. Sexy, no?

My shadow sometimes acts silly. Nice body distortion. Yikes.

And it can balance on one leg.

My shadow also introduced me to its evil cousin, THE THING. We went out and had some beers that afternoon. It turned out to be a really fun day!

Smithssues* (Rhymes with "Issues")

2006-08-15T04:51:00.000-07:00

(*A term coined by my brother-in-law to describe any hang-ups either my sister or I [maiden name Smith] possess.)

Smithssue #2: I don't want to be associated in any way with lower intestinal (read: bowel) functions.
That's about as far as I can go with the description of this Smithssue, for I'm already covering my face and feeling faint from even bringing it up. I know I'll regret it tomorrow. But for reasons unknown, since I was a little girl I've been haunted by the notion of anyone thinking of me "in the bathroom". I'd just as soon wear a sign around my neck---perhaps a MedicAlert bracelet---that announces, "I Don't Do That." With that in mind, read what happened to me on Sunday:

I had just arrived at church and been greeted in the foyer by the usher, who handed me the bulletin for the service. Since I'd drunk a bottle of water on the way to town, I needed to dart into the ladies' room before I entered the sanctuary so I wouldn't have to cross and uncross my legs eighty times during the sermon.

The halls were filled with people. Outside the restroom were Sally, an elderly woman with failing eyesight, and a few other women with whom she was having a discussion. I couldn't tell if they were waiting in line for the bathroom, so I patted Sally on the back, smiled, and asked, "Are you in line, Sally?"

Sally looked into my eyes, then down at the bulletin I was clutching in my hand. In what I now believe must have been the loudest and clearest voice I have ever heard in the hallway of any church I'd ever attended, Sally responded, "No...you go right ahead, Ree." And as I entered the restroom door, bulletin still in hand, she continued: "You take your time and read your newspaper."

Everyone heard. And I knew what they all were thinking: "Ree's going in there to poop." They were all looking at me and thinking their dirty little thoughts and making their little judgements about my lower intestinal functions. I just knew it. And though I remained quiet, the little girl in me wanted desperately to say it---to scream it---for all to hear: I DON'T DO THAT!

Tough Love.

2006-08-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

Congratulations, Songbird! Your entry really sums it up for me. He is, indeed, so tough and strong and rugged and virile and...And he's my love. Email me @ pioneerwoman2006@yahoo.com. You just won a $25 Gap Card, where you can splurge on some sale jeans.

Okay, Nancypants, you get the Clever Honorable Mention for "Marlboro Manure". I just wish the photo had shown how caked his pants were---whew! Very good one, Nan. And Just Me, I think there needs to be a Cowboy Calendar, if there isn't one already. Thanks for the idea! Denise's "In Need of ReeFreshment" was cute and oh, so true.

Klynntx, I loved "Damn, I'm Hot!" because it's both temperature-appropriate (105) and true to his sizzling looks. But he's so humble and unassuming, he would never, ever utter that phrase. Faith, you get the M.C. Hammer Honorable Mention for your analogy to the classic tune. That was great. And Bekah, you win the Cerebral Honorable Mention for pointing the one thing our world doesn't have: scratch & sniff internet. (And praise the Lord for that.)

Sandra, you get the Cattlemen's Association Honorable Mention for "100% Beef". Thanks for the plug for our industry. Jacquelyn in NC, your "Come Hither Eyes; Go-Away Smell" really made me chuckle.

I really loved this contest because it gave me an opportunity to provide independent confirmation to my beloved Marlboro Man that he is, in fact, a love god. I've been trying to convince him of this for years, but he truly believes I'm the only one on earth who thinks so. And that gentlemanly humility makes it even worse. Mmmmmm...

And I could keep naming entries I loved...but it's time to click "Publish". I'll catch ya next time!

"Give That Photo a Name" Contest

2006-08-14T03:32:00.000-07:00

This man needs a shower. And this photo needs a name. This is my dirty, sweaty, sexy husband, Marlboro Man. (Just think of the Google hits that will elicit!) He'd been working cattle on a hot, 105-degree day last week and was covered in persperation, cow poop, and dust. Just the way I like him.

A raw, rugged photo such as this needs a clever and creative name to do it justice. To enter the contest, please leave your suggested photo title in the Comments section of this post. One entry per person, no entries after 6 p.m. Pacific Time. Winner will be announced tonight at 7 p.m. Pacific Time.

Grand Prize is a...MYSTERY! I'll reveal the goods when I reveal the winner. (I'll give you a hint: it's somewhere between a blank cd-rom and a Ferrari.)

Good luck!

Stare-Down With Horse

2006-08-13T05:05:00.000-07:00

If you look closely, you'll see my reflection in the horse's eyeball. It was a stiff competition for a few seconds, but then he blinked:

He just couldn't handle the pressure.

I'm Back From the Lake and Don't Forget the Contest Tomorrow

2006-08-12T19:13:00.000-07:00

I'm back, and here's what I know: I don't ever want to be without you, my computer, or Marlboro Man again. I missed you all.

New "Give That Photo a Name" contest tomorrow. See you then!

When Punks Take Pictures

2006-08-12T04:01:00.000-07:00

My girls always wait until I leave the house to do anything mischievous. Yesterday they found my trusty old point-and-shoot camera in my drawer and had a heyday, taking no fewer than 119 photos, most of them turned the wrong way. I left them in their original state for authenticity.

Here's the master photographer herself, taking a mirror image shot:

Then they got into my stuff...

...and played dress-up. I hate it when they get into my stuff and play dress-up.

They rummaged through my drawers...

...and cooked plastic food in my kitchen.

They pretended my younger daughter had been murdered:

Which is what actually would have happened if they'd put their grubby little hands on my NIKON.

Gross-Out Stories: My Dad's Old Patient

2006-08-11T03:29:00.000-07:00

An acquaintance of mine mistakenly called me "Dee" last week. It didn't bother me in the sense that my name is often mispronounced and what is in a name, after all? It did bother me in the sense that it brought a less-than-pleasant memory to the foreground of my mind; a memory I'd rather permanently forget.

My dad's an orthopedic surgeon and I worked in his office during summers when I was in high school and college. I got to know many of his regular patients, among them Ann, an eccentric (half-crazy) older woman with a colorful past and a healthy appetite for pain pills and muscle relaxants. Ann and I got along very well, mostly because I had nothing better to do than listen to her wild chatter on the phone and dutifully deliver her requests for drug refills to my father, who had long since grown weary of humoring her.

Ann never called me by my correct name. It usually rhymed with Ree, but it nearly always missed the mark. "Dee," she'd say. "I've gotta have me some more of them Lortabs." "Reenie, my hip is givin' me fits today." "Lee, is your dad mad at me?" I answered to whatever name she called me.

One day, Ann came in for her appointment. I escorted her back to an exam room and handed her a patient gown to change into since we would be getting an x-ray of her back that day. "Bree," Ann said. "I need you to help me get undressed." I was nineteen, had just completed my first year of college, and could think of several other things I'd rather do with my time on that summer morning, but still, I obliged, delicately helping her slip off her blouse while trying my hardest to look in another direction. Standing behind her, I unhooked her bra and quickly wrapped the gown around her shoulders as she let her bra fall to the floor. My hiney cringed the whole time. Being a nurse was never in the cards for me.

Relieved that I'd made it that far without experiencing firsthand any eccentric geriatric nakedness, I turned on my heels and headed for the door. "Dr. Smith will be here in a few minutes, Ann," I said.

"Dee?" Ann said, turning around to face me. "Yes, Ann?" I replied, looking in her direction. Grasping each side of her gown, she opened it widely, exposing her eighty-two year old breasts---breasts that, in my nineteen-year-old estimation, had seen better days. She continued, "The years have really taken a toll on my breasts." She stood there for a few moments, then closed her gown, content that she'd gotten that off her mind.

I didn't argue with her. After all, I remembered something my dad had always taught me about working in his office: the patient is always right.

Seven Plaguing Questions I Have About This Photo, Ca. 1987

2006-08-10T03:47:00.000-07:00

1. Why didn't anyone tell me to powder my nose? Damn, that thing is red and shiny.
2. Did I have an altercation with a kitten before my photo session? There are snags all over my blouse.
3. What's with the decade-late Farrah hair? Can you say hot rollers?
4. Who bought me the removable shoulder pads I'm wearing? (Mom? I know where you live.) And who invented such a sacrilege?
5. What's with the pearls? Was I trying to compensate for the fact that I'd discovered Bartles & James wine coolers that week?
6. Had eyebrow grooming not yet been invented in 1987?
7. Why didn't anyone stage an intervention about my turquoise eyeliner? I feel totally betrayed.

Okay, that was more like eleven questions. Oh, and here's twelve: "Why?"

Yes, I Did This to My Daughter

2006-08-09T03:39:00.000-07:00

This is the kind of thing a mother of four can't comprehend doing with her third or fourth child but that seemed reasonable and normal when she was deep in the throes of first-child love. While on a trip to California, I passed by a kiosk at a mall and just had to wait in line for 45 minutes so I could have this photo of my precious, first-born 18-month-old angel.

A year later, I hadn't quite been healed of the illness when I passed by the same kiosk with my daughter and my new two-and-a-half-month-old baby. Here's what happened:

I promise, this is the extent of my secret mall-kiosk-staged-angel-photo stash.

I feel purged.

Frontier Follies: The Ranch Tour

2006-08-08T04:05:00.000-07:00

Every summer, our town is the host of our county's weekend-long Cattlemen's Convention, which means everyone in the area---cattlemen and otherwise---dusts off and dons their shiny boots & cowboy hats and spends two days celebrating our region's rich ranching heritage. There's always lots of boasting, lots of bellies, lots of bar-b-que, and lots of beer.

Part of the festivities, which also includes separate cattlemen and cattlewomen's luncheons, a big outdoor dance, and a ranch rodeo, is the Saturday Morning Ranch Tour. A longstanding tradition, the Ranch Tour allows locals and visitors alike to take a driving tour through the larger ranches in the area. It's such a popular event, the caravan of cars often stretches fifty or sixty long.

I could have used this information one Saturday morning shortly after Marlboro Man and I were married. When I met the unusually large funeral procession on my way to town that morning, I wondered who had died and thought to myself that I hoped I would one day have such a large showing at my funeral. And being the dutiful citizen I was, I pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and stopped, lowering my head in respect for the deceased.

A minute or so later, a car horn sounded. I looked up and saw a carload of people whose faces I recognized as local residents. They were all smiling. And they were all waving at me enthusiastically. Strange, I thought. They're sure in a good mood considering they're on their way to a burial. I guardedly smiled and waved back, then resumed my respectful head lowering. A few seconds later, another horn beeped and I looked up. A nice couple I'd recently met smiled and waved as they passed by my car. What's with all these people? I thought. Doesn't anybody MOURN around here?

Once again, a horn honked. This time, a gentleman from our church rolled down his window and signaled to me. I rolled mine down and the man shouted, "Ya okay, Ree? Ya need any help?" Perplexed, I waved. "Uh, no. I'm fine...thanks." This old codger apparently had never been taught the unwritten rule about pulling over to the side of the road when a funeral procession passes by. Poor guy.

The long caravan finally passed, but not before several other drivers had honked, smiled, and waved to me as I sat parked on the side of the highway. Later, when I returned home, I asked Marlboro Man, "Who the heck died?" I was curious about both the sheer number attending the decedent's burial and the unusually chipper mood of his "mourners". I explained the whole strange story of the sanguine funeral procession whose participants had acted more like they were headed to a party than a cemetery.

My loving husband listened, paused, and had but one simple question for me: "You're kidding...right?"

Something You Don't See Every Day

2006-08-07T03:53:00.000-07:00

I can't explain much about this photo. I know neither what had happened to my son's clothes nor the reason he was grasping a bright red flower in his hand. I also don't know what caused him suddenly to jump up and start sprinting down the sidewalk.

What do I know? My baby watches his every move and is under the impression that his big brother actually knows what he's doing. Just look at the poor, innocent child---he's leaning forward, carefully studying his older sibling's curious behavior as if it's the gold standard.

I'm so glad we don't have neighbors.

Poetry of a Madwoman, Vol. 16

2006-08-06T16:56:00.000-07:00

How ever did I get here?
I live out in the sticks.
I grew up in the city
But now I fight off ticks.

I married me a rancher
He moved me to his house
Away from civ'lization
To live amongst the grouse.

I went to school in Cali
And saw me lots of stars.
But now I live in Okie
It might as well be Mars.

I ain't got any neighbors
Unless you count the cows
The horses and the possums
The chickens and the sows.

My power goes off weekly
I can't get DSL
Fed-Ex won't deliver
My water's from a well.

I used to love my sushi
And berry creme brulee
But now it's meat and 'taters
For dinner every day.

When 'naders come a twistin'
We all get underground
Except my darlin' husband
Who likes to drive around.

My freezer's full of calf nuts
Instead of lobster tail
My car's all nice and dented
From basketball-sized hail.

I'm raisin' me four children
Who'll one day run the show
So me and my dear husband
Can pack our bags and go.

I'll drag him to the city
To see some Broadway shows
We'll eat in fancy restaurants
And buy expensive clothes.

We'll drive in heavy traffic
And pay to park our car
And then I'll finally realize
It just ain't up to par.

We'll run back to the boonies
And eat some beef for lunch
And bar-b-que for dinner
And nuts for Sunday brunch.

I guess I love the country
I'll stay here 'til I die
But I still miss my Starbucks
And man, that ain't no lie!

A"cute" Nasal Obstruction

2006-08-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

Congratulations, TJ in Virginia! Email me @ pioneerwoman2006@yahoo.com.

Boy, oh boy. I just didn't have enough rotting, unused gift certificates for this contest. I like to make up H.M. categories as I go along, so...the Literary Honorable Mention has to go to Susan in Va., a photo contest ace. "Great Excavations" was a wonderful nod to both nosepicking and Dickens. The Art Appreciation Honorable Mention goes to Denise Koehler's "The Picker." I liked the idea of elevating this horrendous sight to a higher plane.

Fred, you get the "Make Ree Gag" Honorable Mention. I clicked and read the definition of Mucophagy, and my gag reflexes went haywire. I've made it very clear on this blog that I can't handle snot. Thanks a BUNCH.

I really got a kick out of all the brain (picking, scratching, stimulating) and mining (prospecting, mining for gold) references. They evoked some pretty powerful images.

I'd be remiss if I didn't award Faithful Reader Honorable Mentions to Jenni in KS, CPA Mom, Homeschoolin' Mama, and James Cooper, whose entries indicate they've loyally read all my stories, whether they found them interesting or not. Thanks, guys!

The thing I love most about these contests is, well, first of all, it gives me something fun to do besides laundry; and second, I enjoy seeing so many different takes on a single photo. Ah, the human brain. It's a marvelous thing. As usual, the decision is subjective and I hate choosing just one. All the entries were truly clever and funny.

The good news is...another contest next Friday! Niiiiiiice junk drawer prize for that one.

"Give That Photo A Name" Contest

2006-08-04T03:41:00.000-07:00

This photo needs a name. And this boy needs a Kleenex.

My girls have started complaining that they've never been the subject of one of my photo contests. I explain to them in no uncertain terms that unless they're willing to climb on a 4-wheeler in their birthday suit or unabashedly ram their finger up their nose in front of a camera lens, they'd better get used to it.

Here's the shot I almost chose:

I assure you, we don't encourage this kind of uncouth behavior in our home and these photos should in no way, shape, or form negatively impact upon your image of country folks. We do have indoor plumbing, and we do have boxes of Kleenex available to whomever needs one. It's just...it's just...it's a male species thing.

To enter the contest, please leave your suggested photo title in the Comments section of this post. One entry per person, no entries after 7 p.m. Pacific Time. Winner will be announced tomorrow morning, 6 a.m. Pacific Time.

Grand Prize is...drumroll, please...a $75 Pottery Barn merchandise-only certificate that's been rotting in my junk drawer since 2004. Seems P.B. was unable to deliver a bunkbed I had ordered, and they wanted to keep me in their good graces for future furniture orders. I neither demanded the certificate nor did I ever bother to use it, and I now know why: so I could one day award it to a more deserving soul on the blog I didn't yet have. (And yes, the certificate is still valid. It's dying to be used.)

Good luck to you!

"Give That Photo A Name" Contest Tomorrow

2006-08-03T06:49:00.000-07:00

Don't miss the fun. And the prize.

He Couldn't Be Conniving If He Tried

2006-08-03T03:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight my children returned from their grandmother's house carrying two plastic containers of storebought cookies she had given them. Having salivated in the car the whole ride home, my three-year-old dessert-loving son immediately tore into both boxes and began sampling the goods.

I sat down at my desk and listened to his blissful "Mmmm..." as he chewed and swallowed his first selection, an M & M cookie. This was followed by a gutteral"Agh! Blech! Gag!" as he bit into and spit out the second variety, a white chocolate cookie chock full of macadamia nuts. Apparently, it wasn't his cup of tea.

A few minutes later, the same boy approached me. "Mommy!" he said, enthusiastically. "We got some yucky cookies for you!" "What?" I said, puzzled. "Yucky cookies?" With wide eyes and a huge smile, he nodded, "Yeah...you like yucky cookies, right?"

Then I realized what he was doing. My first-born son was attempting to manipulate me. He wanted to ensure that his piece of the pie---in this case, his share of the M & M cookies---was as large as possible. To achieve this, he figured he needed to convince me that the white chocolate macadamia cookies were the ones I should go for. The only problem was, in all his scheming he forgot to alter the adjective he used to describe the cookies to me.

His intention was entice me to desire only the "delicious" white chocolate macadamia nut cookies he had actually detested, thereby increasing the ultimate number of M & M cookies he would wind up netting. His plan was perfect, except he neglected to change the one word in his story---"yucky"---that held the most consequence. I suppose he must have too much innate honesty in his soul to effectively manipulate situations to his benefit. He tried to be conniving and failed miserably. And that makes me proud.

Since I'm such a good mother, I went ahead and obliged him by polishing off a few of the yucky cookies. I figured it was the least I could do.

New "Give That Photo a Name" Contest This Friday

2006-08-02T04:30:00.000-07:00

We're switching it up, folks! I've received a few laments from office types who say they'd like to participate but can't on the weekends. So I'm taking a walk on the wild side and holding this one on Friday.

Enter to win a fabulous prize from my junk drawer. Photo will be posted Friday morning, winner announced Saturday morning. Good luck!

I like close-ups (aka Fondling My Macro Lens)

2006-08-02T04:15:00.000-07:00

These dragonflies are populating the seventeen tomato plants I ambitiously placed in my garden in May, which I'm now regretting each and every day when I a) discover another twenty new, ripe tomatoes that must be picked and b) realize I'm the only person in my household who eats them. I love the dragonflies, though. At any given moment, I find at least ten of these beautiful bugs perched on leaves, seemingly there just so I can practice my close-up maneuvers.

Lest you accuse me of being a Jo wannabe (see her Giant Swallowtail Butterfly photos), I'm throwing in this shot of the head of a blade of tallgrass that found its way into my garden:

It's so fluffy and divine, I don't even care that it doesn't belong there. Plus I'm too busy picking tomatoes, wondering what in tarnation I'm going to do with them, and trying to psychoanalyze the force that would drive me to such unnecessarily excessive vegetable gardening to worry about a few stray pieces of grass.

My Recurring Dreams

2006-08-01T04:03:00.000-07:00

I have four persistent, needling, recurring dreams I just can't seem to get rid of. The first three are so predictable and transparent, I always feel shallow and lame when I wake up after having had one. The last one? I don't know what to say.
Here they are:

My Airplane Dream: I'm on an airplane, always taxiing down the runway in preparation for takeoff. Sometimes I'm flying to an exotic location; sometimes Albuquerque or Cleveland. The kicker is, in my dream I have a pathological fear of flying and I've forgotten my bottle of Valium. I plead with the stewardess to give me one of hers, but she won't because it's against FAA regulations. I vividly dream the fear and panic I feel.

My Ballet Dream: I'm in full costume, backstage at the performing arts center where I used to dance. The corps de ballet is onstage and the music is starting to cue up for my solo performance. As I peek through the curtain, I see a fully packed house. Only problem is, I haven't been to one single rehearsal and don't know the choreography. I vividly dream the fear and panic I feel.

My Elevator Dream: I get onto an elevator, alone. The doors close. I want to go to an even-numbered floor, but when I go to push the button, I find there are only odd-numbers on the panel. The elevator is already ascending, so I frantically push any button so I can get off and find the right elevator to take. The elevator stops, the doors open. I walk off and find myself on a dark, unused floor under construction. The elevator doors close behind me. Plastic sheeting and gray carpenter's dust coat everything in sight and I vividly dream the fear and panic I feel.

My Naked Bottom Dream: I'm wearing a long dress made out of patterned cotton twill. The background is forest green and the pattern is that of a girl who looks like me, and she's buck naked. Her back is turned and her naked bottom is fully visible. There's a big hole in the back of my dress that exposes my bottom, and it hits at exactly the spot where the pattern girl's bottom is supposed to be. So I'm walking around with a big hole in my dress and my bare bottom exposed, but nobody knows because it looks like it's part of the pattern. No real fear and panic there. I usually just wake up feeling a little bizarre.

My

2006-07-31T04:02:00.000-07:00

...boy. He melts my heart.

...pond. It's full of turtles.

...horse. He doesn't buck me off.

...husband and baby. I kiss them both daily.

...saliva-smeared storm door. I buy Windex in bulk.

Adolescent Humor: Burp #5 (Monster Burp)

2006-07-30T04:15:00.000-07:00

I'm only posting this because:

1. Today is Sunday, which means blog traffic is relatively low, so if you're here today it means you must like me enough to accept me despite what you're about to hear.
2. Today is Sunday, which means I'll be going to church to completely purge myself of this wrongdoing.

So I'm safe. Oh, a couple of other things:

a. Excuse me.
b. I'm sorry.

Click to listen. It really does sound like I'm coughing up a demon or something.
Burp #5

Pioneer Pinup #7

2006-07-30T04:04:00.000-07:00

Every Saturday night after the kids are all in bed, I like to make my husband a nice home-cooked dinner over a campfire. He was so hungry tonight, he licked the pan plum clean! I just went on down and gave it a good rinse in the crick, and we were good to go.

One Girl. One Slip-n-Slide. Two Frightening Expressions.

2006-07-29T03:26:00.000-07:00

These are the kind of photos that will one day cause my daughter to stop speaking to me. I'll worry about that later...but for now, I think I'll just look at them and bust a gut, thank you very much!

If those of you with children haven't yet cluttered your yard with a Wham-O Slip-n-Slide, your life is not yet complete.

Nature Sucks Sometimes.

2006-07-28T05:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, true to their tendency to spot any weird creature that sets foot on our property, my children dragged me outside to see this baby "mouse" they'd found:

Turns out, it wasn't a mouse but a barely-born possum, which must have inadvertently fallen from its mother's pouch. It struggled along, spitting defensively and trying to escape our threatening human voices. Though only days old, its gnarly claws were still sharp enough for the little dear to climb a few inches up a tree stump in an attempt to flee:

It's times like these that having girls is difficult. They were moved to tears with compassion for the tiny creature, sobbing and wailing at its terrible plight. I explained the harsh reality that these things happen in nature. It wasn't the result of anything we did and we couldn't have prevented it. All we can hope is that the mother will come back to retrieve it, I said. Still, they cried and cried.

I suppose I'm glad my kids are softies in this regard. It could be worse; they could have pounced on the opportunity to torture the helpless thing, pelting it with pieces of gravel until it died---a horror I actually witnessed as a young girl after a group of boys from the country club pool discovered a baby bird in a flower bed. I watched, stunned, as the bird struggled and stumbled and died under the barrage of gravel, while the eight-year-old terrorists laughed with glee at their accomplishment. Punks.

So as I watched the tiny possum struggle helplessly, I, too, felt compassion. As a woman who's given birth to and nursed four babies, my knees buckle at the sight of any infant---human or otherwise---whose every need is not being met. I know how frantically my own sucklings cried when they had to wait more than 30 second to latch on and be fed. And this tiny rodent? It must have been several hours since it had last eaten. If newborn possums could scream and cry, I was sure that's what it was doing.

Then I thought of the mother. Was its baby's sudden disappearance causing the adult possum confusion or pain? I remember how I felt watching my mom---whom I trust above most anyone---drive away from my house with my two-week-old-first-born baby in her car. She was only leaving the house for two hours so I could have a break. Still, I felt like my pancreas had been ripped out of my body, so acute was the separation I felt. So I couldn't imagine how the mother possum---whose baby was totally missing---was feeling.

Just as I felt myself begin to well up with tears, a curious psychological defense mechanism jumped in and saved me. I suddenly remembered, as a little girl, walking downstairs late at night to get a drink of water. I walked to the kitchen sink and flipped on the light switch. And staring at me from the other side of the window was this horrible demon-creature:

I screamed, woke up the entire house, and had nightmares for weeks about the beady-eyed, long-nasty-tailed, freaky animal known as The Possum.

And since I've lived on the ranch, I've had more than several run-ins with possums. On three separate occasions, I've had to fish one out of our bulk dog food container. Another time, we had to free a possum from our daughter's soccer net. I hate them; they're so ugly and strange and disturbing.

With this picture in mind, and with the knowledge that this tiny baby possum would probably one day wind up in my dog feeder, I was able to go on with my life. I wished the tiny marsupial no harm...and walked away.

Hours later, I couldn't help it; I went outside to check. The baby was gone. And despite my intense, lifelong loathing of possums, I still found myself hoping it had been reunited with its mother. I guess I'll wait until it's fully grown to wish a slow, brutal death upon it.

Working Ranch 101

2006-07-27T03:46:00.000-07:00

Despite all the belching, trampoline jumping, photographing of calf nuts, and Ethel Merman impersonations, this is also a real working cattle ranch. I recently read that only 13% of blog readers reside in rural areas, so I've decided post weekly ranch photos so the other 87% of you can see how we hicks live.

To rebel against the sweltering, soul-melting heat most of us are experiencing this summer, I selected photos taken in the dead of winter. Maybe our sweat glands will slow down just a tad if we gaze upon photos of people and livestock freezing their butts off. Click on any photo to enlarge.

Here's our three-year-old, getting ready to begin the long day of working. Everyone's bundled up, saddled, and ready to go by sunrise.

We spend the first hour or two gathering cattle from various pastures. In 23-degree weather, the horses and cattle tend to let off a little steam:

Marlboro Man likes to start our kids horseback as soon as their umbililcal stump falls off. Here he is with our one-year-old:

Once the cattle are gathered in the pens, the action really begins. Here's my father-in-law on the far left, dragging a calf to be worked. Our cowboy's son, Cody, flips the calf onto its side, while Marlboro Man, second from right, moves in to assist.

Our family friend, Matthew (aka Snafu Jr.), shows this calf who's boss. M.M. has just branded its hip; that's the smoke you see. My sister-in-law dehorns and ear-tags the calf, while Cody approaches to administer the medication. And the kids are sprinkled all throughout the scene, in various states of helpfulness.

Though it's hard work, there's always time to pause for a moment or two. Here's my man enjoying a word with his dad:

And when the work is finished, everyone's filthy. And stinky. And hungry and thirsty and cranky. And sleepy:

And I wouldn't trade it for the world.
(Though I'd give anything to have a Starbucks nearby. You urbanites have no idea how lucky you are.)