The Way of the Slurp

It had been a particularly grueling morning at our upstairs consruction site, building furdowns around the recently installed heating/ac ducts. I was physically wiped out, but I took the time to make a decent lunch for the entire construction crew - my Father-in-law and I.

I prepared spaghetti with meat sauce, sweet italian sausage and made-from-scratch-hot-from-the-oven garlic bread sticks for lunch.

Amazingly enough, this was the first time in almost 20 years of knowing my Father-in-law, that I actually watched my him eat spaghetti.

He spread the pile of sauce laden pasta evenly out on the plate and used his fork to cut off bite-sized squres from the oodles of noodles. Each square was a perfectly symmetrical assemblage of spaghetti.

It then occured to me that in my F-i-l's view of the culinary world, this dish of pasta was just another type of casserole. Serve it on a plate, fork off a piece, and consume it promptly. Neat, tidy, no fuss, no flying sauce, no need for a bib or safetly goggles.

When publicly consuming pasta, etiquette and good manners forces me to practice the fork-twirling-in-the-spoon technique. Get enough on your fork to fill your mouth, fill your mouth, bite off any straggling noodles, catching the bitten off pieces on your spoon before they sloppily land back on your plate.

However at home, in the presence of my immediate family, I practice the Way of the Slurp.

I blame my Hawaiian/Asian roots for this, but noodles in soup of any kind (ramen, saimin, udon, soba, etc.) only tastes right when they are slurped loudly and with all the gusto of Winnie-the-Pooh eating a jar of honey.

Which brings me to the task of which I am now faced. That of teaching my daughters the Way of the Slurp.

Once they master the technique (it's not easy to slurp noodles and soup without the occassional gagging or coughing a noodle out your nose), then I'll teach them the more "public" methods of eating noodle dishes.

It is my hope that the day we take our daughters to the land of their ancestors, order some steaming hot ramen noodles, break apart the chopsticks and commence to consume the delightful delicacy in a bowl, they will slurp with abandon, impressing natives and locals alike.

In search of...pastrami

Pity me, for it's been almost a year and I haven't found a good pastrami sandwich here in my adopted state.

To clarify, I'm not a New Yorker, so I'm not a corner-deli-cold-pastrami-on-rye-with-mustard kinda guy. Sure, there are some authentic-feeling deli's in the metro area (I say "authentic-feeling" cuz any New Yorker reading this will argue that the only "authentic" deli's are in NYC -- the same ones that say that pizza places outside of NYC claiming to serve "New York style pizza" are frauds since you need to use NYC water to make authentic NY style crust.)

I'm a So Cal native, so I like my pastrami steaming hot from dripping stainless steel troughs, piled high and fatty on a french roll, dipped in some au jus, with a miniscule dab of spicy brown mustard and kosher dill pickle slices lining the bun.

Open faced, open mouth, iron stomach, pass the freakin' Tums.

Where I grew up there were two greasy joints that served it up the way of the So Cal pastrami samurai...

The Hat - $6.49 for pastrami that is both extra lean and fatty at the same time, then dipped in au jus to become heaven on a bun. For extra punishment, try the double-cheese-pastrami burger. Yep, it's viciously that good.

Top's - $6.29 for a pastrami torpedo worthy of a Tim Burton themed, gluttony induced nightmare. Feeling suicidal? Try the chili-cheese fries (half order only, since a full order will feed all the Katrina hungry for a year). Just don't the let chili-cheese cool off, or you'll need to rent a jackhammer from Home Depot at $50-a-day to get to the fries underneath.

I google'd "pastrami oklahoma" and came upon this fellow's website. He's a paper pusher at OU and in his profile professes to be on the search for "a quality pastrami sandwich in the metro area."

I emailed him and he wrote right back."Not yet, but hope springs eternal!"Nice sentiment, but it still leaves my gullets predilection for pastramic paradise sadly vacant.

From the police blotter

I'd file the first story under, "When high school girls and the big purses they carry go BAD."The second one would have to go under, "Didn't that happen to little Ren McCormick (Kevin Bacon is 5'7") when he was driving around in his little yellow beetle in the little Texas town of Beaumont in the little 80's classic, Footloose?"

B-ball is king

C came home with a note in her backpack from school yesterday.EARLY DISMISSAL - THURSDAY, MARCH 8TH
STATE BASKETBALL TOURNAMENT
School will be dismissed early on Thursday, March 9th. We will start loading buses at 1:00p.m. Parents, please have your children picked up NO LATER THAN 1:30 P.M.
I still haven't gotten used to the elevated status that high school sports play in this part of the country. High school scores are regularly included in the local evening news shows. Big games are commonly broadcast via tv or radio. Even my father-in-law knew that the girl's team at our small town's high school had made it to state.

Our local paper devotes an entirely separate section to the local sports scene.

High school sports are serious business in my small town.

I varsity lettered in wrestling back in my high school daze at 168 lbs.. I don't think I would have even made the 3rd string team had I gone to high school here.

Maybe the Mat Maids would have had me.

Breakfast with the Captain

My wife bought the girls their first box of Captain Crunch.

It's a sugary sweet taste treat, that along with toast, juice, and milk makes for a complete breakfast.

I hadn't had a bowl in well over 20 years.

It tastes the same.

Afterwards, C asked me to look into her mouth to tell her if she's bleeding. She had apparently fallen victim to the infamous "Captain-Crunch-making-mincemeat-of-your-upper-palate" syndrome.

Unless you allow the sweetened cubes of the Captain to soften up a bit by soaking in milk for a year or two, the sharp butted nuggets effectively scrape the first two layers of skin off whatever fleshy surface they come in contact with.

Rumor has it they came out with the crunch berries (spherical shaped for less blood curdling screams) to lessen the effects of the golden nectareous ingots.

Many a saturday morning cartoon marathons were marred by the long lasting effects of the Captain's lethal crunch.

Chocolate from cowboy heaven...by way of Walmart

PK and I trekked on down to the closest WalMart Super-dee-duper-center to get some j-rice and a jar of kim chee. The only other stores I've found nearby that carry these two much needed items in my household are the Asian grocery stores just north of downtown OKC - a good hour drive for me.

Amazingly, the Walmart Super-freakin'-center about 30 minutes south of my small town, carries both items on a regular basis.

My steady hands gripping the cart with PK riding shotgun, we made our way for the entrance nearest to the groceries. Just outside the 40-odd doors of the southern entrance, I noticed several young high school types hocking candy bars as a fundraiser for their church school.

Myself being a hardened veteran of C's Campfire Kids USA candy sale, and her elementary school candy/nuts/cookie dough/frozen desserts fundraiser, I nodded knowingly to the tall freckly girl in the middle and murmered that I would swing by on our way out.

Unfortunately for them, I exited the building from the north entrance (oxymoron, I know), a good 7 clicks (WalMart Supercenters are marathon man huge) from where the waifish Baptists were selling their quickly melting candy bars (it was unseasonably warm and in the high 70's that day).

I completely spaced on my murmered promise until I was more than half way done overstuffing the 1 cubic-foot of available space in Otto's trunk with freshly purchased Wal-groceries.

Oh well. The church school loses out and my family goes cocoa-bean less for another night.

Just as I slam dunk the trunk, out of nowhere, a tall, slim stranger, wearing a tan-suede cowboy hat (I couldn't make this stuff up), steps up, hands me one of the huge almond-laced chocolate bars that the girls were selling and says in what had to be the best non-Brokeback Mountain cowboy twang I've ever heard, "Here ya go, pardner. I don'ta each this here chocolate, but I wannid' ta support them gals and their school."
With that, he tipped his hat to my 3-year old who was staring in awe at the parting cowboy.

I felt like yelling, Shane! Come back Shane! We love you Shane!"

Four stomachs aren't easy to fill

Out here on the prairie, if you tire of your neighbors failure to take down their holiday decorations, just turn your herd of cattle on their lazy behinds...

Meth day is here!

Last night I attended a countywide presentation by the local law enforcement authorities and health department called "March Against Meth."

The collection of parents, civic leaders, law enforcement personnel who assembled for this event at the high school gym seemed genuinely concerned about the issue of meth manufacturing, use, and trafficking in our community.

As a group, we were educated on drug awareness, emerging drug trends, internet drug trafficking, and how to keep our kids drug free.

It was relatively well attended by the community, but not nearly as crowded as the girls varsity basketball game I took the family to last weekend.

Basically, it was a preview to what our kiddies were going to see this week in their classrooms, and they wanted to give the parents a heads-up to what was coming up.
Mommy, what's a meth-head?/
Daddy, is that what Uncle Festus went to jail for?
Pa, why can't we get Sudafed in pill form in Oklahoma..I hate those gel-caps?
Ma, why is that dog sniffing around your spare tire?The majority of questions from the floor were about signs of use, how much a hit of Meth costs, where to get it, how to get it, what exactly is it, and how does it feel.

My questions focused on whether or not the highway that runs through our small town is a major meth traffic artery, are the transporters sticking to the main highways as opposed to the back roads, and whether or not they're recruiting locals who know the roads, speed traps, and drug busting capacities of the local authorities.

It is.
They are.
Yes. Heavily.

How to eat a chocolate donut with sprinkles...

...if you're a 3-year old.

Out of their natural environment

Follow up to this post.


"Dear, did you leave your flip flops outside?"

Dr. Seuss gets another year older, sorta

March 2nd, mark your calendar,
for a special day it will be.
It is Dr. Seuss' birthday,
though dead as doornails is he.

The kindergarten teachers
sent a notice to homes,
for parent volunteers to come in
to read a few of the good Doctor's tomes.

I signed up for "The Cat in the Hat,"
because I know it almost by heart.
And it always has been my favorite selection,
off the Seussian library cart.

Perhaps I'll go "Green Eggs and Ham."
Even though Sam I am, I am not.
Being a Dad, Hop on Pop seems a good fit,
But I've found it to be too short on plot.

Aristotle's Poetics, it is not.

Limping to the sounds of MG

A few nights ago, S and I went to St. Gregory's University to enjoy an intimate performance by Michael Gulezian.

S worked a few semesters at the OSU Student Union during her undergrad days, and got to know Michael when she would book him for performances at the Union. He's been touring constantly since those days, and has developed his guitaring skills into nothing short of 6 (and 12) string mastery.

Check out his website (downloads are free) and enjoy.

The performance was in the central plaza of St. Gregory's main student union. S looked lovely as ever, sipping on a vanilla mocha latte. I was well coiffed and had a Diet Coke w/ lime, purchased from the micro-cafeteria located adjacent to the courtyard.

The plush, cushy sofas we planted ourselves in for the performance were warm and inviting. The fake fireplace behind Michael was ablaze in all it's natural gas glory, and the enthusiastically fellow attendees were mellow and open to some stress releasing acoustic guitar magic.

Then the limping parade began.

First one, then another, then another.

Limping coeds draped in sweat pants and St. Gregory emblazoned teeshirts made their way from their dorm rooms and on-campus living abodes to the student union.

Why were they all limping? We're they athletes? Had they just come from Father Slaughter's Aerobics class? Was there a shortage of good footwear on campus?

After the twelth or so limping student hobbled by, stopping momentarily to wrap their tortured bodies in the alluring tunage that was resouding off the walls, the situation went beyond comical and into the absurd.

Next time you're on a college campus, sit in a high traffic area and observe the passing students. If the majority of them are limping, please report back.

Inquiring minds want to know.

Wrap yourself in the Big E

Every week, C has to bring in an object to "show n' tell" in front of the class that begins with the alphabet letter which they've been studying all week.

Last week was the letter "E."

We contemplated taking an egg (hard boiled), an elephant (stuffed), some earphones (headphones really), an eagle (bald), and other ho-hum, that's-what-all-the-other-kids-will-bring items.

Then it dawned on me. The Big E. The only E. The E who is the King of Rock and Roll.

I speak of (cue music), our Elvis Blanket.



Needless to say, C was not thrilled, and offered to "leave the building" immediately upon seeing me proudly and enthusiasticaly display my selection for her letter o' the week item.

Buuut, after much coaxing, convincing, and a few rounds of "Suspicious Minds" from her old man, my 6-year old finally gave in and agreed to stuff the King into her backpack and lug it before the class.

I was a proud Pop.

Afterwards, in the car ride home, I asked her what her 60-something teacher thought of her bringing the "King of Rock and Roll" into her classroom.

"Oh, she just said, 'Elvis, he was a popular singer, wasn't he?' and didn't say anything more."

Obviously, C's teacher was overcome with emotion. Who wouldn't be afterall, when faced with the Big E in blanket form.

Media saavy 6-year old

C's bedtime question to my wife last night was, "...did the Vice-President's friend look like a bird?"

Am I an Okie (part 42, at least it seems like it)

Last and final installment. Hold your applause until the end please. This may get ugly.

You have known someone who has had a belt buckle bigger than your fist.

A bad traffic jam involves two pickups staring each other down at a four-way stop, each detemined to be the most polite and let the other go first.

You know in which state "Miam-uh" is and in which state "Miam-ee" is.

You aren't surprised to find movie rental, ammunition, and bait all in the same store.

Your "place at the lake" has wheels under it.

A Mercedes Benz isn't a status symbol. A Ford F-340 4x4 is.

You know everything goes better with ranch dressing.

You learned how to shoot a gun before you learned how to multiply.

You actually get these jokes and are "fixin" to send them to your friends.

Finally, you are 100% Oklahoman if you have ever heard this conversation:
"You wanna coke?"
"Sure"
"What kind?"
"Dr. Pepper"

Another use found for 2x4's

Spotted at a construction site just north of town a ways. Take a really close look at the porta-potty.


I call these "supporta-porta's."
I don't know if I'd trust a few 2x4's to keep my "office" from blowing away in the wind...especially if I was in it!
See entry #2 here.

But, when ya gotta go...

Daffy wins

How about that. It truly is "wabbit" season.



Elmer Fudd's all over the state are pulling down the side flaps on their fur-lined hats and loading up for some good stewin' meat.

Okay, I've actually had rabbit meat at a churrascaria in Glendale.

Tasted like chicken.

Am I an Okie? (Part 2)

A continuation of this post.

You know the true value of a parking space is not determined by the distance to the door, but by the availability of shade.

Grocery stores don't have bags and carts, they have sacks and buggies.

You see people wear bib overalls to funerals.

You think everyone from a bigger city has an accent.

You measure distance in minutes ("I'm about 5 minutes away.")

You refer to the capital of Oklahoma as "The City."

It doesn't bother you to use an airport named for a man who died in an airplance crash.

Little smokies are something you serve only for special occasions.

You listen to the weather forecast before choosing an outfit.

Someone you know has used a college football schedule to plan their wedding date.

Easy now, we're about half way done with these. More later.

Dining with the 300 pairs of eyes

Our small town's annual Chamber of Commerce Banquet was last night. For $12 a ticket, we'd get a catered meal, a few presentations, a guest speaker, and the chance to hobnob with the upstanding business men and women of the town.

We were the last ones to arrive at the shindig, which was scheduled to begin at 6:30 p.m.

We arrived at 6:40 p.m.

By then, all 300-plus guests were well into their catered meal of smoked brisket, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, salad with ranch dressing (more on ranch dressing later), a generous wedge of chocolate/pecan cheesecake, and the most humongous baked potato I've ever seen that took up more than half of my Chinette.

10 minutes late and we were the absolute last ones to be seated. Amazing, these small town folk and their passion for promptness.

Now, I've always been one of those "sit in the front row of class" kinda guys. Not that I was an ideal student, who hung on every word uttered by their teachers. Nothing so honorable. By sitting in the front row I was less likely to nod off and let my head do the "2-second-in-class-nap-head-bob" if I knew the teacher/professor would be looking right at me.

As dictated by my penchants to sit up front, I led my comely wife forwards, scanning the long tables for a deuce of empty seats. The only seats we found open were at a table at the very front, so we sauntered on up, made sure the seats were vacant, and smiled graciously as if to excuse our tardiness.

Good. We were late, but hadn't caused any commotion. Those in the room who may have known us or of us, knew we were from LA and that "those" people are always running late because of "traffic on the 10 freeway."

As we got comfortable in the folding metal chairs, the table introductions began.
Mr. City Manager, a pleasure.
Mr. Councilman, nice to meet you.
Mrs. Councilwoman, great pleasure to meet you.
Mr. County District Attorney, how very nice to meet you.
Madame Mayor. what an honor and pleasure it is to meet you.
Mr. Oklahoma State Senator, what a surprise to see you here.
Mr. Oklahoma State Representative, doing a great job, thanks for being here.
This is the point where, had we been in a movie, we'd look around to see the entire room staring back at us in utter disbelief, that we would have the unsophisticated audacity to sit where we chose to sit.

Men in tuxedos would snort. Women in gowns would huff. Children would wail, and dogs would flatulate.

Turns out we had planted our patooties at the table reserved for the politico movers and shakers of our small town's hallowed hallways of government. Without an invitation to sit with them, without a hostess mistakenly seating us there, and without even a hint of hesitancy, we inadvertently may have caused a minor stir amongst the other dinner goers.

I'l say one thing for living in Oklahoma...people here are darn polite, as not one person asked us to leave, not one person mentioned to us the error of our seat selection ways, and not one person told us to our face that the table was reserved for the city's top government officials.

Now, behind our back, that may be another story.

The movie theater in my mind projects a double-feature at the downtown cafe and local donut shop this morning, as coffee talk centers on the city slicker/outsiders who plopped themselves down at the head table and dipped their brisket in the same sauce bucket as the Senator, Congressman, and Mayor.

Or maybe not. The weather is nice today, so perhaps that will take precedence in our small town's grapevine.

Am I an Okie?

The top question my in-laws get when discussing our move to Oklahoma seems to be, "how's that California son-in-law of yours gettin' on as an Okie?"

This morning I asked myself, am I an Okie? Will I ever be an Okie? What constitutes an Okie's definition of what being an Okie is all about?

Here is the first of a multiple part series on what the small town newspaper in my in-laws home town considers being an Okie.
1. You can properly pronounce Eufaula, Gotebo, Okemah and Chickasha. (I'll add Checotah, since the last American Idol is from there and every network morning news show that interviewed her mispronouned it -- shame on you Katie Couric).

2. You think that people who complain about the wind in their states are sissies.

3. A tornado warning siren is your signal to go out in the yard and look for a funnel. (I'll add that it's also my F-i-L's signal to go out and watch for your neighbors trash cans to go flying by).

4. Your idea of a traffic jam is 10 cars waiting to pass a tractor on the highway.

5. You've ever had to switch from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day - within an hour or so.
That's all for now. More later. Too much Okieisms in one blog entry may be hazardous to your health.

Grabbing life by the tail

This is why I never write "Letters to Editors." I'd fail by comparison.


From yesterday's edition of our small town paper.

Those better be good pies!

Day before yesterday, we had a fundraising dilemma. We had our choice of the Pie Auction for a Veteran's Memorial, or the Ground Hog dinner at the Methodist Church nearby my in-laws house.

Maybe we could make both.

The Ground Hog dinner (complete with 5-foot tall, paper mache ground hog figure - think Punxsutawney Phil- happily waving you into the common room at the Methodist Church) is a 50-year tradition.

For $6 you get to feast on all the ground hog (whole hog pork sausage - everything but the oink), baby white potatoes, biscuits, sausage gravy, iced tea, and an amazing sauerkraut/onion/ham hock dish that makes my mouth water just thinking about it.

ALL--YOU-CAN-EAT!

Start running low, just raise your little flag on the table, and a helpful Methodist volunteer comes-a-runnin' to see to your every culinary desire.

ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT-FOR-$6!

They discourage doggie bags for obvious reasons. After all, it is..

ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT-FOR-6-MEASLY-DOLLARS!

Stuffed and starting to feel the effects of our gastronomic gluttony we rolled around the floor of my in-laws house for awhile, talked about how sad both OU and OSU men's b-ball teams are playing, then made our way to the door -- going through single file to avoid getting wedged in.

Arriving home earlier than we thought, S suggested we swing by the Pie Auction going on down at the Exhibit building at the fairgrounds. Just to take a peek.

I waited in the car with the girls, while S braved the scrutiny of our fellow townsfolk and snuck into the auction.

She returned no less than 10 minutes later, got in the car, turned to me and said, "those better be good pies!"

Bidding started....STARTED...at $100. The pie she witnessed being auctioned off went for $175.

We saw people walking out of there with 3 or 4 pies in their arms. S said she counted at least 50 more pies that had yet to be sold, and we arrived an hour and a half after it had started.

We were humbled, and impressed.

Impressed, that our fellow townsfolk would open up their wallets and loosen their bank accounts for such a worthy cause.
Humbled, we lowered our heads and set our cruise control at 5 m.p.h. for the short drive home.

Once home we warmed up a cobbler with some Braum's french vanilla, and ate each luscious spoonful of blackberry, crust, and ice cream, as if it cost $10 a bite.

The Big Green House

Just about every person we've meet in our small town asks us the same question when the conversation eventually meanders to the location on Main Street where we bought our house.

"Oh, did you buy the Big Green House?"

The Big Green House [BGH] is a stately victorian (built in 1899) that sits on 5 lots (1/2 a block) directly to our south. It was the first victorian built in this town and has been a historical symbol of the prosperity and growth that our town once shared.

It's a 5-bedroom masterpiece of pre-statehood construction and design. Over 5000 square feet, a full basement, hand-turned woodwork throughout the house, and original hardwood floors. Formal dining and living area, huge kitchen (I counted over 60 kitchen cabinet doors), artists lanai, screened in sun porch, central heat and air, and a 3-car detached garage with additional parking lot to fit 4 more cars. On the grounds there are ample trees and shrubs, a koi pond, dog run and the remnants of what appears to be a horse barn.

As I've been researching the history of our house (more on that in a future blog post), I've uncovered the grandiose past and the princely owners who have called the BGH their home.


The builder of the BGH was one of our towns founding fathers. He was a decorated captain in the Grand Army of the Republic, and was appointed by then President Harrison to be Register of Deeds when a land run of 1899 opened this territory up to settlers.

This dude's name is plastered around the city on dedication plaques, historical markers, and memorial signs. The main cross street in our little downtown has his name, as does the name of the first baby officially born in our town back in 1899 (he won the right to name the baby in a lottery -- paid $52 for that honor).

After the first family's dynasty moved on to greener pastures (our cemetary), an important family of a different sort took up residence in the BGH - think Six Feet Under.

We're not sure if it was used as a funeral home, but the family who called the BGH home for the next 60 years were licensed embalmers (Oklahoma Embalming license #1 in fact). They ran a used furniture store/mortuary in town, and built a large brick building with their name on it in our downtown district.

The house has remained in this family to this day, currently owned by a great grand niece who lives in Montana. She wants to get rid of it, as it has no sentimental value to her at all.

It needs some foundation work, but the house is solid, well built, historically significant, and hopefully haunted. It's been on the market for over 2 years and has gone through several different realtors in town.

This handsome, century old house could be yours for the low, low, discounted price of $150,000.

Roughly equal to the cost of a PMI avoiding 20% down-payment for a 2-bedroom condo in Pasadena.

Loogie

The cold water that runs from our tap in my small town is ice cold. Colder than it needs to be. I think you could sterilize a scalpel in this water. Even on the coldest night back in So Cal, I've never experienced tap water running this cold.

When I wash the rice (yes, you're supposed to wash rice before cooking it) my hand gets numb at the about the second rinse.
I usually turn on a bit of hot water to even it out, so I can retain some feeling in my phalanges while performing the wash.

Washing the rice (or anytime I have to expose my hand to freezing water) always reminds me of my good bud, Jon Lue.

I've known Jon since about the 3rd grade. We called him "Loogie" for two reasons. One, his last name was just begging to be made fun of, and two, he could hock a loogie like no one on this earth. I once saw him gag one up and hurl it from the free throw line to the backboard on the playground.

He was that good.

Jon was also the stick-your-hand-in-ice-water-to-see-how-long-you-can-stand-it-experiment champion in my high school biology class. Cold water didn't seem to bother him. We all pulled out after a minute or so. Jon went into a zone and must have left his body, because 4 or 5 minutes later, he was still standing beside the teacher's desk, hand in the bucket, face not showing a lick of pain.

I bet Jon is the rice washer at his house.

Bootstraps vs. Fingerholes

We are fortunate in our small town to have a Western Wear shop. However, since no one in my immediate family are farmers, ranchers, horse trainers, or do anything that could be considered western in any way, we have yet to visit our local "hat 'n boot 'n wrangler" store.

Until last weekend.

For a family outing, we decided to head down to the bustling town of Duncan to tour the Chisholm Trail Heritage Center. My wife is a theme type of person, so of course, the girls had to get on their best cowboy get'ups. C had on some fringey pants that S had picked up at a thrift store back in LA awhile back for a $1. In addition to her "chappettes," she adorned a white tee, beige button up shirt, faux-suede hat, with her hair in dueling braids -- she looked the part.

Right down to her purple crocs.

A quick stop at the local Western Wear shop would remedy the fashion emergency.

C picked out a pair of green and light brown leather boots, that looked pretty darn cute on her. As the young, western wear clerkette helped my eldest daughter fit the $35 dead-cow footwear, I noticed four holes neatly sewn into the top of each boot, two holes on opposing sides.

I innocently asked what the deal was with those holes.

Tin foot. Rookie. Outsider. Never bought a boot in his life city slicker.

My wife grinned, came over to give my pathetic torso a hug and said, "oooh, how cute you are to ask that?"

The clerkette grinned and shook her head.

Even my 6-year old gave me that same condescending smile, as she said, "Daddy, those are for your fingers to pull the boots up."

Then the clerkette went on to display and demonstrate to me the two main methods of pulling on one's boots.

The tried and true "boot strap," which consists of two ringlettes of doubled-over and sewn together leather, firmly attached to the top rim of the boot. A cow-person simply needed to grab a'hold of each strap and exert extreme force to insert said foot into said boot.

The finger holes served the same purpose, only one needed to insert one's forefinger and middle fingers into the opposing two holes, and with similar upward motion and force, insert said foot into said boot.

Obviously where the phrase, "pulling yourself up by your boot straps" was derived.

Although, I've never heard the phrase, "pulling yourself up by your boot holes," for equally obvious reasons.

BTW, PK looked adorable in her denim overalls with cowboys all over them, a red, white and blue gingham shirt, braided hair and red boots...wait, did I just spew the word "adorable" and correctly spell the word "gingham?"

Time to go wrench on the elky, me thinks.

Missing cattle and their "fries"

From our small town paper...

Now, while the loss of a family pet is both agonizing and tragic, squint your eyes and read the heading above the "Missing Pug" ad.

Now I know you're wondering, just like I was, what would possess a perfectly good micro-herd of cattle to go missing. Good grass, sturdy fence, all the alfalfa they can eat, mild winter temps, and occassional visits from the nice rancher in his F-150 4x4. Sounds like a good life.




Then I found this item in the same paper...



Followed by this item...


Something tells me this herd of missing cattle may have heard it through the barbwire fence vine what those odd, bipedal-hat-wearing-pickup-truck-driving mammals are eating in masse this time of the year.

Hell, I'd run too.

For those of you scratching your head, click here for wikipedias definition.

In addition to this interesting ritual of rural small town fundraising culinary cuisine, I found it even stranger that we were now auctioning off our FFA students. Read the bottom line in the last picture above.

Miss(ed) America

Watching the Miss America Pageant has been a long-standing tradition in my wife's family.

The entire family would gather around the tube, pencil and pads in hand, ready to keep tally and select who would win the "scholarship" crown.

I'm reluctant to say that this tradition reared it's mundane head last night as I witnessed my wife and daughters replay on our living room floor what has transpired for 3 and a half decades on my in-laws living room floor.

"Oh, darn, she's dancing. Dancers almost never win."
Miss America has apparently found a home on the Country Music Channel (CMT). Too hoaky for the networks, and the audience for the mother of all beauty, oops, I mean scholarship contests has dwindled to sub-network audience Nielsens.

Even UPN didn't want it.

"Well, at least she's doing ballet. Ballet is good. Better than tap.
Tappers never win."
Several incarnations ago, the Miss American Pageant had a "game show" segment - this was when the game show "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" was hot on the airwaves. We watched in horror as Miss Oklahoma crashed and burned during this segment, failing to answer the simplest of questions.

"Oh, another dancer. That's good...means that we (Miss Oklahoma) may still be in the running.
3 of the 5 finalist are dancers, so, those are better odds for us."
Loyalties are being tested tonight, between Miss Oklahoma (who my wife has always rooted for, even during her 18 years as a Californian) and Miss Georgia, who is happa (mixed Asian and Caucasian heritage) - like our daughters.

Oh she's playing the piano, that's good. Most of the judges usually like that.
And yes, if you ask most Okie's which of the Miss America's of the past that have been Miss Oklahoma's, they'll be able to tell you.

Quote of the night came from my 6-year old..."She needs to lose some weight in her chest."

BTW, Miss Oklahoma, Jennifer Berry won.

The whole state is saying "yee hah" and "yip yo!"

And she won doing ballet.

How much drugs would $80 buy in 1894?

Before blowing insulation into the walls, my F-i-L and I checked them all for anything that may impede the flow of the blown cellulose insulation.

Dead animals, stray 2x4's, artifacts left by past residences, stuff like that.

I found some treasures revealing the lifestyles of one particular owner.

A bill dating from 1894, for $80 worth of what today would be considered narcotics from a drug company in Illinois.

Who in 1894 would need $80 worth of drugs?

After some extensive research at our local library, the internet, and the history museum in town, I found out that one of our house's previous inhabitants was a prominent druggist in town. He came to this area during the land run of April 1889, setup his shop on Main Street, owned two valuable farms, and "devoted considerable attention to the cultivation of the land and to the raising of live stock."

He was one of the organizers of the Central State Bank (now known as the First National Bank here in town), was a Mason in good standing and a Reformist Republican (was a prominent figure in doing away with the thriving red-light area north of town). He even served as a councilman for awhile.

We don't know if he was the one who built our house or not. That information has yet to be revealed to me.

My research continues.

Death is a weird thing

My wife's Aunt Marie passed away earlier this week. Vigilant readers of my blog may recall the passing of my wife's Grandmother Louise on Christmas day last month.

Marie was Louise's younger sister. Services are today.

All told, there were 9 obituaries in yesterday's local paper. One name jumped out at me and sent the heebie-jeebies down my spine.

Richard C. Emrick
The name means nothing to you. But it was a recent addition to the names that will forever be engraved in my grey matter.

For you see, it was Mr. Emrick who provided me the opportunity to show my girls the honest thing to do when finding something that belongs to someone else -- be it a watch, a laptop, a ring, or money.

After the money I had turned into the police found it's way back to Mr. Emrick, he called to thank me personally. The number he left on my voicemaill was for the local hospital. I figured he must work there.

When I did return his call, I exhaustively had to yell into the phone for him to hear me, but once he figured out who I was, he was the nicest, most gentle soul of a man I could have talked to. His breathing was labored as well, so I know it must have been an effort to make the call in the first place.

Well, it turns out he was not an employee of the hospital. He was a patient. And now, at the age of 64, Mr. Richard C. Emrick is gone.

But the lesson he reminded me of and allowed me to teach to my daughters will live on.

Rock on, Aunt Marie.
Thank you, Mr. Emrick.

A houseful of girls

When I did laundry as a kid it was always whites and darks.

As I entered the workforce it became whites, darks and dry cleaning.

As I got married and started doing laundry for my wife, it became whites, darks, blacks, lighter colors, delicates and dry cleaning.

As we had our babies, it became whites, darks, blacks, lighter colors, delicates, dry cleaning and the newly added mystery-stain-treatment-Shout-the-living-daylights-out-of-it load.

Now, I'm doing laundry for a houseful of girls and it's become, whites, darks, blacks, lighter colors, earth tones, delicates, dry cleaning, Shout-the-living-daylights-out-of-it, and the newest load, pinks and purples.

Laundry is a full time gig.

Bursting the boss' bubble

My wife works for a woman who is building a neo-industrial ultra-moderne revival home in the heart of downtown OKC.

Her new home will be surrounded by many old brick warehouses (some occupied, some not), parking lots, new concrete warehouse loft spaces, and plenty of overgrown empty lots.

The house is boxy, full of glass and steel, porthole windows, exposed beams, open floorplan -- you know the type. Think Pac Coast Highway rental units in southern Malibu. Plentiful out there, a rarity out here on the prairie.

She and her husband are spending a chunk of change on this place, and it will be a showcase abode upon completion.

Which is why my wife was stymied to find out that they're decorating their high dollar home with Danish particle board furniture.

Ikea rules their world too. Perhaps we've discovered the culprit in the missing Ikea catalog scandal of last October.

Seems she spent the holiday break down in Dallas, ordering up cabinetry, furniture, the works -- at the blue and yellow warehouse of furniture held together with white glue, wooden pegs, and allen head bolts.

S found it extremely difficult not to burst her bubble when her boss was enthusiastically (and with some braggadocio) telling her staff about their vacation excursion to the land of "for-ni-tuuura" and "ache-cha-pies" (This was one of Ikea's early radio ads in LA, with two fellas arguing about what Ikea specializes in...furniture, or accessories).

When S asked if the Ikea down in the big D was setup the same as all the others (accessories downstairs, furniture/restaurant upstairs), her boss surprisingly said, "oh, you've been to Ikea?"

What S wanted to say was "yeah, that's where students and people who can't afford real furniture shop in LA."

But what she actually said was "yeah, we liked to eat the swedish meatballs and follow the arrows painted on the floor."

Now, in defense of Ikea, we moved here with a half-dozen Billy bookcases, so we're still not completely free of our put-it-together-yourself-furniture lifestyle. Doubt we ever will be.

But then, we're not building a big budget neo-industrial ultra-moderne revival showcase home in the heart of downtown OKC.

Excuse me, may I see your permit?

Our chimney is gone.

The brick and mortar were old, crumbly and brittle from age and exposure. The compartmentalized internal structure was made to flue smoke generated from coal burning (for heat) rather than for big, raging, snuggle-up fires.
Access to the chimney from the first floor was long ago walled up many previous owners ago.

And it totally ruined the flow of the upstairs area. Totally.

S said, "off with it's head...BUT, save as many of the old bricks as you can for a future project I have in mind"

There's always a but with my wife.

Here's how we took down the roof section of the chimney..



Here's how we took down the 2nd story section of the chimney...



And not one city official, inspector, or safety officer came by asking for a permit.

Two-steppin' in OK

One step forward...

Oklahoma's oldest radio station switches to Spanish

One step back..
Oklahoma Christian University is apparently reconsidering a proposed policy that would allow the school to fire staff and faculty who get a divorce.

Strange that for a supposed "red" state that proudly decries any attempt to undermine our nations "family values," Oklahoma has an extremely high divorce rate - #2 in the nation in 2002.

Perhaps OCU is trying to address the "family values" issue in their current employee review policy. The article states that OCU will not use this policy to discriminate against prospective employees who are divorced. That's a relief.

But I can hear it now.
OCU Prof. - "You have to stop this affair!"
Unfaithful spouse - "Why because you love me?"
OCU Prof. - "No, because I'm up for tenure and I can't divorce you."

I eat Spam. Why don't you?

A recent email from a ex-coworker buddy of mine in LA prompted a deep craving within for a childhood treat.

Yes, Spam is a CHILDhood treat. For you see, I've been eating Spam since I was a kid.

I blame my father. He was born and raised in Hawaii, and apparently the 50th state has the largest Spam consumption rate per capita. There is an interesting history behind why they like Spam so much over there, but that's for you to research online if you're inclined to do so.

My friend's email goes onto explain how on a recent trip to Hawaii, he was snarfing down a Spam Musubi in the hotel elevator. The tourists sharing his 14 story ride became horrified when he told them what he was eating, "on purpose."

Spam is everywhere. At a recent Hot Rod Show in OKC, we happened upon the SpamMobile, whose happy Spam Staffers were handing out free Spamwich samples and these...

Spam for the person on the go. Good deal.

And if you like it heated up, just stick the single pack under your armpit for a few minutes, and your Spam will be warm and ready to go.

There is a Spam museum which my brother-in-law visited and said was faboo it it's kitchyness. He's not a big Spam eater, but he will eat the bear, elk, deer, duck, squirrel, and fish that he's taken from the wild. Go figure.

Our small town grocery store only carries the regular Spam. I've been buying and consuming the Lite version since it's been available.

Gotta think healthy, right?

Otto speaks!

Otto is my trusty, tried and true 1995 Honda Civic EX, automatic, sunroof, A/C, with a 95-horse VTEC motor, and a FlowMaster 60-series muffler. He was purchased new in the summer of '95 down in sunny Carlsbad, California.

With the exception of the last 9 months, Otto has spent his entire life in the mild climate of sunny So Cal. I'd say I've run his A/C about 75% of my driving time, and maybe used the heater/defroster a few dozen times in the last 10+years before moving to OK.

So it was no surprise when I walked out this morning to start Otto up, and I heard him utter...


"WTF, dude!"

Up from the ashes

Back in May of last year, I blogged an entry on the demise of our small town's one and only movie theater.

Last week S and I were invited to the grand opening ribbon cuttting ceremony at our small towns new 3-screen, state-of-the-art movie complex. We're good buds with the Chamber of Commerce President (she went to high school with my in-laws). Small town, remember.

When the family who owned the old, burned-out theater decided not to rebuild, a group of business owners in town got together, formed a committee of some sort, and decided to write some checks ($250k worth) to kick start the creation of a new movie house in town. Times being what they are, the final budget was 4x the original estimate, but the group sought out Rural development funds, Ag loans and grants to fill the financial gaps.

So here we are, 21-months after the fire and brimstone theater disaster, and I'm taking the girls to their first screening at our small town's new movie house. Our choices were King Kong, Cheaper by the Dozen 2, and The Chronicles of Narnia - The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

Since C has been bugging me to see Narnia, off we go, with a $20 bill in hand, the taste of popcorn on our tongues, and the whirlwind anticipation of being transported to a land of adventure and fantasy.

The seats reclined gently, the cupholders held both small and large drinks with ease, the floors weren't yet sticky, and the stadium seating afforded my 6-year old ample viewing clearance around the child's head in the seat directly in front of her.

PK fell asleep about half way through, which was fine since she didn't need to see all the nightmare -inducing-beasties in the climactic battle scene. C, on the other hand, was engrossed in the film for the entire 2 1/2 hours, all the while consuming a child sized popcorn, a snack bag of fruit chewies, a handful of Raisinettes (I shared mine), with a few swigs of Sprite to wash it all down.

While I enjoyed the movie, and enjoyed taking my girls to the movie, and enjoyed the fact that we only had to walk 4 blocks to get to the movie, and enjoyed that I had ample change left over from my $20 bill even after buying our tickets, snacks, and drinks, I felt moments of sadness everytime I looked over and caught C digging the ride.

Let me explain.

I loved the Narnia books as a young boy. My librarian Mom thankfully introduced my brother and I to all the Newberry and Caldecott award winning children's books early on in my life and to this day, both of us are better citizens of this earth because of it.

I fondly recall how these books stimulated something deep inside my youthful soul. My imagination never seemed the same after devouring the C.S. Lewis series and I will forever crave the taste of Turkish Delight.

It is those images, wrought from the depths of my young mind that haunted me as I watched my 6-year old's eyes flickering in the darkened theater. For now, when I read her these books, or she ventures to tackle them as her reading skills develop, I fear that the images spurred from the written word, will forever be influenced by the filmmakers visualization.

My only hope is that C's imagination will overwhelm the memories she has of the movie, and the details outlined on the pages, will stimulate her brain to fill in what the filmmakers had to omit due to time and budget constraints.

I hope.

Long live Aslan!

A bad place to lose a cell phone

You may recall from a previous post that my Father-in-law and I spent a cold day, blowing insulation down our walls and on the upstairs floor.



We got around to laying down the floor boards (carrying 48 - 4x8 sheets of lumber upstairs was NOT fun). It was precarious and almost none of the floor joists were on center - which meant a lot of cutting and trimming the tongue and groove boards - but after a few long days, we had all 1275 square feet of the upstairs floor down.


Of course, I didn't notice that my cell phone had fallen out of my pocket until later in the night, after we had finished laying down the floor. When the house was quiet (about 3:30 in the morning) I called my cell phone, went upstairs and listened.

Yep, you guessed it. It was buried in the insulation, underneath a board in the middle of the room.

Sigh. Only me.

Luckily, we had only tacked the floor down in several places to prevent movement. The major job of screwing in some 1800+ screws to hold the boards down permanently was yet to come.

Facing my Father-in-law the next morning to tell him that we needed to pull up some boards to retrieve my cell phone was one of those things that all guys hate to do -- it was testicle shrinking time, folks. Fortunately, my F-i-l is one of the kindest men in the world. He just smirked and nodded and went ahead with the chore of retrieving my long lost cell phone.

Because of the insulation that blanketed my phone, the ring was very faint to human ears. My 6-year old, however, still has the hearing of a coyote on the hunt, and was able to pinpoint the exact location of the phone beneath the 3/4" floor board.

That's the second valuable item that my house has swallowed and then spit back out for me. You may recall my wedding ring incident.

After I'm gone

Our small towns only dry cleaner died. Just keeled over at her desk. She was 46.

My wife thinks it has to do with all the chemicals they have to use. They sacrifice their lives so that we may have clean suits and shirts.

All these recent deaths have made me start to think about how I want to be remembered after I'm gone.

No funeral services, no graveside services. Just a party at a pizza joint here in my small town and one in So Cal - preferably at an Ameci's (my favorite in LA).

Order a small pizza and a large Diet Coke and set it aside in an empty chair for me. My favorite is sausage (sliced thin, not crumbled), anchovy, garlic, and red onion.

Order a large beer, but only have them fill it half way. It should be ice cold. See, I only like the first taste of beer. After that, it starts to get bitter tasting and warm, and subsequent swallows never match the arousing taste of the first swig.

Put an old Earth, Wind, and Fire CD into a boombox and play it low in the background.

Together, everyone should sing "Burnin' Love" by Elvis as loud and as drunk as sober people can sing (I'm just a hunka, hunka burnin' love).

Everyone should leave after 1 hour - I don't like long parties.

When everyone is leaving, they should all start up their cars at the same time and gun their engines as loud as they will go. Wherever I am (or am not), I'll hear them and will smell the exhaust and smile.

Bonus props to anyone who does a burnout as they leave. Just make sure there aren't any cops around, or they'll get a nasty exhibition of speed ticket.

Whatever is left of me after my organs are harvested for donation is to be cremated. Save half of my ashes to be buried with S, since she insists on keeping her body intact after death and wants to be buried in her family's plot. The other half of my ashes, she can keep around the house, and when she dies, the girls can sprinkle me in the ground at the house.

Preferably somewhere near the garage.

Wasn't even an issue...really, it wasn't

Yesterday, while dipping into our small town WalMart to get some GummiBear Multi-vitamins for the girls...no really, they're for the girls. I prefer Flintstone chewables.

I'm walking through the parking lot and I notice a yellow envelope (you know the kind that the Fed sends you checks in) on the ground, with a receipt sticking out of it...no really, it was an actual Federal-check-sending-envelope.

Something in the back of my mind tells me to "pick it up." And since the back of my mind is where I do most of my thinking (nothing is EVER in the forefront of my mind...no really, it isn't), I pick up the envelope and peer inside.

You guessed it. Cash. Moola. Estados Unidos dinero. Greenbacks. The good stuff. No really, the good stuff and plenty of it.

In addition to the cash, there is a receipt for $125 worth of groceries AND...there is a partial letter.

Insert SIGH here. No really, a big sigh would be appropriate.

The letter had what I believe to be the envelope owners name on it, but no address, phone number, or other identifying information I could use to track this person down.

To the local phone book my fingers went a walkin'.

No one by that name in any of the local exchanges. He wasn't local. No really, he wasn't listed.

To the internet my eyeballs went a ballin'

Google found one hit for him, as a lost alum of a Fraternity at the University of Illinois at Carbondale. Really doubtful this is my guy. Really doubful.

Last night, after showing my wife and daughters what I had found, I seized the opportunity to teach my girls a lesson on "the right thing to do." I called the father of one of C's playmates who happens to be the local Police Chief, no really, he's the top cop in our town.

I told him what was what, and he told me to drop by the station tomorrow and he can help me track down the owner.

Case closed, at least from my end.

So,now that you've read this, you want to know how much money was in the envelope, don't you? No really, you do want to know, don't you.

Well, let's just say it wasn't enough to change our lives, but when it is returned to the rightful owner, it will most certainly make his day.

New Year's Rockin' Eve...at 11 p.m.?

Tape delay is a wonderful thing. Especially at New Year's when you absolutely, positively, must start the new year off watching the waterford crystal ball drop live via satellite in New York's Time Sqare at midnight.

Except in Oklahoma.

The local affiliate station insists on carrying the "live via satellite" literally and broadcast the ball dropping in New York at 11 p.m. local time. No one hour delay to make it coincide with our midnight. No explanation that they are carrying it live, which sends you scrambling to check the correct local time. No warning that your kids will forever wonder why we have to celebrate the new year on Eastern Standard Time, instead of in our own time zone.

Which is why my wife still laughs about being so confused as a kid, wondering what the big fuss was at midnight, when it actually became the new year at 11 p.m. -- according to America's Oldest Living Teenager and his "rockin'" tv show.

So, here we sat at 11 p.m., watching the ball drop and seeing our children jump up and down in celebration of the new year.

Whoopee.

Memorable for all the wrong reasons

Christmas day saw the passing of my daughter's only remaining great-grandmother. My wife's grandmother. My mother-in-law's mother.

Grandma Smith was 91.

Some impressions of our surreal Christmas holiday...

Found another home that followed my guidelines for a box of tissue in every room...a funeral home. Hmm, may have to rethink my guidelines.

My brother-in-law didn't anticipate being a pall bearer at his grandmother's funeral when he packed for his trek home for the holiday, so he had to rent a suit. $100. Custom fit. Nicely tailored for 24-hours notice. Good to know of such things.

My 2 1/2-year old finally grokked what was going down and spent most of the funeral service explaining to people what she had recently figured out. Her exact words to people were, "Gramma Smith is dead."

The funeral home wanted to charge $300 for a "family car" to take the immediate family from the church parking lot to the cemetary. Wouldn't have been such a jaw-dropping amount had it not been for the fact that the church was 100 yards away from the cemetary. The family passed on the limo.

I was astounded by the variety and scope of food that distant family, friends, and well wishers brought by. Generally speaking, bundt cakes seem the most suitable of mourning desserts to me.

I was asked to be a pallbearer for the services, and during my long walk down the aisle, escorting the body of one of the dearest, sweetest ladies I've ever met, all I could think about was the time when S took a 2 1/2-year old C to a funeral, and she blurted out "they're bringing in the box," as the coffin was wheeled into place.

In my eldest daughter's short 6 years of life, she's now buried 3 great-grandmothers.

My wife had one-hour to write up an obituary for her beloved grandmother before the local newspaper publication deadline passed. Here's what she came up with...

Rose Louise Smith, long-time resident of Yukon, died December 25, 2005 at Deaconess Hospital in Oklahoma City after a short illness. She was 91.

Funeral services have been set for 1:30 p.m. Wednesday, at Saint John Catholic Church in Yukon. Burial will follow at the Yukon Cemetery. Arrangements are under the direction of Yanda & Son Funeral Home of Yukon.

Louise was born April 2, 1914 in Oklahoma City, to John and Mae Wedman.

She was a 1932 graduate of Yukon High School. She married Forrest “Cottie” Smith in January of 1935 and raised their three daughters on the Smith family farm north of Yukon. She had a life-long appreciation for clothing, jewelry, and cosmetics and eventually took a job away from the farm, selling women’s fashions for the Halliburton Department Store in downtown Oklahoma City.

She delighted in music and never missed an opportunity to dance or sing, whether it be square dancing, or taking part in a celebration at Saint Ann’s Nursing Home, where she lived most recently. Louise was an active participant in the Saint Ann’s Chapter of the Red Hat Society. She was an artful conversationalist, and prided herself in staying informed of current events. She also held a profound interest in the wide-ranging Oklahoma weather, and possessed an uncanny ability to predict it.

Survivors include daughter and son-in-law Jxxx and Jxxx Wxxx of Yukon; daughter Tina Harmon of Houston, Texas; sister Marie Wedman of Oklahoma City, nine grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren.

She was preceded in death by her parents, husband, Forrest, daughter and son-in-law Beverly and Thomas Long, sisters Myrtle Frances Johnson and Aleine Patton, brother Paul Wedman, and great-grandson Grant Hagg.

Peace be with you, Louise.

Dear Santa

Another gem from our local small town newspapers publishing of kids letters to Santa.



5-year old got game.

All I want for Christmas...part 2

Mailboxes are a big "to do" here in my small town.

In addition to the lawn ornament selection you choose to adorn the street side of your abode with, the mailbox you select rates high on the "who-I-am-and-what-personality-I-choose-to-present-to-the-neighborhood" meter.

Here's one I thought presented the perfect picture of form, functionality, and artistic expression.



It's a small block Chevy.

Another familiar face at the post office

No, not the ones posted on the wall under the "Wanted" sign...

This familiar face turned out to be mine. Familiar to someone else, that is.

The story goes, I was standing in line (4 deep, 1 window open, but I was the only one not grumbling about it -- hey, people, try standing in line less than a week before Christmas at the Burbank Main Post Office -- if you can even get IN the building).

The kindly woman in front of me turns around and says point blank to my face, "don't you live close by?"

Taken aback slightly, I recovered and responded, "Why yes, I do...just a few houses away."

Donning a large grin and nodding her head, she replied, "I thought so...you found my son's phone!"

Let me explain.

Several months back, I found a brand spankin' new flip-up Verizon cell phone lying in a 4-way intersection, open and on. Since I was on my way to drop C off at school, I simply grabbed it, tossed it onto the floor of my car, and zoomed off.

After the fracas of the morning school drop-off (enter from the north, exit from the south, keep the line moving, don't shut off your motor...) I returned home and preceded to try to track down the owner of the phone.

First name on the address list was "Dad." I called him.
Dad - Hello
Me - Hi, I found this cell ph--
Dad - Who's this?
Me - My name is Xxxxx and I found this cell phone---
Dad - Sorry, what -- I don't know anyone -- what -- hold on, my son wants to talk to you.
Some familiar fumbling and tussling sounds eminate from the speaker before the line goes dead. Call dropped.
I call Dad again.
Dad - Hello
Me - Hi, me again.
Dad - Oh, it's that same feller..here, you talk to him, I can't hear him that well...
His son gets on the line, we clear it all up and he's going to come by my house to pick it up. Apparently he was on his way to the airport, opened his door, the phone fell out of his jacket pocket, and they've been driving around for 20 minutes looking for it.

I gave him my address, directions from where they were (3 blocks away), a description of my house, landmarks, even a quick rundown of what I looked like (dashingly handsome, early-40's cross between an Asian-Elvis -- before he got really phat, and Bolo, the ugly bad guy from "Enter the Dragon").

I told him I'd keep HIS cell phone on me and to call HIS cell phone if he got lost. He asked for my cell phone #, just in case, which I don't understand why he wanted it, but I gave it to him anyway.

10 minutes later, no sign of them. I have HIS cell phone which hasn't rung. I go inside to find MY cell phone ringing.
Yep, it's them. Why he didn't call his own cell phone is beyond me. Maybe he was short on minutes.

I answer MY cell phone, go back to my front porch to play disaster-movie-air traffic controller and talk him in.

A quick 180 degree scan finds him sitting at the intersection diagonal to me, talking on his Dad's cell phone, scanning the street for me and my house.

I can see his face. I can see his Dad's face. I can see his panic stricken eyes darting up and down the street.

I resort to wild arm gesticulations to get his attention.

His eagle eye spots me. They're headed my way, but have to navigate the 4-lane highway to get to me.

I lower my arms in calm relief. Mistake.

The iron grip I had on the phone a split second ago has been replaced by the unguarded feeling of final release. The phone, their phone, HIS phone, plummets to the ground proximal to my slipper clad feet.

It bounces. I scramble. It doesn't shatter. No harm done.

They pull in to the driveway. Did they see?

Apparently not.

They were in a rush, but very appreciative and the Dad seemed happier than the Son to get the phone back. Handshakes were exchanged, nods and smiles were the norm, and they headed back south, never to cross my life path again.

Until today.

The mother-of-the-son-whose-cell-phone-I-found and I had a nice chat reliving the events of that morning, and she expressed her appreciation for what I did.

Guess she figured that there are so few of us Asian-Elvis / Bolo looking guys in town, that I must have been the one who found/returned her son's phone.

What would my small town do without me?

For a companion story to this one, go here

A sight of the suburbs, in my small town

Spotted this a few streets down from our house...


Take a closer look...


The sight of the random pair of sneakers hanging from a power line strangely filled me with a sense of satisfying familiarity.

Good to know that kids here are basically the same as those I grew up with in East LA, so many years ago.

A sight to behold indeed.

The blowing of the cellulose

"Cellulose settles into voids and gaps, producing a monolithic, blanket-like thermal barrier."
Our 100-year old house had very little insulation. The walls were void of fiberglass. The floors were nil on cellulose. The Oklahoma wind made it's home in our home via the pathetic use of Wal-mart caulk-in-a-tube around the windows.
Something had to be done, and so it began.
The bags of cellulose was bought.
The contraption to blast it was borrowed.
The blowing of the insulation has begun.
My father-in-law was upstairs, adeptly using his man-sized hands to man-handle the long and thick manly hose and remote control (with variable blower control..how manly).

I was outside, standing tall in the back of his 5-year old Tacoma alongside the $50-a-day rented insulation blower contraption. Basically, it's a 55- gallon plastic drum sitting atop a large fan with a hose coming out of the bottom.

Imagine a big, heavy, overweight, ugly, blue single legged octopus.

It was my duty to feed the octopus a seemingly endless supply of cellulose, lifting and slicing open the 25 lb. bags and stuffing the overpriced, minutely shredded-up and compacted newspaper into the hopper, being careful not to get my fingers stuck in the rotating blades of death that mercilessly sends the hapless cellulose onto it's one-way-trip via the blower hose.

The wind ravaged outside, between 20 and 30 mph. Temps were in the low 40's, so I couldn't don my normal attire of bermudas and a t-shirt.

Yes, I felt very wussy putting on an insulated shirt, long pants, and gloves.
Yes, I am ashamed that the many passers-by who smiled and commented, "blowing some insulation?" didn't get to see my fantastic muscular legs.
Yes, I'll turn in my "California Dude" license that states I must wear shorts whenever making a trek outdoors.

But I was warm, it was freaking cold (wind chill put the temps below 29 degrees), and I wasn't too happy anytime the north-westerly blew some precious cellulose out of the big blue hopper and into my already squinted eyes.

We ended up blowing over 40 bags into the old lathe-and-plaster walls, and onto the upstairs floor.

For you home improvement uber geeks, that's equivalent to an R value of 25 for the upstairs alone.

Booyah Oklahoma winter. Bring it!

Unplugging

Relatively nice evening. Temp at 11:21 p.m. is a warm 38 degrees. No freezing tonight.

I trek outside the front door, my feet snugly tucked into my $2.99 slippers from Wal-Mart as I step onto the front porch to unplug the christmas decor that currently adorns our 100-year old house on main street, small town, Oklahoma.

I unplug the yellow cord, which puts to sleep both the tall and short vintage plastic Santa figures that my wife is so fond of. Tall Santa is fading fast, the jolly red of his suit and cheeks now a pasty pale pink, as time and use have weathered him to a lighter shade of his former self.

Short Santa manages to stand tall in the winds that nightly whip down the main highway, his position secure in the knowledge that the socks we filled with rocks and dirt are safely tucked away inside his and all of our figures plastic poly-formed feet.

I unplug the red cord which darkens the three plastic snowmen, all of them wondering how they could all possess such distinct facial expressions.
"Happy Snowman" to my left, "Mildly Jocular Snowman" to my right, and "Sad Clown-faced Snowman" hanging out close to the doorway.

The main strings of lights hung below the eaves of the front go dark as well. I prefer the big, old, colorful bulbs to the contemporary look of the hanging icicles, or the saturated hues of the rope lights, or the overpowering brilliance of the walls of twinkling, gigawatt strings of white lights.

Red, green, blue, white, orange.
Red, green, blue, white, orange.
Red, green, blue, white, orange.

I watch the inflatable penguins, in the inflatable snow dome deflate, as I unplug the green and final plug. This was a recent addition to our holiday menagerie, and we seem to be the only one's in our small town to be proudly displaying it on our front lawn. If you've never seen one, look here.

Shut up, it was a gift from a brother-in-law who seems as fond of presenting these types of thing to his sister, as he does tormenting me with these very same things.

The final light display is inside, so I bid my fellow front porch sitters a fond winter's night, and head back inside, my feet cowardly seeking more warmth than my Wal-Mart slippers can apparently provide.

Our 9-foot fake Douglas Fir sits in the front room, it's 1800 pre-lit twinkling white lights filling the large 6"x 6" plate glass window that dominates the front view of the large room. My big toe emerges from the warmth of the discount store bought slipper to adeptly hit the switch on the power strip.

The fir descends into darkness.

Just another night's end in the life of the kitschy Christmas decor we love so dearly.

All I want for Christmas...

Spotted this in a salvage yard a few miles down Route 66 from my in-laws place...



Doesn't every good boy deserve the nose cone from a P-40 vintage WWII fighter? At least, it's painted to look like a Flying Tiger.

Small town Christmas parade

The other night, we bundled up the kiddies and made the two-block trek in 39 degree weather to lend our body count to our small town's annual Christmas Parade.

First of all, they still call it a Christmas parade here, not a Happy Holiday Parade, or Season's Greetings Parade, or Joyous Season Parade.

Political correctness has no place in my small town.

The parade consisted of the requisite pickup trucks pulling flatbed trailers, filled with freezing, candy-tossing townsfolk bundled up in either OU or OSU stadium blankets.

We waved, they tossed candy, PK and C gathered it up.

Then there were a couple tractors, a couple classic cars, a couple hot rods, a couple harley riders, the fire department, the police department, three Shriners in wheelie-poppin' dune buggies, an all-female color guard, the high school marching band, the local dance school ankle-biters adorned in holiday wrapped cardboard boxes, a few entries by the main commercial entities in town, and of course, Santa made an appearance -- as a blow up lawn ornament figure on the back of a trailer.

Everyone was tossing candy. Everyone was freezing their smiles off. Everyone was in the holiday spirit.

The girls came home with a half-grocery sack full of candy and this item, being handed out the by local Methodist Church.



I take it Mary and Joseph didn't have spell check on their computer.

Really putting my foot into it

Stumble/bumble stay-at-home-Dad + Lath and plaster walls and ceiling = constant repair work.

My Father-in-law and I were pulling new wire for the ceiling fans/lights. This was the last step in our on-going efforts to replace all the old copper in this house. The old wiring is circa 1940's, non-grounded and generally pretty nasty.

With the floor boards pulled up in the upstairs area, you have to be very careful walking around up there.

Anyone who knows me knows that careful is not in my vocabulary.

And through the floor/ceiling my foot went.



The patch I made and installed was a pretty nifty job (if I say so myself). But it will all be in vain as this will all be covered up by wallboard in the near future -- hiding that nasty 70's cottage cheese ceililng.



S calls me "one-step-forward, two-steps-back" construction guy.

Quote of the day, when my F-I-L came down and saw the hole, he simply muttered, "well, sheeee-it."

Never too young

My Father-in-law tells me that last weekend was the end of deer hunting season (with a rifle...there is also black powder deer hunting season, bow deer hunting season, and they may add wrist rocket deer hunting season in the near future).

Given that, this will probably be my last post of deer kill pics from our local paper for awhile.

Course, it is rabbit season now.
Or is it duck season.

Rabbit season.
Duck season.

Rabbit season.
Duck season.

Picture # 1 - sweet "siblings-on-their-first-hunt" story on the surface. But something tells me that big brother knew a big old buck would be following the doe he "let" his sister take down. Still, they seem pretty happy with their kills, don't they.



Here's the poster child for youth activities in rural environments.



Nightmare #42 - C - "Daddy, I'd like you to meet Dex...my new boyfriend."

Oh, I'm sure he's a good enough fella...from waaaaay over there.

Buying chickens

Yesterday, I took my mom to our one and only local small town market to get a whole chicken. Being a mom, she wanted to make some homemade chicken soup.

As they will on occasion, the meat department was running low on some items.

Flank steak
Fresh bratwurst
Whole chickens

Figures.

Our search for a whole chicken to cook and consume reminded my mom of something my dad talked about doing when he was a kid.

A little background first. My dad grew up in a small house in a small camp on the outskirts of a small town on a small island in a small state in the middle of a very large ocean. If you guessed Rhode Island, go back and study your U.S. geography.

For fun and adventure, my dad and his siblings would experiment with the digestive systems of the various animals they would find around the house or neighborhood. One day (I can only imagine what inspired him to think of it) he fed some kite string to a chicken, then excitedly waited to see how long it would take to exit said chicken.

And, when one experiment is a success, shouldn't it be followed up by another?

Taking the end of the string that had not yet fully exited one chicken, he fed it to another. I guess chickens don't have much of a gag reflex, since by the end of his experiment he had 4 chickens "strung" together on the single piece of string.

For those of you who are having a hard time grokking this in your minds eye, it must have looked something like this...


I never found out if he tried to "pull" the string out of the four-chicken-string-kabob.

Dipping of the cookies

Attempted my first batch of homemade Original Nestle TollHouse Chocolate Chip Cookies.

My Mom's recipe.
It's the best.

Yes, I've "tasted" better than Mom's cookie recipe, but nothing comes close to the childhood memories of the experience of my Mom's choc-chip cookies (frozen) dipped in milk. Sense memory is strong, and can supercede common sense or current memory in effect.

I wanted my daughters to have this childhood memory as well, so off to the land of beaten up butter and raw-cookie-dough snackin' I ventured. As both daughters watched, I read, measured, beat, measured, poured, measured, mixed, measured, scooped, baked and cooled.

It was at this point that the cookie consumption controversy commenced.

My wife loves her cookies hot and fresh from the oven, soft and gooey, rich and chewy. She also likes her pudding warm as well.

Me, I'm a cold food guy. I like my fruit cold, my veggies cold and raw, my pizza cold, my pudding, cookies, and doughnuts (yikes) cold.

Besides, if I'm to imbed the same memories I have of dipping my Mom's cookies into milk, they must be cold to do so. Warm, soft, mushy cookies won't tolerate the drastic change in temperature and the sudden submersion into the white, wet environment of a glass of milk.

My brother uses chopsticks to dip his cookie into his glass of milk. A technique developed out of common sense and his need not to get his fingers wet with milk.

I am a traditionalist. I use my fingers, but only dip the cookie in about 7/8's of the way into the milk, leaving just enough cookie above milk level to keep my fingers dairy-free. Sure, the entire cookie is not treated to the taste sensation that comes from a milk bath, but I have learned to ingest the remaining 1/8 of the cookie dry. Sacrifice is my middle name.

So, as I'm quickly bagging up as many cookies as I can to enter the required hour of deep freeze before being eaten, my girls are flagrantly following their mother in violation of the Family Cookie Act of 2005 -- two-handing them right off the cookie cooling rack into their crumb encrusted mouths.

Alas, I was able to "save" a dozen or so of the hearty chocolate chipped confections, and they sit happily being acclimated in the correct cookie consumption conditions -- the freezer.

Let the dipping of the cookies, begin.

Real or toy?

Pulled into our local Love's/Subway gas stop/convenience store/sandwich shoppe the other day.

Saw this upon entering the store...


Take a closer look..


I just hope the clerks are trained to be able to tell the difference between the toy guns and an actual gun being used in a robbery.

Only 26 shopping days left!

Carrion as carry on

My brother-in-law came to town for the holiday weekend to go hunting with his dad, my father-in-law.

After 4 days, the tally came to 1 (one) 200-300 lb. feral pig, 1 (one) 9-point buck, 2 boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts, and 4 cups of questionable truck stop coffee.

The majority of the pig (squeal and all) was left out in nature to contribute to the local food chain. Pork chops and the ugliest wild pig head you can imagine, came home with the intrepid hunters. Wanting to keep the skull for a trophy -- enhanced with some major tuskage -- my bro-in-law looked for someone in town who had "those bugs" that would munch the pigs skull clean of flesh and muscle in a matter of days. Didn't find anyone, so he spent an afternoon skinning it, then bagged it and stuck it into his folks upright freezer. It was the highlight of our Thanksgiving dinner.

His buck was a simpler task. After field dressing it and dropping the bulk of the hulk off at one of many meat processing stations in the state, he brought home the head, skinned it, and chopped off the skull cap section where the antlers were attached. I didn't ask, but I imagine the rest of the head went out back for the coyotes to munch on. The antlers and head pelt he'll take back home where he will mount it himself -- in addition to being a talented outdoor writer and PR Director for a national sportman's organization, my humble bro-in-law is an experienced taxidermist.

So, the frozen pig skull (sans skin) is packed up and will go through check-in. The deer head skin and bear pelt (that's another story -- he sent it here to be tanned by a fella he learned taxidermy from, after killing it in Montana earlier this year) will also be checked in.

The buck antlers will be carried on by his lovely and understanding wife.

Would love to see the TSA Officer's reaction when they x-ray the bag with the pig skull in it. Are razor sharp tusks considered contraband?

YASTM news

In todays edition of our small towns local paper...file these items under "stuff you don't see in print much in So Cal."

Item #1
"Brock Boeckman, the 8-year old son of Bart and Dee Dee Boeckman, reported that he shot a seven-point buck on the opening day of deer season with his new rifle that he bought with his summer earnings from plowing."There are so many points in that last item that boggle my mind, I don't know where to start or how to elaborate. I'll just point them out for effect.

"...8-year old..."

Bart married a woman named Dee Dee

"...shot a seven-point buck"

"...opening day of deer season"

"...new rifle"

"...bought with his summer earnings from plowing."

And before any PETAn's raise a stink, read this quote I found elsewhere in the same newspaper, under the heading, Deer hunters share their harvest"
"Last year Oklahoma hunters donated 33,227 pounds of venison, that's more than 16 tons, to the Hunters Against Hunger program. That is enough meat to provide nutritious meals for nearly 133,000 people."
Item #2

What sort of vehicle is your 5-year old wanting this Christmas? Bet it's not John Deere green?

The "work light" is my favorite item. I'm picturing a denim overall'd 5-year old named "Bobby" pulling over to the side of his play yard, getting out his worklight and using it to look down to see what his John Deere pedal tractor is hung up on.

The Lion, the Witch and the...

C has been bugging me to see The Chronicles of Narnia since it's recent release.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was one of my favorite stories as a young LA suburbanite. My Mom, being the librarian and uber-reader she was, was very careful about what books she exposed my brother and I too. Generally, they were award-winning books (Newberry, etc.) and of the fantasy-genre nature.

The Hobbit, Wind in the Willows, A Wrinkle in Time, The entire Chronicles of Narnia, The Little Prince, any Roald Dahl selection, Charlotte's Web...you get the idea.

I watched the trailer online and even though I have a really bad jonezing to see TCofN by myself (as I did with HP-TGOF last week), I have deemed the film too intense for a 6-year old (yep, C had a birthday earlier this month) who still has nightmares about monsters, still believes in Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairie.

Then, J (my mother-in-law) reminded me that sometime last year she took C to see a local children's theatre company's production of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. She also said that C seemed bored by the entire thing.

This morning, while watching the girls get more Brummel and Brown spread on themselves than their biscuits, I asked C if she remembered seeing the play.

She responded,It was about a girl who goes into a closet and is met by a deer, and she meets a Lion who is the king, and I think his name was Leo, and they called it a wardrobe, but I called it a closet.
The Chronicles of Narnia - The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is rated PG, so it looks like I'll wait to get the DVD and C and I can enjoy it after she's read the book.

The b-word invades the universe

bed·lam bdlm (n.)
A place or situation of noisy uproar and confusion.

Ask just about anybody in my small town (or my small state for that matter) what their interpretation of the word "bedlam" is and the absolute last and final definition they'll give you is the actual meaning of the word.

For you see, the b-word has been the unofficial label of the annual football match between the University of Oklahoma (OU) and Oklahoma State University (OSU).

Actually, the media seems to bandy about the bed-word at any mention of any contest at anytime and anywhere whatsoever between the two rival 4-year funhouses. Note - (I'm not sure if that applies to Badminton matches between the two schools. Although "Bedlam Badminton" does have many possiblities for marketing madness due to the b-sound alliteration. Retailers, take note.)

There seem to be bedlam contests spewing forth from every outlet offering any sort of merchandise or service vaguely related to football.


Big Bedlam Sales!
Boisterous Bedlam Announcers!
Booming Bedlam Radio Ads!
Brawling, brutal, bold, barbarous, and bloodthirsty attempts to capitalize and exploit the once-a-year event.


Alas, even C's elementary school has gotten into the fracas. The notice she brought home in her backpack read,"Bring in your Box-Tops for Education, and drop them into the box of whichever Bedlam Team you're rooting for."Sure enough, in the lobby of the school we found two boxes - red/white and orange/black.

OSU's season is in the toilet, so they're just playing for bragging rights and to spoil any bowl hopes that OU may have.

We'll be celebrating my lovely and talented wife's birthday all that weekend, so bedlam won't invade our abode at any point in time. Not every day my wife turns 29, er, 39...ah, 39+ again.

Mutant Squirrels

Recently on our morning walks, PK likes to mimic the squirrels that have taken up residence in the trees surrounding our neighborhood.

Every acorn she finds on the ground, becomes the property of said 2 1/2-year old toddler.

She gets frustrated because the size, girth, and weight of the acorns on our block are such that she can only fit a few into each pocket.



Which explains why the squirrels around here aren't afraid of the cats, opossums, skunks, or medium sized homo sapiens -- they still shudder with fear at the sight of me, but are unphased whenever C or PK approaches them.

This morning PK wanted to take our Radio Flyer wagon on our walk. Not to ride in, mind you. She just wanted to hoard more acorns and needed to bring in the heavy equipment.


Least she won't starve this winter when our supply of rice runs out.