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.