The Last Cowboy's Win of the Season?

Kate scored Cowboy's seats for the Tampa Bay game a few weekends back. We sat only eleven rows from the end zone! 


Not only did the Cowboys win, by the skin of their scrappy, cow poke teeth, but they also brought in Country Western singer/song writer legend, Randy Travis, who sang the national anthem and then greeted fans during the first quarter. 

Chicken Fried Piglet

What's better than a fistful of skillet fried bacon? I have the answer for you friends--bacon that is skillet fried, rolled in seasoned flour, fried again and then served up in a red and white checkered paper bowl at the Texas State Fair! Just ask my gal-pal Kate and I. We're so excited about it that we're blurry. Bacon, bacon, bacon!

Despite this artery clogging, heart stopping, once-in-a-lifetime fair food experience the real highlight at the Texas State Fair this year was by far the petting zoo (that, and the taco stand guy who hit on Kate, and the gang police out in unprecedented numbers due to it being High School Day). Those little baby critters with their outside the fryer, inedible charm, stole the show. I took enough photos of the exotic animal display to stamp the seal on my out-of-state status, but only one of them turned out. Go figure.

No, just kidding, a couple others did too. There was a girafe, several zebras, various bovine creatures of indo-african origins, four horned sheep of the Acopolypse, and my personal favorites, a mama piggy, PC term for Sow, and her little suckling piglets. 

Which reminds me of a joke I once made up at the age of 5 (I have witnesses). Why did the pig light a match? No, no, he didn't have gastrointestinal issues....I was FIVE. Answer: Because he wanted to be a pig-lit. Pig-lit, piglet, get it? Did I mention I was five? Ah, genius is never recognized it its own time.

Dallas PD Ridin' Nerdy

The Dallas/Fort Worth area  is the forth largest metropolitan region in the nation. As such, it's no stranger to crime and general malicious mischief. The answer--Segways. 

DISCLAIMER: If you're over the age

 of 40 or, for personal reasons, choose not to be a fan of Weird Al Yankovich (seriously though, what is wrong with you?) I'm not sure you'll follow the remainder of this blog.   

During my visits to El Centro Community College in downtown Dallas, just a block from where JFK was shot from the sixth floor textbook depository, I often encounter police offers on Segways. As you see above, these officers take their personal walking device patroling seriously.  I'm not joking, they will roll you down.

But, oh, hahaha, I can barely contain myself as I share this with you---how many of you are familiar with Weird Al's spin off of the song "Ridin' Dirty", known as "White n' Nerdy?"

There is a lyric in Yankovich's version that goes something like, "they see my roll on my Segway, I know in my heart they think I'm White and nerdy."

So, you can imagine how often I find myself chuckling, audibly, and then spending the remainder of my day singing "White n' Nerdy" and thinking of those adorable, helmet clad, badge baring officers, with their holstered weapons and latent community authority, rendered completely useless by how ridiculously silly they look! 

If this image and my confession have motivated you to watch the Weird Al video again, or for the first time, you can find it on www.youtube.com.  The way I see it, if I'm going to slip further into comedic  anarchy, I might as well take one or two of you with me...

Ostriches and The Divine

Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. The wild beasts will honor me, the jackals and the ostriches, for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, the people whom I formed for myself that they might declare my praise.

Pretty awesome, prophetic stuff eh? Aren't you all glad that you have access to such poetic, theological imagery?  Yeah, so I plagiarized it right out of Isaiah 43:18-21. I also can't lie--these last few weeks have been a lost battle, not the kind of weeks you want to blog home about.  My brave face amidst this crazy Texan misadventure has been stripped off, a mere mask for the pain and feelings of failure, abandonment, anger and despair. Behind the sunny weather, cockroach massacres, baklava, and reams upon reams of ribbon is a woman hidden in sarcasm and shame. Where is the purpose? Why am I here? I want to go home!

But, I know there isn't any going back, not at least in the spiritual sense. I've always known and believed, even when trust has worn thin that God has a purpose for my time in Texas and from a macro perspective, for my life. What I so often loose sight of COMPLETELY however, is why he has a plan for it all. It's not for my happiness, comfort, achievement and satisfaction--it's for his glory.  I chuckle to myself as I contemplate how God himself cannot deny his own glory--he would be a heretic. He rocks, he knows it, get on board, or miss out on the REASON WHY YOU WERE CREATED HONEY.

I do apologize for the all caps. It will be a rare literary style I'll defer to in the future for only these truly worthy divine subjects. 

This holy text also blesses my proverbial Nike dry fit socks off with its mention of ostriches; a violent, thigh-normous, flightless bird of which I am bound to by familiar reference. Thanks are due to my sister Alli for bringing this to my attention so persistently throughout our adolescence. 

Lastly, to Mom. Thank you for your patience, your prayers and your life-giving wisdom and, with it's own power of healing, so often also--your silence. God could offer me no more tangible demonstration of grace. In case you're wondering, I still want to be just like you when I "bloom" up.  

Okay, everyone go get a tissue--I promise you a blog by the end of the week that will literally Segway back to a more familiar discourse on the craziness that is life in the DFW Metroplex.

"Mums" the word, for Texas Homecoming

I was recently introduced to a southern high school homecoming tradition; the giving and wearing of "mums." Through casual conversation I learned that I should expect to see mums appearing in grocery stores for purchase. Naturally I assumed that mums were corsages that I'm used to seeing in the Northwest. That, however, is entirely incorrect. Mums are perhaps the ultimate manifestation of all that is truly gaudy and over the top in the South. 

You may think I'm exaggerating, but I think you may agree with me once you witness photographic evidence. As you see, mums consistent of literally reams of ribbons, bows and assorted trinkets. Mums are customized for the recipient, typically with the name of the wearer's date and possibly accented with school colors and activities the date or datee may be involved in. The male versions are, of course, entirely understated, worn on the upper arm and proceeding not much lower than the elbow. A lady mum, on the over hand, has it's own zip code. 

How much do these beauties cost? I'm told somewhere in the range of $80 per pop. Don't worry though, they're worn with pride and then preserved in boxes long into the wearer's adult years. Priceless. There are some things money can't buy, but apparently frivolous, tacky ribbon pom pom badges aren't among them. 

Mi Casita en Tejas

Roaches Get the Runs

For lack of better comedic fodder, indulge me again on the topic of cockroaches. The roaches and I have developed an uneasy but livable relationship, at least on my part. I've grown in boldness from merely scaring them off to actually applying extermination measures of various forms and levels of effectiveness.

Two weeks ago, I awoke to find that a nectarine in my fruitbowl had a child sized bite taken out of it, with drippy remains of what was most likely, a digestively unpleasant night for my crunchy friends. After laughing audibly at the idea of bugs having the runs, my mood sifted to a fierce frustration and sincere resolve. Much like Joey, of the sitcom "Friends" I'm fairly easy to live with, just don't eat my food!

So, last week I went to Wal-Mart. Don't judge me, I am living in Texas. At said purveyor, I purchased a brown, lumpy substance in a chaulking tube that promised to lure roaches to feast and then send back to their nests to die. This option pleased me most as it was passive in nature and did not require direct contact on my part. Going home, I installed the goo with wincing, furrowed brow and watched in AWE as a large brown roach literally came out from below the countertop to feed AS I WAS SQUEEZING OUT THE GUNK. This I watched with morbid relish, and I squirm even as I retell it.

Unfortunately, not all roach varieties have the same appetite for the goo. There is a small variety of red roach, and when I say smaller, it's still twice as big as any bug I've ever seen back home, which is resistent to the poisons' olfactory lure. #$%!

These creatures have however, given me the opporunity to expand my extermination techniques to more applied measures. Late last week I literally came face to face with a Red (the cold war reference might reak of McCarthyism, but it serves to give name to my enemy) as I was bending down to load the dishwasher. Bastard. I went for the kill. Did I use brute force-- the heel of a blunt object? No, I fought with all my Rosie the Riveter fortitude, ran to the bathroom, found my can of John Frieda Beautiful Blonde hair spray and dosed the mother until it's little antenna were fused and it surrendered onto it's back and began its gutts oozing death dance.

While this encounter marked my first hands assasination, that John Frieda crap is not cheap. The next one got only a quick spritz, just to disorient it and then a wopping from my broom. Let's just say that the blow killed more than the bug and I'm not the proud owner of a Swiffer.

This week, I'm proud to say that I've truly arrived to the next level of preparedness, having gone out and purchased a supersized can of Raid that I've thankfully only had cause to use once this week. The attack began in the kitchen and found me running, can in hand, spray foaming forth, into the "dinning room" i.e. the bar counter, onto the carpet and just short of the coach. In the words of John McClane, "Yippie-ki-yay..." well, you know the rest.