Silent Sunday…(in a stock show barn)

My Finger's Going to Rot and Fall OFF!

This morning, while cooking breakfast, I grabbed the tongs.

Turned to the stove, and reached to transfer food to the plate.

Utilizing the tongs.

Which, somehow, had grabbed my fourth finger.

And, unmercifully, sucked it into the hinge of the tongs.

When I finally realized (yeah, I’m slow) what the heck was going down, I quickly released my own hands from the tong !@#$%%&^& contraption.

I thought I had cut my finger open and was going to have to drive to the Emergency Room, blood dripping all over my car.

It was horrible.

It hurt so badly.  Even now, it’s hard to hit the letters on the keyboard.

And then, I looked at it.  

Blood blister. 

No cut at all.

Teeny. Tiny.  And really, unremarkable.

Unless you’re desperately scrambling for blog fodder, because you've set a goal for your self to post daily...

Oh, Doritos, How I Miss Thee

I’m an oilfield girl.  Well, maybe not girl, anymore.  But, a lady, in the oilfield.

Many a day, I’ve donned a hardhat, steeltoe boots, jeans, H2S monitor, safety glasses and trekked around out on a location.  Early mornings.  Late nights.

Running into town to grab breakfast, or lunch, for the company man and my crews.
Which usually entailed lots of sodas, chips, burritos, burgers, fried chicken, for me, and for everyone on location.  

We’d fry turkeys.  We’d boil shrimp or crawfish.  Anything, to give these guys a break from eating lunches brought from home.

I’d make my famous oilpatch crack in a cooler - a mixture of frozen strawberries, whipping cream, angel food cake, and vanilla pudding.  An entire cooler full.  The workers LOVED it.

I was remembering this morning that my usual oilfield breakfast would be a 20 oz. Dr. Pepper, a fried bean burrito from our local convenience store, and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

I kid you not.

ThatManILove and I, because of some gastro health issues, went on the Great Taste No Pain diet a couple of years ago, and changed the way we eat.  We felt so much better.  It’s really a change in the order in which you consume food.  And, we changed our diet to about 85% gluten free. (Yeah.  We have been known to consume bread at our favorite upscale restaurant.  And maybe even the Butter Rum Cake.  Shoot me.)

This morning, for breakfast?
Steamed squash, steamed asparagus, and 2 boiled eggs.

Doritos’ and Dr. Pepper stock has had to suffer in the past two years.  And I can’t even stand looking at one of those fried burritos now.

My, how things have changed.  

Baby Needs Her Sleep

Monday evening, ThatManILove arrived home from a weekend retreat.

I picked him up, and we went to Outback to eat, and run some errands.  

When we got home, we got ready for bed, talked, and I started trying to go to sleep.  He was playing some gambling game on his iPad, and laughing at his fellow gamblers, trashtalking.

It was cute and I got a little tickled, listening to him as he told me what they were all saying.

And then, my OTC sleep meds kicked in.  And if I get past that “go to sleep” threshold, I won’t sleep all night.

He was trying to be quiet, but they were pretty funny.

Me:  Babe, please let me sleep.  I’ve not been sleeping well since you’ve been gone, and what with 5 a.m. workouts, I’m exhausted.

Him: Sorry, babe.  I know.  (and then...Giggle. Snort.)

Me:  I do have a glass of water over here, I’m not afraid to use it.  

Him:  (Laughing) I’ll be good, and quiet, I promise.

I’m asleep, and I’m awakened by ThatManILove, again.  This time, he has gone into the kitchen for something, and made some noise.

Me:  Baaaaaaaabe.  Please?

He gets Him:  Oh, babe, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize you were asleep yet. (as he pats my arm)

Me:  Will you scoot over here beside me?  I'm cold.

He does.  Well, his foot does, and he's trying to tickle me with it and not lose his place in his game.  I get more aggravated with him.

Him:  I'm sorry, babe, I'll quit.

And then, he does it again.

Really?  Really, Big Boy?  

I grabbed that tall glass of water, and dumped it on him.

He screamed in shock!  And then, we both dissolved into laughter. (I know.  I'm brave, aren't I?)

Me: I warned you!

Him:  That’s cold! Babe, I told you I was sorry! (he’s laughing, trying to move wet covers.  Soooo glad he's laughing! Looking back, I still can’t believe I did it!)

It’s never boring around here!

A Story of Sheep, Friends, and Form

I have a friend named Connie.  We’ve been awesome friends for almost 28 years, as best we can remember. (Hey, who counts?) I love this woman.  She puts up with me, ThatManILove, my sons and my dogs and sticks by us closer than glue.  She's amazing.

I also have a young friend named Brooke.  You’ve seen her before on this blog.  She writes cookbooks.  She bakes.  She competes in lots of divisions in her local 4H club in photography, cooking, stock showing, lots of disciplines. She’s 11, almost 12.  We’ve been friends since Brooke was 1.5 years old. Not that I’m counting. Brooke is amazing, too.

Labor Day weekend found ThatManILove working.  Brooke and her family going out of town to a stock show.  Connie, in town.  We made plans to do dinner and hang out a bit.

Add unexpectedly, to the weekend, the fact that Brooke and her family needed a sheep sitter.  And they asked me. And since ThatManILove was out of town, I didn’t ask him, I just said, “Okay.  Leave me a list. Tell me where all the food is.  And keep your phone by your side in case I have questions.”  Elder Son showed steers in his youth, I know the drill.

It’s Friday.  I end up working late, until about 8:30 p.m..  And I’m not feeling very good.  As I leave the office, I thought, “I’d better take someone with me, it’s dark out there in those barns, and what if something happens?”

So, I call my friend, Connie.  And being the good friend she is, she puts down whatever she was working on (because you can bet she’s working) and treks out to the sticks with me.

Now Connie is a teeny tiny thing.  Last year, at the Dillard’s sale, she bought size 0 Antonio Melani pants.  (I’m still pissed about it.  I mean, who wears a size zero? Yeah.  My friend, Connie.  The heifer.) (Heifer is a term of endearment in our house, in case you're beginning to get your panties in a wad.  If you wear panties. But, I digress.)

We get out to Brooke’s, and figure out the automatic gate. We’re in!  We go look at the sheep.

We count the sheep.  I think, no, I know I heard Connie curse, without using any really bad curse words, quickly but profusely, in a very low voice.  And I think I heard my name in there. 

There are 16 sheep and 2 goats.  Two barn cats, and a brand new rescue kitten.  Spread out over several pens, and several acres.  And it’s dark.  Really, really dark. Did I tell you it was dark?

She looks at me, and says, (sounding amazingly like ThatManILove) “Oh...Jaaaaaanie.”

Outside of every pen, there is a white board.  And on every white board, there is a lamb tag number, and feeding directions per each tag number.  Each lamb and each goat gets a different amount, and sometimes, a different type of food.  And then, hay.  And water.

Realization sets in.  Connie and I look at each other, and she smiles and shakes her head.  “Janie, the stuff you get me in to...I swear.”

We get busy.  I go to the feed room, have to call Brooke’s parents to see which feed is which, and start hauling buckets out.

We get to pen one.  I go into the pen, open the feeding troughs, try my best to herd only one lamb into each trough, then close the feeding pen.  I come out of the big pen, and start measuring out what’s on the white board for that big pen of lambs.  And then, I realize, we can’t see the tag numbers.

Because it’s too freakin’ dark.

I start trying to grab ear tags.  As I reach down, the lamb backs up, and I’m trying to catch it, all the while holding my iPhone, for light.  I try, and try again. It’s not working.

Connie’s trying to climb up on the fence.  Remember, she’s little.  Tall, but  way lean. She gets up on the fence, balances her belly on the top bar, and leans waaaaaaay over to try to grab an ear tag, while I’m shining my mobile phone on the tag.

I get tickled.  I know one wrong move, and she’s tumped head first over that fence, right into that sheep trough.

She, then, gets tickled.  And then she realizes we have 15 more sheep to feed, after we figure out which one is in this particular trough.  Connie reaches down (by her looong stretch, she could have played basketball in high school), grabs that lamb tag, and screams “35!  It’s 35!  What’s this one’s name?”

It’s Atlas...or something like that.  (Heck, it was so traumatic, I can't remember now.) So I look up that lamb's feed, measure it out, and pour it into its trough.  And all of a sudden, we’re on a roll.  We're a lean, mean, feeding machine. We go through each name:  Tonto, Mater, Southern Belle, and on…we can't forget Cupcake, who had special food!  Connie balances on the top rail, leans in, I'm shining my mobile phone on the tag, and we’d feed…Blackfoot,  Blue Duct...I can’t remember all their names, but we finally got it done.  

Then, we had to hay.  And water.   And since it was so hot, we sprayed down the dirt in each pen.  Repeated the same thing with the goats.  The cats.  The new kitty.  All.In.The.Dark. By the light of our mobile phones.

We finally finished, knowing I had to be back out there at 8:30 a.m. for a complete rerun.    We backed out of the driveway, closed the automatic gate, and looked at each other and laughed.

We then, smelling amazingly like sheep poop, stopped by the convenience store so Connie could buy lottery tickets.  

It’s Friday night, people.  And there are all these beautiful people, dressed in their date clothes, going in and out of the store. We’re in the “high cotton” part of town.  You can see the customers surreptitiously sniffing the air, like “What’s that odor?”  I thought we were never going to get out of that store before someone we knew walked in and recognized us...and then smelled us.  Or vice-versa.

Yeah.  It’s not a good idea to wear tennis shoes to feed sheep...because sheep poop gets into every crevice of the bottom of those shoes.  

And funny enough, Connie found something she absolutely had to do and I don’t think I heard from her the rest of the weekend.

Now, I want to show you what Connie got me for Christmas.  The heifer.

But before I do?  I’d like to say something.

Connie, I love you, girl.  And I can still visualize your skinny butt and long legs, your perfectly (before this adventure) white tennis shoes, balancing on that top rail, feet angled up in the air, your head pointed down into the feed trough,  and and your arms outstretched like a high board diver, grabbing that lamb tag, then the next...over and over and over again.  

Olympians would pay millions to have that form.  Maybe not the sheep poop shoes, but that perfect form.  I think about it one time, and laugh so hard! I am still cracking up about it.

You Baaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh-d girl.  Thanks for the cool boots…AND the note! 

Phishing, Schmishing!

I get spam mail all the time.  Phish mail.  You know, the kind that try to get you to give them information?

These stupid people must think I’m more stupid than they.

Here’s an example of the bulk of the email.  I bet I received 10 of these emails in the last week, each from a different email address.  Idiots.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now that you've perused that finely worded email, this is what I'd like to reply back to them.  I won't, but I WANT to…and badly.

Dear Mark at Perfect Impact Signs.com

1. Do you think I can’t see your email address? And that it has zero to do with any insurance?
2. A sure sign of a scam/spam/phish is misspelled words.  You get an A+ on misspelling, dude.
3. Your grammar sucks.
4. I wouldn’t click on that link if my life depended on it.
5. Let’s see.  $3 a week X 52 weeks is $156.  Do you really think you can insure one of my vehicles for that, per year?  Much less 4 vehicles?   Yeah.  That’s what I thought.
6. Why don’t you go get a real job, you dork?

Okay.  Rant over.

I’m going to go drive my insured vehicle now.  Straight to my job - you know, the one where I work, so I can pay insurance. Like every other red-blooded American (supposedly).

Have a good day!

Silent Sunday - Snoozebuckets

Snow Ice Cream vs….Bahama Bucks?

Snow?

In January?

In West Texas?  Where, last week, it was probably 60 or 70 degrees?  And then, it snowed? Ah, well, one thing is certain about this part of the country:  you never know what the weather’s going to be like.

We definitely need the moisture.

Not that we had enough snow in Midland to build a snowman...much less, make snow ice cream.

But that’s why we have Bahama Bucks, baby!  Year-round snow cones!  And gooooooood ones.

I might as well spread them on my derriere, because that’s exactly where they end up...eventually, anyway.

But you’d be proud of me...I’ve not had one this year. Not yet, anyway.

Bahama Bucks may go bankrupt without my every other day business.

My favorite order there?

Birthday Cake.  With Cream.  Snowcone.

It’s the B.O.M.B., I’m telling you.  Tastes just like snow ice cream, with sprinkles. 

I’ve tried the same version in skinny....it just doesn’t do it for me.

It's Nicole's fault I ever tried Bahama Bucks.  Though, it's not her fault I now have become a top patron.

Anyway, I’m going to try to stay away from that establishment...cut down my visits to every once in a while instead of every once in a day.

A.d.d.i.c.t.e.d.

So, how's your New Year going?

Life Bites

Last night, we went to dinner with friends to the Garlic Press, an upscale eatery not far from our house. Gary and Kim, ThatManILove and Janie.

The food was delicious.  The company, delightful.

Just to give you a little background, we entertain clients here almost exclusively.

We have an assigned waiter (through no negotiation on our part - we like him, he likes us) named Joey.

And Joey? Knows our drill.

We get the ticket, every time.  No ifs, ands, or buts.

Sometimes, I get out my credit card, and pass it to him.

We were having so much fun tonight, I missed doing that.

So, when Joey brought our ticket, he placed it between ThatManILove and Gary.

Immediately, a scrabble for the ticket ensued.

ThatManILove had his hand on it, and Gary had his hand on it.

Push, pull, push, pull, tug of war, and poof.  It was over before it started.

Gary ended up with it.

But mostly, because he tried to bite the hand of ThatManILove...who jerked his hand back, then looked at me in shock and said, “He almost bit my hand!  I felt his teeth graze my skin!”

I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in a while!

It’s never boring around here!

It's Not Me, Honey, I Promise!

I was awakened this morning by the strangest sound.

Immediately, Zanna the Wonderdog was awakened and starts growling.

Next?  ThatManILove awakes.

“Jaannnnnniiiieeeeee. Please!” he scolds.

Me:  “What?”

Him:  “That noise!!!  Turn it off?  What is that?  What are you DOING?”

Me:  “Babe...it’s not me. That sound is cats. And if I'm not mistaken, I believe they might be…mating. Yeah, I think.”

Him:  “What? Are you serious?!!”

Me:  "Yes."  Unsaid: I know this because, one time when we were trying to call up coyotes, we used a soundtrack of that very thing to draw the varmints in.  Except it didn't work.  Because I was laughing too hard.  Coyote Hunting 101? Failed.

Zanna is barking in her kennel, going crazy.  I try to lay in bed, giving the cats, those wanton pets of some neighbor, the benefit of the doubt that they have heard Zanna barking...and subliminally, even while doing the dirty, know their lives might be in danger.

The cats finally cease their crazy howling and yowling.  I've bought them enough time that now, they’re probably kicked back on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette.

I wait about ten minutes longer, giving Zanna time to calm down.  I finally roll out of the sack, and let Zanna out to do her thing.

No cats. Thank God.

Morning drama?  Over.

I asked ThatManILove why he blamed me when he woke up.  He said, “I thought you were facebooking and happened upon some strange video.”  Ha!  I don’t think so, honey!!

It’s never boring around here.

You, Too, May Garner Wisdom As You Sleep

I woke up my husband last night, gently trying to pry the remote controls from his hand...as he lightly snored.

He looked at me.

“Babe.  Turn it off,” I said.  “You’re sleeping. And snoring.”

“What you don’t know, honey, and don’t understand,” said ThatManILove, “is that even while sleeping, I am still learning, from such shows as Storage Wars.  I listen in my sleep, and store up information in my brain.  And that’s what makes me such an intelligent man.”

I smiled at him, shaking my head.  He slyly smiled back at me, as he turned over on his side.

“And, Babe?  You don't have to tell anyone that’s why I’m so intelligent. They don’t need to know everything.”

He cracks me up. 

It’s never boring around here.

A Trek Less Traveled Or Some Verbosity

It’s New Year’s Day.

We are heading north from Kerrville to Big Spring to pick up our Wonderdogs.  If you’re new to this blog, the Wonderdogs = Zack and Zanna, both German Shorthairs, trained hunting dogs...who, by the way, have their owners trained perfectly to do their (the dogs) will.

New Year’s is a time of resolutions.

We really haven’t made any resolutions...but tomorrow?

Tomorrow starts day 1/10 of working out.  10 days in a row.  I figure it’s the only way I’m going to get back on track.  I was working out 3 mornings a week with my trainer, until late September, when the last push of my event season happens. (Not that I'm a freakin' event planner, but I could so do event planning…in my sleep.  My oil patch event season lasts through October.)  And then, I realized through this time that I’d really not been sleeping, figured out I was having a hard time breathing, and I went to the doctor.  

Who promptly diagnosed me with asthma and allergies.  And scheduled a sleep test, which I failed, because, DUH....I couldn’t go to sleep.   I passed my allergy test with flying colors.  I was allergic to almost everything.  Which pisses me off (but I bet you knew that) to no end.  So, allergy shots.  Three each, twice a week.  I’m going to go through the regimen (I think, the third such in my life?) and be healed.

In my early walk with the Lord, I did some studies on diseases...and found many of them have a spiritual root.  Because, you know, by His stripes, we are healed, right?
Yeah.  And the spiritual root of allergies is...fear.  And I’m one who’s never scared of ANYTHING.  So, I’m a little pissed that, somehow, I’ve opened a door to that stupid thing.

I’ve got some spiritual work to do, as well as some physical work to do.

I’m getting back on track. I have to do so. I have some goals, like visiting Clara Wiggins' work, The Transformation Initiative, in Kenya.  We sponsor some children in that organization, and we want to meet them, as well as see if there's any other way we can help out. I have to be way more fit and hardy than I am at present.  It’s going to be a long trek, but I’m pointed down the path and slowly and surely, I will arrive.

I’m also going to try to get back on track with writing. I function better when I take a minute to journal...and in the past, have done it on this blog.  I’m going to try to be more open, and not just tell you the crazy stuff that happens in our lives...though I’m sure you’ll get a little of that.  And, at first, you might get a little whining...because my trainer is determined I succeed.  I’ll try to keep it at a minimum.  Promise.

I promise.

Sayonara, 2012….I Will Not Miss You

2012.  It's been a looooonnnnnng year.

A year of both good, and bad.  Much joy, much heartache.  Hope, deferred.

A year of both decision and indecision.

A year of mostly waiting. 

I have a huge knowing, in me, that 2013 will be much better.  I cannot explain it…but I know it. Have you been there?

Come midnight tonight, we will have made the turn into the year 2013.

Tonight, we celebrate the wedding of dear friends, at a beautiful place in the Hill Country.  And within that celebration, we'll also celebrate us…ThatManILove and I.

What better place, than a wedding, to remind us of all we have to anticipate, experience, and enjoy?  

What better place?

Happy New Year, y'all.  May all your dreams come true in 2013.

I Had To Start Again, Sometime!

I’m a tired girl.

Last night, Elder Son decided to come in, get some meds for his respiratory problem, and promptly fell asleep.  At 10:30 p.m.

I had taken some natural sleeping aids, but stayed up to wait on him...and probably ruined the “slowdown” of the sleeping aids.  Did you know you can do that?

Let me tell you, it’s not fun when that happens.  You don’t know whether to take more, or just try to force yourself to sleep.

Suffice it to say, when my alarm went off at 4:30 a.m., I was not well rested.

But, I did it.

I got up, washed my face, changed to workout clothes, and went to the gym.

And I’m sore.

But I’m glad to be back working at working out again!

Young Wisdom

I read a blog post today.  Written by a young lady, whose family is known to me.

Her mom and dad are friends of mine.  

I thought I’d share.

So, if you have a second, go read Madison Cary’s post here.



Then, as Madison says, go love on somebody.

Happy Birthday, Jennifer and Madison.