Booming

 Originally published in The Miami News-Record, July 2019 

Growing up, we always went to Nana's on the 4th of July. Always. There was no option, no variance, it was always to Nan's for the noon meal. We took day-works - firecrackers, snakes, sparklers, pop-its, jumping Jacks, and the like. There was always watermelon and homemade ice cream. When my cousin Russ was alive and still mobile, we cousins would gather around him in the living room floor before and directly after lunch and play dominoes or Boggle. The women cleaned the kitchen and visited, the men dozed off in the post-meal tradition. Then finally! We'd climb the chat pile out back (hello, lead poisoning!) and Dad and the uncles would oversee the explosives. That was Dad's side of the family. Mom's side of the family was fairly fluid in their plans. Sometimes it was our house, sometimes it was Uncle Larry’s, occasionally we gathered at Papa's farm, it depended on where he was with harvesting or mowing or how sick Memaw was at the time. They were the evening festivity people. More sparklers, plus fountains and all the other fun, booming, high-in-the-sky stuff. It was always a day of cousins and food and stickiness and dirt and fun.

When Sis and I started families of our own we were just excited to have reason to buy fireworks once again. Paul and I were so broke when the kids were little, but starting in June we would scrimp and save up $100 for fireworks. It seemed like a lot until we got to the tent, then it seemed paltry and like it never bought enough. Sam always picked out something that pooped, Abby like the screaming chicken laying a fiery egg, Kady usually cried and whined that one of her siblings picked out the firework she wanted and the world was surely coming to an end.

Since we moved to Wyandotte we somehow created this tradition where every year on or around the 4th, we blow something up with a stupid amount of Tannerite. Over the years we’ve blown up a washer, a dryer, a dishwasher, and this year a stove and a dog house. My Big Family™ came over on Saturday, for volleyball (we don't play by many rules, there is a lot of smack talking and even more of Abby and me avoiding the ball at all costs), the littles played in the kiddie pool. After dinner we got ready for the boom. Like the diligent rednecks we are, we warn the neighbors (this year I posted in our neighborhood watch Facebook page to let everyone know we weren’t under siege) and record it all on our phones. A storm was trying to blow in as Paul set up for the shot, so there was the added drama of “Will we be struck by lightning while waiting for the massive explosion that could possibly send debris flying at us?” It. Was. Exhilarating. One container was sufficient for the dog house, but instead of using the remaining three for three separate explosions the guys decided to duct tape three together for one GIANT cook stove explosion. We’re talking meth lab proportions, folks. It rattled our livers.

We don’t get together with Mom’s or Dad’s sides of the family anymore. We have become our own family unit I guess. Our group has gone from Mom, Sis, me and our spouses to a whopping 18 with all the grands and great-grands. This year Cousin Jason came out as well. (I’m not sure the man will ever be the same. I should probably call and check on him…) and one of Kady’s friends came out, too. I hope we only continue to grow as the years change the dynamics. I know certain folks will leave, more will come in, everyone will grow older, and eventually they will begin their own family units and start their own traditions. And maybe the group that continues to gather up here on the Mountain will become boring people who don’t blow up discarded appliances, but gosh, I sure hope not.  

I blame the spider

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, May 2019 

“Terrified” doesn’t adequately express how I feel about spiders. Abject horror, paralyzing, gut-deep fear is more accurate, but not quite. When bad weather is imminent, someone else must sweep the cellar. I would rather face down an EF5 tornado wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt, leggings and my Crocs flip-flops rather than go into the cellar with creepy crawlies. We knew the storms would get going early in the day, so that morning Kady swept it out. I inspected and found it to my liking. 

For most of the other warnings (so. many. warnings.) that day it was basically get the kids, babies, and dog in the cellar and I stayed out. If I did go under, it wasn’t for long. It’s my duty as a lifelong Okie to stand in the yard during any tornado warnings. I think it’s in our DNA and I’m pretty sure my parents signed some kind of oath when I was born that they would continue this tradition with their offspring. 

Once Paul got home from work, he and I kept our vigil together on the porch while our little brood was tucked safely underground. After warning Number ?, we knew we had about an hour until the next one hit, so everyone came up, we got out stuff for sandwiches, and let the girls run a bit. I had no more finished making my sandwich when another warning went off. We were so tired of the chaos it took to get everyone down there so we waited a bit. I stood in the yard and watched the clouds. It felt different. Finally I told everyone to GO. I stood at the door of the cellar and watched the clouds start to rotate. Abby came up to video it and then the wind switched direction and even Paul, the tornado naysayer said, “GET UNDER!” The grandgirls were happily watching “Bubble Guppies” on their tablets, the dog was asleep on her bed, we had to threaten the men to refrain from any and all farting. It was pretty calm inside while the outside was a hot mess. Petal got sleepy, so I sat down in a lawn chair to put her to sleep. I felt a plop on top of my head.

About the time I said, “I think someone needs to check my head to make sure that was rain and not a bug,” Abby said in the calmest voice I’ve ever heard, “Mom. Don’t freak out. [absolute certainty I was definitely going to freak out] There is a spider over your head.” If she had said that while in a house, I’d have simply gotten up and run. In an 8x8 cellar you don’t run. You are trapped. You are trapped with a spider dangling menacingly over your head and there’s not a doggone thing you can do about it. It was actually a raindrop that had hit my head, but I imagined a virtual waterfall of spiders raining down from the tiny vent over my head. I let an involuntary whimper escape. Everyone in the cellar was just staring at me. Abby, again so calm, said, “Mom. I’m going to take off my shoe so I can kill it. I need you to slowly get up and not drop my kid, okay?” I got up and went as far away as I could get while she whacked that eight-legged monster with my favorite flip-flop (her shoes had gotten soaked earlier, so she was in my Crocs flips - shame I have to burn them now. Or at least, the left one.) “Okay, it’s done. It’s stuck to the ceiling but—“ I interrupted her with a shrieked, “IT’S STILL ON THE CEILING?!?!” And once again, my eldest, the voice of reason, said, “Mom. It’s the best I can do. It’s dead. Stay calm.” And then my youngest asked if she could wipe my tears. The tears I didn’t realize I was crying because I was so blasted scared out of my mind. It was not my proudest moment. But I did learn that my girls definitely know how to take care of their momma. 

Waiting (Room) Game

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on February 7, 2016.

Our youngest daughter Kady has been having some health problems for a few months now. We have been visiting Tulsa frequently to see a doctor there and he is running a lot of tests to get to the bottom of this mystery. It has been a long, frustrating process to say the least. The reason I mention it is to get to this point: all of this doctor’s office-ing we’ve been doing has given us so many opportunities to people-watch. And oh, have we experienced some real doozies along the way.

Kady is always armed with an iPad or book to keep her entertained when our waits stretch out too long. Most of the time she’s engrossed in either of those, but sometimes the conversations around us are too much for even her to miss. We have learned about virtually everyone’s political views. It’s amazing how when one person starts in, everyone else in the waiting room suddenly becomes a political analyst. We have encountered Democrats, Republicans, a few Libertarians, and a LOT of know-it-alls. We have heard all sorts of views on polls, primaries, candidates, platforms, and I have to say, folks around here are pretty adamant in their stances. To the point I wonder if some are bordering on treason. Eek. Those are the conversations where we just bury our heads in our books and hope we get called to an exam room soon.

I am well versed in the most popular conspiracy theories, including Area 51, and the assassination of JFK plus so many more. I know all about the benefits of apple cider vinegar, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and essential oils. There was one particular exchange between two WWII veterans that brought tears to my eyes because one of them reminded me of my Papa. We’ve seen our fair share of sleepers over the past few months, too. Some snore. Some just lean until they wake up, then doze back off, slowly, slowly leaning again and again. Some don’t care of you notice, some wake up and look around to see if their doze was detected. One particular fella decided to take a snooze while his infant son took his own little snooze in his carseat. That one made me a tad nervous. When another guy got a little too close to the snoozing father and son, I almost tackled him. No one was getting abducted on my waiting room watch.

A few weeks ago the conversation turned to favorite breakfast foods. Virtually everyone in the waiting room was fasting for their tests and that always makes for some great recipe exchanges and reminiscing about comfort foods. One woman said she was getting bacon and eggs when she got done, even if it was 3 in the afternoon. One guy wanted a big platter of biscuits and gravy. I just wondered if any of them were having cardiac testing done.

My favorite character so far was the elderly Russian woman in the nearly-floor-length mink coat who was trying desperately to make someone, anyone understand that she was “WERY WERY SEEK” and would only speak to male employees because “Wimmin zey do not know enny-zing”. Although I did get a giant kick out of the guy who the redneck-iest redneck I’ve seen (and that’s saying a lot considering who I’m married to), covered in piercings and tattoos, wearing shorts and socks with sandals when it was 29* outside and spent over an hour trading stocks over the phone. Loudly. And he made a lot of eye contact to be sure you were listening.

That was the day Kady, while sitting in the chair beside me, sent a text that said, “Dude is totes obnoxious. But I think he’s got the inside track on some IBM stock. Better call your broker. Or the FBI. He MIGHT not be legit.”

We sure hope the doctor gets us a diagnosis soon. 

Beards and Man Buns

Originally posted in the Miami News-Record on September 20, 2015

Last week I had the privilege of volunteering at the county’s Man Up conference. This was my second time to help out with Man Up and I gotta say….a lot has changed in two years. Now, keep in mind Paul and I have been out of youth ministry for over a year and a half now, and our kids are not in public school, so I guess that puts me at risk for being out of the loop when it comes to what’s going on with young dudes these days.

My husband graduated in 1982, back when moustaches were all the rage. You know, the moustaches I’m talking about – the ones usually worn by the creepy guys in movies who own cameras with telescopic lenses and drive vans with no windows. I graduated high school in 1991. Not one single guy in my glass walked the stage on graduation night with hair on his face. The guys of the early 90’s were more interested in the hair atop their noggins, not on their faces. Anyone remember the re-emergence of the bowl cut? How about shaving their jersey numbers into the sides of their heads? Oh and we can’t talk about guy hair in the 90’s without mentioning the frosted-tips on a super spikey, so-much-hair-gel-it-was-downright-dangerous ‘do.

Last week, if I hadn’t known I was at Man Up, I’d have sworn I was either at a lumberjack reunion or a Duck Dynasty convention. The beards on those boys! I was absolutely in awe of these 16 and 17 year old guys with more facial hair than Professor Dumbledore or Abraham Lincoln. And in doing “research” (read: I searched the Google) for this column, most men don’t really have the ability to grow serious facial hair until they are in their mid-20’s. So what is in the public water supply around here? Straight up testosterone mixed with a little Propecia??  

I also saw more than one man bun. If you haven’t seen one of these things yet, Google it. Or better yet, don’t. That is one trend I do not understand nor will I ever be able to embrace. I keep seeing these things here and there and I just don’t get it. I recently had about six inches cut off my own hair, so I know the value of a good messy bun day. When your hair is so long you can’t do anything with it other than bun it, it’s time for a trim. But if you want long hair, guys, let it hang gloriously down your back or gather it into a neat ponytail. Please don’t wrap it up strangely on top of your head like a little nubbin of keratin and protein and expect the vast majority of women to compliment you. Especially here in Oklahoma. I guarantee you, you probably can’t fit a John Deere or Realtree cap over that strange little bun so seriously, what’s the point?

At the risk of sounding like I have found a soap box on which to stand and shout, I will just end this with some friendly advice. As the wife of a redneck man and the mother of a nearly 17 year old guy, I have been in two barber shops multiple times over the last 23 years and never once have either of my boys come out with a man bun. Nick Koronis gave Sam his first haircut on his first birthday and over the last 17 years if Nick hasn’t been available, Larry Linthicum has stepped up and taken care of business. My husband has grown quite attached to Mr. Ed over the past few years as well and in my opinion, if Mr. Ed can’t take care of your hair cutting needs, you are entirely too high maintenance.

Keep it simple, fellas. Leave the buns to the baker.  

Lovin' All Y'all

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, July 5, 2015

Man, talk about some turmoil in our great country right now. I have been pretty scarce on Facebook lately simply because I am quite frankly sick to death of all the negativity and conflict I see in my newsfeed. I see rebel flags and rainbows even when I close my eyes these days. I see long rants written by church-goers, non-church-goers, political folks, and those who are far less political (but still argumentative nonetheless), family members and friends pitted against the other and I just don’t enjoy that. Not one bit.

I love y’all. Plain and simple. I love all y’all. I don’t like some of you and barely tolerate more than my fair share, but I do love y’all. I do this because it’s my job to love y’all. Jesus made it pretty clear when He said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Mark 12:31) He didn’t say “Love them only when they agree with you,” or “Love them only when their dog hasn’t pooped in your yard and torn up your Sunday paper with all the good coupons.” He also didn’t say, “Only love them when it’s easy.” It’s been my experience that when it’s hard to love someone, that’s when the lovin’ is needed the most. So with all that being said, it boils down to this: love.

Love God (see Mark 12:30) and love everyone else.

I love being an American. I am thankful God put me here in this place at this time. I love the nation I live in. I love the state I live in, the county I live in, the neighborhood I live in, the family I am in and the God Who put me here. Sure, it’d be nice if Oklahoma wasn’t throwing earthquakes in to compete with all the tornadoes. You betcha, I’d love it if the road grader came down my county-maintained road a little more often. And yes, I wish the neighbor’s dog didn’t run at my car every time I drive by, thus making me scream because it never fails to scare the bejeebers outta me. I could also point out some of the things that drive me crazy about some family members, too, but with the holidays approaching, I’d rather things remain amicable.

But wait….did I just say I loved all those places but didn’t love all the things in them or about them? What? You mean, I can love things but not love everything about them – all at the same time? Folks, this ain’t rocket science. Just because your country isn’t everything you’d love for it to be at this moment in time, doesn’t mean you have to stop loving your country.

Be thankful you have electricity, running water, a roof over your head, a McDonald’s on every corner and two Starbucks for every McDonald’s. Be thankful you don’t go to sleep at night hungry. Or listening to gunfire and mortar shells raining down around you. Be grateful to those who have given and continue to give their lives to keep you knee-deep in lattes and Quarter Pounders. Be thankful you can go to church – or not go to church if you choose. See, it’s this thing called freedom. And it’s pretty great.

Even when our country was founded, it wasn’t perfect. It’s grown a lot. It’s changed a lot. It’s been good, it’s been bad. It was founded on freedom and we remain free today. So why are we spending so much time fighting and less time loving? We are all masterpieces created by God. Some of us are fat, some are skinny, some are cat people, others love dogs, some love girls, some love boys, and I won’t even go into all the different shades of skin tone that are out there. Frankly, it just doesn’t matter.

Because love is all that does.

Farmhand

Originally posted in the Miami News-Record, May 17, 2015

My Papa Leo was a dairy farmer, so I grew up around a farm. As a kid I watched my fair share of sheep shearing, cow milking, field plowing, and chicken scratching. I can still remember the smell of the milk barn – a mixture of wet concrete, feed, manure, and bovine. Even now, when I hear Waylon, Willie, and Dolly on the radio I am immediately transported back to that old barn where I’d sit on an overturned feed bucket in the corner and watch Papa with fascination. Some of my fondest, most vivid memories involve Papa’s farm. And while I’m a country girl, I am not a farm girl by any stretch.

My sister married a farmer a year and a half ago and because we’re a family that likes to do stuff together, we help them when they work cows. I didn’t really know what it meant to “work” a cow before she met Nick. I guess I had seen Papa work his when I was a kid, but I had never heard anyone call it that. To me if you say you’re going to “work” something, you are either going to put a hard hat on it or hand it a briefcase and send it to its job. I have since found out that cows aren’t keen to wear hard hats well and they certainly don’t carry briefcases.

Ever since my sister and I started having kids, I have been the designated babysitter. Everyone would get together to paint someone’s house or move someone and I was the one who volunteered to watch all the kids and cook for the folks who were working. The first time we worked cows it occurred to me that we only had teenagers and my childcare job had been made obsolete. I actually had to go work with the grownups for the first time in nearly two decades. And while I was a part of the farmhand crew, I did not come dressed for the job. I wore shorts and flip flops. Yeah, stop laughing at me. I really didn’t know what we were going to do. My sister who was five months pregnant at the time, was in her jeans and boots, wielding a cattle prod like a pro and yelling things like “GEHONOUTTAHEEYAH” and “HEY, BOSSY! GET GET GO ON!” (The first time she yelled “Bossy” I thought she was yelling at me.) So because of my inadequate attire, I got to stand behind my brother in law and hold a gun-looking contraption that he used to apply some goop to the cows’ backs. I got sunburned to a crisp. It was super fun.

The next time they worked cows I got my babysitting job back because I had a super squishy two-month-old nephew to love on in the house. But this go’round last weekend, my 16 year old niece took on the babysitting of her baby brother while I – in my tennis shoes this time – went to work with the other adults. My husband and son jumped in the corral with my Pops, sister, and brother-in-law while I just stood there shaking my head. That was not gonna happen. So Mom, bedecked with rubber gloves, handed me some syringes and some bottles of stuff and said, “I’ll get the ear tags ready, you fill syringes.” Whew. I was in a relatively poop-free zone and behind a table a good six feet from any large, scary bovine creature. Crisis averted.

I spent that day drawing up wormer, antibiotics, something for Black Leg (that sounds simply awful, glad there’s a shot for it), and even got to where I could predict how much wormer to draw up by the size of the cow in the chute. It was not altogether a bad experience. Well, at least, until the vet got there. Preg-checking and emasculating are not for the faint of heart. Holy cow.

Yeah, pun totally intended – those three soon-to-be-momma cows and that one very unfortunate steer deserve bovine sainthood. And a steak dinner. Oh wait. Nevermind.    

Oklahoma Strong

Published in the Miami News-Record, April 19, 2015

It was 1995. I was 22. Paul and I lived in a cute little rental house with hardwood floors, a giant kitchen, and a front porch that I still miss. He was working at Eagle-Picher in Seneca. I had a home daycare. We were young, eager to start a family, and content.

As per the usual morning routine, my daycare babies had finished breakfast and Sesame Street and it was my turn to watch TV while they played in the living room floor; my favorite show at the time was Live! with Regis and Kathie Lee. It was a world without flat-screen TVs and our teensy TV didn’t even have a remote. It was a small console TV with dials. We had a folded-up piece of paper wedged in behind the bottom dial to keep it from drifting off of UHF. The antennas had wadded up balls of aluminum foil on the ends.

My usual morning’s entertainment was interrupted by an “ABC News Special Report”. I was annoyed. I only had one hour of TV to myself each day, one hour that didn’t involve singing monsters and songs about counting and sharing. Break-in special reports were rarely about anything pertinent to my little corner of the world. I sighed and got up to go fix a glass of tea, but the words “Oklahoma City” caught my attention. I can remember stopping in front of that tiny screen and feeling my heart begin to race as the newscaster spoke of preliminary reports of a bomb going off downtown. I was stunned. My stomach was in a knot. My hands were shaking. I needed to sit down yet I stood, rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the first photos and videos rolling in.

I ran to the phone and dialed my mom at work. “Mom, you need to find a TV. Someone bombed a federal building in the City…..yes, Oklahoma City…..no, Mom, I don’t know who……I’m in shock…..” and then I remember asking a question she no more had the answer to than any of us did: “Why us?”

A few days after the OKC bombing (maybe the next day, I don’t remember for sure after 20 years), a house just up the block from my where my mom and my aunt and uncle lived – and only a few blocks from where we lived – exploded due to a natural gas leak. I had just set a plate of fried chicken on the table for dinner when our whole house shook and we heard the explosion. All I could think was, “Again?” The bombing of the Murrah building forever changed us, I think. No, I know.

For days after April 19, 1995, I was the victim of a profound sadness. I felt scared, confused, angry, and insecure. I cried a lot (which isn’t anything much out of the ordinary – I’m a cry-er by nature) and didn’t sleep much. Little did I know then that I’d repeat it again in the fall of 2011, some 16 years later.

I have lived in Oklahoma my whole life. Never has another state been able to claim me. I’ve lived all over Ottawa County and even did a brief stint in Stillwater before I met my husband. We Okies are often the butt of jokes about rednecks and being backwards. People from the coasts think we are toothless hillbillies that live in one giant cow field and dodge tornadoes on a daily basis, but if you’re from here you know there is so much more to us than that. Granted, there’s a few of us that live that tooth-free lifestyle, but we are so much more than a backwoods stereotype. We are ranchers, doctors, moms, dads, lawyers, laborers, writers, scientists, teachers, stay-at-home parents, secretaries, and so much more. We are Oklahoma. We are strong.

We are Oklahoma Strong. 

Okies Underground

Published in the Miami News-Record, April 12, 2015 

Those who know me best know that I am kind of a weather freak. I become somewhat obsessed with the weather this time of year and I consider Dr. Greg Forbes, Jim Cantore, and Mike Bettes the holy trinity of The Weather Channel. I love Dr. Forbes so much I have considered writing him fan mail or at the very least, naming my next cat after him.

As a kid, when the TV (a console behemoth that commandeered 85% of the living room) began emitting the ear-splitting tone that for most meant “Take cover now!” all I heard was the siren song of the National Weather Service warbling “Go stand in the yard and look for the funnel!” I can only remember there being a handful of times as a kid that we actually drove the mile-and-a-quarter to Papa’s where there was a cellar – and never once did we ever step foot underground. I remember on one of the rare stormy treks to Papa’s, very vividly seeing the tail of a funnel cloud dip down out of the clouds and Mom pointing it out. Sis and I stood on that little back porch and simultaneously spoke a reverent “Wowwwwwwww”. But we never ran for that cellar. Probably because Mom knew there were mice in it and she’d rather be swept up in a funnel straight into Jesus’ arms than seek shelter with a host of rodents.

Now, some 30 years later, my kids know that when Momma says TOR:CON more than about 10 times in a day, they should probably go ahead and pack their tornado bags because it is almost certainly inevitable we will go underground at some point. If you look up my family on Ancestry.com you might very well find we are descendants of moles as much as we go below the ground’s surface in the spring.

Last Thursday afternoon Sis called and asked if I had been watching the weather. I answered, “Duh.” She then asked if we had a cellar at the new house. Again, I answered, “Duh.” Then she asked if we were going to be home. You don’t need me to tell you how I answered. After confirmation she said, “Good. We’re coming out. I’m bringing pizza.” Yessssssss. We had an all-out party while we watched radar images online, TWC on TV, and had the NOAA radio on the kitchen counter. Once the NOAA radio started going off I hollered for a mass bathroom visit for all of the kids seeing as how a few years ago it was when the tornado was visible in the sky that everyone suddenly had to pee. When everyone’s phones started screeching A TORNADO IS IN YOUR AREA – TAKE COVER NOW we managed to get four parents, one adult child and her 60 pound dog, five kids, and my infant nephew in the cellar in under two minutes. It was nothing short of military perfection.

We were safe and sound – albeit not altogether comfortable – underground for about half an hour. The baby barely fussed and eventually fell asleep. The dog took up more room than anyone and eventually started to snore. The boys said the pizza made them gassy. The girls played games on an iPad. We talked, passed the baby, texted people on the outside for updates.  And even though we had two teenage boys in an enclosed 5x8’ concrete box, we weren’t even gassed out by anyone’s noxious fumes. Maybe my sister’s vehement threat of dismemberment if anyone so much as thought about farting had something to do with that. ‘Tis the season for storms, my fellow Okies. Get a weather radio and keep batteries in it. Friend me on Facebook – I’m quite dedicated in my meteorological annoyances. Find a shelter and make a plan. 

And if you have teenage boys, throw a bottle of Gas-X in your emergency kit. Just in case. 

Not So Super

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, February 1, 2015 

Every week the ad-matches are sent to me in an email. I always pay extra attention to the ads on shopping week and noticed there was an inordinate amount of soda, crackers, cheeses, Velveeta, RoTel, chips, hot dogs, and party type foods in the ads this week. I thought it was strange, because it’s not July 4^th, but then I remembered: this is Super Bowl weekend.

Or at least…I think it is.

I seem to remember a lot of football-ish type things showing up in my Facebook newsfeed and my kids have been talking about Katy Perry and wondering if she’ll have a wardrobe “malfunction” as others have in years past. I don’t pay much attention to such things. I don’t like football.

There. I said it. I live in Oklahoma and I don’t like football.

I don’t like a single thing about it. I attend one, maybe two, football games a year and only because my niece and nephew are in the band. I was our band’s drum major in high school and Mr. Medders would get frustrated with me because he’d be into watching the game, cheer for a touchdown, then realize that the band hadn’t struck up the school song – because his drum major was visiting with her neighbors, friends, and anyone else who would join in. We finally struck up an agreement that when they got close to the touchdown place he’d give me the high sign so I could at least put a pin in my conversations long enough to lead the band. When Mr. Wall became director my Senior year I had to train him as to my I-only-attend-football-games-because-I’m-forced-to ways and we worked out the same agreement as his predecessor.

Now that I am a recovering extrovert and don’t enjoy chatting as much as I once did, I just pretty much sit and sigh, shift uncomfortably on the bleachers, shell out concession stand money to my children and husband, and text anyone who will text back. If I had a smart phone I could at least play Words with Friends or something, but as it is, I just start down my contacts list and try to remember which of them won’t (willingly) be at a football game and thus be too engaged to text me back.

I don’t understand anything about the game. It has never made sense to me. I know that a bunch of dudes encased in plastic, foam, and spandex capri pants smash violently into each other over an oblong leather ball. I know that they get six points for a touchdown, one for a field goal, and three for “running it in”, whatever that means. I know that sometimes refs throw little yellow hankies on the ground and I am fairly certain those hankies have nothing to do with runny noses. The players touch each others’ rear ends a lot and coaches throw clipboards on the ground rather angrily at times. I have also seen the strange tradition of dumping a cooler full of iced Gatorade over the head of the coach at the end of a game, a behavior that baffles me because I know just how doggone expensive that stuff is. People in the crowd yell, “COME ON D!” and I wonder why A, B, and C are being left out. I have repeatedly asked someone to explain what “1^st and 10” means and no, the explanation of “1^st down with 10 yards to go” doesn’t help. Down where? Yards of fabric?  And if they need to “go” maybe they should ask the ref to throw down a hankie so they can have a potty break. It’s a foreign language I care not learn, thankyouverymuch.

So Happy Super Bowl Day to all you sportsy weirdos. We’ll chat again in March when I’ll be as mad as a hatter while I scream “DEFENSE, BOYS!”

Ohhhhh wait…..I just go that whole “COME ON D!” thing. Heh. Who knew. Anyway, go enjoy your cheese dip and your baffling ballgame. I’ll just be over here playing Words with Friends. 

Well. That's a Problem.

From The Miami News-Record, July 6, 2014

Growing up we lived in a house in the country with rural water, so when the electricity went out and all our neighbors on wells were without water we were still drinkin’ water and flushin’ toilets with wild abandon.  Paul and I lived in town for 5 years on city water then moved to our Hudson Creek house which was again on rural water. There was only a short 10 month period as newlyweds that we had a well. It took a section of pipe with a hole in it to throw us into a waterless two day span marking what this spoiled girl thought was the seventh level of Hell. Fast forward to one day last week at our Wyandotte house when the kids and I were happily washing dinner dishes and the water just kind of fizzled out then …. stopped. I turned the water off and turned it back on, as if that magical routine would fix the problem. It didn’t. So then I did what I always do when something goes wrong: hollered for my husband.

He called the brother that lives closest. They both crawled under the house, scratched their heads a few times, then they called the other brother. Then they called a neighbor. Well, called the neighbor after Paul came in and asked if we had any money. I said we did, but not to get all high-falootin’ with that notion. He nodded and rushed back outside. Not long after that it was declared that some wires or something or ‘nother was shorted or burned or cut or possibly sabotaged by garden gnomes, heck I don’t know. Regardless of the actual problem, there was a bigger problem: by this point, all of us girls had to pee. The boys take advantage of Nature’s Toilet quite frequently out here, but we girls are a bit more delicate. Actually, I used to be quite adept at the ol’ pop-a-squat, but age and short chubby legs make it a bit more challenging these days. I mean, if I want to do yoga, I’ll ju—oh, who am I kidding, I’m never going to want to do yoga. Anyway, my girls just screeched at the thought of going outside even though their daddy told them to just get over it and go. I was going to, until I got out there, got myself all limbered up and then the coyotes that I’m pretty sure were attracted to the whites of my thighs started in with the howling and I vapor locked.

It is in times like these that I am glad I am a worrier with doomsday prepper tendencies because, see, I’ve been hoarding water in jugs since we moved out here. We moved in the middle of the winter to the top of a hill where the power lines run through the jungles of Wyandotte. The threat of ice storms periodically through the winter had me planning ahead for power outages. I’d nearly tackle a family member heading for the trash with a milk jug or juice bottle. Those were the precious receptacles of flush-water, I told them. They scoffed. I stood firm in my hoarding. When no ice storms came, I told them to just wait until the spring storm season. And even that has been mild. So turns out, I was just preparing for a shorted something or ‘nother in our well pump.

Because the well guy obviously had a life outside of coming to fix our well at 9pm, we were left with no choice but to employ the motto “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down,” further into the next day than any of us wanted. To be honest, you just don’t realize how pampered you really are until you are forced to piggy back your – ahem –efforts with family members and flush your toilet with hoarded water. We are definitely spoiled and incredibly fortunate, but more than anything, glad that’s over. 

Lunchtime Reflections

When I was in Junior High we all spoke longingly of the day we could go "uptown" to eat lunch. I can remember from the time we hit 7th grade we all talked about the day we could go off-campus and partake of whatever unhealthy treats awaited us. Some of us loudly proclaimed we would eat candy for lunch because, let's face it, sometimes 7th graders lack imagination when it comes to dietary rebellion. Some of us said we'd only drink soda because after having no choice but white milk from Kindergarten up really builds up a sense of needing to break free in the beverage department I guess. The really rebellious ones had no desire to eat whatsoever - they only wanted off campus so they could either smoke or make out with whatever flavor or the week they were "going with". Looking back, the ones who said they were going to smoke, probably didn't. The make-outers, though, yeah....they probably did already while on campus. They were just tired of having to work so hard to be sneaky.

Freshman year was the magic year we could leave behind the security of the campus that sheltered us for six hours and 15 minutes a day and be free spirits for that 45 minute lunch break. Some of us found a loophole our 8th grade year and discovered that some kind upperclassmen would gladly take your $2.00 and purchase a $1.50 cheeseburger for you and not bring you back one red cent of change and we were totally okay with their profiting from our stupidity. We were just tired of square pizza slices and fish sticks every Friday. We thought we were cool being all sneaky with our contraband off-campus food and scarfing it down while watching for a rogue teacher to come wandering over between the gyms where we were hanging out.

Shortly after the beginning of 7th grade I quit eating school lunches. Every day the line wound up the two flights of stairs that led from the Junior High hall down to the cafeteria below and spilled out into the hall and sometimes into the lobby. Waiting in that line left absolutely no time for me to socialize and my 12 year old self would not give up social time, nuh uh, no way, no how. When I first started skipping school lunches I would instead buy a Diet Coke from the lobby vending machine and a $1 candybar from the Junior High Pep Club sponsor, Mrs. Reid. For $1.50 I got an afternoon's worth of caffeine and sugar and absolutely no nutrition whatsoever. Not long after that, my best friend, DeLisa, somehow talked her mother into preparing she and I a lunch every single day and that kind woman never asked me once for payment. I guarantee you that I never told my mother this fact because she would have been mortified that RoseMary fed her eldest child every day for nearly two years and was never reimbursed. Mortified, I tell you. In fact, if she reads this she may very well call RoseMary up and offer to write her a check.

My Freshman year finally arrived and even though our family qualified for free lunches through the state program for poor, malnourished kids, I would have considered prostitution on a street corner to get money to eat uptown rather than visit that cafeteria (and that would've been something considering that until October of that year I had never been kissed and frankly, found the whole process of mere kissing to be disgusting). Fortunately, every Monday my mother somehow always managed to send me with lunch money for the week, thus saving me from a life of prostitution. My father was in nursing school, we were living off of her meager income as a legal secretary and the money she made cleaning houses on the weekends, so really I don't know how she found an elastic area of the budget to allow for her self-centered 14 year old to eat junk food every day, but she did. She's amazing like that.

I don't remember eating uptown with the aforementioned BFF, DeLisa, that year and I think it had something to do with athletics. I think basketball girls either got out of gym too late to go uptown or had to be in the gym too early the following hour to allow it. Or maybe the coach demanded they put something halfway healthy into their bodies. I don't remember eating uptown with Stacie much either. But Chloe and I, man, we were the queens of tuna sandwiches from the cooler, a bag of Sour Cream and Cheddar Ruffles and a bottle of Coke. Every day, the same thing. The chip flavor didn't change. The soda didn't change. Occasionally, the tuna sandwiches would all be gone by the time we got there and we'd instead get a couple of Blow Pops to substitute for the loss of protein. We managed to eat this feast for $1.72.  Of course, I rolled my eyes to hear my mother freak out about how expensive that was because back in her day, she'd get a sandwich or burger, a bag of Fritos and a bottle of Vess for .52. The times, they had definitely a'changed. They've changed even more. It costs my oldest child $3 or more every day now. *sigh*

Eventually C&R Grocery closed - I think during my Sophomore year - and we turned to eating greasy cheeseburgers from a little burger grill (I think simply called "The Cafe") that took advantage of the opportunity and opened up right across from the gymnasium. They were heavy on mustard and onions and grease would just drip out of the waxed paper pocket they came in. If you were dying of starvation because Typing had just been ever so strenuous that day, you would sometimes bite into the greasy goodness before removing the toothpick, thus injuring your palate. I'm pretty sure every kid at Wyandotte High that year gained 15 pounds because of those burgers. To this day, I can still taste them, though. No really. I mean, literally. Sometimes I belch and I'm like, yep, that one tasted like my Sophomore year.

It had to have been the latter half of my Sophomore year - because I'm sure I was driving by then - that I gained about three hours of infamy because of lunch time at school. We had all gotten our Recommended Daily Allowance of grease and mustard from The Cafe and I was finishing up my Diet Coke (oh, the irony) as the bell rang. I tipped the can back as far as it would be and slugged back the last of what was in the can. Suddenly, I felt a strange sensation on my tongue. And the roof of my mouth. And my throat. I coughed. Then I gagged. I coughed some more. It occured to me what had happened. I stopped walking in the midst of the herd of trampling teenagers and loudly screamed, "I JUST SWALLOWED A TRASH BEE!"

What we called "trash bees" are actually yellow jackets. We called them trash bees because they swarmed those outdoor trash cans like crazy. Apparently they liked mustard and hamburger grease as much as we did. The only thing I can figure out is that one of them had wandered inside my soda can while I talked with my friends, languishing in the saccharine-y delights ensconsed within that aluminum can, and when I tipped back the can, it got caught in the deluge and ..... yeah..... I drank it. It fought the good fight, stinging all the way down, but succumbed to the horror of being eaten alive by a 15 year old. My next class was Home Ec, so I ran in, half laughing, half crying, to Mrs. Johnson and told her I was probably going to die soon and could I be excused to call my mom before I expired? She gave me a cup of ice cubes and sent me to the office where I told the secretary and principal the story, all the while my tongue getting larger and larger, my throat getting narrower and more sore. RoseMary called my mom at work who in turn called the family doctor. He advised getting some Benadryl in me ASAP, told her to have me suck on some ice cubes for the swelling and to alert the staff that if I stopped breathing to call an ambulance. Duh. I don't know where the Benadryl came from, but by the time school let out that day at 3:12 my tongue, while still sore and thick feeling, was no longer resembling something out of a sci-fi movie. From then on, I kept my thumb over the opening of my soda can. So did my friends.

By the time I was a Senior, Butterfield's General Store had opened and our menu veritably exploded with variety!  We could choose from a hamburger, chicken strips, Frito chili pie, a bowl of chili with cheese, fries and tater tots. And the fountain drinks were aplenty! The second the bell rang after our 4th hours class, we would stampede our the doors and head uptown and invade that teeny tiny store. Some local adults in town were usually there when we arrived, sitting at the bar stools, but we didn't care. We didn't have time to sit, we grabbed our food and ran.

One day the store was particuarly full. Cyndi and I were toward the back of the crowd waiting our turn to order. Another kid in our class, Keeling, was particularly snarky that day and apparently I was particularly cranky. He mouthed off to me, I snapped back at him. He responded by calling me a b*tch. I hauled back and slapped him across the face as hard as I possibly could. The whole entire store went instantly silent as the pink hand print blossomed across his cheek. He blinked a couple of times. I fumed in anger and turned around to wait my turn in line. Eventually people started talking again and a few of the "regulars" sitting at the counter chuckled and looked back at me.

Little did I know that would be the first time my husband would lay eyes on me. He was a skinny red-headed 28 year old, I was a short, overly-emotional 18 year old. He was employed and living on his own. I was a Senior, angry with the world and angry that I had to grow up. We wouldn't meet for nearly another year and a half and it would be another year or so after that before he'd tell me he was in the store that day, sitting at the counter with his friend, Dean, impressed at the attitude and anger I displayed as I waylaid the kid who called me a name.

I'm guessing he liked it.

Two Weeks of Sweat and Blessings

The third week of June my three kids and I packed up half the house and headed to Grand Lake Baptist Assembly in Grove, OK, for a week of Children's Camp. I was going as the girls' sponsor and while Abby was technically too old and Kady was technically too young, Sam was just the right age (this was his last year at Children's Camp, though). My nephew, TotTwo, also went that week. Given my pops' recent health problems I didn't want to burden Mom and Pops with taking care of two extra kids for the week, so Kady went as a "junior camper" and Abby went as a "junior sponsor". We all loaded up my van to nearly bursting and left Paul here to hold down the fort.

All together, including sponsor's kids, we had 11 girls and six boys. Some were from our church, some were from the church whose cabin we were using. The girl's dorm was positively brimming over with estrogen and drama, but what a wonderful group of girls they were! As it has always been, I was the cabin hair stylist, spending a good chunk of every day braiding, French braiding or fishbone braiding someone's hair. I also spent a good deal of time hollering the words "SHUT THE DOOR!" Our pastor, Jerry, and his wife, Nickie, and Melissa, another female sponsor, said it, too, just not with the same volume I did. I definitely had the best lungs in the group. The girls called me Camp Nazi. I took it as a term of endearment whether they meant it that way or not.

There is something positively awe-inspiring in an open-air Tabernacle full of boys and girls singing and clapping and praising God. No matter how many times I go to camp, I will never get over that. Three girls in our cabin accepted Salvation that week. Hallelujah! There was only one truly miserable evening in the Tabernacle when the wind decided to not blow, but the rest of the week was hot, but not too hot. The band was a string trio and the pastor was Royce Railey, a professional bass fisherman who really knew how to get the kids' attention.

Thursday night was the last night in camp and the boys had teased the girls all day about "prank night", so when it came time for bed the girls asked if we could push a bed in front of the door to ensure our safety from all pranky-ness. I had no problem with that at all. I do not enjoy pranks, doing them or being the subject of them. The door securely barricaded, I hollered for lights out and told the girls to get quiet, but they had a problem with the fact that there was SO. MUCH. NOISE. coming from the boys dorm. Considering Jerry and I hadn't really discussed enforcement of lights out or noise reduction that final night I figured well, he's the pastor and followed his lead. I then told the girls I was tired and was going to sleep and as long as they stayed in our dorm and kept the noise to a minimum they didn't have to sleep. They were giggling and talking and bouncing and giggling and giggling and giggling and I was just about to doze off when we heard WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM on the front door of the cabin.

All motion and noise stopped instantaneously. Then again WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM on the door. Immediately girls who were not in their own beds dove for their own in the dark. All I could hear was heavy breathing. I also didn't move because, hey, I was tired and snuggled in. I figured Jerry would answer the door seeing how he's a man and all. Then again with the banging, only seemingly louder this time. The girls started stage whispering "Kristin! Do you hear that?" Well, DUH, girls. I said, "I do, but I'm letting Jerry deal with it. If it's security, he'll smooth it over with them." Quiet reigned once more.

WHAM WHAM WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM!!!!!!!

I was more than perturbed at Jerry for not handling the situation and wasn't at all excited about greeting a security guard at church camp with no bra on, but with the whamming still continuing I didn't have time for a support garment. I had one of the girls help me move the bed blocking the door and out I stomped to the commons area. I flipped on the inside and porch light to see not a security guard, but OUR PASTOR.

No wonder the boys had been so noisy on their side! They were un-chaperoned!

I unlocked the door and opened it to the greeting of  "WOMAN! YOU LOCKED ME OUT OF OUR CABIN!"

We both got completely tickled as I told him how he had scared our poor girls nearly to death and how I had begun doubting his chaperoning skills as the noise from the boys dorm grew louder and rowdier as time went on. Ahhh....communication.

We left camp around 9 that Friday morning and took the kids to McDonald's for breakfast. We were bordering on Duggar status escorting that many kids into a fast food restaurant. The boisterousness from the night before had all but dissipated and they ate in relative silence and we adults were thankful for that.

The kids and I got home and dumped all camp laundry into the living floor, divided it into 15 loads and then I started running them all through the shower so they could scrub off a week's worth of dust, grime, goo and sweat without having to wear shower shoes. There is nothing quite like that first post-camp shower.  By 5pm I had all but the sheets washed and re-packed because Abby, Sam and I were heading back to camp on Monday for Youth Camp. Kady stayed with Mom and Pops that next week because that first week had just worn her little junior camper self out. Also, knowing the temperatures were forecast to be in the 100's by mid-week, I figured she needed to stay where there was ample air condidtioning.

Monday afternoon we headed back to the cabin and greeted the other sponsors doing a second week with a hearty "WELCOME HOME!" This time we had three boys and five girls in our cabin, some ours, some the other church's- considerably a smaller group than the week before. We were okay with that.

Praise and Worship at Youth Camp is also an even more awe-inspiring event because those youth just get all kinds of crazy with the worship. It thrills my heart to see them abandon "cool-ness" to praise their God holding nothing back. The band was Ryland Russel and his band. A-MAZE-ING group of guys who just knew how to play what the kids (and sponsors) needed in order to worship God. The camp pastor was Eric Hovind, aka Dr. Dino, with Creation Science Evangelism. His mission is to prove God and Creationism and disprove evolution. It was enlightening to say the least. There were times I thought my brain was going the explode from all the information he presented.

One girls accepted Salvation and I am so proud and joyous to say that it was my darling niece, TotOne! Talk about a happy family last week!

The temps soared and kids were sunburned, tired and very, very dirty. Recreation involved blood, sweat and tears and that camp nurse was kept hopping. Most of our kids just hit the pool and tried to stay cool there. It was simply an amazing week. Exhausting....but amazing.

I am so thankful for where I am in life and that I am blessed with the time and ability to take two weeks and go to camp with these kids. They are the future of our churches and they have so much to offer. I get my socks just blessed right off when I'm around them. They are hungry to learn, but also teach me in the process. I am so excited at where our little church is headed and how it is growing! God is so good and loves us so much it's just ..... well, it's just awesome.

The Storm's A Comin' and Facebook Can't Help You Now

It is April and I live in Oklahoma. This can only mean one thing: I live in a perpetual state of heightened meterological awareness. In other words, I am absolutely cuckoo bird crazy and carry my NOAA weather radio around petting it lovingly and calling it "My presshhhhhhhhusssss" and never take my shoes off and when I hear an actual train I am convinced it is indeed a twister coming down the plains until I hear it blow its horn.

Yeah.

I am not frightened of these storms, no. I am obsessive. There is a difference. The main one being: I probably need medication.

For two days now I have been checking the NOAA website many, many times a day, watching The Weather Channel expectantly like I was expecting eaglets to hatch (Why yes, I have been watching those Illinois eagles hatch their baby birds, why do you ask?) and gathering a small pile of irreplaceable items and papers to stash underground in the cellar. Yesterday morning I woke with this feeling in my guts, like I was suddenly seven years old again and it was Christmas morning and I was absolutely certain that Santa had indeed brought me a Malibu Barbie just like I had asked.

The casino was scheduled to begin their weekly employee golf outings that evening at 5, but Paul moped around while getting ready for work because I kept hollering from the bathroom things like, "WOOHOO We're up to a SEVEN on the Tor:Con!" and "BASEBALL SIZED HAIL, PEOPLE! BASEBALLS!" and "Kids! Do you have your electronic devices charged and ready to go? Because we are going UNDERGROUND TONIGHT, BABY!" I don't know why he felt so blue about his much-anticipated golf plans....

After everyone left for school and work I turned the TV to channel 214 because that's where Dr. Greg Forbes lives in magical TV land and he and I? Yeah, we be buddies and all. I can't tell you what any of the other channel numbers are, but TWC I have had memorized for years. Sometimes the TV just goes there on its own out of habit. They had us shaded in red, had the words "tornadoes", "very large hail" and "severe storms" emblazoned on every graphic and every commercial break faded from a graphic telling all us Okies to abandon our double wides and never, ever try to outrun a tornado in a car. I'm sure the car warning was because they knew TBS had played the movie Twister all weekend and Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt made it look so easy.

Then some time around 3pm while trying to update my Facebook status from my phone I discovered the error message "Invalid Destination". Say WHA?? I have used FB Mobile texts for over a year and suddenly the destination is invalid? No, this was some cruel joke the universe was playing on me and haha, guys, that's real funny, now FIX IT, you heartless universe! I tried and tried and tried again to send a message and the same nasty message popped up. Invalid. Destination.

Grr.

Then in a moment of sheer and utter stupid, I deleted my phone number from my Facebook account. In my brain it made sense: delete and re-install. It works on my iPod when an app isn't working right. You just delete, re-install and all is right with the world again. Except in this case remember MY PHONE WAS TREATING THE MOBILE NUMBER AS INVALID. Instantly I was alone and helpless in the vast wasteland known as OH HOLY CRAP I CAN'T UPDATE MY FACEBOOK FROM MY PHONE ANYMORE AND THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT! Yeah, it's a mouthful to say, but it's real, people. Very real.

I searched the help pages on Facebook for anything, something, a tidbit about this. Nada. When Abby got home from school I had her try and hers was giving the same message: Invalid destination. Ugh. I warned her to not do anything rash like delete anything and then I placed a call to US Cellular. The friendly fellow named Mark didn't even laugh at my panic-edged voice as I pleaded with him to FIX THIS PROBLEM because there were people who were depending on me to keep them updated on my whereabouts and silly antics my children did and if the twister was tearing through  my yard at any given moment. He actually sounded somewhat geeky and I figured he probably knew that feeling of desperation when suddenly you can't communicate with all 415 of your closest friends or harvest your lilacs and feed your poncho llamas. He came back on the line and informed me that Facebook had made some changes that very day and they were the cause of the problem, not US Cellular, and to just log on to a computer and click on the Mobile tab and the solution would be there. I was skeptical since ya know, I'D ALREADY TRIED THAT, but I thanked him for his help anyway. Then he thanked me for being a US Cellular customer since 2002 and asked if anyone had talked to me about one of their new Belief plans. I told him that I had looked at them some online, but couldn't find one that seemed to fit us. He then started to try and sell me a Belief plan! I politely stopped him in the midst of his script-reading and said, "Mark, I appreciate your desire to help me make the most of my US Cellular plan, but right now there are storms getting ready to hit here and my children are on the trampoline and they haven't packed their "'nader bags" yet I just really don't have time to discuss my mobile plan right now. PLUS I really have to get this Facebook thing lined out before a tornado wipes me off the planet." He matter-of-factly informed me that he was in Tulsa and the storms had already arrived there.

Well, whoop de doo. I didn't realize we were trying to one-up the other there, Mark-o my buddy.

The storm was rather boring if I may say so. Well, at least here it was. To the west and to the south of here it was quite exciting and probably not at all that much fun. It was so anticlimactic here we ended up just turning the TV off altogether when some friends dropped by to visit. The NOAA radio would holler at us occasionally and we'd listen, but it seemed that once again someone had sprayed Bubba's Tornader Repellent all over Ottawa County and we avoided any hook echoes, bow echoes or rotations. Our friends would've stayed longer had the NOAA radio not informed us that the storm was 9  miles south of where they lived. They decided that a nearly-16 year old and a 12 year old probably needed some adults at home with them if a storm was that close, so they high-tailed it outta here.

Shortly after that we sent the kids on to bed, Paul fell asleep in the recliner and I started nodding off watching Jim Cantore and Dr. Greg Forbes misprounce the names of numerous Oklahoma towns. I took the NOAA radio with me, tucking it in gently next to me, giving it a kiss good-night and drifted off to dream land where I didn't even have my usual tornado dreams.

I blame Facebook.

Spring Break 2011 or When Leslie Blair Saved My Daughter's Life

Last week was Spring Break. Ah....glorious Spring Break. This was the second year the kids and I spent the week in Yukon, OK, visiting my sister. Last year Mom spent the whole week with us and Paul and Pops stayed home. This year Mom, Pops and Paul all came down mid-week. Tuesday and Wednesday Sis and her husband had to work, so it was just me and the five kids. Tuesday we vegged out, played Wii and didn't do much of anything until Sis got home, then we went to the mall. A mall where they have a Lego store. Did you get that? THE PENN SQUARE MALL IN OKLAHOMA CITY HAS A LEGO STORE [insert 600 gazillion exclamation points]. Just reiterating it to you in the exact style my son announced it to me oh, about five bazillion times. The boy does love his Legos.

Toward the end of the excursion Sis said, "Come on, kids. Aunt Kiki is going to the Pandora store. Alone." Be still my heart! She sent me into the Pandora store to shop alone! I was a little light-headed walking through the door. While I would've like to have bought one of nearly everything I was a good girl and only bought a clip for my bracelet, or as I so redneckedly callled it to the clerk "a stopper". She didn't find me as charmingly backwoods as most.

Wednesday after lunch I took the kids to the park and worked on my savage flip flop tan, then we went to Sonic for free WiFi. Never have five kids and a redneck diva been so happy - half-price Sonic beverages and super fast internet. It was divine. We hogged a stall for nearly an hour.

Oh and? The Homeland off Mustang and Reno in Yukon, OK, is mega friendly. You should go sometime.

That evening when Mom, Pops and Paul got there we ate dinner and visited while the kids played in the street. See, we live on a dirt road. No street. Sis lives on a cul de sac and the kids found it insanely irresistible to play in. Even the two semi-morose teen and nearly-teen cavorted merrily in the street. I didn't get it, but I guess I didn't have to.

Thursday morning Dad had to have some tests done at the VA in the City so we did some shopping that afternoon and that evening while Sis worked at her second job, my brother-in-law took us all down to Bricktown. We visited Bass Pro because I think it's in our redneck contract somewhere that we cannot be in the vicinity of one without going inside and paying homage. All it took was a tweet that we were in Bricktown to prompt a query from one of my favorite OKCitians, Leslie Blair. She met us at Marble Slab where she partook of some amazing ice cream with us and while she says we didn't frighten her and that redneck is a language she fluently speaks, I still worry we scarred her for life.

She did save my youngest child's life, though, and for that I thank her. She also said in exchange for her heroic actions she expected a blog post about it. I splurge and included it in the title. Leslie, you are very welcome. See, a car full of punks came speeding through a parking lot looking for a rumble (ooh I just had a Happy Days flashback) just as Kady stepped from between two cars. Leslie heroically grabbed my child and pulled her from harm's way. Moments later, after I could breathe again, I looked ahead of the group to see the two of them holding hands like they were BFF's. Leslie said Kady looked up at her and said, "So.....you wanna hold my hand?" I guess someone saving you from being a pavement pancake will make you want to hold their hand. Yeah, my heart melted. Or maybe that was the after effects of it having stopped mere moments before. As we were heading back to the cars to trek to the OKC Memorial, I hopped in Leslie's car and said, "Meet y'all there!" Paul didn't think much of it, but I'm pretty sure my brother-in-law thought I was either running away from home or was being abducted. Bless his heart.

The OKC Memorial is a great experience when you're with someone who works for Oklahoma Tourism. Just sayin'. (Okay, gratuitous Leslie adoration completed.)

Friday Pops had to have one more test back at the VA, but when that was done we all caravanned to Arcadia via THE EXPRESSWAY AT 4:30PM ON THE FRIDAY OF SPRING BREAK. Yeah, the heart-stopping the night before when Kady nearly became roadkill? NOTHING compared to the panic attack I fought off all the way through the City. Boy howdy, I am very spoiled to my little town and its little traffic. We visited Pops on Route 66 and it was great, though. I began to feel my fingers again by the time we had picked out our sodas and went to pay. I got a Hot Lips blackberry soda which gave me heartburn, but it was still divine. Paul and Kady each chose brands of root beer they had never tried before. Abby got a Jolt. (A 14 year old on Jolt -- think Tigger. On meth.) Sam has given up soda for Lent, so I may have told a little fib when I told him that cream soda isn't technically a soda really. ("Yes, it has "soda" in its name, but it's really not soda. Really. Sure I'm sure, son.") I mean, I wanted the kid to get a soda from Pops' for cryin' out loud. God won't hold him accountable. God will hold Sam's lying mother accountable.

We got the round barn in Arcadia 15 minutes past close, but the kids weren't broken-hearted. Abby looked at it and said dryly, "Wow. A barn. A round barn. Whoopie. Can we go home now?"

And home we went.

Life is back to normal again. Conner is back here with his Kiki after having spent a week at the beach. The kids are back in school. Abby is back with her boyfriend again. Sam is still soda-free. Kady is still a drama queen. Paul is still a redneck. And I need a nap.

Pretty much status quo.

Oh look. It's snowing. Again.

A week ago Sunday Paul, Sam and Kady stayed home from church, mainly because Paul wasn't feeling very well and Kady was kind of coughing. After church, though, we needed a few important things before The Great Snowtastrophe of 2011 hit the next day. We went to Walmart and bought toilet paper, bacon and laundry soap. You know, the really important stuff. When I got home from church Kady had complained of a stomachache. Not nausea, just pain. I told her to take a Maalox because I figured she had gas. By the time we got done in town she was in tears and when we got home she promptly curled upon the couch and couldn't stop kicking her legs and essentially writhing. I loaded her up and took her to the ER. I had felt her belly and determined she likely wasn't constipated (because we moms think poop is the root of all evil when it comes to our kids) and I knew it wasn't her appendix because it was on the wrong side. I was thinking kidney stone. The evil things run in our family like water runs downhill. When we got there the nurse thought the same thing and immediately ordered a UA. In the meantime the Nurse Practitioner came in to examine her. She poked and prodded her belly and decided the pain was from a pulled muscle, possibly from the beating she had taken on the basketball court the day before, but in a nine year old, who knew.

As she was walking out of the room, Kady coughed. It was the same cough she had had for days and it didn't startle me in the least. It did, however, make the NP turn around the ask, "WHAT was that?" She then carefully listened to Kady's lungs, ordered a chest x-ray and said the pulled muscle was from coughing, not basketball. She ordered a breathing treatment to be done as soon as the chest x-ray was complete. After two hours in a freezing isolation room in the ER the UA came back clear, the chest x-ray came back negative for pneumonia and the official diagnosis was: Bronchiolitis due to chronic asthma and exercise-induced asthma. We left with a prescription for six days of steroids and orders for breathing treatments every four hours for 24 hours, Tylenol/Motrin for the muscle pain and the use of the inhaler before practice and games. She was deemed non-contagious and as long as she felt like it was cleared for school. Knowing that The Great Snowtastrophe of 2011 was coming I figured she might as well go that one day of school because who knew when she'd get to go again.

Monday I wasn't supposed to have Conner for the day, so I took the kids to school and headed for town to run some last-minute errands before The Great Snowtastrophe of 2011 hit that night. I went out and got my monthly supply of free government cheese like a good little economically challenged Native American and then got the call I was indeed going to have my Conner for the rest of the day. I picked him up and headed for the Walmart where I did not get bread because they were out, but that's okay, I had gotten some the day before. I didn't really need a whole lot, but did stock up on very important things like chocolate chips and sugar. Had I been thinking I'd have gotten about four dozen eggs because they had them then and they didn't by that afternoon. And they haven't since. We went to the school for Kady's noon breathing treatment, I speculated with the teachers and staff about the impending doom and then came back home to finish laundry before my washing machine drain froze up for who knows how long.

Monday night we sent the kids to bed with nary a flake of snow in sight. Paul and I laid in bed and watched a beautiful lightning show, listened to some thunder that rivaled any we've heard in a Springtime storm and went to sleep around Midnight. I got up at 1:30 to check on the kids and saw that the world had turned white - but it wasn't snow at that point. It was sleet. I heard it pinging the windows, shivered and crawled back in bed. Upon awakening again at 4 our world was encased in a coccoon of white. When I got Paul up at 5:30 I begged and begged for him to stay home because given the looks of things and the forecast for 20 inches before day's end I had no intention of riding out the storm alone with three kids, one of whom was sick. He assured me he'd be fine, he'd be home and his 4WD would get him back here. He kissed me and left.

They had not one single guest in the casino all day. By 1pm they officially closed it. Since he was running the vault by himself he had to balance out, inventory and do whatever else those magical vault folks do. By the time he left he was pushing a wall of snow with his big ol' gigantic truck. He heard highway 60 had been closed by the sheriff, but he wasn't letting that stop him. My pleas and whines in the phone and reports of his youngest child running a 102* temp filled him with determination to get home. He made is halfway up 60, called his cousin who lived about 1/4 mile off the highway and said, "If I can make it to your house, can I stay the night?" His cousin said, "If you can get here, you can stay." He made it. They watched the weather reports and decided, given the reports of below zero temps for the night and that sick child of his, he needed to try to get home. He bundled up in his coveralls and took off up the dirt road. He made it 1/4 mile before he sunk and was stuck. His cousin pulled him back to his house with the tractor and there he stayed. He was three miles from us, but he might as well have been in California. I called my mother bawling from the bathroom so as not to scare the daylights outta my kids that I was terrified to be snowed in without him. She told me to stop crying, it wasn't changing anything, to pray and everything would be fine.

Kady burned up with fever all night. Her breathing was horribly labored. I didn't sleep much. Usually when Paul's not here I don't sleep well because I hear noises and end up convinced we're being stalked and are about to be broken into. That night I just listened to Kady wheeze and cough and laid my hands on her while I prayed that we be safe, that Paul would be safe, that I wouldn't have to call 911 for an ambulance that couldn't get here.

On Tuesday all three kids were sick, two with fevers, one with a sore throat. Around 2 that afternoon we saw a pickup go past our house. I was on that phone so quick to Paul telling him that if that truck could make it so could he. Two hours later he came sliding into the driveway with the finesse of a Duke boy from Hazzard County. He ended up stuck, had to dig his way out of his truck and walked the 1/10 mile driveway in 20" of snow. It was like a dadgum episode of The Waltons when he walked through that door. John Boy was home!

He spent Thursday home with us. Mainly because his truck was still stuck, but also because I wasn't letting him out of my sight again. Also by Thursday Kady had run a fever nearly nonstop for four days. Friday she didn't run one.

Saturday, after having not done a single stitch of laundry since Monday, we loaded up hampers and baskets of clothes and headed to my mom's. My washing machine drain freezes up at the mere mention of the word "winter", so laundering comes to a screeching halt when the temps dip too low. The kids played on the computers, Paul, who himself was now sick with bronchitis, slept most of the afternoon in a recliner in front of the TV and I visited with my momma. Paul and I made a quick run to Walmart for toilet paper, sugar, shampoo, cold medicine and milk, then headed back home. By the time we got to Mom's Kady was running a fever again.

Sunday I took her to urgent care where the nurse took her temp and it was a toasty 103*. Her bronchiolitis had turned into bacterial bronchitis. A test for strep came back negative. Then a doctor who looked old enough to have treated Moses for gout gave her the most thorough once-over she's had in years. He was great with her. And me. He sent us on our way with antibiotics and prescription cough syrup. She hasn't run a fever all day today. Praise God!!!!

And now it's Tuesday night. We are once again under a Winter Storm Warning and awaiting anywhere from six to eight to ten inches of snow. No one can seem to agree on an amount. Paul is still sick and refuses to see a doctor. Kady is better. I have PMS and my two oldest kids are begging to go back to school, however we received a call from the principal's office today letting us know that just in case we do have school tomorrow the bus will not come down our road. Considering their daddy leaves the house at 6:15am for work in the only vehicle with 4WD and my van will not navigate on the sheet of ice that disguises our road, I checked to make sure their absences will be excused. They will. Whew.

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm almost looking forward to summer. And I hate summer.

Chasing Lilacs

Hey, because you are all awesome and stuff you should mosey over to my review blog and check out my review of the book Chasing Lilacs and the giveaway I have going on right now.

Also? The author of Chasing Lilacs, Carla Stewart, is going to be doing a book signing at Chapters bookstore in Miami, OK, on Thursday, August 12th from 3:30 to 5:30 pm. You should go. All the cool kids will be there.

So get to moseying. Seriously. Tell your friends and neighbors, too. Everyone should mosey. It's fun.

Vacation 2010 - Day 1

We left around 1 this afternoon for the big city lights of Yukon, America.

Oh and before I go further - don't try to rob the Diva Ranch while we're gone. We have a house sitter, a big BIG dog and the house is full of guns. Granted, the dog is dumb as a rock, but he's still big. And all the guns are full of ammo. The house sitter is mean, too.

We followed Mom and Pops as we got on the road since they were bringing the Tots down here with them. I quit running over my list after about 15 minutes on the road, telling myself there are Walmarts in Texas. And Yukon, for that matter. My jaws unclenched somewhere past Vinita and I felt myself slipping into vacation mode.

I decided that for the sake of this trip and the boundless fun and merriment to be had by all involved I would lift the Twitter/Facebook reprieve and tweet and update with wild abandon.

I gotta say.....it was nice.

Yukon is a great town and it's where my little sister lives, so I like it even more. We had "oven pizza" (Tot One's birthday request) and birthday cake and took about a gazillion pictures while she beat the snot out of a pinata. A trip to Target yielded an iPod Touch for the world's most adorable 12 year old and we haven't seen her face since I got it loaded and set up for her.

It's 11pm, all five kids are still up, all of the grownups are still up. The kids are having more fun than we are at this point. I'm just ready to slip them all some Benadryl in their drinks and feign innocence.

Make sure you're following me on Twitter if you want the play-by-play tomorrow while we drive to Texas for the first time. It should be interesting to say the least.

Spring Break in the Yukon

I have become a bit of a homebody in the last few years and my desire to go places (other than Disney World) is gone. I like my house, I like my 40 acres, I like my routine. But....I also miss my sister like mad, so I threw my wanna-be-agorophobia aside and we planned a trip. Since Paul now works week days he wasn't going to be able to go and that was another issue for me entirely - being away from him. I kinda like him, too.

I spent all day Tuesday fretting and fussing and packing and fussing and cleaning and fretting. I did so much fretting that I forgot to eat. Like all day. I used to say you had to be a special kind of stupid to forget to eat and apparently Tuesday I was that special kind of stupid. By the time Mom got here at 6:15 I was nearly fit to be tied, on the verge of tears from the overwhelming thought of being away from home and Paul for three. whole. days. THREE!

When we were loaded and ready I hugged him way longer than he was comfortable with - okay, let me rephrase, it was probably my bawling on his shoulder that he was the most uncomfortable with. He didn't mind the hugging so much. He said so. And then we took off. We got about seven miles from home when I remembered I hadn't put gas in the van, so we detoured at Buffalo Ranch to fill up. Mom told me to go buy some chicken strips or something to eat, otherwise I'd be sick before we got to Yukon. I bought some popcorn chicken which was apparently made from Mexican chickens because they were HOT! I do not like hot, spicy food. I like having feeling in my tongue and spicy food makes my face hurt. Seriously. I popped one in my mouth and took off. By the time we made it to the turnpike entrance and my face was on fire. So much for eating.

The kids were angels. I always said I'd never allow my kids to watch DVDs in the car. Highway Bingo, ISpy, 20 Questions and poking each other to the point of making my father's ears steam was good enough for Sis and I and I said it was good enough for my kids. Yeah. Apparently I am a weenie because each of my kids has their own DVD player now and I have a seemingly eternal supply of ear phones and ear buds in case they lose theirs. Mom and I chatted and listened to the soundtrack to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and I occasionally complained that that dang popcorn chicken gave me tongue cancer. When we saw the sign for the Stroud McDonald's in the middle of the highway Mom said she needed coffee. Abby said she needed ice cream. (Abby always needs ice cream, by the way. Not wants, needs. She seriously believes this.) And even though no one said they needed a bathroom stop I made everyone try. The girls and I headed to the restroom while Sam and Mom stood in line to order me a burger to test whether my tongue still had the ability to taste. As we were leaving the restroom a woman came in. We did that little shuck and jive where I go right and she steps in front of me so I step the other way and so does she. It's always uncomfortable, isn't it? Especially in a restroom. Igh. When she and I finally finished our awkward dance we managed to get to the door and she headed on in the restroom. As we were passing her she loudly exclaimed, "OOH! It smells like COOKIES!"

Uh.....wha....?

Abby, Kady and I made it about four paces out of the bathroom before we all three busted out into  hysterical laughter. When we could all breathe again Abby said, "And lady, you are obviously on CRACK!" which sent us all into gales of laughter again. I have no idea why that poor woman thought the restroom smelled like cookies. Unless maybe she, too, had eaten some spicy popcorn chicken and it messed up her olfactory abilities worse than mine.

We joined Mom and Sam in line just as they were about to order and were informed they had no ice cream. THE STROUD MCDONALD'S HAD NO ICE CREAM. Abby nearly fainted. Sam settled for fries, Kady, who had a wicked sore throat and was crying, settled for a burger and Mom got her coffee. Abby just pouted. And y'all will also be glad to know that my burger tasted fine and apparently my taste buds were unharmed by the pollo caliente.

We called Sis to let her know we were about an hour away, got back on the turnpike and by then all three kids had finished a movie and were restless/excited/bored. Abby whined she was bored. Kady cried her throat hurt and she exclaimed she was sure she was going to die. Sam farted. See why they need DVD players? After all the declarations of boredom and flatulence Mom happily suggested we all sing. Abby groaned and said, "Ohhhhhh great" which prompted Mom to begin "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and I joined in a round. This FREAKED my kids out. How have they lived 8, 11 and 13 years and have never heard a song sung in a round??? Abby said it was sensory overload. Kady said it ruined the song. Sam giggled and farted again.

We got to Sis' apartment a hair after 10 and after lugging our van load of luggage up three flights of stairs we  hugged and all that. We let the kids stay up til nearly 2am because all five of them were together and so were we grownup girls.

The next morning we got around, met Sis for lunch and then did some shopping on Garth Brooks Boulevard. My mom is absolutely fascinated with Garth Brooks Boulevard. Maybe because it's named after GB himself, maybe because it's just a mouthful to say or maybe because it has a Big Lots AND a Hancock Fabric AND a Tuesday Morning. We bought the girls some Pixos and Sam a "spy kit" at Tuesday Morning, scored major patterns at Hancock (NINETY NINE CENTS MCCALLS PATTERNS, PEOPLE) and well, Big Lots was a disappointment, but the boys got X-Men bobbleheads and did I mention NINETY NINE CENT MCCALLS PATTERNS AT HANCOCK? By the time we left Big Lots Kady was bawling her throat hurt REALLY REALLY BAD and her ear was going to explode and her head was going to cave in and she just wanted to go to bed.

Let me just say here that I really thought she was just having allergy issues. And even after she started talking like she had a wad of bubblegum in her throat I still just thought it was allergy/drainage irritation, maybe some tonsilitis. Also let me just say that I am so going to win Mother of the Year this year.

We stopped at Walmart to get ear drops, decongestant, Motrin, Cepacol Fizzlers (which don't work, don't waste your money) and the salad stuff for dinner and some ice cream for Abby because she said she was near death because she hadn't had any in two whole days. The kids also got treats for being so good. I dropped $68 on Harumika sets for Addison and Kady, a Twilight t-shirt for Abby, a license plate for Gentry's bike and an apothecary of pain relief for my ill child.

We had Mom's homemade chicken casserole for dinner with Sis and her boyfriend and managed to get the kids in bed by 11 since we were headed to the round barn in Arcadia, Pops' Diner and Omniplex the next morning. After the kids went to be and we all decided we were really pretty exhausted from all the running we opted out of the round barn and Pops'. We'll hit it next time. Thursday morning we all got up and snacked around for breakfast, Kady looked like hell and ended up back in bed, taking a two hour nap from 8 to 10, bless her heart. (Still was in denial at that point.) We grabbed sandwiches for lunch, picked up Sis' boyfriend then drove toward the Omniplex which I think they just call the Oklahoma Science Museum now, but I'm all old school and stuff. Traffic was at a standstill miles away, but as we got closer we saw there had been a wreck and assumed that was the holdup. Turns out that no, every child in Oklahoma and their parents were all jonesin' for some science-y fun, too. As we sat waiting through green light after green light it was about 20 minutes in that my son, who was in my sister's car, puked. He's awesome like that. My kids are classic car pukers, especially that boy of mine.

A phone call from the gagging adults, one of which who doesn't have children, God love him, and a quick conversation where we all concurred that the museum wasn't going to be any fun with all those people, we pulled out into traffic and headed to the most ghetto KFC/Taco Bell I have ever seen. I got Sam out of the backseat, assessed the pukey damage while Sis ran across the street to a CVS to buy paper towels, Lysol and disinfecting wipes. Abby kept whispering she was quite certain we were going to be mugged, raped and/or murdered. While I held my breath and cleaned Sis' backseat the other adults figured out our next stop - Celebration Station. Abby whined that if it was like Chuck E. Cheese she wasn't going to have any fun no matter what and the other kids talked excitedly about ALL THE FUN they were going to have.

As we pulled out into traffic Kady saw two birds who were uhm.....twitterpated. She sat bolt upright, face pressed against the window and yelled, "SWEET! Two birds fighting! AWESOME!" Abby said, "Yeah, well, in this neighborhood they better be careful. Someone might bus' a cap in someone's...." and my mother rescued the conversation with the word "WING!". The rest of the trip we all threatened each other with busting caps in each other's wings.

Celebration Station was fun. We, of course, came home with oodles of craptastic junk.

We had leftovers for dinner that night, watched Hairspray and after the kids were in bed and the boyfriend had gone home we grownup girls sat at the table and drank sweet tea, ate Rice Krispie Treats and visited till we were yawning.

Sis had to go to work the next morning so Mom and I got the kids up, packed up, cleaned the apartment and loaded the van up to head home. Kady was still complaining of her throat and ear hurting and since it was Friday and the weekend was on us,threatening to bust a cap in our wing, I called the PA's office, explained we were in Yukon, described her symptoms and asked what I should do. I made the statement she hadn't run a fever the whole time so I was sure it wasn't strep. The nurse then said, "Uh, Kristin. She can have strep without a fever. Sounds like strep. Let me talk to David and I'll call you right back." Five minutes later she called me back to say that yeah, more than likely she had strep and they were calling her in antibiotics back home. Oy. Imagine how awesome that made me feel. Poor baby.

We had lunch with Sis, dreaded leaving and promised we'd be back over the summer. A quick stop at Walmart so Mom could buy all the kids inordinate amounts of candy and we were on the road with two more kids than we came with. They were so dang quiet, though, we kept asking if they were all okay. I have never traveled with five better kids. Thank you, Santa, for the DVD players. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

We dropped the Tots off with their other grandparents, I picked up some laundry detergent, sugar and milk in Fairland in anticipation of Snownado 2010, then hotfooted it back here to the ranch. We pulled into the driveway to find my darling redneck husband and Pops, who was waiting with a couple bottles of Amoxil for Kady and a brand new 2010 Prius to show his bride. The kids attacked their daddy with hugs and kisses and stories. I caught my parents kissing and hugging and heard Abby say, "I think I just threw up in my  mouth a little."

All in all, it was a tremendously fun Spring Break. I nervously left the comfort of my home and couch and had no idea I'd find a different comfort at the teeny tiny dining room table in my sister's apartment talking about nothing in particular.