The Pioneer Woman

Uhhh…Duhhh…

Ree — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:59:27 +0000

Well that shows how much I know. About anything.

Several months ago, just before my cookbook was released, I received a call from a group of women at Sony Pictures who’d read an article about me in the L.A. Times and who were interested enough in finding out more that they didn’t immediately dismiss me as a scatterbrained rural housewife whose dryer is busted and who’s resorted to drying her children’s underwear on the balcony railing of her house because if she dries them on the clothesline outside, Daisy the Cow will eat them.

Which I am.

To make a very long story short, Columbia Pictures (part of Sony Pictures) recently acquired the film rights to Black Heels to Tractor Wheels, the Harlequin Romance-meets-Forrest Gump saga I began writing online in 2007, which is being finished and published in book form next Valentine’s Day. As I’ve told you before, writing Black Heels was a little bit of an accident—I posted the first chapter in September of 2007 during a rare case of writer’s block—but with your encouragement and enthusiasm, I kept writing and writing, finally ending with our wedding day some eighteen months and some 40 chapters later. It just poured out of me.

I probably don’t have to tell you that I never in a million years set out to have my love story turned into a movie. But after talking to the women at Sony—and I mean “women” in every wonderful connotation of the word—I realized that they’d not only read the story themselves, they’d ingested it and inhaled it. They understood so many important things about Black Heels, everything from my angst over canceling my Chicago plans to the role my brother Mike played in the actual engagement, to my flop sweat attack upon meeting Marlboro Man’s family to the disintegration of my parents’ marriage as I was falling in love, to some new circumstances that will come to light in the book, that when it was all said and done I decided that it would be nothing but unbridled fun to hand the movie version over to them. They get it, and that’s exciting to me.

I was vaguely aware that the announcement might be made this week, but naively assumed it would amount to nothing more than a tiny blurb in an industry publication somewhere, and wouldn’t even register on anyone’s radar considering the book hasn’t even been released yet and, uhhh…oh, yeah. I haven’t even finished the book yet. I had no idea the announcement would generate the news/interest it did.

That shows how much I know. About anything.

Much of the interest centered less around me and my chronic laundry tragedies and much more around the suggestion that the lovely Reese Witherspoon would be portraying me in the movie. I can confirm that Reese is interested in the project, but has not officially committed to it—logic would dictate that she might need to read a screenplay first, which would require that a certain maladjusted redheaded ranch wife might need to finish the book first.

I can also confirm that if the movie is made, I would absolutely love for Reese to do it. Election remains one of my favorite movies of all time.

I can also confirm that I now need to finish the book.

And I can confirm that before that, I have to go get my childrens’ underwear off my balcony railing.

And before that, I need to figure out why I am on this earth.

But before I do that, I need to sit here and stare at the floor for about 20 minutes.

But before I do anything…I need to tell you guys thanks for encouraging me to write Black Heels, and for making it such a fun experience for me. In turn, I shall reward you with a Part II that is so filled with blood, sweat, and manure (lucky you!) that you won’t know what hit you. You’ll want to take a shower and take massive doses of antibiotics after reading it! Be excited. Be very excited.

Oh, and if the movie winds up getting made, you’re ALL invited to the premiere!

I’ll bring the fried calf nuts.

Love,
P-Dub

The Country: What I Love

Ree — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 13:35:16 +0000

I love shipping cattle. It’s usually in the fall, when the air is crisp and cool and no longer heavy and humid.

I’m not big on sweating.

I love taking baths with the curtains open because I know nobody’s going to see me.

Except the dogs, of course.

I love it when bulls go head to head with each other and won’t back down.

It kinda reminds me of Congress!

And with that, you’ve just witnessed what is the first and last political statement on the entire history of this website.

Hope you enjoyed it.

I love it at about 5:20 pm in early October, when the sun is starting to set in the west and the sky to the east is a dark blue behind the golden tallgrass.

Rainbow optional.

I love shrimp on the barbie.

JUST KIDDING! I wanted to see if you were awake.

Fun Trivia: These two “shrimp” photos were the only things that were cut from my original cookbook manuscript against my wishes.

I thought it was something the world should see.

My publisher, however, felt strongly that the “shrimp” did not necessarily look at home next to cinnamon rolls.

And okay, I eventually agreed.

I just heard you say “thank you.” You think I don’t hear these things, but I do.

Flats. I love watching Marlboro Man change flats.

And I love driving cattle down a long country road.

I love exploring the ranch with Charlie.

He’s a curious little butthead.

Lethargic, too.

Have you noticed?

I love watching my girls ride their horses.

Especially considering I can’t saddle one.

Hey, cut me some slack! I’ve only lived here thirteen years.

I don’t like being rushed.

I love memories being made.

I hate how quickly time flies.

I love cows.

But not when they’re in my yard.

I love feeding newborn calves.

I love calves…period.

I love our pond.

It’s peaceful and easy.

I love growing tomatoes…

…And eating them off the vine.

I love family…

And wheat grass…

And Herefords.

And I love this old barn. When it falls, I will mourn.

Especially if I’m inside at the time.

Love,
Pioneer Woman

What I Wear When (Read: IF) I Go Out

Ree — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 19:26:00 +0000

WARNING: This post, the first of an upcoming series (see note below), is about clothing.

Men, I understand if you want to scram at this point.

But then again, there are far worse non-man-friendly topics I could be writing about. So really, you should thank your lucky stars.

I also can’t promise this will be the last time I remove pieces of clothing from my closet and lay them out for the world to see. It’s happened before, and will likely happen again.

You never know what you’re going to get around this place. Hopefully, that’s what makes it so ~~psychotic~~ fun!

MY BLOG
Some days = manure
Some days = belligerent Basset Hounds
Some days = cows
Some days = my clothes
Some days = manure

What I want to talk about today is what I wear when I go out (clean clothes), vs. what I wear when I stay in (grimy, faded, dingy clothes with holes), and what the cosmic ramifications of my choices are.

Well, maybe I don’t want to go that far. Cosmic ramifications are a buzz-kill.

But I’ll just lay it out there: living on an isolated family cattle ranch in the middle of nowhere, homeschooling my four children, running this website by myself, and having a few outside writing projects going on means one thing. Well, it means several things, but this in particular:

Marlboro Man and I don’t get out much.

I’ve lamented this on more than one occasion. In our daily lives on the ranch, Marlboro Man and I very rarely go on dates. First of all, a “date”—whether it’s a movie or a nice dinner or both—generally involves a minimum of an hour-plus drive in each direction, but usually much more. Second of all, we have four children and a dearth of babysitters, particularly during the school year when most able-bodied teens are wrapped up in their respective activities. Third, it’s just our fate. We live on a ranch and have four children, and really have no business trying to have any sort of social life. Fourth, we just really like staying home a lot.

That said, there are rare times that we find ourselves with both the opportunity and the inclination to go to the big city for a night out. But a “night out” to us country bumpkins, wardrobe-wise, might not necessarily look like a night out for folks in more urban areas. We both wear jeans and boots, for instance. I don’t remember the last time I saw Marlboro Man in a pair of dress pants—it had to have been a wedding sometime a hundred years ago or so, when he was forced to wear a tux.

And as for me, I haven’t worn a skirt or a dress in years, and again—it was a wedding. It’s jeans for me, all the way. If I can’t wear jeans, I pretty much don’t want to go. Jeans are my life. Jeans are my purpose. Jeans are my heartbeat and my reason for going on.

When I’m home all day, I live in yoga pants with holes.

When I go out at night, this is my typical attire. Little black dresses need not apply.

The shirt: always loose, never fitted, always flowy, never tailored. Usually feminine, slightly romantic. Loose, flowy tops are where I live.

Skinny jeans, which are a recent addition to my wardrobe. I’ve always been a straight-leg jeans person, but figured out—with the help of my hip sister-in-law Missy—that loose, flowy tops need slimmer jeans so they don’t look sloppy.

I wear Banana Republic “Classic Skinny” jeans—they’re skinny jeans for real (not skinny) bodies.

I’ve had this necklace for awhile and had never worn it until I got this top recently—I liked how the salmon color matched, and how the wooden beads complemented the soft, feminine fabric.

Dangly earrings are a must for me—I found these at Mark Shale, a Dallas-based clothing store—two years ago when we were there for Matteo and Teresa’s wedding, to which I did not wear a skirt or dress. The earrings are rather orange and not very subtle, but I like them a lot.

So here’s where I am so far. Not the coolest or edgiest in the world, but comfortable, not too fussy, and—most importantly—dressed down enough to match the cowboy I’m with. And not so tight and constricting that I can’t have dessert at dinner.

Hey, if we’re going to drive an hour and a half to have dinner, you’d better believe I’m ordering dessert.

And now for the shoes. Boots.

Speaking of my hip sister-in-law, she forced me—literally escorted me up to the store counter and forced me—to buy these boots last fall when she was accompanying me on a couple of book trip stops.

I didn’t want to buy them. They were a little pricey, yes, but—here’s the kicker—at the time I had not yet started wearing skinny jeans. So when I tried on these boots and dropped my old straight-leg jeans over them, I couldn’t really understand what the appeal was. They were just another pair of brown boots.

But when I started wearing skinny jeans and—another kicker—wearing them inside of the boots, the light went on.

I’ve worn these boots almost daily ever since.

Unless I stay home, of course.

And then I wear yoga pants with holes.

I have to preserve my make-up and hair curling for the times I really need it. I figure I have a finite number of days per year I’m allowed to look decent, and I don’t want to waste them on a day at home doing school with my children.

Did I just singlehandedly define the term “frumpy housewife”? Something tells me I did.

And I have some questions for you:

Am I the only woman in America who doesn’t dress up to go out on a date?

Or are jeans the new little black dress?

Am I the only stay-at-home mother in America who wears yoga pants with holes? I’ll bet the ranch I’m not. At least…I certainly hope I’m not.

Am I the only woman on earth who hasn’t owned panty hose since the nineties?

Can I go the rest of my life and never again wear a skirt?

Does anyone wear skirts and dresses anymore?

Why am I afraid of them?

Why are jeans so awesome?

And what do you wear when you go out on a date?

Please advise.

Thank you for loving me through this.

Men? You may return to your seats.

Love,
Pioneer Woman

_____________________________________________

This post is part of BlogHer’s “Putting It All Together”, a fun new collaborative video series I’m participating in this spring. My fellow bloggers (Sheila, Loralee, Susan, Rhoda, and Holly) and I will periodically blog about everything from clothes to shoes (and a few things in between)…and I’ll feature some of your feedback and comments in some short videos we’ll be shooting here at the ranch.

Who knew taking photos of my pants would be so much fun?

Note: I will not be photographing my Spanx. Even I have my limits.

About My College Survival Guide

Ree — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 19:14:32 +0000

First, regarding my extreme paranoia as reflected in the College Survival Guide I featured yesterday, I thought I’d provide you a link to a short story. Some of you have read it before.

What Happened to Me Once

In any event, it might give you a little context as to why I felt the need to terrify my young and idealistic eighteen-year-old sister into not going to the bathroom, doing laundry, or going anywhere, ever.

Next, here are a few pages I didn’t post yesterday. Thank you for loving me through this confusing time.

This was the baby of one of our close family friends. I sandwiched it in between the pages of warnings not to party too hard in an attempt to remind Betsy of innocence and purity.

This is Jean, the very beautiful and charming mother of Betsy’s best childhood friend, and every word out of her mouth is a drawly song of sunshine. I decided she needed to be in the book, and that she needed to tell my sister to party hard.

I was a nice little bundle of inconsistency, wasn’t I?

I wasn’t emotionally ready to post this photo yesterday, because I wasn’t sure anyone would understand the strange phenomenon that occurs among close family members wherein they write notes to one another and place words in their dogs’ mouths.

Or that you’d understand that we called Puggy Sue “Clark”.

Or that Puggy Sue/Clark had a deep crevice above her nose that we lovingly referred to as her “vinegar spot” because it…well…smelled like vinegar.

Serious vinegar.

Or that we liked to talk about the vinegar spot. A lot.

You know, these are the things that happen in every family behind closed doors that people never talk about.

I’m here to talk about them.

I ended the book with a request that my sister take care for my cutoffs.

I had these cutoffs once, you see. They were Levis. They were button fly. They were faded and soft and supple.

They were mine.

Then Betsy asked me if she could borrow them for her first semester of college. She’d tried unsuccessfully to wrest them from my grip many times before, but I’d always guarded them just as I’d begged Betsy to guard her CD’s (see yesterday’s post). The cutoffs meant that much to me.

But when she threw in the college angle, I agreed. If ever I was going to be generous with my cutoffs, it was when my baby sister was going off into the world to start a new phase in her life. She’d take care of them, I figured—she knew how important they were to my emotional health.

I would never see my cutoffs again. One of her pothead, fried-zucchini eating, solo laundry-doing friends probably dropped one of their pot marijuana mushroom drug joints on them and burned them to smithereens.

At least that’s how my cutoffs’ fate always plays out in my head.

Bossy Big Sister

Ree — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 11:49:33 +0000

My mom went to visit my sister recently, and I have every reason to believe they spent the entire time talking about me behind my back.

Okay, so maybe not the entire time.

But I distinctly remember feeling my ears burn that weekend. They were warm and they stung.

Then, late last week, I received this journal in the mail from my mom. She’d lifted it from my sister’s house before she left, my mom’s explained in a sweet note, because she knew my sister never would have given her permission to take it because my sister knows once something is sucked into my house it’s gone forever.

But my mom said it more nicely than that.

Then my mom asked me to please save it and take care of it and eventually return it to my sister because it’s something she prizes very dearly.

Then she signed her note:

Don’t Call Me,
Mom

Anyway, back to the journal. I made it a long, long time ago, for my then-eighteen-year-old sister Betsy, who was getting ready to leave for her first year of college.

Still in Los Angeles and very clearly hobbyless, purposeless, and with entirely too much time on my hands, I created the book to serve as a sort of college survival guide for my kid sister.

Survival.

Remember I said that please.

On Page One, I pasted a photo of myself and wrote that I loved my sister and wanted to give her a few pointers to help make her college experience all that it could be.

On Page Two, I launched right into terror mode.

I tried to cover every possible scenario that might come up, from frat rooms to dorm rooms to lost keys.

Let’s just say I’d heard horror stories.

Tally was my sister’s roommate.

Now, I still think this is very sound advice.

My objective, basically, was to make sure she knew she wouldn’t be safe anywhere. Not in her dorm room. Not walking down the street.

And she was going to Indiana University. Go figure.

But I couldn’t help it. I’d heard a lot of horror stories.

But I already said that.

Okay. I think I might have taken this a little far.

Geez, Ree. STEP AWAY FROM THE TRUE CRIME NOVELS.

I went through a bit of a phase once.

Switching topics altogether: on this page, I go from advising my sister to eat a lot before consuming any alcoholic beverages to trying to make her deathly afraid of eating anything at all.

I think it’s fair to say I brought way too many of my own issues into this project.

And I honestly have no idea where this came from. HIDE YOUR PRECIOUS CD’S! IF ANYTHING EVER HAPPENS TO YOUR CD’S I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’LL DO!

I’m really confused right now.

Oh, no. Here I go again with the terrors.

And evidently, my sister was so riveted by my advice…

That she and her fellow dorm rats used it as a coaster.

I think this had to have been a Pina Colada.

I’m suspicious.

Goodness gracious, Ree—obsess much?

And doesn’t this seem a little silly now in light of the whole…well, you know…the whole “butter” thing?

Plus, I think I see a little cheese sauce on the page. So it’s not like my sister listened!

My sister never listened.

Oh my gosh. This is seriously going too far. Now I’m telling her to be scared of the laundry room.

But…come to think of it, I’m deathly afraid of my laundry room.

But…it’s not because bogeymen are in my laundry room.

It’s because I have four children.

And we live on a ranch.

And laundry is scary.

This is our brother. He was young and thin and smart.

And even bossier than I was.

Still is.

In my College Survival Guide, absolutely no stone was left unturned.

I even brought up the subject of marijuana and hallucinogens. And psychosis.

I was convinced they were all linked.

Some of my bossier pages were about partying. I just wanted my punk sister to make smart choices.

I even brought Puggy Sue into it.

That was a pretty low blow.

And I made sure to remind my sister about the ill effects of champagne.

Let’s just say…there was a wedding once.

She was young. Wearing braces. She thought it was ginger ale.

Until the room started spinning.

Live and learn.

Oh, and speaking of live and learn: please take note of my bangs. Thank you.

I ended the survival guide with a final admonishment, telling my sister never to go to the bathroom.

All I knew was, as long as she stayed out of the bathroom, she’d be safe.

You know what I’m thinking?

I’m thinking top universities should hire me to write the copy for their recruiting materials.

It could be a whole new career for me.

One Argument for Having Another Baby

Ree — Sat, 13 Mar 2010 18:53:18 +0000

Charlie just woke up.

Well, I woke him up.

The time was 11:30 am.

Charlie’s not an early riser.

Actually, I take that back. Charlie is an early riser. He rises at approximately 4:30 am. Then he walks into our bedroom, makes his way around to our side of the bed, and sits there until I wake up, which is usually approximately twelve seconds later.

There’s just something about a Basset Hound breathing into your face that tends to interrupt your sleep.

At approximately 4:33 am, after lying still and hoping in vain that he changes his mind and goes back to bed, I get out of my soft, incredibly comfortable bed and let Charlie outside. Then I wait until he’s finished doing whatever a Basset Hound does outside that early in the morning, because I know if I make the mistake of going back to bed, Charlie will appear at my bedroom window at approximately 4:50 am, scratching and whimpering because it’s so cold outside he thinks he might not make it.

He seriously thinks the cold will kill him.

And it’s really not that cold.

But still, I stay awake and let the varmint in.

Then the varmint hops back on his chair, nestles right in, and falls fast asleep.

And I’m left wide awake and wandering around in the smoldering aftermath of the Saturday morning sleep I’ve lost forever.

It’s a terrible, lonely feeling.

Why I continue to allow Charlie to walk all over me in this fashion is beyond me.

He’s pretty much taken over my life—I’ll go ahead and admit it. I know when I’m being suckered.

And tomorrow, it will start all over again.

And again the next day.

And the next.

I was thinking this morning, at approximately 4:57 am, that if there’s any chance I might want to have another baby, I might as well just go ahead and do it. Because really, the only thing that’s stopped me from going for it has just been the “not wanting to get up in the middle of the night” thing, the whole “my nights no longer belong to me” thing, the whole “I don’t want to disrupt my natural sleep cycle” thing, since good sleep, I’ve discovered at age 41, is fundamental to my productivity and contentment.

But since that’s so clearly out the window, why not throw another little punk into the mix?

Just another of the many valid reasons for bringing a new life into this world.

A List

Ree — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 16:44:52 +0000

I have a list.

Not another list.

I’m really sorry. It’s the staccato nature of how my mind has been working lately, for reasons I’ll list below. In my list.

List list list.

List.

And list again.

1. For the past two weeks, I’ve been trying to finish this, the bizarre online romance novel I started back in 2007 during an uncharacteristic and gnarly attack of writer’s block. And while I do miss the online installment-by-installment serial nature of the story, it’s also been fun to put it all together into one epic, angst-ridden, manure-covered love story and discuss the transition from pre-wedding lust and romance to the real world of agriculture. And upheaval. And pain.

And manure. But I already said that.

I can’t promise it’s all pretty.

And it doesn’t all tickle.

In fact, some of it was kind of hard to write. At one point during the story, I found myself unintentionally humming. Then I realized what I was humming was “Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me” from Hee Haw. It just kicked in. I couldn’t stop it.

Anyway, the book will be out sometime in the next decade.

But only if I finish it first.

Some people can be so picky!

Why must books be finished? I’ll never understand.

3. To follow up on my two-day tear fest last month: Ga-Ga, my beloved 94-year-old grandmother, has finally moved to Texas to live with my mother. Not normally a crier unless I’m watching Gone With the Wind or holding a newborn, I cried last month when she made the decision to move from the home where she’s lived since the dawn of time. Then I cried when I went over to her house and took photos of her drawers and cabinets so I’d never, ever forget them. Then I cried when my mom came to visit a couple of weeks ago and took the kids over to Ga-Ga’s house to visit, and they returned home with little gift bags filled with trinkets and possessions from Ga-Ga’s house, where I always thought they’d stay forever. Then I cried when my children carefully removed the trinkets from the bags and thoughtfully placed them in different areas around their respective rooms.

Then I picked myself up by my bootstraps and told myself that I shouldn’t cry anymore. Ga-Ga is still alive, still a part of our lives. She’s just living somewhere else.

Then my mom called last night to tell me that she had just washed Ga-Ga’s hair in the bathroom sink because they couldn’t get into a beauty shop where my mom lives until next week…and I burst into tears. If Ga-Ga were still in her town, I cried to myself, she could have gotten into the beauty shop whenever she wanted!

Then I went to bed, feeling thankful for every moment I’ve had with Ga-Ga. And there’ve been many, many moments.

And then I decided to write about it here and now I’m completely in again.

Please send assistance.

3. In case you aren’t smiling yet today, please look at this photo.

Unless it disturbs you…and then you’ll probably look at it anyway.

4. It’s been cold this winter. Butt cold. As typical lover of winter and snow, I have never been more ready to see sunshine and warm weather as I am this year.

5. Remind me in August that I said that.

6. This is Marlboro Man’s great grandmother.

7. I want to be her when I grow up.

Well, her Ga-Ga.

And Betty White.

Mike Story #3: The Dallas Affair

Ree — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 00:18:11 +0000

Did you ever have a "family episode" that was so monumentally embarrassing, you can hardly bear to remember it?

No?

Okay, how ’bout this one:

My oldest brother WDS got married right out of college to a sweet girl from Phoenix, Arizona named Heidi. Right after they became engaged, both families flew to Dallas, Texas (WDS and his fiancee were still attending S.M.U.) so that we could all meet one another, have dinner, and plan the next several months of festivities together. Heidi’s mother had arranged a formal celebratory dinner at The Mansion at Turtle Creek, a posh Dallas hotel. My grandmother came along for the occasion.

We all met in the lobby of the hotel, exchanged pleasantries, and took our seats at the beautifully decorated dinner table, courtesy of Heidi’s mother. I’ll never forget the centerpiece; it was a stunning, artistic arrangement of orchids, gardenias, and roses that looked more like a sculpture than a vase of flowers. Both families comprised a pretty large group of people—eight on Heidi’s side and seven on ours—and from the beginning, it looked like the dinner would be a fun one. Champagne started pouring, stories about the engaged lovebirds started flowing, and then the food arrived: filet of beef, roasted asparagus, some divine potato dish I can’t even describe in earthly terms, and some equally delectable squash puree. We were all in the presence of greatness.

Unfortunately, in all the nervous fun that generally accompanies the first time you meet the family of your brother’s fiancee, none of us took any notice of the speed with which my brother Mike was sucking down champagne. And what we all know now, but regrettably didn’t know then or we would have been vigilant about controlling the amount of champagne he ingested, is that Mike my Brother…can’t drink champagne.

Just about the time we all picked up our dinner forks to dig into our wonderfully-planned, elegant, and beautiful dinner, Mike, with absolutely no prior indication or warning, projectile-vomited from one end of the dinner table down to the other. Vomit flew, with the velocity of a flaming horse running into a barn. It was absolutely everywhere—on the bread basket, the water glasses, the dessert forks, and the floral arrangement. Vomit splattered dinner plates, dresses, and slacks. The sculptural, heavenly floral arrangement? It was now merely a vessel for Mike’s vomit. The once-white orchids, gardenias and roses were now stained an unfortunate stomach acid pink…and Mike’s vomit dripped tragically from their petals. It was a dreadful, heart-wrenching sight.

We all sat there in stunned silence for a moment before my quietly mortified surgeon father quickly began cleaning up the massacre and doing whatever he could do to whisk away the carnage. What happened over the following 15-20 minutes is all still a blur—I honestly believe I’ve blocked it out to avoid the pain—but I do remember what Mike said when he finally emerged from the bathroom with my father after getting cleaned up.

"Boy, am I hungry!"

It would be a long time before any of us could eat squash puree again.

Mike Story #2: Meet the Parents

Ree — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 17:25:43 +0000

Here is the second of three Walk-Down-Memory-Lane-with-Mike stories I’ll be posting today.

Please don’t notify the authorities.

MEET THE PARENTS

About four years ago, my brother Mike, my other brother WDS, Marlboro Man and I were all gathered at my dad’s house on the golf course because my little sister Betsy was coming over to introduce us to her new boyfriend. Betsy and her guy hadn’t yet arrived, so the rest of us sat around and shot the breeze while we waited.

As is guaranteed to happen at 100% of our family gatherings, Mike, who absolutely thrives on social interaction with the world, began to get antsy. After about fifteen minutes of chit chat, he stood up and announced to the group that he had other places to go, other people to see, and he needed a ride to Fire Station No. 3, where he planned to spend the rest of the evening. (Mike, as I’ve discussed here before, loves fire stations.)

Fed up with Mike’s typical practice of opting to spend time with everyone and their dog before his own flesh and blood (it’s an independence thing), WDS, my older brother, wasn’t having it. He stated to Mike in no uncertain terms that his youngest sister would be arriving any minute to introduce her new boyfriend, and if there was ever a time for Mike to get over his antsiness and settle in for at least thirty minutes, it was now.

Well, Mike wasn’t having it either. A mere eighteen months younger than WDS, he wasn’t about to take any directives from him. Raising his voice, Mike belligerently asserted that he would be leaving right then and there to go to Fire Station No. 3 because he had told all the firemen that he’d be there at six o’clock sharp and he "didn’t want to disappoint them." (I can just see all those firemen weeping and wailing at the prospect of Mike not showing up on time. Oh, the tragedy.)

WDS, of course, countered. "No, Mike, you are not leaving right now. We are all going to stay here and wait for Betsy to arrive…including you." I braced myself, preparing my nervous system for what I knew, based on many years of experience, lay ahead.

Mike headed for the front door and shouted, "FINE, DEN! I j-j-j-just WALK to duh fire station!" Predictably, WDS followed, suddenly intent on instantaneously breaking Mike of his lifelong obstinacy.

I might as well have been witnessing a brawl between them back in 1977. As WDS chased Mike out the front door, Mike yelled, "LEAVE ME ‘LONE, YOU…BUTT!!!!!!"

WDS grabbed Mike by the shoulders and repeated, "Mike, you’re not going anywhere!"

A tussle ensued, and though no real punches were thrown (it appears WDS does draw the line somewhere) it escalated to the point that WDS was basically sitting ON Mike, who was pinned to the ground—arms flailing, legs kicking, expletives pouring from his mouth.

Poor Mike screeched and squealed like a stuck pig, and poor WDS just sat there on top of him, all too aware that all of this had gone way too far, but also far too smart and experienced to set Mike free, lest he go tearing down the neighborhood and con some hapless elderly neighbor into giving him a ride to his beloved Fire Station No. 3. "Get OFF me, you…TURKEY-DAMN-BUTT-HELL-ASS!!!!" Mike yelled. "Get you damn hands off me, you…BUTT-HELL-BUTT!!!" And peppered throughout the whole godforsaken mess, "I HAVE TO GO TO FIRE STATION NUMBER THREE!!!!!"

At that very moment, Betsy and her great new boyfriend Matt pulled into the driveway and stopped the car a mere three feet away from the unfortunate commotion. As they got out of the car, the confused expression on Matt’s face was topped only by the look of absolute horror on Wetsy’s, who by now had turned as white as a sheet. This abysmal, normally-veiled-behind-closed-doors family ugliness being displayed on the front lawn of my dad’s house was so bad, I wanted to die—and I had no one I was trying to impress that night. I cringed for poor Betsy, who was at a complete loss as to how to transition from this purgatory back into the normal, enjoyable evening she had duped herself into believing might take place.

My dad and Marlboro Man, who had both wisely elected to stay inside and forgo the whole drama, walked outside just around the time WDS was dismounting Mike. Ignoring the scene entirely and walking straight over to Matt, my dad shook his hand and welcomed him graciously to our family home. Betsy, meanwhile, looked into my eyes with a pained expression the likes of which she wouldn’t repeat until she gave birth to her baby years later. She wanted to die, she wanted to kill, and most of all…she wanted vodka. Lots and lots and lots of vodka.

Fortunately for Betsy, her new boyfriend Matt eventually determined that our family, complete with an independently-minded, strong willed son and his overly-aggressive, authoritative older brother, was no more dysfunctional than anyone else’s he might find…

…and he married Betsy a year-and-a-half later.

And don’t look now, but…

…Mike and Matt have become really great buddies. Mike likes to visit him in Austin and go to Hooters.

And we all lived happily ever after.

Mike Story #1: The Oyster Incident

Ree — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 13:13:20 +0000

My brother Mike called me yesterday. I answered. It was an unusual, wonderful, and bizarre conversation. And as such phone calls with Mike are inclined to do, it set off a several-hour acute episode of Mike on the Brain, a condition that causes me to sit, stare at the floor, and think back on everything my brother Mike has ever done to make me laugh, cry, call the police, and want to move to another country.

Throughout the day today I’ll be posting three of my most classic, deeply-ingrained Mike tales from the archives. They will make you laugh, cry, call the police, and want to move to another country.

This is the first of those tales.

THE OYSTER INCIDENT

Growing up with a developmentally disabled sibling, though generally wonderful in so very many ways, can be tricky. Just when you think you’ve got their moves all figured out, ka-BLAM! They change the rules on you and you’re left wandering around in the smoldering aftermath, wondering what on earth happened.

Case-in-point: My precious, dear brother, Mike. Mike, at age 42, despite innumerable intellectual and physical challenges, enjoys a life chock full of independence, friendships, and activity. He has his own apartment, can cook himself Ramen noodles like no one’s business, and has a network of blessed souls in our hometown who willingly drive Mike from point A to point B several times a week whether they particularly feel like it or not. Aside from this angelic circle of friends Mike has carved out for himself, I largely credit my parents for the heights to which Mike has climbed over the course of his life; instead of emphasizing and highlighting Mike’s handicaps, they simply threw him into the mix with the rest of us numskulls in the family. And though they regularly availed themselves of the help and resources they needed to assist Mike in his handicap through the years, most of the time Mike was just another one of the kids.

I, for one, never even realized Mike was different until around age seven, when my best friend Becky, grabbed me emotionally by the shoulders one day and hugged me, burying her head in my neck and sobbing, “REE, I’M SO…SO…SO SORRY ABOUT MIKEY!”

“What?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“Well…uhhh,” Becky answered.

“What are you talking about, Sillly?” I continued, giving Becky a playful slug. I seriously had no clue.

“Well…he’s…he’s different, Ree-Ree,” Becky said. “He was born a little…different.”

I paused for a moment, then asked, “Wanna go ride bikes?” Nothing she said had registered.

Over time, however, I did come to realize that there was something about Mike that was a little removed from the standard definition of “normal.” At public places, little kids who didn’t know Mike would point and ask their mothers, “Who is that funny little man?” I generally wanted to punch them, especially if I knew Mike had heard them, but I usually stopped myself because I didn’t really know how to punch anyone back then. Still don’t. And besides that, I understood that most of the time, the kids didn’t mean any harm by their points and their stares. Mike did look different, after all, and most young children just aren’t equipped to process the protruding ears and stubby fingers and thick upper lip without staring and taking it all in for several minutes. To the world outside of our small-town community—most of whom knew and loved Mike from day one—Mike was different. But to me and the rest of my siblings, he was just another member of the family.

This meant, of course, that Mike didn’t get any special treatment. We didn’t handle him with kid gloves, didn’t coddle him, didn’t spare the kid one speck of the same sibling abuse we hurled at one another on a daily basis. And most of the time, Mike handled it fine and bounced right back, just like the rest of us. But every now and then, a wire would cross and Mike would get mad. Livid. Furious. Usually he’d just yell something eloquent: “YOU TURKEY DAMN BUTT HELL ASS!” was his weapon of choice most of the time. But occasionally it would really spiral downward, ending in a fit of frustration that would cause Mike to lunge at my other brother (see final story below), who was about two feet taller than Mike, and try to wrestle him to the ground and beat the tar out of him. And then Mike’s glasses would fall off, which would send him into a whole other psychological frenzy. And when it was over, none of us could ever figure out how it had all gone so wrong. Then we’d all dust ourselves off and go to the pool.

These moments were usually over as quickly as they began, and then we’d all go back to the business of being sibs and teasing each other about how bad we smelled or looked or how dumb we were. You know, positive family stuff like that. And over time, as Mike got older, he learned to deal with his frustrations in more constructive ways, and the rest of us learned the buttons to avoid. And most of the time, things were harmonious. Until one summer when our family went to Hilton Head for vacation.

Vacations are stressful for a lot of people. Routines change, and those with delicate sensibilities (i.e. Mike) can sometimes have a hard time with the upheaval. When it came to family vacations to Hilton Head, Mike would begin to show signs of clinical mania up to two weeks before the trip even began. The anticipation, the excitement, the packing, the plans—it all gave Mike something to focus on and look forward to. He’d bounce off the walls with glee. Sometimes I’d want to tranquilize him. Then, when we’d arrive on Hilton Head, there’d be the four to five day orientation period, when Mike would roam the island, getting to know all the new security guards and cops and memorizing all the “shovel bus” (shuttle bus) schedules so he’d be sure never to miss a ride. Those first few days were always happy, always full of promise and hope.

But then the fatigue would set in and Mike would start to go south. Usually this would manifest itself in an unexpected “TURKEY DAMN BUTT HELL ASS” outburst at the beach or maybe at the market. One year, though, when we were all young adults, Mike did something none of us could have anticipated.

We were eating at Calibogue Cafe, a delicious seafood restaurant in Harbor Town. It was Day Five of our vacation and we all should have known to mind our P’s and Q’s, but Mike had been just fine up until that meal. But then the waitress came to the table to take our order, and we all ordered the standard fare…except for Mike.

“I w-w-w-want four orders of Oysters on the Half Shell,” he told the waitress. Mike loves oysters.

“Well, Sweetie,” she replied, “One order comes with about nine oysters. And they’re pretty big.”

“That’s fine,” Mike said, handing her his menu.

My dad leaned over to Mike and said, “Hey, pal—why don’t you just get one or two? Then you won’t get stuffed.”

“No,” Mike responded. “I want f-f-f-four orders of Oysters on the Half Shell.”

Then my mom tried. “Mikey, that’s a lot of oysters. I think that’ll make you sick.”

Mike looked straight at the waitress and repeated his request. “I…will take..four orders of Oysters on the Half Shell.” His volume was slowly increasing.

That’s when my older brother chimed in.

“Mike, come on!” he said. “Let it go—just get two orders! You won’t eat it all anyway!”

Steely-eyed, Mike glared at him and raised his voice, “I am a grown up man and I c-c-c-can decide what I want to order!” People at neighboring tables began to glance in our direction.

We should have let it go, but we didn’t. My siblings and I decided to let Mike have it, in the same way we would have let one another have it.

Mike, you’re being unreasonable.

Mike, get over yourself.

Mike, that’s 36 oysters.

Mike, just get two orders.

Mike, cut it out. Our poor waitress looked at her watch.

That’s when he reached his limit. Pushing his chair backward so fast it fell over, Mike jumped up from the table, threw his napkin on his chair, and screamed—screamed at the top of his lungs—”I QUIT OF YOU THIS DUMB FAMILY!” And though I’d never heard that exact combination of words ever uttered before, I pretty much knew what he was trying to say. He’d had it. He’d been pushed too far. And he was done with us.

Mike finished off the scene with a nice “YOU BUTTS!” and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving us there to burn in the embers.

___________________________________

My dad went outside to retrieve Mike about five minutes later, knowing he’d be sitting on a bench talking to a security guard or some nice passerby. But he wasn’t. “I can’t find Mike,” my dad said when he returned to the table. “He’s not out there.” We all looked at each other, a hint of concern on our faces.

After combing Harbor Town, we decided to head back to the house, hoping he’d be there making himself some Ramen noodles. He wasn’t. And we all began to worry.

Four hours passed. And during that time, we’d alternate searching for Mike, checking with security guards and shovel bus drivers and restaurant hostesses and anyone we could ask. We all wound up back at the house, hoping against hope he’d show up. It was dark outside, and we were scared. I cried, imagining all sorts of terrible things that could have happened to Mike. And then, at 11:00 sharp, just as my frantic mother was about to pick up the phone to call the police, the front door opened…and Mike walked in.

“Mike, where have you BEEN?” we asked. I’d never been more glad to see another person in my life.

But Mike didn’t answer. Instead, with a determined look on his face, he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a brand new package of Marlboro Reds, which he’d evidently picked up on his Walk of Independence about town. With his short, stubby fingers, he unwrapped the outer cellophane and removed one cigarette, placing it in his mouth. Then he pulled a red Bic lighter from his other pocket, lit the cigarette, and stood there in front of us, smoking the cigarette as if his life—or, at least, his independence—depended on it. And we all sat there and watched, unsure of what to say.

That was the first—and last—cigarette Mike ever smoked.

And that was the last time any of us ever tried to come between Mike and his oysters.