Confessions of a Pioneer Woman

July 4, 2009

2009-07-06T12:58:19Z

I didn’t even take photos of the fireworks at our house this year.

Because you know what? I figured I could just show you these from 2008.

Or these from 2007.

Or this embarrassing display from 2006, a mere two months after I started this silly blog of mine.

Fireworks, schmireworks. This year, I decided to take photos of the people.

Violent explosives are highly overrated.

Angie Harmon was here. Angie and I are full-on buds.

Lori showed up, too. She’s the wife of Terry, one of the men who did all the work at the Lodge last year, and is one of the smartest, funniest females I know.

This is the daughter of Jerry, Terry’s father, of Terry and Jerry fame.

Are you confused yet?

Oh, what a tangled web we weave when we start trying to figure out who’s related to whom and how. And why.

The Senator drove in from the Big City and wound up running all of our errands for us, bless his legislative heart. I told him not to come back until he had 10 cases of pop, 9,000 beers…and, as it turned out, zero bottles of wine because liquor stores are closed on the Fourth of July ’round these parts.

I’ve never heard of anything so silly, except maybe that wine isn’t sold in grocery stores ’round these parts either.

It’s so difficult to be a wino in Oklahoma. There are all these ROADBLOCKS in the way.

Why can’t Oklahoma just let me be?

The Senator’s daughter. She’s a little peanut of a sweetie.

Unfortunately, this trickster also showed up. He’s three weeks old, and very, very dangerous for me.

And he belongs to…

Matteo and Teresa!

Remember Matteo?

He’s Marlboro Man’s cousin, and he was always searching for true love.

Then he found this woman. Teresa. Dear, sweet Teresa.

Then they got married last summer.

Then this happened.

THIS often tends to happen.

And now.

We interrupt this program to bring you the following images:

Marlboro Man. Doing dishes.

Scrubbing, brushing, scouring dirty pots and pans.

I just love dirty pots and pans.

Lawsie mercy. This ranks up there with the Grand Tetons. Niagara Falls. Yosemite.

And then there’s this.

This is Butch, Angie Harmon’s husband. Butch is a good friend, has imaginary sword fights with my five-year-old, and holds babies.

All reports indicate Angie’s keeping Butch. She likes him. She likes him a lot.

Me? I like this one a lot. I’ve never wanted another baby so much in all my life.

Of course, I say that every other day, or every time I see a baby, whichever comes first.

It’s a sickness, really. And when will it end?

You know what I really love, though? The very end of the party. I can’t explain why. It’s very, very late. The kids are up way past their bedtime. Dishes are strewn all over the kitchen, and no one seems to care.

Least of all me.

(Note that Charlie is now up from his chair and hunting for scraps.)

Cowboy Josh has to harass my boy one last time…

And no one—absolutely no one—is thinking about the cleanup job ahead.

Of course…

That was then.

And this is now.

Happy Monday, my friends! Welcome back to the real world.

Love,
Pioneer Woman

P.S. Anyone have a couple hundred brooms I can borrow?

The Morning After

2009-07-05T14:17:50Z

Tomorrow morning I’ll be sharing photos and stories of all the food, friends, and fun that I experienced on the Fourth. For now, I’ll attempt to chisel the sleepy sand from my eyes and and will allow our new stray dog, McCormick, to demonstrate how a six-month-old puppy feels after a night of steak scraps, cake crumbs, ear scratches from strangers, and an hour-long fireworks extravaganza the likes of which he’d never seen before. Given his age, in fact, I’d venture a guess that he’d never even seen a firework before yesterday.

He’s the tiredest six-month-old puppy in the world.

Unfortunately, Charlie won’t be joining us this morning. He stayed in the house the entire evening and slept through the whole thing.

He’s still sacked out, as a matter of fact. I’m getting ready to hold a mirror under his nose to make sure he’s still with us. Wish me luck.

(Hope your weekend celebrations were wonderful, safe, and food-filled!)

Love,
Pioneer Woman

Dear Pioneer Woman, Continued

2009-07-03T18:21:56Z

(New questions/answers will be posted here throughout the day.)

Dear Pioneer Woman,
I’m due to delivery my first baby (a girl!) on July 10th. I’m a little nervous about labor and delivery…any advice?
Love,
Gestating in Georgia

Dear Preggers:

You shouldn’t be nervous. You shouldn’t be afraid. Women have given birth for centuries.

That said, labor is TERRIBLE. The pain—the crampy, ell-encompassing abdomen-and-beyond experience is like nothing you’ve ever experienced. The sheer intensity of it blew my mind. I felt helpless, desperate, and alone when my first labor kicked into gear.

THAT said, my most wonderful childbirth experience was my third, when I pushed through and made it without an epidural. I felt every single contraction and I got to scream a primal scream when my boy finally burst forth into the world. It’s the birth I think most about, and, ironically, the one I remember most fondly.

THAT said, it really does hurt. But it’s not a sharp pain kind of hurt. It’s an I’ve-never-experienced-this-sensation-in-my-life kind of hurt. In the throes of labor, I would trade it for needles being driven into my eyeballs.

But don’t let that scare you.

Lotsa Love,
P-Widdy

_____________________________________

Dear Pioneer Woman,

I’m having monster…I mean mother-in-law problems. How do you have a great relationship with yours? Does it come naturally or was there a special class you took? Training session? Hypnotherapy? I’ll try anything! She’s driving me crazy with her controlling, manipulative ways…Any advice would be helpful! Is there a special dish I could cook to cure her issues? HELP!

Love,
Married to His Mother

Dear Married,

Okay, listen. What you need to understand is that by its very nature, the relationship between a man’s mother and a man’s wife is just rife with potential conflict. She carried him, gave birth to him, cared for his needs, and raised him…then you came along and took her place. So just realize it would be the exception if you and your mother-in-law never experienced a rough moment.

But cut her a little slack. You won. You got her boy. She’s his mother and deserves the benefit of the doubt, even if she has occasional (or constant) moments of wretchedness. Just let them roll off! She can’t rob you of your peace unless you let her…or unless she’s doing something physical, like toilet-papering your trees at night or putting rotten eggs in your mailbox. Just let her win, then smile and go cuddle with your husband. You’ll be so much happier. And so will your husband.

Having said this, I do realize some daughters-in-law are luckier than others. I got a great mother-in-law, and we enjoy a wonderful friendship. But I know there are women who don’t make it easy.

No matter what, this is very important: Do NOT develop a pattern of airing your grievances about your mother-in-law to your husband. Do not do it. And if you’re in the habit, stop. She is his mother, after all, and even if he completely agrees with all of your points, nobody really wants to hear anyone badmouthing their own blood. It puts him in a very tricky position…and that’s never good.

But don’t listen to me.

____________________________________

Dear Pioneer Woman,

Is it possible for a man and a woman to be friends, to the point where they text each other or talk nearly every day, and remain just friends?

Sincerely,
Hoping my Husband Makes the Right Choice

Dear Hoping,

Well, yes…and no. Yes, I believe it is possible for adult married males and females to be friends without anything untoward going on. However, I think trouble can ensue when a) those friendships are separate and apart from the marriage—meaning, you are not also friends with the gal…and b) it’s at the expense of your comfort level. No outside friendship makes any sense if it is causing a spouse to feel concerned or alarmed. Also, there’s really no compelling reason a married man or woman should be exchanging daily social texts with another man or woman, no matter how innocent it might seem. That’s conversation/banter he probably should be having with you.

Say I was sending and receiving text messages—or having daily phone conversations—with another adult male named Harvey Wallbanger. Say Harvey wasn’t really in our close circle of friends. Say I had absolutely no romantic interest in Harvey, aside from just enjoying him as a human being. If Marlboro Man told me he didn’t like it, made him feel uncomfortable, or made him feel strange for any reason, I simply wouldn’t do it anymore. Even if I had no romantic attachment to Harvey whatsoever, it wouldn’t make much sense for me to dismiss Marlboro Man’s feelings about it. No Harvey is worth that.

And say Marlboro Man was exchanging text messages with some tan, buxom blond named Marsha. I would…well, I’d go run over his cell phone with a John Deere tractor.

But that’s a whole separate issue.

Don’t stress! Don’t agonize or worry. Just calmly tell your hubs that you’re a little flummoxed by their daily contact…and next time he feels the need to call or text her, ask him to call or text you instead.

But I really don’t know anything.

_________________________________

Dear P-Widdy Dub Diddy:

I recently found out that I’m pregnant with baby #3—SURPRISE baby! I have 2 beautiful girls now (5 and 2) and things are good. How the heck are we going to handle another one? I know we’ll just make it work somehow. My real question is this: was it harder to go from one kid to two? Or two kids to three?

Love,
Knocked Up in Knoxville

Dear Knoxie:

The hardest transition is from 0 to 1. After that, the hardest transition is from 1 to 2. After #2, they all run together. You’ll hardly even notice when #3 is born. Then, when #4 comes, you’ll have to count heads in the car every time you leave your house. I was always afraid I was going to leave one at home on accident.

_____________________________________

Dear P.W.

Any advice on getting labor started? With my first I went nine days early; now this time I have five days until my due date and it feels like it’s never going to happen.

Love,
Bursting in Buffalo

Dear Buffy:

I wish I could tell you what Hyacinth did to move her labor along when she gave birth at home with her last one. I really wish I could. But she would disown, disenfranchise, disembowel, and dis me for the rest of her life if I were to discuss it in this public forum.

The other thing I wish is that I’d taken photos of what she did to move her labor along when she gave birth at home with her last one.

So I’ll just have to tell you some other time and use a name other than ‘Hyacinth’.

But for now I’d better just avoid the subject altogether.

Dear Abb…er…Dear Pioneer Woman

2009-07-03T04:55:42Z

Because I have nothing better to do tonight—I have no laundry, no laundry at all, and no get-together at my house in 48 hours and certainly no dishes in my sink to wash—I’m going to pretend I’m an advice columnist and answer a small handful of questions I’ve received recently. See, here’s the thing: I’m an isolated, reclusive country wife in the middle of nowhere who just happened to start a blog in my pajamas one day over three years ago. And because of this, I have all the answers.

It’s true. It’s just that nobody knows it yet.

Me included.

(I’ll post one question and answer now, and add a few more here throughout the next hour or two. If you have a pressing life problem or situation, feel free to leave it in the Comments section. )

____________________________________

Dear Pioneer Woman:

I’ve got a older brother who’s a orthopedic surgeon, and who’s a big pain. Are all older brothers pains? Or is it because he’s a doctor and has Big Headitis? Can I borrow your pond to give him swimming lessons with cement shoes on? OR, would you like to have him? For free? I’ll even pay postage.

Love,
Sick of My Sibling

Dear Sib:

I feel your pain, child. My older brother—well, scratch that. Both my brothers are older. I should say, my older brother who’s actually taller than me is a real pain. He still treats me like I’m his annoying younger sister, and is pretty much all the big brother I can handle. Unfortunately, he’s really, really sweet sometimes. He knows everyone’s birthday, how much they weighed when they were born, and what time they were born. But he also knows everything, especially everything I don’t know. And he even knows everything I do know, and he knew it first. But he does make really good chicken tacos. So there’s that. But if he ever wants to reach me, he’ll call me thirty times in a row, and no…I’m not talking about my developmentally disabled/retarded brother Mike, who calls me only twenty times in a row. I’m talking about my normal-by-society’s-standards, very tall, hardheaded, sweet lug of a big brother.

I’m talking about this guy:

So…what was your question?

_____________________________________

Dear Pioneer Woman:

I broke up with my boyfriend of just over a year a week ago. I had to end it because he is so emotionally immature. While only 1 year younger than me, the way he behaves makes me feel like a parent and he’s the child. He took me for granted, broke my heart (hooked up [I don't know to what extent] with a girl 3 months into our new relationship), made me feel bad for yawning in front of him at the end of a long Friday (because he wanted to go out and party) and put me down for getting into therapy (he said I was being brainwashed.)

While the obvious question might be why was I with him in the first place and the next: why did I take him back after he broke my heart, those questions require more bandwidth than you have access to. My question is, can spoiled, emotionally immature men (boys, really) ever grow up? I miss him so much because in spite of everything I told you, we did have a lot of fun together and we were so compatible in the beginning––although I’m discovering that was because I was always willing to do things his way, when I started to assert myself, not so compatible anymore––and there is still a wicked spark of electricity between us. I’m dead set on not getting back together with him and moving on, but do you have any advice for me on how to make it easier on myself? To top it off, we work together and have to see each other at least once a week.

Love,
Slave to the Spark

Dear Sparky,

You did not mention your age, but there is a lot of truth to the fact that many men take longer to mature emotionally. It’s been said that men under the age of thirty, as a whole, are basically a totally different species and should not be messed with until they’ve been allowed to ripen. I happen to think this is a sweeping generalization—I know many caring, respectful, evolved males in their twenties. I would even go one step further and offer that many women in their twenties have not yet evolved to a height of emotional maturity. I was a freak when I lived in California.

So now that we’ve stripped away the differences in gender, let’s get down to the nitty gritty. HE HOOKED UP WITH A GIRL THREE MONTHS INTO YOUR RELATIONSHIP? Lawsie mercy, woman. Get thy hiney on down the road and don’t look back. Have you lost your marbles?

Question: what does “hooking up” mean, anyway? I’ve never really been clear on that.

Oh, never mind. Please don’t answer that.

In closing, this guy just might eventually mature and evolve. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt! It just won’t be with you in the picture.

(Man, I’m feeling direct tonight. I’m thinking it’s hormone-related.)

____________________________________

Dear P-Widdy-Dub-Diddy,

I’m single and I’d like to get married and have a bunch of kids. Unfortunately, the fish ain’t bitin’. What can I do?

Love,
Yearning in Yonkers

Dear Yonk,

Here’s what you do. Make big plans for your own life that have absolutely nothing to do with meeting a man, getting married, and having kids. Decide to move to another large city. Zero in on apartments and start planning for graduate school. If you could pack some boxes and suitcases full of your belongings, that would be effective too. Look forward to remaining single for several years. Then, go to a smoky bar one night to meet some high school friends, and have absolutely no plans whatsoever for meeting anyone of the opposite sex, because that’s just not your focus in life right now. I guarantee you’ll meet someone that night.

Then he’ll marry you and get you pregnant on your honeymoon.

But seriously, my sad tale aside. What I’m trying to say is this: don’t go to great lengths to look for it or make it happen. Because that, my dearie, is usually when it will happen.

(Another thing you could try is to pray up a husband. I’ve known a couple of gals who’ve found the man of their dreams that way!)

_________________________________

Dear P.W.

I sometimes feel like I’m about to blow from all the pressures and responsibility on me. I have four kids and love them dearly…but sometimes i feel like I just HAVE to get away for a day or so and recharge. What do you suggest?

Love,
Seeking Solitude

Dear Sol,

Okay, first of all: NORMAL. UNIVERSAL. Any woman with a child—or children—has been there, done that, been there again.

Second: I don’t know the ages of your kids, but let me just suggest something you might not know is available. It’s called bedtime. What time do your kids go to bed? If they’re five or younger, they can go to bed at 7:30 or 8:00—no joke! If they’re older, they can still go to bed at 8:00, and read themselves to sleep. That leaves you a good 2 1/2 to 3 hours to sit. To vege out. To read. To breathe. To talk to your husband, if you have one of those. Never, EVER underestimate the pressure-relieving beauty of a couple of kid-free hours at night.

Kids don’t get enough sleep anyway. I read a whole report about it, man.

And don’t spend that time picking up the house and getting work done, no matter how much you want to. You can do that during the day, or just after dinner. Make yourself plop down on the couch the second the kids’ heads hit the pillow, and settle in and enjoy not having to move. The world will continue to turn if you don’t get that other load of laundry done and if you don’t get all the shoes picked up and placed into a straight line by the door.

In addition, I prescribe this, compliments of my mom. Please try it tomorrow and report back to me. It’s like lifeblood being pumped into your veins.

___________________________________

Nearest and Dearest P Dub,

Why does my husband leave every-single-cupboard-door-that-he-touches open? And why does he leave every light on after he leaves the room? OK, maybe I can deal with the light thing. But the doors, ugh! We live on a ranch, in the desert. “Hello! Dust!” I don’t understand. Do I need to chill or does he need to learn to close the daggum doors? Save our marriage, oh wise one.

Dusting in Nevada

Dear NevaDust:

“Do I need to chill or does he need to learn to close the dadgum doors?”

My answer: Yes.

Love,
P-Dub

______________________________

Dear Pioneer Woman,

I’m 6 weeks pregnant. So far, only my hubby and I know. How do I tell my family? (We’re giving my dad a “#1 Grandpa” shirt on his birthday - at 10 weeks, but we don’t have any ideas for anyone else).

Love,
Pregnant in Private

Dear Privy,

Oh my gosh, I’ve always wanted to do this. Okay, here’s what you do: Put away the t-shirt for now. Don’t tell a soul. Start slowly introducing loose fitting tops into your wardrobe. By the time your belly’s really popping out there, you’ll be into the wintertime and you can shield it more easily. The key here is never to tell anyone. Then, when it’s time, just go to the hospital, have the baby, then call your family from the hospital and tell them you’re in the hospital, room 402 (or whatever room you’re in). Then, when they rush to the hospital, all concerned and in a panic, show them your new little bundle of joy and say “Surprise!”

Please do it for me?

(And congratulations! Pat your belly for me. There’s a baby in there!)

___________________________________

(Q & A will resume tomorrow! It might be best if you just steer clear of the area.)

Symbiosis

2009-07-01T14:52:00Z

Here’s my girl. Running across the pasture toward my car. Hair flying. Holding down her Bakerella shirt so it won’t show her belly button.

My girl is very modest.

And she’s always hiking up her pants. She did it all over New York City. Sometimes I think it’s a tic.

Other times, I think it’s a byproduct of low-rise jeans.

Anyway. My point. Would you like to know why my girl was running from her pickup to my vehicle in between hauling loads of hay?

It was so she could be near me. So I could be near her. So we could be together.

WORD OF THE DAY: Symbiosis: The relation between two organisms that are interdependent on each other.

Symbiosis. It’s the nature of our relationship. There’s lots of hugging. Intertwining of arms and legs and emotions and souls. We’re magnetically attached, my girl and me, in a way that isn’t necessarily the case with my other children. Oh, I love one just as much as the other, of course…but with this one, it’s much more of a need. Like both of us would wither without the other.

This could probably manifest itself in so many unhealthy ways down the line. For instance, her future husband might not appreciate my going to their house in the evening so she and I can braid each other’s hair and hold hands and paint toenails and pretty much derive the will to continue living from each other.

But I’ll worry about that later. For now, I’m just so glad to be her mother.

Hay Hauler

2009-06-30T12:36:56Z

It’s that time of year—time to cut hay, and rake hay, and bale hay…

And haul hay. And with the crew Marlboro Man and I have sprung forth from our loins, the hay hauling process has become a well-oiled machine.

That was part of our whole devious plan.

Even though he didn’t come from our loins, we’ve got Matthew, Hyacinth’s boy, operating the tractor. He retrieves the bales one by one and places them onto the back of the kids’ trailers. My oldest girl is in this truck. It’s Josh’s, is a stick shift, and causes her much grief.

“Why do they even MAKE stick shifts anymore, Mommy?” she asked me as I kissed her goodnight last night.

“Because boys like to rev up the engines and pretend they’re Jeff Gordon,” I said.

“Who’s Jeff Gordon?” my girl asked in response.

“Hush up and go to sleep,” I said. “And please stop asking so many questions.”

Wasn’t that a beautiful story? I thought you’d like it.

My other girl’s at the wheel of Marlboro Man’s pickup. It’s an automatic, so her life is much smoother than her sister’s.

She had hoped to attend summer camp this year—she’s never been to camp before. But I told her she has work to do around the homestead, and if she wants to go to summer camp she’ll have to do it on her OWN time.

Like when she’s 23.

Have I mentioned how much I love this child?

She likes me okay, too. Just last night she said, with audible pain in her voice, “Ugh…Mommy! I just love you so much—I don’t know WHY!”

True story.

Out of the mouths of babes.

The third vehicle in our hay hauling line-up is…this one.

And it’s rollin’, rollin’, rollin’…

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’…

RAWHIDE!

Yes, I’m aware a black Ford feed truck doesn’t quite fit the song. But I couldn’t help but hum it as I watched my boy haul hay.

Is it my imagination, or are hay haulers getting…shorter?

And now I bring you my newest gallery showing: Faces of PeeWee Agriculture.

(Please look past the red, itchy eyes. It’s a hay hauling thing. Thank you for your cooperation.)

Contentment.

Indignation.

Consternation.

I’m not sure what to call this one. I think maybe “Drunk on Life” would work.

Jubilation.

Mine, not his.

Have I mentioned I love this kid, too?

Something tells me I’ve mentioned it before.

I’m Sorry, Charlie

2009-06-29T11:00:13Z

Now that over a week has passed and it’s clear that we’re out of the woods, I am now able to tell you the following story.

A week ago last Saturday, we—meaning my entire family—ran over Charlie with our Suburban. It’s true. It was one of the worst moments in recent memory. The six of us were leaving to go to the fiftieth wedding anniversary of a relative of my mother-in-law, and less than two seconds after Marlboro Man put the car into drive and pressed his foot to the accelerator, the car rose up…then plopped to the ground in a way that made it instantly clear we’d run over something significant.

One of the kids’ bikes was my first thought, but that was quickly shot down by the horrible sound of howling—a Basset Hound howl, which is like no other howl on earth, especially when pain is the driving force behind it. Marlboro Man, our oldest daughter and I simultaneously yelled, “CHARLIE!” as we threw open the doors and ran around to the back of the car. But by this time Charlie, who had evidently been napping under the vehicle and was so sound asleep he didn’t hear us all get in, shut the doors, and start it, had instinctively run away in all the shock and trauma of the moment—we looked just in time to see him make the turn toward the back of our house. I thanked God he wasn’t instantly paralyzed.

In high black heels, I darted around the house as my girls wailed “Charlie! Charlie!” and when I found him on our back porch, whimpering and limping, I dove toward him and wrapped my arms around him, trying to assess his injuries while also assuring him that we hadn’t meant to hurt him. Oh, the poor, poor pooch. It was horrible. In his short 18-month life, Charlie had never experienced a speck of pain—physical or otherwise—from any human’s direction. I didn’t want him to associate what had just happened to him with the masters in his life. He rolled over on his side, put his head on my lap, and whimpered as I softly rubbed his velvety ears and asked him where it hurt.

I won’t bore you with the events of the following 48 hours, but they involved x-rays, phone conversations with the vet, and keeping Charlie still on a chair in our house to mitigate any internal bleeding that might have begun. And through all the worry, I had to laugh a couple of times at the nature of the questions the vet was asking me:

“Is he wanting to sleep a lot?”
“Is he acting overly lethargic?”
“Is he responsive?”

These are all very reasonable questions, I suppose, if the dog in question is anything but a Basset Hound. But seriously, how do you know if a Basset is acting overly lethargic? Overly lethargic is Charlie’s default state, particularly when he’s sleeping on a chair in the house. Homeboy doesn’t move a muscle for days sometimes.

Anyway, after Nell’s disappearance last summer, I decided I just couldn’t bear the thought of live-blogging Charlie’s experience. I didn’t want to drag you through another dog drama, and besides that, Charlie asked that he be allowed to recover in private, with plenty of bacon to get him through.

Now that we’re out of the woods, here’s the bottom line: Charlie didn’t break a single bone. He didn’t dislocate one joint. He didn’t tear a muscle or a ligament or a tendon. He was run over by an SUV one week ago. And the dog, after two days of limping, is totally, absolutely fine.

And today, to celebrate, he got dolled up in a plaid sundress.

Charlie’s back. He’s so very, very back.

Aloof. Trying to act like he’s busy looking at something important.

Trust me—he isn’t.

This is nice summer look for him. Doesn’t he look cool and breezy and comfortable?

My younger daughter, in all her edgy fashion sense, determined he needed a Pashmina. It really finished off the look.

Aloof. Trying to look busy again. If you knew how many photos I had of Charlie looking like this, you seriously wouldn’t believe it.

Blanche DuBois.

Later, it was back inside for more gender-appropriate attire.

I would like to state for the record that I did not do this. It was my girls. I would never, ever be this cruel.

But as long as someone else did the dirty work, I went ahead and took photos. It’s just good investigative journalism.

I’m sorry, but…

This just isn’t natural.

Oh, dear.

I know there are probably 40,000 more productive things my girls and I could have done on a Sunday evening.

But after the events of last weekend, we thought it was appropriate to stop and smell the roses where Charlie’s concerned. We came so close to losing him, we just want to hold him and kiss him and love him and dress him up in cute little outfits and call him George.

We love you, Charlie.

The End.

How He Looks to Me

2009-06-27T18:52:37Z

Do you ever see a photo of your husband…or wife…or boyfriend…or girlfriend…or Orkin Man…that perfectly represents exactly what they look like to you? That perfectly conveys the way you see them in real life?

This is one of those photos.

This is how I see Marlboro Man all the time. This is what he looks like to me. Oh, sometimes it’s a cowboy hat instead of a simple cap. Sometimes the shirt is interchangeable. But the gloves are always there, and so is Snip, his strong, loyal horse. And the glove is always, always at the end of the impossibly strong forearms—the forearms of my dreams. And the expression. The expression. The expression in this photo is dead solid perfect. He’s not looking straight at me, not directly interacting. But he knows I’m there…he knows I’m watching…knows I’m focused on him and him alone. And the corners of his mouth betray him.

When I picture him in my mind, he’s always in this state of half-grin.

And it always makes my knees go weak.

I often wonder when that feeling will stop. I keep waiting and waiting so I can hurry up and mark it off my list of Things I Need to Mess With in Life.

But so far…

So far it hasn’t budged.

Beautiful Girl

2009-06-26T12:45:14Z

What a week it’s been. So much going on around the ranch. So much going on around our house.

So much going on around the world.

I wouldn’t even know how to begin to discuss all the events. All the news. All the issues.

Up-to-the-minute news and analysis? That’s not what I have to offer the world.

I will say this. Even when I was a young girl, Farrah took my breath away.

But as I watched her somewhat controversial documentary a month or so ago—the one in which she chronicled her battle with cancer—it was her human spirit, her fight, that made her beautiful.

And that’s what I thought of when I woke up this morning. Farrah.

Thank you for letting me be honest about that.

Visiting Help

2009-06-25T15:49:01Z

I had some visiting womenfolk earlier this week. I’ve known Melanie, Shannon, and Sophie online for awhile, and Melanie accompanied Marlboro Man and our girls to Dominican Republic last fall. The three ladies have been buddies for awhile, so when they all had a window of opportunity, they darted up to the ranch to see how the crazy people live.

Marlboro Man made it clear that at least one of the three women would be getting on a horse the morning we worked cattle. Sophie and Shannon were content to stay in the car, and I didn’t want to show off my riding skills lest I make anyone feel intimidated. So that left Melanie, who only slightly reluctantly took one for the team.

My boy went along with Marlboro Man and Melanie. Here he is, checking his tires.

The rest of the cowboys and kids took off a couple of miles into the pasture, while the three amigos stuck relatively close to the pens.

And then, inexplicably, Marlboro Man took off…

Without even so much as a word.

Marlboro Man does this to me all the time—takes off, then leaves me in the smoldering aftermath, wondering what it is I’m supposed to do. Do I stay right where I am? Do I follow? What if he never comes back? How will I find my way home?

Look at how forlorn Melanie is! Like a child lost in a shopping mall without his mother.

And I would have helped her out, but I was really far away. Telephoto lens.

Not that I could have directed her, anyway. My sense of direction is a little…not present at all.

You’ll never guess what happened next. My boy took off, too, leaving Melanie not only in the smoldering aftermath…but crying and alone!

She’ll always cherish her time in the country. It’s such a cold and heartless place.

Fortunately, hours later, Melanie was reunited with the group.

And the STORIES she had to tell.

And it’s so nice, for once, to see someone besides me hanging out at the very back of the pack.

I’m always the one in the very back.

And now. I would like to point out something hilarious. Please take note of the number of people atop horses. This was a great number of helpers—much larger than we usually have.

Now. Keep your eye on that blond calf.

And he’s off! It just goes to show you that no amount of help can get in the way of a determined calf.

You know, even though I knew it was a hassle for the workers…and even though it slowed them down a bit…I couldn’t help but silently cheer as I watched the calf break free. “Power to the little people! Power to the little people!” I was actually rooting for the little guy.

I think it would be best if we just kept that between us.