The Pioneer Woman

The Road Rage is Here

Ree Drummond — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 15:09:07 +0000

Sometimes it’s just unavoidable: we have to drive cattle down the road.

Unfortunately, there are people on this earth who actually want to drive down this same road. It takes them where they need to go, you see.

Roads are funny that way.

Some of them just can’t handle the wait. They have things to do. People to see. Places to go.

And cows ain’t a part of it.

These are the times I love my telephoto lens.

I like to watch the fun unfold.

Call me ornery.

You can almost smell the road rage in the air.

I lived in L.A. I know road rage when I see it.

All the while, the cowboys go about their duties, largely unaware of the anger building in the air.

Cowboys don’t understand road rage. If cattle need to be taken down the road, you take them down the road. There’s nothing so important that can’t wait until the cattle get down the road. If you’re so enslaved to your schedule that you come unglued over a five minute delay, you need to spend more time whittling on the porch in the evenings.

This is what civilians think of that approach.

I probably fall into the civilian category. The road rage is still very present.

Believe it or not, It moderately blows my mind when the cowboys do this. “Those people need to go to work!” I think to myself as I watch it all unfold through the relative sanctity of my telephoto lens. “This is RIDICULOUS!”

“Can’t they move the cattle on their OWN time?”

“Can’t they take the LONG way to the other pasture? Like, through Louisiana or something?”

The road rage is here.

Poor Josh. He has no idea of the flames of fury that burn behind him.

The cattle don’t know, either.

Or if they know…they don’t so much care.

“It’s good to be the king.”

“‘At’s right. We’re bad.”

Hey—cut that out! That’s no way for a king to behave!

Sorry.

It happens sometimes.

His Element

Ree Drummond — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 13:27:09 +0000

We worked cattle right before we left, and I brought these photos along with me.

I miss the ranch, but the trip is going really well. My oldest boy is having fun checking in and out of hotels, riding escalators and elevators, and eating in restaurants.

But this…this is his element.

Sitting behind the wheel of a 1,200 pound animal. For my curly-haired blond whippersnapper, life doesn’t get any better than that.

And if I start to get rattled on this trip when he gives his brother a roundhouse kick in the hotel lobby…or breaks into a lope down Michigan Avenue…or conducts a UFC match in front of the folks at the book signing in Kansas City…

Or does things like this…

I just have to remind myself that he’s a boy.

That he’s young.

That he’s a little bit out of his element.

And that he just misses his horse.

Everything’s Up to Date

Ree Drummond — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 21:13:25 +0000

Kansas City was wonderful.

A local independent bookseller, Rainy Day Books, organized two signings there, which meant I had to rein in my agoraphobic tendencies twice in the same 24-hour period. In addition, I had to take two showers, apply deodorant two times, and try twice as hard not to poke out my eye with my Pat Benatar black eyeliner since I wear so much of it these days.

Gosh, do I ever love black eyeliner.

The first signing was at Will Wyatt’s Cowboy Couture, a ridiculously dangerous store for anyone who even remotely likes cowboy and cowgirl clothes, boots, or accessories. If I hadn’t been shy and felt the need to dart violently back to the hotel the second the signing was over, I might have spent my life savings there.

All 77 cents of it.

But seriously, the stuff was sickeningly cute. The boots were calling me from across the room.

“Ree…Ree…” they whispered seductively. “You don’t have enough boots…Ree…Ree…”

BEGONE, SATAN!

I was so happy to see Michelle, who knew me back in my hometown when I was a freckly, dumb little redhead with sunbleached eyebrows and an unnatural obsession with Gilligan. Hi, Michelle!

Why am I always looking at the wrong camera?

I think Gilligan fried my brain.

And this sweet girl’s friend wanted to come, but she’s been suffering with an illness and couldn’t make it. I passed along a hug.

Then my bracelet got caught on her sweater and I think I snagged a thread.

My face felt hot.

They brought me doughnuts and I love them forever. Hi, girls!

That’s my hair. You can’t see my roots, but I need to get them done, STAT. I need Chicago hair color recommendations before my roots have a nervous breakdown and decide to break free from their follicles and fall on the floor. And see that cameraman? He’s from the Discovery Channel, and he’s there filming a documentary about women who have bulging Angelina Jolie-style veins on their hands. Notice where his camera is pointed.

Why do hands get veiny?

My hands are very veiny. My daughter holds my hand in church and presses on my veins. It’s very demoralizing.

I would like to repeat the following announcement:

“If you come to meet me on my Griswold-Style Book Trip, please do not bring your baby. My hormones surge and I spiral downward and before too long I’m picking out baby names for the baby I immediately start planning to conceive that night.”

Please. For my sake.

Please.

Grew up with her. Went to school with her. Called her by her maiden name.

Cute girls!

Not me. Them.

Cute girls!

Not me. Them.

That’s a great pose, Ree. A winner. You need to make that your signature arm-on-the-desk maneuver for the rest of the book trip. And cute girls!

Not me. Them.

She drove. From Nebraska. Through a snowstorm, though I don’t think she knew there’d be a snowstorm when she left her house that morning.

But it makes me feel better about myself to imagine someone driving through a blinding snowstorm to see me. When I was a young girl, I used to lie awake at night thinking how wonderful it would be if someone drove through a snowstorm for me.

It’s just that my mom. Had a baby. When I was five. And it knocked. Me out. Of my. Baby position. Forever.

And now. Enough of me and my neuroses.

That’s is Vivien from Rainy Day Books on the right…and that sweet woman? That sweet woman beside me is DREW’S MOM.

Drew.

Do you remember Drew? As in, Drew and Randall? The couple that…

The kids that…

Oh, never mind. it would take too long.

You can read it here if you missed it.

_____________________________

(More Kansas City coming up in a bit, with lots of KC blogger links.)

Wishing We’d Worked on Penmanship Skills

Ree Drummond — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 15:35:21 +0000

This was an unexpected development.

Had I known my boys’ penmanship would come into play on this book trip, I might’ve spent a few weeks drilling before we left.

But at least I can tell myself the following:

1. They’re boys.
2. They don’t have much practice writing with Sharpies.
3. We don’t generally practice handwriting with the books balanced on their knees.
4. Their hands were cold from the near-freezing temperature outside.
5. They have arthur-itis.
6. They were nervous.
7. They’d had too much coffee and were shaking.
8. They’re boys.

Anything to make me feel better about our homeschooling progress.

Amen.

(Lengthy update coming later this morning. Warning: it involves blood, sweat, tears, sex, drugs (well, Advil), rock-and-roll, and a purple velvet Prince jacket.)

(I haven’t figured out how to type that Artist Formerly Known As symbol. I don’t think my keyboard is capable of those characters.)

The One That Got Away

Ree Drummond — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 18:56:47 +0000

Before I continue with today’s posting, I thought I’d provide you a little glimpse into the world of Taking Your Two Young Sons To Your Book Signing Events.

Have you ever visited? It’s a cold, dark, frightening land filled with hidden dangers and terrors everywhere you turn.

Not recommended for those who enjoy order and predictability.

Monday Morning Cow

Ree Drummond — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 13:37:59 +0000

I have things to say.

So please…lend me your ears.

Ear.

Whatever.

Incidentally, did you know that famous speech by Mark Antony is one of the most well-known examples of rhetoric?

So glad I could be here for you this morning.

I have so many things on my mind this morning, things that are swimming around violently in my brain, my soul, my psyche, my consciousness, and my pancreas. If I don’t get them out, I’m not sure what I’ll do. It will likely involve chocolate and potato chips.

Here they are:

1. Mike: how he can call my cell phone number up to 39 times in one day, and why I don’t just answer it the first time and spare myself the battery life.

2. Charlie: how one dog, a dog I’ve owned for less than two years, can so wholly control me with his emotional manipulation.

3. This memory of my dropping off a…specimen…at our smalltown doctor’s office. Urinary memories run deep, I guess.

4. Caddyshack: Why my mom allowed me and my siblings to watch it when we were, like, nine.

Mom? Mom. MOM. Come on.

5. Why I used to pick the lock of my mom’s bedroom with a hanger when she’d go in there to try to grab a fifteen minute nap.

Mom? Mom. MOM. I’m sorry about that, dude.

(Hey…maybe that had something to do with the whole Caddyshack thing. Maybe, just maybe, my mom parked us in front of Caddyshack in hopes we’d be so captivated by the golf and the gopher and the raucous partying that we’d leave her the blank alone and let her rest. I’ll have to ponder this today.)

6. Those ASPCA/Humane Society Commercials: They’re mean. Also, why do they pick such sad music? I don’t like crying over my Grape Nuts. There’s a little Morris-looking cat on there that really tears at my heart. Poor little kitty! I think those commercials should be banned.

I can’t HANDLE the truth!

7. My junior year prom dress: Why all the chiffon? Why all the seed pearls?

Ree? Ree. REE.

8. My abdomen: It jiggles.

________________________________

Hmmm.

Strange. I still don’t feel better.

I still feel like…like something’s just eating away at me…wanting to come to the surface…just crying to be released.

Oh, wait.

Oh…wait.

BuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrP!

Wow. I feel completely liberated.

I guess it wasn’t Caddyshack after all. Turns out, it was only the cabbage.

Cabbage always does it to me.

Eternally Residing in The Land of Maturity,
P-Dub

Excitement in The Wal Marts

Ree Drummond — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 14:14:05 +0000

Marlboro Man and I drove over to Little Rock, Arkansas Monday night for a cookbook signing in a brand new Wal Mart. After having a week of signings in charming little independent bookstores in Denver, Salt Lake City, and Phoenix last week, I had no idea what to expect. But Wal Mart and me, we go way back—nail polish, baby wipes, and all—and I was equal to the task and excited to meet new buddies in Little Rock.

Because we drastically underestimated the distance to Little Rock from our home on the ranch, Marlboro Man and I wound up arriving seven minutes late—horrific for me, but incomprehensibly torturous for Marlboro Man, who ranks showing up late right up there with sticking gum under a table at a restaurant or blowing your nose on your pastor’s shirt; you just simply don’t do it. So by the time he pulled up to the front door of Wal Mart to let me out, Marlboro Man’s life was a shambles and my armpits were gushing like Old Faithful. Lucky for me, I’d worn a shirt with a busy print. Hopefully no one would see the Rings of Fire.

I figured I’d be set up way in the back of the store—in the Tire department, maybe? Shoes?—so I made a quick sprint for the bathroom in the front of the store, only to find out just as I was walking in that the table where I would sit and sign books was smack dab in the front of the store, just beyond the long line of cash registers, only .8% of which are manned on any given day.

(Couldn’t resist, Wal Mart. Just teasing you there. We go way back, remember?)

(Hello? Wal Mart? Are you listening?)

(Tap-tap…this thing on?)

Anyway. Back to my lateness.

I wound up being so surprised that the signing was prominently situated at the front of the store, I had stage fright and couldn’t…couldn’t…couldn’t “go”. I didn’t want to be any later, so I hiked up my Spanx, ran out of the bathroom, and took my seat.

This was about 30 seconds later. Do I look a little squirmy?

It didn’t take long for me to relax, though.

Everyone was so genuine and welcoming.

Some had books for themselves; others were planning ahead for Christmas.

Marlboro Man thought this was hilarious. So much hidden symbolism.

Or should I say “lost” symbolism?

I crack myself up. But only sometimes.

Marlboro Man noticed that folks were leaving little Post-it messages along the line. This says “You’re on the right trail.”

“Photographic moment ahead.”

“Life is short; this line is long.”

This one was my personal favorite.

There were teenage boys there, sent or bribed by the female relatives in their lives.

And there were babies.

Lots of babies.

Finally, I could take it no longer and I adopted one of them.

No more babies…please. My heart cain’t take it!

And speaking of babies…

Meet Sarah. She’s in labor.

As in, serious labor. As in, her body is ready for her baby to exit the premises. As in, I hope I get to cut the cord!

Though I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t be Sarah’s preference.

The sweet people in line allowed her to run up to the front.

Little Rock folks are good like that.

And look! I got to hold the baby!

I secretly hoped she’d name her baby Toni Collette, said a little prayer for her and her baby’s well-being, and told her to get the heck out of Wal Mart and go give birth.

And she did.

And this is what happened:

The Birth of Analyse (Don’t click on link if you’re a) squeamish or b) averse to crying. The photos are beautiful!)

Photo by Momto5Minnies

THE VERDICT: I had an absolute blast in Little Rock. The people were so welcoming, so kind, and made the evening lots of fun. Having a signing in The Wal Marts was fantastic—they were very accommodating and helpful, and they let me have a free large Frappuccino from the cold drink fridge near one of the cash registers. It was like lifeblood being pumped into my veins! And when my Sharpie gave out, guess what? They had plenty on Aisle 9!

Thank you, Little Rock. I feel like I just made a new friend.

Here are some firsthand accounts of the evening, beginning with a fun read from one of the very few GUYS who were on the scene:

Nonsensical Gibberish

Life on our Little Farm

The Park Wife (she’s an old internet friend!)

The Stain Family

A Wink and a Smile

________________________________

And now if you’ll excuse me, Marlboro Man has to preg-test 200 cows this morning and I don’t want to miss a single moment.

Love,
Dan Brown

Be Vewwwy Quiet

Ree Drummond — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 12:43:41 +0000

He tries to stay home. He tries to stay on the porch. But eventually, Charlie feels the call of the wild.

(We’ll talk about the pink another time. It was a personal choice, though—that much I can tell you.)

We have a set of wooden steps near our pond—steps too small for Charlie to access underneath, but roomy enough for varmints of all kinds to hang their hats and call home.

Varmints love those steps. I think representatives from the entire varmint kingdom live under there.

Charlie has made a daily routine of sniffing up and down the thirty-foot run of stairs to accurately assess what’s down there. He’s sort of hunting them, I suppose. But with no hope of ever coming into contact with the objects of his olfactory nerve—the varmints are way too clever for Charlie—I’ll never understand why he does it.

Up…down…up…down…it happens every single morning without fail.

“Hey, open up. It’s the plumber. I’ve come to fix the sink.”

Charlie’s not the sharpest pencil in the box.

But he sure loves to use his sniffer.

And I sure love to watch him.

“Hey, guys—open up. I’m the HVAC guy. I’ve come to fix your air conditioner.”

Actually, he’s the Orkin man.

And he wants varmints.

At this point in Charlie’s day, that’s pretty much all he wants.

Emptyhanded. Emptyhanded and varmintless. Dejected, Charlie makes his way back to the house.

Don’t cry for him, though. He’ll forget all about it during the twelve hour nap he’s getting ready to take on our couch.

Twelve hour naps cover pretty much all of life’s disappointments.

Cows Don’t Care About the Backstreet Boys

Ree Drummond — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 13:13:25 +0000

Cows don’t care about Bonnie Hunt, book signings, or bestseller lists.

No, really. They seriously don’t care. Just ask a cow if you don’t believe me. Just saunter up to one of them and ask, “Did you guys catch that Bonnie Hunt episode where the Backstreet Boys performed?”

They’ll just look at you and say, “Mehhhhh.”

Not “Moooooo“. “Mehhhhh.”

Cows don’t really care about the Backstreet Boys.

And that makes them larger than life.

Sorry. Couldn’t resist.

While the girls and I were gallivanting around Los Angeles last month, Marlboro Man and the boys had to travel down to the farm to ship some cattle.

Someone’s gotta keep this place running around here. It’s usually me, but I’m letting Marlboro Man step up to the plate while I’m busy doing other things. It’ll build his confidence.

There was a time when Marlboro Man wouldn’t have been able to take our boys to the farm with him without having someone along to watch them while he worked.

But as it turns out, our oldest boy was Marlboro Man’s number one helper on that trip. That’s him on the end.

Why do I suddenly want to break out in “Circle of Life?”

I’ll try to control myself. For now.

Marlboro Man called me from his horse that morning. It was two hours earlier in Los Angeles and I didn’t answer the phone the first thirteen times he called. But I finally answered. I was dreaming and said, “Is that you, Pedro?”

Anyway, he just wanted to tell me how far our boy has come…and how excited he was to watch him gather cattle with the rest of the crew.

He was proud of his boy.

And as we chatted on the phone that morning, Marlboro Man dutifully snapped photos of our boy in action, knowing I’d want to see.

And that makes him larger than life.

A Word to the Wise

Ree Drummond — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 17:06:37 +0000

If you’re a fair-skinned redhead…

And you painstakingly and meticulously exfoliate and apply a high quality self-tanning cream to your face, chest, neck, arms, hands, and head…

And your sister-in-law grabs you on your way out the door of your cookbook signing in Phoenix and says, “Hey, you should wear your high heel black shoes instead of boots with those jeans!”

Be sure to remember to apply a quick layer to your lily-white size-nine feet before you go.

Either that, or tell your sister-in-law to keep her fashion tips to herself.

Especially if she’s a blond who tans easily.

Those easily tanned blonds. They’ll never, ever understand my plight.