The Pioneer Woman

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.

Give it Up, Charlie

Ree — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 18:28:33 +0000

Basset Hounds are known for many things. Their long ears, for one. Their short legs, for another. Their droopy eyes. Floppy skin. Turtle breath. Snoring. And their manipulative, obstinate, I’m-going-to-act-pitiful-to-assert-my-will attitudes that just grate on your ever-living nerves until you just want to…

Sorry.

Charlie and I have been sorting through a few issues lately. Not sure if you’d noticed.

One thing Basset Hounds are not known for, however…

Are their fast-as-lightning reflexes. Imagine if you will: this photo was taken on a Tuesday. Charlie thinks he has Josh’s barn cat treed.

This photo was taken one week later, seven whole days after the cat casually leaves the tree and runs away. It took Charlie that long to realize he was supposed to move.

As Charlie’s loving owner, I really have no choice but to cheer him on and embrace him, no matter what he can or can’t do.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to crack up daily at his shortcomings.

It’s become quite the hobby of mine, actually.

Beauty…To Me

Ree — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 02:00:00 +0000

Is this

This

And this.

Beauty is this

This

This…

And this.

And okay, fine. This.

Beauty is sunrise

Sunset

Rainbows

Seasons

Freedom

Wisdom

Peace

And love.

I Need Your Help (Updated)

Ree — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 16:13:24 +0000

*Note from Pioneer Woman: Because of information learned this morning, this post has been amended.*

I have this book of old children’s portraits. Don’t ask me why I have it. I just have it.

I have other things you don’t know about, too. I’ll reveal them gradually over time.

The photos are from another time and place. What time and what place, I don’t know.

Oh, sure—many of the photos are totally harmless.

Some even hold a tiny bit of vintage charm. I’ve always loved bald babies.

God love her—this little one captured my heart.

And hey—Anne Geddes, 150 years ago! Who doesn’t love a chubby baby sitting in a pot?

I will admit that this photo gave me a moment of pause. You just don’t see this kind of thing in your local Sears Portrait Studio.

Although…one could argue that these photos were taken at a time when children sometimes found themselves in the position of defending their families from enemies.

So I’ll let the firearms slide.

I can also see past this man’s abundant beard and recognize that it was probably in fashion at the time, and besides…he’s just doing his best to care for his sweet daughter Petunia.

What I can not forgive is this.

Mullets have never been right, and they never will be.

Trust me. I had one once.

Now, I did find this somewhat charming.

I think.

And okay, this is relatively cute.

But then you have these. The Angry Ones.

The Angry Ones are everywhere.

Aww. Smile, precious! And the world smiles with you!

Oh my word. The Anger Sisters. Bless their violent little souls.

But at least…

At least The Anger Sisters were feeling some strong emotion. *Clap clap* Hello, children? *Clap clap?* Are you in there somewhere?

Maybe they just hadn’t had breakfast.

Ahhh. At least this little party animal came in to save the day for me. I was about to crawl under my covers and never come out. Thanks, Junior!

And I thought this little girl was very sweet.

Although…

Wait just a minute…

Hmmmm. I’ll have to give this one a little more thought.

But you know what? When it comes right down to it, I can see past most all of these photos. They’re all innocent children, after all, and I can understand the limitations of photography back in the old days. The subjects had to hold extremely still for a long, long time, and it couldn’t have been much fun for anyone, especially kids.

And with that…

I’ll just end this post with this disturbing old photo:

And leave it at that.

NOTE: I have removed the photo of Myrtle Corbin after incorrectly assuming that it was a hoax or a case of double exposure. As the sister of a disabled man, it would be the absolute farthest thing from my mind to negatively bring attention to a disability. Unfortunately, because of the nature of the book in which I found it, I had every reason to believe the photo was staged. My fault entirely for not doing my due diligence to get to the bottom of it before posting.

Goodbye Forever,

Pioneer Woman

The Early Days

Ree — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 16:25:15 +0000

(Pioneer Woman, Eighth Grade.)

The thing about being a “writer” for any length of time is that you can always look back at the things you’ve written and get a glimpse of yourself at another time in history. Ga-Ga recently handed me an essay I wrote about my brother Mike back in the eighth grade, and I roared. Sure, the stories about Mike brought back wacky memories of navigating adolescence with a developmentally disabled brother, but what mostly struck me was how much better my vocabulary was back then. I could tell I was being drilled daily, and possibly whacked with a yardstick or ruler.

I think I might have actually used the word abstruse.

What does abstruse even mean? And what does it have to do with my brother Mike?

Anyway, the thing about about being a blogger is, you have at your fingertips a time capsule into which you can peer to get a glimpse of yourself one, two, three, and in my cases, four years into the past. Over this past weekend, as I read some of the things I wrote back in 2006 when I was in my thirties, a few pounds lighter, and full of all kinds of hot air and hope, I couldn’t help but wonder:

a) Why anyone in his right mind ever came back to my site for a second visit

b) What I did with my time before I developed the bizarre ritual of photographing everything I cooked

c) Why anyone in his right mind ever came back to my site for a second visit

There was this poem I wrote, which I’d written and emailed to my sister Betsy in an attempt to poke fun at both motherhood and Sylvia Plath:

I’m a dull weed
Choking the spirit of my garden cohabitants
With my prickly shoots.
I hate.
I hate much.
I love although I hate.
My children wither in my noxious shade
Because I won’t let them use glitter.
They dream.
They dream much.
Of sparkly planets with glitter moms and painting with their many digits.
Dream on, losers.

Ree
Copyright 2006

Beautiful, isn’t it? Inspiring? Uplifting? I swell with pride just reading it.

And I just love how I felt the need to copyright this very important work.

The early days of my blog were also a time of catharsis, where I posted all the festering stories from my past—among them this disturbing tale of an exchange I had with Different Strokes actor Gary Coleman back in the eighties:

My Lap Dance with Gary Goleman

If you haven’t read it, basically I run into Gary Coleman at Benihana in Beverly HIlls and I…

Never mind. I can’t talk about it.

A few days after starting my blog, I tried my hand at poetry a second time with this masterpiece:

Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?
Their war cries pound my brain.
Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?
I slowly go insane.
Will you? Can I? Why not?
So goes the daily grind.
But wait–I am their mommy.
I love them.
Never mind.

Ree
Copyright 2006

Stirring, isn’t it?

Around this time of catharsis, I also shared a story that had gnawed at me for the ten years I’d been married:

Anything for a Date

If you haven’t read it, basically I was newly married with a tiny baby and was stranded out in the country and in order to get Marlboro Man to take me out for New Year’s Eve I had to…

Never mind. I can’t talk about it.

There were also my tiny Cowboy Colloquialisms, which I’d post here anytime I’d hear a new one around the ranch

“It’s rainin’ like a cow peein’ on a flat rock.”
Translation: It’s raining hard.

“He’s worthless as tits on a boar hog.”
Translation: He’s lazy and unproductive.

“She’s got tongue enough for 10 rows of teeth.”
Translation: She talks a lot.

“Big hat, no cattle.”
Translation: All talk, no action.

“Go piss up a rope.”
Translation: Please inform him I’m not interested in discussing it any further.

I’m as fascinated by these little quips now as I’ve always been.

“Honey? What exactly did Big John mean when he told me I was worthless as tits on a boar hog?”

And it just goes downhill from there.

Back in first days of my blog, I generously shared this photo of my brother-in-law’s cowboy hat with a present I’d left on the brim:

I felt the world—at least, my four readers—would benefit from knowing this photo existed.

A couple days later, demonstrating that not only did I know nothing about country life in general, I knew nothing about the mating intricacies of domestic animals, I posted this tale:

Love Will Keep Us Together

I got a couple of emails.

One read “Ree, do you know ANYTHING about country life?”

It was from my mother-in-law.

The other one read “Ree, do you know ANYTHING about dogs mating?”

It was from my dad.

He’s always been very supportive.

After that, I pulled out all the stops and posted a story about my elderly great-grandmother laughing and blowing a booger on my hand, and I figured that would be the end of my blog forever.

Unfortunately for both society and culture in general…

I didn’t stop.

The quality content just kept pouring out of me.

The P.R. in Kenya

Ree — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 02:25:36 +0000

Pastor Ryan is really just Ryan, but he’s also a minister at a church in Cincinnati. So when he and I became friends and he started contributing step-by-step recipes on The Pioneer Woman Cooks, I started calling him Pastor Ryan just for fun, and unfortunately for him, it just sorta stuck. “Stop calling me Pastor Ryan!” he would yell. So I would say, “Okay, Pastor Ryan.”

We’ve been great friends ever since!

When Ryan and his beautiful-inside-and-out wife Allison came to visit the ranch last summer, Marlboro Man and I got to eat his delicious food and spend a few days with two people who are so full of love and life, it almost hurts to be around them. Okay, so that’s not the right way to put it. What I’m saying is, I love the P.R., I love Allison, and right now they’re in Kenya, Africa on a trip with Compassion International. It’s a long way from Cincinnati.

I’ve been busy getting dirty the past few days and hadn’t spent a lot of time following the trip until tonight, when Ryan suddenly came into my mind. It was sort of a random, roundabout thing: I was watching Real Housewives of Orange County, the episode where Tamra, in a last-ditch attempt to demonstrate her love and devotion for her husband Simon, decides to get his name tattooed on her ring finger. So I’m watching the tattoo artist poke color into Tamra’s left ring finger, and I start thinking about how I don’t have a tattoo even though I’ve always wanted a tattoo, even though what would be the point of getting a tattoo at this point in my life, but I still think maybe…maybe someday I’ll get a tattoo. Marlboro Man’s brand on my left flank, maybe.

Then I think about the subject of tattoos in general and how I actually know someone personally who has a whole lot of tattoos, and he happens to be a minister in Cincinnati named (not Pastor) Ryan. So I start thinking, “I wonder how the ol’ P.R. is doing?” and I pull up his website. As it’s pulling up I remember “Oh, yeah! He’s in Africa right now!” and feel a tinge of regret that I haven’t been following his experiences. So I say “yeah, yeah” and think I’d spend a couple of minutes looking at his photos and say something like, “Neato!” then go give Charlie the bath he so desperately needs right now.

(Homeboy stinks.)

Instead, I was completely sucked in. Ryan’s photos from Kenya are so beautiful, and within five minutes I could hardly see the computer screen through my salty, copious tears. He’s doing an unbelievable job capturing the beauty and emotion of his trip.

If you’re a fan of The P.R., or even just an appreciator of travel and beautiful photography, spend a little time over there tonight.

I think you might enjoy it.

Love,
P-Dub