7 Fascinating Fun Facts about Cowgirl Betty

“A gal can’t live by condiments alone.”—fracas

Season’s Greetings, Cowfolk. As most of you know, I haven’t had the same access to the wild world of InternetLand for the past six months or so. As a result, my posts have become less frequent. One of my New Year resolutions will be to post once a week. That way I can kick start my creative juices. So, thanks for bearing with me, y’all and not giving up on regularly checking on my site.

I have been reminded by the esteemed fracas about my lazy writing habits, and so I’ve been tagged on a meme as a result. Of course, I will tag others to pass on the Holiday joy. Like the game Othello (also a fabulous seasonal gift), rules take a minute to learn and a lifetime to master. (Well, perhaps writing takes a lifetime to master—something I still struggle with.) The rules are:

• Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
• Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog - some random, some weird
• Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
• Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

(1) I scored a perfect 5 on the English AP exam. A lot of U.S. colleges accept AP (or Advanced Placement) credits for taking higher-level classes in high school if they pass the nationally standardized AP exam for the subject at the end of the year. The first part is your standard multiple-choice reading selections and analogy sections. The second part is an essay answering a question, choosing a work out of a list of twenty or so authors. The question was examining “thoughtful laughter” in literature to demonstrate folly in the human condition. Of the authors to choose from were Jane Austin, Mark Twain, etc. I chose to write about William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury. My English teacher thought I tanked the essay for sure.

(2) I drive around in a rolling trash can. I drive a 1997 Saturn, named Norma Jean, who has seen better days. Norma Jean is littered with McDonald’s and Dunkin Doughnuts bags, coffee mugs, pens, Mapquest directions, and other U.F.O.’s (Unidentifiable Floor Objects). A layer of dust and lint is plastered on my dash, and touching it is reminiscent of reading Pet the Bunny as a kid. One of my jokes to kids is that they can’t steal my trash, nor can they step on it. Sometimes a mysterious odor--I believe it is from some spilled sour milk on one of my back seats--emanates from the seats when it is overly hot, a back window is open during a rain storm, or a kid spills yet another drink on the seat. I have to dump in a quart of oil to my engine about once a week, as Norma Jean burns oil like it is going out of style. I’m hoping she can survive another year before I have to put her out to pasture.

(3) I am a horrible speller. Regular readers already know this. Daddypapersurfer also is more than happy to comment on any of my semantic gaffes. My mother also calls me “Ms. Malaprop”. Usually no one notices when I misuse big, fancy words--except my mother and Hun. (Perhaps other people notice it as well, but they are too polite to mention it.)

(4) Playing video games makes me nauseous. Hun makes fun of me about this. He also tries to encourage me by saying that my mind hasn’t played enough video games to disassociate the action of the game from reality. I’ll stick with Tetris.

(5) I really enjoy tawdry romance novels. This shocks most people who know me. I seem like a straight-shootin’ kinda gal. They then mock me liberally about it. If they only knew how much fun they were. One of my secret goals is to write a tawdry romance novel one day. You know, one with a spunky heroine named after a plant (Willow, Fern, Iris) and a hero named after an architectural feature or a bird of prey (Sir Hawksbuttress, Duke of Roman Arches).

(6) I hated Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows. The first couple of chapters were good, and the last couple of chapters were good. However, I’d rather not drag through 600 pages of Harry whining and arguing with Hermione and Ron. I also think it is truly stupid for J.K. Rowling to “out” Dumbledore. Making Dumbledore gay just added absolutely nothing to the series. I think Rowling did it to stimulate sales from the Religious Right to buy in bulk for their rollicking book-burning parties. Now making Dumbledore gay from the onset--like when the creators of The Wire introduced the bad-ass, Robin Hood, dealer-robbing Omar--that is a different story.

(7) I eat fear for breakfast. Actually, I don’t. I eat granola and yogurt, drink two small cups of coffee, and take multivitamins. I thought it was just a very cool, Jack Bower-esque way to end the meme.

As far as tagging folks goes . . . I will tag the following: (1) OnKnees, my lady in arms, fighting the good fight, (2) my mother, The Heiffer, who is also a big romance novel fan, (3) Kimchihead to find out what really makes him tick, (4) Stella, for her fun haiku, (5) Sugar Queen for making the world sweeter, (6) R. K. Texarado, who’s humor is dryer than the Dust Belt, and (7) Rybu, who truly understands cold weather. I can also now safely say, “Not-it!”

Condiment of the Month: Nutella

I'm sitting at the local coffee shop next to Hun, sipping on a icy and refreshing beverage, and writing about general malaise. I note to some chagrin that I have not posted in almost a month. So much for best-laid resolutions of blogging at least once per week. I miss writing--time to fire up my neurons again.

I am also hungry. Not hungry (or "hugry") as I was in my last post, as much as hungering for a little adventure. My feet are itching for some exploration and travel, as it is the season for me (although fall is the season of choice for Frodo and Bilbo).

I always enjoyed family vacations. But the best adventure I have ever undertaken (notwithstanding the ongoing adventure of married life), was my 3-month trip around Europe. I recognize it is a bit pale in adventure to some of my more worldly friends, but during that time I saw all the wonders I only read about, read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and fell in love with myself again. My biggest stress each day was to find a roof over my head and figure out what sites I would first hit. I met some interesting people and made some friends along the way. All the while, my diet consisted mostly with fresh-baked bread, wine, and Nutella.

I fell in love with Nutella while I was PMSing in France. Although my unwelcome Aunt Flo followed me across the Atlantic, Nutella kept my aggravations at bay. Nutella comforted me on days I felt more than lonely, was a quick gnash in the morning before heading to a museum, a wonderful wind-down snack while lounging in a hostel and sharing the beloved jar with fellow travelers in the mood for the tasty morsel or just some conversation.

I also discovered how wonderful Nutella is with bananas in Switzerland, and traded Nutella for some Vegemite in Munich. I chatted about life, the universe, and everything with some Aussies, some Irish honeymooners, and some Harvard Law students--influenced by generous amounts of red wine, topped off with Nutella when the philosophical drunkenness drowned into hunger.

Some Nutella paved the way for some girls to ask me to tour Rome with them. I wouldn't have seen the city otherwise--I heard too many horror stories about it at the time to travel through Rome alone. Rome wound up being my favorite place in my European tour, and I owe the opportunity presenting itself to Nutella.

When I returned, I went on hiking trips and camping trips with a jar of Nutella in my backpack to keep my energy up. Before the airline restrictions on carryons, I would sneak Nutella on flights to munch on long rides.

I don't practice the "have Nutella, will travel" philosophy so much today. With my slowing matabolism and Hun to keep me company, I'm more likely to pack sun screen than the chocolate-hazelnut spread. I didn't bring Nutella with me to Thailand, nor to any of the cities I've seen along the East Coast. But to this day, when I see Nutella, I still think about how the age of Conan the Barbarian was described: these are the days of high adventure.

In a couple of weeks, Hun and I will have passed a couple of milestones. He will officially be finished with half of his grad program--and have completed a mojo-important test. We will also have completed our first year of married life. We will be celebrating by enjoying fireworks by the Brooklyn Bridge. Although no Nutella graces our cupboards, I still think our time here in Upstated New York has been (and will continue to be) filled with high adventure.

Return of the Son of Wintry Mix

Woke up this morning with about an 1/8th of an inch of ice glommed onto all outdoor surface areas. The main surface areas I was concerned about today were (1) my car and (2) the road. I had a packed day of a morning meeting with some bioparents and an out-of-state transport in the afternoon.

I slipped and slid, grabbing onto any less-slick objects to steady my balance as I heated my car and hacked off the ice from my windshield. I periodically checked the school closings, basically concluding that Upstate New York was closed due to the delightful weather outside, to warm up and to debate whether or not I should even attempt to leave the house. I thought about the 4-hour trek back and forth this afternoon. I (thankfully) was able to reschedule the appointment for later in the week.

I continued to hack away at the ice on my car, while some drizzly substance iced over onto my coat and hat, and liberally applied sidewalk salt to pave the way from our front door to my war-weary car. (Norma Jean has seen better days. As my mother would say, she looks road hard and put up wet.)

I call the social-service office once it opens to find out if my partners in crime plan on rescheduling the meeting. It's definitively decided that all are grounded, and folks should not risk coming in.

I am currently drinking a mug of joe and enjoying the free time available. Perhaps I will watch Die Hard, or some other Christmas movie while wrapping presents for Hun. Perhaps I will cyberstalk my friends, family, (and some strangers) as well. Bwahahahah!

Although this all sound comforting, I wish I could have gotten my appointments out of the way--but not enough to brave the icy shit splattered outside. The weather forecasts more icy shit this afternoon and evening, tapering off and clearing out for "ball sucking" cold tomorrow morning.

Cinamon Rolls and Black Coffee

It's the first day of fall--my favorite season. I have all my sweaters thrown around the apartment, and I decide I am tired of them all. I found a decent thrift store yesterday and I bought two sweaters and some matching hand-painted teacups and saucers. I noticed a decent piece of furniture to refinish, and art-deco dresser and mirror, but the asking price is too steep for the bother of hauling it home and baptizing it in stripper, sand paper, and varnish.

I show off my finds to Hun. He looks unimpressed with them all. He asks me if I plan on washing the sweaters before I wear them. He reminds me we have plenty of teacups and mugs bursting forth from our cabinets. I explain I plan to decorate with them, not drink with them.

I make birthday lasagna for Hun in the kitchen. He comes to kiss me and investigate my progress.

While the lasagna is baking, I wallop Hun at backgammon. Thunder crashes and rain pours down from the sky.

We rush outside and test Hun's new rain gear. He is in awe of the GorTex contraption, playing with all the little gadgets. He is in heaven.

Although my jacket keeps my torso relatively dry, my jeans are soaked.

We return to our apartment. Hun still praises the virtues of his new raincoat. I peel off my soaked jeans. Hun points out the only dry spot on my jeans is the area around my butt. He snickers and I roll my eyes--but I smile anyway.

Hun takes out the lasagna to cool. He wallops me at backgammon.

We eat lasagna and watch Jack Bauer save the world yet again on 24.

I make cinnamon rolls and black coffee this morning . . . mmmm . . . I love fall.

A Touch of Fall

It's 11 pm and it finally started to rain. The weather has been threatening all day.

This morning started with the humidity pressing against me as I woke up with my on-call cell blaring the cha-cha, alerting my ass to get out of bed. It was a foster parent, demanding to know why the office was locked up when a CPR class was scheduled this morning. I tell her the class doesn't start in an hour and her overzealous desire for the world conform to her schedule doesn't constitute an on-call emergency. Peachy crazy.

I brew a pot of coffee. Hun pours half the pot as he runs out the door to study in the air-conditioned school. He has a big test next week and wants to do well.

I stare at the television and sip my coffee. I ponder at the idea of straitening the living room, but my telekinesis skills are a little rusty. My skin is coated with a layer of sweat. My hair drips. I fondly recall wearing a sweater to work on Monday.

I gather enough motivation to walk three steps and turn on the television. I pop in Ghost Ship and work a couple of sudoku puzzles. I lie on the couch and concentrate on napping but it's too hot. Instead, I obsess about the great work what-ifs and related crapola.

To say I had a tough week is putting it mildly. It's been one of those times I'm sorely tempted to sell my soul to the Devil of Capitalism. Screw fighting the good fight--good things rarely come from it. But those rare, good things keep my job worthwhile. My boss and my coworkers have been very supportive.

Sweat drips off my nose and I've had enough. I throw my saline-crusted hair in a bun and head to the mall for some cool relief. When I open the door to Border's, I sigh. My pores close and my glasses fog. What a joy central air can be.

I roam from store to store, just enjoying the air, not looking at anything in particular. My hair is a frizzy knot on top of my head, and I can't stand it anymore. I look on the mall directory, and I find a hair salon. I give them a picture I've been carrying around for the occasion of a short, sassy hairstyle. A half hour later, I am wearing a bob. It's fine on me--but not what I wanted.

I pick up Hun from school on the way back. He looks surprised at my new look. I melt down. I look heinous, I am having my period, I am sweaty, and I had a shitty week at work. We have sandwiches. We watch an episode of 24. I cry some. He hugs me and says he still finds me attractive. I calm down and tell him he needs to study again.

He leaves. Lightning flashes. It rains.

Relief.

Winding Down of Slurpee Season

Leaves hint gold along the edges, sweaters slowly creep out of storage, and cats snuggle more on their human heaters. As much as I enjoy the crisp air and hot cocoa of fall and eagerly anticipate kids running around in Halloween costumes, extorting candy from strangers, I feel a slight melancholy as mid-afternoon Slurpee runs dwindling down to a trickle.

A 7-11 is a quick jaunt away from my office. On the rare days I'm sitting at my desk, returning phone calls and catching up on paperwork, I get an urge to be anywhere other than where I am around 3 pm. I notice smudges on my computer screen, my feet start dancing on their own volition under my desk, and I even consider--horrors of horrors--shifting my heaps of paper into orderly skyscrapers to avoid writing one more word. Then, a flash of hope crosses my mind: this is a great time to walk down and get a Slurpee.

Inspired by the Hope of the Slurpee, I trudge on through even a couple of reports or a few more notes, poll the office for any cohorts and take orders to bring back. My therapist friend and I grab our refill cups and we scoot out the door, feeling a little more free. We hold a quick bitch session, and we swelter in the summer heat walking through nondescript parking lots, under a highway overpass, and across the street. No matter the heat, we always walk. . .

As we enter the air-conditioned oasis that is the 7-11, we glance over the flavor options and test the spouts for consistency. (There's pina colada, but it spits mostly water. The cherry seems to have the best icy smoothness. The "diet" is always out of order.) We then spend another five minute pounding the air out of our cups and filling them again to the top. The Slurpee keeps me going the rest of the day until I go on a late home visit, or just go home.

Now fall is in creeping around the corner and summer is slipping away, folks are more inclined to coffee and driving than Slurpees and walking. I'm also the third staff member to leave in a couple of months. My replacement has already headed for the hills before she even walked in the corral.

Most importantly, I don't think any of them could ever truly understand and appreciate the art of the Slurpee. But my time is limited, and I am ready to hit the trail.