What’s Your Name? Little Girl, What’s Your Name?

By: Payton M. Ishmael

I can't remember how old I was when I decided that Lynyrd Skynyrd was cool, perhaps it was during the same era as my Van Halen hair cut. I'll admit, the following thoughts came to me while running on the treadmill singing along to "What's Your Name?"
Recently in the teen Sunday school class, we discussed how God changed Sarai's name (meaning ‘contentious’) to Sarah (meaning ‘beautiful’) and then blessed her late in life with her first born child. By "late in life", I don't mean how many are choosing to wait well into their 30's to become parents, but far beyond today's average entire life span. He also changed Abram's name (meaning ‘exalted father’) to Abraham (meaning ‘father of multitude’) and made him the father of many nations. I'm fond of Abraham's many stories. I really think a great name was selected for the child he had with Hagar. Although, I'm quite sure Ishmael was never accused of being the favorite.
So there I was, singing along to Lynyrd Skynrd, running away on my treadmill, and thinking about Abraham. The thought kept coming back, "What's your name?" I guess it's a slight possibility that I had my iPod on repeat, but you get the point.
I feel like I'm a different person than I was 5 years ago. Many of you probably feel the same. We face experiences, some good, others bad, that make a mark in our lives and cause us to grow in one of many directions. As a result, these changes make us into new people in a sort. Sarai and Abram were both changed and blessed by God and to show outward proof of becoming new creations, they were given new names.
Is it time for things in your life to change? Is your complacency destroying you? Is there something you need to let go of? Change is one of the few certainties we have in this life. Make sure to use the change in your life for good and for the cause of Christ. We too have the opportunity to become new creations in Christ. Have you made that decision? What's your new name? Better yet, what’s your new purpose?

Fabulous & Fascinated

“The world fascinates me.” – Andy Warhol

My attention was instantly captured when I read this quote hanging on the wall of Washington D.C.’s Third Edition. It’s true you, know. The world and the lives we live here are quite intriguing. Weather that permits shorts and sandals Monday, requires pea coats and scarves Tuesday, followed by umbrellas and rain boots Wednesday, laying out in a bikini Thursday, building a snow man Friday, an overcast, cloudy movie day Saturday, and finally a beautiful day for a pic-nic Sunday.
Unexpected. Unpredictable. Unexplainable.

Much like the up’s and down’s of the even more chaotic ride we call life. From happy to hating, from crying to rejoicing, from calling it quits to falling in love, from defeated to conquering, from positive to uncertain. It’s never ending. The only certainty is uncertainty. The only thing sure is change.

And so, rather than resisting it, we learn to embrace change.

Flat tires. Broken wheels. Missed flights. Plane reroutes. Burned restaurants. Missed reservations. A city water line break. They can’t be prevented and they can’t be changed. Sometimes, while living, life gets in the way. We can cry or we can curse, but the result will be exactly the same if we smile, or laugh about it. And so the story we goes, we “dance like nobody’s watching and love like we’ve never been hurt.”

If I Die Young

By: Payton M. Ishmael

I’ve never been a talented musician, nor has my voice ever been one to serenade the millions. In fact, recently I was told that my whistling was horrid and was asked nicely to “just stop!” I do, however, enjoy listening to good music. You can imagine my excitement, then, when I received a phone call exclaiming, “I just heard a song that made me think of you!” The thrill dwindled away as quickly as it was spurred, though, when I was told which song.
In the words of, The Band Perry:
“If I die young bury me in satin. Lay me down on a bed of roses
Sink me in the river at dawn. Send me away with the words of a love song”
Woah! Woah! Woah! How incredibly morbid that a song about death and the wishes thereafter spurred a though in someone’s mind to think of me! First of all, I don’t think satin would be my material of choice. Second, roses are far too generic. Third, I think drowning would be a tragic death so I’d prefer not to be thrown into a river… even after I’m deceased. Most importantly, I’m the anti-love, so PUH-LEASE do not send me away with the words of a love song.
After listening to the lyrics in their entirety about 50 times, I decided that one line held true, while yet another instigated a very important thought.
The ONLY line that I want correlated to me, “So put on your best boys and I’ll wear my pearls.” You must know that I love, love, love pearls; A true and classic indicator of class. A well dressed male isn’t the worst thing that could happen either.
The line that inspired my sharing with you, “The sharp knife of a short life, well I’ve had just enough time.” The sharp knife of a short life… I could be wrong, but personally I don’t think I’ve had enough time just yet. However, it brings to my remembrance that we never know just how long we will be here. We have a limited amount of time with an unknown expiration date. To God, that time is “but a breath.” So we have merely a Heavenly breath in which to leave our mark, make history, change someone’s life, and leave a legacy.
The song goes on to say, “A penny for my thoughts, oh no, I’ll sell them for a dollar. They're worth so much more after I’m a goner. And maybe then you’ll hear the words I’ve been singin’. Funny when you're dead how people start listenin’.”
It’s true. After we’re gone, the words we said, the things we did, and the life we lived all have the ability to remain. How will you choose to be remembered after you’re long gone?

“Who would have thought forever could be severed by the sharp knife of a short life?”

Make the moments count.

Sticky Stipulations

By: Payton M. Ishmael

We’ve heard them all before, conditional commitments. I’ll lose weight, starting Monday. I’ll donate more money, as soon as I get raise. I’ll start going to church on Sunday nights when work slows down. I’ll go back to school, after my kids are out of the house.
I know three people who lost their fathers this week. Although two were somewhat expected, one was a complete freak accident. I think about how fast times flies and how quickly life changes.
With the element of uncertainty ever present, I wonder why we continue to put things off, waiting on the right person, the perfect time, or the ideal circumstances. Rest assured, you’ll miss out on much of life waiting for the right person. Timing, you’ll learn, is often irrelevant. And the ideal circumstances, most often turn out to be opposite of what we initially expect.
And so, we must say goodbye to our stipulations, step out of our comfort zones, and quit watching life pass us by. Don’t stand around waiting for a ship that may never come in. Don’t settle. Don’t stop the forward progress. It’s quite a shame life doesn’t have men in black and white pin stripe shirts running along side us, throwing little yellow flags to indicate our penalties. Would you be guilty of a ‘delay of game’?
I consider Adrian Peterson to be one of the greatest running backs of my time. It could have something to do with his alma mater, but who’s to say? Throughout his career, I’ve never seen him take possession of the ball, stop, and look at his teammates… “Hey man, you gonna block so I can run this to the end zone?” “I don’t like my old-man Favre, so I’m gonna just hold the ball wait until these people wisen up and get Sam Bradford as my quarterback.” Oh no! Not Adrian. He’s the best because he’s focused on making forward progress. Does he make mistakes? Yes, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps going in the same way that we should. We’re gonna fumble. We’re gonna get plum laid out. If we persevere, though, there are goal posts and pretty end zone in our future.

Early in the week, tornadoes and bad weather plagued this area of the state. I didn’t see a twister or any damage inflicted by the natural disasters, but I stood beneath the gray and watched as lighting perforated the bleak, eerie sky. I felt the ground reverberate as I listened to the roaring sound of thunder. Staring into the endless oblivion of the storm, I couldn’t imagine how the sun could ever shine again. How could a world that currently seemed so dark and cold ever muster up the likes of a crystal clear blue sky, fluffy clouds that resemble cotton balls and marshmallow cream, or a sun bright enough to provide light even to the darkest corners of the world?

There’s a striking resemblance between weather and the human life. We have storms much like the ones we witnessed recently, where it seems as if nothing will ever get better. It seems almost as if a second flood is coming, until finally, when it’s all said and done, we see pastures renewed and refreshed. We see the living shades of green all around, and our crops are blessedly plentifully.

We have the raging thunders of constant turmoil. It seems during these times, the bark is so much bigger than the bite. We hear the noise around us and it continues to nag and nag at us, stealing our sleep and crushing our spirit. Thankfully, we know that joy comes in the morning and the storm has once again subsided.
We have monotony of the overcast. This is my forecast right now. I feel as if I go through the motions day after day. Not a bad day, not a good day. Just life… but I know there has to be more.

We have the hope of a springtime shower. One of nature’s most beautiful phenomenons is to walk into a springtime shower. Warm water splashes, new life is born, and flowers begin to emerge from beneath the soil.

We, of course, have the joy of a bright, sun shining day; the moments we look forward to and never want to go away.

Like the weather changes, so do the seasons of life. We will inevitably find ourselves in the midst of dark, disheartening times where the forecast seems terminal. Don’t lose hope, my friends, He makes all things new. In order to get the sunshine, we have to put up with a little rain.

“You have a way of turning winter to spring. Make something beautiful out of all this suffering.” – Nicol Sponberg

These Two Feet, Well, They Were Made for Standing On

I can remember several times being asked the question, “If you could give one piece of advice, what would it be?” As a younger person, I naturally responded with something meaningless and cliché, “Follow your heart.” “Be yourself.” “Stand for something or you’ll fall for anything.” Those days, though, are long gone right along with my natural hair color; Days and a color that I’ll always remember yet never to which I’ll return.

After experiencing the harsh reality of adulthood, many things have changed; my priorities, the way I spend or don’t spend my money, my friends, my career pursuit, and we must not forget that the advice I’d like to pass on has most certainly undergone severe modifications as well.

“Stand on your own two feet.”

Yes, you heard it from the girl who drives to her grandparents’ house every day during break for lunch, calls her favorite fashionista to ask which shoes will go best, and still goes to the service center to have her car maintained. I can’t do everything by myself but I’m learning, and while I learn, I know where to go to get things done.

I have a mental picture album of the way I foresaw my life from the eyes of myself as a little girl. I’ve pictured myself as Princess Belle; finding the Prince who seems a Beast but has a heart that beats with nothing but love. Cinderella’s story has played time again with my very own feet sporting the glass slippers. I’ve even imagined being a blonder, more western-hemisphere, version of Jasmine, overcoming obstacles all for the sake of love.

Inevitably, though, with age comes a steady stream of wisdom. I was more disappointed by the revelation that fairy tales don’t exist than I was by the truth that Santa Claus isn’t real. I learned at relatively early age that ‘make believe’ isn’t a cultural element that I’ll be passing on to my children.

That’s when I thought I’d arrived at adulthood; when I discovered that there are true-life stories of devoted, loving, lifelong couples. First to mind are my Anna and Poppy. Granted, I’ve put them on pedestal and deemed them Earth’s only sole slices of perfection, they have proven that whatever it takes for a man and woman to last, works. Then, my mind jumps to Cathey and Freddy, the two most genuinely sincere people around. I’ve never seen such an incredible exchange of mutual respect, trust, and admiration between two hearts. I’m sure there is a slew of others, but these are the couples who capture my attention. They stand as a testament of hope for those who disbelieve in that thing called ‘love.’

And again, wisdom reins, and common sense reminds me that I’m a constituent of a new generation. A generation where love no longer exists, where trust is obsolete, and where long term commitment is extinct. I live in era where movies are no longer produced in black and white and the principles of relationships have become as blurred as the skylines of all major, metropolitan cities.

Nowadays, relationships operate much like those old AOL trial CD’s you could pick up for free at your local Wal-Mart. Use it until the free time runs out, then head back to the store to pick up another. Men and women are equally guilty. It’s a dog eat dog world where only the strong survive. That’s the key; strength. You find your own means to build your emotional muscles and you go with it. For me, that avenue comes by relying on nobody, trusting in no one, and keeping everyone at a healthy arm’s length away.

“Stand on your own two feet.”

Oh, and of course, make sure your feet are fabulously covered.

First Down Ooooooklaaaaaahomaaaaaa!

It was August of 2003 and I was full of fear. Scared of living alone, terrified my first semester of college would be too hard, and mortified of the elusive ‘freshman fifteen.’ I worked out multiple times a day and would go so far as to count out each, little piece of cereal, pour juice into a measuring cup as to not drink too much, and avoid all avenues of temptation that might prove my self control to be faulty. I reckon, even with those extremes, I packed on a few pounds. Late night study groups left me craving Pizza Shuttle. Bad days always made a good excuse to escape to Rusty’s Frozen Custard. The snack kitchen of the Gamma Phi house made for a good home away from home. I was forewarned, though. There was no excuse for me to stuff myself silly knowing that I could fall prey to the evil freshman fifteen.

Sweets to me, though, are much like shoe shopping; charge now, pay later. Eat now, work out extra later. Eventually, I’m going to change my ways thinking and work out before I indulge, save before I splurge. I’ll let you know when that feat is conquered. Don’t expect to hear from me soon.

The first-year-fifty, though, isn’t one you hear about. I’m not talking about college anymore. I’m referring to the first year of teaching; the doom’s day of pot lucks, the calorie cavern more commonly known as the teacher’s lounge, the necessity of coffee and the rich creamer that accompanies. I swear off carbs, and then we have a pancake breakfast. I swear off sweets, then we have desserts galore served. It even goes so far as the occasional day officially called “Fat Friday” where everyone brings a dish to share. The name itself should be enough to make everyone run for cover, but instead it lures me in much like the cocktail dresses at BCBG. All hope is lost. Obesity haunts the hallways as teachers hide behind diet soda. It attacks you much like Oklahoma’s defense sacked ole Colt McCoy; strong, swift, and the poor kid didn’t see it coming.

I knew I had to do something. I mean, news flash, a 25-year-old, single female can’t just blow up and expect to find happily ever after. I made an oath to myself, I will no longer eat any sweets from the teacher’s lounge unless they are homemade. Game plan: fail. I should have opted instead for a statue of liberty-type play, compliments to Boise State. At least then, I could walk away with a “w.” Because you see, in east Texas, you must have to pay higher taxes if you’re a woman who can’t cook. EVERYTHING in the lounge is homemade. Somebody is out to get me.
Jenny Craig, speed dial #1.

I finally arrived to a point where all I could think about was summer. Not because I was ready to escape from 4th graders for a couple of months, but because I could at long, last get away from the expertly baked treats by my colleagues. Out of sight, out of mind. It was my only hope of not graduating to plus sizes. I had to get away. I don’t have the self control of my co-workers. I can’t resist the goodies. I was like OU football of the 90’s, begging for the mercy of the off-season to escape the never-ending plague of losing. My first year in Canton was my own, personal John Blake era.

At last, my off-season began. A diet of coffee, yogurt, and fruit for summer 2010.
I don’t know whose recipe it is, or why I have it, but I found a printed email from my school address of something called “The Grapes Dessert.” OH MY WORD. I’m flipping back to my losing play book. Why! Why! Why! If you call the same running play multiple times for negative yardage, try a pass play. Why was I tampering with the danger of punting in my own territory? It was mid-summer and I had a spat of missing my day-to-day routine and the delectable desserts of the teacher’s lounge. I went for two, fumbled, and “The Grapes Dessert” ran it all the way back for a TD plus 2! I’m Big Game Bob and I’ve pierced my soul with another national championship defeat. The pain sears like a hot iron on the rump of Bevo, only my rump is growing just as large.

The new season starts Monday and I’m playing to win. I anticipate a perfect season. Teacher’s lounge is off limits!

Lesson Learned: The work room is much like the weight room, stick to it and you’ll be much more successful than chilling out in the lounge.

Accepting the Exceptions

I recently gave my dear friend and non-biological little sister the most valuable advice of her life; “I thought I'd taught you better. If a man opens his mouth and words come out... Those words are lies. 100% of the time.”

Bitter much? Why, yes, indeed I am. Like most girls my age, my heart has gone through a boot camp of sorts. It’s been stretched, beat down, broken, degraded, abandoned, forgotten, pressed to its limit. Being from the country, though, I’m well aware of the functionality of duct tape and have mended this heart of mine. Because of this, my heart is more heavily guarded than Buckingham Palace.

As a result, I don’t like boys.

Duke and Dutchess were the meanest duo of Doberman dogs you’ve ever met. At least that’s how I remember them. All because I tried to ride one of the massive canines like a horse, she snapped at me. As a 5-year-old, being on the receiving end of “snapping” by a 95 lb. dog meant “biting.” To a future drama queen, it meant “biting ferociously and almost killing me with its razor-like teeth.” Think along the lines of Kujo.

As a result, I don’t like dogs.

Some claim that you can ‘read’ a person by looking into their eyes. Other’s argue that it’s the palm, in fact, where a person’s story is found. Some even say you can learn all you need to know about a person by the grip of their handshake. Me? I disagree with them all. The secret is in the shoes. Boys, take notes. Flip flops indicate a girl who is easy going and laid back. Flats are found on the cutesy type. Heels, the higher the better, are reserved for the sassy, sexy, confident woman… or the one’s men like to call materialistic and high maintenance. Gentleman, you don’t know the half of it. There’s another domain of shoes that shame the soles of women globally…

As a result, I don’t like Crocs.

Then came my mid-life crisis. Yes, age 25 is the middle of my life because there is no way I’ll be able to afford all the cosmetic surgery I’ll need after the age of 50.

I now have a dog, a Doberman if you must know; my sweet little Dixie girl. Although her ancestor almost took my life, Dixie is sure to protect it. Because of that four-legged, furry ball of fabulous, I have someone waiting on me every time I come home. Because of her snaggle-toothed grin, I’m safe from intruders who don’t know she only uses those teeth to smile. Dixie has been quite a blessing.

As a result, I don’t think dogs are so bad. I’d consider myself a dog lover, in fact.

I hate that there’s an exception to every rule. I like for things to be black and white; life issues, photos where my complexion looks washed out, and cocktail dresses. Imagine the confusion that took residence in my head when I discovered that some boys are funny, honest, and sincere. It’s a case where the exception to the rule is highly favorable.

“We were given two hands to hold, two legs to walk, two eyes to see, two ears to listen, but why only one heart? Because the other was given to someone else for us to find.” – Author Unknown

Some of my very, dearest have friends have done just that. My sweet Katie is absolutely glowing with happiness as she laughs with her silly beau. Brandy and Neeley are literally staring at the starting line of forever, waiting to begin. Brooke and Kody keep me daily entertained with their posts to or about each other. My cousins Justin and Jarrod have wonderful wives who are excellent mothers and building happy families together. My most favorite lady alive, Cathey, is the epitome of the Proverbs 31 woman, wife, and mother and has a jewel of a husband who cherishes her. Anna and Poppy are still enjoying each other; traveling, riding motorcycles, and causing all kinds of ruckus.

As a result, I don’t think boys are so bad. I’d consider myself hopeful, in fact.

“I’m ready to feel now, no longer am I afraid of the fall down. It must be time to move on now, without the fear of how it might end. I guess I’m ready to love again.” –Lady A

As for Crocs, well, I will never find a justification or change my mind about them. For a girl barely hitting the height of 5’4, I need the highest heels I can find. Crocs just can’t do the job. Sorry, Jerm. Your shoes are tragically ugly.

Like dogs and boys, I’ve never appreciated eggrolls. They look and smell putridly. Then came The Hungry Girl 200 under 200 cook book. When my sweet friend insisted we cook the nasty ‘Sassy Southwestern Eggroll’ recipe, I simply couldn’t be so rude as to tell her “no.”

As a result, I don’t think eggrolls are so bad. I’d consider them delish, in fact.

Lessons Learned:
1.) There is hope in the exception to the rule.
2.) Do a 180, and life can be completely different with a new point of view.
3.) Crocs are the ultimate fashion faux-paus.

The Theory of Three

Closer than the clique on Saved by the Bell. Hotter than the group on 90210. More dramatic than the gang on California Dreams. Cooler than the Smurfs. Longer lasting than Friends. Sexier than the cast of Melrose Place. Fresher than The Hills. More classic than Dawson’s Creek. Feistier than those on One Tree Hill.

Justin is our “get out of jail free card.”

Amber is our constant dose of analogies.

I’m still not quite sure what my role is.

And Greg, well Greg has philosophies on life. He’s the Aristotle of our time. Theories so controversial that some retaliate in utter shock in horror, while others can’t muster up the words to respond. How about you? What is your position on Greg Johnson’s infamous, “Theory of Three”?

It was a reunion weekend that started out like any other. Our late night in Uptown included a strange woman trying to jump off a balcony, Am trying to break in to the water closet, myself suggesting nose jobs to those in dire need, Justin locating every exit of the building and recording mentally every passerby, then there was Greg… philosophizing.

Just prior to me falling in love with soccer and the FIFA World Cup, we all shared a delicious lunch together. “A bird just used the restroom on my arm and I feel like we need to make a bigger deal about it,” I exclaimed after quickly wiping the bird droppings off my huge, muscular arm. More attention would not be granted though. Not because it’s not important, because it is very, very important that such tragedy took place. It’s because Greg Johnson, hereafter referred to simply as ‘GJ’, was in the midst of sharing is latest philosophy on life. In my opinion, it is his most ridiculously absurd theory to date; The Theory of Three.

“I have a theory,” GJ began.

Just like clockwork, the rest of asked in unison, “What’s your theory, Greg?”

“I have a theory that if a man doesn’t share a ‘physical relationship’ (UH-HUM) with a woman by the third date, then there is absolutely, positively, no way, under any circumstance that there is potential for a long-term relationship with that person.”

Pardon the tacky terminology… “Where I come from, that’s called a whore, GJ!” My voice was raised, not quite a yell, but almost.

I can’t remember verbatim, but Am’s response came via an analogy, as always. She spoke with a tone of equal dismay.

Justin, well, he didn’t say a word. My hope is that he believes GJ’s theory to be so outlandish that it didn’t even warrant response. My fear is that he agreed but was gentleman enough not to let the ladies of the table know.

“I mean it,” Greg continued. “Think about it. If you’re not attracted to someone by the third time you spend time together, then how could you spend the rest of your life with that person?”

Confession:

After letting GJ’s theory stew for a month, I have to admit that I agree (only partially) with this theory of his. I’d go so far as to modify his philosophy into ‘The Theory of One.’ I should be attracted to someone after date number one. This doesn’t, however, merit the necessity to become ‘physically’ involved with that person. Let’s consider banks and money. Banks are home to enough money to pay for the rest of my grad school, purchase a new car, and provide some spending money. I want that money. It’s appealing to me. It doesn’t, however, mean that I’m going to put my hands all over the money and rob the bank. As responsible adults, we practice self control… as much as possible, anyway.

Which brings us to this; are we debating over varying values or diverse measures of self-control?

Either way, GJ’s theory held enough clout to inspire our minds to ponder and our recipe wheels to start turning.

In reverence to this present-day Aristotle, Am and I teamed up to create “Theory of Three cake” inspired by the intellect or perhaps idiocy of Greg Johnson.

We searched high and low for three different cake recipes, one to represent each of the three dates. Neither of us is much fond of box cakes, so we were dead set on making three homemade cake recipes. Then the thought dawned on us. If this cake is to accurately represent GJ’s theory, then boxed cakes are the more efficient option. They’re cheap, easy, generic, and leave a nasty after taste, just like any woman who whole heartedly agrees with GJ’s latest theory.

His theory, to most men, I expect is ideal. The icing, as a result, is a made from scratch; rich and creamy. It looks good on the outside, its the inside when the not-so-yummy occurs.

Like throwing one’s self upon the stacks of money in the bank, the third date is highly attractive and overwhelmingly appealing. It’s sneaky though. Robbing a bank leaves you lonely in an empty jail cell. Cheap box cakes, or girls, are fun while they last, but leave you empty and wondering “Why did I waste my calorie count on generic cake/girl that I can get on any ole grocery store aisle/ street corner?”

Lesson learned: The beauty is in the waiting. Homemade cakes take much longer, but are much more valuable, not to mention incredibly yummy.

Plain & Simple With a Dash of Sass

“Be careful what you wish for.” We’ve all heard it more times than we’ve heard that freak Gaga plague our satellite radio with what is allegedly considered music. Just another cliché that were wise words to live by, but not for me. For me, I wanted the best of everything. I wanted the best car, the best job, the best wardrobe, the best seats, the best, the best, the best. To put it simply, I wanted the delicious fresh-pressed waffle cone, filled with milky sweet cream custard, stirred with juicy strawberries, topped with sparkly sprinkles and big, bright red cherry… make that two.

“The best”, though, isn’t always what it seems. I attended the college with the best football team of all time. I went to game after game and every time I was privileged to celebrate a victory with fellow Sooners. What’s bad about being the best football team in this great nation? We don’t know how to lose. Now, if I went to a school like TCU, Texas Tech, or Baylor then I would, indeed, know how it felt to win a game or maybe more. The perk with those schools, though, is that I would have no problem being a loser, because I would quite accustomed to being the underdog or the Cinderella who almost, but never quite found her shoe.

What could be better than having the ultimate ice cream as mentioned above? Cold, creamy, deliciousness simply can’t be beat. What happens, though, when you eat it every day? What once was considered ‘the best’ really isn’t much of a craving anymore. It gets old and boring and to be honest, we just lose our appetite and our taste buds retire from that desire. It’s very comparable to my auburn hair phase. I loved it for a while, but once it wore off, I had no desire for drab any longer.

Much like things in my life, I think I know what I want, but once I have it I realize that what I really wanted was the chase, the sense of adventure, or the sparkle. Turns out the destination or the prize weren’t really anything I wanted at all. I’m famous for fun and for choosing what’s exciting over what is calm, what is adventurous over what is certain, and what is fleeting over what is true.

And so an every day, ordinary life has become this heart’s desire.

Sure, I want to travel and see the world. Even more than that, I want a stable home I can come home to, to a person I can count on, to children who know they are loved, with a job that makes me happy, friends I can laugh with, family in good healthy, and a life that is secure.

I’ve had enough ice cream, now I’m ready from something simple… perhaps a cucumber. Well, not that simple. Spice it up just a bit, I’ll have cucumber salad.

Lesson Learned: Plain and simple with dash and sass <-- My heart's desire.

Katelynn: Baker Extraordinaire, High Heel Army Princess

"No matter what you've done for yourself or for humanity, if you can't look back on having given love and attention to your own family, what you have really accomplished?"

-Elbert Hubbard

Aunt Bebo. Growing up, I would beg to go see Aunt Bebo, Uncle Chris, Heather, and Zachary. Since Uncle Chris was in the Air Force, I got the experience of ‘being on base.’ To me, that was just about the coolest thing I could brag to my friends about. I always had the best time. I got to sit on a fire truck, look at airplanes, visit Six Flags Astro World, bake, play board games, act silly at the park, shop at the mall… It was always a fun-filled time when I went to Aunt Bebo’s and a sad, teary-eyed day when it was time to leave. Inevitably, I got older and my friends took center stage. My visits to Aunt Bebo’s house finally ceased. By the time I was a freshman in college, I regretted not making it to her house every spring break and made it a point to visit her Gatesville, Texas home. Although I didn’t get to go back and brag about being on base this time, I had just as much fun as I always did.

As my cousins have consistently grown our family with babies galore every year, I’ve had the opportunity to try to be an “Aunt Bebo.” The very first of all the babies was Ashlynn. I was still in high school when she was born, but I was thrilled to have a baby in the family. Amanda would occasionally let me babysit and I always tried to provide an action packed adventure complete with playing dress up and making a disaster with make-up. Ashlynn soon had brother, Trenton, and then finally a baby sister, Katelynn. Ashlynn is all grown up now, and Trenton does like playing dress up, so Katelynn is the object of my affection. She is a natural-born Miss Priss and I love it!

On the agenda for her most recent visit: go to the park, make pizza, bake brownie ice cream cones, play-dough sculptures, and dress up, of course. Our energy levels are equivalent; 90-to-nothing/ non-stop. I’d say it was about 8:30 p.m. before we got around to starting our dessert recipe. Katelynn, as always, did a perfect job cracking the eggs, pouring in the ingredients, stirring it all together and then licked the spoon, the bowl, and any other utensil coated in brownie batter.

Uh oh! I forgot ice cream cones… one of the key presentation ingredients for our project. About the time we were pulling out of the garage, my friend Jeremy was pulling in the driveway. “Oh my word, Jeremy! We have to go to David’s and get ice cream cones.” In the quarter-mile commute from my house to the store, it was clear that Katelynn’s night and entire life was going to be ruined if we didn’t get those ice cream cones, pronto! I whipped into the David’s Grocery Store parking lot, only to find all the lights off and not a car in sight.
Her sweet little voice rings, “does this mean we can’t make our brownie ice creams, Payton?”

Tragic!

Much to our benefit, Jeremy is a calm friend who can operate under pressure. Meanwhile, Katelynn is on the verge of tears and my heart is breaking in panic as a result. He pulls into Dairy Queen parking lot. As Katelynn and I wait in the car, I get angry. How could he stop for food at a time like this? Mean. Selfish. Inconsiderate. Typical man. He returns the car with a single sack and hands it to me to hold. Being the nosey person that I am, I peeked in the bag. “Jeremy! What is this?” I asked. “Twelve ice cream cones, cut the ice cream.”

Hero of the day!

The brownie ice cream cones turned out to be the prettiest recipe thus far. Katelynn left me souveniers of our creation everywhere; the kitchen chairs, the place mats, the rug, the floor, the cabinets. I feel certain I’ll be finding chocolate for months.

Lesson Learned: I’m never too old to escape to Aunt Bebo’s. Amanda has her hands full with the my sweet KK. My friends are the very best.

"Sissy, Wook at My Woot Beew Beddy!"

I suppose everyone has siblings. Many even have baby brothers. Nobody except for me, though, has a Landon.

Pseudonyms:

“Slime Bucket” given to him by our dad and later shortened to “Bucket.” An accurate description of how those pretty blue eyes and sweet, innocent smile were always surrounded by the likes of dirt, Spaghetti-O’s, or various bodily fluids emitted from his nose.

“Cojack” has probably faded away with the cotton blonde hair he was born with.

He goes by “Lanny Boy” most often when he’s in the company of our grandparents. This one, I expect, will stick with him for the duration of his life.

Most important, though, is the name given him at infancy by his older, wiser, beautiful sister... As I pinched his cheeks until they were as red as his Kool-Aid mustache, his name became “Baby Brudder.”

Brave Buddies:

It was early elementary when we first found out Landon had epilepsy. From then, until well into the awkward years we all call junior high, he spent just as much times hanging out with the nurses and doctors at Medical City in Dallas as he did with his peers in school. As you can imagine, the sterile atmosphere of the hospital can a drive little boy mad. Unless, of course, he has some partners in crime to endure along with him, the tireless amount of testing and experimental medications. The two bravest of comrades; Barney and Beddy Bear.

Early on, you didn’t see Landon unless he was holding on to a big, purple dinosaur. He finally exceeded me in size when he was about 6. I discovered his size and his strength when I tried to hide Barney. Good ole Barney was well-versed in EKG, EEG, MRI, and the multitude of other poking and prodding Landon toughed out. I thought he would be around forever… I thought wrong.

It took a very special friend to replace the dinosaur. I still extend my gratitude to whoever created “Beddy Bear.” It wasn’t until his arrival that we got to stop watching the same Barney video over and over and over. A mousy brown bear, with a black and red bow tie was the captor of Lanny’s attention for as long as I remember. I won’t tell you that the bear is still in his possession even as I type this because I’d never want to embarrass him like that. Landon’s bond with that stuffed animal was enough to make a big sister jealous.

When you think of the sweetest little boy there ever was, you can’t go without the brief thought of Barney and Beddy Bear as well.

Sayings:

“I wike it, I wuv it, I wont some mowr of it…” Move over, Tim McGraw. Baby brother could steal the attention of anyone around with his rendition of the then popular tune, “I Like it, I Love it.”

“My head hurt, my beddy hurt, my wegs hurt, my aw aw aw aw over hurt.” Yes, he was, indeed, a hypochondriac since January 26, 1987 established in Grand Saline, Texas.

Friends and family members, I’m sure, could share any of several of his sweet sayings, but my very most favorite had to be, “wook at my woot beew beddy!” The baby boy’s belly seriously protruded out as far as my afro hair was wide at that age. He loved drinking root beer. You’ve never seen someone who could down as much root beer as that baby. With eyes watering from gulping the carbonated beverage, he would lift up shirt, rub his stomach, and proclaim to all who would listen, “WOOK AT MY WOOT BEEW BEDDY!”

Sweet Baby Brudder. I love, love, love that kiddo. I suppose that’s why the first recipe I conquered out of my new Best Church Supper Recipes cookbook (special thanks and compliments to the wonderful Lana for her thoughtfulness) was ‘Root Beer Cookies.” Don’t jump to conclusions, I bribed him; “Baby Brudder, if you’ll come mow my yard, I’ll let you eat some root beer cookies.” Worked like a charm.

Lesson Learned: Few things in life are more precious than having a Baby Brudder.

"From the Window to the Wall"

I like to save money in sections. I have a retirement section or two. I have a section that I haven’t designated yet, but probably something important like my unborn child’s private school tuition. (Oh wait, we don’t have those in Edgewood.) Guess I’ll use that section to pay off something important… like a hit man, maybe. I have a section for next summer’s vacation. Most importantly, I have the cosmetic surgery section. Some people think cosmetic surgery is vein, I deem it imperative. Unfortunately, my salary doesn’t allow much contribution to the cosmetic surgery fund and my procedures are behind schedule.

On the agenda:
Liposuction on my thighs
Botox on my forehead
Collagen in my lips

Since, however, age is getting the best of me and my almost-nothing income is struggling to keep up with the advancement of my body’s deterioration, I have to use affordable remedies;

Anti-wrinkle day cream
Anti-wrinkle night cream
Eye cream
Restorative facial serum
A cream for eliminating dark spots
Vitamin E cream
Mayo in the hair
Weekly masks

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” –Mark Twain

Sadly, I do mind and it does, indeed matter. I’ve been a runner since middle school. Just this year, I have to endure hip pain post-run. I have bouts of arthritis in my elbow. I forget important stuff, like putting ingredients into complicated recipes. I don’t like aging. I don’t want to grow old.

Some things make me feel especially ancient.

My dad and I have a few things in common. I’d like to say “all our exes live in Texas,” but that’s false under two accounts. One, they don’t all live in Texas. Two, it would be better said, “all of Texas is our exes.”

One of my dad’s exes used to make a delicious recipe of breakfast pizza. I like to call her Window. Obviously I had to live in my dad’s house to eat breakfast there, which means I was in high school… 2003. That’s 7 years ago, I think I’m going to throw up. Time flying is not a preference of mine!

I don’t want to think about that anymore, moving on. My darling little sister came to stay with me for a few days. We saw Wicked, went to the Ranger game, rode motorcycles, you name it! We reminisced about the week she came to Norman for a few days when I was in college…5 years ago. Again, vomiting, surely it hasn’t been 5 whole years. While she was there, we made a homemade pizza for dinner… sprinkling it with entirely too much cheese. That’s when I put two and two together… make Window’s breakfast pizza recipe with Kelsey. Oh how fun!

We made a midnight trip to Wal-Mart to purchase ingredients, not foregoing candy for the trip home. As old as I’m getting, I needed the sugar rush to make it safely back without falling asleep on the way. Wah-lah! The last morning of her visit we made delicious breakfast pizza. Thank you Window for the recipe. Thank you Kel for the memory. Thank you science for cosmetic surgery.

Lesson learned: Age may be inevitable, but I’m inevitably going to fight all physical indications of it.

"Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves." -Albert Einstein

“A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.” –Coco Chanel

I am blessed with the most fabulous girlfriends of anyone on the planet. My favorite times are times spent with these lovely ladies who always ensure an incredible experience. One of those friends, is the lovely Mrs. Benjamin. During one of her visits to Edgewood, we were poolside bound when our tummies began to rumble a bit. Rather than continue on the path of anorexia, which we’d been traveling for three hours since breakfast that morning, we decided lunch was in order. We knew we were hungry for something in particular, but we just couldn’t put a finger on it. So we did what any girls we do, we went with our hunch, “I bet we’re hungry for something that begins with the letter ‘p’.” And so the trek began, we went through the list of all of our favorite things that began with ‘p’ in hopes of satisfying our midday craving.

Pitchers (the baseball kind)
Pictures
Pic-nics
Pools
Prada
Pearls
Platinum
Pottery Barn
Paris
Phones
Pals
Pink
Pilates
Parties
Pickles (especially the sweet ones)
Pony tails
Pedicures
Play dates
Planning
Passion
Position
Porsches
Plastic
Plaid
Pie
Parking
Pumps
Purses
Pigskin (BOOMER!)
Pinot noir
Plyometrics
P90x
Peace
Peaches
Pecks
P. Diddy
Paul Walker
Primping
Popsicles
Projects
Pop, lock, & drop it
Paradise
Palm trees
Perfection
Pat Green
Patrick Swayze
Pure Country
Polished nails
Pleasantries
Pink promises
Perfume
Poker faces
Pillow talks
Post-its
Payday
Pineapples
Puppies
PIZZA!

You guessed it, we made a healthy fare of pizza; whole wheat tortillas, tomato sauce, sun dried tomatoes, spinach, garlic, topped with cheese made from 2% milk.

Lesson learned: I’m not the best thing that begins with the letter “p.”

Lucky for Me, There Are More Fish in the Sea

Fishing Blooper Number 1:

I worked for weeks trying to set up a time of bonding atop the waters of Lake Halbrook for my dad, my beau at the time, and me. Bad plan. EPIC FAIL. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Don’t jump to conclusions. First, we didn’t come prepared with fishing license. Second, my beau didn’t know how to drive a standard nor back a truck... obviously not from east Texas… possibly no testosterone. Currently, I hope he is eat up with chiggers. Savvy me took over and backed the trailer so my dad could get the boat in the water. At last, time to wet our lines. I baited my hook, not perfect, but sufficient nonetheless. That’s the extent of my fishing wisdom, I can’t cast worth a flip. My self esteem wasn’t shattered though, because as I looked over and discovered that my beau didn’t even know how to bait a hook. I mean, really. What did he do as a child? I fear dress up and Barbie were a significant part of his growing up. Then my terror began to reign in casting; I caught a tire, a huge blob of moss, the boat, and finally a big catch… my dad. Thanks to me, there are still fishies in the sea.

Fishing Blooper Number 2:

Next, I had a handsome young beau who lived on Eagle Mountain Lake. One of our very first dates was… yes, fishing. I was too proud to tell him of my casting nightmares, but smart enough not to cast my line. Instead, I laid out on the dock and simply dropped my line into the water using my calf to hold the reel. I knew I couldn’t catch a fish this way, but it was better than casting a fish hook into my date’s eye socket. It wasn’t five minutes later, that my rod and reel about fell in the water. I accidentally caught a fish. Excitedly I spun the little twisty thingy and brought my fish safely to the dock. Then something came over me and my heart absolutely broke to see a poor, helpless fish stuck to a hook that I couldn’t detach. I had a panic attack. I screamed and cried as my date came to the rescue and freed Willy, or Nemo, or whatever that little fishie’s name was. Again, thanks to me, there are still fishies in the sea.

Fishing Blooper Number 3:

Just this year, I spent time fishing again on Eagle Mountain Lake (I think). By now, I’m wise enough to swear off any fishing activities that include hooks. I would hate to succumb to fuddy dud and not fish at all, so I learned how to fish with a net for this time. My teacher was excellent and I had the best time catching fish without injuring them… unless dropping it onto the dock by accident hurt it. I caught a whopping 3 fish. They were all HUGE, definitely the largest I’ve ever caught, and they each fit neatly into the palm of my hand. I’m now a professional. Of course, thanks to me, there are still fishies in the sea.

My life is comparable to my fishing. Since I don’t have a hook, all the little fishies end up back in the sea.

Since I can’t keep the stubborn fish out of water, I figured the only way to keep them was to cook them. Mrs. Alice gave me a few pounds of locally caught fish so I used a recipe for “pan seared fish” hoping the meal would be relatively healthy. So much for that, ‘pan seared’ to Better Homes & Gardens really means ‘pan fried.’ I don’t think it hindered the consumers too much as the picture indicates what was left over.

Lesson Learned: If you finally keep a fish out of water, you have to train it, I mean cook it, just right for it to be worth anything.

We're Just Like You, Only Prettier

I don’t do fast food. It’s not because I’m a diva, but because I feel like I’m going to die at an early age if I put that stuff into my body. It’s subjecting yourself to a long, slow death. I guess I’ll start with McDonald’s, where fries are worth 500 calories or about a quarter of what you’re supposed to consume in a whole day. Then on to Wendy’s where you can order a sandwich with 640 calories/ 35 g of fat. I’d keep going, but I’m going to be ill if I think any more about artery clogging, hip sticking food.

There are times in life, however, when we have to “quit crying on get back on the horse” as my friend Katie says. A prime example of this took place when I was on the way home from Durango. It was a beautiful Independence Day. We’d decided to leave a day early and break the drive up into two days rather than tackle the 17 hour commute in a single day. The plan was perfect. We’d reach Amarillo by 8 p.m. at which time we’d have a nice, relaxing dinner followed by watching the fireworks celebrating another year of American freedom.

Then the nightmare began. My chauffer says to me, “I feel pretty good, I think we can drive on in to Wichita Falls before we stop. Then we can be home by lunch tomorrow.” I had mixed emotions about this, which were clarified moments later when Jeeves added, “we can just stop in Amarillo eat, then head on.”
“Not a bad idea,” I think to myself. I can just watch the fireworks in the car; killing two birds with one stone (I've never liked that expression, its cruel, but you get the point). I even began to sing (in my head), “Oooooh, life’s so sweet right here in the passenger seat.” –SHeDaisy, I think.

I need to be real clear right now. “STOPPING to eat” leaves no room for miscommunication in my mind. I eat like a man, and I have to be fed or I get all cranky. Now, when you STOP to eat, that means you pull the car crookedly into a parking space and don’t even straighten up because you’re so excited to get inside and get some grub. You speed walk to the door so that not a single other person gets seated before I’m served with water and menu in my comfy booth, preferably with dim lighting. That’s what happens when you STOP to eat. On this particular day though, it didn’t work quite like that. You see, my chauffer and I communicate a tad bit differently, and that’s how I ended up in front of a talking sign inquiring “Welcome to Taco Bell, would you like to try our cheesy beefy gordita?”

Teehee! What a funny boy! I laughed so hard. That’s a good one. Driving through a Taco Bell drive-thru before taking me somewhere without a lard infested selection. I tried to play along so I’d seem low-key and easy going. Then he placed his order and after a good 7 minutes of ordering the entire menu, turned to me sweetly and asked, “what do you want?”

I can remember only one other day that I felt this shocked and speechless, it was the day my pet hamster Trixi ran away in 2nd grade.

“It’s okay, I don’t want anything,” I said, still in shock with eyes as wide as my hips. “Are you sure? Its going to be a long time until we stop again.” I refuse, under all circumstances, to write in a public forum how this story turned out. The point is, sometimes we find ourselves in real sticky situations, so we make do. We put our big girl panties on, and we don’t let a little bit of "death in a paper bag" ruin our attitude, especially not when fireworks are to be seen.

With that being said, I have great coping skills. I’ve learned select items on various fast food menus that I can eat without feeling like my health is tainted. There is even one in which I’ve grown quite fond and its even found at the dynasty of fast food; McDonald’s. For only $1.00, you can indulge in the delicious fruit and yogurt parfait. Mine is just like theirs, only prettier.

Fiction: You can’t judge a book by its cover.

Fact: In all reality, you can learn a lot just by looking.

She's Bossy

"You don't have to love me. You don't even have to like me, but you will respect me. And you wanna know why? Cuz I'm a boss!" -Kelis

Apparently nobody smacked my mouth nor washed it out with soap when I was a defiant child proclaiming “YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!” In fact, it might have been an expression they found ‘cute’ coming out of the mouth of a three-year-old. At age 25, however, it’s not cute anymore when I let friends and family know, “I’m the boss of this!” It now comes across as witchy… or something along those lines.

Join me in traveling down ‘poor, pitiful me’ road. Since 1984, I’ve assumed I was born with the inherent personality trait of ‘plum bossy.’ For non east Texas readers, the term ‘plum’ is defined “utterly and completely, with no room for question.” It wasn’t until a fateful , summer project day that I learned the truth about who I really am; a sweet, soft spoken, innocent little girl who has been corrupted by the headstrong, outspoken, bossiness of the one and only… ANNA!

She’s molded me into the monster you know, and done such an impeccable job of doing so that I have NEVER been accused of being sweet, soft spoken, nor innocent. Bummer, oh well! You know what they say, “well behaved women rarely make history.” And so two misbehaving ladies, Anna and me, set out to make history in the form of homemade jelly.

One thing leads to another, that’s how this jelly project came about.
The lovely Sister Cannon at church made some blackberry jelly and shared it with Anna. I was fascinated that people actually make jelly. I think many of the jewels of yesteryear are being lost in my generation. I have a great appreciation for ‘old’ things. My good friend Jeremy teases that my living room feels like walking into an old granny’s home. It’s clad in antique furniture and old black and white photos of my relatives who have passed away. I’d like to preserve the past as best I can, especially the parts that mean something to me like family heirlooms and things of the such. I’m 25, and I can tell you that my girlfriends and I have never sat around and canned fresh vegetables, made jellies, nor baked bread from scratch. Sad, but true. Thanks to Sister Cannon, I decided I too could be a maker of delicious jellies.

That’s really how this summer project idea came about. On a sheet of scratch paper, I quickly scribbled “Summer to-do’s: Make jelly.” As said above, one thing leads to another, and now I’ve made over 20 new recipes this summer. Early in the summer, I spent some good, quality time with Sister Bossy, I mean Anna and made jars upon jars of three different flavors of fruit jellies. Anna hand picked the wild plums, we searched high and low throughout east Texas for fresh blackberries (stopping at the peach orchard for homemade peach ice cream), and I’ll admit we had to buy the mass amounts of strawberries from Wal-Mart. I hand crushed fruit for so long that I suffer from arthritis in the elbow, but we’re left with wonderful memories together and the best jelly this side of the new millennium.

Lesson learned: Do NOT, under any circumstance, try to dip sugar out of the original bag at Anna’s house. Pour it into a big bowl first, then measure it out to the T and scrape the excess sugar off the top with a knife. Don’t think I’m kidding. She will blow a gasket.

So Long Self Control

From the time Sister Winfred Jones was my Sunday school teacher, I’ve been taught about the Fruits of the Spirit. Since fruit is my favorite food group, I’d like to work my way through each of the Fruits.

First, there is LOVE. I must immediately break out in song now singing completely out of tune, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world…” Anna loves Poppy. Poppy loves Jesus. Jesus loves me. I love shoes, handbags, and lip gloss.

Second is PEACE. Surely this needs no explanation as the symbol is more than prevalent in every girls’ store across the country. When I think of peace, I think about the beaches of Kuaii, the mountains of Colorado, or the sound of my precious baby brother mowing my lawn.

Next is FAITHFULNESS. Say this word to a man and they think you’re speaking pig Latin. Say this word to preacher, and he asks why you only show up Sunday morning. Say this to my dear friend Brandy, and we immediately schedule a date as to not miss a single Clinique bonus time.

Now on to JOY. Joy might be my very most favorite of the fruits. Today, while procrastinating from homework, I came across a picture of my amazing cousin, Justin, and his beautiful little girl, Presley. They were hugged up and laughing without a care in the world… the epitome of joy.

Then there is GOODNESS. This word has contributed most to my life in the form of language; OH! MY! GOODNESS!

GENTLENESS. This is the way my sweet little sister in the sorority handles her shoes; all kept nice, neat, and good as new in their original boxes. Neeley, you are inspiration to us all.

On to PATIENCE. I don’t know why this is considered a fruit. Its more like a bitter, rotten vegetable with maggots on the inside. I had to check three times to make sure I spelled patience correctly since its not a fruit I EVER deal with unless I have no other option. For example, waiting for Edward, Jacob and Bella to show up on the big screen isn’t anything I can rush.

We can’t forget KINDNESS. I really like this fruit, quite possibly my favorite. It’s like the strawberry of the spirit. Just like a pint of strawberries sometimes is tainted with rot, my kindness is sometimes tarnished, but I find I’m much happier when I show kindness to others and when they show kindness to me. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” - Bambi

Last, and quite possibly the most difficult fruit to swallow for the general public is the ever-dreaded SELF CONTROL. We each suffer from a different nemesis. I’ve found the easiest way for me to practice self control is to stay completely away from the things I can’t resist; using the ‘out of sight, out of mind” philosophy. That being said, I can generally restrain myself from completely hoarding out on all the food groups… except for the small little sections devoted to ‘sugars.’ Fortunately, the Lord promises a way out of temptation, for me that avenue is chocolate. Don’t want it, don’t care for it, I don’t even think twice about it. Additionally, when I indulge in sweets, I don’t like foods like fudge that are so rich that a single bite does the trick. I need something a little blander that I can indulge in a whole serving or three or four.

In cooperation with my summer project of making new recipes everyday, though, it’s not particularly clever to make the desserts I crave because, as explained, I lack self control. Instead I bake things I don’t really care for and work to fatten up everyone else around. It was suggested that I make something really sweet and rich, and thus the chocolate caramel cake was inspired. Two layers of chocolate cake, coated in chocolate frosting, and drizzled with caramel glaze. To tasters, delicious. To me, an excellent display of self control.

How Funky is Your Chicken?

When my dad plays golf, he tees off a minimum of three times and proceeds to play each ball for the duration of the hole. Although he may play four balls, he only records the best score for each hole. Not cheating, but not quite how the official rules go.

I insist on being ‘banker’ every time I play Monopoly. This allows me to withdraw greater amounts of money than permitted; a loan if you will. Since I’m banker, nobody knows about my zero interest loans that I accidentally forget to pay back. Not cheating, but not quite how the official rules go. Oh shoot, okay, it is cheating.

For summer project #5, I had to incorporate a bit of my dad’s golfing ‘technique’ and a dose of my Monopoly con-artistry. You see, it was required for this particular dinner to be impressive after all the boasting of I’ve done of myself. “Move over Paula Dean”, “Martha Who?”, and “Heir of THE Suzie Homemaker” are only of the few non-truths I’ve labeled myself. With such big talk, I knew I had to concoct a breath taking meal; One that was disaster-proof.

“I found this great recipe I’m going to try, I sure hope it turns out okay,” was the preface for Mexican chicken casserole. I didn’t include that my mother taught me how to cook this delicious entrée when I was old enough to turn on the oven. It’s one of those recipes that I’ve cooked so many times that I no longer need the recipe to follow. I knew if I confessed this truth though, then there would be greater expectations. I didn’t cheat, I just didn’t exactly follow the official ‘summer projects’ rules.

In less than 24 hours, then entire dish had been consumed. I had (for the 692nd time) poured my cooking expertise into a simply irresistible casserole. Cha-ching!

Disclaimer: I picked every single shred of poultry out of my serving. Long live the chickens.

I Love Your Sushi Roll, Hotter Than Wasabi

The way I see it, a person who has enrolled in medical school is not yet qualified to perform the daunting task of a brain operation nor to practice God’s most precious gift of cosmetic surgery. Instead, you want a tenured surgeon who has studied the brain to its very core and is completely competent in repairing whatever may be broken between the ears. Come to think of it, I’d like to send a few half wits to a brain surgeon. People including, but not limited to Mac Brown (a brain surgeon fresh out of med school and suffering from turrets will be perfect for ole Mac), Barrack Obama (preferably a republican surgeon from Texas or the deep south), and the idiots in charge of the college football conference shake up (I’ll enroll in med school and take care of these morons myself). For those seeking not repair, but enhancement, you want a doctor whose work is eye catching. My Uncle Bret can probably help you pick out a great pair as he is a gentleman’s lounge connoisseur. I’ve always thought plastic surgeons have a teensy bit of perversion running through their veins. I suppose that’s necessary. After all, you want a doctor who knows what he’s working with. Prior to them attending med school, I feel certain they were all fraternity boys. Not just any frat either. I’m referring to the ones with stripper poles in the common area and who are considered ‘regulars’ at Sugars on Campus Corner. In college, these men were repulsive to me. Now, I realize they were only becoming acquainted with the cosmetic surgery industry.

I need to cast myself in the realm of those who intend to pursue a medical doctorate, but haven’t yet completed the courses to attain the credentials. Don’t get excited Mom, I’m not going to med school. I can’t even balance my checkbook, much less calculate the length of incision for open hurt surgery. I do retain to the write to practice open heart surgery on a certain someone from my past, with a butter knife. Instead, what I am referring to is my venture to join the Suzie Homemaking club. People spend years baking, cooking, and serving before they arrive at this ultimate destination. Me, oh my, I’ve not even begun the initiation process. Patience, you see, is not my virtue though. That’s why I jumped straight into the ‘triple bypass surgery’ of cooking; SUSHI.

I travelled from Edgewood to Fort Worth (my favorite city in Texas) to purchase ingredients that they don’t teach us to spell here in east, TX. Nori (more commonly known as sea weed), sushi rice, sushi vinegar, and other Asian inspired delicacies were there waiting when I arrived to Central Market (Suzie Homemaking freaking Heaving).

I knew it was going to be a feat. I was already prepared for lost time, wasted money, and huge mess when this disaster was finished. Dark forces were prevalent on this oh, so important day in my summer journey. It became evident that the world was working against me when I had the idea to cook the sushi for someone else. Now, not only would my domesticity take a severe blow, but I would have an audience for my misery.

I decided I should attend culinary school before I began the project. By culinary school, I’m referring to You Tube. I learned that the rice was key. I was prepared to count every grain of salt to ensure ultimate success in making sushi rice. I didn’t have to though. After more than one hour, my sushi rice was prepared in sheer perfection. My fairy godmother must have been sitting on my shoulder. I know something magical must have taken place, similar to the children’s movie Ratatouille, because I’m no fool. I know my limitations, and I know I’m incapable of concocting such perfect sushi rice. Nonetheless, I’m also a little bit shady, and I had decided, without second thought, that I would take full credit.

The rest was easy like Sunday morning. I can scorch a bowl of oatmeal, but I can roll some killer sushi. Kudos to me. Summer project #4, I rocked it and my domestic value is sky rocketing.

Lesson Learned: Workout double to avoid getting a sushi roll, trust me that it is NOT hot… especially not hotter than wasabi.

It Doesn't Matter If You're Black or White

I know that I’m not supposed to hate, however, I feel such strong disgust toward some things that I have to at least classify the attitude as hate.

1.) Texas Longhorns
2.) Chipped nail polish
3.) Anyone married to my Dad

Allow me to explain.

As a devoted fan and alumna of the University of Oklahoma, I utterly despise longhorns, two-fingered Texans, and that gaudy color of orange that UT fans wear. I expected, and my friends prayed, that my obsession for Oklahoma and consequential hatred towards TU would simmer down after graduation. To no one’s surprise, it’s done the exact opposite and instead developed ten-fold. I’ve even black listed my dear friend Greg Johnson for pursuing his MBA at that wretched institution down south.

I don’t have to explain that chipped nail polish is ugly and tacky. I understand that it’s inevitable sometimes, so wear close-toed shoes. For this, I allow a one day grace period for repair.

It all started with a pair of yellow socks. As an 8-year-old, I liked to think that I ran the show of my parents. They had divorced only two years prior, but I was determined that they truly loved each other and I had a master plan for making them realize that they belonged together forever. Everything was going according to plan until SHE showed up. It was a Sunday morning, like any other. Anna got Landon and I ready for the day. Immediately after Sunday school, I walked into the sanctuary with the sub-conscious intention of walking to Anna’s normal seat to sit by her. After all, I did this every Sunday. Then I turned the corner…

There she was. Her perfectly styled blonde hair, her impeccable figure, and smiling without a care in the world. WHY WAS THIS WOMAN SITTING NEXT TO MY DAD? I walked right by her and didn’t say a word. I couldn’t let this stupid woman come in and ruin my plan of getting my parents back together. She was a home wrecker and she didn’t fit into my plan. After church, she even had the audacity to join our family in the parsonage for lunch. Who cares that she rode there with my Dad! She could walk herself home in those entirely too cute shoes for all I cared. “Do you kids want to go to the zoo?” she asked. Landon, of course, was in love with her so he almost performed a back flip with excitement. Not me, I couldn’t let her know that the zoo was my favorite place to go. “My dad must have told her. She must have him brain washed to tell her everything he knows,” I thought to myself.

At this time in my life, I had three concerns in life; making sure I had straights A’s, swimming, and playing in the dirt. As long as my clothes were deemed cute by me, I didn’t care if the pieces matched. After all, Anna always told me that I made the outfit, the outfit didn’t make me. This particular day, I sported mustard yellow socks; you know, the kind you pull up as high as they’ll go and then fold them over. The woman who everyone seemed to love offered, “I have some extra socks here if you’d like to wear them.” I couldn’t figure out WHY she asked me that. Did she have a problem with my favorite yellow socks? I had just began laughing on the inside because I knew Anna would reprimand such rudeness from this stranger, instead she spoke for me, “Oh, that would be great! She would love to wear your socks!” I will not type the thoughts than raced through my mind at this time.

I’ve forever referred to this tragic Sunday as “The Day of the Yellow Socks.” It’s comparable to Doom’s Day in my mind. From that day forward, you could write a book of all the mean things that I did to Christy. Many can be seen on the three installments of Home Alone.

Just like with the zoo, Christy tried to find things to make Landon and me happy. Every attempt was successful, but I will NEVER admit that to anyone. One attempt outshines all the others though. I knew it was going to be a party in my mouth before it even hit my tongue; OREO. ICE CREAM. PIE. It was perfect in every way. I wish I could say I demanded it every other weekend when we visited, but I didn’t have to; she already had it made. Dang right she did!

A few years later, I got what I wanted. My dad and that stupid woman divorced. Only the truth is, I no longer wanted it. You see, before Christy came along, we didn’t see my dad every other weekend. She made sure we did. Before Christy, my dad had to pull my hair in an atrocious pony tail. Christy is responsible for getting rid of my famous spiral perm, I’ll never live down that hair style. As far as having a mom and a dad who lived in the same house, Christy provided us with the only thing close to normalcy we would ever have. It was my fault, and I knew it. I’ve spent all the post-divorce years making sure to love and appreciate Christy, who we now call Lana, the way I should have when she took care of Landon, my dad, and me.

For summer project #3, I attempted Lana’s Oreo ice cream pie. To me, it just didn’t taste the same. My taste tester, however, devoured two very large slices and exclaimed, “it doesn’t get any better this!”

Lesson Learned: It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white, as long as you're 1.) a Texas Longhorn 2.) have chipped nail polish or 3.) marry my dad or even THINK about it… you’re on the list above.

Rotten Bananas

After reading books among the likes of You're So Money, watching television shows comparable to Oprah's recent Debt Diet, and listening to the saavy Dave Ramsey on the radio, I've learned that in order to save money and stay out of debt, I have to adhere to a budget. Additionally, after being a teacher for two years, I've learned that I have to have a very strict budget and pray that one check meets the next. A great place to start is to determine the difference between wants and needs. Allow me to share a small snippet of my hashing out of wants vs. needs.

Wants:
Food
Flower bed stuff
Clothes

Needs:
Pay bills in full and on time
Self maintenance (manicures, pedicures, hair appointments)
Shoes & handbags

Now, pardon me for bragging, but my grocery bill is $0. When I address my monthly budget, I always enter $0 for groceries. It's really a benefit to my weight loss to live on a single female, teacher's salary. My family is well aware of the importance, or lack thereof, that I place on food so it's not abnormal for Anna & Poppy to send me home with bags of food nor for my dad to show up to my door step with sacks of groceries.

After my daily skimming, or stalking, of Facebook statuses, I saw that my favorite (and only) roommate of all time posted "I love my bicycle." A sudden excitement fell over me as I remembered that I received a beach cruiser bicycle, very similar to the one seen on Something About Mary, a couple of Christmases back. Immediately I called my dad, "Daddy dearest, please bring my bike over!" I really would have picked it up myself, but I don't think a small, quaint town like Edgewood could understand a teacher, driving a Mercedes, with a floppy-eared doberman riding shotgun, and a beach cruiser bicycle tied to the top.

As soon as my dad pulled into my driveway, I was prepared with tennis shoes and a pony tail. I felt physical pain within me when I realized that both tires were flat. Immediately, I wanted to run as fast as I could... to the winery to pour out my broken spirits into an emptly glass of vino.

I had to wait though. I had to pull it together, if only for the duration of my father's visit. He handed me two bags of groceries and I mindlessly left them on the counter as I visited with him and we watched our dogs, Dixie and Boomer, chase each other across my backyard. The dogs hate each other. I like to call it playing, but its really a knock-down drag out between the two canines. It wasn't long before ole Dad beckoned Boomer and hit the road for his long journey back to his house, approximately . 459 miles.

I moped the distance from my driveway to my front door - back inside my home and began unpacking the sacks of food my dad delivered. The first sack was full of dog treats and toys for my dad's only grandchild, Dixie "The Rebel" Ishmael.... yes, she had her last name changed.

That's when it happened, my second inspiration of the summer. My dad tends to have that affect on people.There, in the bag, shining like the Holy Grail were two brown bananas. Not yet rotten, but there was no way in h*ll that any person in their right mind would consider them edible. I felt like I posessed the wisdom of the ages when the thought suddenly overcame me, "Wow! Those are perfect for banana bread!!!"

TIME OUT (in a Zack Morris voice)

Where did that thought come from? It was like Martha Stewart was fighting her way out of my domestically challenged body. I've never made banana bread. The thought hasn't ever even crossed my mind. I couldn't suppress the urge to join the ranks of Suzie Homemaker. I immediately darted to my computer and Googled "healthy recipes for banana nut bread." As you can imagine, the recipe called for more ingredients than I had in my house; wine, pickles, dried cranberries, more wine, Crystal Light, and popsicles. Going to the grocery store, was my only option. BUT WAIT, I can't go to the grocery store, it's not in my budget. Oh the pain that flooded my soul!

Then, like a ray of sunshine beaming through the clouds on a dark, dreary day, my dad texted me the following morning, "Patton, can you let Boomer in at lunch?" In my most depressed texting tone I could muster up, "sure." Then thoughts flooded my mind, "Wait a minute, his live-in girlfriend is a school teacher. I wonder why she can't let him in. Hmmm, she must be out of town." It was the perfect opportunity to 'shop' for ingredients for banana nut bread. I met Boomer in the driveway with an over-joyed expression. I was so excited about this mischief, that I even gave the sweet puppy extra treats, about a bag full.

Baking soda: check
Sugar: check
Salt: check
Walnuts: check
Egg whites: check
Loaf pans: check

It was banana nut bread making Heaven!!!

After gathering all the ingredients I needed (THANKS DADDY!), I headed home and immediately began my ultimate goal of the day.

I followed the recipe to a T. I've learned already that trying to 'spice up' a recipe ends up in epic failure.

Everything was going quite smoothly when I ran into the ingredient, '9 pureed bananas.' What the mess! Pureed? What is pureed? I was raised in Edgewood, Texas. We have bananas. Banana pudding. Rotten bananas. Banana Laffy Taffy. Banana Runts. Banana snow cones. But banana puree? Once again, the gods of cooking spoke to me. THE BLENDER!!! There is a handy, dandy button on my blender that reads puree. I peeled nine, almost-rotten bananas and pushed puree. I've never seen bananas in such a state of beauty.

One hour later, the scent of baked banana deliciousness overwhelmed my humble abode. Alas, summer project numero dos is complete and my journey to domestic goddess is underway.

"She's book smart, but not a lot of common sense..."

...and so the story goes.

In order to prevent myself from becoming completely useless this summer, I decided to create a 'Summer 2010' bucket list. One thing turned in to another and now not only do I have a list of projects that I want to accomplish, but a nice, little blog to record the adventure.

First in line: Snapping Green Beans.



The original goal here was to learn how to can green beans, but this was deemed too dangerous by Anna. All of you who know her will agree that she's boss and what she says goes. Instead, I settled for learning how to snap these delicious treats. I love vegetables so I'm a huge fan of the lush garden Anna and Poppy have raised this year. Growing behind their Canton home, you can find many of the vegetables that top my list, however, green beans have always maintained the number one spot on my list and in my mouth.

I felt quite accomplished the last week of school when my Summer Bucket List was addressed before summer had even arrived. I think Anna was more excited than I was about having someone else to snap the enormous amount of green beans she picks everyday. I showed up to her house for an after school snack and a visit, and instead arrived to a huge bucket of green beans awaiting my snapping skills. I'd like to tell you that Anna told me what to do and I followed her instructions exactly, but that would be too easy. I was too busy digging in and trying to figure it out that I wasn't listening... imagine that. She finally said, "now stop for a minute and listen." I'm quite certain her tone of voice indicated that she was about to slap my hand.

After mastering her technique, I snapped the entire bucket of green beans as I visited with Anna over coffee. When I finished, my hands looked like I had been working in a field for a week without washing my hands. Welcome to east Texas.

Summer project # 1: Check
(And I'm still going to check with my mom to see if she will teach me how to can them)