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.