I did it. Another year of spending, wrapping, baking, cooking, cleaning, hostessing, discussing, and cussing. Done. And I have 364 days to recharge my battery before it starts all over again.
Don't think I'm complaining - I'm really not. But you can't have Christmas without "mas", which in my language means mucho, much, a lot. It's just too much...too much stuff, too much to do, too much food, too much coordination, too much scheduling. A girl can lose her mind. I almost did.
But it was a pleasant holiday. The girls are finally old enough to enjoy Christmas like little girls should. And we are lucky to enjoy it through their eyes.
Which is good, because nearly a week later, mine are still red and weary.
Last night McKenna tugged her old boots on. She's had them for more than a couple of years, and they've outlived both their usefulness and comfort. But she loves them, and as long as they're in her closet, she'll find a way to wrestle them on her big feet. After kicking around the driveway in them, she decided we needed to call her "Jessie" and that she was a cowgirl now. I asked her where her horse was. She said, "In the barn, Momma!" I asked her where her hat was. She ran in the house screaming for her big sister. "Laaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!" After a few minutes, she came out looking like this. Love, Jessie's Mom
Which way do you say it? It doesn't matter...either way I have enough of these suckers sitting on my counter that I could make enough sauce to float a boat to Italy.
Who wants to go to Italy?
I digress. I promised a picture of my garden, but I just can't bring myself to show it to you. I am embarrassed. Ashamed. Saddened that the time and energy and water I put in to this fruitful first-stab at a garden has ended up looking like an abandoned wasteland of weeds.
But I have this tomato.
It's cute, isn't it? Next year we're done with "cute" tomatoes. I want BIG, BEEFY tomatoes with teeth. Tomatoes a man could eat. These pathetic, red excuses for fruit are just slightly bigger than a grape tomato. Well, maybe not. They're bigger than that, but they still remind me of little bald heads.
Maybe I'm thinking of bald heads because lately I've been wanting to take a pair of buzz clippers to a few people who have really acted like bald-headed douchebags lately. Wait...this is a mother's blog. My children might read this.
That's okay. They need to know their mother said words like douchebag. It's what makes them tough. Or maybe I'll just delete this post in a few weeks.
/girlsingarden.jpg"> I'm going to get back on my soapbox of reminding myself that in order to have a blong, one has to BLOG. Lately - and by lately I mean for the past few years - I've fallen into a lazy category of bloggers who think they can post something every now and then and call it a day.
Well, I'm not calling it a day.
I promise...as my tomatoes are my witness, I will get better about posting something regularly. Right after I fix my garden, finish the laundry, clean out my freezer, organize my sock drawer and feed the hogs. If I had hogs.
Here's the garden a few weeks ago. Tomorrow I'll show you what it looks like now. My tomatoes could now be classified as a Tomato Tangle. I kid you not.
There is a very important turn everyone must take at some point in their lives. Some people find it after college, after they turn 40, or after a cocktail. Some people know there’s a turn you absolutely have to take in Roswell. It is a very important turn, and one that has nothing to do with aliens. Last week, I missed that turn.
And this is where I ended up. This is the road to nowhere, and you’re certain to end up on it if you don’t take that very imperative left in Roswell. It’s a terrible photo, taken with my Blackberry from the passenger seat of a rented Saturn SUV that I was in last week when I went to the sunny Eastern New Mexico town of Clovis. Clovis. Say it to yourself a few times and you’ll understand why the population there has not seen any real spikes in over four decades.
But before we reached the city limits of Clovis, we put many miles on this little forgotten highway. It’s actually got a name – U.S. Route 380. But I like The Road to Nowhere better. It really tells it like it is. After the trip got kinda quiet, my boss wrinkled his nose and offered a quiet question.
“Do you think…maybe…we missed a turn?”
“No,” I said. “It’s just Clovis. You go through Ruidoso, up to Roswell, and on to Clovis. It’s a straight shot.”
And that’s when it happened. That rush of heat that flushes my neck with hives. I was wrong, and if I didn’t turn this ship around pronto, we were going to fall off the edge of the earth.
Lucky for me, I’ve always been able to think fast on my feet. And lucky for me, I’ve always kept a large inventory of friends who can come to my rescue when I find myself in precarious positions. I remembered one in particular who grew up in Dora, NM. Dora, I learned, isn’t even big enough to deserve a solid dot on a map. It’s just a hollow little hole. I found his number in my phone, prayed for cell service, and hit “SEND”. He answered.
“Hello, Craig? I know it’s been awhile. It’s Kelly. Kelly Jameson….from the magazine? Hey, listen…I’m on my way to Clovis and I think I took a wrong turn. We just passed a sign that says ‘Tatum’. Am I going the right way?”
Silence.
I checked my phone to see if I dropped the call. Nope, he was still connected. He responded.
“So…exactly how far out of Roswell are you?”
“I dunno. An hour, maybe.”
“Oh, Kelly. You missed that turn.”
THAT DAMN TURN. I knew it. Someone please contact the Clovis Chamber of Commerce and tell them to immediately allocate some funds to post a sign in Roswell that says, “Hey, moron. Clovis is this-a-way. If you don’t take the turn this-a-way, you’re screwed. Don’t go that-a-way because you’ll end up going to Tatum and Tatum sucks balls.” Is that too much to ask? Fine. If that’s too much to fit on a sign, how about simply, “CLOVIS, LEFT.” After my adventure, I would even pay for the sucker. Consider it my gift to future dumbasses like myself who risk missing The Turn. But Craig came to my rescue.
“You’re ok. Just keep going to Tatum, and then take a left.”
“Which left?”
“Oh, you’ll know. There’s only one. It’s at the flashing light.”
He was right. We didn’t fall off the edge of the earth after all. We got to Tatum, drove up to the flashing light and turned left. About a quarter of a mile up the road, we saw a sign of hope: CLOVIS, 89 MILES.
We made it to Dora and I witnessed first-hand why this hollow little hole never made it to solid-dot status with Rand McNally.
And then we got stuck behind this guy.
Apparently New Mexico’s fine Department of Transportation decided the road between Tatum and Portales needed some new black top. And I can see why, with all 3 cars we saw in nearly 90 miles. I love the sign, don’t you? PILOT CAR, FOLLOW ME. I guess New Mexico is the only state where we have to be painfully obvious.
After an hour’s delay thanks to That Turn, we arrived at our destination.
Clovis is home to three things: the railroad, Cannon Air Force Base, and dairy farms. And (like Clovis) dairy farms are home to three things as well: cows, manure, and some mighty fine people.
The first dairy we visited was where Randy Vander Dussen (say it with me: VANder DOOzehn) and his wife Jenice raised their six boys after relocating from California 20 years ago. They must have missed that turn in Roswell, too. Lucky for Clovis, this is where they ended up and they’ve been an important part of the local economy ever since. The second dairy was Albin Smith’s. He and his wife Sandra founded SAS Dairy, which rightfully stands for Sandra and Albin Smith. Sadly, Sandra died about 10 years ago. Happily, Albin found another Sandra a year later and married her. Now that’s what you call business efficiency.
Every dairy in Clovis looks like this:
If I stepped on a tuna can I could probably see my house back in Las Cruces. And if I got in my car and drove to work in El Paso, along the way I would see many of the same things I saw in Clovis.
Cows. Lots and lots of cows. But what you don’t see every day on your way to El Paso are these things - giant C130s were flying overhead, taking off and landing at Cannon. The farmers – and the cows – were used to it. Every time one would fly over, all us city mice would stop everything and stare up at the sky.
There was a lot to unload when we got to each dairy. There was video equipment, tripods, cables and lights.
Carlos was the poor guy who got shafted unloading most of the equipment. I helped him a lot. I don’t think he was used to having an Assistant’s Assistant.
Really, Kelly. I can get all this stuff. I have six arms. You can’t tell, but I do.
(By the way, this was June 3, 2010, not the 30th of June as my camera would like you to believe.)
We got a lot of these shots – guys on tractors, driving around. I had to laugh at the ones who were proud to be American farmers, producing wholesome, nutritious, American-made milk with Kubota tractors and Nissan trucks. Henry Ford and John Deere must have been turning in their graves.
My dad and I had a back-and-forth e-conversation this morning that had some post-able merits, so I decided to cut and paste it here. Don't hold the colorful language against me. Like the name implies, I'm manic, not perfect. Enjoy.
Dad: You should seriously consider becoming a writer...my gosh but your missives are funny! Surely with all your connections you could wind up with a weekly column bringing humor badly needed in today's world. Give it some thought.
Me: A column? Me? The pressure to be funny on a regular basis might be too much, but I am quite certain that I would never run out of material. Your confidence in me is appreciated, nonetheless.
Hmm…what would I write about today? Oh – I know: this morning.
3:30 a.m. Puppy needs to pee. She starts whining at my ear until I get up to let her out, only once the door is open, she changes her mind. We go outside. It’s cold. I sit in the chair next to the back door and say, “Pee, Libby. Go pee.” She melts into a pile of blonde fur at my feet and after 5 minutes, I’ve decided it was probably a false alarm. We go inside. The smell of dog shit at 4:10 wakes me up. Damn.
4:30 a.m. The alarm goes off. Time to go to the gym. I’m there at 5:00, pulling my weight on a lead sled around the parking lot. I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like to be a Clydesdale. Only the Clydesdales get to pull beer. And I bet they’ve snuck a few sips, too. Double damn.
6:15 a.m. I pull in to the driveway, water the flowers and the garden and then go in the house to boil noodles to make lasagna for a sick friend. I move the clothes from the washer to the dryer, feed the shit machine puppy, give Louie a snack and hop in the shower. Just as I shut the water off, there it is again. That smell. Dog shit. Damn, damn, damn.
7:30 a.m. Girls are up, and the assembly line starts: clothes, hair, teeth. Oh – and faces. You can’t leave the house without a clean face. I finish one face and move on to the next. When I’m finished, the first clean face returns with lip gloss smeared all over her mouth. And hair. And clothes. Damn, damn, damn, damn.
8:00 a.m. We’re out the door. First stop: daycare. My babies jump from the car…dolls, blankets, and cookies in hand. What? Cookies aren’t an acceptable breakfast food in your house?
8:30 a.m. Orthodontist appointment with Bug. She needs 3 tie-wires, two rubber bands, 30 minutes in the chair, and the monthly $350 installment. I write the check and make mental notes: Call Vic Bailey when I get to work. Check in with Tulsa. Check in with the boss. Write news release for Tulsa. Distribute. I’m forgetting something…girls? At daycare. Lainie? Right in front of me. Coffee pot turned off? Didn’t have time to make coffee.
The lasagna noodles are still sitting on the stove at the house. DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!
Babies always look so innocent. My two-legged baby just woke up and couldn't wait to play with her puppy. From the looks of it, her puppy wasn't quite ready to play with her. McKenna is always my pick in the morning. She always wakes up happy, content to be one with the world again.
Life with Libby is getting interesting. She's making strides in the house training department, and has fallen into a routine, so to speak. When we go to bed, she knows it's time to go to bed. Getting up, however, is another story. Libby still thinks it's time to get up and play at 5:00 a.m. On gym days, that's okay, but on the weekends, well, not so much.
As you can tell, Louie is falling in line with Queen Elizabeth as well. If he had his way, Libby would be sharing her bed, but he's being a gentleman...for now, anyway. If Louie could talk, he would say, Gee, Mom, thanks for taking that kid in. She’s kinda cute, and I’m really starting to like her. She’s got a lot to learn, but in between naps, I’ll show her the ropes. First lesson: chew everything and poop on the things you don’t chew on. That will surely make you love her more than me, right?
Two posts in one day. That's just about unheard of on this site. Look to your right, where the nice people at Blogspot keep track of how many posts I do in a year. That's right - I said year.
I was emailing some photos of my garden to my dad, and figured I might as well share it here, too. Watch out world, Kelly's feelin' frisky today.
We've planted tomatoes before, but that's about the extent of our gardening skills. And when I say "planted tomatoes', I really mean that I bought some containers of cherry tomatoes, or romas, and reaped the rewards of someone else's hard work. This year I was in an adventurous mood, so when I saw some instructions online about how to build a raised vegetable bed, I leaped at the chance to try my green thumb at gardening. I put six tomato plants in the ground, some jalapeños, zucchini and some herbs: rosemary, dill, cilantro and basil. Hang in there, little babies... Momma's got plans for you.
Stay tuned. The next photos will either be a razed vegetable bed (sorry, couldn't help it) or a bountiful harvest of delicious veggies.
What on earth could possess me to think this was a good idea? Sure, puppies are warm and fuzzy. Puppies are so cute when they run next to your cute kids in the backyard. Puppies crap everywhere.
Meet Libby, the newest member of the Jameson 5. I think she was sent to me. Really. I have this deep sense of "all things happen for a reason" and "all good things happen in time". But what I can't figure out is how much my free will played into this decision to get a puppy. Queen Elizabeth, or just Libby to you and me, is a yellow labrador retriever. She has yet to retrieve anything.
My girls really like Libby, but not when she decides to use them as a chew toy. We tell her, No, Libby, don't bite the babies. But I don't think she understands English yet. So I told her in Spanish, Libby, no come las cuatitas. She didn't understand that either. Come to think of it, why on earth would Libby know Spanish? Maybe I should teach her.
Like I said, the twins really like Libby. From the first time we saw her - only a week after she was born - they liked her. In fact, they lovedher. And they told her so. I looooove you, Libby. I loooooove you, Libbycakes. And then this happened. Libby got big. So did her teeth. Her new nickname is "Blades" because her teeth are like razors.
So I suppose it's starting to become a habit to fall off the face of the earth for a year before I remember that I'm a member of the blogging universe and maybe I should pay attention to the calendar more. In 2010, I will try to heed my own advice.
We've had an unusual amount of snow this year...3 good dustings from what I can remember. So much that I was delayed from getting to work a few times. I'm one of millions when I say that driving in the desert does not afford you the wisdom is requires to drive in snow. The good news is that we got just enough that the twins had a good time playing in it.
Today is Monday, January 11, 2010 and while I try and write something you would want to read, my head is wrought with things I don't want to tell you. I'm still struggling with toxic relationships that I still can't seem to shake...primarily because one in particular is related to me and the option to just dispose of the relationship is not an option. Can I just say how much I despise hypocrites who point the finger, but take no responsibility for the mean, hurtful and DAMAGING things they say? Seems there are some pretty pathetic, unhappy people in the world who just want to bring you down...no matter what the cost. I should feel sorry for them, but even that emotion is wearing thin.
Top 5 Things I Have to Say About Today: 1. I heard someone use the word "craptastic" and now I want to use it too. 2. I've caught the elevator TWICE today without having to wait on it. 3. I got a parking space near the stairwell. Bonus! 4. The twins had panpates for breakfast at day care (that's pancakes to normal people). This is really, really good news. 5. I found $20 in my jacket pocket.
