Entry #67

Entry #67

Friday, May 11

9:00 a.m. We received a voting guide in the weekly paper, as well as a glossy flyer for a candidate named Larry Youngblood, a Tea Party conservative running for House of Representatives. His photo obviously says a lot about him: black leather vest, leather saddle, large gold ring (I’m guessing it’s from his alma mater, Texas A&M). His wife is cowgirl-casual, with just a few sequins across her shirt and a denim blazer. 

According to this flyer, Youngblood believes in eliminating “the meddling and incompetent intrusive Department of Education,” enforcing border patrol, and the marriage of church and state. According to him, “God’s word is the foundation of our Constitution.” Governor Perry would be proud.

The Voter’s Guide includes 15 pages of sample ballots and ads. Everyone, with the exception of two candidates, are Republicans. I have yet to see a single lawn sign promoting a democratic candidate anywhere in The Woodlands.

2:30 p.m. My cousin Micki came to visit for the afternoon from Dallas en route to seeing a friend in Houston. I picked the kids up from school and we went out for a late lunch to Hubbell & Hudson, near David’s office.

As we sat eating our sandwiches, Micki said, “This place seems very unnatural—there’s no spicyness.” She looked around at the people shopping and added, “I’d feel very suffocated [if I lived here], as though you can’t be your true self.”

I was amazed at how quickly Micki drew this impression. “It really is like The Truman Show,” she smiled. 

Micki is a native Texan who loves her home town of Dallas, and yet found the energy of this contrived suburban utopia to be altogether different from other parts of Texas. “It’s like those maps where you see the city from above, and every tree is placed in just the right spot.” She did like the waterway and Market Square though. What’s not to like? They’re lovely. It’s just that nothing feels quite real.

9:30 p.m. We just returned from my all-time favorite event of the kids’ school year—a music recital by students of Mike Heald, aka, Mr. Mike. For the first time I really noticed that this school is indeed an international one. It was refreshing to see such a multicultural mix of people.

The recital began with a performance of “Don’t Stop Believin’” sung by The Cotton Candy Band, a group of kids who’ve been practicing as a rock n’ roll group. The lead singer, a fifth grader, really knows how to belt out a tune!

There were 16 kids performing on the piano, though many of them were little girls playing a single, brief song, each dressed up as though they were going to a ball. Every performance was greeted with enthusiastic applause, which was incredibly heart-warming. Aidan was the second-to-last piano performer. He played a combination of songs, beginning with Fur Elise and ending with The Can-Can. The audience spontaneously started clapping to the latter, then gave Aidan an especially rousing applause. It was a great moment—I just hope Aidan will remember it as fondly as we will.

Following the piano performance were four violinists, and while none of them were painful to listen to, they did inspire David to say, “This makes you appreciate how hard violin is.” They did a great job as an ensemble, however, playing Pachelbel's Canon, while a preschool girl took turns conducting with Mr. Mike.

Noah’s friend, Tal, played a classical guitar piece for “11 minutes straight,” according to Aidan. He was astounding. One girl, whose electric guitar was nearly as big as she was, finished her piece, then started walking back to her seat holding the guitar, still connected to the cable.

What made this recital so great was not so much the performances, but the unconditionally supportive spirit that pervaded—no one winced at a wrong note or sudden brain freeze. We watched a dad recording his son’s first-ever piano performance—he was beaming. This spirit of complete acceptance, regardless of imperfections, is what made all the difference.

Saturday, May 12

9:00 p.m. Seems like afternoon bible study is ubiquitous around here. My across-the-street neighbor was chatting about needing a ride to bible study the other day. “I could’ve given you a ride if you needed one,” I offered, since I work from home. “Oh, my friend was going anyway,” she said. Another neighbor came by and mentioned that she'd just been at bible study herself. I guess it's a daily activity around here.


Last week David asked a co-worker whose son is on the same football team if she could give Aidan a ride home. “Well, my son has bible study after practice, so he might need to bring a book.” This area is called The Bible Belt for good reason. 

We went to Kat’s Guitars to pick up Noah’s guitar today. It's where Mr. Mike teaches when he's not at Esprit. Adjacent to the Kat's Guitars sign is a bigger one that reads: “All Pawn, Inc.: Guitars, Guns, Gold.” Sounds like a one-stop-shopping experience Texas-style. Perhaps they should consider opening up a sister store next door that sells banjos, beef and beer. Or perhaps pianos, pork and pick-ups, depending on your meat-and-music preferences.

Regardless of the name, this is a mighty cool place, with an amazing selection of guitars. I don’t even play guitar, and yet I was seriously thinking about it, just because the instruments were so alluring. Aidan picked up a floor model and started playing “Ironman.” I jokingly asked the salesman if it was against store policy to play this tired tune. “Naw, it’s okay,” he said. There was, however, a posted sign that read, “No Stairway to Heaven.”

Entry #66

Entry #66

Tuesday, May 8

1:00 p.m. I recently read an article in the New York Times about a Golden Retriever who has been integral in helping a woman suffering from war-related PTSD. She tried all kinds of medications and other therapies, but nothing worked nearly as well as affection from her therapy dog. As someone whose family member was diagnosed with PTSD for very different reasons, I can well understand the emotional benefits of a perennially friendly pooch.

While walking Izzie this morning, I met two friendly pups and was reminded of dogs' natural ability to brighten one’s day. They approach people without prejudice and offer their unconditional affection. What’s more, they help people connect because dogs are usually inclined to greet one another, forcing their humans to do the same.

4:00 p.m. It dawned on me today that I've now lived in Texas long enough to feel perfectly cool in 86 degree weather. I looked at the temperature on the van, thinking that perhaps the sun had just headed up the thermometer, but nope, it’s 86 degrees outside with a little breeze. Perhaps that makes all the difference, or maybe my blood's now as thin as the seniors citizens in Florida who wear cardigans to the beach when it's sunny and 72.

Wednesday, May 9

12:30 p.m. Aidan came home from school yesterday complaining that he felt nauseated, then proceeded to crash on the couch for the remainder of the day and through the night. He's probably lucky he missed dinner, as it turned out.

As part of our "breakfast-for-dinner," I thought I’d try to make “Feather-Light” biscuits from the cooking class last week, only I was missing most of the ingredients. Still, I figured I'd give it a go. I substituted ricotta cheese and nonfat milk for the buttermilk and cream, coconut oil for the shortening, and all-purpose flour for the recommended self-rising White Lily varietal. (I compensated by adding a ½ tsp of baking powder, not that it did much good.) I did have butter for brushing along the top, so I figured at least they'd taste okay. 

The biscuits were edible, but a far cry from “feather light.” Noah said, “They were tasty, Mom, but were kind of like Haggard’s rock cakes.” I think I'll have to try again, this time using the recommended ingredients (unless some mortal enemies are within striking zone, or we find ourselves in need of a quick batch o' mortar).

Thursday, May 10

9:30 a.m. This morning I went to school early thinking that I’d be working with Sam, the boy who’s been writing a comic book about the "unblessed" super hero, but I forgot that he was on a camping trip. As I was leaving class, I ran into a girl who spends the school year here and then returns to Germany for the summer, her home country. “Whenever I come back here from Germany, I realize I forgot how to speak English. Then when I go back to Germany from here, I forget how to speak German.” Judging by how well she speaks English, I’m sure this isn’t true, but it shows that being immersed in a language certainly helps you speak it fluently—and think in that language, too. 

There was a small book fair going on in the main lobby, and the preschool kids were huddled around the paperback area. When I walked up, they were eager to show me their favorites. The big winner seemed to be Dolphin Tale, based on the movie about a dolphin that gets a prosthetic tail. “I got to swim with the dolphins in Hawaii once,” said one little girl, “but I don’t remember it.” “I’m going to go to Hawaii and swim with the dolphins sometime,” added another, smiling at her friend, “We’re going to go together.” A little boy chimed in, “We saw the movie when we were in Hawaii and it was raining and we were in our hotel. We thought the movie was free, but then they charged us 30 dollars!” “Well, I hope you really liked that movie,” I said.

4:30 p.m. The first thing Noah said as he got into the car after school was “I made a tree today that ended up looking like a large brown penis.” This, of course, sent Aidan into a fit of giggles. “What do you mean, 'A large brown penis'?” I asked. “Well, I stepped back after making the base and the trunk and that’s what it looked like," said Noah. "Tal [Noah’s friend] took a look at it, too, and saw the same thing.” 

“Did you put any branches or leaves on it yet?” I asked. “Not yet,” said Noah. Well, that would explain why the tree is still in its phallic stage. It’s ironic that the two other props Noah and his teenage friends were assigned to work on have been large, bulbous rocks—hopefully not to be placed on either side of the tree.

6:00 p.m. For the first time since arriving here, I saw a deer run out in front of my car. I saw it well ahead of time so I could slow down, but the woman in front of me apparently didn’t, and the poor critter banged into the car (causing part of the bumper to shatter), rolled over the top, and continued running to the other side of the street, where it had to cross two more busy lanes. I couldn’t look, but since I didn’t hear anything, I’m just hoping it got across safely and that it survived. I could see the woman in front of me rubbing her forehead from stress, but she just kept on driving.

8:30 p.m. After dinner, we were all hanging out in Noah’s room talking about whether or not Rosetta Stone, an online language program, has been effective in lieu of a live teacher. Like a formulaic sitcom, the phone rang precisely at that moment, and a woman named Hilda began rattling off something in Spanish. “Wrong numero,” said Noah, and hung up. Guess we can all use some Spanish lessons.

Entry #65

Entry #65

Monday, May 7

1:15 p.m. Ever do something completely for the sake of vanity, only to feel incredibly foolish about wandering down that path in the first place? I just spent my entire morning driving 45 minutes each way for a dermatology appointment that was little more than a confirmation that yes, I do have incredibly concave semi-circles beneath my eyes.

I arrived early to my appointment and waited in a room filled with seniors, some of whom were in wheelchairs. This seemed odd for a dermatologist, I thought. I soon learned, however, that most of the people there were visiting internists. The dermatologist’s primary office is in River Oaks, a posh section of Houston, where clients can afford to spend thousands to make them look, in the words of Nora Ephron, “a month younger.”

Upon entering the office, one woman took multiple photos of me from every angle, obviously the "before" photos (before what, however, I was not exactly sure). Then I was taken to a room where I was handed a “before and after” book. The doctor’s assistant had the smooth, somewhat puffy forehead of someone who has had Botox injections, though the skin beneath her eyes was wrinkled—an odd juxtaposition. She enthusiastically told me that she has had Botox, injectables, etc., and is very pleased with the results.

The doctor, whom I soon learned is primarily a plastic surgeon, addressed my “dark circle” issue and proceeded to make me stare at myself in a mirror—could it get more uncomfortable? He pointed out the difference in shadows between looking at myself straight-on, versus looking up and said that the talk-show host Kelly Ripa also has genetic circles, so much so, that no one recognizes her without make-up. I actually think she looks pretty darn good.

The doctor told me that in order to look relaxed and rejuvenated (as opposed to exhausted and lethargic), I would need not just one or even two, but nearly three vials of some kind of “naturally occuring sugars” (i.e., hyaluronic acid) to achieve the desired look. He left so his assistant could tell me how much this would cost. Smart man.

The assistant first showed me some leaflets containing $50 off coupons, and then told me that three cc’s would cost $1600 and last 18 months. I thought about Meryl Streep’s character in It’s Complicated where she goes to a plastic surgeon about her droopy eyelid and, upon hearing what it would entail, does a bee-line out of there. That’s basically what I did upon hearing the outlandish fee that would only lead to an outpouring of many thousands more if I ever wanted to continue looking “relaxed” well into my 50s.

En route home, I passed a variety of churches with billboards that seemed too bizarre to be real. The first one read, “We’re on the road to holiness—motorcycles welcome!,” and “If you are arrested for being Christian, would you have enough evidence in your defense?” Another one had the word “devil” in it, but I drove by it too quickly to catch the entire gist. Still, any church sign with the word "devil" on it gives me the willies.

Across the street was a rifle range demarcated by two giant hands holding large black guns. Church on one side; guns on the other.

I stopped in a gas station mart to get some water and saw that were large sacks of corn for sale by the entry. The cover was printed with an elk head, so I guess it was deer feed. That’s the first time I’ve seen this offering at a mini-mart. “Just goin’ to the corner store for a quick bag of feed. Be right back...”

Down the road was a “deer processing” facility, followed by an elementary school and a dance studio offering “hip hop, cheer, and break-dancing.” An adjacent donut shop advertised an assortment of “donuts, danishes, kolaches and croissants.” Something for everyone (unless, of course, you have a hankering for a bagel).

I had to stop at the kids’ school because Noah once again forgot his lunch. Since Izzie had been in the car for awhile and loves visiting the little kids, I brought her in with me. I went into the pre-school area so the kids could pet Izzie. Within seconds, nearly a dozen kids were surrounding her, petting her from head to tail and chanting, “Izzie! Izzie! Izzie!” 

She lay on her side for a short while, then stood up and tried to make a dash for the exit. She let the kids encircle her one more time before leaving, but clearly was relieved to get away from her pint-size fan club. 

Several kids who were initially scared of Izzie are now completely at ease with her—they ask me daily if she can "come inside and play." If they see me without Izzie they ask me why she's not there. According to these kids, I'm Izzie's mom. The fact that I'm there to pick up Noah and Aidan is inconsequential.

Entry #64

Entry #64

Friday, May 4

10:45 a.m. I received a new batch of taxidermy head images via Etsy this morning, though this time they’re the animal-friendly variety, crafted out of wool. I’m almost tempted to make a display of them, the ideal décor for the bleeding-heart Texan (or shall I say, bleating-heart). Each animal even has a name, like Gretl the goat, Polly the sheep, Gregory the bull and Aurora the unicorn. I might be the only gal in Texas to have a unicorn head on my wall—that would be something. Plus, the name of the company is so fitting—Faux Fauna.

"Inspired by country living, I needlefelt little animal heads out of the last season's wool from the farm- It's a form of taxidermy, only much smaller and cuter AND there is no killing of animals or any other cruelty involved-vegetarian friendly! The family is quiet large, including moose, sheep, donkey, horse, cow, mountain sheep, goat, bear, unicorn, wolve, deer, ...whatever is out there....I am continuously " hunting" for more! (www.feltfactory.com)

Last night we went to our long-awaited cooking class, a Hubbell & Hudson (Viking School) class based on recipes from the film, The Help. Half the class had neither seen the movie nor read the book, which really surprised me, since the recipes have far more meaning if you're familiar with the story. When I inquired about the “secret ingredient” in Minny’s Chocolate Pie, for example, the chefs had no clue what I was talking about. Probably a good thing.

The students, with the exception of David, were all women (The Help is largely regarded as a chick flick, though David finally succumbed to watching it in the company of his 94-year-old grandma last March). Most of the participants wore rhinestone-studded flip-flops, some with bedazzled crosses. 

One of the women in our group took notes with a Swarovski-crystal-studded pen, had a rhinestone-encrusted phone case, and had to take off about six rings and countless bangles before flouring her hands. I looked like something out of a Breugel painting in comparison, dressed in a plain ol' t-shirt and folded up khakis—though I did remember to wear my “cake slice” necklace, something I got from a friend on my 40^th birthday. I figured it would be fitting for a cooking class.

We started out making collard greens, with fried bacon as the first ingredient. The chefs soon learned that I didn’t eat bacon, and insisted that I make a vegetarian alternative. I wasn’t that keen on eating collards again, but I must say, after cooking the life out of these greens (for more than an hour), and with the right amount of seasoning, they were actually tasty.

My personal favorite last night were the “Feather-Light Biscuits”—the most delicious, melt-in-your mouth biscuits I’ve ever tasted. David thought the fried chicken was “championship,” the best he ever had. I didn't try it, but it sure looked just like the Southern fried chicken made by Miss Minny herself.

I was happy to learn how to make authentic macaroni-and-cheese, another rich and creamy comfort food. We also made skillet cornbread, another great recipe, though I didn’t taste it because it was flavored with the bacon drippings leftover from the fried bacon. 

“Bonus recipes,” i.e., those prepared in advance for tasting (but not cooking for lack of time) included deviled eggs, sweet tea, vanilla butter cake with Never-Fail Creamy Caramel Icing, and of course, Minny’s Chocolate Pie (the untainted version). If you’d like any of these recipes, just let me know and I’ll send them your way.

 Saturday, May 5

8:00 p.m. I’m writing with hands that feel like they’ve been soaked in Comet and look equally enticing. David and I scoured the house today. Sure, it’s May, the proverbial time for spring cleaning, but the real reason for The Big Scrub were those darn fleas. Seems they’ve taken up residence here after riding atop Izzie. I thought she’d picked them up when she stayed at our neighbor's house, but we were told that since we had no winter and it's now hot and muggy, fleas are running rampant this season.

I bought the non-toxic, herbal stuff to spread around the house and the yard, but was told that it doesn’t really do much. So we had to inhale the toxic powder overnight, then wash every sheet, towel, rug and blanket in the house, followed by steam-cleaning the rugs and floor, the couch and pillows. I even scrubbed the walls and gave Izzie another flea bath. I don’t think the house has ever looked this good.

Since we’re renting, I haven’t really invested a lot of emotional energy into this place, but today it feels especially peaceful. I’ll relish this for the remainder of the evening and perhaps even a few hours tomorrow before the house reverts to its usual appearance, with strewn about shoes and balls, dog toys, piles of laundry and breakfast plates. For now, however, I’ll bask in this gleaming, flea-free (or so I hope) abode.

At dinner, David commented that at the football game this morning, Aidan was “covering [his] guy like white on rice.” “What does ‘white on rice’ mean?” asked Noah. “Well, rice is white, so...” I interjected and said, “It’s never made sense to me either.” We proceeded made up some of our own similes, which seemed to make more sense, “like a burger on a bun” or “like the white filling in an Oreo.” 

Aidan thought about this and said, “Texans seem to eat their Oreos by licking out the white frosting first and do the same thing with cupcakes.” “All Texans do this?” I asked. “Well, all the ones I’ve seen,” said Aidan.

I wonder if this impression will stick with him when someone from out-of-state asks, “So, what are Texans like?” “Well, they like to eat frosting first, no matter if they’re eating cupcakes or Oreo cookies.”

Sunday, May 6

12:30 p.m. David and I took Izzie out for a walk around 11:30 today and there were so few people out and about, David said it looked “post-apocalyptic” (without the destruction). Seems everyone was at church. That, or simply hanging out in their PJs reading the Sunday paper.

We had an entire grassy field to ourselves this morning, which Izzie loved. After watching Izzie do wheelies on the grass, David and I went on the swings. What is it about swinging back and forth, higher and higher, that ignites the pure joy of childhood? It's the simple things...

Entry #63

Entry #63

Wednesday, May 2

Noon: “Dem some ugly vegetables.” This is what came to mind when I took a look at my weekly delivery of farm-fresh organic veggies. I had forgotten to pick them up the previous afternoon, so they were already limp and withered by the time I came to fetch them at morning drop-off.

I had to refer back to the labels on the plastic bins to actually see what the vegetables were this time. Apparently there were beets (that looked like elongated yellowish roots of some sort), cucumbers (also of the yellowish-brown persuasion), wilted chard (we seem to get this every week), more onions, white radishes (I think), and dirt-caked lettuce. I can now understand why people appreciate the “triple-washed” varieties from the grocery store.

On the way home, I stopped at PetCo to find something to eliminate the fleas that now seem to have welcomed themselves into our backyard. The cashier asked if Izzie could have a treat. I said, “Yes, of course,” so she reached into a bin that looked as if it contained vanilla cream sandwich cookies.

“Those look like human cookies,” I said. “They’re made by the same company that makes Oreos, only with less sugar and better ingredients,” she smiled, adding, “Sometimes when I forget my lunch, I eat those, and sometimes the chocolate chip cookies. They have carob instead of chocolate.”

Little did I know that PetCo offers treats for canines and cashiers alike! As I left, I noticed a silver package of Pop Tarts glimmering behind the register. Guess Pop Tarts are about the human equivalent of doggie Oreos.

2:45 p.m. I just finished peeling the cooked beets, or what were labeled as beets. I assumed that they were a variation of golden beets, only when I poured the water out, they looked more like pond water, a brownish green. Still hopeful, I cut off a piece and tried it. I ordinarily like beets, even crave them, but these tasted like salty dish soap. 

So now all I’m left with from my $32 delivery are some wilted lettuce, bug-eaten chard, white radishes, and odd-colored cucumbers. Ah, well. At least I’m doing my part to support the local, organic farmers, right? If only we had a composter here, I could at least rationalize...

4:45 p.m. On the way home we passed a van from ARS Rescue Rooter. I wonder if the original owner was British. It would be more fun to simply call it what is is: Arse Plumbling. “Got a backup? Blocked pipes? Our Arse experts will help you get to the bottom of things...”

6:00 p.m. While cleaning the chard, which I thought I might make for dinner, I got to the bottom of the bowl and discovered a live beetle. “That’s nasty,” said Noah as I deposited the beetle in the backyard. This bug-eaten chard, though now thoroughly washed, is even more unappetizing than it was before. On the plus side, Noah enjoyed the yellow cucumbers (after I removed the seeds). Now all that’s left are some white radishes and a few salvaged lettuce leaves. Too bad my bunnies aren’t here to enjoy this feast of greenery. They wouldn’t mind the occasional bug, or even the crunch of fresh dirt between their teeth.

Thursday, May 3

8:00 a.m. Before leaving for work, David tossed The Woodlands Villager, our weekly freebie paper on the breakfast table. The front page featured the following headline: “Fun Run builds rivalries...” What is fun about that? I would think a kids’ fun run would be one that builds collaborators, or perhaps “friendly competition,” but “rivals”? "Fun" and "rival" just don't seem to go hand-in-hand. Then again, we're in Texas, where competition is the name of the game.

In the Entertainment section, there was an article entitled “Transplant patient recovered, now cast as CYT’s Wicked Witch.” One would think this teen might be cast perhaps as Dorothy (as in “I want to go home [from the hospital]...I want to go home...”). But instead, after a liver transplant, she recovers only to be cast as a witch. While liver failure does, in fact, give the skin a jaundiced hue, this could have caused offense. Seems the girl didn’t mind one bit. “The role fits me so well," she said. "The evil part just comes off so naturally."

10:00 a.m. This morning’s walk at George Mitchell was very peaceful and almost Snow White-like at first, with Black Swallowtail butterflies flitting overhead. About a mile in, however, two women with a pack of dogs came up to me, saying, “About 30 feet ahead on your right is a copperhead.” The woman walking with her added, “It’s GIANT!” I saw the snake, and while it really wasn't that big, it was obviously upset by the five dogs that had just disturbed it. Its head was lifted and its mouth was open in a threatening pose—not a good sign. I was thankful I had Izzie on a leash. We leapt past it and to our relief, it didn’t move, just stayed there staring, mouth wide open.

In an article entitled, “How dangerous are copperhead snakes?” Whit Gibbons writes, “A Copperhead snake bite needs medical attention, is extremely painful, and may cause extensive scarring and loss of use.” Loss of use? This part scares me even more than the extreme pain.

2:00 p.m. I got a call from the woman who runs HomeSweetFarm after asking for a refund on my less-than-palatable veggies this week. The word “sweet” didn’t come to mind at any point during our conversation. In fact, I felt reprimanded. Not only did she say they wouldn’t give me a refund, she had the audacity to say, "You're obviously not the right type of customer for us," adding, “We actually received quite a lot of compliments about this week's delivery.” In other words, I have no idea what I am talking about and hence, am undeserving of any compensation whatsoever.

Truth is, I rarely complain about food-related stuff, except perhaps if I’m at a restaurant and my soup is luke warm. I admit I like my soup really hot. Other than that, I’m not a big “send-back” kind of gal. However, if I’m spending $32 for six items of produce, I’d like to be able to enjoy it as much as the beetle in my chard apparently did.

In an attempt to say something positive, I complimented her on their ($5/dozen) eggs and asked if I could still receive them. “No,” she said flatly. “We only provide those for our regular customers.” Ouch. 

 At the end of the conversation, the woman said, “Well, now at least I understand that your vegetables weren’t good because you got them the next day.” Yes, that would explain the filth and bugs and poisonous flavor of the oddly shaped beets. “We can’t give you a refund until we find someone to fill your place, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Give us a call in a couple weeks.”

I would say this was a new low in customer service. Upon sharing this conversation with David, he said, "Seems you've been fired as a customer." Guess I'll just have to take my reusable bags elsewhere. 

I won't miss the bugs or dirt, but I will miss the anticipation of my weekly delivery—there was something fun in anticipating the arrival of farm-to-home produce each week. Mostly I'll miss those eggs—each one unique, slightly different in shape, speckled hue...with vivid tangerine-colored yolks. They were as real as anything I've seen here, and one step closer to nature. I know hens lay eggs all the time, but it still seems magical to me.