Living West of the Concho

Pottery Near the Concho

2009-10-02T03:56:00.000-07:00

Roger Allen is having a pottery sale on Saturday morning!

No Spain

2009-09-25T19:16:00.000-07:00

Forty-eight hours ago my adventure-freak brother was in Amsterdam. And now he's trying to reach me from Houston.

Houston?
What happened to my not-so-annual birthday celebration in the Pyrenees? Ugh!

Giselle is trying to comfort me with a song. She says it's about a beautiful woman who gets what she wants, but I have my doubts. It's in French. And she's had her fill of wine.

You ought to see her, swallowed by my Old Gringos, with her hair in her face and a drunkened smile, swaying back and forth, raising her wine glass for emphasis.

:)

I feel better already.

Giselle Colette

2009-09-25T04:32:00.001-07:00

I accuse her of making up her name.
This newest pose IS soooo 'Giselle Colette' . . .don't you think?

Marfa, Texas

2009-09-23T16:05:00.001-07:00

See the chairs in the far corner of this photo? That's one of my most beloved spots -- sitting in the stillness of a crisp, before dawn morning -- watching and listening to the sounds of Marfa rising. (With really good coffee.)

Giselle called me this morning.

"Angeline," she says with her French accent. "Come to see me. I've been to Manhattan shopping."

"And I have some new Old Gringo's and Levis," I sing.

We squeal at the same time.

We'll lounge about in each others clothes. My limbs hanging well below any of her designer hems and her limbs disappearing under my organic cotton ones. We'll be two different birdettes in a forgiving desert town. Girls can do that in Marfa.

I think I'm quietly falling into my . . .

2009-08-29T13:31:00.001-07:00

blue period.

I need to roll around in fields of lavender.

Roots

2009-08-09T07:34:00.001-07:00

I took a long drive out through Central West Texas farmlands yesterday. Destination? My favorite little Catholic church in the world, St. Boniface, in the tiny little German farming community of Olfen. As I drove down the meandering path through massive fields of maze and cotton, I felt I was on sacred ground, rich in family history. Fifth generation farmhouses peppered the fields. Some abandoned and boarded up, but left standing as reminders of the hardworking families who settled this fruitful Texas land. Most still occupied by descendants of those who migrated here from the Westphalia area of Germany in the 1860's. Those who still earn their living much like their great-great-great grandparents. I can smell the earth out here.

I spot St. Boniface easily in the great distance. There she stands, all alone. Her white steeple and tin roof a beacon in the mid-day sun in an endless sea of green.

As I enter the church, I pause and reflect on the many times I've been here, and how I feel as I enter through the old wooden doors. It's always the same. For it is here, like it is for me when I'm in the vastness of Big Bend or in the mountains of the Catalan Pyrenees, I feel washed in a holy spirit of sorts. It is here that I feel closest to my God. Although I'm sure she is quite different from the God these Catholics worship here.

I walk slowly down the middle aisle, surrounded by the ornate interior structure and glistening stain glass, with Christ looking at me from every direction -- but it's not him who I am seeking. I find my spot on a pew, my eyes searching frantically for her. Over to the left, peering directly down on me. There she is. Mary.

I smile up at her -- it's been a while. She smiles back, kind of a Mona Lisa smile -- all knowing. My recent marital upheaval, my burning desire to start anew and the fact that I am once again, going commando in her presence.

And even though I'm not a blood Lange, Honhensee, Weishuhn, Fuchs, Halfmann, Matthiesen or Wilburg ---like most who worship within these walls -- or that I'm not even Catholic . . .or hold traditional Christian beliefs . . .

Mary loves me anyway.

Sunday morning coming down

2009-08-02T08:09:00.000-07:00

Ok - well maybe it's 'riding down' for me today . . . for I have been invited to go mountain bike riding with a friend. Because of the recent downpours, the trail is sure to be gloriously muddy.

I can't wait!

Morning, sunshine

2009-08-01T07:46:00.000-07:00

Post pity party:

My naked, sweaty body was seemingly glued to the leather chaise where I apparently slept all night. Wakened by the morning light, I peeled myself, limb by limb, from the sticky leather with dreams dancing in my head from the night before. Dreams about a far away place on the ocean. I couldn't find a key to an enormous old rambling beachfront home. I knew it was mine -- if only I could find the key. There was a silhouette of a man that I could see standing on the back deck, and I knew he was mine as well, if only I could find the key. I wanted to be with him so badly, that emotion was incredibly strong. I ran up and down the shore line, with the sound of the surf crashing in my head. I saw the silver skeleton key being swept away in the water, and I kept reaching for it -- it was just out of reach every time. Finally, I grabbed it. My heart leaped (or is it leapt?) . . .and then I awoke. Shit.

My head is a little cloudy from the bourbon -- and I see that the 'It's a boy!' cigars are still wrapped, which is a good thing. I'm looking at two blank canvases -- one being my back yard, the other the enormous canvas in my living room that I still haven't tackled -- and am determined to start filling both today.

A late morning run will do me some good along with the 5 Tibetan rites -- which I've tweaked a little to better suit me -- so now I suppose they're the 5 Angelinean rites. I imagine I've broken some sacred law out there somewhere, but what the hell.

I've always been a rebel.
With or without a cause.

It's a Friday night and I'm out of sorts.

2009-07-31T17:33:00.000-07:00

I was invited to go downtown to watch an outdoor movie -- "Rear Window." I declined. Even though it's my favorite Hitchcock flick.
I was invited to drive to Ft McKavett to a friend's ranch for the weekend. Again, I declined.
I was invited to Austin to sing at a party at one of my most favorite guy-friend's lake house. And yes, I declined that too.

For tonight, I am throwing an extraordinarily rare pity party. Yep, a 'poooor Angeline' original. Party for one.

As a lone naked party girl, I will drape myself across my big leather chaise and begin the night's three course dinner. It includes the appetizer: peach champagne ice cream. Main course: Michter's 10 year bourbon on ice. Dessert: If I make it to dessert before passing out, I just may have me a cigar. Mind you, it is wrapped with "It's a boy!" and has aged 13 years.

Trouble in mind:
My 15 year old is turning into a satan spawn. The fat from the few bites of ice cream that I've consumed in the last minute is doing weird things to my stomach already. My husband - or maybe soon to be ex-husband, may be very sidk and is on my insurance so I can't finalize the divorce. I'm taking care of him out of guilt. I have an 'empty canvas' for a back yard and no money to fill it. In fact, I have no money period and I have to admit, I may not be as nearly materialistic as most women I know, but I have flipping champagne tastes and like to have decent running shoes and hiking boots and lingerie and artsy stuff and need a lot of maintenance done on my house. Zach and Dillon need braces, and they all need school clothes and supplies. I have a younger guy who is pretty much stalking me -- and he has money -- but I've never been able to whore myself out and I'm certainly not starting at forty-five with a thirty year old -- and damnit, I wish I could. My best friend's husband hits on my shamelessly and it makes me sick. My 'little sister' Tara has been missing all summer since her drug addict mother came back in the picture and I'm sick about it. There is a man who lives on the other side of the globe who has piqued my interest terribly but it's all running hot and cold and hot and cold and now mostly cold
My trip to Denver was wonderful and I wonder 'why not' -- but I've known 'why not' all along. Have I said the trim on my house needs painting and I really need to replace the back doors?

Now I feel obligated to acknowledge everything that is good in my life because that's the way my mind works. BUT I REFUSE. One doesn't do that at a pity party.

So, what am I to do now? Take some Little Feat advice and

". . .write a letter and send it away and put all the trouble in it you had today."

Yes, then let it go.

(See?? I'm not good at holding onto things, therefore; not an effective pity party princess.)

Damn it.

Arabesque Chasse

2009-07-28T14:21:00.000-07:00

*Pioruette*

I am back to budgets and scheduling and more budgets. YAY! I LOVE using my head.

Now I'm going to do some more interpretive dance in celebration.

*Petit saut*
*Tours en l'air*
*Batterie*

*BAM*
(I fell of the stage.)

Dressing Angeline-- it's complicated

2009-07-24T15:49:00.000-07:00

I used my first training bra as a sling shot.
I refused to wear bows in my hair, much less rollers.
"Ana, put your clothes on!" was my mother's battle cry. (It still is.)
'Dressing up' meant pairing pearls with jeans, much to my mother's horror. (Though the pearls were South Sea AA+, it made little difference.)

Yes, I was a tomboy in my youth -- and clothing, as far as I was concerned, was optional.

This had to be disappointing to generations of Cooper women, who loved their clothes as much as they loved their Saturday afternoon bridge parties and congealed salads. Oh, it was pounded into my lovely little brain at a very early age that it was 'ok' to buy expensive pieces, because they would last a lifetime as long as you took great care of them. I had my first 'Woolite' lesson at the tender age of ten. But i preferred -- strongly preferred -- my Levis and t-shirts to the designer garb that my mother was constantly stuffing into my closet.

So you can imagine everyone's surprise when, at age 17, I laid down my hard-earned money for a Victor Costa original to wear to the prom. Actually, it was marked down 75% to $80 so I had enough money left over to buy some gorgeous 4" heels, dyed to match. This dress was fabulous shade of orangey-red. A floor length sheath with a side slit up to 'there' with these extraordinary off the shoulder, pleated paper-like sleeves to the elbow. (They reminded me of those big, round Chinese lanterns.) And, of course, nothing like any of the puffed-up pastel dresses my friends were wearing. My mother, who was not at all involved in the decision-making or purchase, teared up when seeing me in it. My grandmother had to sit down with a brandy.

I couldn't tell if they were delighted or shocked. Maybe both. All I know, is that I looked stunning -- and well beyond my seventeen years.

After the impact I had, not only on them, but on the prom-goers and my after-prom boyfriend (the local vet) -- I knew that I had just begun my love affair with beautiful clothes and the Cooper women rejoiced.

The clean lines of Calvin Klein appealed to me most in my 'corporate years.' Donna Karan was also a favorite. I decided that if I were a movie star, all I would only wear Armani to the Academy Awards. But once having kids and leaving the uptown jobs . . .I was beckoned back to my twenty-five year old Levis and buttery cotton t-shirts (with occasional sinful trysts with Sundance catalog) and have been most comfortable in them until . . .well, now. My trip to Denver is to blame.

Living in a small, thriving but desolate city in the West Texas desert, it has been easy to avoid the fashionista within. Dillard's is as about as high end as a girl can get out here. And when I do manage to escape to a city, it's never about shopping. It's about exploring. Eating. Museums. Other art forms. Sports.

That is until I happened into Cherry Creek Mall. Innocently enough, I was going to the Apple store inquiring about a laptop for one of my sons. Aveda got in the way.

Damn Aveda.

Then Banana Republic (great linen pieces) and by the time I left Neiman's, my cheeks were flushed and arms full. I felt the same as if I'd eaten an entire cheesecake by myself. Guilty, satisfied and a little nauseous all at the same time.

The good news is . . .

1)I'm a bargain shopper and took full advantage of the summer sales. (NEVER do I purchase anything full price.)I didn't buy anything I didn't need.
Except for the Aveda hair stuff. And the essential oils. And the sassy yet tough Dr. Martens.

2)Cherry Creek had an entire store dedicated to . . .LEVIS! God bless them.I bought three pair. Skinny, boot skinny and straight. Size 10.

3)All of which will go nicely with my Neiman's string of freshwater pearls. This time faux.

You can't change this girl too much . . .although once I inhale a 'cheesecake' soon after I want another taste.

Somebody . . .please. Get me outta here.

Mirror, mirror on the wall . . .

2009-07-21T04:45:00.000-07:00

She got out of the car, looking like an 80's call girl, certainly not like one of my best high school girlfriends. I would not have known her in passing. My boys were elbowing each other upon seeing her and I gave them 'that look.'

How sad. She had never been considered a true beauty, except when the lights were dimmed.(In other words, she looked great in a bar.) But this Scandinavian at 5'9", once had a smokin' body and a glorious mane of pale blonde hair and a smile that would make men. . .and women melt. Where was the Anne I knew? Where was the Anne who had been approached on the streets of LA by John Casablanca himself? The Anne who had men stuffing her g-string with one hundred dollar bills?

She was certainly representative of what living in the fast lane can do to a girl. Her face heavily lined and pitted by acne,her smile dulled. Her mane chopped off into this brassy tornado. Still dressing as if she were in her 20's, she poured out of her little blue jean dress, obviously two sizes too small.

She hugged me tightly and as I looked at her face, now just inches from my own, I finally recognized 'her.' She had the same dancing pale blue eyes. THERE she was.

Our brief reunion left me a little melancholy. Although I was delighted to see her, I was anxious to part and still question exactly why. Was it because I was afraid she would see the pity in my eyes? Or was it something more than that?

After our good-byes in front of Jay's Patio Cafe, I watched her walk down 15th St., downtown Denver, in her 4 inch heels and with a strut that Naomi Campbell would envy.

And as my eyes welled with tears and with ZZ Top screaming in my brain, I couldn't help but smile.

She's got legs, she knows how to use them
She never begs, she knows how to choose them
She only lets you wonder how to feel them
Would you get behind them if you could only find them
She's my baby, she's my baby
Yeah, it's all right

She's got hair down to her fanny
She's got a dress slit right up to her panties
Every time she's dancin' she knows what to do
Everybody wants to see, see if she can use it
She's so fine, she's all mine
Girl, you got it right

She's got legs, she knows how to use them
She never begs, she knows how to choose them
She's got a dime all of the time
Stays out at night movin' through time
Oh, I want her, said I got to have her
The girl is all right, she's all right

I do love this place

2009-07-19T19:49:00.001-07:00

There's absolutely nothing like Big Bend. It's a magical place.
Thanks, Aidan for the photo.

This morning I sat down in my back yard . . .

2009-07-19T13:27:00.000-07:00

on the heels of a spectacular thunderstorm and I prayed to the patron saint of flowers, Thérèse de Lisieux.

I need it. I'm having an insatiable urge to grow them.

Of course, I Googled to see if there was such a saint and was excited to see her image pop up. She looks like she can bless me, doesn't she? I think we already have a connection.:)

I've never, ever grown flowers despite pressure from 6 generations of Cooper-Culpepper-Fontenot women who have successfully been growing African Violets forEVER. But I'm not an African Violet kind of girl. Indoors, monitoring temps. Nope. Not for me.

I must have the wild and free variety. Outside. I wish for my Aunt Marcia, who was the wildflower queen of Texas at one time, monitoring a Texas Wildflower hotline from her home in McKinney. Sadly she died this year before this 'urge' of mine.

My backyard is now resembles a blank canvas. I killed all of the grass and weeds -- and pulled up my sad little remnants of a vegetable garden. I have access to a tiller. Now I need a plan.

I have been ending recent e-mail communication with "I have to go tend to my flowers" just practicing. And giggling at the foreign phrase -- knowing that someday soon it will feel pretty natural.

After all, sweet St.Lisieux likes me. I just know it.

Gertrude Bell

2009-07-15T07:24:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the local public library, this summer I'm embracing the life of this remarkable woman with a soaring, adventurous spirit and world-noted intellect.

"The Bells were very rich; but it wasn't money that got Gertrude a First at Oxford or helped her survive encounters with murderous tribes in the desert, or made her spy or a major in the British army or qualified her as poet, scholar, historian, mountaineer, photographer, archaeologist, gardener, linguist, and distinguished servant of the state. She was many-faceted -- in this respect comparable with those giants among mankind, Elizabeth I and Catherine the Great of Russia."
(Gertrude Bell: Queen of the Desert, Shaper of Nations - g. howell)

This Gertie was my kind of gal.

News update

2009-07-14T19:48:00.000-07:00

Items:

Nejla's mother and sister arrived safely in Houston last night.

Tara's wayward mother is back in the picture. Tara has left her grandmother's house and is living with her somewhere in San Angelo. I just don't know where. I am scrambling to find out more information. I love that child.

I'm leaving for Morrison, Colorado late next week for a couple of days.

I'm headed back to the Catalan Pyrenees in October instead of CA to the beach volleyball finals. Watching portions of Tour de France provided the motivation. It's quickly becoming my 'regular' birthday destination and perhaps my home in another 5 years? Dare to dream.

I'm catering an informal wedding reception Saturday. Will make about $300 net. :)

I need to finish the painting I started for my living room wall before school starts --- and quickly become an artist-in-demand so I can afford to move to the Pyrenees.:)

I don't miss him. I've heard he may be sick. I can't find the courage to ask him myself. Not tonight, anyway.

Iran

2009-06-24T08:55:00.000-07:00

I have been following the events transpiring in Iran closely. Nejla's (one of my best friends) mother lives there as does her younger sister. I am sickened and want to help these strong women.

But how?

I hate, hate, hate feeling helpless and can't imagine how they are feeling.

A marriage dissolving . . .

2009-06-19T09:37:00.000-07:00

in a small city brings about interesting social twists and turns.

You're forced to redefine (and sometimes terminate)long term "couple" friendships
that seem to turn strange rather quickly once the break-up occurs.

The same holds true for close girlfriends whose insecure husbands don't want them keeping too much company with the 'newly divorcee.'

Acquaintances ask probing, inappropriate questions -- hoping for something of a tabloid headline -- then looking disappointed when you don't give them what they want.

Friends assume that you want another man immediately and try to fix you up with friends of friends.

And other men -- including friends of your ex -- assume that you are easy 'prey' and hit on you shamelessly.

And then, there's your pending ex who you don't love but you don't hate, either. Who comes around most daily to take the kids somewhere. And looks at you as if you've pierced his heart with a knife.

It would be so much easier if you were free to move far away. And you yearn to right now. But right now it can't happen because of your kids. Who need everyone relatively close by, most of the time anyway, for a couple of more years.

So you commit to hold out, knowing, deep in your gut that you made the right decision. You pledge that you will not get emotionally involved with anyone who isn't for whom your soul thirsts. And if that means being forever alone, then so be it.

Yes, you've given yourself a gift. 'To thine own self be true.'

But it still sucks.

This marriage dissolving.

Just another reason why I adore Texas . . .outside!

2009-06-18T09:24:00.000-07:00

I bet you wish you were coming with me this weekend! Hamilton Pool. The name is awkward --- certainly not a good fit --- for this taste of Texas Hill Country heaven.

No need for hallucinogenics

2009-05-24T15:40:00.000-07:00

I took a looooooong drive after my loooooooooong run this morning.
Out to Silver, Texas to drop off supplement tubs for the cattle we have turned out there.

There is something extremely surreal about being the only person within 100 miles, standing in the middle of 55 head of staring cattle, with nothing on but cut-offs, workboots and a smile -- while listening to the Kentucky Headhunters on an MP3 player.

My cows love me.

My impending 'mission' to Bolivia

2009-05-24T06:52:00.000-07:00

Is about improving the lives of the street children.

Santa Fe

2009-05-12T04:38:00.000-07:00

is where my heart is.

This morning, anyway.

One foot in front of the other . . .

2009-05-11T03:17:00.000-07:00

New job interview next week.

And embarking on a new idea in music. A trio of sorts.

Baby steps, in the right direction.

Waterloo'd

2009-05-09T12:04:00.000-07:00

Instead of heading north, I headed southeast -- to my second 'home' -- formerly known as Waterloo. Heat is not an issue today as it was yesterday.

The kids are with their dad this weekend while I play a little. I ran a 5K this morning, am speaking at a children's advocacy fundraiser tonight and will be sleeping on a house boat on Lake Travis with a million stars all around.

I'm a little out of sorts and don't know why.

Maybe I just need a nap.

Or really good sex.

Or better yet, both . . .officially Waterloo'd.

:)

Musings of a Cajun Queen . . .

2009-02-09T04:50:00.000-08:00

Running before daybreak.
Under beams from a lonesome full moon and ten thousand stars
Cool, damp, whispering wind -- senses awaken

silhouttes of towering, twisted tree branches
swaying in a black magic dance
legs leaping beyond hidden puddles from a quiet late-night shower

a born-on-the-bayou morning

in sleepy west texas

Igor to Be Kidding Me

2009-02-05T13:46:00.000-08:00

There are perks to Gunner being back in town.

#1: Sand volleyball
#2: While listening to Stravinsky

Only with Gunner.

yay!

Call of the Wild

2009-02-03T08:21:00.001-08:00

Imagine my surprise to get a late-night phone call from my maniac German friend
Gunner -- who I thought was still in Cabo San Lucas working as a fishing guide.

"Ahhhhngeliiiine!" he calls out.

Immediately I know who it is.

"Gunner --where are you?"

"About 5 blocks from your house."

"I thought you were in Cabo. You're not coming over by the way, its midnight."

"Not anymore, baby. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

"No you won't -- my husband is sleeping. Hell, I'm sleeping. Why aren't you in Cabo? What happened?"

"I was fired," he roared laughing.

"Fired? For what?"

"Incompetence."

"Bullshit," I retorted, "You're many things, love, but you're not an incompetent fisherman. So, tell me what happened."

"OK, ok. You know me. I got caught. With my pants down," he confessed.

"Again?"

"Yah. With the bosses wife."

Laughter from both of us.

"Ahhh, that's my Gunner."

"You love me," he said in his Arnold voice.

"Ahhhhhngelliiiine," he said.

"What, Gunner?"

"Vhat ah you vearing?"

***********************************************

In big, beautiful memory . . .

2009-01-29T09:46:00.000-08:00

Blaine's favorite song -- sung at his memorial service yesterday
He says it's about him and his wife, Jackie
He will live loud and large in my sorrowful heart forever

I'd have to be crazy
to stop all my singing
and never play music again.

You'd call me a fool
if I put on a top hat
and ran out to flag down the wind.

I'd have to be weird
to grow me a beard
just to see what the rednecks would do.

I'd have to be crazy
plum out of my mind
to fall out of love with you.

You know I
(and I don't intend to)
But should there come a day,
when I say that I don't love you
They'll lock me away ay ay.

It sure would be weird
to live in an envelope
waiting along for a stamp

You'd swear I was loco
to rub for a genie
while burning my hand on the lamp

And I may not be normal
but nobody is
so I'd like to say 'fore I'm through

I'd have to be crazy
plum out of my mind
to fall out of love with you

Steve Fromholz

Can I survive without it?

2009-01-24T05:33:00.000-08:00

Better yet, can my body survive without it? I'm talking about 'the gym.' 'The gym' with whom I've had a love-hate relationship with for years.

'The gym' that has kept my body lean and strong . . . that has introduced me to a interesting, sometimes comical, always beautifully dysfunctional group of people who I have grown to love (well, at least some of 'em.)

'The gym' that I cursed so many times at 4:30 AM for calling my name -- "Angeliiiine . . . .Angeliiiine. . . get up and come see me now or your ass will look like your motherrrrrs."

'The gym' that inspired me to learn more about the human body, encouraged my education in wellness and eventually allowed me to teach my beloved mat Pilates.

I canceled my membership once and for all last week. It's simply not convenient and the time it takes me to drive across town and back, I could have completed a workout at home.

I have a complete set of free weights. A weight bench. And now a Total Gym that I ordered last week which will enhance my Pilates instruction. My clients will be coming to my home. Now I can sleep until 5:30, be finished with my morning workout by 6:30 and have myself and the boys out the door by 7:30. Teach a couple of days a week and on weekends.

I don't know what I'll do, other than my running, to get my major cardio "fix." Not that running won't do it, but I know me. Boredom will set in. And 'the gym' did offer me many fat frying options so I could mix it up. I'm just going to have to get creative.

But I'm good at that.
;)

A Final Tribute to Daisy

2009-01-19T06:03:00.000-08:00

She was a rescue cat that my first husband and I picked out when we first became engaged.
She wasn't a looker by any means, and we thought that no one else would want her. And despite engaging her in cat play from early on, with lots of human interaction, she never developed much of a personality, although she did blossom into a gorgeous cat, with a noted underbite.

She didn't like to sit in laps. Would bitch-slap my kids when they tried to get too friendly. Ran into the house only to run right back out again. Her brightly colored Calico coat was the most exuberant quality about her.

But the old girl was consistent. Every day for almost eighteen years, Daisy Mae Culpepper (kinda named after my great great grandmother) met me at the carport door at 6 am for breakfast. My other three felines, even Frio the bad-ass, would back up and allow her to eat first. She would follow me out on my morning runs, careful to remain in eye-shot of our home, and would wait patiently under the street light for my return.

She didn't like staying in the house for very long and would protest in her own little Daisy way when I would insist she stay in the boys' bathroom on those rare winter nights when the temperatures would dip in the teens.

A couple of weeks ago, Daisy wasn't around for her morning feeding. It had been about 25 degrees outside the night before and of course, the thought crossed my mind that she hadn't made it, but I was still optimistic. By night fall, still no Daisy. When she didn't show the next morning, I just knew that she wouldn't be coming home and began looking under steps, in our shed, and other nooks and crannies of our yard. I came up empty.

Until yesterday afternoon.

I was sitting in our living room counseling my love-tormented friend (of whom I've written in another blog) on the phone, I noticed a bit of orange high in a cedar tree across our side yard. It took me a few horrifying seconds to realize it was my Daisy. It appears that she was trying to escape danger and either had a heart attack or got caught in the many tiny twigs that cradled her.

I told her how sorry I was. How painfully sorry.

My husband and I buried her in our backyard and the boys and I are going place our favorite rocks over her burial spot later today.

God bless Daisy.
The contender.

Amen.

Yipee Ti Yi Yay

2009-01-10T06:17:00.000-08:00

Today is round-up day. Sold our land in Menard and we're moving about 125 head of cattle, first to our place just outside of Angelo to doctor them, then on to a place in Colorado City.

It's going to an exhausting, dirty, long day involving our whole family. We usually have a good time -- but with the three boys along -- and it being about 40 degrees, there won't be any skinny-dipping in the stock tank.

This time.

Naughty or Nice?

2009-01-05T20:11:00.001-08:00

Santa Baby,

Thank you for the
Top-Flite 18 Gold Beach Volleyball
First season of 'Deadwood' on DVD
Hypnotic Poison parfume
All-Clad Cookware
Remington 700 Hunting Rifle
Los Lonely Boys Christmas CD
Farragamo stilettos
jar of a zillion guitar picks (from my little elves)
Rilke and Salome letters (from my Mama Claus)

and a weekend for just the two of us to our primitive little hunting cabin in the woods . . .
okay, thick mesquite -- with a few old oaks.

Marathon, Texas

2008-12-31T06:50:00.000-08:00

Marathon is one of my favorite places on the planet. A town of walking contradictions -- a lot like me.

My dream? To renovate this little gas station and turn it into a bakery/gallery/live music/wellness hub. (It's for sale!! You think I could haggle them down?)

Of course, I would have a few chickens running around -- for fresh egg purposes.:)

I'm headed West in just a few minutes to ring in the new year wrapped in the arms of her undeniable off-beat, desert charm.

Lucky me.

http://www.marathontexas.net/shopping.htm

Christmas wishes

2008-12-28T07:49:00.000-08:00

The Holidays seem to encourage even more of a 'me, me, me' mentality among so many kids. Mine included. And I sometimes worry that my three think way too much of themselves and not enough of others -- especially my 9th grader, who is 'at that age.' But over the past two days, I've seen a glimpse of a very caring young man who has given to his not-so-fortunate friends when no one else cared -- and no one else was looking.

Ben learned on Christmas Day that his friend Carlos had no Christmas. So, without hesitation he wrapped up three shirts that he had gotten for Christmas and gave them to Carlos. (Ok, maybe they weren't his favorites . . .:) . . .but it's a step in the right direction.) And yesterday, he learned that his friend Jesse, whose father went to jail on Christmas Eve, only received a Walmart plastic watch from his aunt. So when he and Jesse went to work cattle yesterday with my husband, he quietly asked that we not pay him for his work, but give his wages to Jesse. And he wants to use a portion of his Christmas money to buy Jesse some new clothes.

Oh, how I've learned to celebrate those little fleeting moments.

Ben was back to his old self again this morning -- completely ignoring me when I asked him what he wanted for breakfast and then looking at me as if I'd lost my mind when I offered him an eggwhite omlette with a whole wheat English muffin on the side.

Why I love my so called life . . .

2008-11-18T02:53:00.000-08:00

Last night on a trip to WalMart to get catfood.
Zach boldly wearing a coonskin cap (that I bought him years ago on one of our many visits to San Antone) and not giving a rats ass what anybody thinks.
Ben comically wearing one of those fur lined hats with the ear-flaps.
And Dillon in his trusted and weathered UT ball cap.

All of us groovin' to Ben's new (and brilliant) Red Hot Chili Peppers' CD set with joyful and reckless abandon.

Life is good.

Beauty advice to a 12 old . . .

2008-11-16T13:12:00.000-08:00

One of my boys' friends - a cute little 12 year old named Arianna, was over at our house yesterday.
She was kicking Zach and Dillon's butts at video games, got a little bored, and came back to my bedroom to watch me finish up my Saturday afternoon Pilates routine. She studied my movements curiously.

"How old are you?" she asked as I was rolling up my mat.
"How old do you think I am?"answering her surprising question with one of my own. I braced myself for her answer.
"Probably as old as my mother."
"I'm forty-five."
Silence. More curious studying, this time my face.
"You're way older than my mother," she finally said.
"She's thirty-three."
"Hmm," is all I could come up with.
"What is your secret?" she asked.
"Oh, I have no secrets, sweetie."
"So, tell me everything you know," she said matter of factly.

I thought about this for a while.
"What about me writing something, just for you?"
"Beauty secrets?"she asked.
"Well, just some hard learned advice regarding what being beautiful is really all about."

"K," she sang.

********************************
And now my work begins.
****************************************

In random order

Sun never hurt anyone with a brain. Just don't bask in it without a sunscreen. Especially if you're fair. Don't allow yourself to burn. There are a lot of products out there to prevent it. Use them. One of my best friends is a maniac about protecting herself from the sun and still she deals with tons of wrinkles. (So did her mother. A lot of it is hereditary.) And besides looking pasty, I'm sure she has a vitamin D deficiency.
Laugh at yourself. Don't take yourself, or anyone else, too seriously.
Count your blessings every day. Be serious about it. Count 'em in detail.
Drink a lot of water. For many reasons.
Believe in a higher power of your choice. I find mine in nature.
Study classical ballet at sometime in your life, even if for a short period of time. Dancers carry themselves differently. They enter crowded rooms differently. They are exposed to classical music and move with it. They are in tune with their bodies.
Forgiving others (and forgiving yourself)-- is the best gift you can give to yourself.
Expose yourself to the outdoors. I'm not saying you have to become an outdoorsman. Just get out of the house and seek out nature's beauty on a regular basis.
Listen to live music as much as possible. All kinds.
Learn how to cook at least one great meal. From scratch.
Don't smoke. Devastating to your body, skin, hair . .
Own at least one white linen blouse.
If you fill up on fresh fruit, whole grains and vegetables, then you can eat some of the junk.
Choose to be a big picture person. Take off the blinders. The view is much better.
Eat dessert. Just be smart about it.
Easy on make-up. Especially during the day. And always follow the rule: Strong eyes, nude-ish lip. Strong lip, light on the eyes. Otherwise you're going to look like a French whore. Ah -- and, light and sheer foundation with just a touch of rosy color on the apples of cheeks. Make-up is to enhance what you already have. Not mask it.
Don't get too far off of your natural hair color. Nature is pretty good about coordinating your hair, eye color and complexion to complement each other.
Eyebrows should always be a shade or two darker than your overall haircolor to give you some depth.
Stretch daily. Not just in bed before getting up. Create your own stretching routine. Look for one online.
On clothes: If the first thing someone notices about you is what you're wearing -- then you've got it all wrong. YOU wear the clothes. Not the other way around.
If you are going to blow a lot of money on clothes, go for the accessories. Shoes, purse, watch. They pull your whole look together and make your garments look expensive.
Get plenty of sleep. Invest in luxurious bedding, including the mattress. Well worth it.
Follow your big, bold dreams. Not someone elses. If you pursue your passions wholeheartedly, then everything will fall into place.
Love an animal. (The four-legged variety.:))
Learn a second language. Even a third and fourth.
What goes around, DOES . . .eventually . . .come around. Do the right thing and reap the rewards.
Always, ALWAYS, ALWAYS listen to your gut. That little inner voice. It will never steer you wrong.
Be true to yourself. Completely and totally. Sometimes this is a lot harder than it sounds.
Don't trust blinkers.
Be kind to your knees.
At 40, cut back on your daily caloric intake by about 200 calories and increase your daily exercise by 10 or 15 minutes. Don't ask why. Just do it.
Department store make-up is not one bit better than drug-store make-up. I know this but still still buy Clinique.
The same holds true for skincare products.
Stand up for those who cannot, for whatever reason, stand up for themselves.
Dare to venture outside of your comfort zone. It can be exhilarating and life-changing. Or just plain fun.
Break a heart-pumping sweat at least 20 minutes daily. MAKE the time to do it. It is a natural stress reducer, it improves your mood, controls blood pressure, keeps pounds off.
Understand that there are always two sides to every story. Sometimes more. Listen before jumping to conclusions.
You are going to make mistakes. Big ones. Little ones. The key is never-ever look at them as failures. Embrace them. Learn from them. They are life lessons and they make you a stronger, more empathetic person.
The written word can be interpreted many different ways, absent of voice inflection and tone. Be aware of this when e-mailing. Especially in the workplace.
Become the most compassionate person you know.
They make bras to lift and separate. But there's not a garment out there that you will want to wear that does the same thing for your behind. TAKE THE STAIRS.

More later.

Her name is Tara . . .

2008-10-19T14:36:00.000-07:00

We were first introduced in January of this year. She came into my office to register for school. Tall and gangly, with caramel colored hair falling over her face hiding her darkened expression, avoiding eye contact with me. Her grandmother dragged in behind her, and explained the burdensome guardianship of her granddaughter -- Child Protective Services had taken her away from her mother and now she had been given temporary conservatorship.

"The thought of having to take this child on to raise is more than I can bear," the old lady said many times and many ways through the course of the registration. The grandmother talked loudly and the girl winced each time she spoke. My heart leapt out to her as I knew that having no choice but to move in with her was probably more than she could bear as well.

"What is your name?" I asked the thirteen year old.

"Her name is Tara," the grandmother answered for her.

"Tara," I repeated, looking at her, ignoring the grandmother. She looked into my eyes for the first time and smiled.

"I'll take those," she said as I first started to hand the paperwork to her grandmother. She completed the lengthy packet herself, asked about advanced placement classes and our gifted and talented program. Her assertiveness caught me by surprise. This girl had something special.

I saw her every once in a while over the course of the final months of the school year. I had heard that she "borrowed" some girl's pricey tennis outfit (without asking) to play in a tournament. The coaches found out that she couldn't afford much of anything and they took pity on her. She made the A honor roll which was amazing when factoring in her home life. At the end of the school year, she told everyone that she was moving back to her hometown of Sweetwater to be with her mother. She wouldn't be coming back.

Fast forward three months.

Here's Tara again in my office. Yes, with her seventy-something grandmother and odd older brother, who is acting somewhat paranoid. Tara grew quite a bit over the summer. She's almost eye level with me! And Grandmother got a nose piercing.:)

She was downhearted because the anticipated reunion with her mother had not worked out.

I was actually glad to see her. I knew at that moment I was meant to take her under my wing, but I wanted to wait to approach her about being in the Big Brother/Big Sister program until after I got back from my trip abroad. I did a few small things to ensure her first few weeks at school would go well for her and I sought her out in the halls just to touch base. I heard she told a boy that was bothering her on the school bus to go fuck himself -- and she got a detention. :) But that just shows me she's not going to take any crap off of anyone. *You go, Tara.*

This past Friday, I had lunch with her. The best half hour I've had since I've been home. Very lively conversation. Ours souls are kindred. She is an active sports chica. She loves volleyball. She loves to read. Even reads the dictionary like I do. She journals and draws and lives in her head a lot. She's passionate about music and photography. She has much more internal drive that I ever had and I know without question she will make something of herself. She just needs a sane, somewhat stable person to connect with -- and I hope to provide that for her as long as she needs me to.

Her mother is on house arrest and can only have supervised visits with her children. God only knows why. I feel that if Tara wants me to know, she will tell me. She idolizes her mom, despite whatever she had done, which is common. And it sounds like Tara has taken on the role of the adult.

I'm looking foward to our growing friendship. I had a feeling about this girl . . .

Fat Friends

2008-03-19T12:46:00.001-07:00

I hate it when people don't take care of themselves. It's not that I'm judgemental. It's just that I know HOW MUCH BETTER they would feel physically and mentally if they got up off their butts and walked around a little bit.

I have a few fat friends. I don't try to push anything on them, but just continue to encourage and shoot little prayers to the heavens for them. One of my closest friends, who is at least 40 lbs overweight, tries to sabotage my healthy lifestyle at every opp. She drinks about 1200 empty calories in beer everyday -- but she says she eats very little -- or so she says. I told her for the umpteenth time last night that it's not the lunchtime turkey sandwiches and grapes alone that are keeping the weight on her. It's the beer, the late-night Mexican food and the total lack of physical activity.

She did agree to me working with her on a fitness plan that wouldn't be too difficult to stick with. I can't wait to get her started.

My best friend, who is a quite talented designer, has talked about getting healthy ever since I've known her. And that would be 15 years. What is really sad is that her 8 year old daughter is very heavy and very self-conscious. To me, that's child abuse. My friend is ultra sensitive about it since her parents were critical of her weight growing up so she lets my little god-daughter eat and drink whatever. Biscuits and gravy for breakfast -- or donuts. Ice cream after school. And very little activity. She stayed with us for a a couple of weeks when her parents went to Denver for a show and I pretty much sugar-freed that kid by the time they got back. Fruits and veggies, outdoor activity -- she didn't even know what I was doing. She never missed the junk.

I told her mama upon her return what I had done with the hope that she would stick with it once they returned home to Post --- but that didn't happen.

I'm not a fanatic when it comes to healthy eating -- despite what others may think. But EVERYthing in moderation. I just know I feel SO much better when I'm eating clean -- and other people have to feel the same way.

Cats

2008-02-18T03:56:00.000-08:00

I am a fan of cats. My cats. Which are outdoor small town cats. One of which could hold his own as a barn cat. That would be Frio. He is a big, white long-hair with a smoking hot attitude.

Felina Good-bye is the newest addition. Yes, she's named after the "out in the West Texas town of El Paso" song. She looks like a loose senorita and I expect her to leave just any day. Frio smacks her upside the head on a regular basis, but she stays around. Apparently, co-dependency is alive an well in the cat kingdom.

Daisy Duke rounds out the feline trio. She's the 16 year old matriarch with whom no one approaches. They all live outside in their fandangled little cat world, with undercover visits inside the house when my cat-hating 'other' is away.

NEWEST ADDITION: Pico de Gato is here. Felina got knocked up (surprise, surprise) and gave birth to 3 kittens. He is the only one who made it. Solid black. Extremely affectionate like his mama.

My Music is as Diverse as the Texas Landscape

2008-02-17T13:17:00.000-08:00

I remember my first love like it was yesterday. I was ten years old when I first heard "With Pen in Hand"- the early 70's tear-jerker about signing divorce papers. I bawled my eyes out -- and in retrospect I suppose that's just a little unusual for a 10 year old girl. Its singer? The extraordinary Mexican-American Vikki Carr. And from that overwhelming moment forward, I soaked up most all of her albums, one song at a time.

I began voice lessons not long after and began my love-hate affair with classical music. By the age of 12 I was singing light garden songs -- and bored out of my mind. I was constantly pushing my voice teacher to let me explore heavier material -- containing betrayal, seduction and even death -- but she wouldn't hear of it. "Totally inappropriate for such a beautiful young lady."

Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris soon became my obsession -- those girls sang about what I wanted to sing about! "(I'll Love You and. . .)Lose Again," "Making Believe (that you still love me") I literally collected every single album they produced in the 70's and knew every song by memory. I still studied serious music as well, then came my 8th grade talent show. My voice teacher thought it would be a perfect opportunity for me to experience public performance. I agreed. But I wasn't going to sing 'no stinking garden song.' Instead I picked a Ronstadt ballad, "Long, Long Time."

" . . .and I've done everything I know to try and make you mine and I think I'm going to love you for a long, long time." Just enough tragedy. Perfect.

I brought the house down. My girlfriends screamed. My daddy teared up. My voice teacher had 'a spell.' And boy, was I hooked. From that point forward I knew what I wanted to do for the next few years, anyway.

I stayed fully engaged in high school UIL competitions and was the only student from Gladewater High School to be selected to the Texas All-State Choir 3 consecutive years. But on Friday and Saturday nights I was singing my heart out with my first band, Texas East. I explored Negro Spirituals on Sunday mornings. And was introduced to Lowell George and Little Feat by my high school art teacher where I began my relationship with blues that I still nurture to this day.

College years I played in mostly blues bands (Annie and the Bone Daddies, Angeline and the Twisted Sistas) but also sang standard classics from the 30's and 40's with small orchestras. Western Swing (CowJazz) became a favorite as well and I wrote my first college level research paper "Don't Fence Me In: A Historical Journey of Country Music." Much to my surprise, I earned a 99 on it. For me, having a good historical understanding of the music you sing gives you a more satisfying experience -- and more credibility as an artist.

Much to my delight, I was also finally able to delve into the tragic-dark arias of my dreams and performed Purcell's, "When I am Laid in Earth" -- dealing with a Shakespeareanesque lover's suicide -- for the collegiate NATS competition held in 1982 at Baylor University. I made it to the finals. And that was it. At that point I dropped the serious study for good. I didn't see myself singing grand opera.

I never wanted fame and fortune as an artist. I never was one to push myself to be heard. I never recorded demo tapes with the intention of getting a record deal. I sang because it was in my soul. And after almost 12 years making music for my living, I grew tired of being on the road with a bunch of musicians. God love 'em. The nightlife wasn't my life anymore -- And at the tender age of 26 I quit and moved west. And felt a lot older than others my age.

I still sit in with bands every now and then to get my fix. I've sung cowboy music at our local and national rodeos on occasion. I do miss the creativity behind the work. I miss the sound and feel for vocal harmony more than anything else. But I'm constantly finding new artists that move me. (Joss Stone is unbelievable.) I'm really into the origins of old, old blues right now and am collecting lyrics of that genre. I have sung sacred material, but I'm not as moved as I am when I sing something that hurts. And the more hurt the better. :)