The Bathroom Sink.

Recently I discovered a few lines of a song that truly spoke to me. While it is not an uncommon occurrence for a song to touch my heart, this one in particular made me question myself and my relationships. We all know music evokes emotions and memories. But should a handle full of words make you question your life?

"It's amazin', the amount of rejection
That I see in my reflection
And I can't get out of the way
I'm lookin' forward to the girl I wanna be
But regret has got a way of starin' me right in the face
So I try not to waste too much time
At the bathroom sink."

Powerful stuff, huh?

Sounds like she wants a change. She hates the world she lives in, yet fears what regret might follow if she were to give it all up and start fresh.

There must be something or someone toxic in her life?

So why and how am I moved in such a way, by this small phrase?

I don't want to lay blame, so I won't. But I will say there were, and are a few toxic people who I let poison my life. And for what? So I can stare at myself in the mirror some more and think about how awful of a person I am, because they said so?

There have been many days I have wished I could just cut ties without regret or messy endings, but that is not how life works, most of the time. We let people into our hearts, sometimes they make a wonderful impact on our lives, sometimes they slowly destroy our sense of self. Sometimes they are the ones who are closest to you, and sometimes they are people you hardly know.

These lyrics really hit me in the gut. And this is just my take based on the song in its entirety. The song is "Bathroom Sink"-Miranda Lambert, incase you're interested in giving it a listen. Maybe you'll listen to the song and hear a different story, maybe not. But my point is, at the end of the day we all have some venomous entity in our lives that must be squelched or claimed a necessary evil. It is not always easy to see what it is. So be mindful of what and who you let in, and what or who you cut out.

Home.

Tonight my soul is aching to move back home. I don't mean like moving in with my mom home, I mean moving back to the country. To that quiet little northern Mayes County section.

You see, now that I'm a parent, I keep thinking of how I want my daughter to grow up. And I desperately wish she could grow up in her grandparents' milk barn, like I did.

I want to give my baby the romanticized rural Oklahoma childhood that I lived.

I think about how my heart would be so full, living the other end of that childhood. And it makes me miss home that much more. But, I don't foresee my mother becoming a dairy farmer and hiring me as a farm hand anytime soon. And I don't know if or when an opportunity to build a life out there would arise.

It's not so much the milking I miss, or the farming, but the smell of hay season (which is ending right about now), the strangely comforting sounds of calves bawling and coyotes howling at night during the spring, the sound of the wind against the corners of a house on an open plain when winter hits, the heat that is so hot you feel as though you could fry bacon on your front porch come the middle of August.

I like our neighborhood, don't get me wrong. It is quiet enough that you can hear crickets and frogs at night, the traffic is minimal, most of our neighbors are nice, and we're just far enough outside city limits that there aren't many sirens or bright lights. But I can't help reminiscing about the echo of a night train four miles down the hill at midnight, a sunrise whose view isn't hindered by trees and buildings.

I can't help wishing Robbie Jo could have a huge yard to play in, a few trees to climb, and an old creek to wade across, just to sit on the bank and count all the turtles that pop their little heads out of the muddy water. She would enjoy those things if I gave them to her. She would cherish memories of tractor rides and hard work if I could provide those too. She would love to live a life like I had as a kid.

Maybe one day I will be able to give her all of those things, and more. Maybe she will write home saying how she misses the sounds, the smell, and the feel of her childhood. Maybe she will talk about the red dirt from our road, how it is in her veins and how it calls her back to a place of simplicity and easy living. And maybe I can give myself what my heart longs for most.

Adventures In My Kitchen.

Hello there! It's been six months and two days since my last post. Sorry about that.

Life was really sucky for about five of those six months. But last month I decided to stop wallowing in my self pity and loathing, and return to the land of the living. So here I am, living. By living I mean watching lots of RHOC, Total Divas, Dance Moms, and of course Disney Channel. I LOVE Disney Channel. It's great!

Oh and I've been cooking a lot. I've never particularly liked cooking but the baby finally started eating table food so I had to start making a variety of noms of us. And oddly enough, I've found I actually enjoy it now. Most of the meals I've made have been crock pot meals. But hey, I'm still counting that as cooking.

I made Robbie Jo's first birthday cake. Her party theme was "All American". It was only fitting she have an American flag cake, which was only slightly disastrous. The cake was a delicious vanilla red/white/blue layer cake. But the icing turned out horrible. I saw this cool "tie dye" icing on pinterest. You can just imagine the horror. My red, white, and blue tie dye turned into a star spangled mess. But it ate all the same and I enjoyed making it so whatevs.

Then this morning while watching The Pioneer Woman and contemplating whether Ree Drummond's name was Ree or Bree Drummond, because for the life of me I couldn't remember, I wondered if maybe I'd start cooking and blogging about it. Then Trisha Yearwood's show came on and I was inspired. Her show sucks, but she made a bad as pot pie and I thought "Well hell I can make that". So I did. And now I'm telling you about it.

I Googled Trisha's recipe and sort of followed it. She used an insane amount of butter, and her crust recipe yields more than I needed . So I used her recipe as a guideline.

I started out with 5 boneless/skinless/trimmed chicken breasts, dropped them in a pan with some cool water and a little salt, brought them to a boil, then turned the heat down to a little more than a simmer. Then I peeled and chunked up some petite red potatoes. Again, cold water and salt, boiled, reduced heat. Once the potatoes and chicken were done I removed them from their liquids. I saved the chicken stock, and then diced up the chicken. I just set the potatoes aside for a bit to cool.

The hard part was next. Making the filling is a pain in hind quarters. Her recipe calls for carrots, celery, potatoes, and onions but I just used a bag of frozen country medley veggies (green beans, corn, peas, carrots). I sauted the veggies with some butter, creole seasoning, black pepper, onion powder, a little garlic powder, and a dash of salt. When that was good I added about half a cup of flour and a little more butter and stirred that around until it got paste like or "became a roux" as Mrs. Yearwood Brooks called it on the tube. Then I splashed in some milk and some of the chicken stock until I got the consistency I wanted, almost like thick breakfast gravy. Next I threw in the chicken and mixed it all up.

I greased a couple of baking pans, layered the taters, then the filling and set it aside so I could make my crust. I kind of flubbed up here. I wasn't using my head, and didn't grab self rising flour, and I didn't think to add a leavening agent. As a result my crust was a little on the dense side once it was done, but it was more like the crust of a pot pie should be and less biscuity. I did followed Trisha's crust recipe though, 2 sticks of butter (which is like 16 tablespoons of heart attack btw), 2 cups of butter milk, 2 cups of flour, a teaspoon of black pepper, whisked until smooth. It was too much buttermilk for my taste, so next time I'll do some regular milk, self rising flour, and some crisco. Hopefully it will taste better. I poured the crust over the top of the pie filling and baked until relatively brown, and not doughy.

Now I am devouring the fruits of my labor. My kid of course is crying about having to try something new and only eating the chicken out of it. The dog seems to like what Robbie throws on the floor though. So I'd say dinner is a success. Let me know if you enjoyed this and would like to see more. Thanks for reading!!

Johnny Pop and the Rough Draft.

Lately I've been working on a short story about a tractor my grandfather used to have. The story is more about the joy rides we took it on, but it's titled after the model of the tractor. This sounds a little ridiculous, but once the story is finished it will be a good read. Writing this thing has made me realize just how hard it is to write an actual story. 

I mean, it is really freaking hard to convey the image that is in my head just on this blog, let alone trying to make an actual memory into a story.  It's been pretty stressful because I'd like to do a whole series of memory stories. They're just so hard to write. 

I really want to post this story, so I've decided to give you my rough draft. And when I say rough draft I mean, rougher than a cob rough draft. I kept every one's names instead of changing them, and there are some parts missing in the middle. I just haven't figured out what to put in yet. Anyway enough chatter.

Here it goes, I hope you enjoy this memory as much I as do.

Robert climbed up that old John Deere. He was a farmer, with a great appreciation for old tractors. Not just because of their handiness in his trade, but for the growth of industrial machines over the years.

The machinery groaned and sputtered as it came to life. "I'm gonna take this ol' Johnny Pop for a spin, Mom." he hollered to his wife, Mabel. "Take Alex with you why don't you." she yelled, waving him on as he crept down the lane, tractor popping all the way.

About a quarter mile down the road Robert's granddaughter lived, and he often stopped  by to see if she would go for a ride with him. Pop, pop, pop. The tractor slowed to a stop in front of the granddaughter's house.

"Mama! Grandpa is here! I'll be back!" The glass door slamming behind her, Alex bolted across the yard and scrambled up onto the tractor. Without a word, they were off.

The knobby tires stirred up red dust as they chugged around the section. There were no words needed for the old man and the girl. They only had to enjoy the ride and the land surrounding them, taking in the beauty of Eastern Oklahoma in the early evening hours.

The sun began to set over the country side as the two made their way home. Robert dropped Alex off at the edge of her drive. She waved good bye as he puttered away.

"How was your ride Dad?" Mabel asked when he walked in the back door. he just smiled. He would always enjoy those evening drives with his granddaughter on that old Johnny Pop.

Grandma's Kitchen

When I was in middle school I wrote a short descriptive piece about my favorite place in the world. Not surprisingly my little slice of heaven was at my grandparents' house. It was the creek running through their pasture. The creek is still there, and I can almost remember what I had written.Something like "The water is cold on my bare feet. Its babbling is like a quiet song sung only for me. A crane rests on a large rock, watching for his lunch in the clear stream."

It was easily my best work, and I wish I had a copy of the assignment, but if my memory serves me, and it usually does, the teacher kept it as an example for future students.

Thinking about this piece makes me think of my grandparents. Specifically my grandmother, and her kitchen.

There were, and still are many magical spots at my grandparents' house. But Grandma's kitchen was probably the happiest, most magical of all. There wasn't anything special about it, except maybe the vintage cabinet door handles, and the pepto bismol pink paint on the cabinets. But there was always something wonderful lingering in the room.

You could almost always find my Grandma hovering over the stove, cooking up the best meal you'd ever have. Up until the week of her passing, she was in there baking a chocolate cake, or making a pot of chicken and noodles, just for me.

Many times I would walk in the back door to find her stirring the noodles one more time for perfection. "I thought you'd be over soon. I made chicken and noodles." That was her greeting every time. Her back was always to me. I don't know how she knew it was me, she probably saw me through the window above the kitchen sink, but I appreciated and I cherish that she always knew.

The magic is gone now. The kitchen is often dark. But sometimes, when the air is still and the light from that window above the sink is just right, I can almost see her, and I can feel her there, waiting for me to come through the back door, so we can have lunch together one last time.

Successful Is Relative.

This past Saturday, my mother and I went to the mall to do a little Christmas shopping. It's always good to spend time with my mom, but I honestly could not enjoy this trip. I just couldn't shake this horrible funky feeling I had. And I still haven't gotten past it. It's Wednesday. This is ridiculous.

Anyway, I realized today why I am being plagued by the Downtown Funk. Which by the way is as catchy as the Uptown Funk by Mark Ronson (I think that's his name?), but it's not nearly as enjoyable.

When we were in the mall, we were surrounded by people who were roughly my age, and dressed like they were going to work at PR firm. They were all carrying the latest in technology in their hands while "drinking Starbucks". If you didn't know, no one actually drinks Starbucks, they just pay $8.00 for a small ass shot of espresso in some soy milk, and walk around with it to look cool.

I'm so over seeing all these "cool" people. Why? Well mostly I'm jealous. I've never been cool, I will never be cool. And partly because they all give off this vibe that they are successful, with good jobs, nice cars, big houses, and a freaking yacht at the marina. Again something I probably will not live up to.

But saying I won't live up to the term "successful" is inaccurate. Successful is relative. 

Basically, I'm jealous over something that is a total front. These people may very well really be living the dream. College educated, making a good living, and are happy. But I'm doubting it. Why? Well we are children of an age where everyone is in debt for school or cars or credit cards. 

Our parents felt it was their birth right to go to college, and so they did. They graduated, got a good job, met someone, got married, had a few kids, and then put the pressure on their children to be as "successful" as they were. 

So we go to college right out of high school, extremely naive, and immature because of the changing times, with no idea of how to actually make it in the real world. (Yes you may feel like you are very mature, and some are, but most of us early 20 somethings really aren't. We were not handed as much responsibility as our parents, and their parents. It happens, don't get offended.) So we create mountains of school debt we can't pay, party too much, try to keep up with the ever changing world, and then wake up one day to realize that we've maxed out credit cards to live like the people we see on TV. To pretend that "Hey we're doing very well. Life is great."

Not that life isn't great. To wake up everyday breathing is a blessing. But my point is we've put so much pressure on ourselves to be great leaders and stars. What happened to those small town dreams? Or not having to pretend to be something we aren't to fit in with the crowd? 

Do you feel that pressure? I know I do. I know my friends do. Cameron and I have had long conversations about it. It is there. The need, the drive, to live like kings, and wear YSL lipstick. Our parents did not intend for our generation to feel like this. They meant for us to have and do more than they did, as long as it meant we could still have simple, easy existences, and work hard.

We created the weight we feel. We did it by over sharing silly images of thigh gapped, photoshopped, high fashion models on social media, by glorifying being famous without really having to do anything to get there, songs about tigers on gold leashes, and "hanging with Molly", by refusing to accept that to float, you first have to sink a little. (That is why there are anchors on all those tattoos and pictures. Anchors sink.)

Rome was not built in a day my friends. Do not feel as though you have to have everything right this instant. Our parents and grandparents didn't just rope the moon and pull it down. They had to build ladders and send monkeys into space first. 

Successful is a relative term. You don't have to be whatever image is breaking the internet today. It is completely acceptable to be happy in the same town you grew up in with a used car, a house that you aren't dropping your whole paycheck on to make the mortgage, and going to Zumba classes twice a week because you don't want to gain more weight during the holiday season. Please, I'm begging you, find your own successful, what your soul is truly happy with.

I may be speaking for myself here, that's probable. But I think we can all agree there is a heaviness in the air. Ignore it. Go after what your heart wants, not what everyone else pretends to have. Successful is relative, remember that.

Alex Jones, The Poet Laureate. Wait, Can Women Be Poet Laureates?

If you give my dog a treat,

He will expect one, every time you meet.

If you give my dog a cookie,

The sugar will turn him into a Wookie.

But if you give my dog a doughnut,

He'll sho' 'nough, go nuts.

Earlier I fibbed a little on my Facebook page and said I knew what I was going to write about. But I forgot what I was going to write. So here are some poems, just for you fine folks on this cold, gloomy, Hump Day.

Roses are red.

My Grandpa's shirt is blue.

The dog just farted.

Or was that you?

Do trees have knees?

No, knees belong to the bees.

But bees fly?

And then I smash them and they die.

To smash them is cruel!

But if one lands on you, you'll dance like a fool.

Roses are red.

My Grandpa's shirt is blue.

Rhyming is hard.

I like bread and butter pickles on my sammiches. Ewe.

I haven't written serious poetry since middle school. So forgive me if these aren't that great. I'm pretty proud of the first one though. And my use of the word "Ewe" in the last one. I'm not sure what female sheep have to do with anything, but it rhymed. Have a good day!