This week, I learned...

• it's never a good idea to try to apply liquid eyeliner after a good strong cup of coffee.
• eighteen hours is a long dang time, no matter how you cut it.
• if I have a good plan for a meal, it'll just be the kids and me.  If I was just going to have sandwiches and the crumbs at the bottom of all the potato chip bags, there'll be a crowd. Guaranteed. 
• that if my day was spent monitoring the Manning drama every hour, it's an indication of two things: 1. I need to get a real life, and 2. I may like football a little too much.
• akin to the first point, never have a glass of red wine and shred cheese.
• leis are like tiaras; one should always be kept on hand for special moments.
• there's such a thing as too much yogurt and too many episodes of Woody Woodpecker.
• the driver's seat of my car does not make a good mobile office. (Yes, I parked it first! I KNOW you all were thinking that...)
• cheap printer ink is no bargain.  Especially on board meeting days.
• to keep reading in a book that was chosen for bookclub but had questionable, even shocking content in the first fifty pages. 
• snails are very uninteresting pets, once they've been captured and jarred. We may have to break down and buy Maggie a horse...
• that I truly do run faster if I pretend like I'm in a 5K.

Just dough it...

One of my life's missions is to find THE perfect pizza dough.
THAT'S a worthy pursuit, don't you think?  I mean, other people are trying to find a cure for cancer, the lost tribes of Zagawa, new natural resources, and so forth.  This pizza dough quest has really been neglected by well-meaning folks who are distracted by more lofty pusuits, so it's up to me to find it.

Last month, Bon Appetit offered up a cover with this pizza and the bold claim that within its pages was the secret that would enable me to "Make Pizza Like A PRO!"

Snagged.
I was immediately snagged by that headline, not to mention the puffy, yummy looking crust in the photo...
See for yourself:

Kinda makes you think you want to, NEED TO make pizza like a pro.  Tonight.

I happen to know another blogger, Tammi Grimm Littell, who is a food nut (I say that with all fondness as a fellow nut) and who has made it a monthly challenge to make the recipe off the cover of Bon Appetit when it comes.

Let it be said that I almost can't turn down a challenge.

It will be the death of me, because someday someone will challenge me to a wheelchair race in the nursing home, I'll miss the obvious corner because I've forgotten my little diamond cat eye glasses, and BAM! it'll be all over.  But what a way to go, huh?

Last night, after a pomegranate martini, I thought, "I'll take her challenge!  I WILL make the pizza dough!  And it will be the best in the world." (Thus ending the quest...)

I gathered all four ingredients, rubbed my hands together and made zee dough.

It WAS rather nice, but I was concerned about how little yeast there was.  It seemed proportionately wrong.

I read through the entire recipe (for the first time, mind you) and was shocked to discover that the dough had to rise at room temperature for.....get this.....

EIGHTEEN HOURS.

Eighteen hours!!!!

As Tammi said, after I relayed my dismay, "Who plans pizza 18 hours in advance?"

Apparently, the great Jim Lahey from whose book the dough recipe comes.

We're ALSO supposed to plan a relaxed, informal pizza party for the next evening in which the guests each assemble their own pizzas with ingredients like goat cheese, caramelized onions, pecans and so forth. Each pizza is to be cooked individually, on a pizza stone, until bubbly and crusty.  (See the picture; Exhibit A)

Now, I live 80 miles from goat cheese, don't have any takers on the caramelized onions, save myself, and it does NOT sound relaxing to cook 15 pizzas, one-by-one, all evening. 

I'm going to include the recipe with this post, Part One of two, so you can try it too.  You know, if you have an extra couple days...

I'm STILL waiting on the dough, although it's riz (from Little Women) and is now sitting in the refrigerator for our supper.  I'll take pictures so you can see if it was a win or a fail. 

Ingredients


•7 1/2 cups (1000 grams) all-purpose flour plus more for shaping dough


•4 teaspoons fine sea salt plus more for seasoning


•1/2 teaspoon active dry yeast




Preparation


No-Knead Dough


•Whisk flour, salt, and yeast in a medium bowl. While stirring with a wooden spoon, gradually add 3 cups water; stir until well incorporated. Mix dough gently with your hands to bring it together and form into a rough ball. Transfer to a large clean bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and let dough rise at room temperature (about 72°) in a draft-free area until surface is covered with tiny bubbles and dough has more than doubled in size, about 18 hours (time will vary depending on the temperature in the room).


•Transfer dough to a floured work surface. Gently shape into a rough rectangle. Divide into 6 equal portions. Working with 1 portion at a time, gather 4 corners to center to create 4 folds. Turn seam side down and mold gently into a ball. Dust dough with flour; set aside on work surface or a floured baking sheet. Repeat with remaining portions.


•Let dough rest, covered with plastic wrap or a damp kitchen towel, until soft and pliable, about 1 hour. DO AHEAD: Can be made 3 days ahead. Wrap each dough ball separately in plastic wrap and chill. Unwrap and let rest at room temperature on a lightly floured work surface, covered with plastic wrap, for 2–3 hours before shaping.

(I halfed the recipe, not being quite ready to host a relaxed, informal party on an untried dough...)

To Make the Pizzas

• During the last hour of dough's resting, prepare oven: If using a pizza stone, arrange a rack in upper third of oven and place stone on rack; preheat oven to its hottest setting, 500°–550°, for 1 hour. If using a baking sheet, arrange a rack in middle of oven and preheat to its hottest setting, 500°–550°. (You do not need to preheat the baking sheet.)
• Working with 1 dough ball at a time, dust dough generously with flour and place on a floured work surface. Gently shape dough into a 10"–12" disk.
• If using a pizza stone: When ready to bake, increase oven heat to broil. Sprinkle a pizza peel or rimless (or inverted rimmed) baking sheet lightly with flour. Place dough disk on prepared peel and spread about 3 Tbsp. crushed tomatoes over dough. Tear or crumble some mozzarella over top. Using small, quick back-and-forth movements, slide pizza from peel onto hot pizza stone. Broil pizza, rotating halfway, until bottom of crust is crisp and top is blistered, 5–7 minutes. Using peel, transfer to a work surface. Spoon a few dollops of stracciatella over pizza. Garnish with crushed red pepper flakes, oregano, and olive oil. Season to taste with salt. Slice pizza. Repeat, allowing pizza stone to reheat under broiler for 5 minutes between pizzas.

Frog Squeezin'

Reluctantly,
I'm supposed to inform someone about a guest post I wrote for Tiny Paragraphs.

(Mercer Mayer has great frogs and this book cover is funnily apropos...)

My friend Shannon Popkins (I call her Poppie) is a free lance writer and has a really great blog that she faithfully posts to: Tiny Paragraphs.  About two months ago (maybe?) she tossed out an invitation to her friends to write a guest post for her blog and she'd choose a different one every Monday.  To be honest, I truly wasn't going to do it.  Poppie has some writerly, wise, funny friends that I know about through the great Facebook web and I was a little...uncomfortable, I guess....at the idea of my post being in the middle of theirs.  I have a book sitting on my shelf by one of them and I really admire his writing and faith. 

My friend Alice wrote one and I love her viewpoint and grace, and it happened to follow Chris Brauns' post, the writer of whom I spoke.  Now, C.B. is Alice's pastor and she made a funny comment about how it was hard to follow his; I seconded that thought in a comment and immediately got two messages telling me that I HAD to write a post. 

So, I did.  In ten minutes, with need for heavy editing which is Poppie's specialty anyway!
She posted it this Monday with firm instructions to tell people about it.  It's now Wednesday and I'm finally going to put the link out, mostly so Poppie and Chris don't unfriend me on FB. 

My obligations are over!

Frog Squeezin'

New Tunes

Last week,T.O.A.S.T.B.A.  asked what song I would likely next load on my MP3.  I never know what's going to strike me or when, and honestly had no idea!

Well, instead of more Cuban music, which I'm really liking right now, I ended up downloading Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days", followed by Harry Chapin singing "Flowers Are Red", and finished it off with Lost Immigrants' "Waiting on Judgement Day".  So, now you know. (Because you were dying to know, I'm sure...)

The music I really want to tell you about, though, comes from a documentary about some older, traditional Cuban singers that was produced in 1997, released in 1999.  The documentary, itself, is fascinating because each musician is interviewed in his or her space in Cuba, with a performance in New York's Carnegie Hall.  All the musicians were 65 or older....in fact, I'd say most of them are in their mid to late 70s, really.  Most don't speak English, so much of the interview is done with captions, and all the songs have captions so you know what they're singing about. Angus and I got up early one morning, about a month ago and watched the movie, which tells you how good it was; a five year old watching a documentary in another language about old people.

That afternoon, I downloaded their album, because the music wouldn't leave my head...only, in my head, it wasn't as good, you know?  I play it when I'm preparing lunch or supper...it just feels right, then.  Sometimes I have to stop, get my red heels and dance properly while chopping onions.  I think they'd be wonderful on an outdoor sound system; there'd be a barbecue and a dance would break out!  Maggie and Angus like them, too.  Maggie usually gets our her paints when I put the Buena Vista album on and gets busy. The song Chan Chan is the first one I heard and still my favorite!  (The actual words to it are a little risque, but it's fun to watch the ensemble perform.)

If you'd like to read more of their story, go to the Buena Vista Social Club website and check them out!  Have your red heels handy...

A Bookclub Looks at Buffett

At last; the post you've all been waiting for...
Last night was our Buffett bookclub gathering!
Let me just get one thing out of the way and then I'll report on the whole mess: there were no bikinis.

It almost didn't happen, though, like I had it planned.  For one thing, as of 2 p.m., the luau decorations and supplies STILL weren't here.  Oh, they were out for delivery, UPS reassured me, but that could mean 5:30 p.m.  One can't very well have a tropical themed party in the middle of Eastern Montana in March with two  pineapples and some shells gleaned from the bottom of the toy box.  And it's not like I could forage outside for decorations! Miles and miles of dead, brown grass, cowpies and the occasional sagebrush....

The UPS truck DID show, just in the nick of time!
Maggie and I RAN to meet the driver...I'm not lying...we RAN.  He was a little startled. (I can't imagine why; I hadn't had a shower and had been cleaning all day in my most glamorous tshirt and mom jeans, and Maggie was frazzled from the school day.)  Signed for the package, we ran into the house, he peeled out of our yard...the party is ON!    

You've never seen a house go from "cleanish trailer" to "tropical paradise" so quickly. 
Parrots, grass table skirt, candles, shells, backdrops...it was like getting a prom set up in 20 minutes with a four foot tall helper. 

You can't read it, but the black hat with the pink lipstick motif says, "I'm the woman to blame!".  My mother in law went to a Margaritaville restaurant in Florida a couple weeks ago and brought it back for me!  (She says it's for when I work cows with the guys.  I can't imagine WHY she'd think it was appropriate there.  :)

Little take-home bags with wacky nail polish, cocoa butter lotion, tropical beverage stir sticks, paper umbrellas (of course) and flowers for their hair.  Maggie helped me make them up in 10 minutes!

Okay, so the decorating was done...time for a shower.

(I'd have give quite a lot of my sister-in-law's financial resources for a margarita just then; guests arriving in 20 minutes, still need to prep the pork.  And that's after I get hair and makeup done! It has to be done, you know, because I boldly advertised photos to my blog readers. Dang, dang, dang...)

Showers would be a lot quicker if women didn't have to shave their legs.

I'm just sayin'....

Tossed on my Hawaiian party dress, ran a comb through my hair, looked for my makeup...

Drats!

I left it in the car yesterday!

Well, no big deal, right?

Big deal.

BECAUSE...

That very, exact moment in time, the Garfield County Sheriff chose to put on a clinic for the new deputy on how to start and shift the official deputy pickup, right there in my yard. 

That's right.

Roscoe P. Coltrane and Enos were there to retrieve the pickup, but it wasn't a start-'er-up-and-get-'er-into-town process.  They were trying out the microphone, the computer and everything. I mean to tell you, he was thoroughly training on this girl! (Do you suppose THAT had anything to do with the level of instruction? Hmmm...)

Whatever.

I had guests arriving in 10....9.....8....minutes!

Where it gets tricky is that if Roscoe spotted me in my Hawaiian floweredy dress, he'd talk for just ever.

He'd PROBABLY invite himself to the party, because, you know, it was a fun looking shindig if the decorations were any precursor to the festivities to follow.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Finally, they walked around to the other side of the rig, I took my chance and bolted for my car.

Made it back to the house without being spotted....glory hallelujah!...and ran to the bathroom to apply spackle and frazzle mah hay-ah (my hair).

During this time, unbeknownst to me, (SERIOUSLY Traci and Joni...I truly did not hear it!) Roscoe had wrapped up the seminar and was knocking on my door.

Traci and Joni pulled in, just before he was to make a rescue, thinking I was lying dead on the floor.

I'm not even joking.

He thought something was very wrong, because I was obviously home and not answering the door.

(And I thought I over-reacted to dumb things!)

Still no margaritas.

But, hey...homemade guacamole and chips, coconut bread, sweet potato fries, fruit skewers and conch fritters!

We'll survive.

About 10 minutes later, Anne and Marisa showed up with the key lime pie and....moment of silence here...margarita mix and tequila.

Buffett playing, adornment with leis...

Let the party begin!

And it really did.

Here are some of the finer moments...

Margaritas, child...make haste!!!

(She measures, I don't; made it interesting as Anne had never made margaritas and I have made a couple.)

Shrimp!

And big, honking earrings...sheesh.

Please note the umbrella.  I had 144 of those babies; we'll have umbrellas in our drinks...tea, chocolate milk, whatever...for another five years! Also, the green thingie hanging down by Marisa?  Parrot tail feathers, of course!
Incidentally, we were astonished Anne made it to the party, much less able to be upright.  She'd just been home one hour after a Denver trip and picking up her mother in law at the airport in Billings. 

Please...someone comment on this woman's Bermuda shorts.  She was perhaps a little upset that she was the only one who dug a pair out and was brave enough to wear them! (I was in a dress, with equally white legs AND shoulders, so I didn't want to hear about it.)

Fryin' the fritters!  Which were AMAZING, by the way.  A-MAZ-ING.  I'm gathering up recipes to share with you, because you all need them. I need them.  I think if all we'd had to eat were the fritters, we'd have been good. But we did all the food justice.  We're polite that way; even going back for seconds to make the cook feel VERY good about her potluck dish....

Discussing deep, important things, such as "What's YOUR favorite Jimmy Buffett song?"

Oh...we DID discuss the book for a few minutes. It was not a big hit, but I don't care...it was a fun read for the dark month!

Around 10, Wayland returned to go to bed or something....I don't know....and I asked him to take a group picture.

It was a process....

We had a reluctant participant.

(She was the only one who had not had a margarita.)

 Action shots...

It got a little wild.

Well, she's in the picture, but she's hiding.  This is where the photographer said that it looked like Anne all of a sudden sprouted big hair.  We lost it, again!

This is as good as it gets!

We missed Susie, but I have a take-home bag for her and we'll see her next month, I hope!

OH!

And the book we'll be reading is Anne's selection:

South of the Border, West of the Sun  by Haruki Murakami

The time has come...

to address something that has driven me crazy for YEARS;

 an encounter that fills my heart with dread, brings tears to my eyes, makes me feel like such a failure...it's simply awful.

It's fresh on my mind, because this week I had another traumatizing experience with

the S.C.A.L.E. at the doctor's office.

(That's right.  I capitalized each letter on purpose, because evil entities really need identified by their proper name.  Somehow, the acronym for  "Suicide Contemplation After Looking Eventhoughyoucan'tstandit" is appropriate.)

I am STILL wondering how in the world the scale at the doctor's office can weigh me in at not three, not five, but EIGHT stinking pounds more than my scale at home does!  Actually, I'm not wondering, I'm just mad.

Don't try to make me feel better by saying it's the clothes. 

It's not the clothes.

I dress VERY purposely on doctor days when they come in the lighted decent apparel I own.

I even wear light socks, if any at all.

I don't wear heavy earrings...minescule hoops.

I take off my rings.

I take off my shoes.

I take off any sweater or scarf or hair thingee or name tag.

Which brings me to my NEXT aggravation about doctor's scales:

WHY do they not put them in a private little room where the door can be shut?

Do I hear an amen?

Why do we have to be measured in the very public hallway where, well, first of all, we can't completely disrobe and get our weight down to a managable five pounds over. And then, every doctor, nurse, patient, Pepsi delivery man seems to walk by while I'm standing there on the S.C.A.L.E., trying not to cry, wishing I hadn't had that sip of water before coming in to my appointment.

Which brings me to my FINAL frustration:

I can fast for a solid 24 hours, only take enough water for my medication, use the bathroom seconds before weigh in, breathe shallowly (Does air weigh much? I don't know. It must. Something like three pounds with each intake, I'm thinking...)

Still....eight pounds over my home scale.

And just so you know, you can't "accidentally" kick the darn thing while you're putting your shoes back on, because the nurse notices that and chides you.  It probably gets written up in your chart.  She probably adds two pounds in retribution. I'm sure she does.

I wonder if they just design these professional instruments to tack on extra pounds, some wicked "Watch this, Marge...I think this one will actually swoon when she weighs in; buy you a Diet Coke if she doesn't..."

It's probably some medical lottery to liven up the office.

Whatever it is, it can certainly take an already uncomfortable situation and turn it into a half hour of defensiveness and "But I run and eat fruits and vegetables like you can't believe, Doctor.  Really. I do!"

S.C.A.L.E.s

Next appointment, I'm scheduling in July...I swear I will!

It'll push the envelope on "lightest decent apparel" but if I go to Walmart afterward, I might become famous...

Changes in latitude, changes in attitude...

We still have a book club....I know, it's been so long since you heard about it, you may have been wondering if it still existed, but it does and this month, we're reading Jimmy Buffett's A Pirate Looks at 50.  And we're having a luau-themed party to discuss this deep, extremely multi-faceted book.  :)

Jimmy's music makes me laugh and his book did, too.  I love that he's very upfront about who he is and what he enjoys, how he got to be where and who he is, that he's a curious lifelong learner and embraces people of all walks.  His book reads sort of like a blog; he'll spend some time in remembrance, bounce to the here-and-now, profile a character, take the reader on a flight to Trinidad....you just never know where it's going to turn.  He's a very positive, bright writer who has a pretty generous spirit where life and people are concerned. And he's just funny. 

Here he talks about taking his seven year old son through a breakfast buffet at the Hyatt:

I woke up and my gaze was met by a small pair of emerald-green eyes inches from my own.  I don't know how long Cameron has been awake and looking at me, but there he is, larger than life.  It's a great feeling to wake up with my son beside me, or rather in my face.  "Hi, Dad! Let's get some French toast," he says.

The Buffett boys dress quickly and head for the breakfast buffet, where a line of early-bird Christmas tourists has already formed.  The smells of breakfast have our stomachs growling.  A buffet is not supposed to be a complicated meal- cereal, juice, coffee or tea, eggs and bacon or pancakes.  But the Christmas breakfast buffet at the Hyatt is just too much of an opportunity for the food and beverage manager to pass by.  There are ice sculptures of swans, banana-leaf-lined food trays, and an omelet chef.  The line is backed up like the Long Island Expressway on the Fourth of July.  Suddenly the line is brought to a halt by none other than Cameron.  He has stopped dead in his tracks just past the ice sculpture of a pelican.  He is sniffing the air like a retriever with his tiny upturned nose.  "Look at all that bacon, Dad."

In front of us is a platter larger than his red wagon, loaded to the edges with bacon.  He looks up at me with those wide green eyes, and I connect to his conspiring thoughts.  It's just us boys.  We have fled the International House of Women for a day, where skim milk, fresh yogurt and protein powder rule  the morning meal.  All of that stuff is available here, but I load him up with bacon French toast, and sausage, making sure there's plenty for the old man as well.  Bacon is the quintessential representation of something that tastes so good and is so bad for you.  I remember times in our sailing days when I would start the morning at sea by frying up a pound of Oscar Meyer bacon, which we would devour with hot bread, jelly and butter as insulation against the carcinogens.

And that's how Jimmy Buffett writes.

This Friday, we're having our book club "discussion"/luau/fiesta at my house....

Leis! Margaritas! Flip-flops! Coconut shrimp! Bikinis!
Okay, probably not bikinis (I know of three bookclubbers who just gasped out loud at THAT), but we're going coastal and it's going to be fun! 
AND...because it's Friday and no one has to work the next day, AND the barnacles are having a sleepover at their grandparents' house, the party could last indefinitely...'til 10:00 at least.  (Can you believe how wild and crazy these girls are? 10:00 PM?!?! Cohagen will be abuzz with the news...)
AND...because it's MY house, there WILL be photographs.  (Which ensures with 100% certainty that there won't be any bikinis.)

If you want to get an idea of what the book is like, this YouTube video, "King of Somewhere Hot" pretty much encapsulates the entire thing, except you don't get to see Jimmy's son in the Hyatt breakfast buffet line with the red wagon-load of bacon....

What's YOUR favorite Jimmy Buffett song?

First Calf 2012

It's a tradition...we take a picture of the first calf, every year.  It's funny, because as I look back through the files, here are 10 first calf pictures, all little knobby kneed, fuzzy, clumsy little black Angus calves in very bleak March-in-Montana landscapes, with worried young mamas.  And every year, it's exciting! Babies!

*Maggie was being a grump this morning, not happy that we went went roaring out to the pasture to see the new baby. "It's just another calf! I've seen thousands of calves in the pasture!" and then she wanted to know if it was a bull calf or heifer.  I told her it was a bull calf and she gloomily said, "Well, that's just great.  The first calf of the year and he's going to be hamburger when he grows up..."  *big, dramatic sigh*

So, for those of you wanting baby pictures, here's 066 with her baby....you know, the future Angus burger at your friendly, local steakhouse.

We didn't get too close, so these pictures were taken with my big lens.  She was a nervous little mama and I didn't want her to take off with him; she had him down in a nice little coullee where he was sort of protected from the wind.  It's so hard to take a picture of a black calf standing next to a black cow on a cloudy day....

Isn't he beautiful? And she's SO pleased with him.

This picture really shows how young this mama cow is.  See how her face still looks almost baby-ish, still?

There you go.  Brand new baby on the prairie, the beginning of calving for the year!
It's gorgeous weather for it, supposed to be up in the 50s this week during the day, and very little snow.
Let the games begin!

Ick

*Before reading this post, you'd do well to put on one of those little mask thingees and medical gloves. And have a bottle of Clorox Clean-up with Bleach (Kills FLU GERMS!) close at hand.  Don't say I didn't warn you....

We've been smacked upside the head with some sort of evil illness from the depths of hell, this last week. (I say "this last week"...it started Thursday, today is Tuesday; welcome to stay-at-home-mom calendar keeping!)

Fevers, head cloggage, coughing up lung tissue, sore throat, head ache, runny nose, sneezing, REPEAT.

That's right.

Just when we think we're turning the corner, the fever comes back and WHAM! here we go again.

It's so ugly.

We're so ugly.

And I don't even care that I'm ugly.

Except that it scares the kids and the dogs at night when I get up to let them out or give them medicine.

I mean, reverse that....I don't put the kids out.

At least I don't THINK I put the kids out....hard to say, though, with the dose of Nyquil I took.

Hmmm....

I haven't wanted coffee.

My hair hurts.

I haven't run in four days.  My nose runs, but I haven't. 

We've been laying on the couches and floors like a bunch of hung-over Mexican lizards, letting the History channel play what it will, dropping soggy Kleenex on the floor and coughing until our abs ache.

First freezing, then sweating, then freezing, then sweating....

And we can't figure out why the Farmer is putting in punishing hours at the shop, spotlighting with his BFF, going to Jordan for...I think I saw peanut M&Ms and Coke in that grocery bag, under the Robitussin!

Drats.

Empty package of peanut M&Ms and no Coke left in the bottle!

Ah, well....everything tastes like cardboard, anyway.

Even ice cream.

Even French onion soup.

Even enchiladas.

Now...

This isn't meant to be a whine-fest! Not at all!

First of all, it's a warning. 

Do you remember the movie Swiss Family Robinson, when the father flew the black spot of death flag over the wrecked ship and scared away the pirates? This is my version of the black spot of death flag: turn back now!!!  Save yourself!!!

Secondly, I've GOT to get back in the writing mode, here, and this is really all I have to write about this very minute. 

And that's the latest installment from the Cohagen version of Tales From The Crypt...

Mom Jeans

Another challenge for my blog, put to me by friends who obviously want to see me run over in the Walmart parking lot by an angry anonymous reader of the Chronicles.  Ah, well....life is short; may as well live on the edge, right?

Recently, a friend of mine was informed that she wore "Mom jeans" and this wasn't a compliment.  The flaws of her blue jeans were pointed out, the superiority of the socially responsible individual's jeans were highlighted, we considered ourselves informed and laughed about it later!

*Incidentally, my friend's jeans are not Mom jeans; the details will be covered later on in the post.*

Gosh, who KNEW it was so important to wear the right jeans in Cohagen, Montana!?!
I mean, my goodness....someone might think we're a buncha backwards hicks if they saw us wearing Mom jeans in public! Ya think? (I mean, if you can consider the Cohagen Post Office "in public"...)

So, now we're searching the second hand stores for the Mommiest Mom jeans we can find, just for fun.  I found a promising pair that I'm excited about; they cut into my ribs right under my bra line, and taper nicely to nearly cut off the circulation in my ankles.  The only problem is that they have pretty decently placed pockets and everyone knows that to be truly CLASSIC Mom jeans, the pockets have to be tiny and high on your rump, or non-existant. 
Sadly, the lack of tacky pockets take that edge off the fashion, making room for someone else to find a mommier pair. 
Drats!

(Exhibit A: Famous Mom jeans modeled confidently by Jessica Simpson.)

Pretty much, my definition of Mom jeans is this: if a mom is wearing them, and they're hers, they're Mom jeans.  Odds are that she's probably wearing a Mom shirt, Mom shoes, Mom accessories and driving a Mom car.  That's what happens when you give birth...you're a Mom.  And we're all different shapes, sizes, different income levels, lifestyles; that's the gorgeous thing about mankind, in my mind.  I'm so glad we don't all wear the same thing! (I've often thought I'd never make it in a school with uniforms, because my rebellious heart would want to "alter" the outfit somehow.)

I also don't think it's my place to inform anyone that they're unfashionable according to MY standards.  Just because I like to wear makeup every day doesn't mean every other woman in my social sphere should wield the mascara wand daily, saying "bibbidy-bobbidy-boo" under her breath, hoping for the fairy godmother miracle like I do.  I'm not going to walk up to one of my friends and ask which secret from Victoria she's wearing and has she considered the pushup, lace, wunderbun lingerie that I think would do amazing things for that Mom shirt she's wearing.  I have no illusions that just because I don't feel fully dressed without earrings, it's the right rule for every woman.  I like that we're different.  I love my friends' styles; they're always so different from mine, unique and beautiful like the people who put them together. 

I'm glad we can laugh about the Mom jeans, and make it a great contest that will indeed culminate in Cohagen Mom Jean Day, in which we'll all wear our worst and vie for the prize....a redneck coaster set and case of ramen noodles, Oriental flavor.  It may catch on and go national.  If so, you can say you saw it here first! 

(I'll check with my friend, but I think April Fool's Day would be the perfect day for the contest.  I'll keep you posted....)

Let's pretend....

that I haven't been away from here for a month, okay?
Thanks.

In the comments from the last post, my friend TOASTBA tossed out some questions for Crazy Mary!

Here they are:

To prime the pump, I submit for your review some Crazy Mary questions...stuff I--and all your faithful readers--have been dying to know...
1.  What is the next song you will buy for your MP3/IPod/whatever you have?
Hmmm...Well, I can say that my new favorite is the Buena Vista Social Club, so it might be one of their tunes. Or T-Bone Walker....I love his music but don't have any of it on my MP3, yet.

2.  If you could have any of the spaceships on the Star Wars movies, which would you pick?
*Crickets...* Um....okay, I don't really know about the spaceships, but I DO like those big robotic things that go stomping and tromping all over creation, with the operator in its head.  They look like fun!

3.  What is your least favorite chore?
I used to think it was cleaning bathrooms, but really....it's emptying a cat litter box.  Same thing, really.

4.  What is your favorite soup?
Corn chowder, with embarrassing amounts of bacon in it.

5.  What is your favorite drinking game?
Golf. 
I don't know!  I don't know any drinking games, really, but I do know that my golf game improves with beer.  That's what I've been told, anyway.

6.  What is the oldest piece of clothing that you own but have never worn?
My Gramps' plaid wool jacket....it's probably 50 years old, and I'll never wear it, but I love seeing it in my closet; think of him every time I do.  And smile.

7.  What's your earlist memory?
Riding in the pickup between Dad and Mom...I think I was about 3 years old and it was probably the first time I could see over the dash. It wasn't a big, exciting memory, but it was vivid!

8.  I just heard Aretha Franklin's song "You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman" on the radio.  What makes YOU feel most like a natural woman?
High heels!

9.  Using no external references whatsoever, what's the longest one-syllable word you can think of?
The word "through" pops to mind.

10. What's your favorite T-shirt slogan?
I had this Nike tshirt that finally wore out and I wept...on the front it said, "Mary had a little shoe, its sole was full of air, and anyone that Mary raced, didn't have a prayer."  On the back it said, "Mary kicks butt."  If you ever find one of those in a second hand store or a museum, I'll pay you handsomely to bring it back to me...

There you go!
I promise a post a day for 10 days.
I've got stuff to say, just haven't had the guts to say it, lately.

Hi guys!
I've missed you...

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Last spring, I helped in an after school program at a church for a couple afternoons; a fun, crazy experience,  and it stretched more than my legs, that's for sure. 

One of those times, the "theme" was that we were created specially, to do special things...we all have different talents and abilities, and we need to use them as fully as possible.  Or, as I'm fond of saying, "Use your powers for good, and not evil..." (Little superhero way of looking at it...)

At the end of the day, each little group gathered up in a little "campfire circle" to journal and talk about the lesson of the day.  One of the questions we were to put out there for the kids was that age old "What do you want to be when you grow up?"  It was interesting to hear what the kids from a small rural town had to say.  They don't dream too big.  Modest little ambitions. Very attainable ideas for their happily-ever-afters.  Most of them wanted to be ranchers, parents, teachers, etc.  One wanted to be a rodeo clown, and I'm pretty sure he'll have a celebrated career as such...he's got all the bravado and flexibility needed!  The circle finally got around to me and I said, "I want to make beach glass jewelry and sell it to tourists on an island, when I grow up."

There was stunned silence, as you might imagine.
They didn't want to hurt my feelings, but a few obvious things needed to be pointed out...
A very serious little girl finally, gently, said, "But you're already grown up.  And you don't live on an island."

Well, yeah...that's true.
But I've got a lot more growing up to do and that's what I explained to them.  And just because you're born and raised on the edge of nowhere doesn't mean you're always and forever tied there. 
They processed that for a little while, then their discussion took a turn for the glorious...
Freed from having to give realistic, safe answers, all of a sudden they had GRAND ideas! A firefighter with a petstore, a missionary, a race car driver...I think we even had a mermaid, although it was getting silly by then. 

We're all still growing up.
We will be until we die,  in my point of view!

What do YOU want to be, when you grow up?
Mermaids and rodeo clowns, welcome!

Burns 2012

I'm getting this up as quickly as possible!
For Celestia and Jasper....

Every year, the Scots around the world celebrate the birthday of Robert Burns by gathering and having what is essentially a celebration of heritage and a big old party on or near the date of the blessed event. For those who don't know, Robert (or we always called him "Bobby") Burns is THE poet of Scotland; more than 500 poems and songs, most famously "Auld Lang Syne". Miles City Caledonian Society has been celebrating for 103 years! (Burns was born 253 years ago, so that gives you an idea of how important he was to the culture and people.)  We try to go every year, but have missed the last couple due to bad roads, and this was the first year the kids have gone...their first Burns! (It should go in the baby books...)


A young dancer; waiting, waiting, waiting for the show to start.  You can almost see the butterflies in her tummy, can't you?

The portrait of Bobby Burns....

You'll find I'm a little obsessed with the socks...gorgeous!

(More dancers, waiting...)

The Miles City Caledonian Band lining up and getting ready to play the processional; they're pretty famous in the bagpipe circles...sort of bagpipe rock stars....and get asked to sign autographs and everything.

Presentation of the colors...

The pipe major and Vice-President of the Miles City Caledonian Society, Scott Glasscock.

Yeah.  That's right.  We don't like to flaunt it and all, but we're his friends and get to sit at the head piper's table. With his FAMILY.  Sorta like hanging out with the Scottish version of...I don't know...maybe AC/DC, and we bring our own Angus. :)

(The light is incredibly AWFUL to photograph in for the dancing and piping.  But I like it in some respects because you really do get the feeling of it, the motion and true color. Part of the problem is that I hate flash...it makes images hard, somehow.  So here you have my rather blurry captures of the program...)

I like the audience in this picture.  Some year, I'd like to go and just take pictures of the people who attend Burns; you'd get an amazing cross section of Eastern Montana.

 AL-RIGHT...I'm a little upset. These are NOT the sexy, pufffy white socks the band has worn in the past. This is just wrong.  For one thing, they're blue.  You may not be able to tell, but they are. And they aren't dressy enough for this occasion.  Maybe if you all are piping out on the hill somewhere, getting ready to bring the sheep in or something, these would be acceptable, but for Burns? Wrong, wrong, wrong...!

They give young girls swords, then have them dance over the top of them. And nobody gets hurt!

These are the littlest of little dancers...I adore their hairstyles and how very serious they are.  It's big stuff.

{Petticoats!}

Okay, THIS is a crazy image and I can't believe I caught it.

When I was watching the pipers play Amazing Grace, I saw the reflection in the drum; do you see that?  It looks like the drum is transparent, with the image fitting perfectly atop the piper behind it, but it's not.  Look at the angle...think about it logically, then look at it again.

Crazy.

We get to eat, too! They have an amazing supper with pork, lamb and beef, potatoes and gravy, corn or creamed green beans, rolls, salad and cookies.  Here's our table, which was filled with rather squirmy attendees who considered cookies the appetizers.

A better look at the bairns, waiting breathlessly to see if they won a basket of Glenfidditch whiskey in the raffle drawing. (They didn't, but Angus DID buy his own ticket and was absolutely certain he'd win SOMETHING.)

I don't know who these sweeties are, but they were so beautiful!

Aren't the kilts and socks just cool?!

For some reason, this picture sums up the Miles City Bobby Burns Night perfectly for me...the cowboy hat, the dancers, the crowd, the tartan around the stage, the empty drink cup...it's all there. If only there had been bagpipes laying on the table, too!

At the very end, all the dancers that have ever danced at Burns are encouraged to come up on stage and dance the last dance.  It's crammed, and I know not ALL the dancers go up, but it's still quite impressive and we enjoy watching.

If you want to read more about Bobby Burns and his poetry, a good place to go on the internet is http://www.robertburns.org/ .