You're out of the woods, You're out of the dark, You're out of the night

My blogging activity has experienced a steep decline in the past couple weeks. I tend to write about marriage, motherhood, friendship, light-hearted observations, pop culture. I'll write about any little thought that crosses my mind, but I keep it upbeat. The past couple of weeks I have been met with an onslaught of sad events, and while I wouldn't say that I'm overly affected, I would say that my blogging inspiration has been temporarily extinguished. I mean, really, how could I joke about dogs humping babies and adventures in Netflix at a time like this? I'll return to blogging, just as Dorothy returned to Kansas, but consider this my attempt at a graceful segue: Things that happened while I wasn't blogging, that kind of made me feel like I have nothing to blog about.

North Texas is spellbound over case of missing woman: for the local reader, I could sum this up by simply saying the name "Susan Loper", but I'll recap for my non-Dallas readers:

A beautiful mother and local fitness instructor is kidnapped in the early morning hours from the local country club where she teaches Pilates, leaving behind only her phone, her purse, and signs of a violent struggle. A touch of irony: this was to be her last day of work at this country club before realizing her dream of opening her own Pilates studio. She is found a day later, brutally murdered, in an open field off a major road that I drive every day. Adding to the tragedy: she has an eight-year-old autistic son. As our peaceful suburb comes to terms with this shocking tragedy, police finally name a suspect. News outlets show his photo and photos of his home...and he lives across the road from me.  Authorities announce that they have located him. In the Grand Canyon. After he jumped into it. And lived. It's just awful, piled on top of tragic, smothered in horror and sprinkled with bizarre. Family and friends of Susan Loper are asking donations be made to help secure her 8-year-old son's future. You can assist by sending donations to

Jake Loper Trust
c/o Ferguson Law Group
2500 Dallas Parkway, Suite 260
Plano, TX 75093

Make checks payable to Jake Loper Trust


Tornado devastates Tuscaloosa: The level of devastation throughout the state of Alabama following this tornado is really beyond comprehension and I'm deeply saddened by it. At the same time, I feel kind of disconnected because I am all the way in Texas. We don't have to be in Tuscaloosa to help, though. Anybody can make a donation (every dollar helps) to the American Red Cross.

This picture touches me because those kids look just like my friends and I did when we were in college. I'm so sad for them over what has happened to their college town.

The Royal Wedding Happened: The coverage began around 3:00AM, as did my dutiful DVR, but I didn't press "start" until about 9:00AM. My mom's house was without power, so, being the good daughter that I am, I took photos of the television screen with my camera phone and sent picture messages of Kate's wedding dress, and I downloaded photos from online gossip sites and texted those to her, so we could discuss the hideousness that was Princess Beatrice's Fascinator (also, I'm proud to have learned the difference between a hat and a fascinator), and debate just how little effort we believed Chelsy Davy put into primping for the day.

It's my personal belief that her messy updo was the product of an all-night bender with the boys, and that her hangover hadn't even kicked in yet. Takes one to know one. Not for nothing, the girl's as cute as a button and would look good in a paper sack, so I'm not trying to be mean. I'm just sayin'. Also, if there had been a betting pool for being able to best predict Kate's wedding gown description, my mom would have a fistful of cash right now. The day before the wedding, since she was bored and without power, I indulged her in a little game of "What do you think Kate's dress is going to look like?" Her prediction: full skirt, strapless bodice, long lace sleeves, plunging v-neck, "very similar neckline to the blue dress she wore to announce her engagement". Well, how do you think my mom did?

Special thanks to Pippa Middleton for setting the bar for aspiring foxy bridesmaids everywhere. I have my work cut out for me if I want a chance to compete for the title of Hottest Bridesmaid 2011

Osama bin Laden was killed: Steve and I are watching TV in bed and simultaneously surfing the Internet on our respective phones. I know, it's good, quality time spent together, right? Steve catches a whiff of something on the Internet about an important announcement from Obama that will be taking place in moments. Of course we now know what that announcement is, and that we were kept waiting for over an hour to hear the announcement. Steve turns the channel to CNN, where the journalists, stalling as the press conference is pushed further and further back, repeat that they refuse to speculate as to what the announcement may be. Steve is all up in arms over this, but I'm all like, "Pfft, Barack Obama schedules press conferences more often than I schedule pedicures. He probably just wants to tell us that he saved a lot of money on car insurance by switching to Geico...or something." Steve insists, along with the news anchors, that this announcement is going to be major. Well, if this announcement is so major, where is my silver fox, Anderson Cooper? Steve gets bored with CNN and their refusal to speculate, so he changes the channel to Geraldo Rivera. I know, I know. Geraldo is so amped up, his voice has gone up a couple of octaves. He, of course, is not above speculation. He keeps shouting in a high-pitched voice that this announcement is going to be earth-shattering, etc. Not even looking up from my celebrity gossip, I nonchalantly mumble to Steve "The only way this is going to live up to the hype is if Obama is announcing that they've killed bin Laden." Steve gasps, "You think?! That could be it! You could be right!" "I've been right before," I say with a shrug. Moments later, Geraldo rips a printed email out of the hands of somebody off-camera and excitedly reads aloud on-air that Osama bin Laden is dead. This news comes as a relief, but I'm always going to kind of hate that Geraldo Rivera is the person who told me. I wish it had been the President. Or Anderson Cooper. Or Hugh Jackman.

So, throughout this flurry of events, my mom is living for six days like a pioneer woman--without power. This of course, is due to the aforementioned massive tornado. She calls me on the morning after her power is restored.

Mom: Well, I turned on the TV for the first time in nearly a week. I'm finally seeing footage of the tornado that has ravaged our state and only missed my house by about ten miles. Charlie Sheen is visiting Tuscaloosa to assess the damage. There was a Royal Wedding. Osama bin Laden is dead...

...My lights are back on, and it's a dramatically different world than when the lights went off.

Me: It's frickin' trippy, right? Did The Lollipop Guild greet you outside?

Mom: Pretty much.

The Curse of the Sambino

Yesterday, we took Robinson to his very first baseball game, Rangers vs. Angels. Steve won four tickets and a parking pass in a silent auction to raise money for Meals on Wheels. We invited Scott and his little boy Holt, who turns three tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Holt!

On the way to the game, I sat in the backseat with the boys. Robinson was fascinated with Holt and couldn't take his eyes off of him. Holt was really sweet with him and would smile at him and show him his book about trucks. Holt is really into transportation right now. As we are driving to the stadium we pass a lot of road construction, and Holt would excitedly point and shout, "Truck!" "Train!" "Tractor!" and "BIGGGG TRAC-TORRR!" It was hilarious seeing how excited he was. It reminded me of Jarred when he was a little boy. He loved pointing out and identifying all the different types of construction equipment we would pass on the road. It's really sweet how even though times change, these little boys stay the same. I also learned that everything that isn't a truck or a train, is a tractor. Bulldozers, cranes, doesn't matter. When you're three, they're all tractors.

Watching a baseball game with little boys is so different than sitting with a bunch of adults. Holt gets so excited seeing the "tractors" on the baseball field, and the mascot riding around in the "tractor". It's fun getting to be silly and excited with him and point out things to Holt, like "Look at the tractor!"

Robinson sat in my lap during the game. He kept fake-coughing loudly and making obnoxious fart noises for so long, the elderly lady seated in front of me turned around to see just who was sitting behind her. She laughed when she realized it was a baby.

Robinson was in pretty good spirits, especially considering how close it was to his bedtime. We did one feeding and one diaper change while we were there, and this was my first adventure in changing diapers in a public restroom. I think it went pretty smoothly. What complicated matters was that I too was in need of a bathroom break, but being loaded down with an infant and a diaper bag made this impossible. So I had to carry Rob all the way back to our seats and give him to Steve so that I could return for a solo trip to the bathroom.

Back in the bathroom by myself, I'm washing my hands at one of the six sinks. As I walk towards the wall of seven paper towel dispensers, I discover what the woman directly in front of me has already found: only one dispenser has paper towels, and for reasons unknown, an old lady is standing directly in front of it, preventing anyone from reaching around to take paper towels for themselves. She doesn't seem to realize that there are other people in the bathroom. Why is she bogarting the paper towels? What in the hell is taking her so long? She's not drying her hands anymore...she's using the paper towels to polish an apple. Who brings an apple to the ball park? Who meticulously polishes apples in the ladies' restroom? Now she's carefully wrapping the apple in a paper towel. Now she's wrapping it in a second paper towel. Now she's wrapping it in a third paper towel. It's not a large apple. The woman and I are forced to just stand there while our hands are dripping with water. I'm about to just give up and dry my hands on my jeans. But I'm curious. Did she bring the apple from home? Why does it need such polishing? Is she about to eat the apple? If so, why does she have to wrap it up in three paper towels? What is she trying to protect the apple from? Is the apple for Snow White? These are the questions that run through my mind. She is sure she has secured the apple in her purse before walking away, still never acknowledging us. I totally bust the woman in front of me making bitchface at the old lady. Shannen Doherty just got a royalty check, thankyouverymuch. I'm amused.

Rob lasted until the bottom of the sixth inning. I consider that a huge success. Of course, in the grand tradition of Samantha attending Dallas sporting events, the Rangers lost. I'm ten for ten at this point. I'm like some kind of victory assassin. So now we refer to this phenomenon as "The Curse of the Sambino"

Sad Day: Bravo TV Shooting Reality Show in Dallas--Without Me

Damn. Since 2006, I've been waiting for the press release that Bravo is expanding their Real Housewives franchise to Dallas. You know, so that I can attend the casting call. How fun would it be for a camera crew to follow me around my palacial 1,800 square foot home and hob-nobbing with my glamorous friends? Could you imagine seeing film footage of me, cleaning my oven while watching Grey's Anatomy reruns on DVR? That's some pretty riveting shit, I tell you. I mean, I'm Real. I'm a Housewife. I'm exactly what they're looking for, right?

Whomp, whomp.

So, the good news is that Bravo TV, my favorite channel (previous reports that I live for the E! Network have been greatly exaggerated) that is known for shining the spotlight on real people in cities all over the country, is finally paying some attention to a greatly overlooked city: my (new-ish) hometown of Dallas. The bad news is, instead of spotlighting Real Housewives, they are producing a show entitled Dallas' Most Eligible, which focuses on hot young singles in the city. I should tell you how I learned of this fascinating news, so allow me to rewind a few clicks:

I wake up every morning at or about 6:40 AM. For no reason whatsoever. I am of the belief that nothing good happens at 6:40 AM, so I change the channel to NBC (so that the Today show is waiting for me whenever I begrudgingly agree that morning is upon me and I am forced to greet the day) and I lie in bed, face down, eyes tightly shut, spooning whichever dog has hopped onto Steve's side of the bed, and I try to will myself back to sleep. Sometimes I catch another hour of shut-eye. Sometimes I'm just lying there in a half-stupor. You're probably brushing your teeth and getting ready for work at that time. It's ok, you can be annoyed with me. I deserve it.

On this particular day, I'm snuggling Laney, trying to catch a few more zzz's while Steve gets ready for work. When the local NBC news anchors start talking about Bravo TV coming to Dallas, my and Laney's ears perk up (she is also a fan). They explain that the network is in town filming this new series about hot young singles in Dallas, and then they go to Reporter Babe on the scene--even though she's on the scene of a completely unrelated, actual news story.

Reporter Babe is a reporter whose name I don't know, but I always see her on the air in the wee hours of the morning, usually wearing a reflective safety vest while reporting from the side of the road, and no matter what time it is, she is always boasting expertly-applied eyeliner, premium hair products, and optimal hair "poof". She's your basic beautiful nightmare.

So, the anchors, who are unusually aflutter over news of a reality show filming in our city ("Big whoop", I say, TLC filmed a reality show in Dothan, Alabama. Why wouldn't Dallas have a show?) and so they cut to Reporter Babe who is standing on the side of the road in a reflective safety vest with impeccable hair and makeup, and they ask her if she knows anybody who is being featured on this new show.

Blogger's Note: When reading this, you should know that Reporter Babe, who usually speaks with perfect diction, inexplicably transitions to Valley Girl when the subject turns from "real news" to her personal life. She begins drawing out her words and her consonants. The transcript will reflect this shift. Also worth noting: Anchor Woman goes from being a credible, professional news anchor to acting like an excited school girl, thrilled to be discussing the latest gossip with the school's most popular girl while in the cafeteria. It was surreal.

Anchor Woman: So! Do you know anybody on the new Dallas' Most Eligible?
Reporter Babe: Yeah. I pretty much know alll the people on the showww. Actuallyy, I was approached to be on the showww, but I thought it would be a conflict of interestttt.
Anchor Woman: Wow! You know them? So does anything exciting happen?
Reporter Babe: Well, I was with them for a lottt of the shootingg, and I have to sayyy, it gets prettyy dramatic.
Anchor Woman: So they're pretty interesting people, huh?
Reporter Babe: Uhh, yeahhh, they're all my friendsss.

Steve has paused his morning routine to walk back into the bedroom to watch this breaking story unfold.

Steve: Is she serious?
Me: I had to open my eyes, just so I could roll them. [face smacks back into the pillow]
Steve laughs and makes a wise crack
Me: [face-down in pillow] You didn't know Ashley is a journalist now, did you?
Steve laughs louder. I have a friend named Ashley who speaks fluent Valley Girl. To know her is to love her.

For the rest of the day Steve makes me say (in Valley Girl voice) "Uhhh, yeahhhh, they're my friendssss."

Sooo, will you be watchinggg Dallas' Most Eligible? I knoww I will. Ummm, yeahhhh, they're my friendssss.

Baby's First Ballgame | Robinson: 1, Mavs: 0

We took Robinson to his first sporting event. It was an NBA game between the Dallas Mavericks and the Memphis Grizzlies. Steve, Rob, and I dressed out in our Mavs fanwear, and brought along Uncle Scotty.

We have quite a walk from the parking garage, and Scott is happy to carry Rob, despite Rob's persistent squirminess, until we reach Will Call and Rob pukes all over Scott's sleeve. That's always the point at which Baby is handed back to Mama.

Now I'm loaded down like a pack mule with my bulky diaper bag and a baby who gets heavier by the minute and seems determined to wriggle out of my grasp as I cautiously navigate through the crowd of fans, across a very hard floor, wearing heels. I should have stretched first. Steve and Scott don't seem to notice my struggle, and frankly, I don't want to be seen as somebody who isn't capable of carrying her own child, so I have my game face on. I stand patiently with the guys at the concession stand as they order one of everything.

As Steve is moving away from the concession stand, armed with an assortment of snacks, he asks me if I can hold one of his beers. "Are you kidding me? It's taking every ounce of strength and coordination I have not to pull a Britney right here!" Steve laughs, and what I love about him is that he knows exactly what I'm talking about.

It's been five years since I attended a Mavs game. Steve says I jinx the team. I also jinx the Texas Rangers and the Dallas Cowboys. Eff "The Curse of the Bambino", I am apparently the Mistress of Destruction. I just made that up. I don't know how my presence can be responsible for all of those defeats, but I can count the number of games I've attended on two hands, and we've lost every time. It must be my fault. Superstitions aside, I sat with the guys in some fantastic seats on the lower level behind the goal. I'm a person who has a much better time at sporting events if I have great seats. I think it's because I have ADD and am never fully invested in these games, and having great seats helps me to pay attention.

I forgot how loud these games are. Had I remembered, I would have thought Robinson was too young for this. Having forgotten this detail, I had my seven-month-old out at an NBA game that tipped off roughly an hour before his bedtime.

Before tip-off, an usher came by to see Rob. She was probably in her early-60's, and as she greeted me, arms outstretched, it occured to me that she was "asking" to hold my baby. This had never happened before. That's probably why I stared at her, confused, before handing my baby to a complete stranger. She talked to him while he stared at her. She told him that she could be his great-great grandmother, presumably because like Robinson, she has (dyed) red hair. I wanted to ask her exactly how old she thought she was, because Robinson's great-great grandmother is 99.

This is also the day I come to the realization about the subjectivity of color. Because every redhead in my family has either bright copper or deep auburn hair that is undeniably red, I've never viewed Robinson's strawberry blonde strands as "red". I've been telling people for months that I have a blonde baby. However, everyone who meets him says, "Look at that little redheaded baby!" This happened at the game too, and that's when I realized: if everybody is referring to my baby as a "redhead", then that makes him a redhead. My distinction of "strawberry blonde" is meaningless when the general public perceives him as a ginger. So, until further notice, I am the proud mother of a ginger kid.

As the game tips off, the noise reaches a fever pitch, and Rob understandably bursts into tears. The silver lining is that the noise drowns out his sobs, and he quickly calms down. Granny Usher returns, this time with Paw Paw Usher, because she wants to show him the baby. "Look, he goes right to me!" she tells Paw Paw Usher, as she plucks Rob out of my lap. Paw Paw Usher notices Rob is drooling and makes a comment about teething. I was genuinely impressed by his keen observation.

Now, if you're going to attend a sporting event, and you have good seats, and you carry with you an impossibly cute redheaded baby wearing Dallas Mavericks fleece footie pajamas, you're going to draw attention. We were on TV, and on the jumbotron, and at some point during the game, an announcer-type girl approached me and asked if I wanted the chance to win Dave and Busters dollars. I could have said no, but that would have been a lie. When she returns during a timeout, I stand up (holding Robinson facing out for all to see) and she announces that after the timeout, for every point the Mavs score in the next minute, everyone in our section will receive $10 Dave and Busters dollars, but I will win $25. Dirk scored a three-pointer, and instantly I was $75 richer. In Dave and Busters currency, of course.

We brought a toy for Rob to play with, but all he wanted was my Miller Lite draft. I was nervous that we would be seen on the jumbotron or on TV: me, holding Rob in my lap, while he is eagerly gnawing on my plastic cup full of beer. I think that would make me look like a really great mother.

The Mavs lost in the final second, furthering my reputation as the Mistress of Destruction. We waited for the arena to clear out, as Robinson quietly sprawled across my lap, sucking his thumb, attracting smiles from passers-by. He did look very sweet. We considered the outing a big success, and can't wait to take Robinson to his first Rangers game this spring!

It's Anchorman, Not Anchor Lady. And That is a Scientific Fact.

It was my girlhood aspiration to be a broadcast journalist; not an uncommon dream amongst girls my age. More specifically, we wanted to be Katie Couric. By my senior year of high school, I had become a bit more jaded. I recognized that there is only one Katie Couric, and that my future in broadcast journalism would most likely involve standing on an overpass in Missoula during a thunderstorm, wearing an anorak and describing the rain drops and gusts of wind to viewers of the local affiliate. This was not my dream.

Just because I allowed the voices in my head to discourage me from pursuing this "unrealistic" goal, doesn't mean I can't enjoy watching my local newscast. I rather enjoyed this segment I watched on my local morning news cast Saturday, about a dog named Valentine that was up for adoption. See if you can spot where I got the giggles. Non-essential dialogue has been omitted.

Anchor Lady: He's a cutie! Is he a Pu-- He looks sort of like a Pug in the face...
SPCA Guy: This, this is a Pug-Beagle, or better known as a "Puggle"
Anchor Lady: A Puggle? Is it bigger, is that why?
SPCA Guy: Well, it's just a Pug and a Beagle mix. A few years back there were these whole "designer breeds" where people were mixing certain purebred dogs, but uh...this is Valentine, and she's a two-year-old Pug-Beagle...
Anchor Lady: Is she normally this sort of...domicile?*
SPCA Guy: When you get her out and play with her, she's pretty energetic. She is Heartworm positive...She would prefer to be the only dog in the family. She's a very dominant dog. And her easy nature--
Anchor Lady [interrupting and condescending]: You can't really tell by her easy nature--
SPCA Guy: Yeah, well, I don't have another dog in my lap, either.

[Anchor Lady changes subject, they discuss how it's more expensive to treat Heartworms than prevent it, but the adoptive family doesn't have to pay for Valentine's Heartworm treatment. They made a few "Valentine" puns]

SPCA Guy: We're open from noon to six every day

[More "Valentine" puns. They talk about a recent fundraiser]

Anchor Lady: We're glad you had wonderful fundraising for that Beagle! I mean, Beagle...Valentine! Which is...you called her a what, a "Peagle?"
SPCA Guy: A Puggle
Weather Lady: Puggle
Anchor Lady: A Puggle! And she's available for adoption today from twelve to nine? [SPCA Guy shakes head] Nine to six?
SPCA Guy: Twelve to six.
Anchor Lady: Twelve to six!

Anchor Lady thanks SPCA Guy for joining her, and then she challenges him to a push-up contest the next time he visits. This only makes sense if you listened to the banter that segued from the previous segment. Blogger's Note: SPCA Guy wasn't a horrible slouch or anything, but I'm guessing he hasn't done a push-up since Jimmy Carter was President.

*domicile: n. One's legal residence

Deep in the Heart of Texas

I think Carrie Bradshaw once said you have to live in New York for ten years before you can call yourself a New Yorker.

When I first moved to Texas, a coworker told me that you have to live in Texas for ten years before you can call yourself a Texan. Texas has other sayings, too:

1. Don't mess with Texas
2. I wasn't born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could
3. If you don't like the weather in Texas, wait 15 minutes
4. Everything's bigger in Texas
5. Hot enough for ya?

That last one is what you say to strangers or acquaintances to make small talk about the weather when it's the second week in a row of temperatures above 100 degrees and we're in a drought. It's meant to be funny and lighthearted. Everybody says it, including newscasters during the "friendly banter" portion of the broadcast.

Like New York, Texas has a distinctive identity that sets itself apart from other states, and its residents are filled with a kind of pride that could be mistaken for snobbery. Texans love being Texans. What I find interesting about Texas is that it's a state with a theme, the way New Orleans has Mardi Gras and beignets Las Vegas has gambling and Wayne Newton. Here are some things that make Texas "Texas";

1. westernwear
2. livestock
3. horses
4. firearms
5. flamboyance is celebrated and rewarded (i.e. flaunting of disposable income and a confidence to showcase fake boobs, hair extensions, acrylic nails, spray tans)
6. infusion of hispanic culture

I love living in Texas, but sort of figured I'd always be an Alabama girl at heart. Sort of like Texas is a sorority I'm not invited to pledge.

Today I was struck with the realization that after only four years of Texas residency, my assimilation may be complete and I may officially be Texan--and not just because tequila is my favorite liquor. No turning back now!

On our way home from the pediatrician, I was sitting at a red light and reading a sign that listed all the stores and restaurants in a nearby shopping center. One sign was for an Italian restaurant named "Josephine's", but in my head I pronounced it:

Hoe-suh-feens

I'm getting Spanglish all up in here!