West Texas Mama

This post may be called Doll Envy, but it should more accurately be called "Why I Hate Barbie".  As this is the gift-giving season, and as we all run about buying into the commercialization of Christmas, my husband recently asked me why I hate Barbie so much.  (He overhears me grumbling about her everytime I see her on the shelves.) He claims to be a smart man, however, he followed the initial question with a theory of his that a tall, blond woman stole an old boyfriend of mine.  Not true, I assured him.  Most tall blonds are scared of tall redheads, duh.  No, my detestation of Barbie originated much earlier.  In fact, I can never remember liking her.  My sister, however, was a Barbie-freak.  She still to this day has the jeep she got when she was five or six or something.  I really don't know why I didn't like Barbie back then - I never really was a doll person (you are surprised, I know.) Books and baseballs were my entertainment of cho...

"STOP! Be Still! Look at me! I SAID LOOK AT ME!"  You will appreciate the irony in that statement, I'm sure.  My children have decided that they are portrait artists.  The past week, both El Hubbo and I have had numerous interuptions to our daily routines wherein the offspring have shouted the aforementioned statement.  They chase us about with a legal size notepad, pencil or pen at the ready.  They stop, crouch intently over their project, and shout instructions at us.  It is a strange thing to have your four-year-old say, "Let me see your eyes."  Then have to sit patiently while she stares and squints at you with a slightly furrowed brow.  I've been waiting for Jake to hold up his thumb and close one eye to get a better measured view. At long last, you are presented with the little Michelangelo Martinez masterpiece and informed that your office will serve quite nicely as a display room for their talents.  I think how lovely it will ...

I have to tell you this story. El Hubbo has banned me from telling anymore stories on him unless I am equally periodically humiliated. Little does he know that I have no problem telling stories on myself that I find objectively humorous. And, besides, I do love telling stories on El Hubbo, so the sacrifice is worth it. El Hubbo is a high maintenance trophy husband. (He promised me a vast empire when he asked me to marry him. I am still searching for that vast empire. Every time I express a doubt about its existence, he vehemently defends his claim that it does not reside only in his mind. I shall continue my search, but I digress.) Keeping him in properly starched and pressed jeans and shirts requires the operating budget of a medium-sized country. Apparently, no real Texas man would have it otherwise. He has developed quite a relationship with the ladies at the dry-cleaning store since his wife refuses to stand over a boiling cauldron in the back yard starching his jeans. ...

There comes a point in every parent's life when desperation for control of the homestead leads them to parenting methods many non-parents, or parents with perfect, abnormally well-behaved freak-children would question.  We find ourselves locked in an on-going battle with our children to keep them sleeping soundly in their beds throughout the night.  Forget the whole night, it would just be nice to have them go to their beds peacefully for a change.  No fighting, arguing, whining, etc.  No leaving their rooms to pad all the way across the house to our room to inform us that their head hurts, or their feet hurts, or their leg hurts and the only cure (obviously) is sleeping in our room.  No dramatic declarations of how much they would love us (so much more than normally) if only, only, they could sleep in our bed.  No crocodile tears as they look at us with hound-dog eyes and pouting lips as they explain how much they will miss us and couldn't possibly go al...

Recently, we welcomed a new member to the family - a nice, shiny, bouncing baby Tahoe.  The ol'Trailblazer had seen it's best days pass it by and she was ready for the pasture.  Little did I know that the new vehicle would be the source of so much contention and argument amongst our little family. The Tahoe is a big, beautiful, black vehicle, and I was thoroughly convinced she needed a name that fully represented her.  (She is most definitely a female.)  I considered the name "Sophia" after the character portrayed by Oprah Winfrey in The Color Purple.  But, then I thought about Octavia Spencer's character in "The Help":  Minny Jackson.  Minny was quite the character, and I knew immediately that my lovely Tahoe would be "Minny" from then on. Then I picked up my offspring.  Jake immediately, and very vocally, made it known that he did not like the name Minny.  He wanted to call her "Striker".  Why "Striker", I asked?  ...

Each year, El Hubbo plans and labors over The Great Brisket Smoke.  Originally, this involved a few briskets, some foil, basic spices (garlic, salt, pepper), an electric knife, some mesquite, and freezer bags.  It has evolved to now include 10 briskets, foil, foil pans, aluminum pans bought from a bakery going out of business, a full-size electric meat slicer (yes, like those you see at the meat/cheese counter in the grocery store), an almost industrial size vacuum sealer, some mesquite, a super-secret multi-spice recipe, and a full-twenty-four-hour smoke-out. Here is El Hubbo starting the fire and getting ready at 5:00 p.m. He was wondering what his crazy wife was doing with the camera.  This is him putting the briskets on the fire: The look of a man still fresh, still energetic, still convinced he can pull an all-nighter with no negative effects: I soon lost interest in taking pictures of El Hubbo as the aroma of smoking, sizzling meat started to overco...

If you have read many of my blog articles, you know my love of a coupon. Recently, I was shopping in a local store and on the end cap there was a display of large coloring pages featuring Dora and Batman. I thought this would be a good little treat for the urchins. Imagine my joy when I saw on the Dora package a coupon for $1.00 off a package of crayons. What better item to go with coloring sheets than crayons? I was certain the kids would enjoy those much more than the pens or highlighters I usually scrape up. I could hear the chants of "Best Mama Ever!" I find the crayons and toss them in my basket and finish my shopping. I was greeted in a less than enthusiastic manner by Faye, the checkout lady. Faye was an older lady and had evidently grown resentful of her employment situation. I thought I would be nice and I laid out my items on the belt and set the various coupons alongside the items. Faye rang up my goods, and when she came to my crayons she scowled ev...