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Wednesday, August 3, 2011: I’m writing this from 32,000 feet. I’m flying to San Diego for the BlogHer conference and I’m trying to deal with my adult-onset, highly illogical but very real fear of flying by typing maniacally on a keyboard and not thinking about the fact that I’m writing this from 32,000 feet. Thank you for being here for me. Love, Herman
I took this photo on the ranch just a few weeks ago. I was driving from the highway to our house and I suddenly beheld the beauty of the sky and the grass, and I slammed on my brakes so I could hop out of the car and take this photo. During the process, a pile of grocery bags avalanched in the back–I’d stacked them a little too high–and my hazelnut latte from McDonald’s sloshed all over my center console and filled my car with coffee odor and shame.
That was back when McDonald’s was new and novel and brought such promise to our small-town lives. That was back when I was driving to town every single day and getting great big hazelnut lattes. Every single day. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having a Starbucks nearby. And they were very sweet and very creamy. And I wasn’t sorry.
On a separate note, I still can not for the life of me figure out where in the world this extra six pounds came from! Hmmm. It’s just a complete mystery to me!
And yes, I realize avalanche is not a verb. But it should be.
Don’t you be eyeballin’ me, boy…
I love this kid. He’s a sweet pile preciousness wrapped in 81 pounds of muscle. You know what he said to me last night after I made him a snack? I’ll tell you what he said to me last night after I made him a snack. I’ll tell you right now, in fact.
He said, “Mama? How in the world did you learn to cook such awesome things?”
And I answered him. I said, “Just years and years of intense kitchen experience, son.”
And here’s what I said to him: “I pretty much feel the same way about you, B-man.”
Butthead. He’d better not be on my memory foam right now.
I just retrieved this photo from my cell phone. It was taken by the blonde boy you see above on the day I whipped his father’s buttocks in that at the Lodge in April. Don’t I look like someone who thinks she’s tough and awesome and Annie Oakley?
Yes. Yes, I thought you might agree.
(Hey–that’s in the background. Hi, Julie!)
Back to the original photo for a second. You know what else it makes me think of? How vibrant and verdant the ranch was just a mere few weeks ago. Just look at that grass. So lush and nutritive and beautiful. And now…well, you just wouldn’t believe it. Well…yes, you would believe it if you happen to live in Oklahoma or Texas or Kansas or the other parts of the country that are experiencing drought and temperatures than can only be described as hell-like. It’s not lush anymore. It’s not green. It’s brown. Crunchy. Dying. And dead.
It was 112 degrees on the ranch yesterday. Let me just write that out for you.
One hundred and twelve dang degrees. One hundred and dang twelve degrees. One dang hundred and twelve degrees. Dang dang dang dang dang dang dang.
It hurts to touch the window of the car from the inside when I’m driving down the road. It’s like when the odd fellow in Raiders of the Lost Ark grabs the medallion that’s been resting in the fire. My hand. It sizzles.
The cattle stand in the ponds all day to stay cool.
Charlie is starting to ask for ice baths. He’s never asked for ice baths before.
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