Dallas - grace grits and gardening

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

February 10, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, we were the proud owners of an entire fleet of vehicles – one vehicle per television. It was obscene. We were over our limit primarily because Kelsey had graduated from college and relocated to Washington DC. A car was impractical in DC – they have trains. Dallas has the light rail which is awesome but the coverage is limited – perfect for a trip to the zoo. So, our driveway had become a used car lot. Nice.

Our neighborhood was platted and developed back in 1905 by cotton gin genius Robert Munger. Munger made a fortune and quite a reputation by actually improving Eli Whitney’s cotton gin, holding numerous patents in this category. Thanks in part to Mr. Munger, Dallas became the world’s leading manufacturer of gin machinery and largest inland cotton market in the U.S. in the 1890s. I was destined to live here given my family’s cotton roots. Even with Mr. Munger’s amazing foresight, he never envisioned 100+ years later harried families would maneuver entire squadrons along the single-file driveways that line Munger Place homes.

So every morning a game of musical cars ensued at our house. In the rain, wind, sleet, snow or blazing sun, without fail, before sunrise… Invariably, the person who first came home Monday night needed to leave before sunrise on Tuesday morning. Or vice versa.

Our next door neighbor parks a “FunFinder” camper in his single-wide drive. The moment we broke ground on our pool, Mr. FunFinder ran out and made this purchase, obviously thinking that with all the dirt moving equipment in our postage size backyard, the neighbors (we) wouldn’t notice or care. Of course the dirt movers were here and gone, the pool is peaceful and relaxing, and the view includes the FunFinder, which is yet to be much fun. We are thankful for it; however, as without it parked next door, I feel certain we would have attracted the hysterical district folks with our growing used car lot.

It is just not in the cards for us to have normal neighbors. At our prior home, we had a drug dealer. She was a full blown, full time drug dealer with deals being consummated all day long in our shared driveway. The police were aware yet apparently unable to prevent this – bigger fish to fry and all. Why can’t we have nice gay neighbors like Mitch and Cam? Neighbors who watch Glee and keep their property home tour ready.

Morning musical cars is a pain. Just like musical chairs in Ms. Jones’ music class in 4th grade. It stressed me out. It was so competitive, and I was not. My classmates were vicious about claiming a chair. There were always those kids that barely scooted from one chair to the next, just hovering over the chairs to insure a place to plop their rears when the music stopped. Then there were those who sat down on top of you when you had already claimed a chair – like you were invisible! Likely, I was. I avoided attention, so if I was ‘out’ and everyone looked at me, I wanted to disappear inside myself.

Ms. Jones also made us play Farmer in the Dell. If I couldn’t be the farmer, I didn’t want any part of it. And girls were NEVER allowed to be the farmer. When the ‘farmer takes a wife’ part came around, you sure didn’t want to be picked if the farmer was a dork. Like it was binding or something. And we were all dorks in 4th grade, weren’t we? When ‘the nurse takes a cow’ – omg who would want to be the cow? No one. Or a rat or the cheese? The whole thing was cheesy in my opinion. This was simply a way NOT to learn music or sing – a teacher’s babysitting song. Not that I blamed her. When they were young, my kids spent lots of time playing The Quiet Game on that long drive to Norfork Lake.

In addition to having too many vehicles, we were paying way too much insurance. More cars than people, more people than televisions, more insurance than was needed! My new mission was to sell a vehicle, any vehicle (the one in the back of the lineup?) and reduce our insurance expense. Insurance is super high in Dallas because una tonelana of the motorists were uninsured. It’s a fact.

John had begun to drive Kelsey’s car because it somehow ended up at the back of the line or parked on the curb and was easier to access. But that’s the car we decided to sell so we spiffed it up and found a buyer. Meanwhile, John’s hot-rod Lincoln was buried deep within the garage and had not been driven for months. It was coated with dust. Dust from the January ice storm. It was now Labor Day weekend. I felt sorry for it.

As we ate dinner one night – two days before the red car was to roll off the lot – I asked John again, about the Lincoln. “Have you started the Lincoln lately?” “No, but it will start.” NoWayinHell. “John, it won’t start. It hasn’t been driven for months.”

“It’ll start.” He insisted. “It has a new battery.”Define new?

Ok I’m a practical farm girl. I know that if you don’t start your car at least every few weeks, it will be deader than a doornail. It just will. Use it or lose it. But he was sure it would start. Our son and his girlfriend joined in on the exchange. They were with me on this. We continued to debate until finally, during the middle of dinner, after discussion ad nauseum, we all jumped and ran outside, determined to end this ridiculousness once and for all. There had been times my car wouldn’t start at the airport after just a one week vacation. Did he have a super duper battery made for the surface of the sun? Opening the gate outside, John asked me, “You wanna bet?” Oh, he was so overplaying his hand.

{STOP! The remainder of this post contains TMI. If you have a sensitive stomach or are easily offended, pretend this is the end and imagine your own conclusion. You KNOW the car didn’t start, right?}

As we walked into the hot garage, the kids hung back in the yard watching from afar no doubt thinking we were nuts. John leaned over and whispered to me, “What do you want to bet?” “Whatever.” There was no way I was going to lose this one. John was smiling and looked all pleased as punch. Was that a twinkle in his eye? “Ok, if I’m right,” he said, “and the car starts, we have sex all week, whenever I say. As much as I want.”

“With who?” I ask. “With each other!” he sounded exasperated at this point, which was part of my plan. “Sure, fine by me,” oh like he was so deprived. “And when the car doesn’t start?” I added, “I make the rules for the week.” We shook on it. He was so excited, looking ahead to his incredible honeymoon-like week – probably planning a week of vacation. And, he NEVER took vacation. Opening the car door, he climbed inside, stuck the key into the ignition, and nada, nothing, not a sound. Of course. Ha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I knew it! The look on his face…. I thought he might cry as his dull, boring week flashed before him. I did a victory jig. He was sad and beat down. He shuffled back into the house all hang-dog and pathetic. I’m not sure he could even finish his meal. I happily skipped inside and went on about my evening.

Later that night, I explained my rules for the upcoming week. I was still up for the “all you can roll in the hay” buffet, but at $200 a pop. Bingo! There were no losers in quiet little game of musical cars. That week, the tellers at the bank wondered if I had a gambling problem (probably even filed a SAR), and in a way, I guess I did. Men respond to money. They speak that language. As do I. Winner Winner Chicken Dinner.

Now that we have sold one car and another is off to college in Fayetteville, we are thankfully down to only one car per Schnauzer. But still we have too many televisions.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Keith Urban, “Making Memories of Us”

Darius Rucker, “Alright”

Do you think I’m Tex-y?

February 8, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

In my zone. I was typing away furiously, the words freely flowing – life is good. Typing is one of my true talents – I am speedy, and I have the high school trophies to show for it – at home in Arkansas, underneath the sink in the bathroom, where the mice play. Tall trophies. I won them at the Cotton Boll Vo-Tech School in Burdette, where Mrs. Byford took all her bright, shiny Future Business Leaders of America students. And unlike today, there was a 1st, 2nd, 3rd place trophy and a whole room of leftover slow typists who went home with nothing but a day off from school. I might never speak French, but I could type. This one girl I knew once said, “I never want to learn to type – Everyone will always ask me to type their papers in college.” What? What kind of sense did that make? Who was going to type her papers? Kids today are born knowing how to type. The typing gene was passed down from those of us who took timed speed tests in the 1970s.

So as I was on a roll, cracking myself up, a certain mischievous schnauzer plops a raccoon on my air mac hitting just the wrong key and launching me into a whole new level of cyberness. Ugh!!!!!!!!!!! She typed a whole line of jumble. Of course, it wasn’t a real raccoon, although I wouldn’t have batted an eye had it been. Thank goodness for the Undo Button. I threw the raccoon across the room and looked down at my keypad and screen to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. That’s when I really noticed Great Grandma Creecy’s hand searching for the undo button! WHEN did my hand turn into a piece of fried chicken?

Daddy always said, “Doesn’t matter what you do to the rest of your body, your hands will give you away.” Once again, here he was, speaking from the grave, right as rain. He didn’t say a whole lot but when he did he was usually right. And his message was usually delivered deadpan. There was nothing funny about this.

Maybe it was the bad lighting in my bedroom this morning? And I probably needed to drink more water – that was my new years resolution this year (and every year). Like most resolutions, I did really well for a few weeks…. I bet I was dehydrated! All that night sweating was shriveling my hands! And my nails were disgusting. My cuticles were jagged and each fingernail was a different shape! Gross. Looked like I had traded in my banking job to pull Johnsongrass full-time. But the most glaring thing was this warty thingy near my wrist. It was sorta like a wart but wasn’t. It was like a hard knotty zit – one that had nothing inside but you kept thinking it might. Handsome-Dr.-Ruben-with-the-perfect-skin said it was nothing, “But I can freeze it off, if it bothers you.” Yeah it bothered me – it stared at me all day long. While I typed. It was stifling me.

So he burned it off, turning it really nasty for a week or so. It blistered up and popped and drained and scabbed and healed. And then lo and behold, it came right back. Staring at me again. A bit smaller but still there! I hit the Undo button, restored my words, put Mac back on the desk and ran downstairs to get rid of this carbuncle myself.

I got the duct tape. Duct tape fixed everything, right? I cut off a piece and taped it over the heinous thing. Somewhere, somehow, I heard that duct tape cured warts – maybe it suffocated the virus? This wasn’t a wart, but it was wart-like. It might not work, but it couldn’t hurt, right? At least I wouldn’t have to feel it glaring at me. I didn’t have the silvery original duct tape, but I had white. Would the color affect the outcome?

There aren’t that many things I would undo in my life – one things affects another. If you undo something in junior high, you might not have that fab typing trophy in high school. But I would undo the amount of time I spent baking in the sun which has brought me to this point of wearing a piece of duct tape on my KFC hand.

Needing a professional, I tossed a couple of dog treats to Annabelle and Lucy so they wouldn’t eat a book, and drove to the nail salon for the works. All my little Vietnamese friends were thrilled to see me – no one else was there at 10:30 am. Everyone had jobs.

One of my favorite parts of the experience is picking a new toe color. There is an entire wall of polishes arranged in rainbow fashion with like colors grouped together. The color itself is important, yet secondary – I choose based on the name of the polish. If the color doesn’t have a cool name, I’m not gonna wear it. I can’t walk around for weeks with toes named “Getting Miss Piggy With It” or “I Eat Mainly Lobster”. This is just like choosing a horse at Oak Lawn. First the name of the horse, then the color. I always bet on a gray house, unless it has an unfortunate name. Bad name. Bad karma. Wasted two bucks.

I only do browns, cherry and blue/greens (polish not horses), but only if the name speaks to me. If the bottom of the polish has lost the label and I can’t identify the name of the color – I pass. I had been wearing Rosey Mistletoe’sies pretty much since Christmas – it was time for a change. After careful consideration, for my toes I selected “Do You Think I’m Tex-y” from the new Texas Collection. It spoke to me. But only for my toes. I keep my fingernails au natural. I’m predictable that way. I like my fried chicken plain.

I sat in the big spa chair with my feet in the hot water and prepared to relax. I was plugged into my favorite tunes to drown out the odd Vietnamese instrumental renditions of Moon River and Deep Purple that played over and over – with a random Christmas song thrown in. I’d rather listen to my own odd assortment of songs… This was my chance to catch up on Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher’s split. My favorite nail lady, Na, was attending to my feet. A lady I didn’t know (or maybe I just didn’t recognize her?) came over to address my nails. Hmmmm, interesting outfit to say the least. Was she hiding from the law? I should definitely watch America’s Most Wanted just to make sure… Maybe she was from another planet. I do think it’s a possibility. As she studied my nails, I studied her. On this beautiful, warm, 60 degree February day, she was smothered head to toe in strangeness.

“What this?” she barked, pointing to my hand. Oh, I still had duct tape on my warty thing. I ripped it off – ouch – and dipped my fingertips back into the water. She looked at the thing on my hand, shook her head as if thinking, “I not believe these white people”. It wasn’t that bad. I wanted to say, “What’s this?” and wave my fried chicken hand the length of her entire ensemble. But of course, I didn’t. I hold these thoughts in, to later spew forth into cyberspace. Sparkly black beanie, beige turtle neck sweater underneath a thick second pink sweater with pink furry collar(!) underneath a white lab coat. And odd yellow reading glasses perched on her pointy nose like an exclamation. She had to be percolating under all those layers! Her face was flushed, especially her nose. I studied her. Oh great! She was sick! Bird flu or something which would be passed to me.

“Are you sick?” I asked. She did not respond. I knew she heard me. She acted like she couldn’t speak English. “ARE. YOU. SICK?” I asked again a bit louder and more slowly in case she couldn’t hear through that beanie on her head. “No. Not sick.” She replied. “Allergy.” Hmmmm, I was skeptical. I should have never asked because suddenly the floodgates opened. “My father in Vietnam have allergy. My nose run and run and run. It horrible. It not stop. I up all night. My nose run.” Oh God.

The allergy lady dipped my hands in paraffin wax and then wrapped my arms to the elbows in towels. I had flashbacks of my recent facial. Typically I pass on the paraffin, but maybe this would help my wart thingy. As soon as my hands were all bound and tied, my nose itched like crazy. Oh great this would drive me nuts! This was ruining the whole relaxing experience. I tried to rub my nose with my huge hand which was now brining in paraffin, but couldn’t adequately maneuver. Allergy lady glared at me over those yellow glasses, looking perturbed. “What you do?” “My nose is itching – I’m trying to scratch it,” I whine. Without warning, she reached up and swiped my nose with her bird flu hand!!!!! I flinched and accidentally kicked Na who was massaging my feet. This immediately set off an incessant chatter of choppy Vietnamese. You know what I mean – we’ve all heard it before. A customer does something that doesn’t sit right and off they go on a rant. The customers have no idea what’s being said, but we all know it’s about us! Great, I’d done it now. I’d have to find a new nail salon.

After the paraffin wax treatment, my bump thingy was still there of course, but now it was pink and glowing. Still, I felt better. Fresh toes always make a girl feel better.

talya

Musical Pairings:

The Rolling Stones, “Get Off Of My Cloud”

R.E.M., “Losing My Religion”

Channeling Thomas Tate

January 31, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

I slowly try to push through the fog and cobwebs to a state of semi-consciousness. My scratchy, sticky eyes will not open quite yet. I hear rain in the distance. Once my still sleepy brain clears a bit, I recognize the rain is not rain at all – it’s actually the bathroom shower. Slowly the day begins to come into focus. Ready or not, John has an early morning flight to Pittsburgh.

I try to roll over but Annabelle has pinned my leg. It is numb. Carefully extricating myself, I shift to the other side, re-establishing blood flow to that dying limb. Without warning, I am jolted wide awake with one whiff of my pungent pillowcase. Ugh! Eau de Schnauzer! During the day, if Annabelle is not up to some type of puppy shenanigan, she can be found recharging on my pillow. It is 4:30 a.m.

John flips on the television and overhead lights, and begins to open and close drawers. He is packing. He packs the morning of his trip, no matter how early the flight. I feign sleep and dare not breathe so that Lucy and Annabelle do not decide to begin their day as well. I shall not walk dogs at 4:30 a.m. I am quiet and still. I listen to the sounds of this morning.

The news reporters apparently have misplaced their script. Or perhaps the early bird newscast is just a time for improvisation practice while reporting on North Texas fluff? Who watches at 4:30 anyhow? Joe Biden will be in town today – yippee! A man in Plano was caught “cloning” Walmart gift cards. Now I’m no scientist, but doesn’t cloning involve genes and DNA and tissue and embryonic cells and biological stuff? Interesting word choice for a piece of hard plastic used to buy toilet paper. Other breaking news: Kim Kardashian was spotted at the Galleria with Khloe. I will never understand the world’s fascination with the Kardashian Klan. I cannot fathom it. Who cares if Kris is in Miami? Or if Khloe was adopted? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn the whole gaggle of sisters had been cloned. Nor would I care. And who knew there were two younger daughters, Kylie and Kendall? (I didn’t until I googled them, no doubt adding to their popularity.) No one keeps up with poor Kylie and Kendall because their last name is Jenner. There is just no alliteration there. Bor–r-r-ring.

John plops t-shirts on the window seat cushion, somehow managing to make this sound noisy. He stacks and re-stacks these shirts as if arranging a display table at The Gap. I am very familiar with his packing routine. Although I do not open my eyes – I can feel Annabelle staring at me – I know John is contemplating what to take with him. He checks his iPad for the weather in Pittsburgh. He is talking to himself. He opens the drawer in the nightstand right beside my head which startles me a bit. He doesn’t visit that drawer very often – it is home to his winter things, rarely needed in Dallas. The hardwood floors creaked under his heavy steps. Is he stomping on purpose or has he decided to wear his heavy Halloween Frankenstein shoes today? Not the best shoes for airport security. And, isn’t he only staying 2 days! From my spot in bed, it sounded as if he was packing for Europe. Would he go to Europe without me!? Or, did he pick this very moment in time to organize his drawers? As he walks back into his closet again, it hits me – he is like my dad. He’s up – we should all be up….? He was channeling Thomas Tate!

So it’s true. Girls turn into their mothers and marry someone just like their fathers. We resist it, we deny it, but then suddenly it has happened. Just like that. There were a few similarities: work hard, provide well, grumble a bit, take care of business and family, vacation when forced, avoid doctors:)

Today would have been my dad’s 75th birthday, but he died of colon cancer when he was only 57. So Incredibly Young. Daddy was a farmer. He awoke before the chickens no matter the season/weather and blasted us all out of bed to the melodic tunes of Willie Nelson. In a 1970s renovation, my clever, hip mother installed groovy stereo speakers in all the rooms throughout the house. In the ceiling, above the beds. He wrote the check for them, but the Tate girls paid the price every single morning.

Although I was blasted out of bed this morning by doggie smelling salts, the television and harsh overhead lights, I think I heard “Good Hearted Woman” in the back of my head. As soon as he returns from Europe, I’m going to make sure John gets a colonoscopy. But first I am going to wash my sheets.