This is our…uh…much talked about Christmas card. To clarify — we are not currently expecting a baby. Sorry for any confusion. I just liked the card!

And here is Mom and Dad’s Christmas card. Wishing you all the best this season!

Link up with the 4th Annual Bloggy Holiday Card Exchange!

Related posts:

1. Shutterfly Holiday Card Giveaway – CLOSED
2. Stuff I Like: Shutterfly Holiday Cards
3. Plans, they are a’changin’…again.

I parked on the north side, near President Boren’s house, and walked alone to the entrance that students were being guided through. Volunteers were handing out leis and I slipped one over my head. It was pink and it matched my skirt. That I remember.

I searched the crowd for the faces of my friends. Heather was somewhere in the mix and I maneuvered past the groups of people to where she was. As usual at this beginning of the year party things were loud and it was hard to hear a conversation at normal volume unless you were pressed into a circle. That’s how most of us were that weren’t taking advantage of the volleyball nets that had been set up nearby.

We got in line for snow cones from one of the local favorites that was set up specially for the party. Mine was green and I rarely ordered a green snow cone. It’s weird that I recall that, but I think it was green apple. Which was probably the lesser of two evils.

Somewhere in the crowd was a tall lanky boy who was most likely surrounded by a large group of friends or traveling from group to group. He was just as social then as he is now, probably more so. I don’t remember seeing him that night, but he remembers seeing me. And when he did, he didn’t recall the evening a few months earlier when we talked about westerns and school and what we were planning on doing with our lives. But that night he looked across the crowd at me in a pink skirt and black shirt, with my hair pulled back in a ponytail and my hands most likely still smelling a little like bleach from the day school, and decided he was interested in finding out more about this quiet, laughing girl. Me.

He left the party early, but not before deciding he was going to find out more about me. Maybe it was for the best that he didn’t stick around any longer than he did. A few minutes more and he would have been witness to my foray into the world of karaoke with a some of my friends. The song we sang was, by no accident, the same one that he and I would walk back up the aisle to less than three years from this night. But it was going to take some work to get there.

Related posts:

1. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance — Part 15
2. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance – Part 1
3. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance — Part 14

I stepped out of Mr. Wheeler’s room, already late for my next class by default because it was on the other end of our small campus in the band room. I took the back door out of the 7th and 8th grade wing (where my class was held…if you can call 2 classrooms and a hall with 40 lockers a “wing”) across the grass, still wet with morning dew, up the ramp and into the main building. I rushed up the hall to my locker weaving my way through the seniors that congregated at their end of the hall. Ahead of me I saw the face of my journalism teacher from the year before. He signaled me to step aside in the hall. Annoyed that I would be made even more late to class, I did it begrudgingly.

He did not mince words.

“An attack, the likes of which we have never seen, has just occurred in New York City. They have flown a plane into the World Trade Center. This will mean war. Go to your class and if your teacher doesn’t already know, tell him.”

Shocked and barely understanding, I moved on down the hall to my locker. I locked eyes with my Spanish teacher and it was clear in her face that she already knew. I crammed my heavy World History text book onto the top shelf in my full length purple locker. 262. The number is etched in my mind. I couldn’t know yet just how many big moments would happen in this very place, but I paused. Somehow, deep inside, I knew that things would never be the same.

I was 16. I had only had my driver’s license for 20 days. I was 2 months and 3 days from turning 17. All I could think was, Hasn’t this happened before? Was it the same time? The same day of the week? I was only 6 years and a few months removed from the horror of April 19, 1995. Then, I was a child.

On this day I felt like one again.

As I opened the door to my vocal music class the din of 40-some-odd students discombobulated sounds exploded into the hall. I walked to my chair with the rest of the altos. We had only been in school for two weeks. Just long enough to be classified and placed in the appropriate sections.

I leaned over to my nearest classmate.

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

I shook my head. “It’s bad.”

The class was out of control. Clearly, none of them knew. They were horsing around and being a disturbance to those of us who had chosen to take our seats when the bell rang. The band director, our vocal music teacher, came out of his office and placed a radio on a desk. He turned up the volume and asked us to listen. The radio hosts were guessing that maybe it was an accident. They mentioned several times that they didn’t want to presume the implications of the act if it was not an accident.

For a moment, relief swept over me. Maybe it was a terrible accident. Maybe my teacher had been wrong.

Our vocal music instructor was trying to listen and a group of boys in the back were at it again, knocking over music stands and chairs. The teacher had had it. He stood up and shouted. At some point just before this, we listened as the CBS news anchor announced that a second plane had flown into the other tower.

Our teacher stood up again and spoke. He did not shout this time, but his voice was raised.

“You need to understand what this means. Someone has attacked us. This will more than likely mean war. There are some of you sitting in this classroom who could be fighting in this war. Pay attention. We have never seen anything like this. I know you all remember the Oklahoma City bombing, but this is much bigger. If these towers fall, we could see thousands of people die.”

In my mind I tried to figure it out. Two buildings. How many floors are there? How many people work on each floor? I hadn’t seen any photos or video footage, so I didn’t know where each building had been hit. Near the top, right? It had to be. Would they fall? Hadn’t this happened to the WTC before?

Dear God, please let them get out.

They described what we now know were people jumping out of buildings. I have always been very stricken in moments like these, especially when such things are broadcasted on TV. (Over the past few weeks, with all the 9/11 remembrance coverage, I’ve come to find this is known as “secondary trauma”.) My imagination ran wild and I could not comprehend what was happening. Were we safe?

Both buildings fell as I sat in class, praying for the people inside.

The rest of the day is hazy in my memory. I remember the entire student body (at the high school) was called in for an assembly with our new superintendent. He talked to us about what happened and the magnitude of it all. Once again, the fact was mentioned that there would be students in that auditorium who would go on to fight for our freedom. This held true. As far as I know, none of the students in that room on that day were killed as a result of the ensuing wars. For that, I praise God.

Like tragedies for generations past, I know that this event has colored my world. I know that because of it, I pay more attention to everything around me. I do not live in fear, but instead with an understanding of the world that I never had before that day 10 years ago.

Related posts:

1. My Little Gateway Drug
2. What Happened In August
3. Sharing the Love

When I was a little girl, I spent a lot of time 4 miles down the road from my house, at my grandparents house. Paw Paw is a farmer and a rancher (he’s literally a farmer and a cowman) so he was always a busy guy (still is), but he always had time for me when I was down there. I was often his cow feeding buddy and as I got older you’d sometimes find me belligerently standing in one of the lots, holding a gate, helping him direct cattle to where they were supposed to go.

No matter what, Paw Paw always has a song. The one that I remember him singing to me most often was “Bimbo” by Jim Reeves. Now, I only learned that it was by Jim Reeves a few weeks ago when I looked it up, and then I heard the actual lyrics and realized that all along Paw Paw had been changing them to fit me. Bimbo is really a little boy (Paw Paw made the pronouns feminine) and he had “big blue eyes” (mine are brown and Paw Paw noted the fact in his revised lyrics).

It’s a sweet little memory of mine that I cherish.

Related posts:

1. Paw Paw’s Birthday
2. 12 Days of Christmas Hymns – Angels We Have Heard on High
3. On the Road

We arrived at the restaurant and rushed inside because it was January and it was freezing. I let Aaryn walk a little ahead so that I could snap some pictures of her reaction. She was sufficiently shocked and once I had taken pictures of some of the attendees I went to take my seat.

There was only one left, a few chairs down from the birthday girl and next to a guy that I’d met before, but who I regarded as older and a little bit goofy. I took my seat beside him and introduced myself to him for the second time in my life.

It was an interesting evening and looking back I think I had the most fun sitting there and getting to know this guy. He had taken a film class with a professor the semester before and I was about to take a different one with the same instructor. We talked about the class and common interests and what we were hoping to do in the future.

I remember thinking to myself how unfortunate it was that I was meeting this really nice guy at this party when I had a date planned with another guy the next evening. Because I knew that THIS was the nicer, better guy.

We parted that evening and he later added me as a friend on Facebook (he forgot later that he did and wondered how I’d gotten there). Back when Facebook was great. His recollection of that evening is not as clear and mine is not what I would like it to be, but I remember how nice he was, that he was easy to talk to, and above all he presented himself as a gentleman and a man of faith.

That night I sat next to the guy who would be my husband, but still, it wasn’t time.

◊◊◊

That date and subsequent ones with the other guy did NOT work out. This was a person I could talk to for hours and hours and I felt that intellectually I had someone who was on the same level as me if not far, far above me. And that I liked. But I just was not attracted to this man. To top it all off, before I could break it off with him he started acting like a jerk and things just got worse. It’s funny looking back at how he behaved, but then I was livid.

We cut ties and once again I told myself that I was done with dating until a more serious prospect came along. That summer was an interesting one with a number of guys coming out of the woodwork. A friend from high school confessed the feelings he’d had since we were in junior high, but I knew better than to get involved. A few others from that time in my life lingered on the fringes, never making a move, but waiting. (If you are serious, you make a move, gentlemen. Tell her how you feel.)

All the while, I sat patiently, believing there was something better meant for me, but learning that it did not necessary have to end in marriage to have a happy ending. I could be content in who I was as a single woman with my identity as a child of God. It was this realization that would finally lead me to where I needed to be.

Related posts:

1. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance — Part 10
2. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance – Part 2
3. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance – Part 1

Related posts:

1. My Summer Vacation – Part 3
2. My Summer Vacation – Part 2
3. My Summer Vacation – Part 1

Let me make myself absolutely clear. I didn’t have anything close to a positive body image until I was a few years into college. I’d never thought of myself as pretty or even moderately attractive, though memories from childhood are full of elderly women at church telling me how beautiful I was. That never stuck with me and while it would brighten my day a little to have someone say I was pretty, it eventually got old and I put little stock in random compliments I received. Because I wasn’t seeing results.

What kind of results, you ask?

Boyfriends.

I had officially made it to 21-years-old and not only had I never had a boyfriend, I had never been kissed. I watched Bridget Jones’s Diary and Never Been Kissed and continued to fret that this was my lot in life — the perpetual spinster. Woe is me, blah, blah, blah.

Now, remember, I was still pretty much set at this point on being content with my singleness, I just wasn’t there yet.

My ballroom class introduced me to a multitude of men, many who insisted on dancing with me each week. There was Sweaty Guy #1 and #2, the dude who smelled like onions, the old fellow who would get irritated with me and sling me around, and a steady stream of guys with clammy hands and very little ability to lead. I made friends in that class, but there weren’t any love connections made in ballroom.

Off the dance floor, things were a little different. For the first time in my life there were a few guys vying for my attention. All at once. From down home and back at college, it seemed like in every realm of my life there was somebody that was interested. It was new and weird to me. I started talking regularly with one of them, we had an initial, casual date and scheduled another one for the following week.

Before that date happened I had to put the finishing touches on a friend’s surprise party. It had no idea that it was the night that I would get a glimpse into my future.

Related posts:

1. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance — Part 13
2. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance – Part 2
3. My Corn-Fed, Deep Fried Okie Romance – Part 4

I blame this entirely on my grade school obsession with Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

Short history lesson – there were far fewer “Dr. Quinns” in the west and waaa-haaay more prostitutes. You had about three different career choices out west if you were female and weren’t married — laundry woman, cook, or prostitute. (A town usually only needed one teacher so you couldn’t count on that one. Especially since men could typically still be found filling that position.) Thanks to my years at the University of Oklahoma I have one shelf in my study devoted to books covering this subject. We’re going to have to move them up a few shelves before we have kids who are tall enough to reach. Yow. I mean, it was my mom’s copy of Anne of Green Gables that got me all interested in that. I do not think I want my child taking a shining to Upstairs Girls: Prostitution in the American West. Whenever we start baby-proofing, I’ll be sure to move that.

I’m getting off track here, but what I want you to know is that I’ve always loved the west. Love loved it. From the stories of men and women who braved the unknown to start new lives, the sad tales of native people that were removed from their homes forever–sometimes even killed, the facts we know now, the fiction our grandparents grew up on–all of it.

One aspect of it I have always taken a fancy to and that’s the fashion. How women wore some of those garments back then in the heat of the day I will never be able to imagine, but it didn’t stop them from looking pretty. Going back to Dr. Quinn, her hair was always styled in a way that I dreamed of having mine fixed. She had gloriously long tresses and every Saturday night while my mom put pink sponge rollers in my hair for church the next morning, I sat hoping that someday my hair would be as beautiful as Dr. Quinn’s. And then the next morning in Sunday School I would discuss the latest happenings in 1860s Colorado Springs with my best buddy, Delisa.

Unfortunately, just before that time I had gotten a cute little bob. Because my pal Delisa had the same cute haircut and when you are 5-years-old and your older best bud has a cute haircut that’s what you ask for when you go in for your “I’m starting kindergarten in a week” ‘do.

And for the next 13 years my hair grew in a triangle shape. It was clear by the time I reached junior high that I would never have Dr. Quinn hair.

Sigh.

Fast forward a few years down the road and I have finally let my hair grow out as long as it’s ever been and it begins letting go of the dreaded triangle. It’s curlier now, but for the most part it falls in a direction that appears natural. And it’s about time.

I had a few weddings to be in at this point in my life. First it was Heather’s which, as far as far as the nuptials and my hair are concerned, were both a success. I took in two photos of two separate women for the front and the back of my hair, the stylist told me I did a good job of matching them up, and I ended up with an up do that I was proud of.

That stylist was a stranger. Someone who had never done my hair before. She did a great job on it and I was very happy with the way it looked and how it held up all evening long.

Six months later was Delisa’s wedding. It took place in the town where I grew up going to church and the stylist I use regularly (a cousin-in-law) works in that town. Fun! Only she was busy doing the bride’s hair and didn’t have room for me that day. So off I went on a mad search for a stylist. I spent every fifteen minute break at work one day calling around and trying to find a place that had an opening. There were 3 or 4 big weddings in town that day and in a town of 45,048 that means a lot of the hair salons are busy.

Finally, I found someone. I felt like doing a little happy dance, but practiced a little restraint because at that time I was working at a front desk and I think we all know what else was going on up front at the time. (Someday I’ll get brave enough to write about it. With code names. And in Pig Latin.)

I showed up to this new-to-me hair salon the morning of Delisa’s wedding, carrying a photo of a woman with long, loose curls, lightly pinned in a half-up, half-down look. I cannot stress long and loose enough. You don’t go big and bold as a bridesmaid and I certainly did not intend to start the trend.

I sat in the chair and watched, waiting for my hair to start to resemble the style in the photo. Instead there was tugging and teasing and pulling and spraying until the crown of my head was one Bumpit™ away from a certified monstrosity.

When she finished, I sat shell-shocked, not wanting to believe she was done and that this was it, while at the same time I wanted to run as far as I could away from that chair. I paid her and walked out. Never in my life had I been so unsatisfied with the way my hair looked. And one of my dearest friends was getting married in less than 4 hours.

I sat in my car and looked in the rear view mirror, staring at the bulbous creation atop my already not small skull (thanks, Dad). I touched it and my fingers seemed to bounce back like it was spring-loaded.

This would not do.

I raced back to the church where the reception was being held, different from the one where the ceremony was, to show my mom.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“Oh my word.” It’s okay is NOT okay.

Through the bathroom door I went. I stood there looking at it and then went to patting it down. There had to be some way to make it come down. I started pulling out bobby pins, releasing the top layer and putting the stragglers back into place. Slowly, I looked less and less like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. It came time for me to head to the church and get ready for photos and while I was still extremely unhappy with my hair, it was Delisa’s wedding and I had to get there.

These photos don’t do the original product justice.  And I left out the frontal shots because, well, the ‘do still looked bad from that angle (in my opinion).

Luckily, the thing about being a bridesmaid in a wedding means the attention is not on you. Once everything got started, my hair disaster was forgotten and I was nothing but thrilled to be watching a dear friend marry the man she loves. It was a beautiful ceremony and one that I was very blessed and honored to be a part of.

It wasn’t until after the reception was over and I was in the same bathroom I started out in, taking down my hair (all 100+ bobby pins) and getting ready to go home, that it dawned on me.

“It looked like Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.” I said aloud, to no one in particular.

At least, as close as I ever want to be.

(Delisa – Thanks for not kicking me out of your wedding when I showed up with the weird hair. Happy 3rd anniversary! Love, Goofy)

Related posts:

1. Seasonal Hair Loss
2. You can call me Emmylou
3. The Countdown: 76 Days

About a month ago, my husband and I celebrated our second anniversary. What a great second year it was. Both of us celebrated another year at our jobs (keep in mind, the day after we got back from this little trip–on our actual wedding anniversary–Kevin found out that he’d sadly lost his due to cuts), the birth of a nephew, and a number of other milestones. We were looking forward to this weekend for some time and I was excited because Kevin had researched and planned the whole thing himself.

*pause for the collective “Awwww…”*

I know.

Our accommodations were cozy and beautiful. Kevin had booked us a night at in the Royal Master Suite at the Arcadian Inn in Edmond, OK, just a short drive from our location south of the metro.

The decor was elegant, but comfortable. I loved the wall of Gibson prints. It reminded me of my Aunt Jewel who had a lot of the prints spread throughout her house.

They must have heard I was coming, because they set out the Keurig.

Oh, wait. They did know.

The bed was glorious. I really need to call them and find out what kind of sheets they had on there because MAN OH MAN. That was the best night of sleep I’ve had in a long time and that says a lot when you’re traveling. The pillows were fabulous as well. I was so glad to find that because most of the time when I stay in a hotel the most disappointing factor is the squishiness of the pillow. They had a fine assortment here that would suit every taste.

The room had the most beautiful shower and a jacuzzi tub. I. LOVED. THE. TUB. Over on the vanity were a number of complimentary bath items and I am NOT talking free shampoo and a bar of soap. There was a salt scrub, an oil treatment for your hair, and the most divine smelling bath salts. I really enjoyed my soak with those and was pleasantly surprised to find that when we checked out they included a complementary sachet of the bath salts. How sweet!

With all that said, there was one thing that stood out from everything else.

The breakfast.

One of the amenities at the Arcadian Inn is their candlelight breakfast. Whenever you check in you tell them what time you would like to take breakfast and the next morning, right on the dot, you will be served promptly without intrusion. They announce what you’re having and then leave you to it. With your peppermint infused hot towels. Ahh.

The morning we were there they served a quiche (I can’t remember, but I believe it was tomato and bacon), a fruit salad, and waffles with their famous vanilla-butter sauce.

If all I could eat for the rest of my life were those waffles and that vanilla-butter sauce, you would not see me complain. It was the best thing I have ever tasted. Go get some now.

The fruit salad was so fresh. Full of melons (honeydew and watermelon), grapes, and kiwi, it was topped with a dollop of some type of berry yogurt that added just enough tang. Delicious.

But the waffles have my heart. Still.

If you are ever in the area and need a place to stay, or if you just want to get away for a weekend, this is a great place to go. Close enough to the metro that there is plenty to see and do, you won’t regret spending some time at the Arcadian.

They don’t know who I am. I just really, really liked this place!

Related posts:

1. Kevin’s Mom’s Mac & Cheese
2. Kevin the Sheep Herder’s Pie
3. Anniversary Weekend Part One – The Grand Treehouse Resort

I’m the one with the big white bow, lacy collar, and right in the sights of my younger brother who is sporting a pair of black cowboy boots that were LITERALLY the only shoes I think he wore in 1989. I don’t even know what to say about this.

P.S., I scheduled this to post before the incident with the gun outside our house last night. I might blog about it later. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, check my Twitter and Facebook feeds. We’re okay, but it was a scary night and there was not much sleep to be had.

Related posts:

1. On the Road
2. I love you this much.
3. The Countdown: Day 75 & 74 Combo