I love being a girl

I never really was a girly girl. I was a tomboy and in junior high a friend made it her mission in life to teach me how to put on makeup and do my hair and dress to impress boys. And thus started the peer pressure to “fit in.” (Lord, what I would give to have not cared about that for those 20 years of my life!) I wanted those Jordache jeans so badly, but dad refused to buy into that higher social status, never desiring to keep up with the Jones. (And just who are the Jones that everyone wants to keep up with?) So I stuck it out with my store brand jeans and made the best of it. Didn’t help that I was the chubby girl, so I was getting teased know matter what.

I never really felt like one of the girls, not until my second run at college when I was 32. In class there were these cool girls, you know, the “cheerleader” types just a little older. Who knew that the sexy and funky girls, Valerie and Rae respectively, didn’t have problems speaking with me and actually acted like they liked me. Then when they asked me to join their study group of cool girls, I thought “Oh my God! I’m a cool kid now! Finally!” And it was grand.

I have carried this “cool kid” attribute with me for some time now. I don’t seek it and I’m not bragging about it, but for the most part, most people seem to include me in the “cool kids” group. It doesn't matter to me, what matters to me is that I have developed relationships with girls whom I think are cool. In these relationships, I can truly be who I am. Even when that 14 year old goofy kid comes out or that divaesque 18 year old brat rears her ugly head, I am still accepted by these cool girls.

And they think I'm a cool girl, too.

Yippee!!

Regardless of how cool I am or how many people think I’m cool, like Christy does, I love being a girl! For example, last weekend, Rick and I had a very pleasurable Valentine’s Day evening with a really fun couple and wonderful friends, Joel and Tammy. We were dressed to the nines. Okay, Rick wasn’t necessarily, but he did have on a pressed bowling shirt and didn't wear sneakers. It’s a start!

The four of us enjoyed a meat-filled dinner at Bailey’s restaurant then we met several other fun couples for a night of dancing at the Glass Cactus in Grapevine. Us girls would round up each other and hold hands as we made our way to the dance floor. We formed a little circle to kind of guard our group from women who have strayed from their group and aren’t familiar with the proper distance that should be maintained between groups of women and we also protect ourselves from the wayward drunk men.

For example, in the past, we’ve had to position ourselves around one of our girls to close out a guy that seemed to be getting “too close” to one of the girls. It’s a FASCINATING process and really should be documented for a PBS show. It might not make the 8pm time slot, but it would be good filler – “The Dancing Rituals of Married Women not Seeking Outside Relationships with Drunk Men Who are Slightly Balding and Think the ‘Have It’ Whatever It Is.” (Might have to shorten that title there a little bit.) So it’s just us girls dancing. This is the one time I do not feel judged while dancing. They don’t realize how much I need them for me to be “cool.”

And as the night was ending, we were getting goofy and Tamo decides to act like she’s strangling me. I make goofy faces until Joel can get the iPhone ready to take photos. We laugh and giggle the whole time. Again, it is only with girls that I can be as goofy and silly without judgment. Here's the proof!

The next night Rick and I visit Mark and Mary, another very fun couple and wonderful friends. We talk and Mary tells me about this amazing new makeup she started using. This is Mary and I from last year:

Before you know it she and I head upstairs to her bedroom where she demonstrates this great new product. I am 44 years old, do you know how long it has been since I’ve “played makeup” with a girlfriend? Maybe 25 years? Something about Mary (no pun intended, really!) sharing her techniques and allowing me to experiment with her new products made me so happy that I am a girl. A girly girl. It was so joyful and I was almost giddy. I can’t seem to find the right word for it. And it almost seemed to cement our bond as girlfriends even further. I didn’t think that was possible because our bond is pretty tight as it is. And she makes me laugh!

Mary makes me laugh.

Tamo makes me laugh.

And it is this laughter I LOVE sharing with all of my girlfriends. And we do, just not often enough, you know? We get so busy that we forget to send a quick email or make a short phone call. It’s a challenge to have get-togethers as frequently as we would like. But I want you to know, yes, I’m talking to YOU, that I think of you, and I smile when I think of you.

And I like being a girly girl. And I like being a tomboy. And I THANK YOU for letting me be my goofy, silly, divaesque, bratty, cool self.

Boiling a Chicken and if I were a Stalker

Last Saturday night Rick and I had dinner at Matt's Tex-Mex. I didn't want to eat a lot so I ordered their chicken tortilla soup.

oh
my
goodness

It was soooo delicious. It had everything in there I use to not eat like broccoli, zucchini, squash and cauliflower. I know what you are saying, "Broccoli and cauliflower in chicken soup??" Well, it was and it was delicious. So it inspired me to make my own chicken soup. Problem was it needed shredded chicken. Why is that a problem? I don't cook chicken. In fact, I hate touching raw chicken. It makes me gag. And if I see any pink on a chicken? I won't eat it. Nope. Might as well throw it all out.

Sure I could have used ground chicken or cut up some cooked chicken breasts but I thought it would be better to use "real" chicken. I asked Rick to pick up a rotisserie chicken at the store and he did and put it in the fridge when he came home. Knowing how I am about touching meat, I saved the worst task for last: deboning the chicken. I got a big pot of water and chicken broth going, cut up my veggies (I forgot zucchini and squash so am using green beans and corn) and added that all to the mix.

Then it was time for deboning the chicken. gag. I open the package and it just looks gross. yuck. Yes, it's fully cooked but it's gross. eww. I'll save you all the details but I ain't doing this again. After my fingers slipped through the rib cage I lost all composure squealing in a high pitched voice that got the dog's attention. I certainly did not need any attention as I grimaced through this ordeal.

While I'm picking meat off the bones, I am reminded of a conversation between Stacy and I about cooking a chicken. I was asking for a simple chicken and dumpling recipe and Stacy gave me hers and it included boiled chicken. So I asked "Where do you get this boiled chicken? In a can?" She laughs and says "No. You boil it." "Ummm, you mean a whole chicken?" "Ummm, yes!" Well, Stacy dear, you didn't provide directions on that. Duh! So I asked "How do you boil a chicken?" She laughs again (I get laughed at a lot, it seems) and says "You boil it! Haven't you ever boiled a chicken?"

I don't know. It seems like growing up in the South with a grandmother who lived off the land and would go to the chicken coup in the morning to pick up some eggs from the hens for breakfast and then in that same day go to said chicken coup and grab a rooster and ring its neck to be cooked up for dinner, it just seems I would have seen her boil a chicken. I hadn't. Ever. I have used an aluminum dipper to drink well water out of a bucket. I have bathed in a wash tub in the middle of the kitchen. I have slept under a mountain of hand quilted blankets in the winter because the wood burning stove was in the other room. I have snapped peas on a warm summer's eve. I have used an outhouse and a pee pot. But I ain't never seen someone boil a chicken.

But I still get ribbed about it by Stacy. I think the reason why she knows how to boil a chicken is because she grew up further South than me. She's part Cajun, you know. She probably eats crawfish, too. Yuck...

So anyway, fortunately I got through the set up process fairly easily. I didn't chop off any fingers even though I tried that fancy mincing technique they do on the cooking shows. You know, it's the chef with a big blade and they just go chop chop chop chop really fast and everything is cut up real fine. I did that and surprisingly did not injure myself. There's always a chance when I handle a knife. Once I sliced my finger wide open while cutting an onion. Went to the fire house to see if I needed to go the ER - and to check out my boys. I don't mean it like that. I'm appalled you'd even think that. Some are like brothers to me. ;) Anyway, no injuries and I look forward to having it for dinner. It smells really good.

Speaking of chicken. My friend Manny took a photo of a large group of white pelicans migrating to Lake Lavon about a week ago while he was fishing. He told me where they were so Sunday I took a little trip out there. I didn't find any pelicans but I did find Manny's truck at the boat ramp sans boat. I thought about putting a note on his truck to say "Hey, I was here" but thought it would be even funnier if the note was a little more stalkerish. I'd write something like "You look so hawt in your Dallas Cowboy hoodie. Yes, I'm following you. Look around. Do you see me? Muwahahaha."

I thought better of it because it'd be my luck the truck wasn't Manny's but someone else's and they would end up being a victim of some horrible crime. The police would analyze the note and find my fingerprints. And then I'd be hauled off to jail and I'm just too pretty to go to jail. I decided against leaving a note all together.

Manny's truck:


Well, I'm off to stir my pot of chicken soup. Stay warm and safe!