un-post

Thank you for visiting the OneArmGirl blog.

Due to an unforeseen over-booking of this week, involving a visit from my father from another state plus my participation in a wedding this weekend, I have failed to produce a post in a timely manner.

So I decided to give you the week off. Please enjoy a break from the regularly scheduled ponderings of one woman sans appendage.

I suggest using this time to re-paint your toenails...or whatever the male equivalent of that is...

Or just enjoy this family vacation photo from the past:

Come back next week to find out what a kid said when he leaned out his car window and threw gum at me....

kitty love

For some time, I've joked that I will never marry, and become the proverbial old cat lady. Now it's happening.

Chester came into my life last week when I asked my neighbor across the street why her hand was bandaged. She explained that she'd recently acquired another cat; she already has two and a dog. In the process of acclimating the new kitty to his surroundings, she'd suffered a flesh wound when he got scared and attempted to permanently implant his claw in her left hand.

"Why don't you leave Chester with me when you go to work," I volunteered.

"OK," Lisa agreed.

And so, come Monday morning, there he was in my kitchen. I suddenly realized I had no idea what to do with a cat. But it turns out, you don't do much at all. You pat him on the head, give him some food and water, scoop out the litter box from time to time, and go about your normal business. After our first day together, he went home, but the next day, I called Lisa and asked if Chester could spend the night.

I should clarify that I've never owned a cat before. I once adopted one little white campground kitten into my cabin for a week, and even asked about taking her with me when I left, but I've never ever thought of myself as a cat person. 

In fact, I've always been a proud dog girl, slightly distrustful of people who prefer cats. But I've taken to Chester surprisingly well. I'm even a little giddy, anxious to get home so I can scratch under his chin, just the way he likes.

I seem to have a habit of borrowing other people's children and animals. I can't decide if this grows from compassion or commitment issues...or both. I currently have a horse, several dogs, three adolescent girls and one little boy periodically in my charge, none of which really belong to me. 

And now, for the time being, I have Chester.

I just Googled 'cat colorings' and discovered that Chester is a 'Black Tabby Classic with White.' I do like to think I have 'classic' taste, and so far, I love this cat. But I don't think you'd catch Chester in a cat show because, while he may have classic coloring, he's not your average tabby––he's missing a tail. Well, I suppose I don't actually know if he's missing it, but it's definitely not there.

When I went over to Dragon Boy's house last night, he had several hypotheses about this.

"Well, I've been thinking about what might have happened to his tail," he said, "like maybe a dog bit it, or someone cut it with scissors, or he got hung from a tree by his tail, or..."

I had to stop him before he gave me any more fodder for my imagination. Kids can really traumatize a person.

Chester, however, does not appear traumatized in the least. In place of a tail, he's got a tiny nub that wiggles around, giving the impression that he's wagging it. Sometimes he tucks his forepaws under his chest, making himself into a cat torso with a head.

Aside from dabbling in optical illusions, Chester's daily activity appears to be a repetition, in varied order, of three occupations: investigating whatever catches his fancy, plopping down on furniture or floor without warning, and taking cat naps.

Not a bad life, if you ask me.

I was watching Chester today, thinking about how one day he was on the street, just a little tail-less kitty with no prospects, and now here he is, the ruling feline of my apartment. What a lucky cat, I think. But maybe he's just a survivor. Maybe he always knew things would turn around. He seems perfectly at peace with no tail, content to bat a flightless moth around the floor and drink out of the toilet.

Makes me wonder what I'm so hung up on...

OneArmGirl

bloggy good birthday

The day of my birth falls on the exact day that Hitler's life ended. I feel that this is important, but I don't know why.

This year, it also just so happened that the Pioneer Woman visited my city on my birthday. A little history: ThePioneerWoman.com began as a blog by a woman named Ree Drummond about life on the ranch that became her home when she decided to leave her city-slicker life and marry a rancher.

The Pioneer Woman outlines her love story in a now published memoir called Black Heels to Tractor Wheels. I started reading her blog a year or so before I started my own, and she quickly became my inspiration and motivation.

So when I found out she was coming to my city on a book tour for her second cookbook, on my birthday no less, I had to get tickets. I sucked my best friend Agent A into the plan (it's easy to get your best friend to do what you want on your birthday) and last Monday evening, babysitter for Dragon Boy arranged, away we went.

As we waited in the quickly filling auditorium, A occupied herself counting the number of men in the audience. I think we were up to twelve at last official count.

The audience appeared to be mostly comprised of middle-aged women and we joked about how we are almost there. It's true, on the drive over, we discussed child-rearing and whether or not it was too late in the day to drink caffeine. 

And then she came out on stage, the Pioneer Woman in the flesh...the woman who's life I've been vicariously living for years. She actually has a semi-serious case of stage fright, and so she brought a nice powerpoint presentation to take us on a visit to her life...her kids, her dogs, and of course, Marlboro Man, her sexy ranch man husband. Note: Marlboro Man is not his real name (gasp! I know) but, I believe, alludes to his resemblance to the stereotypical rugged cowboy rather than a tobacco addiction.

ThePioneerWoman has come a long way since its inception as the humble blog of a woman out on the prairie. There are now separate pages for the categories of photography, cooking, homeschooling, and home and garden. I stop by the site from time to time, but just thinking about keeping up with all the latest makes me want to go take a nap. 

Mrs. Drummond wrapped up her talk by singing "Endless Love" to a picture of her basset hound, Charlie. It was really touching.

(Note: Charlie does not usually wear glasses.)

Afterward, there was a book signing, but we didn't stay. I'm not much into book signings. I felt a little goofy being there, to be honest.

I've never been very good at being star-struck, though I can attribute several of my blog "techniques" to the PW. For example, I've adopted her habit of making up handles for her friends and loved ones; she has Cowboy Josh, I have Little Gen. And these names become regulars, recognizable and memorable because they generally incorporate characteristics of the people they denote.

It was still daylight when we left the auditorium, and since we already had a babysitter, we decided not to waste a perfectly good opportunity for girls night out.

Here is more or less what followed...

We ordered...

    

We drank....one drink each...

And then Agent A snapped this photo...

 

...of me eating a green chile cheeseburger.

And then we went home, because when you are thirty-two, a blog celebrity, a cosmo and a cheeseburger is a wild night.

OneArmGirl

trial and error

For a political science class in high school, we held a mock trial. Every student had a part to play; defendant, plaintiff, attorneys, witnesses...I no longer remember the particulars of the case, but it occurs to me now that only in a democracy would this sort of thing be taught in schools for fun.

I was remembering mock trial yesterday because I found myself the defendant in a real court case. Well, technically I was also subpoenaed as a witness, so it's a good thing we practiced various roles in high school.

You may recall a couple months back when I received three traffic citations in one day. In a rare moment of gumption and faith in the judicial system, I decided to plead not guilty to two of the three.

I could also have pled "no contest," but was told jail time was possible, and as tempting as that kind of blog material is, I couldn't quite picture it on my record...or myself in handcuffs, for that matter. I suppose it might make good fodder for daytime television: the story of a one-time high school valedictorian turned jail bird.

My court date was set nearly two months in advance, which allowed plenty of time to prepare my case, freak out, become convinced that I was going to lose, resign myself to failure, and finally remember that it was just traffic violations and the chances that I would end up in jail with Big Bertha and her tattoo sleeves were slim to none.

I was to appear before the judge on Tuesday in the early afternoon. I spent the morning figuring out where exactly I would have to go, who I should talk to, and most importantly, how far I was going to be from the nearest Starbucks. After walking several blocks in the midday sun, I discovered that I was much farther than I would have liked. At least I was fueled by a coffee frappuccino on the way back.

Walking into the courthouse, shuffled through security with all the other lawbreakers, I was awash with shame, and telling myself this was American democracy at work did not help to alleviate it. Given the choice, I think I'd choose tar and feathers over a fair trial. And my charges were so insignificant, I didn't even qualify for a public defender.

No more zoom zoom.

But by the time I was comfortably sitting in the courtroom, hopped up on caffeine, I felt completely collected. I had my argument memorized and the evidence outlined in bullets. The time had come and I was ready to take my stand. 

All eyes were on me as I approached the bench.

"Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I plead not guilty to the charges against me on the grounds that not only was I not driving carelessly, but was in fact driving with great care in a situation beyond my control. I was framed, your honor, the victim of corruption in the police force...

[dramatically pointing to the police officer who issued the citations]

...and I stand here today, an innocent woman, before my fellow Americans and in the eyes of God."

At least that's what I would have said if I hadn't agreed to a bargain with the police officer, who looked about half my age, to go to traffic school, before even approaching the bench.

It was all very anticlimactic. The only thing I had to say to the judge was "OK." I wanted to ask if I could submit my evidence anyway, but thought better of it.

"Well," I thought chiming down the elevator, "At least I got a coffee out of it, and my mock trial teacher would be happy to know my education didn't go to complete waste.

And now I can tell my traffic school peers that I lost my arm due to careless driving.

OneArmGirl 

spring weeding

Change is afoot. What change, exactly, remains to be seen.

I find these waiting times difficult. Waiting to see, do, or understand. Waiting when I can't see the outcome, which I feel powerless to control. Waiting without knowing what I'm waiting for, having only a feeling that what is now present must surely pass.

Attention dog

Wow, that was possibly the worst batch of mush I've ever written. My apologies.

It reminds me of a certain college philosophy class I once took which left me closer to taking a hostage than enlightened.

"I think, therefore I am"––Really? I'm pretty sure I had the same breakthrough when I stayed up too late one night with friends drinking Mountain Dew.

So, to keep myself from thinking too much, I'm weeding. And it's a good thing, too. Ever notice how weeds just appear one day, and by the next, they are five foot monsters. Last year, I literally watched the farm where I work nearly succumb to an invading jungle.

This year I am determined to uproot this green army before it's too late and I have to rent a backhoe just to see out my windows. But I like weeding. It keeps my mind off more complicated things, such as life in general. And it makes me feel good. I can live on the high from one good morning of weeding for a week.

I think I might have a green thumb addiction.

Yesterday, fueled by Spring Break and Starbucks, Mountain Guy's three girls and I went out to the farm to battle some back arena invaders. And I am pleased to announce our offensive was wildly successful, nearly demolishing their entire squadron with minimal sisterly bickering. It did require a short ceasefire to procure various energizing beverages from the country convenience store.

But by early afternoon, I was sun-soaked and exhausted. In addition to garden work, hanging with three adolescent girls leaves little space in my head for thought.

After lunch at the park and a stop at Baskin-Robbins, I let Netflix babysit and retired to my bed for a three-hour nap, interrupted only by MG appearing in my doorway to say that he was taking the girls, and leaving a shovel.

Later that evening I used the shovel for weeding out the patch of dirt in front of our apartment. I discovered underground root networks that clearly had no intention of leaving. I pulled and dug and turned over earth until dusk had come and gone. And alas, with the oncoming night, I had to put the shovel away and wash up for dinner.

It's becoming an addiction, this weed-pulling. The dirt under my fingernails makes me disconcertingly happy. It draws my attention to the present, minimizing the current ambiguity of my direction.

In fact, given the choice to ride a roller coaster or garden, I'd rather get my kicks running my hand through upturned earth than flying high above the ground.

I don't know what's next, but at least the ground is ready.

OneArmGirl      

pandora's easter basket

As weeks go, this one was a blogger's dream.

The weekend alone included the following: manure shoveling at the farm, a Passover Seder at the Sheraton Hotel with Mountain Guy and his Jewish daughters, the arrival of our friend Asif from Los Angeles, an Easter sunrise service at the university football stadium, an afternoon Easter egg hunt, and lastly....bowling, of course.

On Monday, I found myself asking, "What didn't we do this weekend?"

Watching three little Jewish girls celebrating the resurrection of Christ explain to a curious Muslim the strange tradition of dipping eggs in food coloring, I felt like I was living in a bad joke. We pretty much boxed up three major world religions, tied with multicolored Pagan bow, in our kitchen. Who knew the key to peace in the Middle East is a bunch of brightly-colored eggs? At least it should keep the coexist bumper sticker people quiet for a while... 

After coloring, the eggs were hidden around our apartment complex. The hunt began amidst our fellow Christian neighbor's barbeque (of pork, no doubt), and whiskey shots were had by all--except the egg-hunters, that is.

"This is the best Easter ever!" I exclaimed several hours into the festivities. Alcohol was not a part of holidays when I was growing up. Turns out, it does make things a bit more fun...or, at least appear that way.

But things were just getting started. We finished up the day with several hours of bowling. Why did we feel the need to go bowling on Easter Sunday? Because that is what Asif loves to do, not having many handy bowling alleys in India where he lives. Perhaps it will become an Islamic Easter tradition.

I don't know if it was the multi-faith extravaganza or simply an overwhelming number of events, but I find that I am still unpacking, evaluating, and suffering from a touch of writer's block. Feast and famine, I suppose. Maybe I'll go eat an egg.

And next year, I think I'm gonna celebrate by cutting back on my observance...and whiskey.


OneArmGirl

cowboy weak

I bought another book. My seeming total lack of self-control disappoints me. 

But this collection of short stories was irresistible: Cowboys Have Always Been My Weakness. Sigh. I hear ya, sister.

OneArmGirl and Lil Sis

When I was a girl, I could imagine no more romantic life than by the side of a charming, muscled wrangler. In my fantasy, his hat and our porch wrapped around.

I can't say that I've actually known any real cowboys. Except maybe Grandpa Switzer who, though he may have been a cowboy, was definitely not my grandpa.

Mr. Switzer was really a good family friend. When my dad was a boy, he would visit the Switzers and their horses in the mountains. When I was a kid, Grandpa Switzer put me in front of him on a horse, who promptly saw a white paper in the grass and started rearing up. But Grandpa Switzer held me in place and collected the horse before I had a chance to get scared.

One summer, Grandpa Switzer came to help my dad remodel the house; actually put a second story on the ranch style. Read: ranch style, not ranch. He had a thick Oklahoma accent and worked nearly non-stop all day without a bathroom break. One day he accidentally put his cowboy boot through the roof into the room below, to the great surprise of Little Gen, who's handle was then literal.

In many ways like the American cowboy, Grandpa Switzer seems timeless. I'm almost certain he hadn't changed a bit from my father's childhood to mine.

Entering adulthood, I put cowboy love aside. Raising cattle really takes a lot of work, I figured. Plus I had college and world wide fame to daydream about.

But now college is a distant memory; world wide fame a mirage. And I'm getting back to my roots. I put a lot of thought into which pair of jeans I put on each morning; I've developed a healthy appreciation for Bluegrass; and on any given day, I can be found shoveling manure. I'm becoming a wannabe cowgirl.

Car seat cowboy

So I couldn't help but note an abundance of cowboy references in my life this week. On Friday, I picked up The Onion horoscopes and read the forecast for Gemini: "You'll be roundly condemned by members of the Academy of Country Music when, despite their specific instructions, you let your babies grow up to be cowboys."

Two nights ago, I found myself out on the mesa, in a small white pickup, making out with my ex-boyfriend. What, like that never happens.

Between kisses, I tell him about the book. In the title story, this girl dreams about cowboys her whole life, then she goes to live on a ranch and a cowboy shows up that couldn't be closer to cliché. He has impeccable character, and muscles. They go dancing. They gaze at the stars. She's finally found her cowboy. On the day that she leaves, he rides after her car on his horse across the prairie to ask her to come back soon. But as she watches him ride away, she realizes that saying cowboys are her weakness is more about her identity than the cowboys; it's a story she's created to define herself.

"So, I'm your cowboy?" Mountain Guy says.

"You're not a cowboy!" I say.

"I could be a cowboy." He seems offended.

Then I had to pee, but there was nowhere to go, so I had to squat in front of his truck. Talk about a romantic cliché kill.

But I don't think I'm that into cowboys after all. Maybe I'm just weak for a boy, and my self-control has obviously gone on vacation. Or maybe I just like being that girl, the...

OneArmWannabeCowGirl