Next time, I'll have the iced tea.

On Labor Day we met some friends at Katy Trail Ice House in Uptown. Summer insisted on keeping the outdoor temperature in the low 90s for most of the evening, even though it is now most definitely September. But the ice water flowed freely, fans and misters were going full tilt, and the cicadas sang better than the satellite radio. 

KTIH’s most attractive attribute would certainly be the huge outdoor patio that backs up to the Katy Trail, a steady source of people- and dog-watching entertainment. To wit, on Monday night we saw a young man in black roller skates with yellow wheels boogie-ing up and down the stretch closest to our section of the patio. All he needed was a soundtrack, and honey, it would have been ON, cue the disco ball. At times, he was shirtless. It was hot. I can’t blame him.

Service was friendly and efficient even with the goodly number of patrons. The food (burgers, fried jalapenos, tacos) was tasty, and the beer was served in chilled glasses. And then I had the $11 house margarita, and it was like getting knocked on my keister, I really don’t know what happened, it didn’t look that big, and it’s not like it had one of those Coronitas in it or anything, it was just a margarita, I swear!

And then I went home and went to bed.

The culprit.

The moral of the story: Have a great Labor Day. Celebrate responsibly. Visit the Katy Trail Ice House. Watch out for the roller-skating dude. SHARE the house margarita. Or just go for the iced tea. That is all.

Again, the Windy City Sweeps Me off My Feet: Part 2

Curtain opens. Lights up. Chicago. The scene opens on the girls seated at an umbrella-topped table outside the High Noon Saloon. They need carbs. And mimosas. And more carbs.

 

After Friday night’s meal and libations, we nursed ourselves with a Saturday brunch in Wicker Park. (You know, sometimes I think I’m getting too old for this eating whatever I want, cavorting, martini-ing, sleeping in, train-hopping, vacation lifestyle.  And then I remember that I’ll be that sassy octogenarian with bright red lipstick who winks at the little waiter boys someday, so why not raise a glass today…even if it means a teensy—really the mildest—headache in the morning?) And besides, the ubiquitous presence of hipsters made it perfectly acceptable for me to wear my sunglasses while chasing a mimosa with an icy Mexican Coca-Cola. Sweet nectar. 

Sufficiently fed (and aspirin-ed), we spent the next few hours tramping up and down blocks of boutiques, odd bookstores, resale shops and hippie food establishments. Good fun. And there was this: 

That’s when the evening’s festivities really took off.  Back at the hotel, we traded our walking duds for evening togs, stopped at the bar for a quick tipple and then made our way to Topo Gigio in historic Old Town for dinner. I have no idea why, but the name has to do with some sort of Fievel-esque mouse character because he was on every waitperson’s shirt.

If you dine here, and you should, try everything. It’s all exquisite. The filet mignon medallions over risotto, the rigatoni, the farfalle, THE TIRAMISU. All of it will make you want to weep with gastronomical joy…and punch your skinny-ass Zumba instructor in the face. (She’d be raking this risotto off her plate, too.)  Okay, okay, enough about the food. It’s fab. If you’re in Chicago, and you’ve got to eat, go here. That’s it.

Thanks to our trip organizer, the impeccable Dr. T., we had tickets to the late show at The Second City. For the uninitiated, Second City is the improv comedy launchpad for greats such as Alan Arkin and John Belushi to Tina Fey and Steve Carell. All cinematic tastes aside, if you like to laugh, you need to go see a show. If you don’t like to laugh, well then, you’re doing it wrong.

To make sure we had floor seats close to the stage, we got there at 9:30 for the 11:00 show. And before you go rolling your eyes because you have the patience of a fruit fly, just know that we sat our cute Texas derrieres in the first and second rows, and two of us got called upon by the actors during the show. So good, funny things really do come to those who wait.

The show, specifically the 101st revue “Let Them Eat Chaos,” was two-thirds scripted and two-thirds unscripted, witty, goofy, smart, even touching scenes—and that was before I had a cocktail. One cast member described it as “not Applebee’s,” and really, can you get any better than that?

After three hours of laughing so much I could probably count it as an ab workout, we giggled our way back to the hotel for 39-and-a-half winks before catching a 6:30 a.m. flight back to Dallas. It was still dark during our 4:00 a.m. cab ride to O’Hare, but the late night partiers were out and about aplenty. By the time Des and I got through security and to our gate, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It reminded me of all those teenaged slumber parties when we stayed up all night, talking, laughing, and confiding,  just because we could.  Until next time, Chicago, old friend. 

Again, the Windy City Sweeps Me off My Feet: Part 1

Oh, Chicago, why do I love you so? There is nothing in my country mouse upbringing that should feed on your hustle and bustle, grow giddy at the sight of your skyline, or salivate over your deep-dish and bun-wrapped culinary creations.

And yet you woo me, Chicago. You ply my heartstrings with your proud and beautiful buildings. You captivate me with your art. And you stun me with your hardscrabble history—built by men with roughhewn hands and undaunted determination.

Home of the White City, debut site of the Ferris Wheel, birthplace of incomparable Studs Terkel, death-place of Enrico Fermi (nerd out), and home of sports franchises so hallowed and fraught with history they themselves have become venerated characters in the play that is Chicago.

So is it really any surprise that I leapt at the chance to see you again? Admit it. You wanted to see me, too.

In mid-July, the gals—five of us, college girlfriends, and let me just say, totally classy—flew from Dallas, Houston and Washington, DC to converge at the Long Beach, Indiana home of some of the loveliest hosts ever. Well, almost all of us.

Flights out of DC were cancelled due to weather, so Egypt flew out the next day and then took a bus to Michigan City, Indiana where we picked her up in a hotel parking lot. Lord, you should have seen it. It was like opening the door to the chicken coop in a room full of junebugs.  The mad rush, the flapping, the triumphant cackling. We may have had a lot of catching up to do…

We stayed up late, we dished about boys, we canoed, and we swam in Lake Michigan. And that was just in one day. Memorable moments included the making of Egypt’s rock sculpture on the beach, our first tastes of summer shandy, and Des and me (slightly) ramming the paddle boat with the other girls in it. Really, the fact that we successfully boarded and de-boarded debarked (whatever) the canoe without capsizing was a feat not lost on any of us. 

That night, after watching fireflies in the backyard, I remember climbing the stairs, dusting the beach sand from my toes, feeling the pleasant weariness that only comes with good, long, sun-dappled and laughter-filled days.

The next day we took the South Shore Line from Michigan City into Chicago. Blinking, we emerged from the station to street level, and it was like greeting another old friend. The city had weathered a few more winters since I last saw her, but then again, so had I. This time, I brought better walking shoes (Mr. Man, I can feel you rolling your eyes at me in exasperation. It was three years ago, so just don’t even go there.).

We then proceeded to check into our hotel in less than two minutes. Truthfully, we didn’t even take our bags upstairs. (Which reminds me of how surprised I am that so many folks don’t know about the whole “there is no 13th floor” thing. Seriously, you haven’t noticed that, people? C’mon, we all know what the 14th floor really is.)

We hightailed it to Navy Pier for lunch where, Gospel truth, I saw a young seaman in dress whites, complete with traditional white “Dixie cup” cap and those pants with the slight bell, who couldn’t have been more than 19. Goodness, he was handsome! <The author fans herself.> (I get this penchant for men in uniform from my mother who, had she been there, would have come positively unglued.)

We hit up some usual tourist stops: Garrett’s popcorn (caramel with pecans = sinful), photo ops with the Ferris Wheel, and a water taxi ride back to Michigan Avenue where we braved the throngs at the iconic Cloud Gate sculpture to leave our fingerprints and take selfies.

By dinnertime we were more than ready for some of Gino’s pizza, calorically speaking…and because we thought we’d start the evening off with cocktails but instead ended up crashing a private party at the hotel’s rooftop bar. <affects a nearly Steel Magnolia’s-esque drawl> “It’s okay, y’all! We’re from Texas. Y’all have a great night. Mazel tov!” Indeed, there is something so totally satisfying about good friends, especially those who’ll crash a party with you, hot pizza and cold beer. 

For the love of pink noses and wagging tails

OK, so I am WAY behind in getting the Chicago and Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference installments to you. BUT I do have this snippet to tide you over for, like, a few more hours until I wrap up the other stories.

Mama B. and I went to the Denton Animal Shelter this afternoon to drop off some newspapers and towels for the four-legged residents, and while we were there we chatted up the animal control officers as to what items they need most. Here’s what they said, straight from the horse’s (or puppy’s or guinea pig’s) mouth:

Purina Kitten Chow (They also use this for the big kitties, too.)

Pâté-style cat food (not the shredded meat kind)

Dry puppy and dog food (without red dye)

Towels

Small fleece blankets (Fleece holds up better than 100% cotton blankets that dogs and cats can chew or shred.)

Cat litter

Dawn blue dish soap (Surprise! Blue Dawn kills fleas in addition to gently cutting the grime.)

Bleach

I won’t presume to get all preachy, we-are-the-world on you (or cue the Sarah McLachlan), but kindness to animals ranks right up there with returning a wallet you found on the street or not laughing when a toddler falls over.  It’s tantamount to karmic brownie points.

And even if the Denton Animal Shelter (300 Woodrow) isn’t close to you, I bet there’s another shelter that is. So share the love with the furry, the scaly, the feathered and even the amphibious among us. You can view the pets for adoption at www.denton.petfinder.com (or petfinder.com for other areas).

Obligatory kitten pictures.  Next time: puppies!

Sweet Sounds of Summer

While everyone else was at the Beyoncé* concert in Dallas last Saturday evening, I decided to class it up a bit with some jazz al fresco. Oooh, I feel classy just typing that. (Before you go getting any prurient notions, al fresco means “outdoors.”  Sick-o.)

For this adventure I hopped in the little green Jeep and headed east to Addison, just a few miles down the road.  Every Saturday from June through August, Addison hosts concerts at Beckert Park, right smack dab in the middle of no less than a gajillion apartment buildings with storefronts and artsy space on the first floors. 

It’s not the newest mixed-use development in north Texas, but this part of Addison has done well in retaining a certain young, family-friendly atmosphere. It’s even managed to eschew the cloying hipster vibe and instead feels only slightly townie. That said, I really like the area—especially when there’s free music involved.

Addison’s 2013 Summer Series bills songwriters’ sounds in June, jazz in July and salsa (with dance lessons!) in August. All concerts are from 8-10 p.m. so you’re not suffering in the midday heat. You can bring a picnic if you don’t want to dine at the nearby restaurants, and there are complementary parking garages peppered along Addison Circle.

Really, the ability to bring your own food and readily available free parking are like hitting the jackpot when it comes to events in north Texas. (Twenty-dollar Dixie cup margaritas and $30 valets, I’m looking at you…)

Shameless plug: last Saturday’s band was Corner Pocket, a lovely group of musicians who are either alumni or faculty members of the University of North Texas, so you know the music—and musicianship—were spot on.

Pointers:

Get there early. Like “grand opening of a Trader Joe’s” or “Harry Potter movie opening weekend” early. Beckert Park is really just green space inside a roundabout formed by Addison Circle, Lewis Place, Spectrum Drive and Mildred Place, so space is at a premium.

The sound system is quite professional, so if you can’t find a seat on the lawn, don’t fret. The music can just as easily be enjoyed from benches on the park’s periphery.

Support the musicians! Most will have CDs and merch for sale, so share the love and say thanks to the musicians who make it happen. (Honestly, kids, this is such a fun and inexpensive way to spend a Saturday, the least you could do is drop a little coin for the independent artists out there.)

And because I’m a goober, I forgot my phone AND my camera, so I have no pictures for you. Worst blogger ever. 

And I can’t go to next Saturday's concert because I’ll be Chicago. And I can’t go the next Saturday because I’ll be at the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference in Grapevine. And I probably can’t go the next Saturday because I may be in College Station to see my friend and her family (including her five-month-old who I haven’t met yet), celebrate a birthday, eat at Layne’s, grab a strawberry tart from Café Eccell, and stock up on Aggie gear for Christmas presents.

So I will have to hit you back with a report on the salsa music in August. Until then!

*My spell-check noted that “Beyonce” is incorrect…proving that the true mark of fame is that spell-check knows the correct spelling of your name right down to the accent.

It’s all fun and games until someone hallucinates Marty McFly…

Remember that scene from the movie “Cars” when Lightning McQueen and all the Radiator Springs cars get together and cruise down the main drag with digitally rendered neon glinting off their metallic paint jobs? Last weekend’s 2013 Texas Dream Cruise was sort of like that…except in the middle of the afternoon…in late June…in Texas.

Held at the FC Dallas stadium in Frisco, the Texas Dream Cruise was the largest car show I’ve ever been to. And the hottest. Trekking across miles of concrete parking lots that did nothing but radiate more heat didn’t help either.

To give you an idea of just how big the Texas Dream Cruise is, just think of it like the Disneyland for good looking cars. Thousands of cars, from classics to a few customs, filled acres on both sides of the stadium. There were whole parking lots just for Mustangs and Corvettes and VW Bugs and more. And, like Disneyland, there were plenty of colorful characters. (The pair of young men trying to out-rev their respective Mustang engines comes to mind. Or the guy who sported a replica of Speed Racer’s Mach 5.)

Nerdy highlight: finding this Hudson Hornet—a gem for anyone who’s in to automotive history, stock car racing history, or just likes the movie “Cars.” (Paul Newman, you are the absolute best.)

After mooning over the Hornet, we found some more cuties and oddities like Isettas (the Steve Urkel car), MGs and DeLoreans. I was majorly disappointed to find no flux capacitor in either of the two we saw.

At this point, I happened to mention to Mr. Man that I was a bit piqued, and perhaps we needed to head home. Four parking lots and half a mile later, I realized that I no longer picked up my feet, opting instead to shuffle haphazardly. Between shallow breaths, I mumbled to Mr. Man that maybe we should stop at that street corner where the Marty McFly’s girlfriend Jennifer was handing out “wuh-der.”

The logical part of my brain knew this was serious. I was exhibiting all the telltale signs of heat stroke. My vision became tunnel-like and hyper-colorful. My heart rate was way above normal. I was no longer aware of my arms, and my legs felt as if they’d been filled with sand. If I fainted now, I would feel no sensation of falling. Instead, the ground would rush up to meet my face with a whomp. I hoped the grass was cool.

After one more mumbled pant about Marty and maybe getting some “wommer” to drink, Mr. Man practically scooped me up and poured me into the nearest restaurant. Let me say it now, friends: Don’t ever do anything in Texas in June without having some water on hand. Never in my life have I been more thankful for air conditioning and a $1.29 bottle of Dasani...and Mr. Man.

The next time he wants to go to a car show, I may just stay home with Lightning McQueen and Doc. 

Pumpjacks, Purple Pigs…and Chiggers

If you can guess where we were this weekend based on the title of this post, good on ya, friend. You are either quite adept at inductive reasoning, or you have experienced all of these things first-hand. (And let’s be honest, between reason and experience, experience is usually way more fun.

Except that I don’t know what it means to “experience” a pumpjack. I mean, all I did was look at them. That’s all. Don’t go getting any harebrained ideas about climbing astride no pumpjacks, fools.) (Yes, that’s a parenthetical phrase split between two paragraphs. Because I can.)

We spent the weekend in the gloriously piney woods of east Texas with dear friends and their young’un, Little Miss. From Friday through Sunday we traipsed between Henderson, Chapel Hill, White Oak and Tyler soaking up the trees, sunshine and barbecue.

First order of business: introduce Little Miss to ribs. (Having recently graduated to Cheerios and yogurt melts, we wagered it was reasonably safe to introduce some ribby goodness.) To accomplish this most sacred Texan rite, we embarked to the Purple Pig Café outside Tyler where we all commenced to imbibe in the meat parade in which joints like the Purple Pig specialize.

Next up: Chapel Hill where we lounged and (one of us) fished from a homemade barge on Horseshoe Lake. Good thing we weren’t fishing for dinner. After nearly an hour without a bite, we decamped for Tyler to catch “Man of Steel”* and frozen custard at Andy’s.

Maybe we should have been more patient when it came to fishing, but we all agreed that frozen custard for dinner ranks somewhere between getting a paid day off on your birthday and having Little Miss sleep until 10:00 a.m.

On Sunday we adventured around a recently acquired (and almost wholly undeveloped) piece of land dotted with the aforementioned pumpjacks. To our credit, we were smart enough to trade our shorts and sandals for jeans and boots to protect against the Johnson grass, snakey critters and chiggers. The more I tramped down the roughshod paths, the sun blotted by trees and creeper vines, the more I thought of slipping into Narnia or that island from Lord of the Flies. It was great fun.

Soon enough the heat drove us back to the air-conditioned truck, and we were then on our way home. With the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s number of chiggers in tow. Seriously, they must have been ninja chiggers because I don’t know how they got around boots, jeans and undergarments.

Gah, they’re like sneaky, “sleeper” bugs. They don’t start itching immediately. They get going once you’re comfortably back home or having lunch at Chick-fil-A, and you absolutely cannot scratch that itch without alarming, offending or disgusting those around you. So I’ll leave you with that…after I pry the anti-itch spray away from Mr. Man. Damn chiggers.

*OMG, Henry Cavill, will you be my cabana boy? Whoa. Forget Amy “I have bouncy hair” Whatshername. She’ll never lust you like I lust you.

My apologies to any ostriches I may have offended...

Upon rereading the post below, I realize that some ostriches or other two-legged birds (and by extension, ostrich-loving two-legged people) may have taken umbrage with my comment about ostrich upholstery. Rest assured I in no way have it out for ostriches or large, flightless birds on the whole. (Especially rockhopper penguins with their spiky hair and devil-may-care attitude--those guys are badass. P.S. I totally had to Google "penguin with spiky hair" to figure out that they were actually called "rockhopper" penguins. No shame.) 

I find that ostriches, despite their lack of sentient brain power (seriously, their brains are the size of peas) have managed to survive long enough for us humans to figure out 1) their hide is really pretty on things like boots and truck seats, 2) their meat is tasty enough that Twisted Root Burger Company will charge me "market price" for an ostrich burger, and 3) those bastards are MEAN. (This may have something to do with my run-in with an ostrich who gut-kicked me when I was a teenager. Okay, it didn't really gut-kick me, but it DID run up to me and stare menacingly while making unholy guttural clucks and calls and flapping in what I can only assume was some sort of dominance display or mating dance. Wait, I think it was an emu. Well, either way, let's not split hairs. A large, flightless, dimwitted raptor-bird nearly attacked me. The end.)

So I guess what I'm really saying is, I'm not sorry to any ostriches. Or emus. Ever.

Redneck Sushi and a Sweet Bronco

Today’s trek, just up the road to Denton and Lewisville, was both pleasing to the appetite and the eyes. 

First we landed at Rooster’s Roadhouse in Denton for lunch. If you’ve never been, don’t worry. It’s not hard to find. Tucked into Denton’s burgeoning downtown/Industrial Street area, Rooster’s, perhaps in a cheeky nod to its neighbor Dan’s Silver Leaf, boasts—yep, you guessed it—a large metal chicken atop its roof. (Dan’s sports a big silver leaf on top of its digs, you see.) Or maybe Rooster's just wanted to put a giant metal chicken on their roof. Because they could. It seems logical. (For ideas on other things you can do with a giant metal chicken, read Jenny Lawson's memoir. There's a whole chapter devoted to it. Truth.)

Rooster’s fare is what I'd consider "traditional roadhouse" with a few quirky twists. In addition to classic burgers and barbecue sandwiches, there are: a salad named the "Double Wide," a veggie po' boy and pulled pork nachos (a personal fave) topped with a sweet-tangy barbecue sauce, jalapenos and pico. (It’s listed under “appetizers,” but it’s big enough for two meals easily...or one really big carbo-load, like if you were prepping for a marathon or something...or, like, 17 Weight Watchers meals.)

Another appetizer, the Redneck Sushi, is anything but fishy. Its brisket and sweet-hot pickles come slathered in barbecue sauce and cheese (That's right. I said slathered.) and wrapped in a tortilla. The best part, however, was the horseradish Dijon for dipping. Holy cow! Hold on to your chopsticks, that stuff packs a sinus-clearing punch that hits you like a fiery kiss and a simultaneous full-face slap.

A few pointers:

Silverware, napkins and menus are already at the table.

It’s almost always busy, and the noise level hovers somewhere near “constant ruckus.”

Try the Cockeyed Lemonade. Seriously. Try it. (*Not for tiny humans. Only for big people.)

Desserts, namely banana pudding, come served in mini-Mason jelly jars, a fact which I’m convinced enhances the flavor to drool-worthy heights.

All told, Mr. Man (AKA the hubs, the Tall One) and I got out of there with drinks, an appetizer, two entrees, and some of that banana pudding for less than $30. And we had enough left over that I broke the to-go container trying to make it all fit. (Don’t judge. You’ll be taking home the pulled pork nachos, too.)

Our second stop was a small car show in Lewisville where we perused a smattering of Corvettes, two Plymouth Road Runners (They really do honk meep, meep!), a handful of hotrods in various stages of rebuild and customization, and a ’72 Chevy Cheyenne that held Mr. Man’s eye. Its black ostrich interior didn’t hurt either. Seriously, I don’t know how you feel about ostrich, but the upholstery work was downright stunning.

My personal favorite was a nice looking maroon Bronco owned by a lovely young lady sporting a cool blue fedora-type hat.  I don’t know why the hat ratchets up the cool factor, but it does. Though it still needed some engine work, this machine was good lookin’, big but not too big, and broad without being too stocky. It was tough…but pretty. Totally my idea of the perfect vehicle for trekking—one well suited to a long drive with the windows down into the great wide open.

The Cradle List

A lady never reveals her age, so I'll only tell you I'm a fraction north of 30. 

So far my fourth decade on earth has been pretty darn great. I've begun graduate school, basked in the unbridled spaces of the Grand Canyon, and I finally have enough bookshelves to hold alllllll of my books <happy dance>.  And I still have lots to do. 

Many folks, including a goodly number of my friends and family, around my age find ourselves getting married, buying homes, starting families and such, embarking on what we know to be a typical version of adulthood.  It’s when adulthood becomes parenthood that I’m particularly concerned with here.

When adulthood turns into the day-to-day activities involving the upkeep of tiny humans who care not one iota whether you’ve finished lunch, are indisposed or even if you’re asleep, that’s when it gets dicey. Could it have been that long ago that you hopped over to Main Street Tavern for drinks after work, caught the midnight premier of a movie and then headed home to pack for a three-day out-of-town conference? 

Only when a friend calls to invite you out for a last-minute dinner and you say, “No thanks, hon. Junior just threw up on the couch, the dog’s trying to eat said barf, and I haven’t showered in close to 48 hours,” that you realize you now live in an alternate universe where a “vacation” is that magical time you can actually go to the bathroom uninterrupted.

As for me, I think having tiny humans will be a grand adventure…but that doesn’t mean I’m ready rightthissecond to break out the panel pants. Until then, I’m making my way through my unofficial Cradle List—the things I want to accomplish before watching my bellybutton turn into an outie.

So here goes. My Cradle List (as of today):

1. Visit three national parks. Two down, so far! (Big Bend, 2010, and Grand Canyon, 2012)
2. Finish grad school (or at least walk across the graduation stage a few hours before going into labor—they make those master’s robes roomy enough…)
3. Get a piece published in The Dallas Morning News. 
4. Write the first five chapters of a novel set in England. (It also would not hurt to do the actual writing in England…I’m just saying.)
5. Acquire a new automobile for more traveling. (On this point I have mixed emotions, as my current car, a 14-year-old Jeep, is totally freaking awesome and in fair working order. It would be nice to have a new Jeep, though. You can put a car seat in a two-door Jeep, right? Totally.) 
6. Touch the Pacific Ocean. 
7. Buy some outrageously expensive tequila and drink it whenever the hell I like.
8. Buy a house. With a real mailbox. One to which I can mail myself kick-ass postcards from all over.

Please feel free to suggest more!