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!