Confessions of a Pioneer Woman

For Your Listening Pain

It’s her birthday today.

As much as I’d like to deny it, it's becoming more and more clear that my girl seems to have inherited every last middle-child-induced idiosyncrasy I remember possessing as a child. I hope, both for her sake and for those around her, that she has at least a fighting chance to lead a normal life.

I’m getting ready to switch to a slightly new site design in the next couple of days, one that will make all of the unfortunate, freaky content I’ve posted over the past year-and-a-half much more searchable, findable, and locatable. This excites me because I’ve always felt like all the really juicy tidbits that reside here have merely been wasting away in the bowels of this site because they’re just so hard to find---and my Ethel Merman songs deserve a better life than that.

Among the older contributions to this site is my extensive collection of audio clips. Some are funny, some are strange, some are downright terrifying. In honor of my bizarre little girl’s birthday, I dug up a few that are particularly representative of her body of work.

Here’s what she does when I leave the house:
Rogue Six-Year-Old With Microphone

Here’s how she pronounced big words when she was six:
Little Kids, Big Words

Here’s how she pronounced big words when she was six-and-a-half:
Little Kids, Big Words 2

Here’s how she and her sister reacted when my mother left after visiting for a week:
Goodbye, Gee (Windows Media Player)
Note: I have absolutely no explanation for the sound effect at the end. It wasn’t me, that’s for sure.

Here she is (with her siblings) singing Rogers & Hammerstein:
We Dig Rogers & Hammerstein

Pay no attention to my contribution at the end.

Cow-yote Ugly

Oh, Lawsie Mercy---congratulations, OCJen! Gosh, 1,828 entries was a lot to wade through (my toes are all pruney and pale) but I finally made friends with each and every one. After laughing my ever-lovin' head off for hours and hours and going through an entire bottle of Visine (it gets the red out, you know), I finally had to bite the bullet, pull out a few more eyelashes and choose one. Great job, OCJen---your entry was the perfect accompaniement to the photo. Email me at ree@thepioneerwoman.com to claim your prize!

In fact, there were many, many, many perfect accompaniments to this photo. I'd never be able to list every entry single one that made me bust a gut, as I have a husband and four children who won't quit biting my ankles. Of course, I adored each and every reference to "Young Frankenstein" since that's one of my all-time favorite flicks:

"Bride of Igor" by MP---very, very clever.
"Abby Normal" by lots and lots of you---what a perfect nod to Marty.
"Young Frankholstein" by Gayle---darling.
"Igorgeous"---hahahaha. Ha.

And there were so many others:

"Genetic Mootation" by SueBoo
"Ol' Blew Eyes" by Karalyn and others
"Bovine Spongefailure Encephalopathy" by Nan -  I get it!
"Pasture Eyes" by Sheila - how clever was THAT?

And, one of my very favorites:
"Googly Search" by Cakehead - oh my gosh.

And I loved:
"The Bovine Comedy" by Ivoryhut. Very literary.

And for the love of Pete, Marie, yours was hilarious:
"There's no place like India! There's no place like India! There's  no place like India!" Gut. Busted.

Guys, this was so fun. With the volume of entries this contest received, I knew there'd be several clever ones to choose from. Still I'm always amazed by just how many different ideas come from all over you; it's such an interesting study. Thanks so much for participating, for sharing your creativity, and for allowing me to take my time choosing the winner today.

See you turkeys next time.

Contest Winner to be Announced Later Today

I'm still sifting through alllllll the entries, making sure I lock eyes with each and every one. I might need to feed my punks food here and there, so I'll probably be ready to announce later this afternoon. This was a good one, folks!

UPDATE, 3:00 PM: I'm working hard to pick a winner, folks. 1800+ entries is a little more than usual, and I wanted to make sure I read each one. I don't wanna leave you hangin', so I'm trying hard to get 'er done!

While You're Awaiting the Contest Winner Announcement...

I never did tell you about the bus tour that came to our ranch earlier this summer. As  part of a two-week classical music festival in a larger city in the area, individual day trips to regional sights and sounds were offered to those who were interested. Among the many choices on this year's menu was a trip to our tiny town, where participants would dine at a local barbecue joint and spend some time touring our ranch and looking at cowboys and horses. I can think of just a few more rip-roaring and exciting things one could do on a Thursday afternoon, but hey---differences make the world go 'round.

I got to be the tour guide, so I met the folks at the barbecue restaurant after lunch that day. But when I walked in and saw everyone's faces, my armpits immediately started sweating and my heart started racing wildly because...because...I have a clinical phobia of public speaking. Even if the "public" is a tour-bus load of sweet, , fun, un-intimidating seniors. With cameras.

I introduced myself to the crowd, told them a little bit about where I'd be taking them and what we'd be doing, then I immediately excused myself to "go call my husband" and tell him what time we'd be arriving at the ranch. Instead, I sprinted to the parking lot, climbed in my car, and dialed my sister at her job in Austin, Texas.

"Help!!!!!!!!!" I said. "I'm sitting in my car at the barbecue place in town!!!!!!!!!"

"What's wrong?" she asked, concerned.

"I'm scared," I said.

"Oh my gosh, what HAPPENED?" she asked, growing more concerned.

"Well, there are bunch of seniors in there and they're waiting for me to take them on a bus tour. And they have cameras!"

A long pause. "Wait...what?"

"They're all in there waiting for me, I said! Seniors! And they have cameras! And I'm scared, okay?" My armpits were absolutely squirting.

Another pause. "Um, hey, can I call you right back?" my kid sister asked.

She never did.

I sat there for a moment contemplating my life. What was my purpose, and what mark did I intend to leave on the world around me? Then I considered fleeing the scene. They wouldn't really notice my absence, would they? I mean, they wouldn't be able to find their way to our ranch and half their tour would be shot, but I'm sure their barbecue was more than enough excitement. I started my ignition.

Then I got really angry. After all, I grew up in a city. I went to school in Los Angeles. I had a good job and wore black pumps to work every day, dadgummit. Not to mention, I've endured three vaginal births and one Cesarean, for Lord's sake; surely I can handle this. Plus, I majored in gerontology, for crying out loud. Seniors are my niche.

I slapped myself across the face a couple of times and pulled out a couple of my eyelashes, then met the tour group at their bus. I talked into the tour bus microphone and said a few coherent things and didn't pass out but wanted to. Our ride out to the ranch was actually really fun and very speedy, thanks to the bus driver who clearly wanted to get this whole thing over with as quickly as possible---the guy must have driven 85. And when we finally arrived at our spot on the ranch, Marlboro Man was waiting there on his horse.

He was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen.

Marlboro Man immediately began talking with the folks, explaining some of the specifics about how our ranch operates and asking any questions they threw his way. He was totally, completely at ease.

Hey, wait---you're not a senior. STAY AWAY FROM MY HUSBAND!

Boy, was she ever darling.

Everybody took pictures and enjoyed the wild mustangs that were grazing nearby, except our speedy bus driver, who leaned on the bus and counted the seconds until this whole fiasco was over.

Marlboro Man continued answering question after question and most definitely stole the show. The seniors had had enough of my sweaty armpits by then.

And when it was time to end the tour, he said farewell, turned around, and rode off into the sunset.

Everyone should have a Marlboro Man.

New "Give That Photo a Name" Contest - Enter Now! Whoooooah! Time's Up---I'd Better Get to Work!

You had to know this was coming...right?

This photo desperately needs a name. It's a portrait of Beatrice, quite possibly the most bizarre-looking bovine creature I've ever seen except perhaps this one. Beatrice and I are full on buds, you see, and she recently told me she's always secretly wanted to be a part of this contest. She just feels this is her time to sing.

To enter the contest, just post your suggested photo title in the Comments section of this post. One entry per person, please, no entries after 7:00 p.m. Pacific Time. To ensure I have adequate time to review each and every entry, winner will be posted mid-day tomorrow.

Note: What I'm looking for here is a photo title, not to be confused with a lengthy caption. The winning entry will be selected based on creativity, cleverness, and the ability to sum up the story of this photo in a brief, one-line title. The entry doesn't have to mention Beatrice's name (though it can if you like) or the fact that a veterinarian's arm was fully inserted into her bottom at the time this photo was taken (though if that brings you inspiration this morning, go for it!) Just let your creative juices flow, and type out the first thing that comes to mind. You never know---your initial hunch could be the winner!

I'm feeling crazy, unpredictable, itchy, and a smidgen on the unstable side today, and besides that, I don't ever like keeping whatever advertising revenue I receive from this site. In honor of both that and the lagging housing market, Grand Prize will be a $400 gift card from Home Depot! There, the winner may select from the wide array of plastic organizer bins, table saws, shop vacs, pressure washers, blinds, garden supplies, light fixtures, appliances, and---a universal favorite---PVC pipe. I'm just here to boost consumer confidence...one photo naming contest at a time.

(I've always wanted a table saw myself. That, or a pressure washer. Can I join the contest under a pseudonym? Okay, it's a plan. Just don't tell anyone.)

Now go forth and Give That Photo a Name, everyone! Your tool shed will never be the same. Good luck!

Pregnancy Announcements

It's Happy Times here on the ranch! Life is springing forth, as more and more of our cows are turning up pregnant. It must be something in the air...or the bulls.

Ol' Mabel here is pregnant. She's not quite the old gray cow we thought she was. You've still got it, Mabel---you've still got it!

Sally's pregnant, too! And bless her heart, she was almost five months along before she even knew. She's always been somewhat irregular.

Sweet Peg is pregnant...again. That's nothing new---all she really has to do is hang her robe on the bedpost and BOOM! she's pregnant. We call her "Fertile Myrtle" when we want to tease the ol' gal. Congratulations, Peg. You're a good mama cow.

Helga's pregnant, too. But she's not exactly...happy about this one. After birthing a few calves already, she'd really been looking forward to having a little time for herself---to write, to sculpt, to travel.

And if you think pregnancy hormones aren't a force to be reckoned with...just come preg-check a cow that doesn't want to have the calf in the first place. Their wrath is like no other.

Just ask Helen, Helga's big sister. She's pregnant, too, and she stays awake every night, plotting out her revenge on the male race in general.

Back to the announcements. Remember Ursula?

Not pregnant. Don't despair, Ursula! You still have a lot of calfbearing years ahead of you!

And Heidi? Not pregnant either, and it's just as well. She's still way too immature to raise a calf. Her mom actually had to step in and take care of her last one. Grow up, Heidi. Then we'll talk. Meantime, stay away from those bulls for awhile. Value yourself before you start sharing yourself with the whole dadgum ranch.

Wrapping up, I have one remaining announcement.

Warning: The following news may disturb you.

Stop reading now if you wish not to be offended, aghast, horrified, or frightened for future bovine generations.

Consider yourself warned...

PREGNANT.

Oh, Baby. New "Give That Photo a Name" Contest Tomorrow. Don't Miss It, Seriously. No, Really. I Mean it.

New contest tomorrow, folks, and all I can tell you (being sworn to secrecy by myself and all) is that you mustn't miss it. You mustn't, mustn't. Miss it. You mustn't mustn't miss it, and I now want you to go stand on your head, rub your tummy, and say that thirty-nine more times.

Lurkers of This Website: take heed. It's time to pry yourself out of the margins; to extricate yourself from the lunatic fringe. Put yourself out there and join in the hedonistic fun. You won't ever regret it.

Note: In honor of our West Coasters, I'll post tomorrow's photo slightly later in the morning than usual just to give everyone a relatively equal chance. West Coasters: set your alarms. The surfing will have to wait.

Pushing Calves Down the ChuteOr, Girl Power Volume XVIII

When we work cattle, everyone has to be on the ball. Things move really quickly and when your help is needed in the chute, you have to jump right in. This is one of life's lessons my two girls are learning every day---and something I never learned in all my childhood on the seventh fairway.

The calves have to file down the lane, eventually making their way into the working chute to receive vaccinations, get branded, castrated, and otherwise poked and prodded. This day, all the punks were working the chute, which meant they had to push the calves and keep them moving forward.

These calves were a little slow going, so our oldest daughter had to jump in and lend a hand.

Oh, and I got that t-shirt for her in Chicago. And right about now she's wishing she was back in the hotel room, combing her American Girl doll's hair and ordering Shirley Temples from room service. Chicago was such a happy, carefree time.

T., Marlboro Man's cousin, stays behind all the kids and keeps feeding more calves into the alleyway. He's always there with gentle instruction and an encouraging word.

And dang, the dude is tan. Look---he and my daughter have exactly the same skin tone.

Ah, the curse of the spawn of a redhead.

See the calf in front of all the punks? He's at a standstill. He doesn't so much want to be poked and prodded.

"Move it, calf! Mush!" The kids all work together to get the stubborn guy to move.

It's difficult pushing these big calves down the alley, but little homegirl in the lavender is sure giving it her all, isn't she?

Just as the calf in front starts to move, our younger daughter gets wind of the calf behind her, who's kicking and thrashing and beginning to act really wild. And when you're a punk in a cattle chute, there's nothing scarier than a wild calf coming at you from behind. She jumps up on the fence to avoid getting clobbered.

Of course, if the calf is wild enough, there's really nothing you can do. If he decides to raise a little hell, he's liable to sweep you away along with him.

As our daughter so deftly demonstrates.

Oh, and see her punk cousin in the cowboy hat? He's nursing a broken nose and two swollen eyes after getting plowed over by a 500-pound steer in the chute Saturday. Poor little punk. He should never have laughed at her. (Photos forthcoming.)

Marlboro Man, blocking the calf from plowing over Cowboy Tyler in the very front, turns around to check on his girl. "You okay, honey?"

He's such a sweet dad.

Oh, and she was just fine. Mildly freaked, terrorized, hysterical, and catatonic...but fine.

Meanwhile, our oldest girl is staying right with the job. 

Somebody's gotta keep the ship moving. And she's just the girl to do it.

She can always go back to Chicago in her dreams...

Mommy, There's a Snake Outside My Window.

Editor's Note: I would like to go back to Los Angeles now. In all my years of living in downtown apartment buildings, I never once experienced a snake slithering on my window sill at night.

Come to think of it, though, my L.A. apartment windows caused me some other problems.

But we don't need to revisit such things.

Friends, Romans, and Countrymen: Lend Me Your Photos!

Several weeks ago, a large (very large, like that of a giant or other gargantuan life form) handful of you graciously sent in your photos so I could create this Pioneer Woman Reader Page. It satisfied so much curiosity I'd harbored for so long regarding who on earth would pollute their precious soul by visiting this website. I almost burst a blood vessel.

Over the weeks, I've had the most fun perusing your photos. I've loved looking at your faces, your eyes, your hair color, your eyebrow color, your lip fullness, (Angelina Jolie? Or Laura Linney?) and whether or not your earlobes are attached. These are the things I've always wanted to know about each and every one of you.

In case you haven't checked out the photos, let me take you on a mini-tour.

Here's OMSH. She's a web designer.

Here's Bombaygirl. She has beautiful eyes.

Here's Harley. He's a dude.

Here's Jess. She's really ripped.

And here's May Bro. No. 1. He's a dude, too. And he lives in L.A., the bastard.

Hi, L.A. I miss you.

On my Reader Page, there are SEVEN Heathers:

This is Heather.

This is Heather.

And this is Heather, too.

Oh, and I'd like you to meet Heather, everyone.

Here's Heather with her punk.

Oh, hi, Heather! So nice to meet you.

And finally, I'd like to introduce you to Heather.

But there's only one Andree:

Hi, Andree!

There's only one Angelia:

Hi, Angelia!

And there's only one Elina:

She's Swedish.

But would you believe there are five Amandas?

Here's Amanda With Cowboy Hat.

Here's Amanda With Cow.

Here's Amanda with Punk.

Here's Amanda with Punks.

And here's just Amanda.

Hey, look! We've come full circle:

I just love all you turkeys.

Isn't this fun? I'm the cheapest date you know---I'm so easily entertained. I have all the reader photos posted that I've received, so if you've sent yours and don't see it on the page, feel free to resend. And if you haven't sent in your photo, go find your purtiest, silliest, craziest, most representative shot you have and email to ree@thepioneerwoman.com. I'll take care of the rest.

And to save me valuable time, please note on your email whether or not your earlobes are attached. Then I'll know how to categorize you.

Did you know that trait is genetic?