Me and the Pioneer Woman ... It's complicated

The Pioneer Woman

I'm on the fence about the Pioneer Woman. There. I said it.

Years ago, I discovered the Pioneer Woman's website. I loved the step-by-step photos of recipes. I loved the dog stories. How could I not love the dog stories? I loved the cattle pictures and tried not to think about their ultimate fate. I loved that she was a ranch housewife who loved to blog in between soccer games and dog baths.

Then I printed out one of her recipes and gave it a whirl. It was a flop. Then I printed out another one of her recipes and gave it a whirl. It was ... how do I say this ... a flop. But maybe I just don't like Oklahoma cooking. Except for her restaurant style salsa. That recipe is totally brilliant.

I bookmarked her website and continued to visit it every morning. I just like the way she writes. She's funny. She's silly. She's a redhead.

Try to make me not smile. Just try. 

I started watching her TV show. I rolled my eyes at some of the recipes. How can dumping a can of corn into a bowl be called a recipe? I marveled at how enthusiastic and chipper her children seem and wondered how much she bribed them. I did like her sense of humor and the snapshots of ranch life. Mostly, I tried to ignore my husband who seems convinced the Pioneer Woman is some kind of a stepford wife. Mr. G. mimicking the Pioneer Woman: "I like to smile all of the time. Watch me smile while I prepare thoughtful casseroles for my husband's 20-year-old girlfriend."

Then I stumbled across the Pioneer Woman haters on the Internet. Surprise, surprise. The Pioneer Woman isn't just a little old housewife. She's a rich little old housewife. Her husband's a megawealthy cattle rancher. I'm not sure why this was a secret. Only the Pioneer Woman and Teresa Giudici can afford Viking appliances - and Teresa's are about to go up for auction.

The worst of the haters is the Marlboro Woman. Marlboro Woman loves to hate, and she hates everything about the Pioneer Woman. She hates Pioneer Woman's recipes, white teeth, relatives and billowy blouses. She posts recaps of the Pioneer Woman's TV shows and shreds them. At first I thought the recaps were kind of funny. Then it started bothering me how nasty they were. Then I thought, geez, can you find one thing to like about the Pioneer Woman? Just one thing? Didn't your mama teach you that?

Then Marlboro Woman blocked me. I never made a single comment on her website so I'm not sure how I offended, but offend I apparently did. Out of curiosity, I dropped her an email asking why I was blocked. I got a terse reply back that didn't really answer my question. I can only assume she caught onto the fact that I, like the Pioneer Woman, favor billowy blouses.

So I'm going back to the Pioneer Woman's blog with my tail tucked between my legs. It's friendlier over there. The people are always nice. Plus she gives away prizes.

The flashy, mail-filled life of a political reporter

Life as a political reporter. It's glamorous. It's flashy. It's exciting. It's incredibly abusive. Some of the time.

I read somewhere that reporters get a front seat to history unfolding. It stuck in my mind because that's a pretty good summary. But I realize that we're not exactly invited guests. No one really wants us there. We barge our way in anyway. First Amendment, y'all. Besides, if you can't be there, we're happy to put you there through words, video and photos.

The pay isn't great. I'll never have a condo in Mexico much less Gulf Shores. But it's fun. It's a totally fun, amazing job. I get to write, and someone pays me to do this. I get to interview incredible personalities. And they pay me for something I'd do for free. If I could afford it.

Then there's my mailbag. Some days, that's the downside.

No, I cannot introduce you to Michelle Malkin

Don't get me wrong. I love hearing from readers. They put the food on my table and the gas in my car. I'm in this business because I love people. However, it's never fun when someone attacks you personally or clearly wants to violate you although I have pretty tough skin.

You would have no idea from the stack of mail on my desk that the U.S. Post Office is struggling to survive. The mail just keeps on coming, mainly from prison inmates. In my younger days, I got creepy letters. Sometimes I got really creepy letters meant for Michelle Malkin. For the record: I am not Michelle Malkin, I don't know her and I certainly cannot put you in contact with her. Sorry.

It's not just inmates who write me. I get really nice letters. I get really nice cards. I get really nice emails. I keep a file of them and flip through them from time to time. It makes me smile and energizes me.

Sometimes I get not so nice letters, cards and emails. Every time I get one - good or bad - I want to pump my fist into the air at the thought that someone is reading our copy; someone is buying our product. And they care enough to express an opinion. Thank you!

Sometimes I get letters telling me I'm the worst piece of scum on the face of the earth. My co-worker got a communication the other day suggesting he is a socialist. Really, we're both nice, God-loving, family-oriented people. But fist pump because someone read what we wrote!

Back when a former governor was in office, I got a letter suggesting I was having slumber parties at the Governor's Mansion. I think the implication was that I seemed too cozy with the governor or that I was a liberal (or that I needed a place to sleep). No politician truly loves news reporters. It's like cats and dogs. We tolerate each other but we're not likely to put on our jammies and watch a "Golden Girls" marathon together. Although how much fun would that be? Oh, let's not talk about the state budget, Dorothy's saying something funny. Pass the popcorn. Ooh, and can I see the second floor?

For the record, I cannot convince the governor to get your son out of prison, give you a job or erase your tax dispute. I just can't.

If I had a magic wand, I would wave it and resolve all of the world's problems, starting with giving every dog and cat a good home, of course. Then I'd tackle the people problems. I'd smooth out family disputes, cure addicts of their drug problems and make every child feel loved. No one would ever go hungry or sleep under an interstate. But I don't have a magic wand.

Today I got a letter blasting the subject of my story. I'm never sure how to respond to letters like that although respond I must. My mother brought me up well. Sometimes I write: "Thank you for your opinion" and leave it at that. I'm not going to argue with you. You're entitled to your opinion, after all. It's my co-worker who is the socialist. Not me. Just kidding. So I settled for a smiley face, which was probably the wrong response because I didn't really agree with what the person wrote.

I wonder how Michelle Malkin deals with this situation? Maybe I should have an inmate write and ask her.

How to run a cat out of town

Our little Ava

You've met Ava. She's the intellectually challenged cat we took in a number of years ago. I took pity on Ava late one night and fed her. The next day, she was back with a dozen suitcases, a rollaway bed and a list of rules. My advice to you: Never feed a stray cat.

Life with Ava requires:

- Only petting her while she's eating.
- Never picking her up.
- Refraining from taking photographs of her. It bores her.
- Never asking her to do long division.
- Absolutely never sneaking up on her while she's sleeping. She hates that (although it's rather amusing to watch her spin up in the air while hissing and clawing).

So I took the little diva in and tried to convince Mr. G. that she was our other cat, Frankie. He didn't buy it.

Ava is incredibly attached to me. She comes in and visits when that big mean guy is on the road. She waits for me in the driveway every night and runs up to my car. Otherwise, she naps in the garden on the wooden bench that the neighbors so generously gave her (well, really, us).

After Frankie died, I worried that Ava was lonely. I mentioned to Mr. G. that Ava loves when you talk to her. She meows and preens. Really, she's quite the little conversationalist. Mainly pop culture. Ava's not much of an intellect. Mr. G. rolled his eyes. The next morning, I heard him ask Ava how her day was going. Then he told her to eat all her breakfast so she could get a treat.

One day, it occurred to me that I should have a plan for Ava in case I die unexpectedly. I'm not expecting to die unexpectedly. But you never know. What I mean to say is my death would be unexpected. I'm pretty sure Mr. G. and Bailey would live on my life insurance payout, and life would go on. But Mr. G.'s never taken to Ava despite talking to her in the mornings.

Me: You know if I die that you have to take care of Ava.
Mr. G.: What if I move?
Me: Then you have to take her with you.
Mr. G.: Michelle, she's a stray cat. The next homeowner will feed her.
Me (indignantly): Ava is our cat. We love Ava. She depends on us. You couldn't just abandon her.
Mr. G.: Whatever.

So, obviously, Mr. G. needs to go first. Not that I'm planning anything. I read Agatha Christie just for fun.

Beware bad boy cats

Lately, a strange cat has been coming into the yard. I should explain here that Ava is feral. I'd love for her to move into the house, but she's too wild. She only comes in if we leave the door open, and then she stalks about, sniffing everything before heading back outside, where it's safe. The strange cat has trouble written all over him. He's not welcome. He's the overage bad boy with a van of the cat world. I don't watch Ava catching anything fatal by associating with other cats. She's completely in agreement with me.

The other night, I was in bed reading when I heard snarling right outside the window. I leapt out of bed, but Glenn was ahead of me. Sure enough, the bad boy cat was in our back yard. Glenn, wearing boxer shorts, took off after the cat. Mr. G. came back 20 minutes later, completely out of breath. He explained that he chased the cat down the street, around the block and out of the neighborhood. "That's the last we'll see of him," he predicted. So maybe, just maybe, Mr. G. is more attached to Ava than I thought. Or he just really doesn't like bad ass cats.

It's a wedding, and we'll cry if we want to

The bride

My sister, Linda, got married last weekend. She's my little sister. She's an attorney. She lives in Shreveport. She's my only full sibling. Her husband's name - Lord, is that strange to say - is Jack.

I was six when she was born. I very clearly remember my mother showing her to me and saying, "Remember how you asked for a baby sister? Here she is!" I remember very clearly saying, "No, I asked for a puppy." And I had.

Sisters. Please take note that we are the same height.

We haven't always gotten along. She has a knack for pushing my buttons. I have a knack for overreacting. She insists I'm short while she's tall. She makes fun of the fact that I once served as veep of a "Fawlty Towers" fan club. Don't laugh. Despite it all, I'm glad I got a baby sister instead of a puppy. I'm glad I got to make her Mickey Mouse pancakes on Saturday mornings, watch endless episodes of "Designing Women" with her and go to the movies with her. Even if I most definitely did not ask for a baby sister.

The morning of my wedding, my mother - who isn't a big drinker - handed me glass after glass of mimosas. She either wanted to calm me down or she was scared I would bolt. The morning of my sister's wedding, my mother handed Linda a bottle of champagne and a box of disposable champagne glasses. She didn't even cut the stuff with orange juice. In fairness to my mother, my sister is more high strung than I am. I'm the calm one in the family. If you know me well, you should open your eyes wide in horror at that thought.

Grandmother and Linda

Linda got her hair done, put on her gown and hung out in the bride's room downing champagne and eating chicken nuggets. She was a beautiful bride. She lounged on the floor in a pool of sparkly white satin. Suddenly, she sat up and said, "Is Grandmother stopping by before going into the church?"

My grandmother is our only living grandmother. Our grandfather is the only grandfather we've ever known. They are the rock in our family. They made sure we all went to college. They are generous with love, advice and compliments. Their grandchildren adore them.

Linda and Jack

A few years ago, Grandmother was diagnosed with advanced cancer. I drove to the hospital to sit with my grandfather while the doctors did the surgery that discovered the cancer. I remember standing stoicly in the waiting room while everyone cried around me. I just knew she would beat it. I had unwavering faith. What I didn't realize was that the cancer treatment would make it difficult for her to walk. She's in constant pain. If there's anyone who doesn't deserve a life that like, it's Grandmother. She is the most selfless, kindest person ever. Ever.

The minute my sister saw our grandmother in the bride's room, she burst into tears. No worries. Her mascara was waterproof. Our grandmother stood there, looking a little bemused by the tears. What this, for me? Our grandfather looked like he was on the verge of crying as well. We're not a family that gushes about our love for each other. We don't end every conversation with an "I love you." But we're not immune to the sentiment of big occasions.

Not a puppy but I'll keep her

I was assigned a reading for the wedding. I swapped with another girl for a shorter reading. My eyes were dry as I stepped up to the microphone. I got through the first sentence and burst into tears. I looked toward my sister who had a "WTH" expression on her face and looked back down at the piece of paper in front of me. I got out a few words and then gave in to the hysterics, sobbing uncontrollably while my mother kicked herself for not medicating me with champagne. I fled back to my pew. I kept the reading, though. If you were there and wondered how it ended, give me a call.

I had very personal reasons for getting as upset as I did. They involve my parents' divorce and my mother's struggles as a single parent with two young girls. My Dad was involved, but he wasn't there around the clock. It was usually just me, Linda and Mom. So often, it felt like it was the three of us against the world. Those years seem miles away. I never thought I'd miss them, but I do at times. Now we're all settled and happy. Linda's wedding brought it full circle. It's no longer just the three of us. I couldn't be happier about the fuller circle. I love my stepfather, my brothers, my husband and my brother-in-law. But it would be nice to step into a time machine from time to time and whisk back to the days when we were just three.

Paging the IT girl

Most of the time, I'm a political reporter. Then there are the days I double as an IT person for people who are even more clueless than I am about computers. It makes me feel like a goddess.
The other day, a coworker not yet on Twitter decided Friday was the day. He was joining Twitter. He set aside several hours for what he just knew would be a long, involved installation process. Then he asked me for help. He was up and running within five minutes. It's not that I know all the shortcuts. It's just a really simple process.
My husband excels at breaking his computer. Really, his employer shouldn't give him a computer. He's better off with a notepad and pencil. The world is better off with him just having a notepad and pencil. I'm better off with him just having a notepad and pencil - especially when I'm slouched in my red chair, watching "The Real Housewives" reunion, sipping a glass of chilled white wine and I hear the plaintive plea from the other room. "Um, can you come here for a minute?" It's never a minute. Never, ever, ever.
One night I went into the home office. He was seated at his computer with that stricken look on his face. Somehow, he'd hit something that popped up a window at the bottom of his emails. He wanted to know how to fix it. Here's my approach to IT problems: I hover my mouse over things and click until I stumble across the fix. My husband wants me to TELL him how to fix things so he'll LEARN. "Just tell me," he always says in an exasperated tone. No matter how often I tell him I'm uncertain how to fix it without a little exploratory clicking, he doesn't believe me.
Luckily, though, this was a problem I'd encountered before on my husband's computer (although what he's hitting still escapes me) so I could tell him to click the "X" at the top righthand corner of the offending box. As I've told him at least a million times before. He summons that box like Aladdin summons a genie. He just can't remember how to get the genie back in the bottle.
Mr. G. used to call the IT department at his workplace when he encountered problems. Then they got caller ID and stopped taking his calls. He's asked if he can call the IT department at my workplace. I refuse to hand over the number so they'll continue to answer my calls.
I don't really blame IT for ignoring my husband's calls. I overheard one of those phone calls.
Mr. G. : "Um, yeah, I've got a box on my screen. How do I get rid of it?"
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "It's a box."
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "What's in it? I don't know. It's a box. Just TELL me how to get rid of it."
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "I'm looking (for one whole second). I don't see an 'x'"
LONG PAUSE
Mr. G. "I. Just. Want. To. Get. Rid. Of. The. Box."
So it's all on my shoulders. It's a big job. I'm convinced that Mr. G. could innocently set off North Korea's nuclear weapons simply by pushing a few buttons on his computer. Then he'll ask me to TELL him how to fix it so he'll LEARN.
The other day, I came home to the news that we're taking a work trip. My husband has to go to a conference, and I get to tag along. As I was working out in my head the logistics of working Bailey into the trip (can't leave Boo-Boo at home!) and sorting through possible sightseeing excursions, I heard my husband say, "This will be great. You'll be right there if I have any computer problems."

Never offer a picky eater a turkey melt

Oh, no. Not a turkey melt!

Mr. G. is a rather picky eater. He comes by it honestly. His mother is a picky eater, and she nurtured the pickiness in her baby boy to a ridiculous level.

For one thing, Mr G. cannot skip breakfast and go straight to lunch. Even when he covers a late game, stumbles in at midnight and rolls out of bed at 11 a.m. He might concede to brunch, but it better feature eggs.

My sister-in-law, Nancy, told me a story once about visiting the Guilbeau Manse when Glenn was a young college student home for the weekend. Everyone but Glenn got up early, ate breakfast and lingered over coffee. Then Glenn got up around noon. My mother-in-law ordered everyone out of the kitchen so she could make Glenn's breakfast. No, really. Everyone: Out of the kitchen. The prized son has risen, and he's going to want breakfast. And apparently the entirety of the kitchen table to himself. Cajun mothers and their babies. There's no closer bond.

For decades, my in-laws lived in Metairie (my husband claims he's from New Orleans. Let me set you straight. He's from Metairie). Their home turned into Glenn's personal bed and breakfast during Jazz Fest every year. He'd invite his friends in, spend the day at Jazz Fest, head into the French Quarter and come home in the early morning light. One Sunday morning, Glenn made it home ahead of his friend, Thomas. Knowing Glenn, he probably wandered off and Thomas spent the next few hours looking for him. Glenn's version of that story is that he wanted to turn in sooner than Thomas did. Regardless, there was Thomas, using the hose to wash off his feet in the back yard when my mother-in-law raised the kitchen blinds. My mother-in-law gasped, looked at Thomas with indignation and said, "Thomas, what are you doing coming at 6 in the morning? My son was in at 3."

All of this brings me to Saturday lunch. My husband had a breaking news story. Something about two former players trying to kill each other in Alexandria. Probably while trying to find a downtown restaurant open past 2 in the afternoon. But I'm just guessing. Anyway, I offered to make a grilled cheese sandwich for my hard-working husband. Then I decided to surprise him with a turkey melt as well as a grilled cheese sandwich and fried tomatoes.

Mr. G.: Is there turkey in this sandwich?
Me: Yes, I made you a turkey melt.
Mr. G.: Why would you do that? You said you were making grilled cheese.
Me: You like turkey so I thought I'd surprise you.
Mr. G.: I don't like turkey.
Me: Glenn, I've seen you eat turkey.
Mr. G.: I don't like turkey and cheese together. You're always trying to make me eat things I don't like.
Me: Yeah, always. It's my mission in life to torture you through food.
Mr. G.: Well, you made me a turkey melt when you said you were making grilled cheese.
Me (Patience now thinner than paper): Oh, for God's sake, Glenn. Open the sandwich, take the turkey off and give it to the dog.
Mr. G.: Oh, yeah, I guess I could do that. OK. I love the tomatoes. How did you make them?
Me: (complete silence)
Mr. G.: Hmmm, they're nice and crunchy.

My parking lot problems

Sheldon had parking problems as well

It's legislative session time, which means I'm parking in Texas so the lobbyists can have front row spots on the hill. Not that I'm bitter or anything. I need the exercise, and it's not hot enough yet for me to glare at their luxury cars as I struggle up the hill past them. Notice I said yet. I park in what's known as the garden lot with all the male legislative workers. The female legislative workers get to park on the top of the hill with the lobbyists. It's thought that the women should be closer to the building because they often walk out at night. They'd put me on the hill as well, but we wouldn't want a lobbyist to be raped and murdered on the way to his Lexus SUV, now would we? This year, in addition to the indignity of hoofing it in with the boys, I got spot number 666. If you think I pull into 666 each morning, you might want to hold back on toilet papering my car. I swapped parking tags with another member of the media when he wasn't looking. I'm a true sweetheart. Today, I took a break from session to meet someone about a story at a local coffeehouse. It was a pleasant day so I enjoyed my stroll through the Capitol gardens and saluted Huey before arriving at my car. I arrived at my car to find a woman who appeared to be taking photographs of it. Now I don't drive anything snazzy Are you kidding? I'll probably be driving this car until I retire. Should've, could've, would've gone to law school and become a lobbyist. Then I'd be on the top of the hill in a massive, luxury SUV. But I digress. My point is it was somewhat surprising to see someone photographing my car. I walked up to the woman and politely asked if she was taking a photograph of my car. She ignored me. I walked in front of her and asked again. This time, she looked at me and started gesturing. At some point, two things became clear to me. One, the woman was deaf. Two, she actually was photographing the Toyota next to my car. Through a series of hand gestures, the situation came into sharper focus. Someone had parked in the woman's parking spot. Not just that, but someone had parked in a deaf woman's parking spot, and she was taking photographs because she couldn't just call Capitol security and say, "Hey, someone's in my spot." I decided to help her. I didn't recognize the car. But it was an older Corolla with piles of junk in the seats so I narrowed it down to belonging to someone in the media. Then I peered a little closer into the window and spied an insurance form. Aha! I could get a name and an address. I looked up triumphantly at the woman, who shoved her phone in front of my eyes. She'd tapped in "Car looks like my daughter's. I was taking a photo to show her." I nodded my head, walked to my car, climbed in and drove off.