Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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I Just Love Those Damn Dirty Apes

   Since way back in my ten speed days, I have been a huge Planet of the Apes fan.   Like so many great television shows and movies from that era, this series boasted just the right amount of kitsch to be classic and delicious.  It posed a dozen important moral dilemmas and social questions at once but could never be taken too seriously because of the terribly flat green screens, inconsistent face masks, and overly dramatic close ups. 

THIS STUFF IS FANTASTIC!!!
   I like the original movies from 1968 starring Charlton Heston and Roddy McDowall.  I reeeaaally like the 2001 Mark Wahlberg reboot.  I am eagerly anticipating the James Franco prequel later this week.  Awaiting it even more eagerly than I am (gasp) the Hunger Games film.  
   Yes, I said it.  Am I kicked out of book club permanently?
   The issues Apes raises are always worth revisiting:
  • animal cruelty
  • perceived intelligence and how that impacts a creature’s worth
  • gender dominance
  • social order
  • racism
  • nuclear arms
  • war and peace
  • authority and revolt
  • violence
  • worship and idolatry
  • cultural preservation
   GOSH the list goes on and on!  What’s NOT to love about this story series?
   But importance aside, these movies are full of monkeys.  I (heart) monkeys.  And the other Planet of the Apes images are absolutely irresistible to dorky girls like me.

I totally groove on the adobe chimp houses, all decorated in perfect 1960’s macrame style. 
I am happily terrified by the gorillas’ dark, militant aggression. 
Depending on my mood, sometimes I root for them.
Oddly enough, it’s the pacifist orangutans that scare me most. 
Let’s pretend like Zira and Cornelius are Couch Surfers.
They are welcome at the farm anytime!
And Nova’s loincloth wardrobe? 
Yep, my personal fitness goal is to look  exactly like she does in this outfit
and have naturally smooth, shiny legs at all times.
Apparently, along with human civilization, the future has done away with Velcro.
  
   Never has an Apes installment ran on television that I changed the channel and opted to watch something else.  These movies and reruns have the ability to nullify my to-do lists and cause me to pop popcorn and curl up in our Green Room like the outside world doesn’t exist.  And I never feel guilty about the diversion because, as mentioned, the content is plenty beefy enough.  If pressed on how those hours of my life were spent, I can always answer, “pondering the larger issues and struggling with my humanity.”
   Take away my Apes, will you?  “You bloody bastard.” 


Seared Tuna Salad in Florida

   Vacation food is almost always exceptional and fun, first of all because it usually means restaurants.  And at restaurants you don’t have to find recipes, shop, cook, and clean up afterward.  Also, at restaurants each person can have exactly his or her favorite thing, eliminating the need for a menu compromise when appetites and preferences are in a standoff of Alamo proportions.  So that’s nice once in a while, even in your hometown.  And vacation food tends to be both abundant and right in step with how much energy is being expended, so a person’s body gets what it needs, uses what it gets, etc.
  
   But my biggest reason to love vacation eating is that while out of town I tend to be more adventurous, ordering things I might not order at home, trying to focus on local fare and customs and capitalizing on the spirit of adventure that my alone time with Handsome tends to inspire.
   On our tenth anniversary trip, we tried several local spots, some we’d visited before and others unknown to us.  In Destin I stumbled on one menu item in particular that pretty much entered my personal Food Hall of Fame after bite number one:  Seared Tuna Salad.
   At home, tuna salad means canned tuna, drained and mixed with mayo, pickles, celery, maybe halved grapes, etc.  This is good for a lunch by myself but certainly not how the seaside menu lured me in.  I ordered it based on a vastly different description and waited with a little trepidation .  I’d never eaten an actual steak of Tuna before, and up to that point my experience with fresh seafood had been a mixed bag.  My fears were soon eased.  They ended up serving me something that was as beautiful as it was healthy and filling, and I would love to tell you all about it…
   The first thing I noticed was something this salad was not…  It was not the typical entree salad made up of anemic iceberg lettuce, chopped too large then thrown apathetically onto a lukewarm coaster.  Being a frequent orderer of lots of restaurant salads, I am used to getting such a let down.  But not that night.
   That night the salad bar was raised forever.  Well, not that salad bar, but you know what I mean.  Don’t you?
   After a nice long delay, during which time Handsome and I watched boats pass in and out of the harbour, the waiter appeared with our food.  Showing great reverence for what he must have known was an exemplary dish, he lowered onto the table a platter as red as poppies in bloom.  It was nearly as wide as my ribcage and freckled with those wonderful little frost droplets, indicating the platter itself had been chilled.  I L-O-V-E it when people or restaurants remember to chill salad plates!
   The red porcelain was covered to within an inch of its margin with a deep bed of mixed lettuce greens.  I saw at least four different kinds of lettuce in there, and it was all reduced to delicate little bite size pieces.  Among the leaves, some deep forest green, some as bright as Granny Smith apples, others purple and bronze, I saw chopped ripe tomatoes, shredded carrots and cabbage, hard boiled eggs, fresh julienned bell peppers, cold, firm mushrooms, fragrant cucumbers, and really heavily herbed croutons.

   And tuna steak.  The cold, crisp salad was practically genuflecting beneath a slab of meat about the size of two decks of cards and just a little thicker.  It was, as promised, seared till almost blackened then drizzled with a zig zag stripe of their special mayonnaise-based dressing.  Really garlicky and wonderful. 



   I am a tuna steak convert!  I have seen the freshness light and will forever now have trouble purchasing those flat little cans of the shredded precooked stuff.  Which means, at upwards of ten bucks per pound and landlocked in Oklahoma against ocean freshness, I might not be having tuna very often.  But that’s okay, this food is worth the wait.

  
       Back to the salad.  It was delicious.  Filled with texture changes and saltiness and creaminess and firmness.  Hot and cold, crunchy then succulent…  The tuna itself was as firm as a rib eye beef steak but tender enough to cut with the bossy edge of my fork.  It was juicy and flaky at the same time.  It had zero fishy taste, all protein and lusciousness.  I started weeping at one point from Salad Bliss, and Handsome had to explain to concerned onlookers that it was our anniversary and I was feeling really sentimental.

   The funny thing about this lovely entree was that it just kept getting better.  Every time I subtracted a bite from the poppy-red platter and stirred the remaining contents with my fork, the new combination of colors and textures was even more appealing than before.  And when I requested additional dressing, the waiter brought me something different from what I expected but it was even more delicious!  Then I added freshly cracked black pepper and ground up some sea salt on top of it all…  W-O-W.

   My goodness, the grittiness and flavorfulness of those two fresh seasonings will not soon be forgotten.  I might be the last adult woman in North America to purchase her own salt and pepper mills, but it will be happening.  Soon.

   I was physically and emotionally spent.  Unable to consume the entire salad but completely satisfied, I snapped a few photos of the platter (can you hear Handsome groaning in disbelief across the table?) then pushed it away from my full belly. 

   My body was replenished of all the calories and nutrients I had spent at the beach earlier in the day, and my mind was brimming with inspiration from this artistic expression of food.  It was a good meal, one of the all time best, vacation or otherwise!  Thank you, Destin Harbour, for the yummy memories.

Pinterest, Where Have You Been All of My Life?

   So do you Pin?  Do you know about this newest way to spend the lion’s share of your computer time?  If you are even just slightly visual, even the tiniest bit prone to magazine inspiration, or otherwise on the hunt for soaking up other people’s great ideas, no matter the subject matter, then you need to join Pinterest.  By that I mean you need to get invited to join Pnterest.  They have a unique system.
   But I should warn you, the site is addictive.  Moreso than Facebook and waaaay moreso than just flipping through print magazines or browsing your fave decorating-gardening blogs, this new internet activity has the uncanny ability to numb your clock-watching senses. 
   Because on this site you get to gather up all the images that groove you and move you.  By clicking on the images you like and organizing them into virtual bulletin (Pin) boards, you can collect, organize, label, and share inspiration to your nest-feathering little heart’s content.  Then you just sit back and enjoy your pinned boards as if you are the magazine editor of all of your own favorite things.
  
Sigh…
   The thing is, on top of reallocating my laptop time to include less People of Wally Marks and more Pinterest, now I also have to reallocate my doing stuff time in order to accomplish some of these fantastic home-worthy ideas.
   Here is a link to my Pinterest page, where I have started with just a few different boards.  As mentioned before, there is no end to the inspriation available on the Web and little end to how much time can be spent looking, drooling, and Pinning.  So browser beware; don’t let any one thing, not even a thing as awesome and cool as this, suck your life away. 
   Gotta go.  My blogger buzzer just sounded and real life awaits.

Chicken Lover Praises Shredded Paper

   Several weeks ago my personal assistant Handsome agreed to bring me some shredded paper from his office.  I requested it on a whim during one of those Hot Tub Summits, thinking it would spread nicely around plants in need of mulch, etc.  I had been experiencing trouble with weedy straw and needed a fresh approach.
   Two unexpected things happened:  First of all, Handsome brought me not just the one bag I mentioned, but four, all crammed in the hatchback of his two door show car.  That was just the first day.  Then he brought me five another day.  Then a week or so later he drove our pickup to the City in order to surprise me with another seven bags. 
   “That is a lot of shredded paper, Sir.”
   “Yes, ma’am.”
   That is just how he rolls.
   The second unexpected event was our gradual discovery of exactly how far one bag of Shred can go.  Ummm, FAR is the precise answer.  And it is extremely versatile around the farm too, making it my second favorite supply to keep on hand now, next to heavy cotton drop cloths.  More on that some other time.  Right now I am pretty jazzed up about Shred.
   I could rattle on for pages about its gardening applications, but your imagination can serve you just fine there.  It works, it is cool and different and environmentally friendly, enough said.  Instead, let me tell you about how good Shred is for chickens…
This Tomato with one of his rooster cohorts.
They are so patriotic.

   Yesterday evening I spent a few hours doing clean-up chores in the front paddocks of our place, including sprucing up the chicken yard, pond, and coop.  Cleaning the chicken coop used to be one of my least favorite chores, but now with Shred in my arsenal it is an enjoyable, rewarding task again.  Incredible!!  I feel like I am living a rural infomercial.
   If you keep chickens you MUST try filling their boxes with Shred instead of hay or straw.  Check it:
  • The edges of the paper strips are roughly textured, so it all sticks to itself really well.  It is very grabby.  This allows the soiled Shred to be lifted out in large, unmessy, almost weightless clumps.  I just hooked it with the tine of a small garden fork and Voila!  Clean.  The paper absorbs all of the droppings and even broken yolks, so you have virtually no extra clean up to do before refilling the boxes with more Shred.  AWE-some. 
  • The Shred definitely seems to attract and retain fewer bugs, too.  Even in this crazy heat!  HUGE bonus.
  • The glaring white of Shred is visually cooling in the concrete hen house.  I realize this may benefit only me and not the chickens, but I could have SWORN I heard Red talking to Lucy Loo about the new decor and how sexy it makes her feel.  And even if it only SORT OF feels cooler in there on a 108 degree afternoon, then I am a believer.
  • While handling the mountains of gifted Shred, I noticed that a handful could expand into twice or thrice the volume it appeared to possess.  This makes it not only economical (on top of being free) but also REALLY fun.  It is like playing with dry snow in the middle of an Oklahoma heat wave-slash-drought.
  • The dirty Shred is 100% biodegradable of course and so can still be composted right along with your kitchen scraps, other dry manures, etc.  In fact, it is arguably BETTER for your compost pile becuase it contains no weeds.  Especially if you have clay you’d like to bust up, I think the paper would be a good start.
  • Do you have allergies?  I bet you’re less allergic to paper than you are to hay.
   So there you have it, six solid reasons to use Shred in your chicken coop rather than straw or hay.  Chances are you know someone with access to excessive amounts of this office byproduct.  Maybe you have a home shredding machine and a kid laying around with nothing to do; you can keep your kid busy, destroy sensitive financial documents, and keep your flock clean and healthy all in one quick project.
   If you try this, please let me know what you think.  I think it’s jazzy.

Naked at the Dentist

What was I thinking when I scheduled a dentist appointment just a couple of days after vacation and quite early in the morning?  There is no excuse for it.  I should know myself and my tendencies better than this by now.  This combination of circumstances always leads to personal disaster.

I did at least remember the appointment, thanks in part to a friendly office call ahead of time, but that is about where the good news stops.

A wonderfully romantic evening the night before led to Handsome and me crashing downstairs then sleeping a bit late, so there you have strike one.  By the time I had scrambled to send him off with food and smooches for his day of toil at the office, I was already way behind my self imposed schedule.

The day before, I had planned to rise before dawn to do all of my normal outside chores PLUS about seven other good, worthwhile things and at least one load of laundry.  Then I wanted to drink some hot, perfect coffee while blogging, maybe grab a quick workout, and take a shower.
Not just any shower, the full blown, head-to-toe kind.  Some people call this the Hollywood shower; I call it remodeling.  It takes longer than ninety seconds.

What actually happened is this:  I worriedly kissed my good lookin’ guy in the face then dashed around drinking only half a mug of now lukewarm coffee.  I did NOT start a load of laundry but instead silently cursed myself, knowing that I would be returning home too late to run these electricity-consuming monsters before Peak Time, which that day started at 2 p.m.

I threw on Handsome’s cast off gray t-shirt from last night, stabbed my feet into some mismatched flip flops, and bolted outside to do the Feed & Water circuit as quickly as humanly possible.

The gray t-shirt was just long enough.  Just.  But we live in the country and passersby are usually moving at a pretty good clip, so I take liberty now and then in the interest of either time or laziness.

   Have you ever seen an expression of true bewilderment on a buffalo’s face because someone is trying to run fast who doesn’t have good running form?  In flip flops, not boots?  Or have you ever sprinted through a flock of already nervous chickens or fed horses with a long, skinny line of grain rather than neat and tidy, affectionate little piles?  Uncoordinated speed and extreme panic are effective paralyzers for large animals and definite scatterers for small ones.
   So my adrenaline-based chores routine ended up substituting (poorly) for a cardio session.   And thanks to the ongoing heat wave in Oklahoma, doing this even as early as 7:30 a.m. led to copious amounts of salty, pouring sweat.  I was ripe.  This necessitated a shower, but if you are paying attention you may have already predicted that I did not get the remodel that day.  Strike two.

Here is what happened next.

   I flew back through the house, terrifying poor Pacino, and again cursed myself for wasting good coffee (now burning in the carafe) and not starting the automatic bread machine, laundry, Scentsy, you name it.  If it was automatic, electronic, and time consuming, I hated myself for not using it that morning.
   I landed in our upstairs bedroom and glanced in horror at the clock.  And then I glanced in even greater horror at the mirror.  With seven and a half minutes to go before time to leave the farm and make it to the dentist on time (not even early), I had some important decisions to make.
   Let’s just say I left eighteen minutes later, and most of that time was spent sanitizing my mouth as if the future of the human race depending on it.  Strike three.  Out!  I maybe should have rescheduled at this point.
   Somehow, without speeding on the side roads and without having a nervous breakdown, I made it to the dentist’s office only four minutes past my appointment time.  Fortunately, the folks there are so chill and so great that it was not an issue.  In fact the dentist is usually up to twenty minutes late himself, so it was zero problemo mon.  He has longish hair with french braids and feather extensions.  Yeah, I know.
   You might think this is the happy end of my story.  Except that once I was seated in that weird vinyl chair-bed, all the evidence of my chaotic life started to unravel and betray me.
   I was wearing denim Capri pants, cuffed mid-shin.  This makes the bottom halves of my lower legs visible, and I hadn’t shaved since the night before last, meaning about 40 hours ago.  They say that a good suntan covers a multitude of sins, but crossing my ankles together, attempting ladylike behavior when none could be had, felt like I was attaching myself to myself using Velcro, and I felt a little sick to my stomach.
   Then, while I sat-slash-lay there waiting for someone to attend to my unfortunate mouth, I caught a glimpse of my feet.  Ten days ago I had made them presentable for vacation.  Then we went on said vacation which consisted of four days of walking in flip flops at the beach, swimming in salt water, being nibbled by borderline dangerous fish, and finally walking approximately a thousand miles in New Orleans.  My feet were embarrassed of themselves.
   As I stared at them I had the sensation of the wicked witch when Dorothy’s house landed on her and her striped-stocking feet shriveled and curled up and away from view.
   Then my empty stomach started growling, LOUDLY.  Nice.
   Silently, I scripted excuses and apologies for my overall appearance, as if anyone would actually say anything aloud.  As if anyone in the world noticed or cared but me.  And of course the dental assistants always look perfect and gorgeous.  Must be nice to wear closed toe shoes and take care of yourself and eat a reasonable breakfast and not run late!  Just for extra fun, that day some visiting students were there, including a guy who made me feel even more awkward, if that’s possible.  I think he was actually, umm, not really into girls, but for difficult to explain reasons this made me cringe even more.  I felt soooooo juuuuuuudged.

It got so, so much worse.

   After about thirty more minutes of waiting, during which time I made some delicious progress on my Stieg Larsson book, the dentist appeared behind me.  My chaise-lounge type chair was facing away from the open hallway, so I only saw him peripherally.
   He sat on one side of me while the gorgeous assistant stood on the other.  Someone switched on an exam light that seemed unnecessarily bright and aggressive.  I have been to the dentist millions of times in my life, but this was the first visit when I felt like I had been abducted by aliens and placed under the scrutiny of  a lamp with the power of the sun.  It was just plain rude.  My feelings were hurt.
   The upside to the next part of this sad tale is that suddenly my stubbly shins and unpainted, unrefined feet were the last thing on any one’s mind.  Then, and for the next two hours, all that really existed was the lower half of my face.  And even after they numbed my gums and filled my blood with Nitrous oxide, my thoughts were as crisp and paranoid as ever.  This is the feeling of being naked.
   So I laid as still as possible, worried as much about my sunburned bottom lip, the zit on my upper lip, the conspicuous absence of makeup, and other unwaxed, unmentionable things, as I was about the drill whirring dangerously close to my right ear.  Oh, and my stomach was still growling.
   The only thing that made me feel better was hearing the dentist say in his surfer speech to his in-training assistant, “See?  This is how gums are supposed to heal.  This is a best-case scenario.”
   At least I did one thing right that morning.  I may have slept late, skipped both exercise and nourishment, and done almost nothing to groom myself, but by-golly I know how to heal my own gums!  And so for the rest of the day I floated around running errands in town, wildly unkempt but with the confidence that can only come from a healthy mouth.
As I walked around town, basking in the small victory of my well-healing gums, I started thinking about how much our oral health connects to the rest of our body—especially the heart. Gum disease and inflammation don’t just stop at the mouth; they can contribute to serious cardiovascular issues if left unchecked. A healthy smile isn’t just about looking good—it’s about protecting the body from deeper, more dangerous health risks. Turns out, flossing might be doing more for me than I ever realized.
That’s why finding the right dental expert matters, especially one who understands the connection between oral health and heart health. With advanced care options, a practice like smiles restored doesn’t just focus on fixing teeth—it takes a whole-body approach, ensuring that patients not only leave with a confident smile but also a healthier heart. So, while I may not have mastered the art of early mornings or personal grooming, at least I’m making strides in keeping my mouth—and by extension, my heart—on the right track.
   I forgot to tell you that before leaving the dentist’s office, I scheduled my next surgical appointment.  For a Monday.  First thing in the morning.
It turns out, dental specialists are a bit like detectives in lab coats—constantly on the lookout for the subtle signs that something bigger might be brewing beneath the surface. Whether it’s gum inflammation that could hint at cardiovascular concerns or a jaw alignment issue causing chronic headaches, these experts are trained to dig deeper than just cavities and cleanings. When you visit a practice that values this kind of precision and foresight, you’re not just getting a filling—you’re getting a form of preventive medicine with surprisingly far-reaching effects.
Now, this isn’t to say that every dental visit has to feel like a medical episode of House, but when life throws you a curveball—say, a sudden cracked tooth or unbearable molar misery—you want to know help is around the corner. That’s where services such as Austin emergency dental come in clutch.
They’re designed for those “Oh no, not today” moments, offering quick relief while still keeping the bigger picture of your health in mind. Because while your smile might be the first thing people notice, it’s the care behind it that really counts.