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NEWSLETTERS
January
2003
©2002 Terri Hendrix
"Almost
every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities which
he does not possess."
- Samuel Johnson
"What an interesting life I had. And how I wish I would have realized
it sooner!"
- Colette
Just when I'm ready to hoist the Thanksgiving turkey out of the oven (as
Jessie, my mutt, drools), or have another piece of pumpkin pie, it's time
to pack up the ornaments (also known as doggie chewies), take down the
Christmas tree (also known as a large, shedding pet's toy), pick up the
stand and water pan (to my mutts' dismay -- water mixed with 1/3 tree
sap is the official holiday spirit for pets) and bring in the new year.
Time flies and I'm out of breath trying to catch up! Or ... maybe I'm
just out of shape. Regardless, greetings and Happy New Year to you!!!
I brought in this new year on a camping trip with friends. We had a blast
(fire cracker lingo), and my wilder-mess experience led to multiple discoveries.
I learned that the residents of Blanco, TX, pop fireworks up until 11:00
p.m. (ugh, where were they at midnight?) and -- much to the chagrin of
those with a vino migraine -- resume shooting them off at 10:00 a.m. (ugh,
you can't see bottle rockets at daylight). In spite of this fact, they
did a bang up job! I learned that Ford Ranger pickups are not off-road
vehicles (tires pop too) and flats are hard to change at 9:00 a.m. with
a vino migraine. Oh, and when metal meets tree ... the tree wins and the
metal bends on Ford Ranger pickups.
On a lighter side (heavy on the waistline though), I discovered a new
recipe called ... drumroll please ... Campfire Queso! Use a block of Velveeta
Cheese and one large can Rotel (note: not the can, just the stuff inside).
Put ingredients in one large tin pan (with handles) on a make-shift grill
on the outskirts of the campfire, and stir it occasionally. A word of
caution: watch out and don't singe your eyebrows. Use good hot pads too.
When done, you'll be the big cheese of the night. Drink it (just joking)
or dip your chips in it -- you'll discover your Campfire Queso has a wonderful,
distinctive, smoky flavor. The biggest fans of my queso ended being my
mutts (great taste, bad manners). While we were occupied doing something
else (re-filling our vino glasses), Jessie (small mutt) knocked the pan
off our make-shift grill, swatted the hot dogs off as well, whistled to
Carolynn (big mutt), and both proceeded to pig out. T'was a tragedy. Still,
that wasn't nearly as embarrassing as Jessie's Thanksgiving crime. Just
when we were getting ready to sit down and enjoy dinner, Jessie jumped
up on my dinner table, and ... gasp! ... snatched a portion of our turkey
and bolted out the doggie door. It all happened right in front of my family,
including my mother, who happens to be a nationally respected owner/handler
of Dachshunds (she's headed to New York in February to compete in the
famed Westminster dog show). Some dogs win ribbons at prestigious shows,
and some dogs are, well, Jessie. But Jessie is the way he is. He'll always
prefer to steal food, roll in something dead ... or mud ... or both ...
and then jump on my bed, turning my comforter into something MOST uncomfortable
as well as destroying my clean sheets. I accept this. He's ... Jessie.
Acceptance. Ahhh, the new year. I've accepted that the palindrome's officially
in the rear view and January's arrived! After picking out most of the
cacti from various parts of my booty -- errrr I mean body (remnants from
my camping trip), I began the task of preparing for this new year. For
me, January signifies a squeaky clean canvas of days yet to be painted.
A fresh start. Last year, I had resolved to be ... better in certain aspects
of my psyche. In retrospect, I realize that personal resolutions are cool,
but there are some things about myself that -- like Jessie -- I resolve
to just ... accept.
For example, I've always had personal direction, but I've never known
the joy of an inherent sense of geography. You could staple a compass
to my head and I'd still get lost. Road maps, written out directions,
and driving by satellite (I swear I broke one we once had in a rental
car) will always render me ... lost. I inherited this genetic dysfunction
from my mother. I accept this. We'll never be homing pigeons. We're both
convinced that if we were birds, we'd be the two winged batties flying
towards the artic while the others (birds) were safely making their yearly
pilgrimage south. Although this geographically dysfunctional aspect of
my personality creates tension on the road -- for example, getting lost
for HOURS on the New Jersey turnpike because I misread the Yahoo map,
booking a gig in Seattle the night after a D.C. gig (just joking ... I'm
not THAT bad, but that's why we NOW have a booking agent), and the time
I was in Utrecht with Lloyd and Ray Wylie Hubbard and I lost our compass
(I couldn't read the dang thing stapled to my head anyway). Let's just
say we ended up driving down (or was it up?) what we thought was a street
but was really an outdoor cafe (stupid Americans!!!) in a mini van that
we couldn't stop because we'd spent hours figuring out how to get it to
start! I could go on and on. I'll spare you (like the spare did me, on
the Ford Ranger pickup, on New Year's Day), and leave other stories to
future newsletters. But by now, Lloyd knows that HE has to note where
the car is in the parking lot, and also, whenever I exit an elevator,
or a building, or whenever I pull out of a driveway, I'll always turn
the wrong way. He and the band love to laugh at me for this, and I'm ok
with that. Someone said, "Advice is what we ask for when we already
know the answer, but wish we didn't," so I'm no longer open to possible
ways I can improve my geographic dysfunction. My friends and family accept
this, and now, at the dawn of this new year ... so do I. After all ...
I'm me. And, as I said before, I accept this.
Wherever your travels lead you, lost or found, as you roll in the grass
and kiss this earth ... warm regards to you for a safe and Happy New Year!!!
Kind regards,
Terri Hendrix
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