Blocks of Cotton

As I sit in the car, cruising down the west bound 287 out of Texas, I am inspired to try my hand...or rather fingers...at some mobile blogging. Thank goodness for a phone with a full keyboard. We'll see how long I last until my hands and fingers begin to cramp from going one little letter at a time.

Driving home is always an interesting drive, mixed with the intense boredom of west Texas. I have come to the conclusion that hell would be having to live in one of these very small drive-through-in-one-minute towns between Dallas and Amarillo. There is nothing in these towns save the dairy queen (that EVERY town has in TX regardless of size), some kind of quickie mart, an antique store, and a liquor store. It's in these towns, that I only have to assume. football is the event of the year. I love football, but to have that as my only social outlet...yeesh. Granted, I grew up in small town usa. I didn't have a name until close to the end of high school. It was always, "Oh you're (fill in family member's name) daughter/granddaughter/sister/niece." This was only to my advantage post-graduating when my younger cousin's received the above "oh you are..." with an added, Crystal's cousin. Family senior portraits line the office and A wing halls, haunting the youngest of our brood with each step.

Little Hollywood is small and I managed to be from a family that was well known. To even entertain the notion of any sort of shenanigans was ridiculous. Word was usually to mom and dad before the thought was fully formed in my head. Unfortunately/fortunately during high school this "notoriety" extended south to Santa Fe. Somehow the police force down on the plaza, where I hung out with my friends on Friday and Saturday nights, started identifying me by name. Was I a mischievous youth in trouble with the fuzz? Hardly. Squeaky clean and naive was more my MO. My uncle had recently taken over as the head of Parks and Rec for the state and everyone knew him. He's a very likable and congenial kind of man. I had shared with him that I was hanging out on the plaza (no, mom and dad didn't know) and he saw to it that I was well protected. Though slightly annoyed as a 16 year old, in hindsight I'm very thankful because the plaza corner where we all converged could get shady...three SF high schools and several rival gangs in one place. But I digress...

West Texas is nothing short of boring and flat. The only enjoyment I find in driving through West Texas is all the antique shops, and in the spring and summer, the fresh produce stands with the most incredible peaches ever. The curious thing about these antique shops is that no matter what day, no matter what time you drive through the towns where they are, they are never open. This is speaking from 15+ years of driving Amarillo to DFW, DFW to Amarillo. Mom and I have been lucky a couple of times, always finding the treasures of the century inside.

Over the years Brad and I have stayed in every town west of Amarillo, en route to Los Alamos. The first time he came home with me we stayed at the "Fifth Season Inn." Um, yeah, if that wasn't a clue. To say the room was scary is an understatement. It was a brisk 40 degrees at least, and the weather stripping to the door was gone. We could feel the breeze coming in all night. Brad and I were snuggled each in a mummy bag with the dog between us. The sheets on the bed were a little too disconcerting to even think about touching with out skin. When we turned on the heater a strange aroma filled the room and we both got silly and dizzy. Did we really just pay $75 for this room?! We were there for a total of 6 hrs. Rolling in around 11 pm and leaving bright and early at 5 am. Why we didn't just continue on the night before, is beyond me. Our second room in the top 10 crappiest hotel rooms was in Tucumcari. This time we actually called ahead to the Hilton in Tucumcari. They assured us that we had a room secured. When we got there, it was a whole 'nother story. We are so sorry, we accidentally just gave your room away *eyebrows raised and the urge to start yelling overwhelming me*. But we'd be happy to set you up with a room at our sister property that is just as nice. I don't remember the name of the "sister property" it was that scaring. Needless to say, when we got there, we were afraid to touch ANYTHING! The only redeeming factor is that it was actually heated, unlike the 5th season inn. The wall paper was peeling, the decor was full on 70s kitsch...complete with velvet Elvis-like framed "art." The clincher was the brown water that came out of the faucet when we turned it on. I thought...oh, rusty pipes and let it run for about 10 min. Nope, still brown. We called the front office and were assured it was potable water. Another 6hr stay and we blazed out of there before the sun hit the horizon in the morning, stopping at the local McDonald's to brush our teeth and wash our faces. My mother, bless her heart, felt bad for us both times and paid for our rooms on the return trip to Dallas. We stayed at the very nice and comfortable Hampton Inn, complete with clean bed linens, heat, and carpets I'm not afraid to step on without shoes. Instead of trying to be cost conscious these days, we stay in the Hampton. Though really, we've scored awesome rates every time and they have a great continental breakfast. So word to the wise, if you want to stay somewhere on your trip east to NM from Dallas, take our well-traveled advice and hit the Hampton Inn on Amarillo's East Side. You won't be sorry. P.S. They take dogs too.

Okay, my fingers and hand are cramping.

Biscochitos..not quite Nana yet...or even close.

I am fully convinced that my Nana is the greatest cook that ever lived. Even greater than Paula. That for me is a BOLD statement. In my quest to replicate THE best Christmas cookie, the biscochito, I have come to appreciate even more how flawless my Nana makes the process look. For heaven's sake the woman doesn't even use measuring utensils. She uses her hands, her fingers, and some old tin cup from her childhood to measure everything. Getting the recipe from her was not easy for this very reason, but we, her grandchildren (my sister, my cousin Alli, and I esp) have been bugging her the longest for actual measurements. "Oh mijita, I just put this much..." usually shown cupped in her nimble cooking hands that have kneaded and formed over 1000 tortillas and biscochitos in her life. You would think that after 33 years of helping my Nana make biscochitos I'd have the process down pat. Alas, no. I just stumbled my way through what seemed the easiest of processes only to call my Nana several times to ask what to do next and why mine don't seem right.

Recently, when I was home in NM, I made tortillas with Nana. She quickly threw together the dough, and then we pulled it apart and formed it into the little balls she makes before she rolls them out. Hers were perfect little mushroom caps, mine...looked like drunk amoebas. She told me, "Mijita they look good. Mine weren't perfect when Grandma first showed me how. You just need practice." Again, not my first time helping with this task. Many, many years were spent sitting on one side of the rolling board that comes out of the cabinet in her kitchen, watching, helping, rolling. I think she has some magic I didn't inherit. Nana rolled out 2 little balls, threw em on the cast iron burners (from the ranch house stove because they make the best tortillas), looked at me and told me to go ahead and roll out the rest. Sure, no problem. Even an idiot could roll out perfect circles. Apparently I grade in right under idiot. My tortillas looked like amoebas again. Nana, always the encourager, said hers looked much the same in the beginning. Somehow I don't believe that.

Back to the biscochito making.... I never realized how hard it is to get the dough the perfect consistency. Want a good arm and back workout, knead some biscochito dough. I am exhausted after getting all that flour into the right consistency. Yeesh! What this girl knows is that all this hard work will result in the most delectable of cookies.

Cut now to the aftermath. My dough did NOT roll out like Nana's. Had to call her 3 more times to figure out what I was doing wrong. My dough kept getting crumbly. So frustrating! After another 2 hours I've managed to roll the dough, cut out the shapes, decorate them, and get them cooked. Only burned 7 or so, but it was cause I got distracted. After this process I am only more in awe of how simple my Nana makes the process look. I have made the decision to spend as much time in Nana's kitchen this Christmas. Perhaps I can learn to perfect my Biscochitos, tortillas, and learn the magic of her empanadas and posole. Regardless, I will be stuffing my body to the gills with all the traditional New Mexican Christmas food I cut my teeth on. 5 days and counting!

Why I love my Chucks!

Perhaps you are wondering, chucks? You might be saying, Crystal, you have a Brad, but no chuck. Alas, this is true, but the two Chucks I have, I adore. How much wood could a wood chuck chuck, if a wood chuck could chuck wood? As I sit perched upon my sister's bed, in her very quiet house (what is that?!), I am very quickly reminded by the numbness dripping up my legs why I scarcely wear trainers (tennis shoes for those of you who complain at my penchant for British vernacular) of any kind other than my Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars. For some reason unknown, any other kind of trainer creates a vice grip on my feet and I start to feel like I'm suffocating from the toes up. I can feel it setting in about 10 minutes after the laces are tied and I've climbed into whatever car is taking me to whatever location. Usually, it's when the boy and I are headed to some sort of shopping excursion where I could be walking a lot. I can silently hear my feet cursing me out for condemning them to the cramped quarters of laces and Vibram soles. One would think, this is much better for your body...but my feet, then my ankles, then my legs began to disagree and revolt. I start to feel the restraint of the laces on the top of my foot, where it feels like the tongue of the shoe is digging down into my bone, the laces sawing away with each step. It's about now that I loosen said laces and reassure my feet they are okay, keep breathing...hearkening back to a time my husband took me Snuba diving on our honeymoon and I freaked out flailing and thrashing about like a fish out of it's water...but I was in the water. After 10 minutes of hand holding by our precious instructor in the muddy waters of St. Maarten's shore, I calmed down enough to breath and enjoy the clear water that awaited me just feet from my trauma. If there is one thing I cherish, it's air and lots of it! My feet obviously enjoy the same. There comes a point where the suffocation factor becomes too much for my feet, and after another 10 minutes my legs have gone numb to the knee. Walking around in this state is quite humorous for whomever I am with, considering this girl...even after 12 years of competitive gymnastics, 7 years of dance, and 5 years of cheerleading is still the clumsiest person you will meet. I swear things jump out at me just to trip me. I think I am the only person in existence who can be wearing flat shoes and still trip in the hallway at work where there is nothing to trip on. Imagine the hilarity that ensues when I have on air repressing shoes.

For those that know me, to say my back is older than I am is an understatement. I have the back of an 80 year old, thanks in part to years of athletic abuse and a chronic pain disorder syndrome. One would take comfort, in this situation, that her sister is a licensed physical therapist. *raises eyebrow* I do take comfort, when she isn't nagging my footwear decisions. My footwear of choice is ballet flats, quickly followed by my beloved and very beaten up Chucks. What isn't wonderful about ballet flats? They are fashionable, classic, go with everything, come in an array of styles and colors, channel Audrey Hepburn, and most importantly nonrestrictive to the foot. My feet LOVE my ballet flats. They practically scream for them. I seriously could run a marathon comfortably in my flats...more so than the suffocators. My sister tells me, "not sensible for your back sister." Maybe it's just that over the last 10 years I've learned to manage my back pain...but seriously give me a little thrown out hip action over numb feet and legs any day. Or throw some chucks my way. Comfortable and seem to keep the PT at bay. Thank you Converse for making a tennis shoe that doesn't make my feet want to go screaming off my body at the mere sight of them. I just ask you, please, make them in sparkly TCU purple.

As for my other Chuck, no one man named Chuck or character could ever top the drippily sexy beastness of Chuck Bass. Thank you Gossip Girl for a character who repeatedly makes me happy to see even when he is being the biggest Basstard of all.

Jello swimming and the BCS

The days have been moving in slow motion since last Wednesday. I feel like I'm swimming through jello...every move slow and agonizing. Many times I forget what I'm even doing or talking about, petrified that something I ate, lifted, did caused the spontaneous miscarriage. I'm still having a hard time getting my heart and my head to agree on things. And right now I'm getting to the grief stage where I am incredibly angry with God. WHY?! Why even let me get pregnant only to take that beautiful life away before I've even had the chance to hold that beautiful life in my arms. And then a part of me says to myself...but isn't it better to lose so early than after you've felt that baby or held that baby? But the retort is always, "NO! Because a child lost is a child lost, no matter what." My only relief seems to come when I hold Cammi in my arms and feel the beat of her little heart and the softness of her skin. Every single time I have to keep myself composed so as not to completely shatter apart. Sure, I'm not the only, nor the first woman to have a miscarriage...but somehow that doesn't make it any less painful, any less devastating. I'm petrified of getting pregnant and having the same loss happen again. As my best friend, Christine, says, "It takes the innocence out of pregnancy." Sure, I had moments of fear and worry with Cameran, but my pregnancy was easy from start to finish. I endured wicked bad nausea the whole time and a kidney stone, but I would take it all again for another chance. Jeremiah 29:11 says, "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." This is, and has always been, my favorite verse. I've been spending hours contemplating how it applies this time. I know that God took this littlest angel for a reason. He knows us before we are formed, and He always has us in his hands. My brain and my heart are trying to understand the reasons now. "The Lord is close to those whose hearts are breaking." Psalm 34:18

After all this grieving let's move onto a subject that makes my blood boil and my heart smile all in one fell swoop. That is TCU football and the Cop Out Bowl, otherwise known as the Fiesta Bowl. Oh, where to begin. Did we get the shaft? Hell yes! There is no gain for us, nor for Boise State , in this game. Way to go BCS, way to define elitism at it's core. Way to show the legion of football fans that you are indeed a bunch of elitist snobs. God forbid you put two well deserving teams in a bowl against your precious blue-bloods. Gary Patterson and co. did everything you asked of them this season. They played clean, they played to all their potential, they outscored opponents consistently, and even landed in the top 4 for both offense and defense this year. Yet, you still don't think we are good enough. While I, and all of Horned Frog nation, have all the respect in the world for Peterson and the Broncos, playing them is like going into hand to hand combat with your brother. Would you kill your own brother and feel happy about the victory? Right, exactly. What you will find at this BCS bowl is 2 high caliber teams that play clean, play well, with respect for the game and for each other. I will wear my purple proudly, I will shout Riff Ram from the tops of all the buildings in Phoenix, and I will give my $ to your bowl for a chance to see my Frogs dominate. When the day is done, you will see that us "mid majors" can bring it just as much as your beloved big schools. We'll be back again next season with more fight, more ammunition, and our eye on the big prize. My hopes by then will be that you see the fans outside of Horned Frog nation are on to you as well. Read the chat boards and the commentary on your stellar decisions this bowl season. That means you Fiest Bowl director, John Junker. You were strong armed, and you know it. You say you wanted two undefeated teams....then why sir didn't you chose Cincy? You claim it's cause of proximity to Arizona. Really? I'm pretty sure the other bowls are not concerned with that little problem.

Devastated

The worst happened today. Our doctor's office confirmed that the bleeding was a miscarriage. My hgc levels plummeted from 110 to 33 in less than 42 hours. I've never felt sadder in my life. This loss is like a jagged knife to my heart. I know in my head that there is nothing I did wrong or could have done right, but my heart is having a really hard time with this. I feel like this loss is my fault. I had optimistically hoped that the bleeding and the cramping stopping was a good sign. Perhaps a positive sign that everything was okay. I don't honestly know what to make of this and my heart hurts so much. Right now it feels like this pain will never go away. Though I never held this baby in my arms, I still lost a beautiful life. A beautiful child. And I am trying so hard to remember that a day will come when we are reunited with this precious angel again in heaven. But it doesn't stop my heart from wanting the baby here with me. I wouldn't wish this upon anyone.

A message to slow down?

I think this is going to be the best place to keep everyone updated about the events of the last 24 hrs. And probably is a good way for me to work through everything in my brain and my heart. Thanksgiving day we found out that we would be welcoming another baby Williams into our little family. What a very happy day! I reconfirmed it on Monday with a second test. To date I am 5 weeks 3 days. Yesterday I began to bleed and cramp. No pregnant woman wants to see blood, ever, coming from her body...save her nose. To say the room began to spin is an understatement. Why? How? Why? We got into see our obgyn and they took a blood test, to test my Hcg levels. Another will be taken on Friday, to compare the two levels and make sure they are increasing at greater than 66%. My doctor did confirm I was pregnant and did an internal exam. She said yes there is blood, but it is not indicative of anything bad/good right now. We really won't know until Monday. Until then look for heavy bleeding, and heavy cramping. Rest is the best, she said. I can walk around, but no lifting, no strenuous activity, not a lot of bending and stooping, and no sex. So here i sit/lay in bed, just trying to rest. I keep praying for the following: bleeding to stop, cramping to stop, hcg levels to increase and double, and for the baby and I to be safe and healthy.

I am so thankful for all my friends who have called, talked, prayed, and listened to me cry. How special each of you is! How blessed my life is with each of you! I am so thankful for all my friends who have given me insight and hope as to the reason for the bleeding, and that it isn't necessarily a bad sign. I am also praying for peace in my heart and my body to make it through the next 4 days without worrying myself to death.

Ultimately I have to remember that God's Will be done in all circumstances, and in all areas of my life.