I Wanna Be A Cowboy

Well I just got off an emotional roller coaster, the details I won't bore you with. Let's just say about $100, 3 hours in the cold, 2 cigarettes and a few dozen tears later.....I know where we're going to be stationed next! Now anyone who knows me, knows that there's nothing I enjoy more than lording information over others. And since this topic has been a Top Ten question by everyone and their moms since we started this whole Army/Crazy Train ride, I'm tempted to hold out a little longer. Well, except that I know that that's mean. Ok FINE.

I'll give you a choice of 5 to 7 posts and anyone who wants to play can guess! The winner gets either a landscape or a sunset, their choice. I should let you pick from a list of 60 because that's a little more realistic but whatever.

Where will the O'Donnell-Munoz's be stationed next?

1. Fort Lewis, Washington

2. Fort Richardson, Alaska

3. Heidelburg, Germany

4. Fort Hood, Texas

5. Fort Greely, Alaska

6. Fort Dix, New Jersey

Here's a hint, a very obvious hint.

It's Freezing Cold Here Today

I would like to call your attention to a few new features here at http://jessmunoz.blogspot.com. If you scroll way, way down you'll find that I've added a fish pond. That's right, I did a little waterscaping, hand selected multicolored fish and then trained them to swim towards your cursor so you can click feed them to your hearts content. I've been doing it all day.

Also we have a new follower (WOOHOO), she comes from Apple Valley and her name is Michelle. She once told me that there are actually no apples in Apple Valley, and since she's from there I had no choice but to agree with her.

I also swiped a picture of myself off of Facebook (thanks Paola) where my bangs are the perfect color and size to use as a profile picture. This way, in case any of you see me in the street, you can yell something and I can demonstrate how cool and aloof I am.

Here's a pretty pretty landscape of some grasses and stuff:

All Of The Animals, Part Three

Guy

Guy is nobody's cat. He looks like he used to be somebody's cat but then something bad happened and now times are a little tougher for him. Perhaps it was the economy. We don't know a lot about him, except that he's dirty and he only comes by a couple times a week. I think he's got another 2 person family somewhere nearby. I wonder what name they give him. He got this name "Guy", from The Specialist, who started another story with "when I was a little boy...." and when I was able to stop cooing and kissing his forehead, the cat's name was Guy. Little boy stories are a giant weak spot in my otherwise logic hardened reasoning.

He's not a bad looking guy, Guy, but I'm sure he's got fleas or chiggers or intestinal parasites or the Swine Flu at least, so I won't let him touch me. My vaccinated husband cuddles the hell out of him when he's home though. They're so cute together, Guy gets all the love and attention he so desperately needs and Husband gets to change his clothes before he comes back inside. I prefer to support our grey lionish friend in more material ways, like salami.

All Of The Animals, Part Two

Oscar

Oscar belongs to Scott and Jeanine. He doesn't like the wind or being alone and is in charge of scouting for snakes when we go on walks together. He has super soft ears that flop comically up and down while he's running away from me. He is surprisingly fast for a creature of such odd proportion. He will occasionally come sit on my porch in the sun and ignore me, and when I invite him in he declines. He plays hard to get like a champ and so I am madly in love with him.

He's so poised and thoughtful and sophisticated.

This is what he does right before he's about to ditch me.

This is how big he is when he's ditched me.

All Of The Animals, A Qualitative Study

After many strenuous hours of walking around with my camera, and sometimes Oscar, I've finally completed a photographic catalogue of all of the animals here. The bug section is a little incomplete, but who cares about bugs. You'll notice there aren't any pictures of snakes, because there are NO SNAKES in Arizona. Comforting, huh? I've also taken the liberty of naming them, regardless of whether they already have names and/or actually belong to me. A short biography of each animal may be included, depending on whether I like the animal or not. Here we go:

Kalish

Kalish you've already met. He used to live on top of the stove (except when it was in use) and watch me make huge messes in small spaces; but I relocated him into the living room due to the fact that it's suddenly 45 degrees in the kitchen as soon as the sun goes down. He enjoys making angry faces, staring, and blowing bubbles. I read on the internet that when he makes the bubbles it means he's feeling sexy. I'm going to look into getting him an ugly brown girlfriend as soon as everything else in my life gets taken care of and "squared away" as we say here in the Army. Kalish is a nickname actually, short for Kalishnikov; which according to Husband is superior in every way to the M16. I like it because it rhymes with "fish".

Henry and His Harem

Henry is a very impressive rooster who heads an equally impressive operation inside Scott and Jeanine's impressive chicken house, or coop or whatever. Now I realize that Henry is also the name I chose for the first hummingbird to grace the feeder on my porch, however Henry the Rooster was named by Husband the Specialist. And honestly, anyone who is willing to play the game of naming other people's animals with me deserves the gratification of having their name ratified. Even if it's already been "taken". Specialist had a charming tale to support his choice. It went like this: "When I was a little boy..." and then I died and called him 37 sweet nicknames in a row and said you can name the chicken anything you want. I'm an pathetic sucker for any type of husbandly reasoning that starts with "when I was a little boy...". Hopefully he won't figure that out for another couple of years and be able to use it against me for the rest of our lives.

Henry lives with these other chickens:

The Redheads

I don't think they're twins, I think they're just exactly the same color.

The Black

I walked in on The Black Chicken laying an egg once. It was terribly awkward and uncomfortable.

The Blonde

I'm sorry, but Blonde is the cutest one. Look at all that FLUFF!

To be continued with the exciting chronicles of Oscar, Guy, Mia and Lizard On The Fence.

This is My Sister (real, biological)

This is my sister, her name is Madalene. For a little while after she was born, we didn't have a name for her. She's one of the blank icons to the right. She's also a candidate for the cover of Seventeen Magazine, the Prom Edition. She has a gap between her front teeth that she can almost stick the tip of her tongue through. It's called a diastema. I've always thought it was super freaking cute. She plays volleyball and I was kidding when I said she was going to be on the cover of Seventeen Magazine. She totally should though.

Today I have to do a couple of things. Here they are in semi order:
1. post something deep, meaningful and insightful on the blog (done)
2. clean the kitchen (maybe)
3. vacuum the crumbs up off the floor from walking around and eating (also a maybe)
4. go into town and buy some vegetables to grill on my new grillin' machine
5. grill the vegetables and like a chicken breast or something on my new grillin' machine
6. give rent check to Scott and Jeanine so we don't get evicted
7. read my new book on the porch in the sunshine
8. calculate whether a hammock would fit on the porch by eyeballing it
9. shower (I should probably do this first)

Crayola Landscape

This is a Crayola Landscape for Paola (who complained) and Gin (who is new, yay and welcome!) They're related so they have to share one landscape. Sorry, but those are the rules.

Perhaps I'll spend the rest of the day photoshopping landscapes within an inch of their life and dedicating them to my followers. Perhaps I'll crawl back into bed. Perhaps I'll go eat a leftover meat pie. Perhaps I'll continue to snuggle this Adidas jacket. Perhaps I'll go to Target and shop for something pretty. I do need tweezers. Target it is.

For 20 Minutes in Milwaukee, I Was A Believer

Every morning that I wake up, later than I probably should, check my silly blog and see a handful of small (mostly blank) icons, I smile at the little fish on the stove and remember that I am not alone out here. Out in the middle of the Arizona desert, 30 minutes from the nearest Starbucks, and covered in little thorny prickers that stick to everything and pinch me unexpectedly. Even here I have people, I have blessed internet people. And so, it is with a warm heart and open arms that I'd like to welcome Jasmine Clark to my cluster of internet people. Yay! I am both country bumpkin who saves wilty vegetation for unaffected chickens and savvy internet scribe. I am a low-level superhero with unremarkable, debatably non-existent powers and silly alter ego.

My identity is very open to construction right now. Very, very soft, very pliable, not concrete in any way, much like a play-doh identity. So forgive me if I'm prone to play.

Coincidentally, in the way of the Universe, I have been working on something a little artsy, a little academic, and a little something that relates to my friend Jasmine from art school. What a cool coincidence that she would chose to follow me today, of all days! By continuing with your eyes open you are agreeing to keep your mouth shut about the previous use of the term "artsy", which, if we were still in school, would get me crucified.

I am encouraged by these coincidences. It's the little believer in me. Like the time I was sitting in the Milwaukee airport thinking about my Army husband when low and behold, an Army guy walked by. Milwaukee, by the way, is a place full of very pale, very jiggly people. I know this from sitting in their airport for 2 hours and not talking to anyone. If Husband were here he'd ask what this Army guy's rank was. And he would be annoyed when I would reply, "I have no idea, but he was blonde." But he isn't.

Anyways, as I was thinking and possibly also writing a letter to Army Husband, and an actual Army guy walked past; I was immediately struck by the coincidence and tried to hash out a deeper meaning. Just as I settled on the comforting theory that everything would be all right because of this unmistakable sign that the Universe had just sent me, another Army guy walked past. This time a brunette. And he was carrying a magazine, conspicuously inside another magazine. This lead me to believe that the inner magazine was porn. This also lead me to believe that the situation was strange, because it was quite early in the morning. But I guess anytime is a good time for magazine porn if you're in the Army. I'll have to ask Army Husband.

So, here we have the possibility of two or three interpretations. 1) Two Army guys is better than one, therefore the original theory "Everything will be all right" stands. 2) One Army guy (blonde) another with porn. Perhaps the Universe is trying to tell me that "Everything will be all right, sure. But there are secrets, possibly pornographic secrets". 3) The Universe isn't talking to me, I'm grasping for meaning and purpose during an emotionally stressful time. Army guys walk through mid-American airports at all freakin' times and especially in the early morning. This is no big deal, I should go back to my crossword puzzle.

Eventually, Option 3 was overwhelming adopted by the teeny debate team in my head as a slew of other Army guys walked past. However, for a good 20 minutes in Milwaukee, I was a believer. And believe you me, that is good high.

Here is some fledgling art that I optimistically choose to believe is being endorsed by the Universe by way of substantial coincidence and timing.







For those of you who aren't familiar with the Universe, timing and coincidence are its bread and butter.

A Special Kind of Weird

I've been hanging on to this image, thinking I could cleverly work it into an analogy/metaphor/simile for my life or work or art or something, maybe get a laugh. But now I'm beginning to believe that's going to be a bit of a stretch. Perhaps it's better if I just post it, and then we can all share in the weirdness together. Yes, this one doesn't need any dots connected, no gilding the lily (so to speak). Here we have two grasshoppers, and then a third, just outside my kitchen window.

Welcome Follower #7

Here's a pretty pretty landscape:

How To Do Laundry When You're Awesome

So last week Cuban and I had a conversation that went something like this:

C "So, do you think you could do me a favor?" (He's obviously about to ask for oral sex*)
Me "Um, sure. What is it?"
C "Well, I don't know if you can, I mean, I don't know if its possible..." (He's obviously about to ask for anal sex*)
Me "What?"
C "Do you have a laundry machine at the place?" (Damn)
Me "Yes. Would you like me to do some laundry for you?"
C "YES PLEASE!"
Me "...great..."

Apparently, aside from fighting terrorists, exercising while its still dark out and learning all manner of secret Army secrets, laundry is the hardest and most challenging thing he has to do every week. I don't really know what to think about this. A grown man, who can handle guns and knives and grow an impressive mustache has trouble doing ONE load of laundry, once a week. And its not like his one load needs any kind of special attention. Tracksuits aren't notoriously difficult to launder. There's no cashmere, silk, knit or suede in his wardrobe. He's like a walking advertisement for Cotton products, or a laundry detergent for people who have a lot of dirty kids.

Well, we're new, so I'm going to consider this whole thing adorable. And I have a lot of free time on my hands, plus it seems a shame to refuse him when the most pressing thing on my schedule is making peanut-butter-and-banana-on-crackers for lunch. And I love him. But I suspect that this would be not so cute if I didn't love him. Much like the way he is able to stand precisely in my way at 4am, the way sweet, tiny black hairs get left in the sink after he shaves and the way he kicks me in the shins with his big dumb boots whenever I make the mistake of sitting across from him at a restaurant. I used to sit next to him in booths (even when it was just him and I, which was always) because I couldn't get close enough to him, I would have sat on his lap and spoon fed him if people hadn't stared. Now I sit next to him in booths to protect myself from being accidentally crippled by giant beige Army boots. I wonder if my new healthcare provider covers that.

Actually, laundry day was really, really fun for me. I felt like such a provincial little woman carrying a wicker basket of my dear husband's wet clothes over to the clothesline, where I lovingly took way too long to hang them to be dried by the sun. I'm certain that Jeanine (our saintly neighbor/landlord) could have done the whole thing in half the time. However, I'm new to clotheslines and womanly feelings, so when I get the opportunity to do these things I like to cherish them. Like when I feed the chickens and steal their unborn babies while they're not paying attention, I cherish. I did a little spying on her while she was hanging clothes the other day, and I picked up on some very impressive techniques. See if you hang the shirt over the clothesline then put the clothespins in the armpits, then you don't get the little pinch marks which are difficult to iron out. Even with your own, brand new iron and all the time in the world because a Golden Girls marathon is on TV.

Besides the hideous pinch marks, the only problem I ran into on laundry day was one of modesty. You see, Specialist has beige underwear. They're very nice and very sturdy and they go really well with the whole camouflaged, Army Combat Uniform (ACUs) look. And from the driveway where other people occasionally drive by, you can't even see them because they're so unremarkable. I am not in the Army, as I continually tell myself and others, and nothing I own is beige. Nothing I own is cream, or nude or buff or tan. The under things I own come in all different colors and prints and sizes and believe me you can see them from the road. So I made myself a small personal clothesline, just for personal things, that hangs off my porch where only the deer and hummingbirds can see it. I considered this a great personal achievement and went inside to celebrate (by myself) with a cold can of Diet Coke when I was ambushed and overwhelmed by a tidal wave of warm, womanly, squishy emotion. For as I looked out my small kitchen window, I noticed my dear sweet husband's ugly beige briefs blowing in the wind, for all the world to see. I died.



*These statements were included for shock value. I do not engage in anal or oral sex because it is amoral.

Kalish the Fish

There is either a serial killer/rapist on my porch or I am so tired from driving all day that I'm hallucinating. Or its the damn cat. Driving to Arizona has become a kind of a special pilgrimage to me, and so I pride myself on doing it right. Today it didn't go so well. Turns out it is far more physically, psychologically and emotionally draining to drive into a different state while someone is sleeping comfortably in the passenger seat. It also takes an hour extra for some reason. Luckily, nobody got accidentally hit with their iPod or accidentally strangled, so no harm done. We got stuck in a little extra traffic and had to stop a couple extra times at designated rest stops because of the huge quantities of Diet Coke we consumed before noon, but having a mustachioed copilot wasn't entirely annoying; it had some perks. For example: someone pumped gas for me 80% of the time, someone bought me gum unprovoked, and someone rubbed my neck until his hand got tired. Finally getting here was a relief though, its not good for our marriage to be confined to such a small space for so long. Our marriage is claustrophobic like that. Its also not good for someone to be miserable and someone to be comfortable in the other, miserable person's presence. See what a wise married woman I am?

OMG the serial killer is playing with the wind chime. That's definitely not the cat, although it could, I suppose be the wind. When I finally turned into our little driveway after a very draining day, a few hours ago, my senses started playing tricks on me. The bushes have never rustled so viciously, I've never noticed that Stephen King book on the shelf before and quite conveniently, a TV special on the FBI's Most Wanted List was on as I pulled up to our secluded little cabin, where I don't get cell service, all alone on this dark and scary night. Where the hell is my husband you ask? He's tucked into his little bunk bed, with 30 other Army guys in the middle of well protected Army Installation. And I'm out here all alone, without even something I could fake as a gun. I would kill for a Fireguard patrol positioned around the house right now. The worst part of this whole scary night, is that the poor stupid fish is still trapped in the car. I carried him in his special little travel case all the way back to CA and back, checked on him periodically while he was in the cup holder, bought him special shrimpy fish treats and a small plant for him to hide behind and now he's going to freeze to death. I'm sorry, call me cruel, but there's no way I can go back outside, I'm not exaggerating. I sooooo could use a mustachioed husband right about now, and so could Kalish the Fish.

Diff'rent Strokes For Diff'rent Folks

This is Joe, and yes that is a grown up size butterfly net. We've seen him and his giant net once or twice before from the porch, and a couple weekends ago we met the man in person, yay! Scott, our saintly neighbor/landlord used a phrase we have tenderly adopted into our own lexicon, one that describes this guy perfectly: "diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks." Which is a really, really nice way of saying "that guys gay." Let me tell you about our official meeting with the Butterfly Hunter.

So after a Thanksgiving feast of Sunday morning breakfast that included: mushroom, ham and brie omelet, mountain o' pancakes, bacon, coffee and leftover peach cobbler-ish we were feeling pretty high on caffeine, sugar and carbs. So we threw on some shoes (Kansas cowboy boots to be exact) and ventured into the field below our porch. This had to be done very carefully because the grass is high and the word SNAKE was on the tip of my tongue. Tired from walking very slowly and feeling silly, we stopped to enjoy the scenery and chew on things.

Thats when Joe showed up. He tags Monarch butterflies (this is his full time profession) in our field and other places along their migration path and charts the data with his Conservatory program.

We were then treated to a 2 hour, hands on butterfly catching lesson and Q&A session. As INTPs, question and answer sessions are pretty much our favorite things. So here's how it goes:

Joe catches Monarch (only Monarchs, he doesn't give about anyone else)

Joe checks the time and logs an entry into his tiny diary.

And then he is distracted by our incessant questioning and accidentally lets the butterfly escape. Then we start over.

He's looking straight at me. Spooky.

All the Monarchs get tagged with a little blue sticker that has a serial number and email address on it. Just like sharks, only it doesn't hurt.

It was a very educational morning, after which we both needed a nap. Joe, however, is probably still at it.

The Blog of Many Topics

I have been remiss in my blogging responsibilities, and to the 6 people who have made a commitment to me and Google, I apologize. Let me try and offer some kind of an explanation. You see, even though I have very little to do, I am actually quite busy. I have fashioned quite a lifestyle out of wandering around with my camera, wandering around without my camera, spending a lot of time with Photoshop, watching the Food Network, CNN and The Golden Girls, drinking way too much coffee, staring at my pantry, spying on my new neighbors and of course napping to my full potential. As you can see, all of this leaves very little time for blogging. I propose a new schedule, one whose expectations I can meet. Instead of a daily blog or an every other day blog, I think a twice a week blog is more appropriate to the amount of things I actually have to blog about. Which, in reality, are very few.

Now, as it has been almost a full week since my last post (SORRY), I have a number of topics I could cover. Here's a list of possible blog titles, even though I'm only going to write about one:

1. The Professional Sleeper (me)

2. The Inedible Meal I Made (frankly, I'm not ready to talk about that)

3. The Butterfly Hunter (get it? like the Deer Hunter? Its ok, I've never actually seen that movie either, but the cover art looks very intense)

4. My Saintly Neighbors (Scott and Jeanine, who are way nicer to Husband and I than we deserve)

5. The Hummingbird Wars (this is going to be a good one, it involves a redhead)

6. My Grandma Kills Spiders With Her Bare Hands (and now I do too)

7. How I Fell In Love With Someone Else's Baby (Her name is Naomi and she was crushing on me harder than Sheena Zadeh)

8. 35 Wife or The Best Dream Ever (I'll just tell you, two days ago I had a dream that the Army gave me a medal for being the best wife in the platoon. It looked just like the medals we used to get for finishing 3rd in the little girl softball league. This was 24 hours before the Inedible Meal.)

9. Things Husband Does That Have Annoyed Me, My Mental List (I don't know that its healthy to post inflammatory things like this on the Internet, but I don't think he reads this)

10. Why I Hate The Commissary and Grocery Shopping In General

11. How To Do Laundry When You're Awesome

And now a picture to reward you for reading all the way to the end:

Hey, What Did You Guys Do Today?

I had the best day ever. After driving Husband to work at 4am, I crawled back up into bed with my laptop and played on the internet until the caffeine from this morning's coffee wore off. Then I took a little nap.....until about 11am. If Husband were here, he'd be quick to point out that the term "nap" only really applies to periods of sleep that are less than what one would experience during a full nights rest. Unfortunately, he's not here to correct me:( 

Then I woke up again and watched an episode of That 70's Show while eating Cheerios with bananas. Next is cleaning, which for a teeny tiny family of two (one of whom only stops by for dinner and a shower) takes 5 minutes. After walking around and picking up the moths and other assorted bugs that died in the night with a tissue, I washed the 2 puny dishes in the sink and was ready to move on to something more challenging. Luckily right then Leah called, Yay! After a friendly chat I promptly forgot about my challenging task for the afternoon and decided to bake something. With neither a proper recipe, mixing bowl nor exact ingredients I fashioned a peach cobbler! Basically out of thin air! As far as I can tell at the moment, only two possible things could be wrong with it: 1) I used too much sugar and may accidentally turn us into diabetics later in life. 2) I may not have cooked it long enough, and it may therefore be mushy and doughy on the inside. I'm pretty sure we'll still eat it. 

Then, with leftover peach-flavored sugar I refilled the hummingbird feeder on the porch. As I was eyeballing the mean lookin' wasp (who has set up shop on that other feeder, and has  watched me whenever I've ventured outside for 2 solid days) my first hummingbird appeared! Seriously, I walked inside to get my camera and when I came back he was there. I decided to call him Henry, after Seal and Heidi Klum's first son. This I know from watching True Hollywood Story of Heidi Klum yesterday. Excellent episode. 

YOU GUYS

If you click on the pictures they get all huge and gorgeous!!!

Farmer's Market outside Bisbee

This was a super fun weekend in September. We were driving around looking for a place to live and instead found a Farmer's Market. We saw Mexican Crazy Skirt and Machete Dances, little girls riding bikes through puddles very carefully and a huge, giant, big fat hole in the ground from an old copper mine.