Crazytown

HOW NOT TO WRITE A SCREENPLAY: DON'T VISIT FRANCE

In February 2007, I visited Castelnaudary, France to work on my wretched screenplay I euphemistically entitled: “vomit piece of horse manure.” 
By Carrie Crain (Housewife Extraordinaire) 

I cashed in a treasury bond for $5000, bought a French pocket-sized dictionary, a pair of fuzzy Uggs, and told my husband to kiss my butt. Literally. I asked if he would smack a big one on my fanny for good-luck because I was leaving him and our dogs for a month to chase a dream. He popped open a Shiner and pouted.

“Tough cow patties,” I said.

“Why write in France?” he asked.

“The view’s got to be better than our local Starbucks,” I responded. “Plus, that’s where this award-winning screenwriter lives,” I answered. It was true. He lived there – in a ginormous castle that could easily have been the unappreciated third vacation home for the heir to one of those fancy dairy farms. The writer’s name was Sir Lord Marmaduck. He wrote under a nom de plume. He was of Hollywood Douche Bag Fowl descent. I called him Quack.

“Where did you find this guy?” My husband asked.

“My hairdresser’s ex-wife’s former fiancé’s girlfriend met him on Paltalk. She told me he wrote and directed a French indie documentary that won some kind of jury award.”

“Yeah? What was it about?”

I stared blankly at all my crap that needed to be packed.

“Exploring the relationship between sex and sweets,” I joked, tossing a box of Texas chocolate pecans in my carry-on. My luggage was hot pink with Barbie stickers slapped on them to ensure no one would steal my bags at the airport.

TRAVELING IN ATYRAU, KAZAKHSTAN

My definition of wanderlust is bravely navigating past the senior citizens and frappuccino-drinking teenagers in the isles at a Barnes and Noble. (By Carrie Crain, housewife extraordinaire)

Oddly, I went beyond that when I vacationed in a remote town near the Caspian Sea divided by the Ural River called Atyrau. It’s in Kazakhstan, which used to be Russia. Before entering the country, you must have an LOI or Letter of Invitation from the government, Visa and updated passport. There are only two places that fly into Atyrau: Amsterdam and Istanbul. Air Astana is the only airline that flies into Atyrau, and it’s not cheap.

Atyrau is a city that is 220 miles north of the Tengiz oil field, which is the world’s deepest producing super giant. Atyrau resides in both Asia and Europe. And, bragging to your friends and family back home with the fact that you’ve hiked back-and-forth from Europe to Asia each day will impress them. During my stay, I toured the market, which sold everything from fake Gucci shoes, stylish Russian hats, Uzbek bread and sheep’s heads. Sheep’s head is served on special occasions where the guest of honor may have to eat the brain, tongue or eyeball. Luckily, I was never the guest of honor.

I also visited an archaeological site in the ancient town of Saraishik, Kazakhstan. I trudged in the mud discovering broken pottery pieces, skulls and buying old coins from local kids.

On my last day, we toured a camel farm where approximately 600-700 roamed. The dromedaries grazed near an ancient cemetery. I took a zillion photos and ate a picnic lunch while reading about dead people. Then, a lopsided-hump camel spit towards my direction.

CARRIE CRAIN is a housewife extraordinaire who has bipolar. She is a soon-to-be-published author of a zany, adventurous children’s novella. www.carriecrain.com

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CRUISING THE CARIBBEAN, COZUMEL STYLE

In 2007, my husband and I took my parents on a 5-day Caribbean cruise to celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary. By Carrie Crain (housewife extraordinaire)

My husband hated the idea of a cruise. His extreme dislike towards boats stemmed from the fact he got nasty seasick during a deep sea fishing adventure with the guys, puking into the ocean like a retard.

My parents had never been on a cruise. Mom was over-the-moon ecstatic. Macular-Degeneration robbed my mom’s vision when she was in her forties. She couldn’t drive anymore and stopped working. So, the idea of escaping and living it up on an ocean liner “karaoking” to the Oak Ridge Boys and playing Bingo meant she could taste a little bit of freedom -- a little bit of independence.

Dad’s idea of vacationing involved reclining in his coffee-stained Lazy Boy in front of the TV. He would have rather stayed convalescing in his man cave, watching the complete DVD collection of John Wayne movies or reading a Zane Grey western. (sorry Dad, it's true). The last time my dad was on a boat was his bass boat. No one in our family even fished. The pleasure cruiser never saw water, only concrete. It sat in the driveway and doubled as a shelter for stray cats. The boat ended up rotting and Dad eventually removed the vinyl seats and made a cushion for Mom’s riding lawn mower.

On January 20^th, we departed from Galveston. We went on Royal Caribbean’s “Splendor of the Seas” cruise. Our journey took us to Cozumel and Costa Maya.

In Cozumel, Dad and hubby golfed at the Cozumel Country Club, which was an 18-hole championship golf course designed by Jack Nicklaus. Mom and I sailed on a 65-foot, state-of-the-art custom built Catamaran and snorkeled the Coral Reef of the Mexican Caribbean.

CRUISING ALASKA "FREESTYLE"

In 2004, I took a 7-day Glacier Bay Alaskan cruise with my sister-in-law and one of her girlfriends. By Carrie Crain (housewife extraordinaire)

These ladies were professional cruisers who kept their passports-to-the-world heavily stamped. I, on the other hand, was a mere amateur. This was my first cruise, so I didn't know what to expect.

We went on the Norwegian Cruise Line. Advantages on sailing with this particular cruise line over others were:

1. The ship was headed to Alaska.
    
2. It was "Freestyle Cruising," which meant we could dress like beer belly couch potatoes and inhale the endless smorgasbord of high-caloric food. Immediately after we boarded, we fulfilled a mandatory drill. We rushed onto our assigned deck where some guy holding a clipboard and a whistle handed us unflattering orange vests. I struggled with mine.

My journey took me to Juneau, Skagway, Ketchikan, and Vancouver Island (Victoria, Canada). It was June, so the sun shined about 22 hours each day. The opportunity gave me more time to not sleep and karaoke like a clown.

HOW TO PLANT MAPLE TREES

Last year, my husband and I lost a couple of backyard trees and a piece of patio furniture during a wicked Oklahoma storm where everything blew to Kansas.
By Carrie Crain (housewife extraordinaire) 

On a whim, we decided to plant three 18-foot Autumn Blaze Maple Trees ourselves.

• Don't guess on the size of hole. Chances are, you'll be wrong, like we were. Hubby and I were one foot off, and the hole wasn't wide enough. The worst part was my husband had taken the rental power tool thingie back to Home Depot, which makes digging holes go a lot quicker. So, when Lowes delivered our ginormous maple trees, we were scrambling for anything remotely resembling a shovel.
   
• Secure the tree to something other than your spouse who took the power tool thingie back to Home Depot, preferably to one of those metal posts with a rope. And, don't think for a minute that craft scissors is going to cut off those heavy-duty black plastic buckets the tree comes in. WRONG! You're gonna have to open up your pocket book and invest in an electric saw to cut those monsters off.   
• See all that dirt on the black plastic? (refer to photo above; bottom row) Guess what? You gotta get a wheelbarrow and haul that off. Don’t fret. Pushing a wheelbarrow full of dirt builds character and muscle. Also, you can have the satisfaction of knowing you planted three 18-foot maple trees yourself.
   
•  If you have a north wind suddenly come in and blow your tree over before it's in the hole, no worries. Unless of course, your seven-pound Jack Russell Terrier was on the grass playing with her tennis ball underneath the tree. Be concerned.
   
  
• See that white tube sticking out? (Refer to photo above; bottom row right) We had to cut those. These are important. They serve two purposes. First, they help keep the tree upright and straight in the hole. Second, you can dump nutrients down there to help your newly planted tree grow.

Listen folks, this isn’t an easy task. If you think you can have three trees of this magnitude planted in an hour and run off to catch the two-for-one at Denny's, you're sadly mistaken. So, grab yourself some of those huge Gatorade deals and a six-pack of Bud Light (if you’re of drinking age) and relax! You’ll be outside all day.

CARRIE CRAIN is a housewife extraordinaire who has bipolar. She is a soon-to-be-published author of a zany, adventurous children’s novella.
EMAIL CARRIE CRAIN |  FACEBOOK | TWITTER | OTHER POSTS BY THIS AUTHOR

THE HANGAR HOTEL: A ROMANTIC VOYAGE

Situated behind the Fredericksburg, Texas Rodeo Fairgrounds—the oldest in the state—just two miles south of Main Street off of Highway 16, the Hangar Hotel had me believing I had descended back in time.
By Carrie Crain (Housewife extraordinaire)

On a recent sun-splashed Saturday, I decided to escape the searing heat and go exploring in my SUV. I soon found myself meandering down an asphalt road in Fredericksburg, Texas, where, to my wonderment, I stumbled upon the nostalgic and romantic Hangar Hotel. 

As I maneuvered my vehicle into the parking lot, I noticed both Avgas and Jet A fuel as I passed the FBO—The Fixed Based Operator. My heart raced when I realized both piston and private jet aircraft could land on the runway.

Excitedly, I grabbed my interview gear—a small green notebook, two ballpoint pens and my antiquated digital camera—and dashed inside the WWII, aviation and South Pacific-style hotel lobby. Oh yeah. I’d gone back in time all right—to the 1940s. The air was balmy with big band sounds, and staring back at me from the wall was a vintage looking “Uncle Sam” poster that read: THE HANGAR HOTEL WANTS YOU.

My wonderment continued as I strolled around, noticing the natural lighting and nostalgic details. There was an authentic old-time switchboard phone sheltered behind the guest check-in desk, which encouraged me to look around for Lily Tomlin, but this was no “Laugh-In" bit. After continuing my scan of the naturally-lit lobby with its mahogany wood trimmed-paneling, towering palm trees, bomber-jacket leather chairs and walls splashed with an army-fatigue green, I stopped in front of the mirror by the stairwell and thought I saw a woman in her thirties staring back at me in 1940s attire—peep toe platforms and all. Her blond hair wrapped in a sleek Victory roll. Her face looked utterly familiar. Then I realized it was me with my imagination un-tethered.

Tearing myself away from the mirror, I was eager to meet the person responsible for this enchanting portal to the past. Soon, I was shaking hands with Richard Estenson, the entrepreneurial mastermind of the Hangar Hotel. “I spent three years researching and perfecting the design,” the very polite Estenson explained. “I traveled across the United States and abroad, studying, buying and replicating many objects found in the hotel, such as the alabaster lights and the vintage watercolor paintings,” he added.

Estenson, a tall, slender man, whose impressive résumé includes working as a NASA engineer, is a daring, imaginative lover of planes and people. And he had a clear vision: build a WWII-themed hotel in the form of an airplane hangar, sparing no expense on the details.

The Hangar is not only a unique experience: it’s a romantic voyage. Each of the 50 king-size suites has a South Pacific motif and features Egyptian cotton sheets and an army blanket. Visitors can dine at the old-timey airport diner, observe vintage aircraft and enjoy flight activity from the observation deck.

GONE FISHING

If you’re the type of individual whose fishing vacation idea is playing the casino arcade game, “Gone Fishing,” you’re missing out on a unique adventure.
By Carrie Crain (housewife extraordinaire)

Pack your bags and experience the relaxation and fun of fly fishing for trout in Warm River, Idaho. Come on, you know you want to wear a tan fishing vest and wide brim hat. Here’s what you’ll need to do. First book a flight. Fly into Jackson Hole, Wyoming, rent a car, and drive approximately 79 miles to the scenic Three Rivers Ranch lodge and ranch. Three Rivers Ranch is a fly fisherman’s dream getaway because there’s all this trout.

The lodge is nestled in the foothills of Yellowstone National Park. The ranch gets its name, “Three Rivers” because it’s located near three rivers: Snake River, Warm River, and Robinson Creek. The lodge borders the Targhee National Forest where I know for a fact, one elk resides and performs a 5 a.m. mating call each morning. Visitors can stay in one of the pine-logged cabins, or at the Three Rivers Robinson Creek House. They have a chef. The advantage of a chef is you can dine on tasty food and not worry about cooking.

No true fisherman or fisherman wannabe can resist all the variety of trout: Rainbow, Lake, Brook, Cutthroats, or Brown. And, if you’re really geeky about fishing, you can make your own lures. Who wouldn’t want to do that? You can learn how to make traditional fly patterns such as: mohair, rabbit fur leeche, damsel fly nymph, and krystal buggers. Apparently, whitefish love nymphs. Who would have thought? Upon arrival, jump right in and start fly fishing the Henry’s Fork on a pontoon boat with a personal guide. Wear waders and cast your rod in the river. Be sure to slap on sunscreen and bring plenty of water (or beer).

HUSBANDS AND THEIR TOOLS

Marriages should come with a rulebook. And, that rulebook should specify a husband’s tool limit.
by Carrie Crain (housewife extraordinaire) 

For example, owning one Kobalt 29-piece Double Drive Screwdriver set from Lowes is acceptable. Owning two sets, not acceptable. Owning one Husky tool chest is acceptable. Owning an entire wall of them, not acceptable. Whether fixing a loose cabinet door, or prying a lid off of a stubborn pickle jar, let’s face it, a flathead or Phillips screwdriver can be a wife’s best friend. But, sometimes these “best friends” become intrusive, and a wife must put her Jimmy Choo stiletto down.

Case in point. My husband’s screwdrivers are meticulously displayed in his Husky tool chest. The tool chest is in the garage near a power saw he’s never used and a bicycle he’s never ridden. Nearby is a workbench. On that workbench, I counted forty-nine screwdrivers in various colors and sizes spread out on a grease-stained towel. These tools weren’t serving any purpose except taking up valuable space.

Screwdrivers

Apparently, some husbands have conveniently forgotten that some wives may need to use that garage workbench for something really important like polishing golf clubs, or repotting a plant.

The other day, I found a screwdriver with a rubber handle in the Samsung refrigerator. The Stubby Phillips was jammed between a tub of cream cheese and a pint of molded strawberries. Really? Is this necessary? There seems to be a flathead outbreak going on in my house because there’s one in every room. I honestly don’t understand why my husband needs so many screwdrivers. It’s not like he’s a handyman. Oh sure, he stained the garage floor, but that doesn’t count. Marriages should come with a rulebook.

HUSBANDS, DO NOT WATCH THIS VIDEO:

CARRIE CRAIN is a housewife extraordinaire who has bipolar, comedian, dork. She is a soon-to-be-published author of a zany, adventurous children’s novella. www.wildcatswife.com EMAIL CARRIE CRAIN |  FACEBOOK | TWITTER | OTHER POSTS BY THIS AUTHOR

 

THE POTATO JOURNEY

Not too long ago, I set off on an emotional potato buying journey that led me to question my cooking ability.
by Carrie Crain (housewife extraordinaire)

I was learning how to cook and decided to make William-Sonoma's Cheese Potato Gratin recipe from the cookbook titled: "Potatoes." The recipe on page 59 appeared to be easy, and the ingredients seemed reasonable: butter, milk, cheese, potatoes, what could possibly go wrong? I drove across town and trudged through the pouring rain to my local Whole Foods Market. I was on a mission -- a mission to hunt down the main ingredient: scallop potatoes. Now, let me tell you that Whole Foods has a stunning collection of potatoes. They offer Fingerling, Purple, Red, White, Yellow, New, Idaho or Russet, which I later found out were one in the same, but no Scallop.

Idaho Potatoes

I became distressed. I panicked and called my husband. "Whole Foods doesn't sell scallop potatoes. I see a bunch of purple bastards," I said crestfallen.

SMOKE THIS!

Summer is here and the Fourth of July is just around the corner, which means only one thing to this former Texan: BBQ.
by Carrie Crain (housewife extraordinaire)

Author's Smoked Brisket

Whether a person is smoking brisket or ribs, there are five (okay six) vital things an individual must have in order to smoke their meat successfully.

1. Smoker
   Jesus! Listen, folks, if you don’t have a professional smoker, then, what the heck are you doing?
    
2. Heat
   You must keep the temperature of your smoker hovering between 200-225, watch that gauge people! WATCH THAT GAUGE! Don’t be goofing off tweeting or checking your Facebook, “Oh, Sally didn’t retweet my joke on Twitter, boo hoo.” You know why Sally didn’t RT your joke? Because, you aren’t remotely funny, and you’re a douchebag who probably wears Crocs. And, while you were boohooing over Sally, your flame went out. Your meat is loafing. Well, on the grill that is. For godsakes, keep the door latched, or you’ll let flies in and god knows what else. Your BBQ brisket will have more protein on it than you bargained for. Flies aren’t tasty! Maggots are?
    
3. Water
   Now, guys, I’m not joking when I tell you to check that pan. You mosey on over there to your smoker right now and check that pan for water. Please wear kitchen mitts. Do you want to go to the ER for hand burns? No. Don’t be an idiot. I like to wear these hand mitts from William-Sonoma.
    
4. Wet Chips
   Don’t get in a rush and do what I did last week, and toss an enter bag of dry chips in there. My husband never bothered to tell me to use the bowl of wet chips. I assumed I needed to use fresh, dry chips. NEVER ASSUME. You all know that ole saying… makes an “ass out of you and me.” The smoker will smoke up a hailstorm, and then you’ll think you’ve caught something on fire and call 9-1-1 in a panic or call your spouse at work in a terror. In reality, you did catch something on fire: the chips. But, that’s okay. The bottom line to remember about smoking your meat in a smoker is there will be smoke. SMOKERS SMOKE.
    
5. Meat
   In order to smoke your meat successfully, guess what? You're gonna need some meat, like a slab of ribs or a 9 lb brisket.
    
6. Common Sense
   You can't charge this on your PayPal account. You either have it, or you don't.

Now, go out there and smoke your meat. It routinely takes 1 ½ hours per pound.

To summarize, remember: smoker, heat, water, wet chips, meat, and common sense. Oh yeah, baste your meat with your favorite BBQ sauce every five minutes during the last hour of smoking.

CARRIE CRAIN is a housewife extraordinaire who has bipolar, comedian, dork. She is a soon-to-be-published author of a zany, adventurous children’s novella. www.wildcatswife.com
EMAIL CARRIE CRAIN |  FACEBOOK | TWITTER | OTHER POSTS BY THIS AUTHOR