Leaving Stillwater

We left Stillwater this morning, heading for the Tall Grass Prairie Reserve, which promised bison and beautiful plains. It delivered on the latter. I was never one for Little House on the Prairie, couldn't find the beauty in it (too much gingham), but now am a plainslover. The land had never been tilled so we were looking at the land as the pioneers saw it. It was hot and the bugs were buzzing, and privileged individual that I am, I thought there should be a restaurant to go along with it. We drove for hours and didn't find a restaurant. I longed for a glass of wine and all I could find was tropical sugar water in a plastic bottle. We finally hit Tulsa and drove along the Arkansas River, finding restaurant row and landing in a noisy place. I ordered a chicken sandwich that was delicious and ate a few of Kathy's french fries. Those are some high-standard french fries.

Kathy is suffering from one of those unparallelled headaches plus upset stomach. We found a hotel suite in Tulsa that has a good air conditioning system and lots of space. It's dark and quiet here. She just asked me to turn *down* the air conditioning, something I have never heard from her. Tulsa is a lovely city, very pretty, very clean. Their downtown area was person-free at 6:30 this evening, all sidewalks rolled up. That suggests balance. We want to see Cain's tomorrow, the venue where Marc and Josh held the Red Dirt concert and award show. There are a number of yoga studios in Tulsa, surprisingly many, and I may get to squeeze in a little stretch.

Two individuals have registered dissenting votes on the crop pant issue. They will remain unnamed except Rosemary, who has confessed to bringing along a couple of pairs. She tells me that she has actually worn one pair, which were perhaps a little on the long side. Kathy said, "Those? I thought they were floods." Rosemary is a little nervous about some supposed judgement that may be coming her way from me. I think that I have been only fair in my discussion of crop pants. The Other Person who has dissented has registered her opinion in the comment section of yesterday's blog. I know who she is, although she has tried to remain anonymous. I can only say to her the famous line from the famous song: You know you love it, cause it makes you feel good.

I want to point out to the women of America that the men of American are following them in their crop pants wearing habit. Yes, I have seen several men wearing crop pants. I see a parallel to the Eve bites the apple then offers it to Adam story. Then let's advance a few thousand years and note that none of the more prominent disciples wore crop pants. No one of any significant importance has done a noteworthy act wearing crop pants. Except perhaps the french.

Not to belabor the point, but let me just say that I am in the throes of designing The Ugliest Outfit in America, which includes, of course, crop pants. Here's a hint. Think three words: Reversible Turquoise Poplin.

Before leaving Seattle, I purchased something called a "life hammer". $25.00. This tool, the only tool I have ever purchased, will cut your seat belt and knock out the window of your vehicle if you go over a bridge and your car is submerged. I learned this fear while watching Oprah. I had never had this fear before. It was one of those "I can't believe I got out of this" shows where survivors from around the country told of their harrowing escapes from accidents the likes of which you could never imagine. If you're under water you can't open the door to escape and swim up because you can't open the door against the pressure of the water. You have to knock out the window. What will you use? Your credit card? Your cell phone? I think not. Brookstone sells the "life hammer".

Oklahoma is a friendly state. It's greener than I had imagined. The grasses smell sweet, the birds are different than in the Pacific Northwest, and it has been a pleasure to be here.

Austin tomorrow, more than likely. We have numerous family members of Kathy's to visit, none of whom I have met except Arleen.