It's All In The Jeans

Right after shopping for bathing suits and bras, shopping for jeans is one of the absolute worst, most painful ways to spend a few hours of your life. Am I right? But, I'm down to one(!) pair, seeing as I finally blew out the knee of the second of two pairs I bought the last time I went shopping for jeans about eight years ago. I'm not even kidding. I HATE IT. It would seem like such a simple endeavor: All I want is a pair that fits. And costs less than 50 bucks. That's IT. But because I'm long in the stride, and wide in the arse, and full in the thigh, and long in the leg, and I don't like my buttcrack to show every time I bend over or have my full badonkadonk flattened out like a pancake, I am asking WAY too much.

Knowing all of this, I charged into Old Navy on a mission the other day, and an hour and a half later, I had two new pairs in my hot little hand. But it wasn't easy, my friends. They have basically three styles, with variations on each, and I decided that "The Sweetheart" was for me. But I didn't want the "skinny" version or the wide leg version, and I sure as HELL didn't want the "high-waisted" version. Seriously, those look like shit on EVERYONE. If they look like shit on those walking coathangers that think they're bringing Marilyn back, can you imagine what they would look like on a giant mother of two who regularly gets her Tex-Mex on? I almost tried them on as a joke, but I didn't want to break my concentration. I was reminded, however, of Karla May and how, when we see stupid clothes like that, one of us always says, "That would look so good on me. Especially if it was in white."

Once I decided on the style and the size, I was done, right? No. Each size comes in Ankle, Regular, and Long, and I really need the Long. So I looked in the stacks and stacks of Sweethearts on the shelves, as well as every hidey-hole of backstock in that GD store, and I came to this conclusion: The makers of these GD jeans have decided that they have used up way too much of their precious (cheap) denim to cover the asses of those needing my particular size so they couldn't possibly waste another two inches on the length, so screw you, you giant fatties. Really. Not one pair in a Long. They've got everything else under the sun, but not the one blessed combo I was looking for. Of course.

So I ended up with two new pairs of highwaters, but they were only $29.50 a piece. See you in eight years, suckers.

A Confession

I love CSI: Miami. I caught a re-run late one night about a year ago, and now, every time I flip past it on TBS or A&E or whatever channel it comes on in syndication, I have to watch it. I don't even know when it comes on for real, on regular TV, or even what channel it comes on, but I'll sit and watch two or three re-runs in a row, in the wee hours, because I love it so much. And yet, I hate him. You know, him (directing your attention to the photo). He is so awful, it's laughable. But also, completely addictive. Not since Captain Kirk has a character so sustained himself on chewed up scenery and halting line delivery. Really, is it supposed to be funny? Because it is. And who knew the physical business power (drama geek, anyone?) of a pair of shitty sunglasses? The man works those things like his life depends on it, which, in some episode I've not yet seen, it probably actually DOES depend on it. It's insane. And are these people beat cops or scientists or what? I haven't seen enough episodes in any kind of order to figure out any running plotlines or backstories, but they all sure carry some big ass guns around. And while he, he, never puts on a lab coat or whips out a microscope, I think he's the boss of the scientists and dazzles them with his supreme intelligence and rapier wit, that is, when he's not shooting at people or verbally bitch-slapping bad guys. And don't even get me started on the set. The alleged "crime lab" looks like a GD nightclub, so I can never tell if they're at "work" or having drinks in South Beach. It's all very confusing to me. But it's a comedy, right? You be the judge.

I Believe The Children Are Our Future

Recently, Peach and her cronies at GGMS had a biology lesson and were invited to dissect squid. This being Montessori after all, the teachers then gathered everyone to discuss their feelings regarding the exercise, and many admitted they were nervous or sad or grossed out or whatever. When the teachers asked if anyone was looking forward to dissecting a squid, Peach's arm shot up and she exclaimed, "I am! Because I'm going to be a doctor!" Afterwards, she told me all about how she took out the lens and the beak and the ink sac and wrote her name with the ink. Okaaay.

In addition, Olive informed me yesterday that her future career plans include: horse trainer/large animal vet; housekeeper; and "running the carousel." How all of this works into their plans for one to work at Mouse World and one at Mouse Land and visiting each other back and forth, I have no idea. But for now, please meet my children: the doctor and the carny.

Have Sticker. Will Bumper.

I told y'all I was excited. And early voting started today ...

Just Where Exactly IS The Love?

Well, it's the day after Valentine's Day AND my two year Bloggiversary(?), so I thought I'd do something extra special and bring back some old friends. Clearly, this nude woman-child needs our help, as is evident throughout Book 5 in this series, but because posting ANY pictures on Blogger is such an exercise in futility, and the spacing bugs very nearly drive me to the brink of insanity, I plucked out just a few examples. Presenting, a most distorted view of "love," according to butt-nekkid baby people from the 70s:

Shocker.

And Hustler, but ONLY if he's "The One."

Yes, nothing says romance like a nice little grope, right?

I know there's a "package" joke in here somewhere.

Truly, I just threw up in my mouth.

While picturing her naked. Wait ...

And ever so softly pressing your ... well, you get the idea.

So what's your diagnosis? Can this poor wretch be helped? Or is she destined to fall head-long into the disco scene and end up broke and thrice-divorced by the mid-80s and working hard for the money in a throwdown coffee shop? Once she kicks her coke habit, of course.

A Musical Interlude

I love this: Yesterday, as Peach, Olive, and I were walking my darling nephew, Opie, around our neighborhood hike-and-bike trail, Peach was humming something vaguely familiar. When I asked what it was, she said, "I'm stuck on that Beatles song, I'm not sure what it's called." I asked her to sing it, and she belts out, "You say you want a revolution ..." and in perfect time and perfect pitch, Olive answers, "Well, you know ..." and then together, "We all want to change the world ..." Rocked.

Speaking of, T-Bone and I half-watched the Grammys last night, skipping through the majority of it because, hello, I don't know most of these people nor do I know their music. BUT when Mr. Morris Day came out, we had to put the brakes on so I could bust out my own Jungle Love. I love The Time. When I was in high school, I saw them at The Sunken Gardens in San Antonio, where they headlined a show with (ready?) Lisa Lisa and The Cult Jam AND The Fat Boys. Can you dig it?! I was so cool.

Oh, and I've decided that of all the junkie singers I've loved in my day (The King, notwithstanding), Amy Winehouse is my favorite. Sistagirl is one talented mess, and I do so enjoy her. One day at a time, Ames. One day at a time.

P.S. Did anybody else scream in horror at the size of 'Retha's rack?! Damn, y'all! I told T-Bone that just one of her boobs was as big as my head, and he said, "Oh, come on. Your head's not that big."

No Respect

T-Bone got an email sent by opposing counsel to his client regarding T-Bone's handling of the client's case. A lot of emails had been flying back and forth about an impending hearing that, unless the client comes up with the evidence required by law to prove his case, T-Bone will win, hands down. The client wants to fight, but opposing counsel knows: a) they don't have the evidence, so they will lose; and b) his fee alone for taking the case to hearing is more than the assessment the client would be required to pay, so the client's going to be pissed either way. So what does this esteemed member of The State Bar do? The obvious, which is throw T-Bone under the bus BUT not without making a complete ass of himself in the process by accidentally CCing T-Bone on this message:

I am sending this email string to you so you can get a little taste of the resistance we are facing ... The opposing counsel, T-Bone, is just not going to deal with us. There is a rule directly on point, and in his mind, that is the end of the story. He is not going to do the right thing here which is to assume we (have the required evidence). Without (it), we are dead in his mind and he won't even agree to meet to try to just do a walk away. If T-Bone was not such a robot, we might have been able to work a deal with him but his world is just too black and white.

If you know T-Bone, you know that he is the most non-confrontational, easy-going guy around, and even HE was like, WTF? So he called the guy, who was totally confused and mortified and semi-apologetic. Then he said, "You know I don't mean that, right? It's just part of the game. We just can't win ... blahblahblah." See, it's assholes like that that make people hate lawyers. But I'm pretty sure anybody that resorts to grade school name-calling and can't figure out how to use Outlook properly is a fucking idiot anyway. It just so happens he's also a lawyer.

FAT Tuesday, Indeed.

So before I swear off "food in bags" for the next 40 days (again), I started the day by blowing all my WW flex points for the week on two bean and cheese tacos with some of the best guacamole in the universe at Taco Shack. And their hot sauce? Also divine. SO worth it. I love that damn place, but I'm so glad they haven't moved down south yet (I've asked before - they said they're scared of Maria) or I would have needed to go back on WW a lot sooner. I did have a Diet Coke with my feast though, so at least there's that.

Yeah. I've put my giant ass back on the wagon. I decided over the holidays that I didn't want to hit my 40th bday at my highest, non-pregnant weight, and I had good luck with WW after Peach was born, so we'll see. I won't bore you with the details, but just know that I don't plan on buying any pinkie rings, tanning memberships, or little red Corvettes for my little mid-life crisis. No. I'll just be happy if the backs of my arms stop moving when I do.

Ya Wanna Know Cute?

Peach and T-Bone went to a real live Father Daughter dance last night. And she came home just as sweaty and sugared up as I expected. She was a little disappointed that they didn't win any of the fabulous (really) door prizes, but the artificial corsage he presented her with, which, of course, I will keep forever, lessened the sting. Plus, she was too busy eating giant cupcakes and doing the ChaCha Slide and YMCA to care. A lucky few daughters and (insert special men in their lives) were chosen to participate in a "Do You Know Your Daughter?" Newlywed-type game show, and Peach and T-Bone played along from their table. In answer to "Her Favorite Restaurant," T-Bone incorrectly guessed "Romeo's," as Peach claimed, "It's La Madeline, Daddy. I LOVE the spinach quiche." And while he nailed the "What Does She Want To Be When She Grows Up" question, (answer (today): doctor), the dad of the 5 year old on stage missed with "President of the United States," as his little angel answered "Mermaid."

The getting-ready for the big date was pretty exciting in itself. Peach instructed T-Bone to wear his black suit with the pink (natch) shirt and tie she picked out for him for Christmas two years ago. And, of all things, she insisted on wearing this:

Don't make 'em like this anymore, do they? Yes. It was mine. My mom LOVED this dress so much, she kept it lo these many years. And Peach thinks it's SO fancy. She wore it to The Nutcracker last year, and I thought that was probably the end of it, save for any dress-up fun of the Little House on the Prarie variety. But no. The minute she found out about the dance, she declared that this was THE dress, so off she went, her apron strings (yes) tied neatly in a bow. And as I was taking the requisite pictures before they left, Olive, standing next to me with those giant, dark eyes wide, breathlessly said, "You look beautiful, Sissy."

Didn't I tell you? Cute.

The Year of Blogging Sporadically

Five posts in all of January? Pathetic. I don't know what's been in the blogosphere water lately, but I know many folks around here are dealing with mild to severe cases of lack-of-inspiration-itis, and I think I caught it, too. Blah.

I will tell you this, though: I remembered the other day, while watching Peach and Olive devour a bottle of banana milk (their self-selected "treat" from the grocery store last weekend - eww), that I used to love stuff like that. Like, I loved Laverne DeFazio so much, and I always wondered what milk and Pepsi would taste like, but my parents hated Pepsi, so all we had was Coke, and I thought that would taste different, so I was screwed, right? Wrong. I had the BRIGHT idea of combining milk and ... Big Red, the super sweet, super carbonated, born-in-Texas red drink that we always had on hand, thanks to my dad's incredible sweet tooth. I LOVED it. And sometimes, I thought it wasn't quite sweet enough, so I would add Strawberry Nesquik, too - heaping spoonfuls! It's a wonder I have any teeth left in my head at all.