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.