A Great Lady

Cleaning House. Again.

Here are some more little nuggets I've had stuck in the old grey matter:

• You know how I've said over and over and over again that I'm totally terrified of snakes? And clowns? Yeah. Well, the other day, I was weeding in the backyard, and a friggin' 2 foot snake fell from behind a tile I have nailed to the fence and nearly landed right on me. Do you think I was incredibly surprised that a GD snake would even THINK to get back there? Do you think I jumped quick as a bunny up on to The Bench and the 2o or so bags of mulch I had stacked up there and nearly wet myself in the process? I sure as shit did.
• I have a bone to pick with our dear friends The Televisions because after a Saturday night romp with his boyz, T-Bone came home to report that Mr. Television (who is so named for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is because he is forever buying TVs and other electronics for his Man Cave) was STUNNED that we still had the TV we got from a department store nearly 10 years ago with a bunch of wedding gift credit. Yes, it's the "old" tube kind, and no, it's not a flat screen, but it is a well-known brand and works just fine, thank you. That was until SUNDAY morning, not 12 hours after Mr. Television put the stinkeye on it with all his disparaging remarks. He owes us a new TV, right? And if he breathes one word about either of our cars, he is a dead man. Dead! Like our TV. Shit.
• I am in probably the worst shape of my life (so far, anyway), and every time I think about working out, I get really caught up in considering what would be the absolute BEST thing for my pooch, and my butt, and my arms, etc., and so I end up doing absolutely nothing. See? Because I only want to do what really works, if I can just decide what that is exactly. Hmmm. Here's an idea: how about starting with limiting that hand-to-mouth motion I make 4700 times a day? That might help.
• I have a question - since when did little girls' clothes get so slutty? Enough with the spaghetti straps, the shirts that tie up under their non-existent boobs, and the shoes with 3 inch heels. I'm trying to raise a smart, confident young lady, and somehow I think shirts that say "Hottie" in rhinestones and shorts that say "2 Cute 4 U" across the ass send the wrong message. And by the way, she's 7, you perv. Not that that shit will ever be appropriate. I'm convinced that by the time she's a teenager, full-on nudity will be all the rage.
• In one fail swoop through the channels the other night (on the upstairs TV - grrr), I ran across John Ritter, Michael Landon, and Christopher Reeve. Right in a row. Weird.
• I am seriously worried about Cuba Gooding, Jr. and his career choices. I think he's a good actor, and he seems like a nice enough person, so I have to wonder when the statute of limitations is up on his deal with the devil or whatever he's obviously being blackmailed for because seriously! Daddy Day Camp? Snow Dogs? Rat Race? It's like his stock has gone (WAY) down since he won his Oscar - or he owed somebody BIG time for getting him there. I'm just saying, Cuba, you're better than this.

I think that's it. For now. I feel so much better! Have a good weekend, y'all!

Parents of the Year

I ran into them last night, and apparently, this year's competition was so fierce, it ended in a tie between two couples. Who seem to be related or best friends or homies or something because all four of them were sitting RIGHT BEHIND me at the movies last night with their SIX children, all under the age of 3. And homegirl was pregnant with lucky number 7.

Did I mention we went to see Knocked Up? Which is rated R? And which has a ridiculous amount of F-bombs, gratuitous nudity, and lots and lots of drugs? And which, by the by, I totally hated? But it's such an obvious choice for your toddlers on a Sunday night, right?

They talked the whole time, except when they were taking turns pushing the double stroller overflowing with babies up and down the aisle. They yelled and cussed at the screen and had a steady stream of crap they were force feeding the children in order to keep them kinda quiet, which they were, surprisingly. And just when I thought the punchline to the whole evening was when one of the supermoms leaned over to her 3 year old and said, "Don't smoke weed," her old man took the prize when I saw him in the lobby playing video games with his 2 year old afterward with a giant, burnt orange "Fuck y'all, I'm from Texas" t-shirt* on.

Congratulations, jackasses.

* Yes, KM, I know my old beau had a t-shirt with a similar message on it, but his was black, and the words were on the back, and he was in a band. He was not a sorry excuse for a parent trying to pass off some bootleg crap as official NCAA-approved Longhorn gear, which is near sinful in and of itself.

Saturday Night Fever

Actually, it was Monday thru Friday Night Fever. I've been nursing Peach all week, across two cities even! She rallied Tuesday just in time to meet up with Mama Turista for a few days in Sand and Stonio, but they had to call in the reinforcements (that would be me and my lovely assistant, Olive) when she went back down for the count on Wednesday. We hightailed it to Mama T's and spent the next two days fetching water and cold compresses. The poor little thing looked like a wrung out washrag herself after four days of the fevah. And she wouldn't eat a thing, as she told me through half-closed eyes, "No thanks, Mommy. I don't have much of an appetite." Sweet baby.

Yesterday, she finally started to come around, and we spent the day at Mama Turista's soon-to-be-under-new-management shop. Peach had a little meltdown when she realized she wouldn't be able to play behind the counter anymore, but Mama T assured her that the new owner would be needing lots of help and would welcome her expertise anytime. I can remember spending many summer days at my grandmother's antique shop, playing with all that wonderful costume jewelry, so Peach comes by it honestly. After she retired, my grandmother bought a huge old house, and she had the first floor packed full of the most beautiful furniture. And a player piano, with about 1,000 rolls of music, which I thought was so amazing. We used to call her Sanford because she had this kickass old Dodge van that she used to haul furniture around in, and you never knew when she might just show up at the house with a piece that "looked just like you." I was on the receiving end of a beautiful marble top dresser and a judge's bookcase among other assorted treasures, but my favorite thing is just watching her, at 95, still work her magic with those snooty dealers. They have no idea who they're up against - the woman can spot a reproduction at 500 yards, and don't tell her that sideboard is solid because it's got veneer written all over it, and try harder next time when you're trying to pass off those mirrored doors as original because the glass they used in the 19th century was much thicker, etc.. She rules.

Anywho, it is bittersweet, but ultimately, I'll be glad when Mama T can do things like come visit for a week without having to move Heaven and Earth. Now I'm off to clean up the full bottle of Dimetap that spilled in one of the bags I just unloaded. The one with the stack of old pictures Mama T just gave me, the DVDs, and my camera. Joy.

Ms. P is Back in Da Hizzy!

Wait, did you think I meant that Ms. P? Hells to the no, y'all! I meant the well-behaved, non-jailbird Ms. Pearl.