Star Struck in the Seventies

In continuing with my Summer Stroll Down Memory Lane, I pulled out a few gems I've been keeping in my treasure chest since I was about 9. The TV guide in our newspaper used to have a section where they would post Addresses of The Stars, and I would wait with baited breath each week to see if any of my favorite Sweathogs or Love Boat Guest Stars were listed. I composed very serious letters that I would kill to have copies of now, telling each star how old I was, how much I loved their show or music, my favorite color, my favorite food - you know, the usual. Then I would race to the mailbox everyday, praying that SOMEbody, ANYbody, responded with a letter and/or picture. Here are the results of my earnest endeavor:

Please, Mister, Please. Don't blame me, 9 years old. I thought she had the voice of an angel. My dad had her country albums, and I used to sing every word. Of course, I loved her in "Grease" and wore out that soundtrack album, too. She later lost me with "Let's Get Physical." And what's up with her disappearing boyfriend?

I watched this show religiously, read the books, played "Little House" with my friends who lived out in the country, etc.. I always got to be Half Pint because I had the braids and the huge ass teeth. I thought I really scored with this picture because the whole cast signed it. I didn't realize until years later that the signatures were actually printed on there. Boo.

Another of my favorite shows, although Kris was not my favorite Angel. When I pulled all of these pictures out, I was dismayed to learn that my kick ass picture of Jaclyn Smith and her dog had disappeared. Damn. SHE was my fave. The envelope this picture came in says "RUSH! Cheryl Ladd photo enclosed!"

Recognize this handsome devil? Yes - it's David from "Eight is Enough." See, I didn't go for the obvious crushes - I liked Grant Goodeve over Willie Ames, Parker Stevenson over Shaun Cassidy, Richie over the Fonz AND Chachi. And I couldn't stand Leif Garrett. Something about his overt sensuality probably frightened me at the time (I was terrified of that Rod Stewart video for "Tonight's the Night"), but I always thought the guy had Loser written all over him. Who's crying now, hmmm?

This was a bonus score because I got it as a surprise gift from my junior high principal. He made gold nugget jewelry on the side, and after he sold some particularly heinous pieces to Mr. Schneider and company, he asked for autographed pictures for his favorite students, me and my best friend (Holla, M!). I can assure you we were the talk of the school the day we were called down to the office and came back to class with these babies.

And finally, my personal favorite:

I mean, what 9 year old girl WOULDN'T want an autographed picture of Rich Little, the Man of a Thousand Voices? Especially with the salt and pepper hair, the gold nugget necklace, and the shirt unbuttoned down-to-there? I thought he was HI-larious, and I would entertain myself (and anyone who would listen) with my impersonations of his impersonations of Nixon and Paul Lynde.

Now behold the 21st century version of my star struck letters. Peach came home from school with this one day, totally out of the blue. Please note the coordinating outfits, the spotlights, and "We See Your Love." On the back, she wrote, "Your fan, Peach."

What's The Name of That Song?

Even though I very nearly drove myself insane completing Karla May's concert meme in my Freebird posts, I will gladly give props to my homegirl Bookhart and the awesome song meme she created. I did, however, have to limit myself to naming the first songs that came to mind or I would have finished about the time I finally finish reading the Bible from start to finish without stopping.

Song I Loathe to Core of My Being - We Built This City - Starship
Musical Artist I Loathe to Core of My Being - Eminem
Rolling Stones Song I Love - Wild Horses
Beatles Song I Love - Here Comes the Sun
Who Song I Love - My Generation
Reggae Song I Love - Redemption Song - Bob Marley
Country Song I Love - Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain - Willie Nelson
Movie Soundtrack I Love - Grease
Musical Soundtrack I Love - Smokey Joe's Cafe
Cover Song I Love - Landslide - The Dixie Chicks
Contemporary Top-40 Artist I Secretly Love - Taylor Hicks
Song That Brings Me to Tears - Missing - Bruce Springsteen
Song That Makes Me Shake My Ass - Hey Ya! - Outkast
Classical Composer I Love - Tchaikovsky
Rap/Hip-Hop Song I Love - King of Rock - Run DMC
70s Disco Song I Love - Boogie Shoes - KC and the Sunshine Band
70s Supergroup Song I Love - Up on Cripple Creek - The Band
Metal Song I Love - Immigrant Song - Led Zeppelin
NewWave Song I Love - Man with the 4-way Hips - Tom Tom Club
Soul/R&B Song I Love - Living for the City - Stevie Wonder
Power Ballad I Love - Love Song - Tesla
Pre 1950s Song I Love - A Tisket, A Tasket - Ella Fitzgerald
Punk-ish Song I Love - Blister in the Sun - Violent Femmes
Singer/writer Song I Love - Angel from Montgomery - John Prine
MTV Video I Love - She Talks to Angels - The Black Crowes
None of the Above Song I Love - Love Me Tender - Elvis Presley

I gotta get an iPod.

La Tizzy Back in Da Hizzy

Word. I'm back from a successful trip to the Big D Market Center to help my mom buy stuff for her shop. She's been doing it for over 20 years, but I've only gone 4 or 5 times because I hate shopping. Unless I'm really in the mood. And I have a lot of money to spend. Both of which things happen very infrequently. And this is hardcore, to-the-death, power shopping. We're looking for things that OTHER people might want to buy for their homes or as gifts, and you have to wade through floor after floor of ridiculous crap to find the good stuff.

Each season, there always seem to be two or three trends that emerge and are bastardized in any number of ways in showroom after showroom. This time it was wine. You name it, and it had a wine bottle painted, stamped, or stitched on it. The most ridiculous thing I saw was a metal sculpture-like thing in the shape of a wine cooler that you would put on the table to keep the wine chilled during a meal, but it was all cut out into some crazy character like Elvis or a cowboy or a cop. Sort of like metal clothes for your wine bottle. Kill me now. And the thing is, the folks that that would appeal to drink their vino out the box, yo, not no bottle, so then it's doubly useless.

And speaking of clothes, what is this obsession with dressing your pets? There were more outfits and costumes and furniture than you could shake a stick at. In a word, that whole phenomenon is absolutelycompletelyandutterlyasininebeyondbelief, and I for one would like to kick the ass of the next person I see with a dog in a purse. I don't care how expensive or big the bag is, you're carrying your dog in a purse, which is an accessory, and your dog is a living thing, which is not an accessory. So screw you. I can only hope that the next time you try to put that precious Carmen Miranda ensemble on your little Chiquita Banana that she bites a chunk out of your collagen-riddled lips.

T-Bone held down the fort quite well for three nights. No big surprise. The whole crew met me at the airport, pretty much in one piece - Olive with only two huge mosquito bites on her cheek, and Peach with a bloody hole in her mouth from pulling her fifth tooth by herself.

P.S. One GREAT find was a necklace from these gals with my LaT profile picture on it. Of all things! I'll be sporting that beauty and hanging the boatload of other goodies I ordered from them in a few weeks. Pictures to follow ...

Ghosts of Summer Vacations Past

When I was 12, we went on the mother of all roadtrips to Washington, D.C.. Nine of us in my aunt's Big Ass Suburban. For two weeks. We were only allowed to bring one bag each, and we crammed them behind the third seat, on top of which we fashioned a napping area we called "the baby berth." We left a single seat up for my grandmother so she could crochet her way across America and read the road signs we passed. All of them. Aloud. And the rest of us bounced around on a pallet in the back like something out of a bad driver's ed movie.

The crew included my grandparents, my mom and her sisters, my cousins, my bro, and moi. Again, all of us in one Big Ass Suburban. For two weeks. In July. Surprisingly, nobody ever got car sick, we had only one pallet-wetting incident, and my aunt only had to pull out her gun once. We were stuffed into one hotel room in New Orleans, and around 3 in the morning, the wizards next door confused our adjoining door with their bathroom door. I awoke to lots of banging and slurred cussing, my portly grandfather - in his wife beater, jockey shorts, and sock garters - splayed across the door like a human shield, and my aunt loading her pistol in the bathroom.

Out on the interstate, we seemed to attract an inordinate amount of honks and other "signals" from the long-haulers we passed. We later realized that such attention was directly related to the times my other aunt was napping in the aforementioned baby berth in her cut-offs and Gilley's tanktop, her ample bosom or butt cheeks pressed against the back window. We had no idea. Nor did we have any idea that when my mom and grandfather were trying to park the Big Ass Suburban in a tiny ass garage in D.C. , my mom with her skirt over her head, dancing around and trying to direct my grandfather into the only available spot, that the whole dance/peepshow was being thoroughly enjoyed, and recorded, by the garage attendants.

Being the extremely proud and patriotic American, my grandfather had secured passes and tickets to all the must-sees of our nation's capital. Unfortunately, so had every GD Boy Scout troop in America as our trip happened to coincide with the National Boy Scout Jamboree. Everywhere we went - everywhere - the Scouts were sure to follow. Big ones. Little ones. Ones with hats. Ones with kerchiefs. And all terribly excited to be there. You'd think with all that alleged scouting going on that they would have been polite and orderly. Wrong. They were all, individually and collectively, going apeshit bananas. When we went to Colonial Williamsburg, I saw two Weeblos take out a woman in period dress just so they could have their picture made in the fake stocks set up in the square. The poor thing's beeswax candles went everywhere. And those damn Weeblos never looked back.

It rained a lot, too. One day, we went shopping in Alexandria and left my grandfather in charge of the boys at the hotel. We returned to find the boys poised to nail each other with marble ashtrays wrapped in pillowcases and my grandfather snoring his brains out in the other room. Apparently, the plastic helmets and swords they had gotten at some fort we went to were not nearly menacing enough, so they opted for the ashtray/pillowcase maces instead. My grandfather awoke with a start, yelling, "Dammit, Thelma! I wasn't going to let them hit each other!" as he emerged from the mound of towels the boys had covered him with to muffle the noise - which noise, I'm not sure.

Luckily, we didn't have to make a trip to the emergency room that day because that would have seriously cut into the time we spent at a garage in Nashville after the A/C on the Big Ass Suburban blew on the way home. But that's another story.

Happy Baby Daddy Day

This fits T-Bone to, well, a T:

Nothing is so strong as gentleness;
Nothing so gentle as real strength.

Sigh.

The Girls of Summer

We're about one month into summer here at Casa de Bone, and what a whirlwind it's been already. Olive has had a lovely past few weeks scooting between swim lessons, dance class, and Gymboree, and Peach spent a week with each set of grandparents, all on her own. T-Bone's mom taught school for 25 years, so they always do lots of puppet shows, arts and crafts, and educational games. My mom is an interior designer and owns a store, so she usually takes Peach to work with her a few times where they wile away the hours making flower arrangements and helping people pick out paint colors, fabric, and accessories for their homes. Which probably explains this. For the next two weeks, Peach will be in swim lessons and going to two half-day camps. One week is Art Camp, and one week is Girls Only Science Camp. Finally! The girls get a chance to blow stuff up! We've been to Fiesta Texas and the Frio River; we've seen Over the Hedge and Cars. And we had what I'm praying will be some precious pictures taken by this gal. Whew ...

As for me, I had a complete emotional breakdown watching my baby graduate from Kindergarten, broke my toe, was the victim of a crime, and only lost 7 of the 50 pounds I need to lose by my GD high school reunion in August. And I'm turning 38 next month. Shit.

Won't Get Fooled Again

Every time I've been inspired to post the last couple of days, Blogger was totally not cooperating, so now I fear my moment has passed. However, there is this one thing ... probably considered Too Much Information, but it's all I've got today.

I am not very brand conscious - I buy something, and if it works or tastes good or whatever, I'm sold. I buy stuff in every price range, but I tend to stay in the low to medium area. That said, I have learned the hard way this week that you get what you pay for, especially when it comes to lady products. After accidentally giving myself TWO Brazilian bikini waxes because the damn things keep flipping over and depleting my underwear drawer at such a rapid pace that I'm down to my maternity bloomers, I have to say that the Target rip-off of Always lady products DO NOT measure up to the real deal. So, when it comes to your lady parts, and the accessories needed therefor, take my advice: Don't be cheap. Splurge on the brand name stuff. Go on, live a little. Your lady parts will thank you. I, on the other hand, must go ice mine down. Now.

Tiny Dancer

Today was Olive's first ever dance class. The child has been walking since she was 9 1/2 months old, and she's been dancing just about as long, so it was only a matter of time. She's grown up watching Peach's classes, so the whole concept is pretty familiar to her, but I was still a bit nervous about how she would react when she actually had to walk the walk. She left me at the door to the studio and never looked back. And she never quit smiling the whole time. The teacher even commented on what a happy dancer she is. And considering that the class was full of two year olds, they all did remarkably well, and not one tear was shed. When they came out, we all clapped for them, and Peach yelled, "Olive! I'm so proud of you!" Okay, maybe a few tears were shed ...

Also, I want to say thanks for all of the support and concern regarding Thursday's events. We've put some extra measures in place to hopefully prevent or at least make it harder for any other crackheads who decide to invade "my hairspace" (big props if you can ID that quote), and I think my anger is now just at simmer. I didn't sleep at all Thursday night, bolting upright at every little noise and replaying every scenario I could think of as to how this happened or how I could have prevented it, and I just ended up exhausted on Friday. Later that afternoon, Olive and I took a power nap together, the kind where you wake up and your head is totally sweaty, and I actually slept fairly well that night. I pray that this was our one and only brush with crime and that the crackheads either get a real life or bleed to death the next time they try to kick in my back door.

This Is Why I Don't Own A Gun

Our house was burglarized today. I was only gone about an hour and a half, and when I got back from Olive's swim lesson, I came in to find the back door molding on the floor. We've been having our front door refinished, so my first reaction was, "Why did they take that off? And how did they get in here while I was gone?" Then I thought, "Did that crazy cat knock that molding off or did it just fall?" Then I saw splintered wood around the back door, which was closed, and I thought, "That ain't right. Must get out. NOW."

The girls were still in the car because that's how I roll - I usually come in first to drop off the stuff and scare off any crackheads who may be in the house (really, I am that paranoid) - so I just grabbed the diaper bag and walked right back out, got in the car, and drove up the street. I called T-Bone to see if he thought I was crazy, and he said no and that I should absolutely call the police. I apologized to the 911 operator and to the police when they got there moments later - I'm sure that this is probably nothing but I do have my children here so I wanted to be positive that no one is in the house and yes I am completely neurotic especially when it comes to safety, etc.. My neighbors were now all out and coming up the street to see what all the fuss was about, and I explained what I had found and what my suspicions were, and about that time, one of the officers came out to say that they had "cleared" the house but that it looked like someone had been inside. Great. They wanted me to come in and see what if anything was missing, and I'm thinking, what ISN'T going to be missing, sure that the whole house would be wiped clean.

It seems that the crackheads kicked in the back door with ease, and without breaking the glass, and went straight to our bedroom downstairs. At first I couldn't tell if anything was missing, partly because I was a little keyed up and partly because I was horrified that I hadn't made the bed this morning. Sorry, cops. Then I saw a candlestick out of place on the dresser, and I was totally creeped out. I even said so. In our bathroom, they went through an old girlie ashtray I keep my throwdown jewelry in - a few pairs of earrings, a stray bracelet, and the like - as well as my very nice men's TAG Heuer watch that needs a battery. Stupid crackheads missed that. I ran to the closet where I've hidden the lion's share of my good jewelry - stuff that isn't necessarily expensive but that I would absolutely lose my shit if it ever got lost, and it was all there. And so was the pair of granny underwear that I threw on the floor when I changed into my bathing suit earlier. Which I was still wearing by the way, with a wet t-shirt and towel wrapped around me. Had to apologize to the cops for that, too.

I went upstairs to check about the obvious electronic stuff, and I really don't think the crackheads had the time or the sense to even go up there. I brought the girls in, and T-Bone arrived shortly thereafter, his eyes quite wide and his voice a little shaky. It's not everyday you come home to three police officers in your house, dusting for prints, and asking if you own any weapons. No, no I don't. And this is a perfect example of why I don't. If I did: a) it wouldn't have helped in this situation because I wasn't even here; and b) the crackheads may have found it and stolen it and killed somebody with it. Not to mention the fact that I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn without my glasses on anyway.

The cops kept asking about different items that I might have forgotten about, and when one of them said, "engagement ring," my heart sank. My ring is a little silver band with a heart-shaped amethyst stone from James Avery, and when T-Bone and I talked about getting married and rings and all that, I told him I didn't want a RING ring, because we were already borrowing money for law school, and I didn't think we needed to go further in debt for a ring, and I'm not a grown-up jewelry kind of gal anyway. So, we settled on this perfect, precious ring, and he gave it to me on a glorious night in New Orleans at the Old Absinthe House. I took it off recently to clean it, and with the swim lessons and all this week, I had put it in the girlie ashtray. And the fucking crackheads got it.

I held it together until the cops left, and then T-Bone and I had a "moment" in the garage. The girls were blissfully unaware and not at all afraid that there were police officers in the house. Peach was most impressed that the one in charge was a woman, and she told her about the time she met two female firefighters on a school trip to the fire station. I know she knows that something is up, but I'm not going to say any more than she asks.

I have spent the rest of the day Cloroxing anything I think the crackheads might have touched and running many different scenarios through my head. What if we had been home? Were they here when we got here? Were they watching the house? I am so mad and so creeped out that strangers were in my house, in my bedroom, where I sleep with my babies, that I can hardly see straight. Yes, it could have been much worse, and stuff is stuff, and all that, but I am still furious. Which is another great reason why I don't own a gun.