This Powdered Wig is Making Me Itch

As some of you may remember, I'm sort of at a career crossroads at the moment. While I still dream of becoming the female version of this guy, my fresh-outta-law school idealism has faded somewhat since childbirth. I made the decision to quit a job that I loved to stay home with Peach and later took a job that I hated so I could work from home and be with Olive. And I'm so glad I did both those things. But now that I have the opportunity to get back "in the game," I'm faced with a whole new set of variables in the family/work balancing act that so many of you are familiar with, too. I still want to fight the good fight (really, I do), but you've got to be WAY in it to win it, and after having spent the last four years with my head in a book (or database, as it were), I'm not sure I've got any hustle left in me. And I can't imagine giving up so much of the time I've been able to spend with Peach and Olive the past six years. BUT, there are such things as a mortgage and student loans and, oh, I don't know, college educations for my children, so I gotta do SOMEthing soon. Just what, I haven't figured out. I mean, do I even want to be a lawyer when I grow up? Hmmm ...

But rest assured, my friends. While I ponder this dilemma, I leave you in the very capable hands of one of my esteemed legal brethren.

He is legit, by the way. I checked. And please tell me you read the DWI facts.

Who's a Lucky Girl?

Moi. T-Bone made cookies today (yes, he cooks), and he saved me a little bowl of cookie dough in the icebox. Yum. It was just what I needed to take my mind off the bag of cat feces I just scooped from the litter box and took outside to the trash. Yep, it's all glamour around here.

I Have the Body of a Supermodel

Or so says Ms. Thang, who has "come under fire" for her recent weight gain. It seems that she and I are roughly the same height and weight, give or take (ahem), and she says she is healthy and happy and sexy, so there. Muffin top? Got it. Back fat? Of course. However, the beautiful face and HUGE (real) rack probably deflect attention from any alleged flaws, so I guess I'm SOL what with the crows' feet, age spots, and ninnies several letters smaller than hers. Me, jealous? Nah. In fact, I'm glad I didn't inherit the big boobs from my mom's family because the big booty I got from my dad's side is plenty to carry around, thank you. And on the plus side, I have relatively small feet (8-8.5) for a "big girl" - a term I say needs to be reserved for girls up until they are potty-trained, and after that, RETIRE that shit. Are you listening, America?! Anywho, no hard feelings Ms. Thang. Just gimme my own talk show or a rockin' weave, and we'll call it even.

Break Out the Hacky Sacks

Thank you, Jeebus for the sun and the 65 degrees and the NO RAIN today. Really. We are not cold weather people down here in the ATX. It just doesn't work for us. We like our nearly year-round patio dining and convertible driving weather, assuming we have patios and convertibles. And some of us, not me of course, actually like to run - for fun - in the hot, hot sun - and we can't do that when it's friggin' freezing outside. And there are only a few, a very few, nutcakes who will brave the icy waters to ski in weather like we've been having, so, let's just say winter's over, shall we? Enough is enough.

I drive through the park everyday to pick Peach up from GGMS, and today, it was swarming with happy joggers and dog people. And the patios of three of the restaurants I pass were full with drinkers and a few diners, all celebrating the return of the sun. And some dudes at one of those places were gearing up for a few rounds of hacky sack while they waited. I love this town.

The Market Report

After perusing my notes from this weekend's trip to the Dallas Market Center, I have to ask: What is it with you people and your obsession with red coral? Really - how many red coral throw pillows, rugs, and other objets d'crap do you need in your house? Apparently, quite a few. Last time, it was wine. This time it was Red. Coral. Everywhere. I swear I felt like I had sand in my crack when it was all over with.

This was our last big trip to Market as Mama Turista is literally closing up shop this summer after 20+ years in the retail game. She will continue to work her incredible design magic but is thrilled to leave the day-to-day headaches of small business ownership behind her. God love her - I don't know how she put up with the general public and their asinine questions for that long. And sorting through the crap people continue to churn out or import in and offer up for her to sell. Fourteen floors of it in the World Trade Center alone.

Over the years, I've always made up little games to pass the time and/or stave off insanity on our trips to Market. Past fun includes: Count the stirrup pants tucked into flats; Count the broom skirts worn with tennis shoes; Complete a herd from the animal prints found or worn in each showroom; Feign extreme interest in the cheesiest thing in the showroom and try to get others to buy it; Spot the gay designer/rich and clueless buyer team in each showroom; Find the best snacks; Find the best mimosas; and Find the best free giveaways.

This year's winner in the last category was the free pen found in a really snooty furniture showroom. They had them placed in a few strategic places, and while the other showrooms gladly offer free food, drinks, and enough tote bags to smother a horse, THIS particular showroom was quite fond of their pens and thus quite stingy about giving them away. I casually grabbed a couple on the way out on our first pass through there, after which I saw this overgrown sorority girl/sales rep CHASE down the lady in front me, saying, "Ma'am! The pens are for buyers who place orders only!" And then she took the pen back!

SO ... the gauntlet was thrown down, and I picked it up and hurled it at that bitch and her Burberry headband. The next day, I made it my personal mission to get as many of those GD pens as I could WITHOUT placing an order. I walked around the showroom, acting like I gave a crap about their hideous furniture, and faked like I was writing down a bunch of SKU numbers. That bitch was on the prowl, as were her robotic minions, but I managed to elude and confuse them long enough to come out of there with the mother lode of those GD pens. I even took the one off the check-out desk four times. I'd see one of the robots put one up there, then I'd slide by and get it, and she'd look up, bewildered, and put out another one. Repeat. Four times. I was SO sly that Burberry headband actually came up and ASKED me if I would like a pen. I said "Yes. But I need one for my partner, too."

After that little exchange, I could hide my glee no more, and I hightailed it out of there before I peed in my pants. Behold, my treasure trove:

Total count: 14. In 15 minutes. And check out how big these GD pens are:

See my mad skills? And they're AWESOME pens. You can see I like grippy things on my pens, so that really raised the stakes. I did get some odd looks as my purse passed through the xray thing at the airport - I'm sure it looked like I was going to inject the whole plane with monkey flu or that I had some kind of hard core insulin dependency, when, in reality, I'm just a highly competitive pen snatcher. Take that, Burberry headband.

Don't Hate

Okay - maybe a little. I had the best post working, and frigging Blogger ate it before I could publish it. I hate that. And now I'm t-minus 7 hours from taking off for Big D this weekend, and I haven't packed OR shaved my legs, which will take at least 3 of those 7 hours. I hate that, too. And you know what else I hate? Snakes. And these. Can anybody else get the straws in without shooting liquid everywhere? I tried to serve Olive some apple juice the other day, and by the time I was done spraying myself down, it looked like I was still nursing. Piece. Of. Crap.

Oh yeah - have a nice weekend.

Ice Ice Baby

Come on, y'all. SOMEbody had to say it. Yes, Internets, it's frigging freezing here in the Lone Star State, and prescriptions for Cabin Fever are up 1000%. Ice? Check. Snow? Yeah, buddy. Overly excited weather folk fawning over their magical weather machines and cutting in to my TV stories every 15 minutes? Well, we've got that, too.

But, over here at Casa de Bone, we've also had sleeping late, perpetual PJ days, Polly Pocket marathon fashion shows, and several rousing games of Candy Land and Hi Ho Cherry O (which Olive has dubbed, "Chee Chi Cheerio"). Peach is teaching me how to play chess, and Olive has shown quite a penchant for architecture in the incredible block cities she's been working on. Yesterday, we went for a walk in the snow - actual snow, people - and although everything looked beautiful and magical and all that shit, I was reminded by the pile of wet coats, hats, and boots why it is I will never live anywhere north of Hwy 183. How do you poor Yanks do this every day? Every winter? And don't even get me started on the mountain folk. Bless your hearts. I would have to have rubber floors throughout my house and some sort of anteroom wherein everyone would have to strip down naked before entering the house proper. And I would have to have diapers for any dogs because hell if I'm going outside to walk them.

And the laundry. Oy. I've done eight loads the past two days, four for Peach's class, and I think I would have to splurge for one of those giganto front loading washers if I had a bunch of cold weather gear to deal with. I mean, really, there has to be a limit on how many days one can wear long underwear without washing it. Eww.

I love cold weather - just from inside my house. As school was cancelled the past two days, we've been instructed by GGMS to "stay off the roads and enjoy this gift of togetherness," and, by God, we have. Until Ice Storm 2012, stay warm, y'all. And stay sane.

Name that Tune

I love listening to this radio show every Thursday morning. The old-timer host is adorable and very knowledgeable, if not a little inept when it comes to actually playing music without any technical difficulties. Yesterday, he cued up the wrong song twice and swore that "his monkey must have pushed the wrong button." When it happened for the third time in about 15 minutes, he sputtered, "WHUT in the cat hair?" I like that.

In other music news, while shopping at Nordstrom's today, I found myself humming along to a strangely familiar tune being played by the in-store pianist. When he got to the chorus, it hit me - it was these local heroes' Big Hit. Followed, of course, by a seamless transition into "The Letter." Weird.

We're off to the Alamo City for a weekend with Mama Turista. Papa Turista is in Panama (as in, canal) for a few days, and when I told him to tell Diamond Dave I said hi, he replied, "Who is that? Some kind of a punk rocker?" Who the hell knows anymore.

Have a rockin' weekend, y'all! Whooo!

Just to Clarify

This T-Bone(s) is not MY T-Bone. I know, it's confusing. But you can go here to get your own CB handle. And you can go here to check out my T-Bone's new music blog.

And remember:

Didn't You Get the Memo? *

Come out, come out wherever you non-commenters are! It's National De-Lurking Week! Whoo! Thanks to Hollow Squirrel for the heads up. Now that I've posted that button up there, I just know I'm going to be flooded with comments. I can FEEL it! Of course, I suppose I have to actually write something for you to comment on, right? Well, shit. If you insist ...

Can I tell you how much I love this stuff?

Mutha's milk, y'all. On a hot buttered biscuit, or really any kind of bread, it's the perfect blend of sweet and salty - especially when you're PMS-ing. I'm just saying. Steen's Syrup: It's Kountry in a Kan.

* At least tell me you know what movie that's from ...

All For a Free 8x10

Every year, on or about The Shorties' respective birthdays, I take them to one of those kiddo picture places to have a quick picture made. The one we always go to offers a free 8x10 for "Birthday Club" members, but in seven years, I have yet to ever walk out of there with JUST the free picture. But I digress ...

The mall where this kiddo picture place is located is one of basically two malls in Austin proper, and it's about half the size of the other, newer mall. Ye Olde Mall used to be quite happening, and we would even drive up here from San Antonio just to shop at the swanky department store that used to be there. I bought some bitchin' clothes for RUSH (as in Greek, not Geddy Lee), if that tells you anything. But, alas, Ye Olde Mall ain't what it used to be, and in the past few years, it has gotten downright scary. Stores are closing left and right, and random, cheap replacements no one has ever heard of are filling in the gaps. There are large packs of people roaming around, but no one seems to be actually, you know, buying anything. Except for at the food court, of course, which is a smelly, noisy, neon nightmare in its own right.

So, to illustrate, just in my quick jaunt to Ye Olde Mall today for Peach's birthday picture, she in her crisp taffeta Christmas dress from last year, Mary Janes, and a bigass bow in her hair, here is what we encountered:

• A mom carrying a diaper-clad 3 month old and pushing a stroller full of bags as she SCREAMED into her cell phone headset about somebody's bad weave. At first, I thought she was talking to me, or no one, but then I saw the Blue Tooth thingy. Oh, and she was nursing said baby as she walked and screamed.
• A guy screaming into his cell phone, in Spanish, something about he didn't mean to be talking to this other guy's old lady, he didn't know who she was, she was the one talking to him, he was just hanging with his homies, etc.. Lots of "Lo siento! Lo siento!" That dude is so screwed.
• Two undercover security guards rolling up on this lady in the accessory department (I've decided that I can no longer pass off the diaper bag as an actual purse) and asking her to empty her various shopping bags and produce receipts for everything. Recognizing this very scenario from a criminal law exam question, I felt a twinge of duty to inform the poor gal of her legal rights, but when she immediately mouthed off to the rent-a-cops, I figured she'd played this game before and would either talk her way out of trouble or into jail OR just drop the shit and run like hell. So, we left.
• A car in the front row of the parking lot with a middle-aged couple sitting in it, and as we passed the car, they got out - as did a HUGE cloud of pot smoke, a la Cheech and Chong. Thank God Peach was upwind.
• A family of six or so going into the mall, with the 1o year old daughter wearing a beDazzled t-shirt that said, "Hi! I'm the Shit!"

I just can't wait til Olive's birthday in October.

'Cause I Like to Party *

So far, 2007 has been fairly quiet around here. T-Bone and I rang in El Ano Nuevo in our pajamas with some cold beers and much hilarity courtesy of the uncut version of Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. Damn, I wish John C. Reilly was my friend. Earlier, our anniversary dinner at Chuy's was punctuated by Olive's spill from her booster chair, which silenced the room and embarrassed her immensely. Thankfully, she barely scraped her chin on the table on the way down and quickly recovered when our genius waitress brought both girls some ice cream to diffuse the situation. You rock, waitress-whose-name-escapes-me-now. Happy New Year to you.

We entertained T-Bone's bro and his family on New Year's Day and ate even more Tex-Mex(!) alongside our black eyed peas and collards. I really think I need some kind of therapy to cure me of this lifelong addiction to beans, cheese, and guacamole and the various combinations thereof. But at least give me my tortillas. Can't. live. without. those. Or sugary-as-shit pralines.

I've spent the better part of the last two days slowly but surely taking down the Christmas stuff. The tree went yesterday, and I've done everything else except the kitchen window vignette (yes, I said it), which is so cheery, I think its absence will actually throw me into some kind of depression. I keep everything in plastic bins in my closet, though, so if the mood strikes, I can open them up and pet my pretties. Freak.

As far as resolutions, well, who doesn't want financial security and a (real, not "exotic") dancer's bod? But, knowing me and my limitations, I'll just go with an overall "Cut the chatter - Spin the platter" (i.e., less talk, more rock) motto for the year and be satisfied if I just get off my ass and actually do SOMEthing towards those goals.

Happy, Healthy New Year, y'all.

* Also of note:

• I like to picture Jesus in a tuxedo t-shirt. It's like it's formal, but it also says, "I like to party."
• Don't you put that evil on me, Ricky Bobby!
• Abracadabra, homes.