On The Road Again

Tomorrow is Peach's last day of school, and as soon as she skips through The Gates of Life at the closing assembly, we're hitting the road for Colorado. She has had such an incredible year at GGMS, but I'm excited to have her and Olive both home with me for the summer. Yeah, I said it. I WANT mine home with me. We've got all kinds of adventures planned, and since I'll eventually be back in The Rat Race (where there are no summer vacays), I'm going to soak up every minute.

As for you, dear reader(s), I have an assignment for you: Below are some old posts, one for each day I'll be gone. Please revisit them at your leisure, and prepare comments and rebuttals for a round-robin speech tournament to be held after I get back. And by "tournament," I mean "happy hour." So, in no particular order of brilliance:

1. Road Trip
2. She Bangs
3. Learnin' the ABK's
4. Blinded By Jesus
5. I Hate Crackheads
6. Secret Lover
7. Horse Shit
8. Weird Shit
9. Free Shit
10. The Freebird Series (I, II, III)

You're welcome. Go Spurs!

My Back Hurts

Could be the cross I've been carrying for 38 years, give or take. See, in lieu of an actual post, which I KNOW have been in short supply this week, dear reader(s), I'm posting a comment I was inspired to leave over at the lovely Hollow Squirrel's crib. She posted about those things we are self-conscious about but that dumbass people like to point out to us at every freaking turn, even when (like in my case) it's totally obvious. And how that hurts our feelings and makes us want to throw down and smack a bitch sometimes. Anyway, here 'tis:

Well, it’s apples and oranges, but my cross to bear is my freakishly high voice. Which is only made all the more odd by my being 5′10″. With the voice of a 3 year old. Check that - my 3 year old’s voice is lower than mine. Not a week goes by that I don’t answer some unsolicited sales call, only to have the person ask to speak to my mommy. I usually say, “She’s not here. She left me ALONE!” And then I push a bunch of buttons at once and slam the phone down. If I only had a dollar for every time someone asked me, “Come on. Is that your real voice?” I swear when the person in the drive thru asks me to repeat my order, they’re mocking me. And I very nearly forced my college voice teacher into early retirement when, after four years, she finally lost it and YELLED at me, in front of my entire acting class, “Why do you INSIST on talking in that RIDICULOUS pitch?” Now that time, I did run out of the room in tears, but usually I would say some smartass thing like, “Because I want Victoria Jackson’s spot on SNL,” which was actually relevant at the time.

OK, I showed you mine. Now, you show me yours.

Dance Fever

Hi! I'm back! Things have been cray-zee around the casa lately, and with two weeks of school left, there's a lot more to come. We have a dance performance, a play, a smoothie party, a field trip, and a splash day between now and when we leave for 10 days in bea-u-ti-ful Colorado, so I'm just hanging on by my dirty fingernails until then. But since we last talked, here's the haps:

After Feces Fest '07, I spent the rest of the week preparing for The Big Show on Saturday - Peach and Olive's dance recital. It was Peach's fifth and Olive's first, and, as per usual, it was quite the affair - Peach even had a costume change! I volunteered to help with Olive's class backstage, and thanks be to Jeebus I did, because things didn't go as swimmingly come show time as they had at the dress rehearsal that morning. Hers was the very first number, and their costume was the cutest sequined cowgirl outfit this side of the Mississippi. Dress rehearsal was awesome - they all had huge grins, waving and smiling as they tried to dance with their stickhorses. Everything you'd expect from 3 year olds. Adorable.

HowEVER, what we didn't know until show time was that there was a special opening number to kick off the show. So when I herded my eight charges backstage, in the pitch black, we were met by 20 big girls in tie-dyed unitards and these:

So how do YOU think that went over with the Nick Jr. set? NOT WELL. Immediate tears, cries for Mommy, full-on making a break for the door, and at least one request for the potty. I tried everything in the book to try and distract and quiet them as they cowered in the corner, dodging the hula hoops flying off the stage. Making matters worse, I was supposed to get them set and then haul ass around to the other side of the stage to corral them over there at the end of their number. Once I got them down from frantic bawling to quiet sobbing, the music started and I peeled the last one off my leg and made a hasty retreat to my other post. The looks of terror from the other side of the stage were pitiful, so I jumped around like a jackass, trying to make them laugh, and rather than do the happy galloping they'd been doing all year, they all took off at full speed and ran across the stage right into me. I think at that point I picked up Olive and another one, I don't know, I blacked out, but then I had to straighten their hats and shove them back out there for the rest of the number. Surprisingly, they all went, however begrudgingly, and I think there may have even been one or two smiles once they got going. Then once more with the dogpile on top of me at the end, and then I dragged them back to the dressing room, all eight of them attached to some part of my body. Holy crap.

And that was just the first number. Three hours and two costume changes later, we were through. Until next year.

Call Me Gladys

Yes, as in Kravitz. Fine. At this point, I couldn't give a shit. Speaking of, neighbor dude, could you keep your friggin' dog from doing that in my yard? Three times a day? It gets a bit ripe out there in the sun, and God forbid, YOU should ever have to pick it up. Which is why you walk the little fucker past my house everyday. Three times a day. No way is all that pee and poop gonna wreck YOUR plants and grass, nuh-uh. And since you NEVER have him on a leash - a violation of HOA Covenant 5.3(a)(1), I might add - he gets free reign over the whole yard, not just the bushes he's repeatedly marked and trampled by the sidewalk. Not cool, dude. And don't deny it, because I've totally seen you and your bastard mutt just about everyday since we moved in almost two years ago. Three times a day. One question, though: How can you EAT while watching your dog crap in my yard? Are you really that busy that the only time you can have your three squares a day is when your dog is letting loose his bowels and bladder on other people's property? Right in front of you? That's messed up, man.

And to the White Trash Family down the street that finally sold their house, I say, good riddance. And I use the term "White Trash Family" because, clearly, you fully embody and proudly embrace it. Now that you're leaving, gone are the throwdown For Sale signs on every vehicle, trailer, and boat broken down in your driveway or blocking the entire street, and no more are the unauthorized garage sales/drag races you threw together at the end of nearly every month - violations of HOA Covenants 6.1, 6.2, 6.3, and 8.0, as well as City of Austin Ordinance 528(B)(1)(a)-(c), by the by. But thanks for the parting gift of two permanent holes burned into my sidewalk and driveway from when your dumbass kid was tossing M-80s around on the Fourth of July (in violation of a county Burn Ban, as well as commonfuckingsense). The same dumbass kid I gave $10 to when he was Jumping for Jesus or the Heart Association or whatever the hell he was collecting for when he clearly was in no shape to be doing anything other than tearing around the neighborhood on his mini motorcycle. Good times.

Better Late Than Never

So sorry, dear friend(s), that I wasn't around yesterday to wish you a Happy Mother's Day. I was on the road back from Houston, where we attended one bruthacuzzin's First Communion and one bruthacuzzin's French Horn concert. Peach loves those boys something awful, and whenever we go visit, I feel like I don't even see her until it's time to leave. They play so well together and even invited Olive to join in the fray some of the time. I went up to the playroom at one point, suspicious of the silence, and they were all gathered around the table, teaching Olive to play Monopoly - The Lord of The Rings version. She was chattering on about which horse she wanted to buy, natch, and it was all just so very grown up and civilized, I thought I might cry. Or laugh. I left them alone and joined the "real" grown ups for yet another round of the weekend's hottest game - "Let's Make Fun of (My Cousin) and What a Huge Baby He's Being About the Vasectomy He Had on Friday - Just Get Over It Already." Maybe you had to be there. Drinking.

When we got home, there were several cards and handmade presents waiting for me, including the most elaborate and beautiful book from Peach. She really went all out in making it, my favorite quote being:

Moms can rock without guitars.

They can rock with love.

Rock on, y'all.

Grateful Thursday

Taking a page from the Book of Hollow Squirrel, here are some things I'm grateful for on this lovely Thursday:

• That Olive and I got to spend the day with the delectable Opie.
• That I didn't hit the crazy guy RUNNING in and out of traffic in the right lane of I-35 on our way home this afternoon.
• That I managed to avoid slamming into the wall in the left lane of I-35 after I apparently ran over whatever the hell it was the crazy guy was after.
• That I didn't trash my rim as I continued to drive on my blown out and completely shredded back tire.
• That one of the 40 bajillion truckers on that highway to hell saw my dilemma and literally put me in the rocking chair until I got to the next exit and could get off that evil road.
• That T-Bone was at his desk when I called and that he could leave to pick up Peach from school.
• That we have AAA.
• That my knight in shining tow truck, Arturo, showed up not 20 minutes after I called AAA.
• That Arturo was wearing a substantial belt with his denim shorts because, believe me, after The Crack Show I witnessed, I shudder to think what the view might have been without it.
• That my battered ride had come to rest at a Shell station not 10 minutes out of town, about 15 minutes from my house and a Discount Tire place.
• That Discount Tire takes credit cards.
• That Olive slept through the whole thing. Just like in that commercial.
• That I didn't cry until I got home.

Again With The Rock

Tonight, T-Bone and I are meeting up with Mr. and Mrs. Television for The Kings of Leon (swoon). Let's hope the margaritas at Jaime's treat me better than the ones from Matt's last week (oof). Look at me, going out two weeks in a row! On Wednesdays, no less!! I am so cool, I just don't even know what to do with myself.

Also, Peach has decided to perform her jazz recital number to "American Bandstand" for her class cultural thingy. Prepare cameras for rehearsal dinner footage.

Same As It Ever Was

In the all the years I've been driving home to San Antonio from Austin, I always play a little game: I try and predict the first song I can pick up on one of the local rawk stations. Back in the day, my picks usually came from the same mixed bag of Van Halen, Santana, Pink Floyd, Rush, ZZ Top, or Black Sabbath, and over 20 years later, those are still pretty safe bets. So imagine my joy when I could finally tune in on Friday, somewhere around Canyon Lake, and the opening strains of "Eruption" filled my car. And within the first 20 minutes I was in range, I heard the new Black Sabbath song TWICE, the second time being as I drove up to the Christ the King bookstore to buy a First Communion gift. Ozzy really nails that one.

Other things that never change? My parents. My sweet dad, trying so hard to help, vacillating between doing the same thing over and over and nothing at all. My patient mom, a full foot shorter than my dad, following along in his wake, cleaning and shaking her head as she goes. Of course, this weekend, she was laid up from her surgery, so my dad had the run of the house. Which is why I had to go help. When I got there, the first thing she said was:

What is he thinking? He told me to call him if I needed anything, and when I did need him to help me do the stupid physical therapy, I called and called and called, and he never came! He forgets that he can't HEAR anything! When he finally came, I told him that, so he ran downstairs and brought back this stupid whistle. What am I supposed to do with this? I have asthma! And I just had surgery! I couldn't blow that damn thing if the house was on fire. What is he thinking?

44 years this summer, y'all. Love it.

La Turista, RN

Mama Turista had shoulder surgery yesterday, so I'm off to San Antonio to play nurse this weekend. Speaking of, I could have used some medical attention myself yesterday as I felt like C.R.A.P. from the moment I woke up. Could have had something to do with the three margaritas Bookhart, Malcontent Mama, Karla May, and various other shady characters MADE me drink at dinner the night before. And the two beers T-Bone MADE me drink when I got home while I yelled at the TV during Lost. Whatever. Have a good one, y'all.

Baby Talk

There's been a lot of baby talk around here lately what with the birth of Opie, to be followed this fall by another bundle of joy courtesy of my other SIL, and the impending birth this summer of Peach's favorite teacher's first baby. Both Peach and Olive have been all about the babies in their tummies, when they were babies in my tummy, when T-Bone and I were babies, yadda yadda yadda. Thankfully, Peach hasn't really gone beyond that babies start out as "microscopic cells," and Olive seems satisfied with whatever that means to her. But it's still pretty comical:

P: I have a girl baby in my tummy.
O: I have a boy baby in my tummy.
P: Wait. No, I don't know what kind of baby I'm having.
O: I have a boy baby in my tummy.
P: No, I don't want to know. I want to be surprised. I like to be surprised. Just like with my lunchbox.
O: (pause) Mommy, I'm hungry.