39 and Holding

So, for the rest of the year, will people automatically assume I'm lying when I tell them my age? Not that anyone really asks that much, and not that I give a shit either way. Just curious.

My birthday was lovely, although it was strange to be celebrating without Peach. She's with T-Bone's folks this week, and we'll go fetch her after yet another quick trip to San Antonio on Friday. One of my best friends from high school has a birthday the day after mine, and since she's FINALLY back in the Lone Star State after far too many years in Cali, we want to toss back a few to mark the end of our 30s - and start planning a righteous 40th bash for next year.

Karla May and the Geej, who is once again under my superb care for a few weeks, brought me beautiful flowers and delicious cupcakes, which the Geej nearly threatened to take back after it started raining AGAIN. She told me, "We have enough rain at your house. We have enough." Yes, we do, little one. Yes, we do. But truthfully, as long as it hasn't been 100 years since the creek that runs next to my house flooded, I'll take the wet stuff over the 1,000 degree days anytime. Yeah, so, it doesn't seem like summer. So what. We're all bitching about the rain as much as we usually bitch about the heat, but at least we're comfortable. I could however do without the moss growing on my sidewalk and the bugs that are sadly mistaken in thinking they can seek refuge from the deluge (hey!) in my humble abode. Hear that, frigging scorpions? I'm talking to you, assholes.

And although I need a dish or odd piece of china like a hole in the head (it's an illness, really, this dish fetish I have), Mama Turista surprised me with some pieces of my Blue Italian, including the much coveted:

I got the requisite phone calls from Peach, the in-laws, and my grandmothers, as well as delightful cards from my insurance agent and an airline. So sweet.

T-Bone, once again showing how confident he is in his manhood, arranged another date in September for me and my boyfriend:

He's even going with me to watch. OK, so maybe so are a few thousand other people. No matter. Chrissy will feel me - in his heart ...

I'm still tending to my nasty burn, which has only gotten nastier since I've been putting Neosporin on it for a week because guess what? I'm allergic to that shit! And I knew that! So now I have an oozing rash to go with my second degree burn! The good news? While getting my teeth cleaned yesterday, my dentist overheard me telling the hygienist about my misfortune and disfigurement, and he gave me a prescription for some hardcore burn cream that you can't get on your hands or your clothes or anywhere BUT the nasty burn because it has mercury or poison or cocaine or something in it. Anyway, it seems to be helping, but I fear that my days as a wrist model are over. And I'm not even 40.

Gotcha

So, tomorrow's the big day, and I tell you this only so I can tell you how I used that fact to scare the hell out of my mom this weekend. On Thursday, I burned the living shit out of my wrist on the toaster oven, and, because I'm an idiot, I forgot about it when I took a shower Friday morning and accidentally scraped off the blister or scab or whatever, leaving a giant, open wound - nice, right? I happened to have a giant bandaid/patch affair for just such an occasion, so I doctored myself up, and Olive and I headed down to San Antonio. On the way there, I hatched a plan, and here's the conversation I had with Mama Turista within the first five minutes we were there:

MT: What did you do to your wrist?
LT: (smiling) Nothing.
MT: WHAT did you do?
LT: (smiling) Nothing!
MT: Well, what is that? What did you ... Oh my GOD! Did you get a tattoo?!
LT: Yes.
MT: WHAT? WHY?!
LT: It's just something I always wanted to do before I turned 40.
MT: Oh my God. I can't believe you did that. And WHY did you do it there? You always said you would do it where the judge wouldn't see it. Oh my GOD! And just what in the hell did you get?
LT: Um, just a heart and some flowers. (Not at all what I would actually get, but that's another story.)
MT: (pause) I just can't believe you did that. (pause) Did you really?
LT: No, I burned it on the toaster oven.
MT: Well, thanks for just about giving me a frigginass heart attack.

Oh, and the whole exchange took place while she was on the phone.

Later, she admitted that I had gotten her but good, and that, in the grand scheme of things, a tattoo isn't really that big of a deal. Yeah, right.

The Devil and Sandy Bullock

Webkinz are The Devil. I am convinced. Peach received one from a friend when she was suffering from The Fevah, and she and Olive both fell so in love with it, I actually plunked down $15 to get one for Olive. Half the draw of these Spawn of Satan is their fluffy, snugly cuteness, and the other half is going online to feed them, dress them, and decorate rooms for them, "paid for" by doing jobs and/or playing games. Since I firmly believe that computer games and online gaming are evil and destroying civilized society as we know it, we have exposed las ninas to nothing more computer-related than looking at our family pictures and the occasional email. Peach has done some limited research and animation projects at school, but she wouldn't know an X-box from a mailbox, and, for that matter, neither would I. Hate. that. shit. and how fat and anti-social it's making kids today. And, before you say it, even if I had boys, clearly the preferred audience for that crap, I would feel the same way and the household ban would still apply.

Anywho, Webkins. Sorry, WebkinZ. Yeah. So, because Peach knows nothing about the games, and Olive, of course, knows nothing about the games, and T-Bone's computer time these days is spent scouring the Internet for deals on TVs, guess who's the sole breadwinner, or "Kinzcash" winner around here? It's insane, y'all. All my blogging time lately has been spent trying to keep these damn things alive and clothed and swimming in their POOLS and watching their own giant flat screen TVs. All because I am a chicken shit and don't want to have to explain my way through some kind of lesson on virtual death. And I really don't want T-Bone coming home one day to hear, "Daddy! Mommy killed Princess! And Pixie, too! Because she can't play the games with the arrow keys! And now our Webkinz are DEAD!" Beware.

Another thing to beware of? The DVD of Premonition that's out now. Damn, y'all. I actually went to see it at the theatre because I enjoy Ms. B's films on occasion, and I enjoy Mr. McMahon on every occasion (rowrrr). I wish someone had had a premonition about how shitty it was going to be because I'm totally superstitious and would have totally heeded the warning. Gawd. Olive's never-ending, nonsensical, typical 3 year old stories have fewer plot holes than this stinker. I'm telling you, it's confusing and inconsistent, and you wonder afterwards, "Am I really stupid? Or did they just THINK I'm really stupid?" Don't buy it. Don't even rent it. Don't even watch it when they start playing it 5,000 times on TNT once their print of Shawshank Redemption finally burns up. It's that bad. Trust me. Love the restaurant though, Sandy.

Senior Trip

Well, that was nice. Mama Turista's official retirement started off with a bang and a margarita or three, and the train kept a rollin' all the way through Sunday. The River Walk was predictably abuzz Friday night, but it's fun to play tourist (hey!) every now and again. The highlight of the evening had to be Olive's impromptu dance performance with the strolling mariachis, complete with skirt swishing, panty flashing, and arm moves that can only be compared to Uma Thurman's in the dance scene in Pulp Fiction. And who knew Peach knew when to shout, "Tequila!" We sang. People stopped and stared. And applauded. And Olive bowed. Repeatedly. I just can't imagine where she gets it.

On Saturday, we took in the Botero exhibit at the San Antonio Museum of Art - the site of a most festive wedding reception nearly 10 years ago, if memory serves ... sigh. Peach and Mama Turista participated in a real live drawing class, which was part of the museum's family activity series, and while the three other kids in the class chose to sketch a still life of a giant pear, Peach chose this:

The other kids were done in 15 minutes, pastel shading and all. My little artiste? Almost an hour. Aside from the portraits, that was the most detailed work she could have chosen, and the teacher admired her attention to every. little. flower.

On Sunday, we had lunch with the darling Opie and sufficiently smothered his strawberry blond head (emphasis on the strawberry) with shugah. How sweet do bambinos smell? Love it.

All in all, a great weekend, and Mama Turista enjoyed her first days of freedom immensely. I remember when my granddaddy (her dad) retired from the plant, gold watch and all, and he seemed so much older than she does. However, she and my grandmother are going on one of those cruises to Alaska this summer, with about a bajillion other blue-haired Catholics, and she's just sure that with her shoulder trouble and dietary restrictions, she'll fit right in. Good Lord.

P.S. I have had the majority of this typed out TWICE since I've been home, and stupid Blogger keeps LYING about automatically saving it for me. So the staleness is totally stupid Blogger's fault. Not mine. So there.

The Doctor is Out

Today is Mama Turista's last day as a working girl, and although Peach and Olive are a bit upset about the whole thing, I'm sure some Mexican food and a boat ride will lessen the sting. It will be weird when she closes the door for the last time, but again, it's a good thing. Besides missing her incredible design magic, I know some of her customers will also be missing her daily drop-in therapy sessions. No, she's not a licensed therapist, but you would not BELIEVE the shit people feel compelled to tell her on any given day. In the middle of the French soaps display! Bizarre. She says she feels like she's solved the world's problems from behind that little counter and that she should have had a setup like this:

Speaking of doctors, I get lawyerly stuff in the mail all the time, and it cracks me up when it's addressed to "Dr. (Turista)." Yes, I have a Juris Doctor, so, yes, technically I'm a "doctor." But seriously, only an asshole lawyer calls himself a doctor. Like this one asshole that I worked with at LawNerds who always signed his emails, "Dr. (Asshole), Esquire, Attorney at Law." Really, genius? So is everybody you're sending these emails to, asshole. Impressive. And that whole Attorney "at Law" thing has always bugged me, too. What else could you be? An Attorney "at Will?" "at Risk?" "at Random?" Just take off the powdered wig, dude, and CHILLAX already.

Maxin' and chillaxin' is what I'd like to be doing right now, but this is the second of five weekends in a row that I'll be out of town - including four trips to San Antonio. Thankfully, it's not that far, but damn! We were supposed to be "taking it easy" this summer. What the hell?

No rest for the weary, I guess, especially since I've finally found the perfect exercise routine for my ever-expanding gut and assular area, so I'm off to "oxnegate" my blood.

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.