Here We Go Again

Olive is well on her way to Peach-like genius, or so said her preschool teacher at our first parent conference today. I can't take any credit for their incredible attention spans and true desire to learn because I think those things just come about by the luck of the draw, but I sure love watching them tackle and master educational and creative pursuits technically beyond their years. No fear with these two, just constant questions, and it really is exciting to see the lightbulbs go on when they learn something new.

Olive is also apparently quite the social butterfly but very serious when it comes to her work, especially puzzles and blocks. I swear the child is going to be an engineer or an architect - or do all almost-4-year-olds like to draw out floorplans? And discuss the pros and cons of different types of "structures" (her word). And lest we forget the interior design of her creations - she told me recently that the pillows we have in the gameroom are too bright for that room (they are) and that we need either some "reddish-brown" or "greenish" ones (we do). It so reminds me of a 3 year old Peach chastising the homeowners' paint color choices on Trading Spaces ("That color is too dark for a kitchen. It looks like a bat cave."). Again, right on the money.

Speaking of money, will you buy me this? If not, I think I know a couple of darling gals who could design, build, and decorate it for me.

Pottery Barn Kills

Trees. Lots and lots of trees. I know this because I get a catalog from them nearly once a week, and they are always friggin' huge. And still, I look through every one of them, diligently scanning every page, and here and there, I order something if I can't get it in the store. Cut to today, when my new pillow cases arrived, and I saw that they charged me $12 for "shipping and processing." For two pillow cases? That were listed as "free shipping" items? I got on the horn to customer service, and the lovely woman I talked to corrected the mistake, but I still have to wonder if $12 isn't a bit steep for shipping two pieces of fabric in a glorified Ziploc baggy that my mail carrier shoves so far into my shoebox size mailbox that it takes two hands and sometimes a foot to get it out. It would appear the $12 is to cover the cost of shipping the TWO giant catalogs they loaded the package down with, one of which was the very one I ordered the damn pillow cases out of in the first place. So that's how I contributed to the destruction of our planet's natural resources today. And you?

I Am Worthless

Today, anyway. I've got the beginnings of the second major head cold/cough/general feeling of walking death I get about twice a year, BUT it usually means the weather is about to change from the first to the second of the two seasons we have here in Tejas, so at least there's that. Or I could just have the monkey flu, whothehellknows. So I didn't do jackshit today, unless sitting on the couch and staring at the Travel Channel for about three hours is something. That Samantha Brown has a sweetass gig, don't she? But I kinda think she hates kids.

I was quite industrious out in the yard on Friday, but I had to stop myself before I completely ripped out the front bed - the only one the builder's "landscapers" put in. I've taken a lot out of there already, but as soon as it gets a little cooler, say somewhere in the 80s, I'm going medieval on all that mismatched, bargain basement, totally predictable crap they threw in there. God only knows what I'll find when I start digging, but I'm betting it won't be money.

Saturday we had a great dinner with my best homegirl from high school and Karla May and the Geej. All the kids made great use of the restaurant's play area, and due to the impending plague invading my body, I didn't even freak about all the sand. I hate sand. Especially around food. We were also entertained by T-Bone's homeboys' band, and they even managed to NOT break up in between sets, as is usually the case. I thought for sure my dirty birds would crash on the way home, but thankfully they made it in the house and in and out of the bath before toddling off to bed. And then I also toddled off at the stroke of 10, and in the bed I stayed until about 7:30 this morning.

Which brings me to today, and the worthlessness detailed above. Now, just reviewing my lameness has exhausted me, and I'm heading back to the couch. Night, y'all.

I Love Boys

I do, I really do. But I happen to have two girls, and I'm crazy about them, and I'm getting a little tired of being asked if we're ever going to "try for a boy." As if the two precious angels I have are some sort of consolation prizes. Really. I've heard it a lot since Olive was born, even within hours of her birth. And lately, every time we've been out with my darling 4 month old nephew, and I'm totally loving him up with Peach and Olive at my side, people (always men) assume he's mine and feel compelled to say (always to T-Bone), "So you kept trying 'til you finally got a boy!" Just what am I supposed to say to that? "Yes, yes we did! Thank GOD! And with any luck, he won't grow up to be a misogynistic asshole like you." Does that sound about right?

The Festabul* Report

So I made it out alive. Which, considering the fires, the heat, and the "poot-a-potties" (another Olivism), is no small feat. We were there the moment the gates opened on Friday, Star Wars theme music and all, and T-Bone and I shut her down last night with Mr. Zimmerman, and I have to say, the whole experience was way better than two years ago, aka Dust Bowl 2005.

Las ninas take on the whole thing? Well, they LOVED riding the shuttle bus, they loved the kids' activities (save for "the beach," thankfully), and they loved hanging out under the trees and having some snacks and snowcones. The one thing they didn't really love? The MUSIC. I have to agree, it was a little loud over there on the Kiddie Limits stage. Really, they love Sara Hickman. Just not when she seems to be screaming at them. But Asleep at The Wheel from 200 yards away? That was okay. As was the battle of the mariachi bands when we got back to the Republic Square shuttle stop. And, as a bonus, we got the last few pictures we needed to complete our Guitartown collection, so all in all, it was three hours well spent.

Here's the calm before the storm:

Now some words of advice for fellow festival goers:

To the parents of small babies, say, NEWBORNS: In case you hadn't noticed, your life has CHANGED. Get over yourself. If I saw one sweaty, miserable baby being lugged around against his or her will, I saw 100. People, it is too damn hot, there are too damn many people around, bumping into you, and it is too damn loud to have your precious cherub up next to the stage just so you and your selfish ass can rock out to Arcade Fire or whoever the hell. If you can't afford a ticket AND a babysitter, stay the hell home. And if you do (stupidly) decide to come and camp out in front of the AT&T stage, and then decide in the middle of Bob Dylan's set that it's time for you to push your stroller upstream and out of the crowd of 50K+, get your dipshit old man or whoever you came with to get off their ass and run interference for you so I don't have to.

To the kids today: Look, I'm not your mother, so I can't tell you what to do or what not to do, but I CAN tell you that if you're going to drink alcohol or do drugs to look cool, the more you TALK about it and the more buzz words you throw in and the more bragging you do, the more you look like a complete tool. Just drink it or smoke it or whatever and shut the hell up about it. Yes, I guess your bong is beautiful, and I'm sure it "rips" better than the one you had two or three years ago (even though you look to be about 16), and I'm sure the "herb" you bought from that dude at the coffee shop was quite "juicy," but when you start puking 30 seconds into "BobEffinDylan"'s first song, you really look like an asshole.

And finally, a few awards:

Best Dressed: The 50ish woman rockin' out to Queens of the Stone Age in her cutoffs. And that's it. No shoes. No shirt. No kidding.

Honorable Mention(s): The really sunburned, really drunk whirling dervish at Wilco in the T-shirt that said, "It's not a bender. It's a lifestyle." I also liked the pasty white giant dude with the fro and the T-shirt that said, "I seen aliens."

Best Piece of Art:

Thanks again, M!

* Pronunciation courtesy of Olive.

Is It Thursday Already?

Just don't even say it. IknowIknowIknow. It's been a week since my last post. And not that much has been going on, so it's not like I was somehow prevented from posting due to my incredibly glamorous and busy life. Unless you call getting interviewed today by a writer from Health Magazine (Hi Leslie!) incredibly glamorous. What? When you think of health and fitness, you don't automatically think of me? The one who likes to eat cake frosting straight out of the can? Okay, so she read this post and was contacting me about my incredibly glamorous allergy to Neosporin, so what of it?

In other news, Mama's gots to get her sleeps tonight because the whole famdamily is heading to the ACL Fest bright and early in the morning. It seems my dear friend M (of Vegas fame) has bestowed 3-day passes upon T-Bone and me, overnighted from St. Louie, even, because that's how much she rawks and rolls. Can you see me grinning? I'm a lucky girl, permanent-scar-the-size-of-a-tennis-ball (really)-as-a-result-of-bizarre-polysporin-allergy, notwithstanding.

Last Night's Makeup

Thanks to the lovely and talented Mrs. Squirrel for the rockin' props, and boy did I live up to that moniker last night. JC, y'all. How much do I love The Black Crowes? And how much did my boyfriend Chris bring the RAWK? T-Bone and I had a bang up time at The Backyard, even though it was 1000 degrees with 457 percent humidity. Luckily, the crowd was light on the Assholes with Cellphones count, but I think you might need to tell your mom to hang up the Bella Donna outfit because her free flying ninnies were drooping all the way to her pushed down head boots. That's kinda over for you, my dear. Like 28 years and four kids ago.

After finally coming down from the total awesomeness that was the show, I was sticky and stinky and DONE, so I took three Excedrin and hit the biscuit as soon as we got home. This morning, I woke up sore as shit from all the headbangin' and confused as to whether or not I actually saw my ex-beau at the show or just dreamed that I did (jury's still out). Also, in my haste to get to bed, I neglected to wash my face, so I woke up looking like Amy Winehouse's bloated older sister. Yow. On the upside, my frightful appearance inspired me to write a sad sack country song, and I just know it'll be a hit. So far, all I've got is the chorus:

You told me you'd be true
You said we never would break up
But when I woke up, I was all alone
Wearing nothin' but last night's makeup

Have a ROCKIN' weekend, y'all.

An Intervention

I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be, any kind of fashion plate. I put my sweatpants on one ragged leg at a time, just like everybody else. However, I have noticed an emerging trend that I feel it is my duty to expose, dismantle, and send packing to the nether regions of Fashion Hades. In a word: Scrubs.

Now, I actually like the idea of wearing scrubs to work, what with their comfortable, sloppy fit and low maintenance care requirements. They take the stress out of deciding what to wear to work, and I'm envious of people like my cousin the dentist, who has a different set for every day of the week. And lots of backups for the blood and whatnot. But alas, I went to law school instead of medical school because I hate math, and thus, I haven't had, nor will I ever have, a job that allows me to wear scrubs to work.

Which brings me to you poor victims of your own laziness. In case you didn't get the memo, scrubs are NOT your go-to everyday wear UNLESS you are actually working in the medical or dental fields. Perhaps a shampoo professional in a hair salon. Hell, I'll even give you a day care worker, but that's really stretching it. If you do not belong in one of these categories, put down the chili pepper scrubs and WALK AWAY. I know they're comfy. I know they're cheap. And God knows they hide every figure flaw we big girls have to offer. But please. You know you're not a doctor. We know you're not a doctor. So you're not fooling anybody when you show up at HEB on a Sunday morning (yeah, I saw you and all your nasty fishsticks) in your dirtiest scuffs and something like this:

And I don't care that it has a matching scrunchy. Or that it also comes in this:

And I may be speaking out of my area of law here, but I'm pretty sure you'd have grounds for a malpractice suit if your doc showed up for surgery in this:

I'm just saying, enough is enough. I've seen more than a few of you out there lately, and it's starting to make me nervous. And very very sad for you. Just know that there are alternatives - perhaps something from this collection?