Here's The Story

I met T-Bone 13 years ago at a Christmas party celebrating the end of our first semester of law school. I had picked him out of the button-and-suspenders crowd that dominated our class (bunch of gunners - so annoying) about two weeks into the year, and I dutifully stalked him for the next three months. My best friend was in his section, so I knew his schedule and could conveniently park myself outside of his classrooms and catch a little lookie-loo as he passed by. God forbid I ever try to actually talk to him - it was sooo much easier to pester my friends with daily (hourly) reports of what he was wearing, what he was eating, and what I overheard him saying in the cubicle across from me in the library as I pretended to be reading my Con Law assignment. See, I am not, nor have I ever been, one to flirt. I don't know how and am sure I would fail miserably should I ever attempt it. The Junior High Approach to Dealing with Boyz (TM) (heart-sparkle-heart-lips) was working just fine, thank you, but I had a sneaking suspicion that if I never actually met him, I would just D-I-E DIE, y'all. I knew in my heart that, at the very least, we would be great friends. I just knew it.

So after months of listening to me go on and on and ON about him, I think everyone around me was looking forward to the Christmas party where, it was hoped, I would get a few drinks in me and maybe finally - gasp! - end the suffering and talk to the guy. In all my stalking, I had literally run in to him a couple of times - once in the cafeteria when I had a mouth full of pizza and once when I was exiting the bathroom, still struggling with my zipper. Sweet. Not exactly the right time to introduce yourself to the love of your life. Anywho, I was so nervous about the possibility of meeting him, I called for back-up, and Karla May, living in Alabama at the time, came to my rescue. She too had had "just about enough of this shit," so I knew something was going to go down if in fact T-Bone made an appearance at the party.

After a few pitchers of margaritas for courage, she and I arrived at the party, only to find a group of about six of my so-called friends lined up at the door, all saying, "He's here! He's here! He's here!" Oh shit. I swear to you, not five minutes later, my best guy friend, Fox, who didn't know T-Bone from Adam by the way, followed him to the bathroom and said, "Hey - you're T-Bone, right? Follow me." Then the rest of my alleged compadres grabbed me and quite forcefully PUSHED me into him, after which Fox quickly made the introductions and stepped back to view the carnage. I want to throw up just thinking about it even now. But, after a couple of shaky "Hi"s and me saying something gay about my idiot friends being off their meds, we started talking. And we talked and talked and talked. Until 6 in the morning. There were a couple of times in there, when we were back at my parents' house (oh yeah - cuz did I mention I was living at HOME at the time? Gawd, I'm so awesome.), I started to nod off, and I was telling myself, "He's here! He's really here! Wake up!" We hit all the big topics, including music, God, and even marriage. Just in general, but still. And it didn't even seem weird. The best part was when he went to leave, and he asked - asked! - if he could kiss me. Still my favorite kiss of all time. Ever.

Two weeks later, we broached the topic of marriage again - this time, quite specifically, and a year from the day we met, we got engaged in New Orleans. A year later, we got married on New Year's Eve, and 11 blissful years later, The Story has just continued to unfold.

My mom has asked me on more than one occasion, "How did you know he would be so perfect for you? Just from looking at him?" and the answer is, I don't know. I just did. Which is especially surprising for someone who never EVER thought about getting married or dreamed about what my wedding would be like. I just couldn't really picture that happening to me. But then I saw him, and I thought, we need to know each other, and the universe made it happen.

I often tell T-Bone that he is either easily impressed or easily amused, I'm not sure which. Either way, I'm glad he is who he is, and I'm so lucky to get to be who I am with him. So Happy Anniversary, babe. I love you.

And Happy New Year to the rest of y'all.

Post Christmas Post

Oh what a time we had. Christmas went off without a hitch, and that night, we had about 30 people crammed into my kitchen, feasting on tamales and my award-winning chili (Really, there's a bigass silver bowl with my name engraved on it in the trophy case in my - wait for it - sorority house! Zeta Tau Alcohol, y'all! WHOO!). At one point, we had everybody here, from 20 month old Opie to 90 years young Abuelita Turista, so, Circle of Life and all that. It was fun.

We spent the weekend near Houston with our bruthacuzzins and their new wee kitten, and now we're in full on prep mode for Peach's (9th) birthday tomorrow. And our (11th) anniversary the day after that. And a whole New Year the day after that. I forsee lots of calories in my immediate future.

See, if it weren't for the non-stop action we've got going on around here pretty much from October 1 on, I would be one of those post-holiday blues people. It makes me sad to have to take down all my pretties, etc., but lucky for me, right about the time I've got everything put away, I'm staring down the next most wonderful time of the year - Awards Show Season!

Right now, though, I have to go outside and kick some delinquent ass - your no-good nephew and his heathen gang are shooting off fireworks over the creek next to mi casa. It's only the 29th, dipshits.

I Win.

In a Who’s Got the Greatest Old Man of All Time Contest, I mean. Really, truly.
Example # 4,637: Peach and Olive have spent the last few days with Mama and Abuelita Turista in San Antonio while T-Bone and I finish up The Christmasing and work to pay for The Christmasing. Anywho, when I planned on them going down there on Saturday, I casually mentioned to T-Bone that maybe Saturday night we could go hear some music somewhere, like back in The Day. He said to leave it up to him, and I did.

So, as I’m packing las ninas for their trip Saturday morning, T-Bone says that I might want to pack a small bag for me. So I say, "For what?" to which he says, "All will be revealed." And did like some spirit fingers or something. "As long as I can wear jeans," I say, and "Yes, that would be appropriate," says he. So in the tote went the jeans and boots, with the requisite turquoise jewelry thrown in for good measure, and we were off. We spent the afternoon with my other grandmother, and after a delicious meal at one of my favorite old haunts, we hit the road again. I-35 Northbound, to be exact. Towards Austin, to be exact.

However, just as we pass through New Braunfels, T-Bone takes the exit for Gruene, and I realize we’re going to one of my favorite live-music venues in the world: Gruene Hall. He hands me an envelope that says, "Happy Merry Chrismaversary," inside of which is a pair of tickets to see Bruce and Kelly, the Second Cutest Married Couple Ever, in their Holiday Show, and a reservation for this historic inn. Well, totally surprised and pleased was I, to say the least. That guy.

The show was so fun – lighter on the holiday songs than I expected, but I was so glad to hear some of my old favorite Kelly songs. And they had a slideshow of their four (FOUR!) redheaded angels that nearly brought me to tears, it was so cute. Gruene Hall is sort of an open-air honkytonk, but thankfully the crowd was a little more well-heeled and civil than the usual drunken fratboy a-holes that infest the place sometimes. The accommodations were quaint and comfy, and we couldn’t even hear the military dudes whooping it up til all hours in the piano bar downstairs.

After a lovely breakfast, we hit the road on a quest to complete our shopping, and dammit, if the Project Runway stuff at Demons ‘R Us hadn’t been on sale all weekend and was completely picked over, if it was even there at all. Yeah, we went to three Devil’s Spawn ‘R Us on Sunday, on the opposite ends of the world, and it was only at the last one, out in BFE, just shy of Hell, that I found one of the two items we were looking for. And it was only after we got home that I realized Peach had edited her list down from two PR items to one, to make room for the American Girl knock-off doll bed from Target. Thanks be to Jeebus we found the one item that made the cut.

And on the Ken front, we looked, y’all. We really really looked, and unless you want some prince dude, who’s strapped on an electric guitar(?) for some reason, or a surfer dude, who’s wearing a not-at-all-gay tanktop and super short swim trunks, there are NO Kens to be had. And no Ken clothes either. Unless you frantically search the interwebs, and find Fashion Insider Ken, who normally retails for $75 because he’s one of those "collectibles" that you keep in the box forever and put on the No-No-Touchy Shelf in your mauve and emerald green guest room, but who, shockingly(!), is now 50% off and available for shipping and can arrive on or around 12/29, just in time for a 12/30 birthday. Hopefully, Peach will be too distracted by the rest of her haul to notice that Barbie didn’t get no man for Christmas and then will be pleasantly surprised when she opens the dapper little dude on her birthday five days later.

So, to recap:

T-Bone – the winner and still champeen of the Most Awesome Husband Texas Cagematch Finals.

Bruce and Kelly – please come over for dinner and bring all those little carrot tops with you.

Mattel – I have a new concept for your pisspoor Ken line: Just a Normal Family Guy. See here and above for inspiration.

Peach and Olive – Christmas is coming, and Mommy’s getting fat. Please to put your pennies in your old man’s hat.

To the rest of youse - Here's hoping you have some merry and bright of your own tomorrow. Happy Holidays, y'all!

Yes, Peach. There is a Santa Claus.

So my Peachy Pie, I’m pretty sure, is having quite the crisis of conscience over this whole Santa Claus thing. Although she would never say so and would never EVER blow it for anybody else, especially Olive. That would just break her heart, I can assure you.

I think she might have heard some rumblings about it last year and maybe some full-fledged confirmations this year, but I haven’t broached the topic other than to ask about making a Christmas list. Usually, she wants to discuss the many choices she’s seen in stores or catalogs and lets me "help" her narrow it down to four or five things. This year, she’s either said, "No thanks. I’m fine." - with a noticeable quiver in her voice - or "I want to give Santa a holiday this year." - again, with the quiver. However, when pressed, I have gotten her to jot some things down and have found a couple of discarded lists, one of which asked Santa for "a chance to see you" or "anything you wish." So precious.

I’m treading very softly here because what if I decide to have The Talk with her, and she’s not even close to being a non-believer, and I ruin her childhood and drive her into early therapy? I’m trying to read her as best I can, but as it’s gotten closer, she seems to be either humoring me by getting on board the Santa Express or she genuinely still believes. I can’t tell.

That said, she has made her final selections and typed her list and Olive’s list on the computer, with lots of fonts and colors and the usual embellishments. Ever the budding designer, in the top two slots, she wants some Project Runway sketch books. Next up, a bed for her knock-off American Girl doll, and a Scuba Barbie. Also, the Kit Kittredge DVD, and finally, "a boy Barbie for my house." Hmmm …

Anybody shopped for a boy Barbie lately? I mean NOT of the HSM3 variety? Because the pickins’ is slim, my friends. The choices are pretty much: The Gay Ken; The Gayer Ken; and Queen Ken.

Now, if she wants a boy Barbie "for her house," as in to look at fabric swatches and rearrange furniture, I think we’re good. But if she wants him to propose to Barbie and raise babies together, we may have a problem.

Olive’s list? Par for the course:
Big stuffed horse for my bed
Tack for my horses
Horse Sense game
New Cowgirl Nanny doll – no stinky (blond) hair, only brown
Scuba Barbie – no stinky (blond) hair, only brown OR red
Horse Shrinky Dinks

All of which I have to get THIS weekend, because other than a few stocking stuffers and a couple of things I ordered online, I have NOTHING. Stupid work interfering with my shopping.

Oh Goody

You wanna know what’s awesome? Waking up with a raging case of PMS when it’s 29 degrees outside. THAT’S awesome. I should know. Right on the heels of the Mouse Flu, too. Beautiful.

However, what else is awesome is going to work with the above afflictions on December Birthday Goody Day – which I was shamed into participating in by The Lady of Many Falls (seriously, a different ponytail everyday), who showed up in my office with the sign-up sheet yesterday, gently reminding (berating) me that I missed (dodged) the November Goody Day and that it’s really fun (wrong) and everyone participates (lie) and couldn’t I bring some "finger food" OR pitch in $5? OK, but only because I happen to have some frozen shit left over from my ornament exchange that I can whip up in 20 minutes. So suck on that, Peggy Sue.

SO I whipped up the frozen shit, took it in this morning, in the FREEZING cold, with the cramps and the almost-barfs and the beginnings of a migraine, and here’s how my day started, with tongues wagging on all sides of me:

7:45-8:30 am – Did you bring that for Goody Day? What’d ya bring for Goody Day? Did you see what she brought for Goody Day? She brought this (frozen shit) for Goody Day, and it looks wonderful! I can’t wait for Goody Day! I wish it was my birthday month so I could line up first for Goody Day, because everyone knows that the BEST stuff on Goody Day goes first, but you have to wait until your birthday month to line up first, so then YOU get the best stuff on Goody Day! Is it 9:30 yet? Because Goody Day starts at 9:30. Who else brought something for Goody Day?

8:45-9:15 am – They’re setting up for Goody Day, y’all! They got them snowman plates that’s so cute, and the food looks DE-licious! I sure hope (some random women) brings that (nasty casserole involving tater tots) that she brought for October Goody Day because I missed that since my birthday is in June, and I was on the phone when the line started forming, so by the time I got to Goody Day, that (nasty casserole) was gone, y’all, and all I heard about the rest of the day was how good it was. I was so excited for the November Goody Day, but (random woman) was out of town, so we didn’t have (nasty casserole), but I heard that she’s making it for December Goody Day. I’m going to go help them finish setting up for Goody Day so I can get in line right behind the December birthdays. I love Goody Day!

9:21 am – Is it 9:30 yet?
9:22 am – Is it 9:30 yet?
9:27 am – Is it 9:30 yet?

9:29:57 am – Y’ALL! The food’s out! Line up behind the December birthdays!

9:42 am – They(?) just called from over there and said the line’s down, so you better hurry up and get over to Goody Day. And see if they got anymore of them Lil’ Smokies – could you bring me some if they do? I didn’t want ‘em mixed in with my Bacon-wrapped Asparagus, covered with Tamale Queso. This is the BEST Goody Day ever!

Holy HELL, I wish I was kidding. If I heard one more grown ass person say "Goody Day," I really might have gone postal. Or finally barfed. All over their GD Goodies.

Mouse Flu

So whatever barfy bug struck Peach last week - up until the very night before we left for Mouseland - must have struck my happy ass yesterday morning. Which was LOADS of fun to deal with while spending the better part of the day traveling. Thankfully, I never actually barfed per se, but I was plenty bugged nonetheless. I still feel like crapola today, so I'll have to postpone the trip report. Which I know you're dying to hear. Until then, enjoy this little mouse tale.

Goin’ Back to Cali

Mouseland! That’s where we’re going on our super secret trip Thursday morning. And Peach and Olive have NO clue that we’re going anywhere, let alone The Happiest Place on Earth. We’re not telling them until we get them up to go to the airport, so keep it under your mouse ears.

It’s been touch-and-go the past 24 hours because, of all times, Peach was battling a little barfy bug yesterday. Could have something to do with all the Nutcracker cast party treats from Sunday afternoon, followed by the rich party food she happily indulged in at my annual ornament exchange Sunday night, but she did have a bit of fever, too, so who knows. Luckily, she rallied today for her Cultural Challenge at GGMS. In one hour, the child recited two poems, one of which was her own work inspired by Shel Silverstein, played in a guitar ensemble and accompanied a classmate on his vocal performance, AND narrated the class play based on Greek mythology. T-Bone said it was more like a Cultural Smackdown because she totally "dominated the thing." Thanks to The Job, I will have to relive the event through the magic of videotape, assuming of course T-Bone got something other than the pole in the middle of the school auditorium, which we have plenty of footage of from past events.

So tonight and tomorrow night I have some stealth packing to do, as well as the usual Pre-trip Freakout Jamboree. But I will leave you with this:

Olive: Mommy, did you know Daddy used to have a lot more hair on his head?

LT: Yes, I did know that. Like in this wedding picture.

Olive: Well, I’ll tell you what happened. He used to have a lot of hair until he got married. And then it all started falling out … because of all the kissing.

Fortress of Solitude

That’s what I call my office at The Job. A: because it’s friggin’ freezing, 24/7; and B: because I close the door, and I am in my own little world. I could go all day and not see another human if I only had a port-a-potty up in that mutha. Several times, I’ve been in there, working "late" (which, in gubment terms means, "after 4"), and when I come out, everybody’s gone. Split. Outta there.

I don’t have a lot of interaction with the support staff (mostly because I still can’t figure out what it is that they DO, exactly), and of the three other lawyuhs, there’s only one I regularly talk to. And even him I can go for days without seeing. Other than T-Bone, I’ve gotten four phone calls in the almost three months I’ve been there. And other than administrative BS and birthday/retirement/quinceanera/food-related announcements, I’ve gotten two substantive emails. TWO. And they were both replies to actual work-related issues I brought up. It's so bizarre. It’s like my office is some kind of timewarp/vacuum/CrissAngelMindFreak zone.

Not that I’m complaining. Not really. But I just feel like I get in there, and every time I come out, I have to get my bearings and remind myself, "Oh right. I’m at ‘work’. This is my ‘job.’" And it’s not like I go out of my way to avoid people or be ugly to them. It’s just that they’re all in their cubes, doing whateverthehell, and I’m just passing by on my way to the loo or to the Kick Ass Ice Machine in the breakroom (truly, one of the top two best things about The Job. That and the paycheck. Not the amount, per se, just the fact that there is one.). Several of them have little mirrors up on the shelf so they can see when people walk up behind them. They’re tiny little rearview-type mirrors, just big enough to see their eyes dart up at you as you pass by. It reminds me of the jails and prisons I’ve been to (as a visitor, not a resident), where the inmates fashion mirrors out of anything reflective and put them on the end of a toothbrush or chair leg or whatever and stick them out of their cells so they can chat with their neighbors or see who’s coming to shank them. It freaks me out, y’all. Seriously.

So I scurry back to The Fortress and decide which wall to stare at for a few hours. The grey one, the other grey one, or the other other grey one with the door. Behind me is a wall of windows, which would be lovely if they didn’t look out on the parking lot and the machine shop, with a nice view of the dumpster where old cake party stuffs go to die. And they have those GD vertical blinds. Which I loathe. I haven’t brought anything personal from home yet, not one picture or desk-sized Zen rock garden. Mostly because I’m still in denial that this is actually happening, but also because I’m supposedly getting "new" furniture that has been "ordered" and is being "constructed," as is all gubment office furniture, by some of the state’s finest "craftsmen," who just so happen to be "jailbirds" who have nothing but "time" on their hands and a great interest in being "busy" instead of being "dead" in a yard riot. Which means, I ain’t getting no furniture anytime soon. And when I do, dollars to donuts it’ll be missing some sharp metal components that were mysteriously lost in transit. I do think I’ll bring up my office chair from home though. My work chair is way too complicated, and it’s blue. Electric blue. So not my color.

Goodbye, Sleep. Hello, Grind.

Man, it’s hard to get back into The Swing after a few days off. Especially when it’s chilly in the mornings, and you just want to be the cheese in the middle of a Snoozing Children Sandwich. Toasted, of course. I say being responsible stinks.

But oh what a wonderful break we had. T-Bone stayed with las ninas while I brought home the bacon on Wednesday. Thursday, we had the perfect Thanksgiving dinner for four, and Friday was Operation Decoration/OMG-we-have-a lot-of-ornaments-palooza. I ran out of steam before I got to the tippy tip top of the tree, but I’ll throw something up there before this weekend. Everything else inside was already done, and Sunday, T-Bone and I tried to do the outside stuff until the galeforce winds finally got the better of us. But I’m not giving up – there WILL be light.

Saturday, we spent the day "in the country" with my sistacuzin and her boys. They have a little house in a nearby antique mecca, and we hauled ourselves up there to play games, make s’mores, and throw stuff in the burnpile. Fire good! At one point, a small faction stole away to this awesome spot, and who should be holding the door for us when we got there? Frank! I recognized him right away, what with the Santa Claus beard and the fairly creepy way he said, "My pleeeeeasure" when I thanked him for holding the door. Quick! Grab the children before he tries to paint chickens or wine ephemera on them! Or distracts them with an "art" project made with spray paint, broken mirrors, and MDF! That guy.

So now we’re in a holding pattern for the rest of the week. Peach has her holiday dance performance this weekend, and I have my annual ornament throwdown on Sunday. Then NEXT week, next Thursday, to be exact, we jet off on our super secret surprise trip to … aww, wouldn’t you love to know? Stay tuned!

Overheard when Olive was cracking pecans for pie:

The cracker is mightier than the nut.

True dat. Off to make the toast, popcorn, and jellybeans.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

His and Hers

T-Bone and I don't do that adorable little thing some couples do - that precious "keeping tabs" on every blessed thing they do as individuals in order to make sure nobody gets more nights out or weekends off or less trips to the grocery store or the birthday parties or whatever the hell. I swear I know a couple that kept track of diaper changes, and not because they were nervous new parents (as we all were - I still have a legal pad full of feeding and poop charts for each bambina. Aww.), but because they wanted it to be FAIR. And EQUAL. And to make sure they each took the same amount of TURNS. Gawd. How old are you?

These are the same people who are all, "Well, Hubby got to play golf last weekend, so I'm planning a girls' night out because it's my TURN and he OWES me and it's only FAIR." Shutupshutupshutup. Aren't you both parents? And aren't you both (allegedly) adults? Then get over yourself and get on with it, jackass.

Here at Bone Industries, I'm the CEO (shocking), and T-Bone is the CFO (cuz math is hard, y'all). I'm in charge of day-to-day operations, scheduling, and wardrobe. T-Bone handles sustenance. I head up the art department. T-Bone runs building programs and landscaping. We split transportation duties (currently, with an assist from Mama Turista) and incidentals, and we all fall in to one big, happy heap at the end of the day. We have a great natural rhythm, and it just kind of happened on its own, not because we assign duties or keep a tally of who took out the trash last time. We just jump in whenever and wherever something is needed. I know I'm lucky to have such a true partner, and I realize T-Bone does more than most of his peers, but it just never occurred to either of us to do "it" any other way. We do it this way because we want to. Which is one reason my normally very mild-mannered esposo gets really bent out of shape when he's with Peach and Olive somewhere and some idiot says, "Oh - you babysitting today?" "No, I'm parenting." he says, through gritted teeth. Really, it's happened on several occasions. Hello? 21st century? Care to join us?

All this to say, this weekend, I was reminded again of how great I've got it. T-Bone had a beer-and-football marathon planned for Saturday, and I had a lovely brunch and shopping trip planned for Sunday. To the casual observer, it probably looked like some of that My Turn-Your Turn BS, but in reality, it just so happened that both events fell on the same weekend. I know some of his boyz were saying, "Man, I'm gonna owe my old lady big time for this." (or something to that effect - his friends aren't hillbillies after all. Most of them, anyway). And I overheard more than one fellow shopper bitching about her husband bitching about how long she'd been gone that day even though she didn't call him every hour last weekend when he was at that tailgate party with all those assholes from his work.

Sigh. I just don't get that. And I'm so happy that T-Bone doesn't either.

Carnivores and Sugar Fiends

I’m surrounded by ‘em. So far, every week I've been at The Job, there's been at least one food-related event – usually two. Every time I turn around, there is some sort of bake sale/sausage wrap fundraiser/silent auction/costume contest going on somewhere in the building. In the first month alone, there was a pie eating contest, a blindfolded Jello eating contest, a Project Runway wacky dress-up contest, and a crazy co-worker costume contest. And when I went in this morning, I was nearly felled by the sights and smells of the barbacoa tacos being shoved down every open piehole. Damn, people, ease up. Then there was much talk of the vast array of donuts, muffins, and heat-and-serve tartlets just begging for a coffee chaser. It’s absolutely non-stop around here.

And don’t even try NOT to indulge because 47 people will come by your office to make sure you know that they’re about to run out of the chicken-on-a-stick so they’re slashing prices and you better haul ass to the break room if you want one. "It’s for a good cause." Yeah, and so were the make-your-own-ice-cream-floats and design-a-funny-hat-out-of-office-supplies contest we had last week. Doesn’t anybody ever work around here? Besides me, I mean?

Oh, and guess who opted OUT of the potluck Thanksgiving free-for-all/cake party tomorrow? Yup. And I loooves me some cake.

Sleigh in The Shop?

Spotted today at a bus stop:

The season's first Dipshit in a Santa Hat.

Congratulations, jackass.

So It Wasn't All Just A Dream

It really happened! A week later, and I’m still so excited about the New Guy. Every time I see a picture of him doing something President-Elect-ish, I smile. Maybe I even wink and give him a thumbs up. I just love the whole idea of purging and re-organizing and preparing to finally Move On. I am so ready, I can’t even tell you.

To add to the euphoria currently enveloping my house, I had the best conversation with Abuelita Turista the other night. She called me to say, "Girl – we did it!" and then to say, "Can you believe That Sarah and all those clothes? She didn’t even look that nice!" She told me she went to Mass to pray for Our New President because "he’s inheriting one helluva mess, idn’t he?" and because she’s worried about the "kooks and the crazies out there" that might try to hurt him. She says she can’t believe that at 90 years old, she was able to help put an African-American, and "an outstanding man," in the White House – something her father would have loved to have seen. Overall, she’s very positive about the outcome, but she can’t exactly share her enthusiasm with the rest of the family down there as they, for whatever reason, went with The Other Guy. And will give her no end of grief if she brings it up. Family. What are you gonna do?

We closed the conversation with our identical thoughts on the New First Daughters – and how much they remind us of Peach and Olive. Nearly the same age, and seemingly the same dispositions. The graceful older sister and the spunky younger sister, both appreciating and enjoying every minute of all this hoop-di-do. When that sweet family walked out together to claim victory on Election Night, THAT is when I lost it. We know that family. We are that family. And I am thrilled for all of us.

C’mon everybody. Group hug.

A Whole New World

So we did it, y'all. HE did it. And I couldn't be happier. Really, truly. I think the sky was a bit more blue when I woke up this morning. And the drive to The Job not quite as painful. And T-Bone's excellent enchilada sauce just a tad more saucy. Amazing what restoring one's faith in The Hearts and Minds of My Fellow Americans can do. That and splitting a split of some old champagne last night with the best looking guy in the place.

USA! USA! USA!

God Bless America

As seen on People.com:

Barack Obama Makes History!
Audrina: LC "Cool" With My Moving Out

Go Vote Now

It will make you feel big and strong. - Bob Schieffer

My favorite sound bite from this whole crazy trip.

Have A Spooky Good Time

I heart Bob and David. This always gets me in the Halloween spirit. YAY candy!

And How Was YOUR Weekend?

Friday night, I thoroughly enjoyed about 15 hours of revelry and Robot-Offs at Karla May’s Bachelorette Extravaganza. I’m sure someone will try to post evidence to the contrary, but I just want to go on record as saying that, other than sleeping with a magazine picture of Chris Robinson in my bed, I was a good girl. I hated to make an early exit, but school carnivals and sick children were already on the agenda for Saturday.

Yes, the long-awaited GGMS school carnival had to carry on without Olive and me as she came down with a touch of The Bug in the wee hours of Saturday morning. T-Bone had only just gotten off the phone (for the second time) with Peach, calling to say goodnight (again) from her dance studio's overnight lock-in, when Olive stirred and said, "Daddy, my tummy h…URL." Once more for good measure, right after he changed her pjs and the sheets (natch), and that was it for the night. Especially considering it was 5 AM at that point. See, this is why I never want to go anywhere – I’m worried Peach and Olive might miss me too much (check) and/or get sick (check and check). T-Bone handled it all very well, but of course both little dumplings collapsed on me as soon as I hit the door. Later, Olive and I watched The Breeders' Cup and then crawled back into The Biscuit for a snooze while T-Bone took Peach to get her sugar and inflatable slide fix at the carnival. So, a perfect afternoon all the way around.

Sunday brought a flurry of activity, including pulling out some cool (because it never really gets cold, right?) weather clothes for some alleged Canadian air scheduled to hit the area this week. I also trimmed back my out-of-control Esperanza bushes, but the Lantana will have to wait. As per usual, I met a couple of neighbors while working in the frontyard, including one whose dog crapped in the flowerbed right in front of me, prompting the dude to say, "Well, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go!" Thanks, asshat. And your little dog, too.

Also, we voted! And we got verklempt! And then we had ice cream!

And then, I had to go to The Job this morning, where I was met, as I have been every day for the past six weeks, with the co-worker who always asks me, "Ya havin' fun yet?" Well, I was ...

Radio Killed The Legal Star

Now that I’m a commuter, I’ve been listening to the radio more than usual. For better or worse. I do have a CD player in the car, but it’s loaded up with kid music (the good kind), and I’m too lazy: a) to choose something from our vast music library (really, T-Bone has some kind of illness, y’all); and b) to go through the multiple (2) steps of actually putting it in the changer. I had an MP3 player T-Bone got me for my birthday a couple years ago, but that GD thing was so user-UNfriendly, like, downright user-hostile, that it just frustrated the crap out of me and I hardly ever used it. SO, I’m left with the radio.

Which is absolute shit.

Basically, you have your choice of about three formats, at least in the non-talk, non-country, non-alternative/co-op milieus. I don’t do NPR, and I still haven’t gotten over the fact that some Holy Rollers took over one of the TWO rock stations we used to have in this town, the alleged Live Music Capital of the World. Anyway, so three formats:

1. KrazeeJammin’OldSkoolZooTeamInTheMorning. Or some variation thereof. There are several of these stations, ranging from oldies (which, apparently now includes the 80s. Kill me.) to All-the-Hits-from-Today! (i.e., people I’ve never heard of and/or want to strangle). They basically all play crappy pop music and are always taking callers for some wacky trivia game or planning some Listener Beach Party Happy Hour. They also always have at least one raspy voiced "Hollywood Insider" gal, who is so full of misinformation and spray-tan fumes that I have the overwhelming urge to send her a subscription to Entertainment Weekly, wrapped around a lit stick of dynamite.
   
2. FratBoyBurnOutCockRock. Ugh. The worst part about this station is the morning show is all talk, just like the DJs, because I’ve seen these jackasses, and I shudder to think of the beasts they hooked up with if even 1/10th of their sexual exploit stories are true. Better yet, the afternoon show is pretty much some dude from Indiana or somewhere and a bunch of drunk guys calling in and cussing him out on the air. Yeah, it’s as stupid as it sounds. I did learn one thing the other day, though. It seems there is a restaurant along the Hooters line called Tilt the Kilt, so anybody looking to make some extra dough for the holidays …
   
3. CorporateSuccubus. There is one local station, which shall remain nameless, (KG*R), that is so firmly attached to the corporate teat that their playlist is about 25 songs long, and TWICE last week, the last song I heard when I got to work was the first song I heard when I left. They try to fool us with all these different "shows" throughout the day, but for the most part, I can name at least 3 artists they will play at nearly any given hour. I mean, I love Lyle Lovett, too, but damn! Come up for air already.

Like I said. Shit. Absolute.

BUT the bright side to this commuting biz is all the crazy stuff I see along the way. Like the W bumper sticker with a little TF? on it. And the one that said "Born Okay the First Time." And then there was the guy in nothing but his butt floss riding his bike AWAY from me down Lamar the other day, smiling his, well, his ass off. And no, it wasn’t Leslie. Finally, the Grand Prize Winner was the guy I saw literally hopping down the sidewalk yesterday with these giant pogo stick things attached to his feet, making him about 9 feet tall. Not counting the rabbit ears he was wearing.

Holy hell, I love this town.

It’s The Christmas Tree’s Fault

So says my aching body after 12 hours of moving furniture. See, I had to move the couch and two chairs and two tables and two entertainment centers and two TVs and a bunch of miscellaneous crapola today because with the previous configuration in my quaint little living room, where-oh-where would Der Tannenbaum go? Two months from now? See?

I’d be lying if I told you that that was the first time I made a design decision, at the risk of life, limb, my sanity, and, possibly, my marriage, based on the placement of the Christmas tree. One of the selling points (for me) of our floor plan was all the windows in the living room, all the better for viewing the Christmas tree. Hell, back in the day, I even passed on rental property because there just wasn’t a good place for the Christmas tree. And many is the time I have arranged other people’s furniture (even if just in my mind) based on outlet location and maximum "TaDA" potential for the Christmas tree. Really. Many times.

And so it was today that I couldn’t fight the urge any longer and decided to strap an armoire to my back and carry it upstairs. Yeah. I decided a while ago that we could do with one TV in the house (shocking, I know) and thereby rid ourselves of the smaller entertainment center and old school (read: heavy as shit) tube TV from the gameroom and replace them with the bigger entertainment center and BigAss TV from the living room. Now, it’s all over but the tweaking (which really never ends), and la familia, even sweet T-Bone, thinks it looks great. And my lovely couch in the living room is thanking me already for prolonging its not-exactly-stain-resistant life. So, it’s all worth it.

A more substantive post when I can muster up the grey matter ...

The News (minus Huey)

Work is going OK, I guess. I’ve been able to adjust my schedule a bit (not one minute less than 40 hours, mind you), so a few days a week, I’ve been coming in at 7:30 and leaving at 4. The traffic still BITES even at that time of day, but at least it’s not nearly 7 when I get home. And this blog post? Written on a break from pushing paper for The Man. So, thank you, taxpayers. Enjoy.

Last weekend, I cut 7 inches off my hair. Nothing fancy - still all one length, pretty much. I am not a "hair" person, so I am very limited in what I can "do" with my hair. The one time I had anything but one length to deal with, well, y’all remember how that turned out. Gawd. I did rock the spiral perm, a la Edie Brickell, back when that reference was actually current, and I have half-considered going back to that many times, what with its true wash-n-wear-ability. Lucky for me, the gal who cuts my hair doesn’t do perms and thereby saved me from myself once again.

Peach is rawking out already on her guitar. She can play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and is working on some Beatles tunes from T-Bone’s "Even YOU can play The Beatles" music book. She is also terribly excited to be in the Waltz of the Flowers number in her dance studio’s holiday show. She and seven other munchkins are the backup dancers, if you will, for one of the big girls on toe, so she’s been flitting and flying all over the house as of late. Well, more than usual anyway.

Olive surprised me yesterday with a lovely song she learned at school. In Italian. Know what’s even cuter than an earnest 5 year old singing? An earnest 5 year old singing in Italian. And twice this week she’s come home in her extra clothes because she’s on dishwashing detail, and she takes it so seriously, it’s actually a full-body experience. Today, she and Peach are staying for an hour in the afterschool program, and I fully expect they won’t want to leave when T-Bone goes to pick them up.

Speaking of wonderful, exciting, and TOP SECRET news (weren’t we?), we have planned a most awesome surprise vacation for those two sugarplums, and I want to tell them so bad, it’s killing me. Details to follow ...

Gimme Five

Today, Olive decided to turn five. And by "decided," I absolutely mean "decided," because for the last few months, she was determined that this day was NOT going to come. She said, repeatedly, that she didn’t want to grow up, was not going to grow up, would not turn five, would stay four forever, and would never again have a birthday or birthday presents or a birthday party, but a "no reason" party with presents might be acceptable, etc..

I think most kids go through a stage here and there where they say they want to be a baby or they don’t want to grow up or whatever. I know I did, and I can remember being about six and just crying in my bed about it. But I got over it. Mostly, anyway. But Miss Olive? I really wasn’t so sure she would. This "stage" was more like a regular series (usually at bedtime) of utter meltdowns, triggered by such innocuous things as saying "Maybe we can get that (usually a horse) for your birthday" or "How was (classmate’s) birthday circle today?" or "Look! That cat on TV is giving birth to kittens." She would get so beside herself, it was pitiful. And when we could finally get to the bottom of it all, she would cling to me saying it was because she doesn’t ever want to leave us. Breaks. My. Heart.

I tried everything to talk her down – Who said you have to leave? You can stay here forever – we’d love for you to stay forever. You don’t have to grow up all in one night, just a little at a time. Think of all the things you can do when you’re bigger. Think of all the things you can do now that you couldn’t do when you were a baby. Yada, yada, yada. But nothing worked. She would finally wear herself out and fall back on the bed, sniffling and spent. And then she was fine. Until the next time.

Determined, as always, to plan a most magical birthday, I floated out different ideas to her, but if it involved, you know, a party, with a cake, and people – God forbid – singing to her, she wasn’t having any of it. Because she wasn’t having a birthday and wasn’t turning five and was staying four forever and on and on again. FINALLY, we saw the preview for a little movie you may have heard of called Beverly Hills Chihuahua. I suggested we go see it and maybe invite a couple of friends and maybe have lunch afterwards and maybe a cupcake or something. And she went for it. As long as everyone understood this was NOT a birthday party. OK. A few days later, during another small scale anti-aging meltdown, I casually mentioned that the various stables near our house have a rule that you have to be six to take riding lessons and wouldn’t that be so fun and something to look forward to and all that. I kid you not, the next morning at breakfast:

Olive: Mommy, how many more days till my birthday?
LT: 17.
Olive: Yes! And then I’ll be five and then I’ll be six and then I can take riding lessons! And then I’ll be eight and I can go on the trailride! And then I’ll be ten, and …
LT: Hold it! Let’s just enjoy being five first. Mommy can’t handle any more than that.

And so today, we pulled off what has been called "the best birthday I ever had." We started with the traditional tiny birthday cake in bed, followed by the traditional birthday circle at GGMS (where the bday child picks a friend to hold a lit candle (the sun), and the bday kid (the Earth) walks around the candle the number of years they've been alive - how cool is that). After school and dance classes, we had the traditional dinner at the restaurant of Olive's choice (Chuy's, natch), followed by the traditional birthday cake and ice cream, birthday presents, and much-beloved treasure hunt around the house. T-Bone is a genius when it comes to making up the clues, and Peach and Olive are so cute, tearing around from room to room, with me bringing up the rear with the video camera, trying not to kill myself. The last clue leads to the Big Present, which was a horse music box filled with new play jewelry. Olive loooooved it. She put on all the jewelry, cranked the music, and just stared at herself in the tiny mirror, while whispering, "This is the best birthday I ever had. I will remember it forever. Every time I look in this mirror, I will remember this day. Thank you, Mommy. I love you." And on and on and on. And yes, I caught it all on tape.

It was a great day. And I will remember it forever. Thank you, Olive. I love you.

One of The Really, Really Good Ones

Just incredibly, impossibly handsome.

A while back, The Hustler was on AMC or something, but I didn't want to watch it then because it was about half over. I put it in our Netflix queue, and guess what showed up in our mailbox today?

Do I Get a Chip?

Seven days working. Methinks that merits a chip or a ribbon or a DRANK. And I've only cried once. A day. Almost every time in the car.

I have to say, the people in my circle of hell are pretty pleasant, and the work itself seems to be fairly low stress, so far, anyway. The cast of characters is all there - The Busybody. The Mother Hen. The Weirdo. The Gunner. The (Barely) Closeted Gay Guy. So that's somewhat entertaining. But The Day? She passes sooooo slowly. I'm watching the clock and thinking of where Peach and Olive are at every moment. For now, the amazing Mama Turista has swooped in to handle afterschool fun and activities three days a week, and T-Bone is taking the other two. Once we all get properly transitioned (if ever), we'll look into hiring someone OR, thanks to my lottery winnings, I'll take the reins back myself. Whichever.

One funny lawyer story: A friend took her tweenage daughter to court with her one day, and the daughter was telling her grandmother about what she saw, including a very strangely dressed woman she described as "bad" (like scary bad). For whatever(!) reason, the grandmother said, "Well, was she a prostitute?" And the daughter said, "No. No, my mom was the only prostitute in the courtroom." And then she said, "It's prosecutor, isn't it?"

I Will Survive

Five days down, 25 years to go. Good grief.

But when I have things like this to spur me on, I know I can make it: Last night, Olive fell asleep on the way home from an impromptu dinner with my BIL and his bunch. As I was carrying her grogginess up to bed, I was whispering, "Let's go get in your bed, my love. My sweet love." etc.. When I put her down, she rolled over and whispered, "My mommy. My gift."

I swear the child is a walking, talking Disney princess.

Hi Ho Hi Ho

It's off to Hell I go. Tomorrow is my first day of work in over eight years. Well, not counting the four and a half years I worked from home for LawNerds. When I quit working to stay home with Peach, she was five months old. She'll be nine years old in December. That's how huge this is for me. For all of us. Granted, Peach and Olive are both happily ensconced in school everyday, but for the first time ever, I'm not going to be here when they get home. And I'm not going to be the one watching their dance classes or taking them to the dentist tomorrow, which just so happens to be the first appointment Olive's had since her procedure in July, so that should be fun.

I always planned on going back to work, and I've been trying to prepare myself for months. But the closer it got, the more things I wanted to make sure to get done before I didn't have the time, and the more I felt like I was preparing to not be here be here. Dramatic, I know, but I'm a Leo, so I'm wired that way. I'm just really sad that a most precious time in my life is over, even though I'm sure there are many more happy days to come, if not between 8 and 6, M-F. I'm so thankful I've had a front row seat to The Peach and Olive Show for this long, but I hate that it's all gone by so fast. And THEN, I have to go and turn 40, on top of jumping headfirst back into the World of Law, a place I didn't really enjoy all that much the last time I visited. What in the fuck am I thinking.

I would love to have a job that was creative and/or helped people and/or made a difference in the world. I would love to work part-time and interfere with my children's routines as little as possible. I would love to work with like-minded people, with families and lives that I could relate to. The Job I'm starting tomorrow is none of those things. Not ONE. The Job I'm starting tomorrow is Gubment Paper Pusher of the First Order, with an agency I interviewed with right out of law school and lost the job to a young upstart with the initials T. Bone. The agency is huge, my office is in a GD ratmaze of a building, and I am the youngest person in my section, by a lot. The Job is full time, balls out, no exceptions, and it is so UNcreative, I was told by my new boss that it borders on being mind-numbingly boring. The Job couldn't be any further from what I want my job to be.

Except that The Job does have a paycheck. A fairly nice paycheck, but not by private sector standards, I'm sure. The Job has great benefits and crazy, made-up holidays like Confederate Heroes Day and LBJ's birthday. And The Job is (hopefully) a springboard to the job I really want, which, when I figure out what that is, I'll let you know.

And for those of you wondering how Abuelita Turista weathered the storm, she's fine and now at my cousin's house, which miraculously has power. She lost some trees, as did both my aunts, who also have houses on the same property, but we are so thankful that the bayou 200 yards from her house didn't get the storm surge they were expecting. As hard-headed as she is, even she admitted that it was bad and unlike any other storm she had been through. And she knows from storms. Maybe, at 90, she's learned a lesson and will get the heck outta Dodge next time, but somehow, I doubt it.

Now I'm off for my nightly weep in the shower.

If You Get a Chance

send any good vibrations you can spare down Galveston way as that dirty bastard Ike is literally knocking on Abuelita Turista's door. And windows. And roof. And she's home.

You Still Here?

Bless your heart. I know I've neglected you these past two weeks, and for that, I do apologize. But the truth is, I've had so much going on, the majority of which I feel pretty ambivalent about, that didn't want to just unload on you. Until now. Kidding. The main thing stuck in my craw is this whole Going Back to Work for the First Time in Eight Years Thing, but there's been good stuff happening to. Which would you prefer? Thought so.

The new school year has gotten off to a wonderful start, with both Peach and Olive thoroughly enjoying their classes. Olive's teacher has said several times already how "eager" Olive is to get new lessons every day and that she moved right into the classroom like she'd always been there. Peach was thrilled to find out that all 3rd through 6th graders will be taking guitar once a week this year, so she and T-Bone scoured the Internets for the perfect 3/4 size classical guitar, which should be arriving momentarily. The girlies have both also settled into their new dance classes, and I think Peach is really hep to do (gulp) The Nutcracker again this year. Lord, deliver me. Actually, it would be with a different, much closer studio than last year, and without all the required fundraising and volunteering bullshit. So we'll see.

In other news, I am healed! Almost! With a pretty gnarly scar on the bottom of my foot, but still! I ended up taking out the GD stitches myself because it was either that or just cut my entire leg off. A couple of days later, I threw down the crutches and have been slowly but surely putting more and more weight on my bum foot. Of course, I have plenty of weight to go, but baby steps, ya know. Literally.

Last week, I spent 45 minutes at the framing counter at Michael's, where the New Girl tried to write up my very simple order but the computers weren't working and the manager was having car trouble and the other manager was on maternity leave and it must have been the coupon that freaked the computer out and can't anybody else in the GD store pick up a friggin' page already? Finally, some 15 year old got the order put in, but I'm really not feeling to confident about the final product. Who the hell knows how it's going to turn out.

The next day, I spent an hour at the Driver's License Office renewing my GD license, which expired on my birthday because that's how effing OLD I am. Yes, I know you can renew online, but I had to show proof of my SS#, probably because they think I'm eligible already, so I joined the masses in the Coldest GD Waiting Room on Earth, which was actually pretty comforting when I considered how many germs were probably dying at that temperature. Such a nasty place. When my number was finally called, I was waited on by absolutely the Most Bitter Government Employee in the History of the World. Really, truly. I'd put my guy up against ANYBODY you got, and he would scare the everloving shit out of them. I called T-Bone afterwards, and I told him that if that building ever goes up in flames or a disgruntled employee ever goes off his nut and shoots up the place, I would TOTALLY know who did it. The only upside to the whole experience was a commercial I saw on the requisite TV set to close-captioning in the waiting room. The captions are on a bit of a delay, so they don't always match up with what's on screen, which annoyed the crap out of me. That is, until I saw a McCain ad followed by a Macy's sale ad. Right when the Macy's Girls were modeling some of their lovely bras and underwears, the caption above them read, "I'm John McCain. And I approved this ad." Yeah, he did.

Shout Out to Mrs. Del Toro

She was my 3rd grade teacher, and she rawked. She was beautiful and smart and funny, and she took no crap from the "bad kids," even though at 9 years old, many of them were already taller than her. That was the first year we got homework, and I remember feeling so responsible and grown up. That was also the year I got glasses (she called me up to her desk one day and say, "Mija, you keep squinting at the blackboard. You need to get those big ojos chocolates checked."), and I just had to have some "gold" aviator frames just like hers. And if I could have gotten away with it, I would have asked my mom for a matching macrame dress and wedgies, too. She was The Shit. So - much love, Mrs. DT, wherever you are.

My Peachy Pie starts her 3rd year at GGMS tomorrow, and she couldn't be more excited. I swear she would have gone back a month ago if they'd have let her. She spent Friday afternoon with her BBFF from school, and they pretty much talked non-stop about school. And not just the fun stuff, but school school, and how they can't wait to get to work. She got a precious letter from her teacher, talking about how she and the other 3rd years are going to be leaders this year with lots of opportunities to help others. Peach really takes that role to heart, and she can't wait to get in there and mix it up with the new kids.

T-Bone and I both love GGMS and have been beyond pleased with Peach's success. Now we're very excited for Olive to finally drink the Montessori Kool-Aid there, too. She had two pre-visits last week, and she starts on Wednesday, feeling very big to be going to school with her "sis." Both my little brainiacs, flying the coop together. Sigh.

I know I have to give you the work update, but all this GD crutching around has me punchy and braindead enough, so I'd rather NOT think about that unfortunate inevitability. These stitches are supposed to come out in the next couple of days, and T-Bone assures me he can do it for me. I know he's a doctor and all, but let's just say I'm not totally comfortable with the idea. I mean, I've played Operation with the guy and beat his ass pretty soundly. Stay tuned ...

I Blew Out My Flip Flop* UPDATED!

Stepped on a ... seashell. THAT'S how I ended up with four stitches in the mutha effin' ARCH of my left foot. See, as opposed to the idyllic beach vacations had by some of my blogging pals, mine ended in blood and shots and an ER doc who couldn't quit telling me how old I was to have a 4 year old. Really. And blood.

Let me the set scene for you. Last Saturday, we bounded out of bed at the coastal condo of dear old family friends, ready to hit the beach. And here's what happened:

11:03 am - We pay $4 to the nice lady in the booth for the pleasure of parking on the beach.

11:05 am - We find the "perfect spot" and begin The Unloading of kids and chairs and towels and beach toys and a cooler, etc..

11:15 am - We begin The Application of The Sunscreen.

11:28 am - We hit the water, which is warm and shallow as the beach is basically a man-made sandbar, with some patches of seaweed or grass or whatever here and there.

11:30 am - The clouds begin to roll in.

11:32 am - Darkness falls across the land, and we see several bolts of lightning in the distance, coming ever closer.

11:33 am - We decide to pack it up and come back after lunch, weather (or near-death experiences) permitting.

11:34 am - As Peach and I are exiting the water, through some of that seaweed or grass or whatever, I step on Something, and think, "Oh. I just stepped on Something."

11:35 am - We hit the beach and Peach says, "Mommy, I stepped on something a little sharp." I reply, "Yeah - me too." To which T-Bone says, "BABE! Your foot!"

11:36 am - I am now standing in what looks like the contents of an entire bottle of ketchup, mixed with sand. I shit you not. Strangely, it doesn't hurt, but I am terrified that Peach has done the same thing. While standing on one leg, I grab her foot for a quick inspection, and she does have a small scrape, but no blood. I'm doing the bleeding for the both of us, apparently.

11:37 am - As the rain starts to fall, I alert Mama Turista to the situation, trying my best not to freak out the children, and then I bleed some more and quickly begin The Loading.

11:38 am - Ever Johnny-on-the-Spot, Papa Turista appears with his First Aid kit and a bottle of water, and cleans and wraps me up the best he can in this totally ridiculous situation.

11:46 am - We're back in the car, sandy and bloody, and on our way out, we ask the nice lady in the booth where one might get stitches if one needed such a thing. And she directs us to "The EMS Place" over there by the post office. Okay.

So here's where it gets even more ridiculous. As if that's possible. We drop the majority of the crew back at the condo, and Papa Turista ferries me to The EMS Place, which turns out to be some kind of compound situation, and there are no cars or, you know, SIGNS to show us where to go or any signs of life or anything. We finally spot one that says, "Yes! We're Open!" and I think, "Gee - that doesn't sound very medical. But maybe it's the copious amounts of blood I've lost." I hobble up to the door of what appears to be a craft fair or fund-raising bazaar (for The EMS Place?) or some shit, with a bunch of blue hairs sitting at folding tables, eating lunch and quilting. They point me in the direction of another building in the compound, and dammit, if PT and I didn't walk around that entire place, trying 8 different sets of doors, and there weren't nobody home. As I retrace my bloody footprint back to the car, thanking God that I'm not in labor or something, I realize that PT has now called 911. Shit. I hear him say, "Yeah, we're here at The EMS Place, over here by the post office. No, it's my daughter who cut her foot. Yeah. She's 40." Oh. My. God. And not only am I light-headed from the trauma and blood and sheer stupidity of the whole thing, but now the rain has stopped, and I am melting in the 90 degree/2000% humidity those poor coastal bastards consider a good weather day.

So we wait. I bleed. And after 10 minutes, PT calls 911 AGAIN. The dispatcher apologizes and says, "Oh, they was at lunch. They should be along directly." And that's when I heard the sirens. The entire fleet (all two of them) of The EMS Place comes roaring into the parking lot, and three EMTs bust out of the back of one of the trucks and drag me over to it. I had never set foot in an ambulance, and I have to say, the sterileness and equipment organization was lovely. If they got better gas mileage, I might be interested in one myself. After a quick assessment, and mad props for PT's First Aid skillz, they suggested I go to the county hospital for stitches, and in fact, offered to take me there, guns blazing. I declined, several times (I think they were bored or training somebody or something), and they wrapped me back up and sent me on my way.

The county hospital was about 15 miles away, and it is exactly what you would expect a tiny county hospital to be. Complete with NASCAR blaring in the ER waiting room. Luckily, we were the only ones there, so I got in and out pretty quickly, if not painlessly. Y'all. I had never had stitches before, even after berfing two babies, and those numbing shots hurt like SHIT. The doc really scrubbed my wound (I hate that word) and decided that the Something that I (and probably Peach) stepped on was a seashell, of which he found evidence in the gaping gash across the bottom of my foot. Through it all, he kept marveling that I was "so old" and "waited so long" to have such young children, and if he hadn't been elbow deep in my flesh and armed with lots of needles, I would have politely ripped him a new one. Or at least made sure that he wouldn't be making any more babies any time soon. Dumbass.

After a trip to Walmart (natch) to pick up my antibiotic prescription (it really was $4, just like in that commercial) and some gauze pads, you know, for the BLOOD, we were back at the condo by about 3 pm. Peach and Olive had been enjoying the pool, and with the arrival of my nephew Opie, they wanted to head back to the (now) sunny beach. So they did. WITH shoes on. And I stayed behind, hopping around the condo until the numbness wore off, and I started reconsidering my refusal of painkillers. I finally gave in and called Dr. Chauvinist, M.D., who called in a prescription to - yep - Walmart. I swear, I don't know what I was thinking before. ALWAYS get the pain meds, my lovelies.

On Sunday, we completed the Walmart trifecta by purchasing some badly-needed crutches (who knew they sold crutches?) because that hopping shit was getting old fast. Like me. I have been to the beach hundreds, nay thousands, of times in my life, without incident, and in one fail swoop, I step on Something and nearly lose a foot and get stitches and crutches for my trouble. And the one thing that escaped me until much much later, after I had bled and traipsed all over the friggin' county, was that I was wearing my GD bathing suit the whole time. In front of God and everybody. Need more painkillers ...

* Actually, Jimmy, I was barefoot at the time. Also, you're an idiot.

UPDATE: Look what I found left up on my computer this morning. This is why I love T-Bone so.

Back in 15 Minutes. Give or Take.

I swear I have not forsaken thee, dear reader(s?), but I've been a bit bizeee these past two weeks. Here's what I've been up to since we last spoke:

• Had my first mammogram (twas normal, thanks)
• Interviewed for and was offered two jobs (more on that later)
• Had my first head-between-the-knees-paperbag-needing hyperventilation episode (see above)
• Spent my first night ever without Peach and Olive in the house
• Went "out" twice in one week for the first time in 8+ years
• Watched a shitload of Olympic swimming
• Found evidence of "field mice" (NOT rats) in my flower bed
• Sat inside my first ambulance (more on THAT later)
• Got my first stitches (ditto)
• And my first crutches (oy)

I know. Glamorous, right? Well, at least Mrs. Squirrel thinks so, as she awarded me some Order of Blogging KickAssery trophy or something. See:

I Am An Official Cougar

So the planets aligned in just such a way that I was at Target yesterday and spotted a lone Wii Fit, sitting in its little locked case, calling to me to spring it. I've been tempted before, and for the past couple of months, Papa Turista has been on one of his hell-bent-for-leather missions to get me one for my birthday. It was really meant to be, you see, because when I called to tell him to call off the dogs, the eagle has landed, and all that, I actually GOT him on the phone - which never happens on the first 30 tries. So I took it as a sign, a $89.99 + tax sign, to buy the GD thing. And so I did, and we hooked it up last night, and my new workout Mii is named - wait for it - Mama Miia. And you know what else? Even though T-Bone and I had nearly identical BMI scores (which I'm sure is not a good thing for one us, probably me, but we were at least in the "normal" category), his Wii Fit age is a full 16 YEARS younger than mine. So at the ripe old Wii age of 43, I have trapped me a 27 year old cub. Or pup. Or yearling or whatever.

Must now return to my Weather Channel vigil as all of Mama Turista's family lives in the Galveston area. I called to check on my grandmother last night, and she told me she had already battened down the hatches and was watching the Teen Choice Awards(!) because that "sweet Little David from The Idol" was going to be on. She's 90. God only knows what else she had to endure before she saw him. And yes, I'm expecting a call any minute so I can confirm for her "just which one of those brothers is named Jonah."

Sunglasses at Night

According to our outdoor thermometer, it was 104 today. That's 4 degrees over "way too effin' hot." Seriously, I'm a Native Texan, and I know it gets hot in the summer. And the spring. And the fall. And December. But HOLY Lord, this is ridiculous. Last summer, we hardly went outside because of all the rain. Remember that stuff? This summer, we're held captive by the very real fear of spontaneously exploding into a ball of flames every time we open the door. And did I mention that our house faces due WEST? Yeah, so late afternoon and early evening are a barrel of fun if you're sitting in the living room, what with the blinding prism rays from the cut glass in the front door shooting all over the place, burning your retinas. And doing wonders for my proclivity for light-induced migraines. Yay! We knew when we built the house that this might be "an issue," but we sure as hell weren't anticipating actual crippling injury to person and property because of it. I do, however, deeply love everything else about our house, so if I have to avoid certain areas (like the entire front half of the house) for a few hours each day, then so be it. So suck on that, Mr. Sun, you asshole.

Speaking of assholes, we've chosen to avoid the heat by staying indoors a good portion of the day, and I can now officially say that I hate anyone named Michael and/or who has a Hobby and/or who lives in a building with a Lobby. It looks like a GD craft store exploded in my kitchen. And now I'm off to finish my sparkly unicorn hook rug oven mitts.

They're Already Planning a 25 Year

We voted on it. While listening to the Chief of Police's band. Yes, we're back from the Land of Sheep and Cotton, and I can report that T-Bone's reunion was actually pretty fun - and funny. There were three events over the weekend, so it felt kind of like when you're in a wedding, and every time you turn around, you have to get dressed up and go eat somewhere. Which I hate. But I know several of his friends, so it wasn't like I was ever left stranded without anyone to talk to. They also had an awesome continuous slideshow of awful 80s fashions and hair (hellyeah, T-Bone had the West Texas Mullet), and there were the requisite pictures of wacky school pranks and illicit keg parties. And one picture of The Pregnant Girl. Umm ... yeah. I asked T-Bone who she was, and he DIDN'T know. How do you NOT know The Pregnant Girl in high school? Whatever. And while I didn't have time to craft my own long-lost classmate character to portray, there were plenty of real characters to observe and read about in the class directory.

Ahh, the class directory - the source of hours of entertainment already, I will cherish it always. Former Bobcats (or 'Cats, if you wanna be cool about it) were asked to submit their standard contact information, spouse, kids, etc., and then, should they feel so compelled, answer the question: What have I been doing these last 20 years? And then the floodgates opened, y'all. Now I'm not sure if they understood that this was going to be printed and passed out to several hundred people or they thought no one would read it or they just consider a high school class reunion directory to be the appropriate place to confess their sins and air their very dirty laundry and bizarre personal histories, but I enjoyed the HELL out of it. Here are but a few gems (as printed) I culled for your reading pleasure:

What have I been doing these last 20 years?

• Lovin' the Horns, hunting, and NASCAR
• After missing my actual graduation by one credit, I joined Job Corps in New Mexico ... moved home, and then, like an ignoramus, moved back to New Mexico, where I learned first hand what gang life was all about.
• Staying at home has been the equivalent of poking my eyes out every day, but I would not trade it for the world ... My boys certainly know who RUSH and Kansas are!
• Makin Babies! LOL! ... At a [semi-pro] hockey game, I met my soul mate and love of my life. Dammit if he didn't get me pregnant 4 more times! I never thought in a million years I'd have this many kid's! LOL!
• I have a four year old cat named Royal and he is fabulous!
• Hi everone! Writing this wasn't all that easy, but here it is ... My son is a handsome, gifted boy. I married his father 2 times, but we just can't seem to make it work, so life moves right along ... I have a very special friend in my life. He is a farmer and farms about 4000 acres of crops which are oats, wheat, onions, cotton, maze, and Mexican fan palm trees ... I had forgotten how great a man could treat me and make me feel so special.
• I have had my peaks and valleys, but in general I have been happily enjoying life ... I've made some good decisions, bad decisions. Some I regret, but mostly, I see them as the path that has led me to where I am. And I am o.k. with that.
• A little bit of everything, and a lot of nothing ... I was married, but that would take too long to talk about now.
• I own a brake place and still work at Pizza Hut (been there 16 years).
• I have a daughter, which has pretty much stopped me from going out all the time. Now just been working as photo manager at Walgreen's ... Hopefully will go on a cruise for my 40th birthday and meet the man of my dreams! [even though she listed a spouse in her contact info]

Also, lots of professional bios written in the third person, some very complicated, and extremely detailed, marital histories, and a few outright lonely hearts ads, complete with turn ons and turn offs. This shit is SO right up my alley. Laughing too hard to type anymore ...

There Will Be Singing

I went to see Mama Mia! with a gaggle of gals last night, including the lovely Karla May and the lovely Jaye, and the soundtrack of my youth has been on continuous play in my head ever since. KM and I had seen the Broadway show some years ago, and we loved it, but it seems Miss Jaye was not quite prepared for the "musical" component of this cinematic masterpiece, so nearly two hours of fits of laughter and tears later, I was glad to see she made it through the thing. I was worried there for a minute, honestly. For those of you who are similarly untouched by the stage version, be warned: There will be singing. Copious amounts of singing. In places where you would least expect it. By people who you are not used to seeing or, God love Pierce Brosnan, hearing "sing." So get ready.

In other news, we're off today for T-Bone's 20th high school reunion. So for those of you keeping score, yes, I married a younger man. Sixteen months younger, and he never tires of the old "age before beauty" gag as he opens the door for me. My standard reply is always, "Yeah, that's funny. Every time." And then we go about our business. Anyway, I can't decide how I want to play this thing - straight or try to convince people that I went to school with them and they just don't remember me. We'll see what kind of mood I'm in once we get there.

Also, I made my boob squishing appointment. Any tits? I mean, tips?

The Old Gray Mare

She really ain't what she used to be. On Saturday, I rang in today's momentous occasion with The Crue (yeah, we were cool like that) from high school, and it took me until Monday evening to recover. 48 hours, y'all. And I didn't even drink all that much. The Iron Gut is no longer. It has been replaced by The Flabby Fish Belly That Is Sensitive to Rich Foods Soaked in Alcohol. I never got sick, per se, but I felt like crap on a crutch for a good while there, particularly on the drive home from Sand and Stonio the next day. In the white hot afternoon sun. Ouch.

But oh, did we have fun. The kind where your stomach hurts from laughing and you're still sore the next day. It's been officially decided that I have a mind like a steel trap, at least regarding all hijinx and petty crimes that may or may not have been committed by one or more members of said Crue, and if money was involved, I could probably win some kind of Supreme Savant of High School Memories contest. And I'm proud to say that of the 10 of us, everyone is still happily married, with 1-4 kids, and doing very well. As we were shutting down the place after dinner, a fellow diner, who I'm sure was glad to finally get the hell outta there, came over to the table to say, "Y'all sure have a lot of fun together!" Yes, we do. We did, and we do, and, Jeebus willing, we will continue to. But I'm thinking once a year is probably all my insides can handle.

And speaking of handling things, so far, at least in the 90 minutes I've been awake, I'm handling the being 40 thing pretty well. Olive and I have some adventures planned for the day (Peach is with the in-laws), and just for fun, I think I may make my first mammogram appointment as a birthday present to myself. How very middle-aged and responsible of me.

T Minus 7 Days and Counting

Until I'm 40. Really, I know you think I'm kidding, but the number doesn't bother me that much. Yeah, so it sounds weird to say, especially when I can vividly remember my mom's surprise 40th birthday party, and the brownies I made my dad when he made the leap. And it freaks me right the eff out when I think that our next president (Jeebus willing) will be just about 7 years older than me. But other than that, it's cool. And again, what can I do about it anyway?

It's just that this milestone birthday happens to come at a time of great change in the ol' casa, so I think I'm feeling it a little more than I expected I would.

In the six months before my 30th birthday, I got married, graduated from law school, took the Bar, and had a most spectacular unicorn-themed birthday party a week later, complete with a pinata that I believe Daddy O finally destroyed with a fence post. Within the next year, I passed the Bar, got a job, moved to Austin, and got pregnant with Peach. A lot has happened since then, most significantly, the birth of Olive and the building of two houses, but for the most part, we've been (thankfully) fairly untouched by drama or turmoil.

Today, however, I'm facing the fact that this fall, both of my little birds will be out of the house, all day, every day, and I'm therefore dipping ever further into the job market waters, pathetic as they are right now, as I try to make the jump from Stay-at-Home Mom to Work-From-Home Mom to full-fledged Working Mom. I have lots of mom friends that have always worked, and lots of mom friends that have always stayed at home, but none, so far, have made the leap from one to the other, so I'm on my own here. Obviously, even after almost nine years with me at home, the change would be more significant for La Familia if Peach and Olive weren't in school, but just wrapping my own head around the fact that I may not be able to go to every program and field trip and dance class is pretty hard. I'm so thankful I've been able to spend as much time with them as I have, and any supposed "sacrifices" T-Bone and I have made to make that happen have been minimal. We chose to raise our family this way, and now we have to move on to the next phase of the plan - steering clear of the poorhouse. Plus, I'm still paying for my law degree, so I guess I should try and put it to good use, however reluctantly.

So, I'm a little blue, not because of the number but because the time between the last big birthday and this one, joyful as it has been, has gone by way too quickly, and I'm worried about the changes to come, especially in the next few months. And as I look ahead 10 years to the next big birthday, one of my little birds will not only be out of the house every day, but also flying much further away, to her own on-campus nest. So I've got that harsh truth to look forward to as I ring in 50. Joy.

But fear not, dear reader(s?). Come next Wednesday, I will wake up with a smile on my face and don my obligatory baby picture/"Lordy Lordy Look Who's Forty" mall cart T-shirt with pride. And then commence drinking. Sounds like a good day to me.

It's All Good

Olive came through her procedure like a champ, but I can't say the same for her mama. I just have to ask - is it really necessary to go through all the pre-op paperwork, most of which includes questions I've answered on at least three other sets of forms, and highlight every worst-case scenario and chance of a highly improbable infected needle-sticking incident right in front of the wee patient, who, by the way, is here for this procedure because she has a bit of anxiety when it comes to things like shots and medicine and people in masks giving her shots and medicine?! After the first couple of ridiculous warnings and disclosures and disclaimers, I started cutting the nurse off before she could get to the "good" part and just said, "Yes - okay - I get it," and signed on the umpteenth dotted line. GD lawyers, scaring the everlovin' outta my baby just to cover the hospital's ass. At least the anesthesiologist had the good sense to cut her canned speech short when she clearly saw that not only was Olive getting upset just by being in our sterile little 5x8 cubicle (Little Einsteins on a fuzzy TV be damned), but that she also understood exactly what was being said, no matter how the nurses or whoever tried to dance around it. Anyway, she finally agreed to swallow a bit of Versed(?), which allegedly will make her forget the whole thing, but she wasn't "out" when it came time to wheel her away, and that pitiful image was heartbreaking. So much so, that as I followed at a short distance and finally propped myself up at the corner of Public and Restricted Space, two different doctors came by and asked me if I was okay. No, not really. That shriek you just heard? That's my 4 year old wondering where in the hell she is and what in the hell she did to deserve this.

About 10 minutes later, she was totally "under," and about 30 minutes later, the dentist came by to say she was through. Another 30 or so minutes later, a tiny, groggy person was rolled into our cubicle, and the first thing she said was, "I want to go home. Now." I got in the bed with her for a good while as she vacillated between sleep and quiet tears and "I want to go home. Now." After she rallied enough to stay awake, she downed a popsicle, and we were given our walking papers. In the car, I had some new sparkly bath stuff and a big compact of kid makeup waiting for her as a surprise, and she and Mama Turista had lovely purple shadow on before we left the parking lot. She managed to stay up the rest of the day and never complained or even mentioned anything about the whole ordeal. I want to explain it more fully to her, but I almost think that, for now, it's better just to leave it alone. And pray that that amnesia juice worked.

Overall, I'm glad that if I had to do it this way, it went as well as I could have hoped, and there was enough work to justify putting her under general anesthesia. It was hard enough doing it once, so God Bless those of you who have had to do it repeatedly as a matter of course. I can't imagine the stress.

When I put her to bed last night, I asked Olive how she felt, and she said, "Fantastic." And, now that it's over, so do I.

When It Rains, It Pours

And I'm not talking about these little BS 10-minute "storms" we've been having the past few days. By the way, they have a word for girls like you, Mutha Nature, and it rhymes with "trick pease." I'm just saying.

No, I'm talking about the outpouring of moo-lah that's been happening around here lately. First, there was the many hundreds of dollars check I wrote for Olive's dental surgery tomorrow (continue reading as I freak right the eff out about that). Then there was the several hundreds of dollars check I wrote Super Handyman for all the work he's still in the process of doing because the friggin' "rain" keeps slowing things down. Again, thanks a heap MN. Ya bitch. Finally, there was the several hundreds of dollars check I wrote today for new glasses since I mothereffin' BROKE mine yesterday. Straight across the bridge. I was talking to Super Handyman outside when another "deluge" started, so I took my glasses off to dry them, and they totally fell apart in my hands. And I swear it sounded just like, "at least 300 bucks" when they broke. The problem is, I have no backup glasses (and only two pairs of contacts left, which I loathe), unless you count the ones from three prescriptions ago, which I tried to wear while I continued ninja-cleaning the house, only to aggravate my already throbbing headache. Then I tried the old tape job on the broken ones, and the perspective was so messed up after a while that I truly almost puked. I gave up and donned my prescription sunglasses for the rest of the evening, wearing them straight through until I laid my wee head down around 1 am. I am just that awesome.

So now I have some nifty new frames, but I can hardly celebrate because I'm consumed with worry about Olive's surgery. She was the lucky recipient of my tooth anatomy, so her molars have very deep crevices in them and are hard to keep clean. I had mine sealed when I was about 7 or so, but she is getting a cavity in one of them, so we have to fill it and seal them all now. Because she's not a big fan of the dentist, or shots, or pain in general, and because I only want to have to do this once, the dentist recommended we do the procedure in the hospital, under general anesthesia. To say I'm freaked out is putting it mildly. I'm okay with the dental stuff, it's just when they say things like "IV" and "intubate" and "at least 60 minutes" that I want to throw up. I've been assured by many medical and dental professional friends, including my cousin, The Dentist, who is truly the smartest person on the planet, that it is very routine and will all go swimmingly, but I would by lying if I said I'm completely convinced. I don't particularly want her to have a mouthful of cavities or abscessed teeth or holes in her head, but I just wish we could do this another way. Or not at all. That works, too.

Anyway, if you think about it, we could use some good thoughts, vibrations, or whatever else you can spare at 6 am tomorrow. Thanks.

Where Am I?

Seriously, I don't DO the back-to-back, multi-location travel thing very often, so it really throws me for a loop. Like, I woke up one day last week in this reeeaaally boring presentation on the evolution of the Petition Clause, and I thought, howinthehell did I get here? I hardly remembered doing 49 loads of laundry, weeding the front and back flowerbeds, packing for me and mine, and visiting my nemesis the orthopedic doc the day before and THEN driving to friggin' Houston in the 5 o'clock traffic. I barely recalled fighting the morning rush hour traffic the next day (in which I travelled 20 miles in 78 minutes), only to be met with the most godawful humidity as I stumbled my way into the State Bar BoreFest, my hair growing ever-larger with every step. I really think I would have to shave my head if I lived there, and I'm not even kidding.

Somehow, I landed in an hours-long Family Law forum, right in the middle of which I remembered, I. Hate. Family. Law. Sorry, but it's depressing. I did however enjoy a spirited diversity forum and a most inspiring presentation from an old coot from Lubbock (his words) who represented several detainees in Guantanamo. Color me educated and impressed. Lunch with Ms. Karen included several thinly-veiled potshots at Obama (pitiful, really), but I was mostly distracted by her ladies basketball coach haircut anyway. Why? Just, why?! Friday's lunchtime immigration debate was interesting, but my favorite presentation was led by a Cali non-lawyer, showbiz-type dude and showed how television impacts juries. It was awesome because we got to watch tv and movie clips. And I got free popcorn and a tote bag from LawNerds, my former corporate master. I rounded out the day with an entertainment law Q&A with Beyonce's daddy and his legal mouthpiece, and some clown actually asked who wrote B's pre-nup. Hearty laughter all around. Except for me.

Mama Turista brought Peach and Olive down after information bible school on Friday, and the party rolled on from my cousin's house to Abuelita Turista's casa to the Gulf of Mexico. There were fireworks, carousels, and WALL-E. There was sand, surf, and Schlitterbahn. And there was food. My Lord, the food. Also, there were about 68 rounds of Chickenfoot and 437 hands of gin. And one trip to the Lego store (yes, they have one!). We rolled back into town yesterday, only to hit the ground running this morning to see Kit Kittredge, which Peach and Olive loved, even though they don't know the dolls from Adam. Or Eve, as it were. We've got plans with my BIL's crew for tomorrow, and other than that, I've got plans for my big fat ass, my lovely couch, and a full slate of TiFauxed goodness. See ya next week ...

So, The Trip Report

On the heels of the coldest winter in 40 years, it was pleasant and beautiful last week in our little Colorado burg - cold, even. A couple of days, it didn't even get above 50 degrees, a full 50 degrees cooler than it was (and still is) here at home. What is up with THAT? Anywho, the weather was great, and we found plenty of snow for sledding and snowballs. Our raft trip, however, was cancelled due to freaky high winds, but we did hit the stables a couple of times. Olive met up for Round Two with Spirit, who has gotten so fat, he is now being trained to pull a cart so he can shed a few lbs.. He's still a sugah, though. And Olive has informed us she has "finally decided" that when she grows up, she is going to be a wrangler there. Glad we got that settled.

No trip to CB is complete without a visit to the grooviest pizza joint on the planet. Seriously, look:

Why yes, you do sit on the floor. And the pie is delish. Namaste, y'all.

Also, T-Bone and I got to see the new Indy movie (loved it!), and we took the wee ones to see Kung Fu Panda (skedoosh!). Somebody beat me to my million dollar idea of bringing back the town theatre as an Alamo-type venue, but they've gone heavier into the booze area and not so much with the food yet. Not that I'm complaining. Now I'll just have to redirect my efforts to live there part-time into my other money making scheme - opening a kickass raspa stand there in the summer. How awesome would THAT be?!

On the way out west, we spent the night in Carlsbad, and indeed, we went to the Caverns. The bat show the night before was (according to Olive), "utterly boring," so I'd skip that if I were you. Especially if you've ever seen our bats - so much better. The Caverns themselves, though, were just as cool as I remember from when I was 10, and my little rockhounds couldn't get enough. They walked over two miles and were way too busy to complain. And how often do you get to say that you went potty 750 feet underground?

We also spent one night in Taos and went to the Pueblos, which I had never done before. It was so very interesting, and the colors were beautiful, natch:

And guess who we saw in Santa Fe on the way back? After 1o hours in the car, we needed a reward, so we stopped at Pasqual's for a late lunch, and Little Miss Samantha was there, filming her show. She's pretty cute in person, and Mama Turista totally accosted her, asking her if she "ever eats anything! So tiny!" Peach was enthralled with the whole process, and since the joint is so small, I'm sure she's in a shot or two. If we didn't collectively look like crap on a stick at the time (and if I had remembered to bring my camera in), I would have gotten some pictures, but no. Just imagine a sweaty Amazon (me) standing next to Tinkerbell (Sammy), and you get the idea.

Now we're back home, but I'm off again tomorrow. Peach and Olive are in "information" bible school this week, so T-Bone is in charge, and I've got to go to the State Bar BoreFest in Houston. Yes, I'll allegedly be entertained and educated by the likes of her and him, but thankfully, my best friend from law school will be there, no doubt with a flask in tow. God bless her. Mama Turista's bringing las ninas down on Saturday for a few days, but I'll be back in time to douse my crunchy grass and tinderbox plants before the fireworks go off, so until then, peace!

ONN

I do enjoy me some Onion news, but these three videos from the Onion News Network really spoke to me this week.

After a particularly harrowing visit to the pediatrician with Olive this week, which included a surprise booster shot and the requisite fallout therefrom, I asked her later if she would promise to forget the whole horrible incident, and she whimpered, "Yes, Mommy. I forgive you." Broke. My. Heart. Until I saw this:



Next, y'all know I'm a huge drama geek, right? And you still tolerate me anyway, right? Well, this brilliant piece of "news" speaks to me on so many different levels, I can't even tell you:



And finally, I've spoken with you people before about some of the more disturbing food trends being thrust upon this already portly country of ours, so truly, this is only a matter of time: