A Musical Interlude

I love this: Yesterday, as Peach, Olive, and I were walking my darling nephew, Opie, around our neighborhood hike-and-bike trail, Peach was humming something vaguely familiar. When I asked what it was, she said, "I'm stuck on that Beatles song, I'm not sure what it's called." I asked her to sing it, and she belts out, "You say you want a revolution ..." and in perfect time and perfect pitch, Olive answers, "Well, you know ..." and then together, "We all want to change the world ..." Rocked.

Speaking of, T-Bone and I half-watched the Grammys last night, skipping through the majority of it because, hello, I don't know most of these people nor do I know their music. BUT when Mr. Morris Day came out, we had to put the brakes on so I could bust out my own Jungle Love. I love The Time. When I was in high school, I saw them at The Sunken Gardens in San Antonio, where they headlined a show with (ready?) Lisa Lisa and The Cult Jam AND The Fat Boys. Can you dig it?! I was so cool.

Oh, and I've decided that of all the junkie singers I've loved in my day (The King, notwithstanding), Amy Winehouse is my favorite. Sistagirl is one talented mess, and I do so enjoy her. One day at a time, Ames. One day at a time.

P.S. Did anybody else scream in horror at the size of 'Retha's rack?! Damn, y'all! I told T-Bone that just one of her boobs was as big as my head, and he said, "Oh, come on. Your head's not that big."

No Respect

T-Bone got an email sent by opposing counsel to his client regarding T-Bone's handling of the client's case. A lot of emails had been flying back and forth about an impending hearing that, unless the client comes up with the evidence required by law to prove his case, T-Bone will win, hands down. The client wants to fight, but opposing counsel knows: a) they don't have the evidence, so they will lose; and b) his fee alone for taking the case to hearing is more than the assessment the client would be required to pay, so the client's going to be pissed either way. So what does this esteemed member of The State Bar do? The obvious, which is throw T-Bone under the bus BUT not without making a complete ass of himself in the process by accidentally CCing T-Bone on this message:

I am sending this email string to you so you can get a little taste of the resistance we are facing ... The opposing counsel, T-Bone, is just not going to deal with us. There is a rule directly on point, and in his mind, that is the end of the story. He is not going to do the right thing here which is to assume we (have the required evidence). Without (it), we are dead in his mind and he won't even agree to meet to try to just do a walk away. If T-Bone was not such a robot, we might have been able to work a deal with him but his world is just too black and white.

If you know T-Bone, you know that he is the most non-confrontational, easy-going guy around, and even HE was like, WTF? So he called the guy, who was totally confused and mortified and semi-apologetic. Then he said, "You know I don't mean that, right? It's just part of the game. We just can't win ... blahblahblah." See, it's assholes like that that make people hate lawyers. But I'm pretty sure anybody that resorts to grade school name-calling and can't figure out how to use Outlook properly is a fucking idiot anyway. It just so happens he's also a lawyer.

FAT Tuesday, Indeed.

So before I swear off "food in bags" for the next 40 days (again), I started the day by blowing all my WW flex points for the week on two bean and cheese tacos with some of the best guacamole in the universe at Taco Shack. And their hot sauce? Also divine. SO worth it. I love that damn place, but I'm so glad they haven't moved down south yet (I've asked before - they said they're scared of Maria) or I would have needed to go back on WW a lot sooner. I did have a Diet Coke with my feast though, so at least there's that.

Yeah. I've put my giant ass back on the wagon. I decided over the holidays that I didn't want to hit my 40th bday at my highest, non-pregnant weight, and I had good luck with WW after Peach was born, so we'll see. I won't bore you with the details, but just know that I don't plan on buying any pinkie rings, tanning memberships, or little red Corvettes for my little mid-life crisis. No. I'll just be happy if the backs of my arms stop moving when I do.

Ya Wanna Know Cute?

Peach and T-Bone went to a real live Father Daughter dance last night. And she came home just as sweaty and sugared up as I expected. She was a little disappointed that they didn't win any of the fabulous (really) door prizes, but the artificial corsage he presented her with, which, of course, I will keep forever, lessened the sting. Plus, she was too busy eating giant cupcakes and doing the ChaCha Slide and YMCA to care. A lucky few daughters and (insert special men in their lives) were chosen to participate in a "Do You Know Your Daughter?" Newlywed-type game show, and Peach and T-Bone played along from their table. In answer to "Her Favorite Restaurant," T-Bone incorrectly guessed "Romeo's," as Peach claimed, "It's La Madeline, Daddy. I LOVE the spinach quiche." And while he nailed the "What Does She Want To Be When She Grows Up" question, (answer (today): doctor), the dad of the 5 year old on stage missed with "President of the United States," as his little angel answered "Mermaid."

The getting-ready for the big date was pretty exciting in itself. Peach instructed T-Bone to wear his black suit with the pink (natch) shirt and tie she picked out for him for Christmas two years ago. And, of all things, she insisted on wearing this:

Don't make 'em like this anymore, do they? Yes. It was mine. My mom LOVED this dress so much, she kept it lo these many years. And Peach thinks it's SO fancy. She wore it to The Nutcracker last year, and I thought that was probably the end of it, save for any dress-up fun of the Little House on the Prarie variety. But no. The minute she found out about the dance, she declared that this was THE dress, so off she went, her apron strings (yes) tied neatly in a bow. And as I was taking the requisite pictures before they left, Olive, standing next to me with those giant, dark eyes wide, breathlessly said, "You look beautiful, Sissy."

Didn't I tell you? Cute.

The Year of Blogging Sporadically

Five posts in all of January? Pathetic. I don't know what's been in the blogosphere water lately, but I know many folks around here are dealing with mild to severe cases of lack-of-inspiration-itis, and I think I caught it, too. Blah.

I will tell you this, though: I remembered the other day, while watching Peach and Olive devour a bottle of banana milk (their self-selected "treat" from the grocery store last weekend - eww), that I used to love stuff like that. Like, I loved Laverne DeFazio so much, and I always wondered what milk and Pepsi would taste like, but my parents hated Pepsi, so all we had was Coke, and I thought that would taste different, so I was screwed, right? Wrong. I had the BRIGHT idea of combining milk and ... Big Red, the super sweet, super carbonated, born-in-Texas red drink that we always had on hand, thanks to my dad's incredible sweet tooth. I LOVED it. And sometimes, I thought it wasn't quite sweet enough, so I would add Strawberry Nesquik, too - heaping spoonfuls! It's a wonder I have any teeth left in my head at all.