Amateur Night

I am proudly the DD tonight and I'm certainly NOT referring to my gals.

Off to a fancy schmancy dinner at Flemings, then on to my bff's casa where we have high hopes that we'll stay up until at least 12:15.

I know, I know, it's gonna get CRAZY up in here.

Of all the nights to go out on the town however, this night is our least favored for sure. All the newbies, first-timers and buzzed texters will be out tonight and we'd just as soon say "Happy New Year" at home in front of the TV.

Wait. What? I HAVE become my mother. I'm making good sense. I'm thinking like the responsible adult I never necessarily wanted to be.

I'm a professional.

Little Blue Close Call

Why oh why, out of all the presents underneath our tree, did the puppy decide to destroy the Tiffany's box?? The perfect blue box, tied so perfectly with the white ribbon. Mutilated and strewn all over the front room and no evidence of it's contents.

I was gone maybe an hour and this is what I found when I returned. I scoured the house, every room, under the tree, under the sofa, under chairs and tables, and beds and even under rugs. I didn't even know what I was looking for, but I assumed the box had not been empty.

After an hour of finding nothing and contemplating a doggy gut x-ray (preceding surgery of course), I finally had to call my friend to ask what exactly I should be looking for. You see, her amazing parents had sent me a gift for Christmas and I was so excited when the beautiful blue box arrived, I very proudly placed it under the tree, content to wait until Christmas morning to open it.

"A bracelet," my bff explained. A big beefy toggle bracelet with the famous Tiffany's "return to" heart. "OK," I thought. There's NO WAY this tiny dog could've eaten that big 'ole thing.

I kept searching. Everywhere.

The third time I searched under the tree, I decided to just move the damn thing and whadaya know...there it was. I guess the third time really was a charm--a Tiffany's charm.

My best guess is that when she shook the box, like doggies do, the force propelled the contents far beneath the tree's substantial tree skirt of at least six yards of tulle and silk. There had to have been some serious speed on that bracelet.

In any event, I discovered and recovered my brand spanking new pretty thing and no family pets were harmed in the search. More specifically too there was no poop watch, no incisions and no screaming or confused children.

...and a good time was had by all.

Grocery Store Terror

I pulled into the grocery store today to do a little shopping. The parking lot was packed but I lucked out with a primo spot right up front. I turned off the car and prepared myself to go on in.

But when I stepped out of my car, I got scared.

It was then that I really noticed ALL THE FRIGGIN' PEOPLE, the energy was tangible, like CrAzy crowded and I wasn't even in the dang store yet.

I considered the next hour and a half of my life, nearly wept on the spot in sheer terror, then got back in my car.

I'm going to sleep now, as my plan is to be at Central Market by 6:15 AM.

Big Bad Wolf In Da Crib Y'all

Geez, I named my blog appropriately.

Whoa.

I just found out that my Dad's only sibling, my 77 year old Uncle Jim was just arrested in my hometown over the weekend on thirteen, yes 13, felony counts spanning everything from a gun charge to the cultivation of weed, not to mention intent to distribute meth and prescription drugs. There may even be more charges forthcoming and a link between him and the recently disgraced and suspended assistant district attorney.

Don't change that channel. We'll be right back after this message from "Life Alert."

Holy cow folks, he's almost 80.

He's been seen around town for years with REALLY young girls and been known to bail several out of jail time and again for years and now I think I understand the how and why... "Grandpa, what good drugs you have."

Um, gross.

Additionally and just to disgust you even more, the authorities also discovered an apparent "sex room" complete with tons of porno and...um...toys. I KNOW! I just threw up in my mouth a little too.

CRAZY. See, it just follows me around.

I haven't had anything to do with my Uncle, like EVER. I hardly knew him growing up basically because my Dad always described him as a "wild man" and subsequently we didn't exactly spend any time with him.

He was the kind of guy who had a new "business card" every year at Christmas and my parents would always smirk about how he was somehow always the "president" of whatever company he supposedly worked for that year.

Then about eleven years ago, he ran into big financial problems , filed bankruptcy and moved home to tiny town Louisiana so my grandparents could literally support him and his family, financially providing for every aspect of his life.

Now that they've passed, he's seen fit to turn my grandparent's house into HQ for his apparently very lucrative sex and drug operation since he bonded out the almost $200k within hours of his arrest and back to Grandma's house he went.

The Repo Man's at the Door

Well this was weird.

Last night after 8:30 our doorbell rings. Big dog, little dog start going bonkers, kids had just laid down so they jump up curious. My husband and I go to the door and it was strange.

"Rockey Nevarez?" some dude says. We were like, "What?"

At that moment on our front porch stood a real live repo-man and he was there to repossess a 2007 white Volvo S60 from a Rockey Nevarez who hadn't made his car payment in more than five months.

What's really strange is that we totally know him. He happens to be the sleazy ex-husband of one of our dear friends and "Mike" (the re-po man) showed us his document which included an apparent narrative direct from Rockey explaining that our address was his address. Um. OK.

Nope, Rockey's never lived here man. Move along...

Cue that word again. CRAZY.

And to Rockey Nevarez, where ever your lame ass is: you may wanna take care of your $hit, you a$$hole loser!

I feel that way because Mike explained to us that it's his (and other repo expert's) usual practice to ring doorbells at 3am. He only rang our bell early because he was legitimately in our neighborhood on a paid call and figured he'd give it a rare pre-bedtime try.

Lucky for us.

Tom's Update

So, it turns out Tom's shoes are (insert foreshadowing dramatic music) MADE IN CHINA.

(GASP)

I'm not happy about this and it totally takes some of the sparkle out of my sequined kicks. I don't know...there's just something so hypocritical here.

Still, they remain oh so comfy and cute. I guess I just love them a little less. I try and notice the "made in" labels on things but with all the Tom's press and their much publicized and far-reaching mission to provide shoes for kids across the world, I just assumed they were made in somewhere more respectable and less oppressive.

NYC, Not So Much

I'm in deep like with NYC, but it's definitely NOT love.

I finally went to NYC this week and my sister-in-law and I had a ball eating and drinking our way through the city, but my Lord that's a lot of people.

I mean, like, where does all the poop go??

Cookie Has a Boyfriend

By the way...

Everyone should have a Cookie.

Cookie Johnson Jeans are the bomb. If you're curvy with thighs and a butt, get these jeans. Their boyfriend jeans are another Christmas miracle.

There's a reason she embroiders "LOVE" in the waist of every pair.

The Miracle of Amazon

Amazon do your thing.

Christmas is coming in a massive series of cardboard boxes with that cute little smiley arrow-face on the side.

It's like magic shopping with nary a line, hard fought parking space or cumbersome carry out.

...sigh...

Grocery Store Kicks

So I finally bought a pair of Toms...

AWESOME.

REALLY...I feel like I'm the last person to experience this. I picked them up at my local Whole Foods with my grass fed beef and my organic wine.

To be real honest, I've resisted the trend that they've now become because, well, they're kinda ugly and I just didn't get it.

But, yesterday, I saw them. Like a beacon from across the vitamin supplement aisle. They were dark gunmetal-colored and THEY WERE SEQUINED.

Oh yeah, totally sequined.

I read the purpose, the story and the commitment behind the company and I was already loving them and then...I put them on.

Holy cow, and I'm not even kidding or embellishing in the least. They were like a CLOUD. So incredibly comfortable.

OK, OK, I get it now.

Since I can buy them at the grocery store, they may become a staple.

Let's see, I need peanut butter, milk, size 10 shoes, a 2lb roast, and Honeycrisp apples...

Team Craigslist

I LOVE Craigslist.

I've had the best of luck selling, finding and just plain getting rid of stuff using the online classifieds. Maybe it's because I'm not selling sex tricks or piercing equipment, but I've only dealt with the nicest folks.

Tonight I met a woman named Rose in the parking lot of one of the four Starbucks within one mile of me where she bought (for my asking price) this aluminum Christmas tree I didn't want anymore AND I convinced her to just take about a dozen assorted Christmas decorations. It was a win-win people.

It was awesome. She was happy. I was thrilled. We actually hugged as we parted ways.

It's really a cool thing. We don't even know each other's last name or real email address but we had a real human experience, ya know?? She was looking for an aluminum tree and I was looking to get rid of one...and we found each other within minutes of my post. This is same-day, second-hand kismet I'm talking about. Brings a tear to your eye, doesn't it.

Each time I move something successfully via Craigslist, my faith in the human race is restored...a little.

Hooray for "old school" Craigslist--the way it was intended, before all the sleazy hookers and con artists got involved.

Adult Decorating

Still in progress, but loving my Monday decorating peace and quiet...

Holiday music blaring. Check.

Christmas decorations successfully extracted from the garage. Check.

Tree up and lighted. Check.

(side bar: I HATE the pre-lit trees. They simply don't stay totally lit from year to year and I was determined to find a high quality fake tree WITHOUT LIGHTS. Think about it. They're all pre-lit now.)

Seasonal candle lit and aromatic. Check.

Kids at school. Check.

Call me scrooge, but that last one is very important. The kids and I spent the balance of the weekend getting the tree, the lights and kid-constructed paper chain up and they put on THEIR precious school-made ornaments and I love it.

However, I LOVE to do the rest of it. Placing my favorite ornaments prominently here and there while singing loudly (and very badly) all alone.

All that's possibly missing is an adult libation...let's see, now where did I put that Frangelico for my peppermint coffee??

Klepto Kiddie

It's a Christmas miracle.

Last Thanksgiving my son, who generally does a very good job of keeping up with things, left his brand spanking new iTouch at his Aunt's house . It wouldn't have been a big deal really, since we called the next day to reclaim the thing, but my niece had a ton of teenage friends over late that night and whadayaknow...the iTouch was nowhere to be found a mere twelve hours later.

My son was devastated, having only received the iTouch a week earlier at his tenth birthday celebration and since he's really responsible, we just quietly chalked it up to an unknown thieving teenager and decided not to punish him.

We bought him a new one one a few days later. After all, we were sort of to blame too for him leaving it there since we left quite late that night and scooped our sleeping children up from the various sofas upon which they had collapsed after hours of running around playing all day.

End of story.

NOT.

Fast forward to this Thanksgiving eve when I inexplicably decided to clean out my daughter's toy packed room. Being the youngest, she not only has all her toys, but also our son's hand-me-down items to include an inordinate ratio of dinos to dolls. I spent about six hours removing a TON OF CRAP from the mattress-less trundle-turned toy bin under her bed and LO AND BEHOLD....I found the year old missing iTouch.

Hmmmmmm.....So she certainly knew about the lost iTouch and how sad her brother was last year. Notably too she had made quite the stink about big brother getting an iTouch before she did though we tried to explain how he was older, it was his birthday, it was all he'd been asking for, etc... but she was none too thrilled at the time.

I can only imagine what must have been going through her mind too once she got this thing safely and secretly into her room because she didn't know the the passcode our son had programmed on the the device, rendering the iTouch completely useless to her and I know she had to have been SOOOOOO confused as what to do next. I'm only inferring that she must have just decided to hide it in the bowels of her toy box at some point because it was inside a ziplock baggie, then wrapped tightly in a scarf poked deep within the forgotten toys.

What a scheming little Kleptomaniac, right.

This isn't the first time she's been the jealous little sister unsatisfied with a second-hand toy or delayed gratification. She even did this over and over with a simple hair brush actually. She was OBSESSED with this random hairbrush my husband had and would steal it over and over again until we finally had to have a talk with her.

So now we have this newly restored iTouch. Do we reward her with it a year later? Do we confront her a year later? Oh the quandary.

Mojo in an Implant

Bio-identical hormone replacement.

I'm doing it. I'm getting my sexy back. Move over JT.

I admit it. The stupid, cheesy commercials where some chubby woman is talking about how she was driving her husband "crazy for sex" finally wore me down and I went in. Maybe they play in your town too. The company is HRC Medical and I'll enthusiastically do a commercial testimonial if this really works.

The treatment also de-bitchifies the person as well and as unbelievably irritable as I've been the last many months, my children should rejoice. ...Not to mention my better and more patient half.

This place actually GUARANTEES RESULTS. Really. It's right there in the contract and I'm on board people. They are nationwide and if you're reading this and need their services, be sure and tell them I sent you because I'll get a cool $100.

Here's their website: www.hrcmedical.com (I'm not tech-saavy enough to actually copy a functional link here, sorry)

What I didn't realize and what the commercials don't tell you is that the hormones are administered via a tiny implant every three months. Ouch, but BRING IT.

My hubby thought himself HILARIOUS today when I was explaining to him my new hor-mone therapy and sent me the following text: I made a whore moan once...

Classic honey.

I get the mojo on the 30th and fully expect to be ten years younger (and nicer) by Christmas morning.

Stay tuned.

Giving Thanks For Open Restaurants

I can't wait to have a fresh mimosa in the morning.

It's my favorite holiday sip tradition and I picked up four bottles of decent champagne at 7:00 this morning.

I meant to get to my favorite market all week, but opted for super early this morning and I'm SOOOOOOOO glad I did. I drove by the market several times throughout the day today while running various errands and there was actually a line of cars formed just to enter the parking lot. Man, am I glad I slipped in and out all stealthy-like before my hubby even left for work.

We're doing Thanksgiving a little non-traditionally tomorrow however but it should be fun. For the actual meal, we're going to a fancy-schmancy restaurant because our dedicated turkey-roaster (aka "Uncle Colonel") is in Afghanistan for the next month and no one else feels up to the task and incredibly high bar he's set through the years.

"Luke" is famed New Orleans Chef John Besh's first restaurant outside Louisiana and it's supposed to be FABULOUS, so we're stoked.

I am hoping to continue my mimosa chain right into Luke and through the dinner.

Cheese and Water Chestnuts

Totally random, but I had this strange yet meaningless realization today while having lunch with the family at PF Changs...

There is no cheese in Chinese food. Name one Chinese dish with cheese. For that matter, there's really no cheese in Asian food in general, I mean cream cheese in the Philly Roll at your local sushi place definitely doesn't count.

Your welcome for pointing out this interesting fact.

Or.

Please forgive me if I've wasted your time.

Pill Popping Broodle

So last night, or um...this morning when we got home via a taxi after heavily celebrating the birthday of a friend, I couldn't locate my old lady pill box from which I pop my required medication every night. I knew I would be...comprised at whatever time we returned so before we left, I took my pill box out of my bedside drawer and placed it on my pillow where I knew I'd have to see it, no matter how late or how goofy I was and thus remember to take my pills.

I did remember to take my medicine, independent of my little reminder placement, but I couldn't find my pill box. I was stumbling around confused and searching for my pill box. I NEED those pills every night--especially the hormones. I looked under the bed, in my drawers, in the kitchen, my bathroom, and even my purse but I couldn't find them anywhere.

Luckily I had a few extras still in the pharmacy bottle so I just took those. I was so annoyed.

Now, this morning I'm up, head throbbing and gingerly making my very necessary coffee while "shhhhushing" the kids as nicely as I can when I notice our little Broodle puppy rooting under the sofa. This is not entirely unusual as she's always getting into something.

"DING, DING, DING"

I crawl over there and whadaya know, she has broken into my pill box.

Ok, gross and dangerous potentially I guess, but gross because she had apparently enjoyed the FISH OIL capsules more than anything else!! There is now fish oil residue in our rug. This as you can imagine does not smell good.

Cleaning and smelling it in my current post-party state does not thrill me.

And what am I supposed to tell the pharmacist? She ate four of my progesterone capsules too and two of this antibiotic I take to keep my complexion clear.

Do we need a trip to the vet now too? She seems to be ok, so I don't know.

Note to self: fish oil capsules attract curious pets.

*Broodle--half Poodle, half Brussels Griffon. She looks like a black version of "Verdell" from the movie As Good As It Gets.

Closet Nazi

Those aren't just trash bags, they're

drum liners!

That's not trash, it's $1000's of dollars worth of really good clothes.

Yesterday someone told me she'd "had it" with my closet and forced me to clean it out.

She stood over me like a child. She took bins filled with random, mismatched crap and physically dumped the contents onto the floor in front of me. She had been threatening to do this for some time. She is technically our housekeeper, I suppose, but she's much more than that really...she's like my mom on a bad day when she'd reached her limit. She's lovely, really.

My husband and I have separate closets, so there's no real incentive to keep it organized like before when he would move my stuff around when I failed to pick it up or hang it, so I've really allowed it to get totally out of hand.

I've been hoarding my skinny clothes thinking I'll be that tiny again some day and yesterday I

embraced my curves. I really haven't cared that I'm not still a 4 and actually love being able to eat and drink freely and I'm really good with where my body seems to have leveled off at my current size 10. I'm a very tall gal and it works for me. For some reason though, perhaps because I LOVE my clothes, I just couldn't let the skinny go.

After one of my skinny friends came over and took the few pieces she just had to have, I packed everything up for a trip to the consignment store and what they don't take will go to Goodwill.

I'm hoping to be able to have some Christmas money now as I even removed all of my husband's "gay" shoes. You see, he had this obsession with Prada shoes a few years ago and bought about six pair which he was still wearing last year until one of my friends told him Prada was gay and now he's hasn't put even one pair on since...sigh... So funny, but now I just see dollar signs.

The bottom line for me though is liberating: the skinny has left the building and I'm a smoking size 10 with room in my closet for clothes that flaunt my curves.

I feel great and just look at my closet now:

UN-Real Obsession

Here goes perhaps my most embarrassing confession ever...

I am secretly (well, it was a secret) addicted to The Real Housewives on Bravo. Seriously, somebody save me from myself. I'm fairly certain I get a little dumber every time the credits roll, yet I have a complete inability to turn away. Ok, ok, I check the on-screen guide every day I'm home and if it's on, I totally watch it and that's not even considering the fact that I DVR them too.

I'm so ashamed. Is there a support group?

Lactic Accidentally on Purpose

OUCH.

I CAN'T MOVE,

I CAN'T STAND UP,

I CAN'T SIT DOWN...

I HURT EVERYWHERE.

I am so damn out of shape and I'm hoping I'm on the turn around now after three workouts in two days.

I know, I know, maybe its not exactly recommended to work out hard and stupid, much less for consecutive days, but I swear it's what I need to kick start my fat ass!

I found this lady who holds these boot camp style work outs in a grocery store parking lot near my house. I then paid this woman to help me kick my own ass the last two mornings. And, just in case that wasn't enough, I've started pilates twice a week.

More later...I swear I'm too sore to type.

confessions

I am drunk.

I am home. I am not driving or covorting; I am just chillin' with my kids out for the evening and I am unapologetic. My niece is drunk too, but we won't discuss her age

this concludes this confession.

The Grapes of Must Hath

Check out the size of these grapes!

I love my grocery store. I go about three times a week but still I don't cook every night.

Riddle me that.

But, seriously, are those the most beautiful grapes you've ever laid eyes on??

I love my grocery store because I enjoy the little-known secret of underground parking. It's not advertised that customers can even park under the building, but we can. It's the only store I frequent in the 100 plus degree Summer days, because I know about and take advantage of the secret underground parking lot...hehehe...

Gotta go. I'm gonna nosh on some grapes now.

The Art of "We'll See"

"My mom lies to me."

This is my daughter's work of art to depict her perspective on me not allowing her to have a friend over for a play date.

My biggest mistake was the day before when she first asked me if her pal Abby could come over...I was busy so I just quickly nodded and said, "yes, yes probably, WE'LL SEE."

Then, the next day, at almost 5:00 pm, she asked me when Abby could come over.

I said no. She freaked out.

I tried to explain how I had forgotten about it and how late it was, and how "probably" doesn't always mean "yes."

She then sat down at the table and started drawing. I figured, cool, she's calmed down...and then she hands me this masterpiece...

There was a second masterpiece she later ripped to shreds that I can't feature on here. She wrote, "my mom lies" over and over on the front and back of a piece of paper the way a teacher makes a kid write lines. It was impressive.

She ripped it up when she came to me later to apologize. She had been saving it, but wanted to show me that she was ripping it up because she wasn't mad at me anymore.

Lesson: I really need to be more careful and certainly more specific when she asks me questions. I need to avoid that go to "we'll see" too because I can remember how frustrating that was when my mom would give me that response.

WE'LL SEE might as well mean PLEASE HOLD, ALL OPERATORS ARE CURRENTLY ASSISTING OTHER CUSTOMERS.

Pass the Testosterone

So I have some hormone issues...

After having had a hysterectomy several months ago, I've been totally outta whack to say the least. I finally went into one of those special practices...ya know where they specialize in the "bio-identical" hormone replacement thing and their commercials have these fat women talking about how they want sex all the time. Ya, I was pretty excited to check it out.

First thing was establishing a "base line." Blood work, urine, etc...

I waited a couple of weeks for my results.

So apparently, a woman's testosterone range should always be no lower than 55.

Mine was 5.

Oh how that explains a lot.

So now that we have all THAT figured out, she prescribed a cream that I'm supposed to "apply to the skin once daily." OK. So I've been doing that.

Stay with me here, but unrelated to all this, I had a dermatology appointment today. Like a good patient, I brought with me my new meds from the hormone doctor including the testosterone cream.

She takes a look at it and says, "now you DO know this stuff can cause hair to grow where ever you put it, right??"

EXCUSE ME.

I've been putting that stuff on TWICE a day trying hasten my mojo--on my stomach, my neck, my CHEST, even on my butt cheek.

A WARNING ABOUT WHERE NOT TO PUT THE STUFF WOULD'VE BEEN GOOD INFORMATION TO HAVE PRIOR TO BEING PRESCRIBED IT.

Jeez, if hair starts sprouting out on my chest or something, I suppose I could hope for a shot at Dancing With The Stars... I never gave any thought to what a topical testosterone cream may or may not do. If it's intuitive to the average person, I sure missed that common knowledge somewhere I guess.

Be afraid if you come across a future post entitled, "My Chest Hair Hides My Cleavage."

Panties & Planets?

Well...somebody finally did it!

Ladies and genitalia, there is now an underwear manufacturer named URANUS.

Some possible billboards that instantly come to mind...

URANUS: we know how to cover your ass

URANUS on sale now

URANUS: when your ass is out of this world

URANUS: sometimes you need URANUS

I suppose it was inevitable.

We have Mars candy company. Venus razors. Saturn automobiles (but they went all black hole on us), Mercury as in Ford, Lincoln Mercury...like Mercury was a president too.

It would have been more fun if URANUS was a hat company. I've always wondered what the hell an ASSHAT was so that would make sense to me.

Drought Water Damage

Down here in South Texas, we are in the midst of a devastating drought. The lakes are down tremendously, in some cases, lower than the entire recorded history. Wild fires have been burning somewhere in my state for more than 200 consecutive days and we have a flood in our lake house.

The pest control serviceman called yesterday to report water flowing from the back door as he prepared to enter. It appears there was a catastrophic water line burst inside the wall in the center of the house. The worst thing about that (so far) is that since is began in the center, the entire house is has at least an inch of water standing in it. Great.

My husband and I can't seem to get the inspiration to actually drive the two hours to see it just yet. It's depressing. We have the insurance people, the master plumber, the water extraction people and a neighbor on it. I don't want to see it. I don't want to see my favorite rug all nasty and soaked. I will cry if I have to see the two gorgeous chairs I just had redone in the cutest tropical fabric.

The Blackmon Mooring guy seems to think the whole house will have to be gutted.

Don't get me wrong, we were contemplating a remodel, but this isn't what we had in mind.

Sigh. At least the parched grass around the house got watered...

I'm under AIRROSTI

AIRROSTI...I totally thought it was the guy's name or something. It's actually an acronym for Applied Integration for the Rapid Recovery Of Soft Tissue Injuries. And it hurts. A doctor of chiropractic actually administers the treatment. The table looks like a typical chiropractic one but I believe there are fewer than 100 DCs certified through this approach and did I mention it hurts?

The Rolling Stones, "Under My Thumb" should be this guy's theme song.

Basically, since I don't speak physiology or anatomy, he jabs his thumb hard down into specific points along the back (& hip in my case), holds it for a few seconds, jabs it deeper, then in some areas, he drags it like a drudging machine. Bruising is common. Swelling is too. Ice is recommended. It's all about the facia. It's also about the slow sustaining pain. It hurts so much it makes the pain I'm there complaining about not seem so bad.

It hurt...but I felt something good within minutes of standing up. I'm very skeptical having tried almost everything from a rheumatologist to an acupuncturist, but I'm thrilled to be (dare I say) cautiously optimistic.

I go back Wednesday and Friday. Supposedly they have a hugely high percentage of patients who are basically cured after three visits. I seriously hope that's me.

My lower back and right hip hurt ALL THE TIME. I'm NEVER pain free. NEVER. I am awakened every night multiple times by my hip pain mostly. I can't figure out what the heck is wrong with me. My back is exceedingly stiff after sitting for just a few minutes. So stiff, that I can't even stand up straight when I first stand...like I walk bent over for a few minutes. It's so frustrating and embarrassing, especially when I'm dressed really cute otherwise and we're at a really nice restaurant or event. It's just not graceful or sexy to walk hunched over in platform Gucci sandals and a skinnyish Missoni dress.

Side bar: I swear I opted for my recent hysterectomy as soon my Ob/Gyn passingly mentioned that in some very rare cases back pain can be eliminated. I said, "sign me up immediately." Honest to God, I secretly hoped removing my uterus and my ovaries would somehow cure my pain. Cue that word again: CRAZY. That's not to say I didn't have other reasons to opt for the hyster, but the REAL reason I wanted to go for it was that unlikely off-chance for a pain cure.

So...now I have hot flashes to go with my back/hip pain. Aww man. I don't know, but I swear if there was some treatment proven effective which required me to sleep in a canoe filled with Jello, I would do it.

If this thing miraculously works for me, I will seriously shout it from my roof top...nah, I might fall. I'll shout "YIPPIE" though, just as loud as I can. Acronym: Yelling In Pure Pain-free Incidental to Euphoria

Hood Love

I LOVE OUR BACK PORCH, OUR HOME & OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. It's been so hot all Summer long, heck, since May really and I forgot how much I enjoy getting up early and spending time out here. I'm sitting across from our two rocking chairs on my very favorite 1950's metal glider. It's rusted, it's that era-specific mint green and I'm so proud of my Mexican oil cloth custom-made and oh so comfy cushion. I love where we live.

Our neighborhood is like a Norman Rockwell painting. Today especially, on this 10 year anniversary of the terrible attack on the very essence of America, I am particularly reflective and pensive about my safe and quintessentially American neighborhood-the kind the "greatest generation" fought to preserve.

Here, kids still ride their bikes down the streets and our door bell in rung multiple times on a Saturday by neighbor kids asking if our children "can come out and play." For real. I know our neighborhood post mistress by name. All the mail here is delivered the old fashioned way- through the door or in the tiny boxes on our front porches. When I broke my leg, our post mistress even came all the way into my bedroom to give me the mail and wish me well. There is an American flag flying off at least a couple of porches in every single block. Our police officers stop and play basketball in the street with our son and his pal and show off their sirens and radios for the kids. We have parades on the fourth of July and the homecoming football game is a really big deal and keep in mind, we are in the center of a huge city.

Big city, small town.

In the mornings like today, I can hear and occasionally see the tops of people's heads who are running, walking or cycling by for their daily dose of exercise. I should take a cue, honestly...but that's another blog.

I also love that the kids here walk or ride their bikes to and from the 100 year old school just three blocks from here. I love these old houses too, they are each so distinctive and unique, not like the newer neighborhoods where every single house has the exact same exterior lights and if you look closely enough, one of only four front doors which repeat in a certain pattern. Those homogenous neighborhoods are fine, but there's just something so Americana about the old homes from the 1920's and 30's.

Friday evening as I drove through our "hood," I counted five neighbors out in their front yards hand-watering. We are in the midst of a terrible drought here in Texas, so aside from the one day a week we are allowed to use sprinklers, we are allowed to "hand water" anytime. What I noticed about my neighbors who were taking full advantage of the evening cool down and their opportunity to quench their scorched grass was that they were ALL holding their garden hose in one hand and their glass of wine in the other. How seriously cool is that. I live in a neighborhood where it is the norm to sip wine and water your grass at the same time. In the distance I had to drive, I counted five neighbors in their Friday "wine-down water time" and it made me smile.

Was Norman Rockwell a wine drinker?

Just Keep Playing

Dear Stunningly Under-rated Singer/Songwriter,

Your music inspires me. I want to thank you for being born and tell you a little bit about your perfect fan—me. I don’t need my name on the guest list because I think it’s important to purchase my ticket. I will always buy a t-shirt and the CD at the merch table even though I’ve already downloaded the albums. I always carry a Sharpie with me so you don’t have to. I will always patiently wait in line for an autograph, but I won’t chat you up unnecessarily or hold the line. I always work my way up to the stage during the show if I’m not already planted there before-hand and if others at the stage insist on continuing their pre-show conversations like you’re not even there, I am the one who shushes them or stares them down until they listen or leave. I never want you to feel like back-ground music and wish EVERY venue could be a true listening venue. I don’t need to be friends with you or hang out with you after the show. I don’t automatically think you remember me because I’ve seen your show multiple times and to be polite I always reintroduce myself. I truly want to hear your new stuff even though I don’t know all the words yet. I want you to see and feel everybody singing along to your songs that aren’t new and I truly hope you sop those moments up like a biscuit in gravy. I believe in the notion that your song has more inherent value when it’s sung YOU because YOU wrote it and that is why I follow content over crowds. I believe in bare bones lyrics over flash and production. I’ll take Sean McConnell over Tim McGraw any day and Radney Foster over Keith Urban all day long. I would happily shave five years off my life to have seen Bruce Springsteen at The Armadillo or Townes Van Zandt at The Cactus. I have gone to a show where you were the opening act BECAUSE you were the opening act. I believe you are profoundly talented, that you have something real to say and that more people should know about you. Your music inspires me, it sets me free and without it would shrivel like a blade of grass in the August Texas sun. I need for you to know that I wish you success as YOU define it and rest assured that I am truly proud to be a fan.

Sincerely,

Your fan, Tara

Trumping First Class

We recently took the family to Atlantis in the Bahamas. We had a heck of deal on the room and airfare. We flew to Atlanta and then on to Nassau. Our gate in ATL was handy. It was directly across from a little Mexican cantina and there's just something about having a bloody Mary at 8:00 in the morning just because ya can...

Airports are fun for that, aren't they, I mean "whoa, look at me, I'm such a world traveler, I don't even know what time of the day it is or what time zone I'm even in, so drinking alcohol at this hour is perfectly acceptable." So, there we were, parents of two with two bloody Marys between us and the gate. Watching Matt Lauer and sipping vodka. So convenient. The gate's right there. We still have an hour. No, I'm not hungry. Wait. That's our gate right there, right?

I love it when a vacation is awesome even before you get there.

As I sat there sucking down my yummy Mary, er uh, bloody Mary, I noticed a cool looking, stylish little family like us on a good day if I actually put on makeup. The mom was rocking her Tory Burch bag and the dad was making his True Religions proud. I had a second of jealousy. They were in the FIRST CLASS red-carpet line. Our little family was flying on likely the cheapest fare Delta ever let Priceline pass on. We were decidedly NOT in first class.

The worst part about boarding an airplane has got to be that awkward creep through the first class cabin on your way to row 31, ya know when your slightly drunk and it's not even time for Rachel Ray?? The first-class people are trying not to look at the coach peeps and us coach peeps are trying to act like it's no big deal either. As I clumped my way through those endless first four rows, my children carrying the carryon AND my purse, I found it very helpful to use those seat backs like crutches. I saw that cute little first-class family there spread out like a slumber party, all comfy and first-classy and I wondered if it'd be worth it for an hour and a half trip to pay the premium. I was also thinking row 31 was a long damn way. And then I wondered if I packed the phone charger. And then I woke up in Nassau.

Arriving in Nassau refreshed and sober I had happily forgotten about Mr. and Mrs. First Class. We walked forever towards the inescapable purgatory of foreign customs. As we turned the final corner a room bigger than a basketball court was revealed and there must have seriously been 500 people crowded in like cattle toward a food trough.

We prepared to settle in, picked a line to commit to, and prepared ourselves for the duration. Then we heard our names broadcast clearly from the loud speakers. The command was "make yourself seen" and though I never feel shy about doing just that, all I could think was that we dropped our passports or they found the dinosaur dna I had smuggled into the country.

When our name was announced yet again, I did the 'ole flap and wave until one of the customs guys motioned us toward the front of the line. The very front of the center line. We couldn't believe it. Our family who lives there had some serious influence we supposed because we were immediately ushered through customs, right on to our waiting bags then directly into the car our family had sent for us.

It was a good time. Unbelievable. From the jetway to the Town Car in 15 minutes flat. And the best part...I couldn't help but notice Mr. and Mrs. First Class et al watching US in the special FIRST THROUGH CUSTOMS line.

Thank you Denay and Jesse. I don't know how you arranged that and I was already proud to be related to y'all, but this little brag-worthy trick takes the ice cream cake. Good thing I made it through with the dino dna hidden in that fossilized sap.

The LoSt LaUgH

My seven year old is pretty funny. She is very proud of herself when she plays a trick or makes up a joke. Tonight while she was eating her Freddy's fries, she held out her ketchup-stained napkin and said, "hey Mommy, I lost a tooth!" Predictably, I fell for it and said, "wow, lemme see it!" She responded, "I just told you I LOST it."

Ya, she got me, but I'll have the last laugh...I totally cleaned out her room today, threw away tons of stuff! Nanny-nanny-boo-boo!

"What's that honey?? Where's your giant, annoying, ridiculously loud vuvuzela horn? Hmmm, I dunno sweetie...maybe you LOST it!"

Obscene Jewelry Addiction

I've just returned from a cool trunk show at my favorite boutique, Adelante, where my talented friend My-Cherie Haley was showing some of her Shimmer and Bliss scarf collection. I bought the most electric pink, circa 1986, silk scarf EVER! I'm so inspired to be creative with all the different ways she was showing my friends and I to wear them. Rock on, My-Cherie, you're a "scarf star!" shimmerandbliss.com, FYI.

The other brand they were showing was Beth's Addiction, which is this hard core line of so groovy, jewelry and really fun BAD STUFF!! She takes vintage pieces of junk and fashions them into things like this "LOCA" pin here I picked up. The charm is from those old 60's charm bracelets, but she stamped my favorite word on it attached it to an old bow pin and WHAM, it's bad ass!!

The rest of her stuff though, is sooooooo naughty, like bracelets with "whore," "puta" and even "dick" on them! It's LOCA! My favorite was a pendant that simply said, "AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!" Check her out if that sort of thing blows your dress up, ya know...bethsaddiction.com

This one is an old medal with a "loser" charm on it. How cool is this! There was also one that simply said "drunk." A toss up between that and the LOSER I bought. I have to say I particularly appreciated the irony of the idea that a medal would be awarded for LOSERRRRR!!!

This concludes this style FYI, thank you for your support, PUTA!

Hurry Up And Wait

I hate to wait. We all have to wait though. I even wrote what I thought was a pretty good essay on waiting in line for my freshman composition class in college. I was so proud of my little paper, my first college writing assignment. My professor hated it, she gave me C, said she "couldn't relate"...really! Who can't relate to WAITING. Everybody waits. At the bank, in line at the movies, the grocery store...and at the doctor's office. (not in customs in The Bahama's, but that's another blog entry)

Yesterday, I tried a new doctor, one who's supposedly into all the buzz about bio-identical hormone replacement and some cutting edge new physical-therapy-meets-chiropractic approach called Airrosti. My appointment was at 1:00 pm, was supposed to take fifty minutes, and is thankfully less than five minutes away. Since I am a "new" patient and always early anyway, I got there at 12:45 to fill out the necessary paper work. From the get-go I knew I'd have to leave by 2:45 to pick up my kids at two different schools, plus I was picking up a friend's kid, so I couldn't be late...plenty 'O time...NOT.

I was called from the waiting room into that little purgatory place called the exam room fairly on time so I was totally powerless and entirely unsuspecting as I waited in my tiny cell with the fake oil painting of what looked to me like an elaborate weed, a weird exam table that was shaped like a pommel horse and a completely pristine issue of Southern Living, February 2010. I did tear out a super simple looking oven baked chicken spaghetti recipe. I hate that in-between time where we think, "I must be on deck, I'm not in the waiting room anymore." Yes you are. It's just smaller with no people to watch.

So, that's such a tricky little ploy doctors have. You think you're going in, but they're really just spreading around the wait. The doctor finally came in my room at 2:15. 2:15! More than an hour I've waited and now I'm talking a million miles an hour because I KNOW my time is short, but I desperately want the help for my back and my jacked-up hormonal situation. I talked so fast and she said all the right things that OUR time together was only fifteen minutes! Where's my fifty minute visit for my $25 co-pay??

The doctor ordered some blood-taking so she could establish a base-line for me before deciding what hormone therapy I should have so she left to get the phlebotomist. Never saw Doc again. If you're keeping up, it's 2:30 now and here's a piece of advice: NEVER tell the twenty-one year old child with the needles that you're really in a hurry.

Both arms, two technicians, at least seven needles, and twenty more precious minutes. Once the real phlebotomist got the single vile of my red stuff that they needed I tore out the door knowing I'd be late for the first school that lets out at 3:00.

I sped off the main street toward the first school and came to a screeching halt, for the pick-up line stretched almost three blocks...so, I WAITED. As I sat in my car, Sirius radio set to the E Street station of course, I began to feel the pain in my arms and noticed one of the bandages had actually bled through. Ouch. At least the pick-up line had me waiting long enough for my blood to coagulate. There is always a bright side, I suppose.

If you're worried about the other school, don't. Thankfully the release times are all staggered. I retrieved all my precious cargo and they all lived happily ever after.

One Crazy I Honk For No More (quoth the Raven)

So, I see some clinically crazy person removed their stupid blog from the internet. This person fancies herself as a brilliant writer, artist and general humanitarian and she wrote a whole bunch of bull shit about me on her ridiculously self-serving blog about a year ago. My family and I all read it and just rolled our eyes.

I'll admit it was really hard for a second not to comment on one about me in particular as it was actually pretty defamatory, but I'm so glad I never acknowledged it. When we parted ways...well, when I threatened to forward about fifteen emails to the new "love" in her life if she didn't leave my family and me alone, it was over on that day. Completely over. Her self-protection mode was activated and I never heard from her again, as expected, so she was left to spin the "story" however suited her latest persona and I never gave it a second thought.

I've never written about this, and I hate to even acknowledge it with too much of my valuable time generally spent doing fun things and not drudging up a painful past caused by a former prostitute, stripper, current druggie, uneducated, pathologically needy, and dishonest woman who threw her baby away....twice. Oh excuse me, that just came out.

NOTE TO SELF: the next time my amazing Mom goes out and finds my birth-mother for the first time and the birth-mother confides to such a turbulent, not to mention illegal and disgusting past early in our new "relationship," RUN AWAY.... You can't rescue someone like that or ever make the damage of their past go away. Please Self, you must listen to your gut next time and stop trying to help people! Even when they complain about how hard their circumstances are, turning them onto the joy of Botox or buying them high-end gifts won't miraculously change them into sober, sophisticated, honest and psychologically healthy individuals.

Over the couple of years since I explicitly told her "get the hell out of my life" however, a few (3) of her long time friends have secretly contacted me to lament of her annoying narcissism and constant need for validation. It's pretty funny I guess, so consequently they feel the need to forward me many of her needy posts from Facebook or tell me about some first grade-looking art she's put on the web. That's how I found out about her blog where she threw me under the bus. One of her very "best" friends from Northern California in particular, tells me everything and it's really twisted too, because I don't ask her, have never asked her, and will never ask her anything about this particular idiot, so the intel I receive randomly is purely entertaining or at the very most an interesting study in human behavior. It's like a train wreck, I guess, once you start watching you just can't look away...

It got me to thinking about psychological disorders though, so I looked this thing up about narcissistic personality disorder on the Mayo Clinic website and OMG, I gotta say it's spot on:

"Narcissistic personality disorder is a mental disorder in which people have an inflated sense of their own importance and a deep need for admiration. Those with narcissistic personalty disorder believe that they're superior to others and have a little regard for other people's feelings. But behind this mask of ultra-confidnece lies a fragile self-esteem, vulnerable to the slightest criticism."

Apparently, bi-polar is a nice companion for these people too. Fun. I really should have googled years ago. I could've saved my Mom and me a lot of stress, not to mention resources.

But alas, the load is lifted, a burden I carry no more. I've always explained how I still don't really know what I want to be when I grow up, but through my life I've been able to figure out the things I DON'T want to do via a sometimes tricky process of elimination. Rest assured, I have figured out that I DON'T want to be a birth-mother integration facilitator. Ever. Definitely not adding that title to the "seeking" category of the 'ole resume. Thankfully all that's left are the occasional entertaining snap shots of her needy posts and uninformed political and social rants. Thank you to her friends who shall remain nameless...Oh how I do love a good laugh.

Little Sister Simplicities

I just overheard my son ask my daughter if she'd "rather fall in hot lava or be pushed off a cliff?"

His little seven year old sister responded instantly, "how high is the cliff?"

One is the great pretender, with an imagination like a kaleidoscope and sound effects rivaling any summer blockbuster. The other is the arguer and the question-asker. Every time. She gets me.

Little sister is a score keeper too and she merges words like nobody's business. She was recently in a play where she was the youngest cast member by three years with six pages of lines. Within two days, she had every single line completely "rememberized" and delivered her lines perfectly on the day of the performance.

She doesn't like to be "interabrupted" by anyone when she's working on an important project like building a fort in her room or making lemonade.

Her big brother often makes her mad and she complained once that he was "annoring" her. Confused by the word, I asked whether her brother was annoying or ignoring her and she responded simply, "both mom, that's what I said."

I think I was annoring her at that point.

IQ Test

This is a photo my husband took of a table that my cousin borrowed. You see, my mom had gone to Louisiana for a family reunion and made arrangements to pick up a few things my cousin had borrowed while she lived here in Texas. There was a large corner table/desk in particular that I was really looking forward to getting back. After my cousin said my mom could swing by and pick it up, my mom asked if my cousin wouldn't mind "unscrewing the legs" and putting the "screws in a ziplock" so that the large table would more easily fit in my mom's giant car...

This small heap of wood is what my mom was handed...with one hand incidentally, since the top of this table is no more than a foot square.

So, at what point with instructions to unscrew the legs of a large table & save the screws in a ziplock, all for the purposes of fitting the table into a huge car, does a person of average intelligence realize any of the following?? A: these legs are not screwed on, and therefore probably not designed to be removed, B: this table would easily fit in a Smart Car as is, much less my mom's huge Cadillac, C: this is not the right table, or D: if the legs and center shelf are removed from this antique side table, it will will be completely and irrevocably destroyed.

The individual who mindlessly destroyed this table by forcibly ripping off ALL FOUR legs, as if one couldn't tell after struggling to rip off the first one that maybe they weren't designed to be removed, is clearly and indefensibly a bona fide idiot. Welcome to Jackson Parish, ladies and gentleman.

The Butter Knows

So, THIS is what the underside of the Parkay lid looked like when I opened it up. ("butter")



OK, maybe the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe would have made me more popular, but I'll take this very groovy SIGN OF THE TIMES. Let the good times roll...with butter, baby!