Yesterday I did something illegal -- I ripped that crackling, annoying warning tag from my mattress. You know, the one that warns you about unprotected sex, not to smoke in bed -- and MOST especially not to remove “said warning tag” from mattress. If you put things into perspective, things get to the point of ridiculous -- and we’re all in danger of making missteps that lead to an orange jumpsuit and doing hard time. To quote the great Lily Tomlin, “Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse.”

The kids have eight more days before they are out for the summer, and I find myself filled with that same irrational exuberance that I get every year about this time -- and for no good reason at all, I tell you. For no good reason at all! For the first time this year, my daughter rolled out of bed this morning without that “kiss my bitter ass” look on her face. She is assuming that she will be graduating in approximately a week. I am hoping that she is right.

Heh! I still remember dropping her off when she was in kindergarten, saying cute little things like, “Mommy, my teachers will be SO HAPPY to see me today!”

Can you please explain to me how in the heck it’s already the 16th of May!!? Or even better, that my second child is almost out of the nest!? I feel like I’ve been Rip Van Winkled along for the last 10 years or so -- and I want it back, dammitt!

In about three weeks, my son will be dragging, moaning and moody about really vague things -- which translates into him missing the necessary social drama and delicious soap opera that middle school serves up ( something he would hotly deny, of course.)



I have gotten rid of an old, inefficient filth-catcher known around here for years as “the beer box”. It was a ratty refrigerator from one of our previous marriages that held moldy leftovers and beer. Loads of beer. Really good beer and then of course there was the “Guest Beer”. (cheap beer). I couldn’t open the door past 90 degrees because of the wall. As a result, I couldn’t slide the compartment drawers out on the left side to clean them. (insert full-body shiver)

I have replaced my old friend with a new frost-free deep freezer, compliments (temporarily) of my Sears account. My daughter lovingly refers to it as “An Old Lady Refrigerator.”

I had grand plans of stocking it with gulf shrimp and crabs, exotic fruit segments, a rainbow assortment of Blue Bell and really nice Vodka…but strangely enough, I find that I have been slowly filling it up with low-brow East Texas food: Purple hull peas and turnip greens, frozen corn bread dough bricks (!?), pork chops, pecans and dried beans. The secret to those beans, I have finally learned, is to thoroughly soak them overnight, cook them at low heat for hours and hours in a large crock pot, with some sort of farm animal floating in there. Serve those babies with cast iron-cooked cornbread. Ah, the magic of cornbread and bacon drippings. I will also freeze dinners in order to keep my poor husband from having to grab the old spear and go hunting for food when I’m away at suppertime.

Speaking of low-brow East Texas food, remember us whacking away at the poke sallet? My son now carries that torch (old golf club)

I remember sashaying with my baton at the Poke Sallet Festival to Hank Sr.’s “Hey Good Lookin, whatcha got cookin?” Good times.

I remember once hearing that you had to cook that stuff (poke sallet) three times or you were liable to get poisoned…and I’m not sure why somebody endured the process of getting that stuff right, but I am sure of one thing: I’m not about to take chances with some rural weed that grows in cowshit piles. Maybe it’s something East Texans have conned the “tourists” into trying, I just don’t know. I’m told the antidote is to drink lots of vinegar and eat a pound of lard. I’m pretty sure I’ve had worse here in Houston. And now I’m done with that subject.

But the subject does remind me of the “feeds” they would put on at Spring Branch Baptist Church, in Springhill? It was held on some certain Sunday(s) and was pretty much an upper-white-trash event. You probably also remember that it started off with a terrifying sermon served up to the women, children and elderly. Most of the rowdy menfolk stood around outside in overalls, leaning on rusty El Caminos, smoking Camels, waiting for their women to get out so that they could commence to feeding.

Remember that long bench table hammered between the trees just down the hill? They would spread that thing with delicious meats that a game warden probably would not approve of. Also turnip greens, fried chicken, sliced tomatoes, peas, dumplings, cobblers, pecan pies, banana puddings, cornbread fritters. Also big gallons of super-sweet ice tea. After the big feed, the men drifted back up the hill to recline in their pickup beds while the women would commence to cleaning off tables, packing up leftovers, then strolling up into the cemetery. Us wild-ass young-uns’ had a grand time tromping and cavorting over the graves of our elders while our mommas and grannies laid fresh flowers, weeded and tended the headstones. I seem to remember our Nanny associating “cavorting over a grave” with some seriously bad karma.

Nanny was great at handing out scary wisdom. It was all “hockey” but of course she believed in it. We all did back then. And if you believe in your own “hockey”, it is as good as the truth.

This triggers another bad-karma-laced memory -- me loading up mom’s good Tupperware tea pitcher with about 15 or 20 toads, and then pouring water over them. (!?!) For some reason, I was fascinated with swimming toads. I just assumed they were having a grand time, kicking and scrambling over each other in a desperate attempt to reach the rim. I hid them under our bathroom sink for later entertainment and, of course, drowned the whole gang. I felt so heart-broken and sad over what I had done that I couldn‘t bear to just throw them out. Instead, I started working out plans for individual little funerals for them, so I kept them until I could work that out. Nanny found them the next day while placing towels. (she was visiting us in Queen City - good times) She handed down a curse that I will never forget. “Girl, every time you drown a toad, somebody’s cow dies!” Cows were a pretty darn big deal to our folks, and I still haven’t recovered completely from that awful massacre.

I know you probably can’t stand another dog story…so I’ll make this one short. Mercedes and my “new associate” Dakota are better than a musical comedy. This tiny little tick-turd of a dog can back my big dogs down with its vicious little snorts and lunges. I wish you could see and hear it. It fluffs up like a little porcupine and sounds like, I don’t know, a tiny little projectile-vomiting gnome, or something like that. Hilarious.

I am currently re-engaging myself in a novel that I started a few years ago. It is set in Uncertain, Texas, my favorite place in the world. It is fictional, of course. Why complicate a good story with the truth? Please say a prayer for me, as God and I have much different writing styles…

The kids send their love. They are excited to get letters from their exciting Black Sheep Uncle. I finally talked to Kris the other day. He sounds great. He seems very happy to be an independent young man, making all of his own mistakes, ha-ha. He loves his motorcycle. Please keep him in your prayers. The two at home are about to go into braces. The reason that my daughter is just now getting hers on is a long, pain-in-the-ass, unworthy-of-telling drama …so I will just not tell it, except the part about her being 18 and very soon will not have the benefit of fancy-pants ortho insurance. She has backed herself into the “corner of limited options,” yet again.

My boy is getting a rather jaunty space between his large two front teeth, and he’s got to have another stubborn baby tooth pulled. His sister teases him by calling him “Corn Pop Mouth” I reassure him by telling him that he has movie star caliber teeth (or will have soon.) He doesn’t want any more gaps and, according to him, he’s not going to submit to any of it. At least we’ll have it done over the summer, so I suppose he can revel in having a “real reason” to be gloomy.

I remember the days when, to my young son, a lost tooth meant good cash money, and it was all good. That child ALWAYS has cash in his wallet. He’s level-headed. The girls are wild about him. They also smell like onions and coconut shampoo and wear hideous little outfits. I can’t believe some of the unflattering (trendy) stuff that these young women waste on their skinny, pre-birthing years. Unfortunately, they all look 16 years old, instead of 12. But fortunately, for right now at least, his wildest fantasy is to just be able to play the new Xbox Live on a 52-inch plasma screen TV. God bless his little heart.

He is also very much into battle simulations, always has been. I have kept a picture in a scrap book somewhere that could have earned him his own orange jumpsuit and a bit of hard time -- but for the fact that he was only 6 years old and a beautiful boy child. The homeroom teacher asked the class to draw a Spring-inspired picture to display for Open House. My boy thought about this for a moment, drew a scribbly little green line in crayon, representing grass, then he drew a scribbly little red line, representing a flower sprouting up out of that grass -- and then commenced to drawing the most exciting and detailed stick-figure battle scene taking place on that scribbled grass and flower. Complete with spurting blood, grenades and assault rifles. I thought it was hilarious. The teacher, however, did not. She sent it home in a crisp white envelope, along with a gentle admonition note on a rose-bordered Post-It note. One for the baby book, I say. The Oprah Nation would not approve, I’m pretty sure.

Now that I’ve exhausted all of my stalling techniques, I need to haul my ass out of this chair and “get my freak on” -- which means feed the dogs, load the dishwasher, make a grocery list, pay some bills and cruise around for little tiny dog shats. You know. I’m going through the horror that is potty training a new puppy, and that sucks about as bad as anything can suck.

Eventually I will post a picture that corresponds to this particular post. You will find that it is a picture of me sprawled across a fantastic double-chaise lounge, which I have coveted for approximately two summer seasons now.

I first saw it in the Pottery Barn Catalog, posed and propped up invitingly in front of a $70,000 pool, potted ferns and baskets of spa towels nestled all around it, Conde Naste’ magazines spread open and sprawled across the beautiful European double-cushion. (for an additional $275, thank you very much - ) Nestled compactly and brilliantly underneath this sexy hunk of lounging equipment are slide-out compartments, upon which portrays refreshing mojitos with icy chunks, fat lime wedges, authentic Mexican brown sugar lumps and sprays of fresh mint -- and I am not embellishing this scene one bit.

I became mesmerized, eventually obsessed. For two years, I visualized (CEO terminology) myself lounging on that thing, under my pool umbrellas, wearing a ridiculous pair of designer sunglasses, a floppy linen sunhat, my own potted ferns and my own icy mojito.

Exactly…like…that…page.

Except there was a big problem. That sexy rig was priced at around $1,200. Well, excuse me. Even I have limitations. (sigh)

So for years I have gazed half-heartedly at the Spring/Summer PB catalog, that thing making me a tad emotional, so I would flip on by, wipe the drool from my quivering lips.

By accident one day a couple weeks ago, I ended up on Wal-Mart’s outdoor furniture website. And there it was! My gosh! For $299, including the cushion. That had to be a goof. I was stunned. So I immediately…procrastinated but came to my senses the next day. I went back to order and… OUT OF STOCK. Wha!!!!!!!! I felt like sticking my head in the toilet and flushing. Really. Every day I went back to the WM website to keep an eye on the stocking situation. I was steadfast. Approximately 10 days later, there it was again! IN STOCK! It took several tries to make my * quivering fingers tap in the information, because I just knew that I was racing against “them”, those “other cyberists” that could potentially rip that baby out of my grasp. Once the order was finally submitted, I think I heard my little credit card squeaking in protest. Praise God, got it past the approval process. Pay dirt!

Since I had settled for Walmartonline's version of my outdoor fantasy, my swirling little mind readied me for “faux” teak, non-stainless steel hardware, inferior craftsmanship and had fully walked myself through the steps needed to “pimp my chaise lounger”. You know… lubing the joints, coating the hardware, Minwaxing the “teak”, reinforcing the “free” double cushion.

To my great astonishment, the thing was teak, and it was a beauty. It was identical to the Pottery Barn catalog lounger. The only mistake made (by the beautiful Chinese children who put the thing together) was they had augered in the screw holes but in the wrong location for the slide-out beverage shelves. No problemo. Being a good East Texas girl, I go to the garage and fix that situation with my cordless drill and a couple of wood screws. Voile. Problem solved. I now have an icy beverage platform.

I didn’t exactly tell my husband that I had placed an order for “the object of my outdoor living desires”, and of course he heard aaalll about that thing for two summers, but he wasn’t buying any excuse I was selling about that furniture. In fact he wasn’t budging. I pitched it in all creative ways….investment furniture, good for his bad back…look, a place to put our beer. (sigh)

Imagine his surprise, after another difficult day at work, to come home and see all of that beauty; that piece of furniture that had plagued his financial nightmares for two years. He just said “Oh Hell No”, and turned and walked inside. “Wait!” I quickly gushed out the whole long story… where it came from…how I lost it once…got it back later…fixed the drink holder. I asked him to please sit on it. The first thing he did was bitch about how uncomfortable it was. I pulled out the slide-outs and fetched him a beer. I sat down with him, with the laptop, and went to Wal-Mart’s site, opened up to the lounger (it said out of stock again!), then I split the screen and went to Pottery Barn’s website, to the exact…same…thing, except Pottery Barn probably uses a swanky Tahitian sweatshop instead of Wal-Mart’s Chinese one. I reminded him of my iron resolve to not buy the PB one (like I could afford that), also explained to him my weeks of earnest monitoring and swore a blood oath that the dogs would…absolutely…not…so much as…get near the thing.

His sphincter relaxed just a tad as he soaked in this overload of information, rubbed at his perplexed, frowning brow and began sipping at one of my fancy, designer beers.

I have learned over the years that if I cannot convince him, I will confuse him -- and the outcome will be equally satisfying. Cheers.

Notice in this (eventual) photo how much the dogs are enjoying my new lounger. If you look closely at that wonderful drink platform, one corner has already been chewed on, as well as the front wooden axle. Also, look closely also at the WHITE double cushion -- and all of the muddy paw prints!?! Also notice how incredibly hairy all three of our armpits are.

Shame! Where is the shame in this room? My husband has always told me…you can take a girl out of East Texas but you can’t take the East Texas out of the girl. Well, touche’.

Within the last two weeks, at least ten people have been killed by freakish storms in Texas. Last night we had a doozy. My station here, the NBC affiliate -- KPRC, covers them all over the state, live from the scene of the catastrophe. 99.9% of the scenes typically look like the same, worn-out stage prop: A mangled, 50-year-old trailer house. Another typical feature in this sad drama is that 99.9% of the survivors above the age of 14 all typically have Marlboros dangling from their mouths. But to their credit, I think if my home had just gotten smashed, I’d be looking for something a little stronger than a Marlboro, wouldn’t you? Heh, pass the tequila bottle, thank you very much.

Yesterday afternoon I did something really nice for myself. I baked myself a homemade batch of Toll House cookies. For me… All for me. Because I was having “a craving.“ I am typically one of great reserve when it comes to things that thicken my thighs, but a craving is a craving, dammit. So I culled out just enough dough to get me through last night and my coffee break this morning ( about six cookies) and I froze the rest for the weekend. I always look like a hero when we’re watching a movie and the kids and hubby are like, “Mom, can we please have something (anything!) besides Butter-Lite popcorn and Nonfat Bluebell?” Then I sneak in there and bake up a batch of those things. Heroic.

So I baked my six cookies and put them on a cooling rack to cool. I had a couple, then bagged the rest up for the next day. Mom always claimed that you and I had antenna for that sort of sneakery, and so do my children for that matter. And it is absolutely infuriating. With a capital I, I tell you!

Today I put on a steaming pot of brew, stretched out on my dog-smeared chaise lounge and intentionally did not allow myself to go in have a cookie until after the coffee was poured. It was all good…until I went inside, poured the coffee, went to my secret chocolate hiding spot, and found….absolutely nothing but a gawdam empty Gladbag with mounds of crumbs strewn everywhere.

^$%^&*(%$%^&*()&^%$%^&*(*&^%$#$%^&*(*&^%$%^&*(

At least …. can’t the little CRIMINALS be neat and tidy about their thievery??! I could have followed those delicious crumbs upstairs to the gameroom if I had wanted to, but why bother? Dammit. The whole situation lends itself to a theory…raising kids is just a big Toll House Analogy -- bake yourself a whopping batch of delicious Toll House cookies (because you certainly deserve it), hide them, and the children are sure to loot your special secret chocolate hiding spot …every...damn...time... And you’re supposed to feel warm and fuzzy about it, because it was the children, after all.

Heinous little bitches…

I’ve said my peace and I’m done with it, yet what I’ve said a thousand times, please allow me the 1001: “The older my kids get, the more I appreciate my dogs.” A mantra worth clinging to.

So I am lounging here, cookie-less, lukewarm coffee, on my filthy, fancy-pants lounger, cuddling my newest “intern” of my corporation. It is a teeny 1.25 pound rat terrier mix that fits in a coffee cup perfectly and looks exactly like a Curious George Beanie Baby. Got it from Randy and Mellony. I’ll save that story for later, other than to say…my husband acts as though my new little cowgirl is invisible. It must be a defense mechanism of some sort that a husband, whose wife has gone nuts, has had to develop in order to stay married to her. My poor husband. When the teeny little baby pees on the floor…invisible. The teeny baby poops…invisible. The teeny baby chews on an electric wire, I glimpse a wistful, hopeful expression cloud his face, then he glazes over again. Invisible.

I am starting to become sensitive to the fact that my husband believes that I am becoming gross in my old age, so I will just, in verbatim, describe a current situation that we are dealing with regarding one of our dogs (Darcy.)

“Mrs. P., your dog has a * milimeter tumor growing on her anus, which will soon be interfering with the nerves in her sphincter, so it is vital to have it surgically removed this week. Will that be cash, credit card or a convenient monthly installment plan?”

Whuuu? I suppose we’ll have to put off having the house painted and the trip to Sea World in order to have our eldest dog’s anus put right. I can’t imagine a more miserable way to fritter away hard-earned dollars.

Tonight is The Big Prom Event. Yet again, my daughter has managed to breeze in after school, in a panic, and blather together one rather disjointed run-on sentence containing “last minute nail appointment,” “empty gas tank” “ill-fitting shoes.” In short order, I found myself handing over my debit card…yet again. She came home sporting new solar nails -- and solar toes! (an additional indulgence I’ve never given in to) Some expensive looking jewelry and a bag (stuffed full) from Target (?!?) Next she informs me that she would be taking a nap, and to wake her at 3 p.m. sharp so that I would have enough time to roll her hair.

Throughout the week I have managed to intercept vague dispatches on disturbing prom-related topics (directly affecting my budget) ranging from a “really nice steak restaurant,” a “party at someone’s house,” and a “campout at Lake Sommerville,” (the ugliest, flattest, most featureless lake in Texas, good for only one thing: Drunk teen-dangers.) I can only pray that the ugly, featureless lake will only be two feet deep. Probably not though. I feel myself resisting.

If she cannot convince me, she will confuse me, and the result will be a equally satisfying for Mere'. Also, she is now 18 -- a so-called adult. (ahem)

After all, they are only Seniors once…

My husband is out of town this week because Ali is competing in the Big State golf tournament. Yay! The kids and I have been alone, working hard (me), so a couple of nights ago I suggested taking them out for a treat -- to Chili’s for queso, a meal and dessert. Maybe pick up a video at Hollywood Rental. I should have known better when they started in on the hissing. Like…what else do you two goofs have planned on a Thursday night? Momma ain’t cooking, the cupboard is bare. They proceeded to “place their takeout order” for me to run fetch. Wha?? I encouraged them to “load up” assuring them that we would have a lovely time. I even put on a skirt! We had the appearance of a lovely family going out for a meal -- except for the venom dripping out of the corners of their smart little mouths.

Right off the bat, while the waitress was giving the spiel, my son began talking over her -- ordering me to get him a strawberry lemonade. I had been rather patient, but at that point I completely lost my shit and threatened to pop him in the mouth if he interrupted another adult again that night. He started in with the pouting and defensive blubbering. I don’t even remember… and I ended up calling him a spoiled little baby. His sister jumps in with, “He’s having a bad day -- and you are making it worse, Mother -- can’t you see?” He then crawls over my lap and heads for the front door, turns around and yells something unintelligible at me. I am floored. The only thing I could figure at that point was that I was just being a Mom who finally “lost her shit“, my son is being a smarty-pants, my daughter is being a serious over-stepper.

Gawd… I asked the waitress to bag up the whole damn thing and walked out on a full $9 glass of Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay. That…is…just…wrong. We drove home in silence. I was scratching my head, just trying to figure out what in the heck had just happened. Turns out, my son had a really disappointing progress report at home in his backpack and was wanting desperately to fire off one last round of World of Warcraft on his Xbox Live before I confiscated the thing -- and our trip to Chili‘s was eating into that time; my daughter wanted to stay home and …I dunno…wax the hair from her entire body, or some such ridiculousness. Turns out, I had gotten my ass completely kicked just because I had thrown a kink into their stingy plans…(sigh)

(*** the next day, my daughter ended up apologizing profusely. She is not a big one for apologies, and I’m not accustomed to getting them from her, so it washed over me like powerful voodoo . I vaguely remembering asking her if she needed my bank card some more --- which…as it turned out, the next day she took me up on that offer.

Tonight is Friday night, and I’m feeling a little lost without my husband. Spiderman 3 made its big debut last night, and maybe the boy and I will go see that in 3D. But it will be a madhouse. Edwards Cinema is a chaotic playground where preps, jocks, debutantes of all ethnicities, plus gun-toting gangs (of all ethnicities) intermingle, so maybe I’ll just cool my jets on that plan, stay home and play Xbox with him. Wait a minute here! He’s grounded, isn’t he? He’s refused to hand over the offending progress report, so technically there’s no proof . Hey! This isn’t a legal proceeding, is it? (Mom-buddy-mom-buddy-mom-buddy....??) Okay. I’m starting to get confused. Moving along…

But wait! There is a perfectly funny-good reason I brought up the Spiderman 3 debut. Last night at midnight, all of the full-on costumed Spidey wannabe freaks were all lined up at the Edwards Cinema in order to be the first dorks through the door to see the big opening. During the pre-game frivolities, a shirtless (and in pretty good shape) pretty-boy had been body painted (!) red and blue, as Spiderman. He also sported blue ballet-style tights with a huge, huge….huge “athletic” supporter. Well, while the news cameras were capturing the entire circus, they honed in on pretty boy as he goes-a-sashaying out in the big middle of it all, like it was the damn St. Patrick’s Pride Parade or some such. (And I could hear the vintage glee club music start up in my head…Spiderman, Spiderman, he can do what spiders can…) And all of a sudden, out of the side of the camera angle, rushes in some big-ass douchekateer that tackles the painted Spidey, taking him down hard. They go sliding across the mezzanine, popcorn flying, fists flailing. It was all simply perfect!

I feel somewhat comforted, knowing that Gay-Spidey and I both got our sashaying little asses kicked on the same day.

Perhaps I need to call it a day here, make sure I took my medication this morning…because I’m starting to wonder…

Rebellious, spoiled teens, gay superheros, Toll House cookie rants, my rapidly accumulating dog family… (are your eyes bleeding yet??)

Dear Lord Baby Jesus Christ - I just watched a music video online, a Nissan-sponsored, idiot-inspired unplugged thing. Hell slowly began glazing over as I sat, classical Andrew Jackson expression on my face, watching Chris Cornell singing Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean.” (Wha!?) At the conclusion of the whole weird, hypnotizing thing, I stroked my chin thoughtfully and pondered… well, was it any good? Conclusion: very good. But what does it all mean? To me it means that Chris Cornell could get away with remaking anything (“Afternoon Delight” , “Like a Virgin”) and the ‘90s rock-n-roll set would still be totally enraptured with him…

But wait, there’s more… Chris also sings the tender, metro sexual opening theme song for the newest James Bond movie…which is actually quite good. Very good. The new Bond man is a blond-haired, blue-eyed, sculpted piece of…art… by the name of Daniel Craig. NOT metro sexual and NOT photogenic either, yet he has a screen presence and cocky panache that has hooked all of the Bond legion nay-sayers. In my own sheepish opinion, “they” have saved the franchise with this one -- “Casino Royale.” We have all of the Bond movies, and rotate them regularly, so I am totally in touch with my Bond side, therefore I feel comfortable enough in saying that this one is brilliant. The “young set” isn’t as impressed, because 99% of them have watched only the last 2 or 3 overblown, sorry- excuse-for-Bond movies and don’t understand (and aren’t very receptive to) how James Bond came to be. It if ain’t like watching a video game, they ain’t gon’ like it very much.

A few comments from IMDb…

Well certain people thought Daniel Craig could not pull it off, but he has and with style and a cold steel edge, not seen since Sean Connery.

This is proper action hero stuff, but he actually looks like if he wanted to, he could kill you.

With an opening sequence that will stop you from blinking for 20 minutes.

The film is class, from the cinematography, to the three dimensional villains, and Bond's rapid learning curve.

Like Dr No, you see a killer, just he is on our side.

Don't read reviews, just go and see it, and tell your friends what you thought, you won't be disappointed.






And there you have it.

As I’m sure you are aware, the Rockets are engaged in some “something or other important playoffs” of the country…or the world…and I am left a basketball widow. I may as well parade in all of my lovers as my husband glazes over and starts in with the grunts and bursts of expletives. Nightly he and the dogs root into the big leather chair, amply supplied with beer, beer nuts, laptop computer, six remotes and various other sundry gadgetry needed to successfully navigate the underbelly of the basketball beast.

He accuses me of being ambiguous about sports. (!?!) Damn-him, I am not ambiguous; I really do sort of love Houston Rockets… really. I also like the Houston Astros enough-okay too. Really.

Is it just Jeff Van Gundy, or do all basketball coaches look like hell?

Praise the Lord… my daughter's 18th birthday came and went without having to post bond, file a hefty insurance claim or needing a stomach pumped. I took her to a trendy (absolutely sucked and was filthy) Sushi and Sake parlor (her wish); then afterwards to see a live theatrical production in Houston (out of New York) of the production of “Wicked.” The tickets cost me dearly, obtained them from some ticket racketeering outfit out of Pennsylvania (!?!) that assured me equal or better seats if my choice was not available. Ahem…We were a bit oxygen deprived, but at least we were in the Center. And it was all good.

An official quote from the “official” website…

SO MUCH HAPPENED BEFORE DOROTHY DROPPED IN.

Long before Dorothy drops in, two other girls meet in the land of Oz. One - born with emerald green skin - is smart, fiery and misunderstood. The other is beautiful, ambitious and very popular. How these two grow to become the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch makes for the most spellbinding new musical in years.

When WICKED opened on Broadway, it worked its magic on critics and audiences alike. The show went on to win 15 major awards, including the Grammy® and 3 Tony® Awards." Today, WICKED is "Broadway’s biggest blockbuster."

I must say…it was brilliant. I truly envy a person’s ability to cobble together and conjure sheer f’d-up brilliance. My daughter sat hunched forward, straining to hear every word. She even applauded at the appropriate moments…and she is certainly not one for applause. I consider the event a success.

We are now fully engaged in the horror that is the Cy-Fair PROJECT PROM. Because of my vast support network of liars and backstabbers, I have been fully brainwashed in the theory and by application that …they are only seniors once. (ahem, God willing) Over the weekend we found “a dress”. I truly wish that I could believe in my heart that it is “THE dress” but the rigorous exercise of “milestone-event” shopping drains my daughter's battery quicker than the one on my “kickstart-less” Yamaha (Mother’s day present 2 years ago woo-hoo!) so she and I were in meltdown mode relatively quickly -- about the time that our Starbucks (a/k/a Fourbucks) wore off actually. Together we had agreed to not latch onto the first dress that fit, but of course she did. It is beautiful (unfortunately too revealing), and the price was right, but then the woman behind the counter started in on more indoctrination and brainwashing about the perfect stick-on, strapless bra, slimming girdle devices, necessary double-sided garment tape for strategic spots…things quickly got out of hand. Well, sh*t. After all, she is only a senior once…

Trousseau in tow, and as I’m licking off my wounds, she perks up a notch and suggests a trip to the Mac counter “just to look”. I’m laughing to myself right now, because I’m pretty sure you’re completely glazed over with all of this prom nonsense, but just sit tight. This has been very therapeutic for me, heh.

Mac is the cosmetic empire to all of the ugly “beautiful people.” And every female between the ages of 14 and 24 would slap her granny just to be “done up” in Mac for a milestone event. Well, I just wont go into it all, but we left with a parcel of Mac. Since My Brain is now numbed-up, my high-interest credit card has suddenly become a blank check. So… of course I suggested topping off the day with shoe-gazing (just looking). Mere’s idea of shoe elegance clashes with mine. I could write you an additional four pages of the half-assery that next takes place in the shoe department, but I won’t -- other than to say…upon conclusion of that ass-whippin’, she was crying and I was behaving like a white trash mother of 5 toddlers in a Piggly-Wiggly. Needless to say, we were attracting quite a bit of attention.

As I sit here now, softly blubbering to you, my friends, we still do not have shoes for prom. Remember, as I am the great over-corrector, we will surely be out looking for the perfect pair…an hour before prom. And so it goes…



What do you know about paintball? My youngest son is my self-motivated and “driven” (though sometimes misguided) child. Every day he straps weights on his little frame, decks out in full-on battle regalia and “runs drills.” He even, with his own allowance, purchases (and studies) magazines that dither in the “sport.” He is forbidden to use the paintballs in the back yard, and he swears that he does not use them, but why are all of the dog piles in the back yard bright turquoise? I once was told that paintballs were filled with yummy dyed yogurt!?!

Speaking of “that subject” my terrorist basset baby is upstairs, doing the rounds. She also “runs drills” and it has everything to do with chasing the resident homosexual. I just heard something crash upstairs, and I don’t mean a vase; I mean something significant, like a treadmill or television. Hang on a minute…

Well, I don’t see anything so I suppose what I heard were their bodies flailing about. Before we got Mercedes, I had a complete misconception of the basset hound. I’m not sure if it is the breed or just the one we ended up with, but she is a sassy little rocket dog. All snapping muscle and raw sinew. And quick!

She and the cat raise the roof around here. When I fell in love with Mercedes, she was six weeks old and teeny. She was on top of a squirming little wad of about 10 of her siblings. Her littermates were staggering around like Blind Lemon Jefferson, but our little girl was making tiny growls and wuffs and knocking them all down like little bowling pins. Simply excellent. She was born the Alpha.

When we brought Mercedes home, our pessimistic, lounging, conniving, completely bored cat Zero simply observed -- from some height, with a cynical, half-interested curiosity. Within a couple of days, that curiosity welled into a genuine, disdainful interest. As a result, the puppy’s amazing instincts kicked in. Though she was still wobbling about, her little nose kicked in and was going crazy. She began staring up and yipping back at Zero. Within a mere two days or so, that yip would start up and then crack into a hound dog bay. Aaaarrryoooooo! It was the funniest sound you could imagine. A voice much too big for the little body it came from. Sort of like my youngest son's voice right now, ha-ha.

That little bay seemed to signal Zero that the game was on. I genuinely believe that Zero was the one that started the bizarre drills that these two engage in every…single…morning, beginning about 6:45 a.m.-ish. At first, when the puppy broke out of the wobble phase and started puppy-galloping, it would simply crash into Zero. Zero invited it, of course, stretched out on the slate, arching his forehead, flicking and taunting with his tail. At first we thought it wise to keep them apart because of all of the yipping and growling, hissing and spitting, but, upon observation, we realized that it was all in good spirit. That cat could have, and still could, shred that dog to pieces it wanted to.

Within a few weeks, the puppy was an inch or so taller, incredibly nimble and quick (thanks to Zero) and the charging became a YouTuber’s dream. (this was before YouTube was a big deal, else I would have filmed it.) The pup would charge at full speed, like a bull. Zero would flatten out on his back, belly-up, and execute by kicking the charging puppy up in the air and over into the most awesome body-flip-slam. It was the funniest thing ever. That went on for about two, three months, the puppy getting heavier and more determined by the day. Sadly, those body-flip-slam days are gone but have been replaced by equally hilarious hijinks.

Like the day they were “drilling” in the sunroom and the cat lithely jumps from the couch onto a TV tray, then launches up to the fireplace mantle. Mercedes had been watching carefully. Without considering it, she rockets up onto the couch, then up onto the TV tray, intent upon following Zero anywhere…anytime…bring it on. Of course the tray crashes down and Mercedes learns a valuable lesson: Oh, I’m not a cat, am I? Good stuff.

This evening we will be leaving for Hughes Springs to see Mom and Dad. It is Wildflower Trails Festival, and they appreciate when we come home for that. Besides, it has been five months and I’m very homesick. And because our mother runs late all of the time (something she protests, by the way) she has levered us into a tight departure schedule by enticing us with roasted farm animals, fresh-plucked vegetables and various rural pastries that await our arrival. (the woman is crafty) There’s the guarantee that it will all be fresh, hot and timed perfectly, as long as we stick to the schedule. She then asks us for special requests. I am anticipating the typical long car ride with a frustrated, speed-racing husband, increasingly ripening dog odors (about Longview they start yip-howling and licking at their quivering little butts) , and grumbling teens who are engaged in an angry Ipod volume contest.

So to our mother, I sigh and put in my special request: A beer. Really…just a beer…Mom. That’s it. Beer -- and maybe a cookie . Mom laughs knowingly and empathizes, agreeing to not go to “too much trouble.” Alas, I am not fooled by our mother. We will probably be pulling in around midnight tonight and the table will be spread out like Thanksgiving…all of their Christmas trees decorated with a Spring theme… candles blazing… parrots squawking… all 35 dogs snarling and circling outside, working out their vague hierarchy, yipping like a pack of wild, butt-sniffing dingoes…

There’s no place like home. Wish my brother could be with me.

About twice a year I have a conversation with my husband that begins something like this. “I wish that I didn’t drink so dang much.” Don’t misunderstand. I’m not hitting the sauce at noon, passed out on the couch when the children walk through the front door, slurring things like, “kidths, come gith mommy a kith.” It’s just something I enjoy doing once all of my daily goals have been accomplished and I’m sitting in the executive lounge -- my back yard, watching my blooming roses and queen palms swaying in the breeze.

I do love to drink. Really. Wine, that is. Again, I love to drink. It bears repeating. I have no problem admitting that. What I do have a problem admitting is, “Hi, My Name is Kimberly, and I’m an ...”

I even have a problem writing it. So I have said a prayer today, asking God to please give me fortitude to build the willpower to tone it down to, say, only two glasses per session, ya know? Just something I needed to get off of my chest, I guess…after me and the office staff (the dogs) had an excellent little party out by the pool last night until 1 a.m….and I had to roll out of the bed at 4:30 to caption the news. No, there was no hangover to deal with -- alas, I was still drunk. I feel like a stupid idiot. My husband was awesome; told me he loved me and to invite him out the next time I was in a party mood. He keeps me sane. When I lose my mind, he finds it for me. Good stuff.

Wait. I’m not through. I’m blaming that damn Ipod (part of that confusing Christmas gift assemblage) on that party. I spent some time yesterday downloading new music…Alice in Chains and Joss Stone. Now, how is that for bipolar? I was just listening to that stuff, shaking my a$$ off. Music makes me go all tribal. I have a theory about that, and it involves the Souter side --

Aunt Margaret died? She fought one heck of a fight with cancer for at least 20 years and finally had enough of that crap.

As soon as I came downstairs from my noon show today, I heard music but I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I went back upstairs and checked to see if I’d hung up my audio
line -- check. I strolled through lairs of the children. Usually they leave everything on and open and un-flushed -- but check that off too. I finally traced the sound to my front street.

My neighbors are getting their ginormous house painted. The music sounded kinda polka-ish, and I was wondering what was up with that, since they are Mormons. There was a gaggle of happy Hispanic guys out there, having a gecko of a good time… sashaying around, slinging paint, singing (very loudly) to some very, very nice traditional mariachi music. My guess is, these fellas have a second job singing mariachi at restaurant and party events. They were good. No, not good: GREAT. It was all very lively and entertaining -- and I‘m sure had the Mormon group all ratcheted up.

I just had to pull away at one point, because the perceived leader of the group, perched atop what had to be the tallest extension ladder I‘ve ever seen, started bopping to the beat, belting away about his “corazon” all the while, swooshing away with a tiny paintbrush at the shutters. Despite all of that “heft” up front, he was somehow still capable of balancing, bopping and painting from a very, very precarious height, reveling in the fact that his cervesa fund would be nicely secured for just a while longer. Especially reveling in the fact that he had just won our business next month.

Our house looks like an acid rain cloud came over and let loose. That is life in Houston. Also, these aggressive birds have been clawing and yanking the vents from under the eaves in order to nest. These painter guys really are good. They will calk, repair bird damage, power wash, the whole shebang, for a reasonable price. I am thrilled. Those guys should get hazard pay for that job. Plus I will be serenaded for a couple or three days. Good stuff.

Speaking of hazard pay, and along those same lines, a few years ago we had to have a beekeeper come remove a 40-pound honeycomb from inside the crawlspace between the two levels of our home. If I ever so much as hear a single bee in my wall/ceiling…ever…again…my sphincter will lock down permanently -- because those buggers do mean business.

Let me tell you more. I was sitting out by the pool one beautiful day, the kids and their friends were swimming. I wasn’t exactly looking up, but I looked out over the pool and there seemed to be a cloud, though it was not a cloudy day. The air started shimmering and I seriously thought that a small plane was approaching. I looked up at the sound, and it was like a movie set. No other way to describe it, really. A real, live bee swarm was over my children in the pool. I started screaming for them to get out of the pool -- and every single one of them wanted to know why, of course, so I start going in after them. By then the noise is crazy. They look up, mouths open and aren’t moving an inch.

Finally, we are inside, looking out. This huge cloud swarm, about the size of our pool, slowly moves into a large pine tree behind the pool and settles in. The tree is now “shimmering.” Seriously. Let me say something here. I had been hearing a lot on the news that year about Africanized honeybees from Mexico being a problem in Texas, Houston area especially -- swarming dogs and killing them. Swarming old ladies going out to check the mail box. Swarming the random farmer on his tractor. I knew these things could mean serious business.

The kids didn’t care too much for my hysteria and were totally enthralled. I had to stand in front of the door to keep them inside. I got on the phone and started calling the 911, which, in hindsight, was really an embarrassing lapse of composure on my part. They gave me the fire department, the fire department said that they could not come unless we had been stung. Said there was nothing that they could do but assured me that the bees would eventually move along, just to stay away. Surely enough, eventually the big bee cloud drifted out of the tree and around the corner of our house, whew. Done deal.

A week or so later, we started hearing a buzz above our bed. We thought the fan was acting up, then we heard more buzzing eventually. The bee cloud incident just a blip in the memory radar. We hem-hawed around, thought maybe these bees would just…go away. That this was natural; bee season, I suppose. I just don’t know. When I started seeing mounds of bees crawling around in our ceiling light fixtures, buzzing around behind electrical plates, whizzing by my head while I was washing dishes in the kitchen…I knew we had a problem, so I started calling around for help.

I started with exterminators, who were all eager to come fog, or whatever, but then in the process of calling around, one exterminator said never, ever, ever have an exterminator take care of bees; call a beekeeper.

There really aren’t many beekeepers alive anymore, period. Mine showed up in a rusted and ratty old Sanford & Son pickup -- and I haven‘t been able to get that catchy show music out of my head since. (our cousin Chris has the S&S song as his ringer for his cell phone - hilarious) In the bed of the old truck, the beekeeper had three things: A ladder, a water hose and large wooden crate. He and I had already had several lengthy conversations over the phone, because at the time I was putting together a draft for a book, and beeping was to be a big part of that book. I showed a genuine interest in his trade, he was extremely helpful and talky, and I felt that he and I had established a friendship or sorts. Over the phone, that is. I could not help but notice that he had a big, strong Jimmy Stewart voice -- so I was a little shocked when he got out of his truck kinda of slowly and looked to be about 95 years old.

I am not lying to you when I tell you that the first thing out of his mouth was, “Young lady, I expected you to be a fat woman!”

(Wha?!) It was one of the rare occasions that I did not have a ready comeback.

He continues. “I’m retired, from the IRS, have been for years now. The only intelligent women I’ve ever known were the big, fat ones.”

Thank goodness he didn’t say anything else, simply turned and walked toward the back yard. I didn’t even have to tell him where “they” were. This guy was a bona fide “Bee Whisperer,”. He walks back around the house and he starts in about all of this new construction that was encroaching upon the natural bee habitat; that the bees had every right to take back what they could. He had me feeling so guilty over my new home.

So he goes back to his truck for the ladder and hose. The first trip up the ladder was done without the benefit of a bee outfit. Bees were swarming everywhere, covering his shoulders. I’m convinced that this is a 95-yr-old beekeeper’s way of showing off for thin, intelligent young women.

He slowly comes back down, dons the bee gear and then gets down to business. I made sure to stand back against the fence… a long, long way back. He knocked out a section of my Hardiboard and began reaching in. He hauls out a big wad of angry bees and dripping comb. “Looka heeeah, young lady!” he calls out. Like that shit was my fault. He kept every bit of that stuff, but in sections. He was all very gentle about the process, because he needed the worker bees to stay on the larvae. Turns out, he had a honey outfit on his farm -- and he had just hit serious pay dirt behind my siding.

The buzzing, he explained, were the workers flapping their wings in order to keep the nest cool and the keep queen fat and happy. He finally had all of the comb boxed up and admonished me that if I’d had an exterminator “Poison” the bees, I would have had an extended-release nightmare on my conscience. He conjured up dead larvae smells and apocalyptic biblical prophesies: Honey and bee carcasses dripping down inside the walls of my home, into the baseboard. Later would come the rats and insects that the mess would attract. He put the hose in the crawl space and hosed it all down and out into the yard through the weep holes. He said to leave the hole open in the side of the house in order to let everything dry out in there, but that he couldn’t guarantee that we wouldn’t have a mold issue on our hands. Thank you very much. He told me not to worry about the thousands of residual bees that were still swarming around; that you kill or take their queen, every single bee in that group will die. She is their heart and soul; their only reason for living. The queen actually looks different, like a fat hornet. He tried to show me the queen, but I wasn’t having any of it. I kept my distance, checkbook in hand.

As he was driving away he rolled down the window and warned me to calk everything tight later because the wax was like a musk type of magnet to the bee kingdom. Once it’s in the wood, misplaced bee tribes would smell that spot from miles around and try to colonize there. That I’d just better pray that it did not happen before the gaping hole was repaired, then he drove away, wearing the expression of someone who had just finished shoveling turds.

Upon reflection, it was all a very cool, “we-lived-to-tell-about-it” experience. I’m not sure about the relevance of telling that story to you, other than those painters will finally be calking up that side of the house -- three years after the beekeeper’s stern admonition. We are next. I’m glad but irritated about letting go of money for that sort of necessity. It seems when there is a little extra left at the end of the month, there is a reason. But I’m just grateful to get it over with. Thank you very much.


I’m sitting outside right now. I wish you could be with me. The weather is amazing and everything is blooming. The dogs are chasing lizards. Big, black male lizards are perched on certain parts of the house. It is a territorial thing They are usually green but today they are black. I think it is to attract the girls, haha. Who’s yo Daddy! The much smaller bright green “girls” are just running all over the side of the house, about mid-level, trying to keep away from the males on top and the dogs on bottom. It is hilarious.

I have a lizard house. I am serious. Not my actual house, but a little contraption that I figured by accident. I had a small terra cotta pot that I left on the porch last year. I had put a slightly smaller pot inside of it. The clay dish that catches the water was cracked perfectly in half but still held together because of the large sales tag on the bottom that I had not removed, so I laid it on top of the pot, meaning to come back around and throw the whole mess away. Six months later, haha, I was on the front porch and decided to finally do something with that mess. I noticed a tail slowly disappearing inside the cracked lid. I lifted one side of the lid, which is so very, very, very brave of me, since I am a chicken of anything with a tail. I nearly jumped out of my skin as lizards jumped up and out everywhere. I was stunned. I lifted the lid the next day, same thing. I still keep that thing on the porch and the lizards keep going to it. I think they like the cool space inside between the two pots and also the fact that there is a roof over them. I hope the dogs do not figure that one out. It is very cool to have a lizard house on the front porch. Maybe that will be the gimmick that I need to capitalize on, that will make me rich beyond my wildest dreams…alas.

Well, I need to pinch things off right here in mid-dream. I’ve got people to see, places to be, things to do, and daylight is burning.