November

November is my most favorite month. And because of that, it always seems way too short, much shorter than the shortest February. Sandwiched in between the length and obscenity of October and the frenzy that is December, she is a grand old Dame forgotten by almost everyone-- except for us. We tried to make her last, we had a Thanksgiving playdate and we went to Castroville and made turkey and leaf cookies to celebrate autumn, but our last few days were eaten up with sickness, and we couldn't even enjoy Thanksgiving properly. No popcorn in the evening while watching the UT game, no Friday trip downtown to listen to music in front of the Alamo and watch them turn on the Christmas lights (even in the glory of Thanksgiving, she is still overshadowed by Black Friday and Christmas, yet she graciously acquiesces).

Today is the very last day. To celebrate, Annabelle, baby Annabelle, and I bundled up went on a walk to look for colorful trees and we gathered up some of the prettiest leaves to give to Papa.

He had just got home from work when we came home and we all had a cup hot chocolate and Chili that had been simmering on the stove all afternoon.

Farewell fond friend. I will see you next year, si dios quiere.

thanksgiving apologies

This year i am sorry about the following things

1. Annabelle, I am sorry I told you that Santa wouldn't bring you any toys if you didn't take your medicine. I was frustrated and worried and I had already tried to force it in you and trick you with it, all to no avail. But the good news is, I never have to worry about anyone poisoning you by slipping you a mickey in your milk, juice, ice cream or by injecting something into a mini Reese's peanut butter cup. I am also sorry that I took you to the doctor so they could give you an antibiotic shot. I am thankful; however, you are getting better.

2. Mom and Dad: I am sorry I almost ruined your Thanksgiving by bringing my dog home. I am sorry that she is the most horrible dog in the world. I am sorry that there is one thing wrong with her: she's a dog. I am sorry I was unable to find a kennel while I was taking care of my infant daughter who had pneumonia. I should try to manage my time more wisely. But on the bright side, she was entertaining to the kids who came, so that's good, and she pooped at my in-laws house and not at yours, so that is good too.

3. To Hyphen: I am sorry I am the worst driver you have ever seen. I am sorry that after 5 years of living in our house, I still hit the curb every time I back out of the driveway. I am sorry that I almost killed us so many times on the way to San Antonio that you made me pull over so you could drive the rest of the way while I looked at my Instyle magazine.

Cue The Sting music now.

where I am right now

I am in Cabo, sitting by an infinity pool overlooking the violent Pacific waves crashing on the slick, black rocks. I am under an umbrella, eating guacamole, having a pina colada, reading a gossip magazine and wondering if Robert Pattison and Kristen Stewart are really an item. I am slightly buzzed and just about to get a sunburn. In a minute I'll start Bell Canto again, so I won't waste my entire vacation on celebrity gossip.

Don't be jealous.

Don't be jealous, because I am only there in my mind. In reality, I am in day 3, or 9 depending on how you look at it, of sick kid hell. I certain I have cleaned up more than my share of vomit than was allotted to me by the motherhood gods and I am beyond feeling sorry for my daughter, now I just feel sorry for me.

Annabelle got sick last weekend. Feverish, puny. Then she got better--sort of. Then I got sick and then Hyphen (true to form) got sicker. All the while, she had a cough, and would cough so hard she would vomit up everything she ever thought about eating that day. Then on Saturday, she broke out into a fever very suddenly. I got concerned because I secretly, well not so secretly, thought we had the swine flu and a relapse is v.v. bad. So I called the after hours nurse line and they told me to give her some warm apple juice and honey to help with her cough. Okay, that sounds great. While I am at it, I will also get in my time machine and transport myself back into the middle ages to get some leaches, because I think bleeding her will help get rid of the evil spirits that are giving her the fever. Ugh. I want some decongestants bitches! Seriously, why can't we give them to our babies? So annoying.



On Sunday, I had a pitiful child and made a quick trip to the fancy medicaid-less ER, where I rationally explained out situation and the doctor who was wearing Prada glasses and who my grandmother would describe as a foreigner sent me home with a Popsicle and a dose of Motrin and told me she had a virus and it would pass.



The thing is, I know my baby. And I am not an idiot. I hold an advanced degree that gives me the ability to sue a doctor. I know the difference between a cold and something more. So this morning, when she doesn't even want to drink her milk, I take her to my real doctor. Who takes the time, even though he is a man, to listen to her chest. And she has pneumonia. PNEUMONIA. Now, I didn't go to medical school, but I am pretty sure apple juice and Popsicles don't fix that.



Sometimes, lawyers are the heroes of the story. Like when I called that quack shack and used the phrase "gross deviation from the standard of care" and demanded my money back.

Their director of medicine is going to call me.

LuLu and Baby Ann-belle

I was cleaning out Annabelle's toy bins last week trying to prepare myself for the inevitable onslaught of the Christmas season when I uncovered a Cabbage Patch doll. Now my Aunt gave this to Annabelle last Christmas. She was way too little to appreciate it. And as the box lay unattended and unloved by last year's tree, my sister and I silently fumed. Well, not really silently. In our list of parental grievances, not having a Cabbage Patch doll is in the top ten. Perhaps the top 5, closely behind not having jelly shoes("junk shoes made of plastic"). Cabbage Patch dolls were too expensive and too ugly. Instead we got some homemade crap doll that was fat with a fat ugly face. Of course mine had stupid red hair, brown eyes, ridiculous freckles and was wearing a dreadful orange dress, and Audrey's had slightly less stupid blond hair, blue eyes and had a blue dress.

Audrey: "A cabbage Patch doll! She's not even one! What's in the other box? Hmm? Jellies???"

I am not sure how mature it is for 30 year olds to begrudge their niece/daughter a doll, but whatever.

So Annabelle has taken an interest in her. She also has taken an interest in the doll my other Aunt got her. Her name is Lulu, and is third in a long line of Lulu's, dating back from one given to my mom when she was little, one to me when I was little and now one to Annabelle, all from my Aunt Belia.

Lulu was pretty low maintenance and only required an occasional diaper change. But this Cabbage Patch doll is something else. Her shoes come off and so does her hat. Annabelle doesn't like it when that happens and has a tiny fit until the situation is resolved. She likes to have snacks. She likes grapes especially. She likes to sit with Annabelle on her high chair while she is eating these snacks. She also needs to pee pee in the potty, but sometimes has to be changed. She drinks a bottle and a sippy cup, but her mouth doesn't open, and that is a cause for concern. She goes with us places and lost a shoelace at our friends' house. Annabelle notices this from time to time and then we have to spend some time looking for it.

Annabelle is a loving mom, and makes sure her children are provided for, but doesn't always tend to them herself. I can now add "Doll nanny" to my CV.

In short, I have two new babies.

And the Cabbage Patch doll's name? Why it's "Baby Ann-belle" of course.

turd kid update

After a period of relative peace and tranquility, Turd Kid has raised his ugly, wrinkly, head.

We were at the park where there is now a kids' tennis court. Of course, kids rarely play tennis on it, but the toddlers love to get on it and run like the wild demon maniacs they are. Chief among the wild rumpus starters is sweet little Annabelle. She has a peculiar way of running-she keeps her arms bent at angles at her chest, like she is a line-backer, and throws them back and forth, like she is going to knock some people down. It is a joy to watch her run. So we've been at the park for a while, had our tea party, played on the big abacus that Annabelle loves and thinks is "mine" (that's the Asian in her) and finally the family playing badminton on the court leaves. So Annabelle and some other maniacs head over to the court and start to run around.

And then I feel a disturbance in my force. I look up and see turd kid approaching with his sister, mom, and two tennis rackets. Figures. What 5 year old plays tennis????? Annabelle had been patiently waiting to get on the court, which is a hard thing to do for a 20 month old, and then this punk shows up. I was trying to figure out how to explain to her that she would have to leave, when my basest, ugliest, self kicked in.

Turd kid: "we are going to play tennis now."

Crazy me who argues with children: "Oh yeah? Well, we are running around."

Turd kid: "but we are going to play tennis now."

Me (silently praying no other adult was listening): "well, we were here first, so that's too bad."

Turd kid gave me this stunned look and I gave him my look that says "bring it" and scares my family.

Then some real adults approached, to check on their maniacs and our exchange was over. But I stood my ground. In the end, the court proved big enough for a crappy five year old tennis player and a fabulous 20 month old line backer to co-exist.

And you know what? I have no regrets about my behavior. That kid is a real turd, and I am not going to put up with that. Try to kick my baby girl off the tennis court? I don't think so.

if you want to see a bunch of grown women look like idiots, come and take zumba

I had it on good authority that zumba was a super fun aerobics class. So I decided to take it now that they offer it at my new and improved Y. I dropped Annabelle off at "school" and headed for the class, which is basically latin line dancing.

A few observations:

1. There were 15 women of varying ages and when I say varying, I mean I was one of the youngest.
2. There was one old man who was dreadfully out of place.
3. All but one were latin.
4. All were shaking their bom-boms.
5. All were completely uncoordinated
6. Our teacher (I am not a lesbian) was a total hottie with a perfect butt.
7. Saggy boobs come in handy when one does the shimmy shake.

So as the class gets going, I start to notice how dorky everyone is looking, including myself and I get to thinking--when I have the best moves in a dance class, there is a serious problem. Either I am in a class for geriatrics or lots of geriatrics are taking a class that is too young for them. Except, other than the one really old blue hair(who was doing hip thrusts with the rest of us) these ladies were not that old, and not to stereotype, but they should have rhythm. Then the mariachi/tejano song came on and suddenly everyone relaxed and could do the moves and it dawned on me, we just can't cumbia or salsa because that is not our culture. We are tex-mex dammit! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-hiiiii!

my first client

My first client was someone, who due to confidentiality reasons, I will refer to as X. I heart X. :) X got a ticket in San Antonio which is pretty shocking, because X has an encyclopedic knowledge of the streets of San Antonio--like you can be on E.Grayson in some weird skank ass neighborhood that they are trying to make into some fancy thing called the "Pearl Brewery Complex" and she will say something like "you better change lanes because there is a pothole coming up." Of course, X is right, she is always right, at least when it comes to the streets of San Antonio, not regarding child rearing or the finer aspects of my life. Anyway, I was surprised to hear that she got one. Of course, X totally pulled the I-am-an-old-lady-recovering-from-a-devastating-disease card on the cop, but he didn't care. I could have told her that, my cop didn't care when I was 9 months pregnant--they put ink on you no matter what your physical condition is. (I can say cop now because I am no longer a prosecutor)

So she called me to ask what to do, and for the first time ever, I was able to help someone. See, I was such a nerd and took my job so seriously that when my family or friends needed help with tickets or had some other clash with polite society, I always said I couldn't give them any legal advice, because my client was the state and I couldn't work against her.

So I made a call to find out who I needed to call, and took care of her ticket over the phone. I hope I got her a good deal. And it felt great to actually be able to help someone.

My second client was myself. I had a trial today and I totally got screwed by my attorney who was just being lazy and didn't want to stay in court all day to try my ticket, and talked me into taking the deferred. Should I grieve myself?

why I should be a heavy drinker, but through the grace of God, I am not

Hyphen. I could write an entire blog, and probably so could some psychotherapist about what a whack job he is. Today, he had the unmitigated temerity to tell me that he was not "high maintenance." It was actually my sister who said he was. You see, she called me, while I was in the check out line at Target. And we were chatting. But I had to hang up because Hyphen was annoyed that I was talking to her instead of concentrating on putting the toilet paper in the trunk of the van. When we were driving home I called her back. It was then that Hyphen said he hated going shopping with me because my priorities were out of line. Audrey called him high maintenance and he denied it. Then I felt the need to delve why he hated going to Target with me. Hyphen likes to give what he calls "constructive criticism." Most other people call it "being an asshole."

Me:"What do you mean my priorities are out of line?"

Hyphen:"Because your priorities are getting popcorn and a slurpee and talking on the phone."

Me: "Look, I wanted to have a pleasurable shopping experience and that's why I got the popcorn and slurpee and I was only on the phone during the check out line. You could have stayed home with Annabelle, but you didn't want to go outside with her and that's what she needed to do." (sometimes Annabelle wakes up fussy and the only cure is to go outside and sit with the dog)

Hyphen: "there were too many mosquitoes."

Me: "you could have put on repellent."

Hyphen:"but I don't like the way it makes my skin feel."

Me: "you mean the feeling of not getting bitten? Then you have to suffer through Target."

High maintenance. That's my constructive criticism.