we are on the third floor

I went for a check up today and as I was heading from the parking garage to the main entrance of the building, I walked by an elderly lady sitting on a bench talking on a cell phone. I heard her say the following in that accent that life long Houstonians have: "we had to park on the third floor because he wouldn't valet. I liked to died getting over here." I paid her no mind and took my time getting to the elevator. My doctor is on the second floor and I chatted with the receptionist about the girls and then took my time finding magazines. I sat down and started reading, when the lady and her husband came to the seats across from me. The following is their conversation, which I began writing down on my phone's notebook. I don't know their names, but we will call her Gladys and him Herman.

Gladys in a very loud voice because Herman is obviously hard of hearing: we are on the third floor. We are on the third floor. Did you hear me? We are on the third floor.

Random lady in another seat: actually ma'am, we are on the second floor right now.

Gladys: oh, I know that honey but I am telling him where he parked. (to herman) We are on the third floor. I am gonna write that down in case I pass out and they have to come and get us. I am writing it down right here (gesturing to a scrap of paper), because I think I am going to pass out, in case ems has to come and get us. We should have used the valet. We are on the third floor. Do you hear me?

Now, all this time Herman has been reading the paper. But he chooses this time to chime in: ein, zwei, drei, uno dos tres, one two three...

Gladys(yelling): stop that (of course that has two syllables when she says it)

Herman: third floor.

Gladys(glancing down at her orthopedic sandals and bright orange pedicure): oh my lord I did not put my stockings on. it is cold in here. I am puttin' this ticket in my purse with my phone. You need it to leave. We are on the third floor.

Then she read her section of the paper and he continued reading his.

Later, I packed up the kids and drove to my parents house for a little pre-Christmas visit. I sat and watched as my dad was lying on the floor getting instructions from my mom on how to straighten the Christmas tree and then told him to get up and come and look at it. He declined in a somewhat grumpy manner. Then she asked me what I thought.

We are on the third floor.

did i mention that relapse is part of recovery?

Well, it is. At least that is what my judge used to say to defendants when I was trying to revoke their probations. And why would I want to argue with the incomparable Suzanne? Well, I would want to, but I wouldn't prevail. So I made it 40 hours, which is good. I am going to hop right back on tomorrow. This is a great improvement, because I was up to 2+ a day. And I only had one because we got some bad news about the house we were trying to buy and I was about to eat some steak and potatoes which goes perfectly with one of those little dublin dr. peppers.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of my life. Tomorrow.

Hello Stella

hello my name is stella and I am addicted to sugar.

Caveat #1:
I don't really think there is anything wrong with sugar. I love sugar. Nothing makes me happier than eating a big piece of birthday cake made with buttercream icing, unless it is drinking a sweet tea from chik-fil-a or eating an oreo.

So what? I am an addict and I love my addiction. You can drink your diet cokes and munch on 5 almonds when you are hungry--go right ahead, give my a dr. pepper and reese's peanut butter cup and eat your heart out.

But I don't like what I look like right now. I am very soft in the middle. Today Annabelle said my tummy was like a pillow. And I think sugar is responsible--that and sugar's best friend, butter, but let's focus on one issue at a time.

I started during pregnancy. I used to be somewhat disicplined and just have a couple of cokes a week. Then I got knocked up and was sleepy during lunch so I ordered a coke every day at work. But since we only had an hour and a half for lunch and since I am a slow drinker I would just take a couple of sips and be done. No real harm. Then, as I may have mentioned before, I quit my job in a steaming fit of rage when a somewhat douchey person became my new boss. When I started to stay home, I still had the dp habit, despite the fact I was 14 months past my due date. But even though I was still a slow drinker, there was no one there to throw away my coke after lunch and clear the table, so I would sip on it for the rest of the day. We would also have pancakes every day for breakfast, but again one issue at a time.

Then, knocked up II, the sequel wherein there was never a pizza crust I didn't touch.

And now here we are--me and my buhdda belly (and butt and thighs)

The thing is, I would never let my kids touch a coke. I view myself as a steward of their health and teaching them how to be healthy. Annabelle thinks they are "spicy" and stays away form them. She also is starting to get that they are bad for you and told me not to drink too many. So why can't I be a steward for my own body?

Oh, yeah, because I am an addict.

Then I got a text this weekend from my former Boss M______ S________ (my f-bm for short) bragging about how he can run 10 miles at a 9 and a half pace and he is 44 and has ms. I could not even run one mile right now. FBM made me think of what a certain rapscallion, who imparted upon me two very important pieces of wisdom:always have your client testify in a DWI case and never drink your calories.

So I have made a decision. And I am announcing it on this blog so I will have to be honest about it.

I will not have another sweet drink until Christmas day. Please note: I do not believe in saying ever again, because that would be ridiculous and a lie. But if I could just get back to drinking one once a week, I would be in good shape.

Which brings me to caveat number 2: To celebrate my decision, I am finishing off my sweet tea from Rudys. One last hurrah.

But let me keep my butter--or else just put a gun to my head and shoot me, because a life without butter is just clabber.

dinner at pf changs

Earlier tonight, I was thinking about the best fried rice I have ever had. It was this year, when we were camping. H had brought some old take out rice with us. He cooked it on a cast iron skillet with bacon instead of chinese sausage. He put in it some carrots and whatever other vegetables we had taken from home, in the hopes that we would use them while we were camping. My mom would call this a mingongo. Anyway, he fried this up in a cast iron skillet over a butane burner on top of the old chuckbox that we took camping when I was a little girl. Annabelle was riding her bike nearby and Tootles was sleeping in a her pack-N-play under an oak tree. We ate it out of styrofoam whataburger cups because the people who were bringing the paper plates weren't there yet. And it was delightful.

I was thinking this as we were at PF Chang's tonight. We have never been there as a couple. I have, of course, being somewhat white, I can go into those places without feeling like a total banana (yellow on the outside....). When we go out to eat, it is usually in real hole in the wall places or somewhere in Chinatown. But tonight we had a Christmas errand to run and we had to go do it near PF Changs. It is one of those loud, trendy type places where young people sit at the same table and text each other and old people eat lemon chicken.

It was near Tallulah's bed time, but there was no pack-play and no oak tree. Just chop sticks for her to throw on the floor and then scream in delight when Annabelle would run and pick them up for her. They did this about 50 times and it was keeping them relatively happy.

The food was alright. Solid. I have had worse--I've had worse in Chinatown.

It was Friday, date night. When I am 100 years old and an inmate in some facility somewhere, I will still want to go out to eat. And hopefully, Herman, my nursing home boyfriend, will walk me to the cafeteria to get some jello (H will have stroked out sometime before--bacon, get it???). Maybe I will remember two hyper girls gobbling down fried rice at a busy restaurant.

But I know I will always remember that frio river fried rice.