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.

walk watch update

Pay up bitches!

4 steps on Monday night. But, I thought I give everyone a break and not call it. But them each day it has been more and more, until today, 20 steps at our garage sale.

I prefer cash money, but will take a personal check from some of you...

511 5th street

If you sweep a house, and tend its fires and fill its stove, and there is love in you all the years you are doing this, then you and that house are married, that house is yours.”
― Truman Capote


If I had spent a few decades of my life on a windswept prairie, in a small farmhouse that got so dusty that it had to be dusted twice a day, I would have thought I hit the big time when I moved into town.

Especially if I had survived the depression and a war and 4 teenagers and farm life.

I am not sure, that I would, after living in a small house with my husband for all that time, want to have matching his and hers wood-hobby shops, but some husbands have a better temperament than mine and I could probably be convinced if there was a dog run with a porch swing between them.

I would have wanted a pink bathroom of my own. With creamy formica coutertops with little gold specs in them. I am not sure if my bathroom cabinets would have been as neat, but I would definitely have pink floral towels and a dixie cup holder. Got to have the dixie cup holder. I would probably have one in my husband's bathroom too, and it would be a good idea to have that by the back door, in case he came home from the filling station and was dirty, or what have you.

And don't you know I would have a green house. I'd have to have a place for my fiddle leaf fig. And my geraniums--more people kill geraniums by loving them to death, just leave those plants alone.

Not sure about the red shag carpeting. But what we think of red shag carpeting is what people will some day think of stainless steel appliances. Why anyone would want one of those cold things in their home is beyond me. E-gad.

I would have a guest room, but also fold out sofas and a murphy bed. I was invited to stay somewhere once where they didn't have a bed for me and, well, that just ain't cricket, folks. So I would have lots of places to sit and be comfortable.

And a little table for the grandkids to sit at and make paper dolls. And a little blue bear.

Now, after having spent years in the kitchen cooking and never getting to be part of the fun, I would probably have what they call nowadays "great rooms" I'd just call it good sense. I would keep little depression glass goblets on the windowsill too, because when the sun shines on them, it makes them ever prettier.

Yes, not many people are lucky enough to get to build their dreamhouse. Especially after so long on the farm. Some people start out with a nice house--but where is the fun in that? I probably would think about it a lot while I was on the farm. Especially that summer my son and I accidentally shared a toothbrush in that 'ol durn bathroom.

And even when I was in it, I would always be tinkering with it, because a house is never done, not really.

Of course, 20 years is a long time to live in it all alone. A mighty long time. But I think I would fight like hell to keep it. Because it was our dream house.

And because I am stubborn and somewhat impractical. And I can't respect anyone that can't hold a grudge.

tallulah is one year old

Tallulah is a delicate child. That is what people say, although I can't tell how they can see it. My Aunts noticed it first, "que delicada, que hermosa." But strangers comment on how petite she is, how sweet she seems. I can't really argue with it. She is sweet, she is content, and if she isn't content, all she needs is a pair of arms to make things right. When Annabelle was her age, if she fell or knocked her head, or any of those small baby calamities that occur in the first year of life, she would just keep on going. Not Tallulah, she cries and scrunches up her little nose and pouches out her little lips. She is scared of big animals, of all animals, really, except the idiot dog, and if you are at the zoo and hold her up to a giraffe, she will clutch onto you in terror, which is so unlike the other child that would reach for them. The comment strangers would make about Annabelle was how feisty she seemed, but with Tallulah, it is her sweetness that is noticed. She is a delicate, sweet child, but how a stranger can tell is beyond me.

But for all her fragility, she is equally tenacious. If she wants something, she will get it. If you try to change her mind, she will literally bulldoze her way to the coveted object, and if you divert her attention for a few minutes until you think she has forgotten, well, she doesn't forget. She goes right back to the remote, cell phone, poisonous object, etc.

Tallulah is freakishly smart. At four months she was craning her neck when she was on the changing table, and calling "annbel, annbel" but it is one of those things that you just assume can't mean what it sounds like, because she was just 4 months old and I was sleep deprived. But I heard it often, when Annabelle was in the other room and Annabelle would say "I'm coming Tallulah," so I know she heard it too. She would also say mama, ama (when around my mom) and "dog bark." Once at the doctor's office, she pushed his hand away while he was examining her and said "no." The doctor looked at me incredulously and said, "did she just say no?" And then he tried to examine her again and she told him no again. She can also say "no dog," and pushes the dog's sniffing nose away-- but this should be no surprise, given how often she hears that phrase. She is a little parrot and can repeat things she hears a lot, like "thank you" and "lemonade" She can figure out toys that took Annabelle weeks to master in 5 minutes. And runs her fingers up and down her ribs when she wants my dad to tickle her, to the amazement and delight of her grandpa.

Tallulah's sister has a keen understanding of her needs and is very protective of her. "Don't do that to my sister's nose! She doesn't like that, you are making her cry and I am mad at you." We heard that tonight when we were bulb siringing the little snotty thing. The other night Tallulah, was banging her head on the high chair and we were perplexed as to why. "She wants a drink," Annabelle said. "you think so?" I said and fixed her one. As soon as she had it, she stopped banging her head and began happily slurping on her sippy cup.

Tallulah loves her papa. When he walks through the door she comes alive with smiles and thrusts her body over to him for him to hold her. She is a daddy's girl and while I think it took him a little bit to really appreciate her, he puts her to bed every night, without fail.

Tallulah is one year old today. Happy birthday, mija.