Call the loony bin: My mom's done gone nuts.

I was stuck in traffic on the way home from work/Geej-fetching, and decided to call my mom for a chat. Almost immediately, she informed me that she's decided to join...wait for it...wait for it...A FUCKING DRILL TEAM FOR OLD LADIES!! And not only is it a drill team for old ladies, but these old ladies are REPUBLICANS and they all carry TOILET PLUNGERS...just to be wacky.

Behold: The Plungettes.

"A high-stepping, boot scootin' sisterhood with a crowd pleasing routine, the Plungettes enjoy what they do."

I'm-

I'm sp-

I'm speechless, ya'll.

She tells me that they do cool stuff...they go on trips (to Republican fundraisers, mind you), they have practices, and they "get silly" (whatever the hell that means). They hold their rehearsals out at some old bitty's ranch and she has exotic animals (like water buffalo and zebras). She assures me that they're a legit deal, and she knows this because among their ranks, they have former members of the Kilgore Rangerettes and the Tyler Apache Belles. As if that somehow makes this LESS goofy.

Oh. My. God.

I thought it was extreme when she started taking yoga. But this? I'm seriously considering having her committed.

If she joins the goddamned Red Hat Society, I'm disowning her.

Best Birthday Gift Ever.

My friends are wonderful.

Even though I put "NO GIFTS!" on the e-vite to my party, I was still regaled with CDs, flowers, bottles and bottles of reeeeeeeeeeally good wine and champagne, a Crate & Barrel gift card, Lowe's gift cards, card cards, a gourmet cupcake, a computer game and other stuff I'm sure I'm forgetting. All of these things are wonderful, appreciated and make me feel very loved.

But yesterday I got to the office, and a work buddy of mine gave me this:
The first page I randomly turned to said "Wisdom of Ralph" and had the quote, "If rice wriggles, then it isn't rice." I fell to my knees laughing, and soon had laugh/cried all of my mascara off. Everything I read in this book I hear in my head in Ralph's voice, and it makes me grin from ear-to-ear. I love him. My main complaint about "The Simpsons" has always been that there's never enough Ralph. My wishes have come true with this book.

By the way, a couple of the things Ralph wants to be when he grows up: A traffic cone; Mario Brothers; the Secretary of Gnomeland Security.

I HATE it when I forget to take photos.

At my party Saturday night, the digital camera was charged up and handy, but did I take any photos? Nope. Except for this one. Me and Malcontent Mama's husband during the Matador Wall Art Handoff Ceremony. It was toward the end of the night. I was hammered. You get the idea...

Three more years 'til 40!

As I type this, I am mere moments away from the clock striking twelve and it officially being January 30th, my birthday. My thirty-fucking-seventh birthday. Yay.

I'm so happy I could cry.

Despite the fact that I had one ROCKIN' ASS party last night (thanks for showing up everyone!! I've got so much wine/booze/beer/cheese left over, that I'm going to have to call an emergency deck sitting/happy hour thing very, very soon), and despite the fact that I'm very, very happy with my current situation in life, this birthday is still hitting me. Hard. Like Coyote-hit-by-an-ACME-anvil hard. Whatever the reason, it's not a date I've been looking forward to. I guess I have no choice but to suck it up and see what lies ahead.

In the meantime, here's a little birthday gift I gave myself earlier today. That shmutz on her face? Guacamole. Leftover party guacamole for dinner. I AM the Mother of the Year.

Let's Party!!

I'm throwing myself a big ass party tonight. Over 60 people have RSVPed. Oh shit. I've got 2 friends in from out o'town who are staying with me, and they're helping me get stuff ready. We're about to go grab lunch then hit the Party Barn to pick up the keg, then the liquor store, then Whole Foods to pick up the catering. I'm telling you--this is real, grown up type shindig. I'm thinking it's going to be pretty damn fun. Oh, and it's also sort of a surprise 60th b-day party for my mom. She doesn't know it, but her brother, sisters and a couple of nieces and nephews are coming in to surprise her. And last night we made this kick ass "This is Your Life" posterboards with a ton of photos of her from throughout her life. She's clueless. I can't wait to see her face!

Anyway, I'm sure I'll do a hungover post tomorrow to dish the dirt. But for now, VIVA LA FIESTA!!

Hair Crisis Narrowly Averted.

I've been going to the same hairstylist for about 5 years now. He's one of the only straight male hairstylists on the planet and he does a pretty good job for reasonable prices. He's located conveniently near my workplace, and has always been easy to schedule with because he has an online scheduling system where you go in, pick your service, choose your date/time, and voila--it's done. You even get an e-mail reminder about your appointment the day prior. Sounds good, right? Well, not so much. In the 5 years I've been going to him, he's called me last minute to cancel/reschedule at least 8 times. Every other time, I've been flexible and rescheduled. He usually would knock $10 to $15 off the service to make up for the inconvenience. But today was the last fucking straw.

I had an appointment for 3:30 for a cut and color. It was important that I get this taken care of today because my hair was looking SUPER ratty, and I have company coming in tomorrow and a big ass party I'm throwing on Saturday. Asshole calls me at 1:30 to say he needs to cancel because his attorney had just called him and he needed to appear in court this afternoon--a command performance to deal with his (2nd!) DUI. Asks me if I can reschedule for tomorrow afternoon, same time. Um NO fuckface, I can't. That's why I scheduled for toDAY. GRRRRRR. He's all apologetic and shit, says he'll do the color for free blah blah blah. Hey, dickweed, guess what. You're not getting to do my color for free or ever again for that matter. You suck, and I'm done.

I immediately started scrambling, asking every chick I know at my office for names/salons I should call. On my third try, I got lucky. They worked me in at Anne Kelso, and I am now the proud owner of a bitchin' assymetrical, garnet-colored bob. It's ruling.

So, screw you Elliott Franklin. We're officially broken up.

The product of a "well-rounded" education.

When I turned 30 (which was about 87 years ago), I promised myself that I'd take a class and/or make an effort to learn something new and challenging every year. I did this because I'd seen the horrible results caused by the death of the desire to learn and experience new things. It happened to my stepfather, and it basically paralyzed him. He became so fearful of anything new or outside of his "comfort zone," that he was consumed by the Grand Canyon-sized rut that his life had become. For the first few years, I was pretty good at keeping my promise. Now, with the baby and all, it's going to be harder to do. But I'm going to keep trying at least.

Here's a list of the random classes I've taken since I turned 30:

Creative Non-fiction Journal Writing
An informal class offered by Columbia College in Chicago. This was a pretty cool class, and I had some decent writing come out of it. The class was made up of almost all women--there was one brave dude. There were about 12 or 15 of us, and we met, read, discussed and critiqued. The best thing that came out of this class is that I met my dear friend Michelle. She was the best writer in the class by far. And she also had the funkiest haircut and cutest shoes. She now has a kick ass vegan/vegetarian culture magazine that she and her husband launched a couple of years ago. They're a couple of my favorite people.

Basic Manuscript Editing
Offered by the Graham School at the University of Chicago. I took this primarily for work (i.e., that's who paid for it), but I really, really enjoyed it. The anal-retentive grammar Nazi in me was very satisfied by what this class taught me. If nothing else, it made me realize that there are other people out there just as mystified by the function of a semi-colon as I am.

Early Country Vocal Duets
Offered by the Old Town School of Folk Music, Chicago. Man, I loved this class. The Old Town School is simply kick ass. I wish they had a version of it here in Austin, 'cuz I'd be ALL up ins. Anyway, in this class, you got paired with a duet partner (mine was a very pregnant woman with a nice, bell-like voice), learned songs with very interesting harmonies (think Louvin Brothers, Blue Sky Boys, The Carter Family, etc.), then performed them. It was joyous. Our teacher's critique of our duet stylings said that we "sounded like the female Everly Brothers." High praise indeed.

Intro to Tai Chi
A U.T. informal class. My favorite part of this class was arriving early and watching the students in the "Hip Hop/Street Dancing" class that was in the Union Ballroom prior to the Tai Chi class. Other than that, I didn't really get much out of Tai Chi. I wanted it to be more than it was. Maybe I just wasn't in the right mindset at the time. I'd certainly be willing to try it again.

Beginning Tennis
A U.T. informal class. I really wanted to be good at tennis. Really, I did. But I've always had zero eye/hand coordination. This class only confirmed that for me. I was, by far, the crappiest tennis player in the class. People hated getting paired with me because I couldn't ever return their serves or volleys. Sad, sad stuff.

Kickboxing for Fitness and Self Defense
Again, U.T. informal. I took this class with a girlfriend, and it was all chicks in the class. It was an AMAZING workout--cardio, strength, etc. The hour FLEW by, and when you were finished, you felt that "good tired" you feel when you've worked really hard at something. You also felt sore, sweaty and tough as hell. The only problem? The instructor was the world's biggest glad ass. He lived, breathed, ate and pooped kickboxing, and was a tad too enthusiastic for my taste.

Intro to Hatha Yoga
Loved this class. I was taking it two nights a week during a very stressful period in my life. It felt indulgent and utterly peaceful. Plus, I had a total girl crush on our instructor, Raven. She was lithe, tattooed, naturally pretty and had this incredibly soothing presence. Plus, she was a damn good instructor. After the class ended, I took a few yoga classes at work, but it just wasn't the same.

Wines and Cheeses of Spain
No need to comment really. It was just super, super yummy and buzz-inducing.

So now, as approach another birthday, I wonder: What class should I take next? How should I expand my horizons--physically? Mentally? Will I have time? How can I do it with The Geej now in the equation? I'm not ready for any kind of "Mommy and Me" stuff yet, but I fear the quiet onset of The Rut.

Royal Masquerade Ball, 1987

Malcontent Mama threw down the prom gauntlet. I had no choice but to respond in kind. So here goes:

Me and my prom date. This guy, who we'll call "MD," was my on-again/off-again boyfriend for a big chunk of my junior and senior years in highschool. He was a year older, and went to the rival highschool across town. He was really rich, and his mom hated me because I wasn't. Anyway, ours was a pretty typical highschool relationship, complete with drama and numerous breakups. He was already a freshman at U.T. when he agreed to come home and attend prom with me. I remember being SO relieved with how big I was able to get my hair for prom. That is some HAIR, now.

My dress was a silk charmeuse tunic with a large sash. It was purchased at a hoity-toity store where a couple of friends of mine worked. The shoes were dyed to match the sash, of course. It wasn't the typical "prom dress"--especially not in late 80s northeast Texas. It was more of a "cocktail dress," and I thought it was tres glamorous. It was pretty but not overtly sexy, and as I didn't have any curves I really wanted to show off, it was fairly appropriate. I do recall hearing that a friend of mine was talking behind my back, criticizing it at the time because of its atypical-ness. Yeah, I wasn't much into taffeta. So sue me. I have looked at photos some friends from this prom, and I gotta say, the white tux with tails, cane and top hat, and the ubiquitous "pouf" dress of this era don't hold up so well under scrutiny nearly 20 years later.

MD and I went to dinner at a swanky place downtown, and somehow managed to order a bottle of wine, no problem. Then we went to prom, and I remember it being fun but really geeky. I didn't want to stay for long because a) I wanted to make out with MD and b) I was sort of embarassed to have my "college" boyfriend attending my highschool event--embarassed for him, not for me. I don't recall anyone being "coked up" as Malcontent Mama recalled, but I do recall ecstacy being taken (not by me...I don't think) and BUTTLOADS of winecoolers being consumed. And I recall this photo being taken in front of the seriously stupid backdrop.

I love how I'm digging my fingernail into the top of his hand in this photo. Says a lot, really.

After spending an adequate amount of time at the prom, MD and I went back to his house. We were supposed to go to some school-sponsored after-party thing and went to change clothes. Of course we ended up getting naked and showering together, but we didn't "do it," although I really, really wanted to. I was still a virgin at this point, and wanted to be deflowered in a major way...on prom night and everything. But it wasn't to be. Sigh. We eventually ended up getting dressed, making a very brief appearance at the "after party" thing (lame...several people asked my why my hair was wet, heh heh), then out to his parents' lake house where a bunch of his college frat brothers were already there, drunker than cooter brown. I recall there being a couple of other girls there as well. There were no parents around, so it was sort of a free for all--hot-tubbing, making out on the trampoline, bong hitting, etc. I ended up spending the night with him out there (which was cool), but left the next morning, hungover, virtue still in tact. I wish I had a really scandalous prom story, but alas. I was fairly boring and typical for my era.

He's now an attorney back in my home town. Married to a nice gal he literally grew up with...they have a couple of kids. I haven't seen him in 100 years, but rumor has it he's losing his hair.

Okay, Jules. It's your turn. Dig 'em out, and show 'em off.

So Ashamed.(The first in an endless series...)

I have the MAJOR hots for Justin Timberlake. I know, I know...It's so plebian and junior high and retarded. But I don't fucking care. I went out and bought "Justified" (at Waterloo, no less) the day of its release (I later lost this copy, and replaced it with a copy purchased from Target b/c I was waaaaaaaaaay too embarrassed to deal with Waterloo), and learned listened to it CRANKED in my station wagon with a regularity that would've embarrassed the most loyal 14 yr. old.

If he doesn't come out with a new album soon, I may die.

I am so ashamed.

It's all about Meme.

Right now, there are no words to describe what it's like at work. "Crazy" doesn't cut it. "Manic" is simply too lame. But suffice it to say, I'm up to my nostrils in work and meetings, meetings, meetings. It's driving me nuts. I can't ever get shit done because I'm running from one damn meeting to the next. Part of this frenzy is due to the fact that my crazy-as-a-shithouse-rat boss is leaving the company after 17+ years. This coming Friday is her last day. The rest of the insanity is due to the fact that we have no real idea what's going to happen to our team--we know a big change is coming, but we haven't been told how her leaving is going to impact us.

All of this is to say that, although I want to be original and witty and insightful and whatnot, I simply cannot rally. All I want to do is sit out on my deck, stare out into the darkness, and have a very stiff drink. Or a stiff man. Whatever comes my way. (And as I near my 2 year anniversary of being celibate, I'm guessing that the stiff drink is the more likely companion...)

So I stole this. A meme. Here goes:

A-Z Meme

A - Accent: The East Texas accent is a bizarre animal. George Jones has it. So does Matthew McConaughey. Lady Bird Johnson has it, big time. So it vacillates between genteel deep south and inbred redneck. And then there are those of us who had the shit scared out of us by our voice coaches in theatre school who told us we'd be typecast as truckstop waitresses and abused wives if we didn't lose some our drawl. Let's just say, I have a love/hate relationship with my accent.
B - Breakfast Item: (Not every day, because I'd be the size of a Mini Cooper, but ultimate breakfast food), migas.
C - Chore you hate: Is shaving your legs technically a "chore?"
D - Dad's Name: James Austin. I briefly considered naming my daughter "James."
E - Essential everyday item: Gum.
F - Flavour ice cream: Mint/chocolate chip
G - Gold or Silver?: Silver
H - Hometown: Longview. County seat of Gregg County, Texas.
I - Insomnia: Primarily when I'm stressed. I usually have no problem getting to sleep, it's staying asleep that I can't do. Ambien is a wonderful, wonderful thing.
J - Job Title: Project and Communications Coordinator
K - Kids: One. The Geej. Nearly 18 mos. old. Amazing little person. More beautiful than I could've ever imagined. Smarter than me. A gift from God.
L - Living arrangements: Me. The Geej. The old lady cat. The young boy cat. A house that we just moved in to in November. The first place I've ever owned.
M - Mum's birthplace: Kilgore, TX. Home of the world famous Rangerettes!!
N - Number of significant others: Do toddlers count? If so, one. If not, zero. ZERO.
O - Overnight hospital stays: Three. All gynecological. All a TOTAL blast*. (*Not a blast. At all.)
P - Phobia: Roaches/"Water bugs" And eels. I fucking can't even visualize an eel with out getting the heebie jeebies. And you'd think that Unagi would be the ultimate revenge. But I can barely read that word on the menu without breaking into a cold sweat.
Q - Queer?: Experimented? Yes. Decided it was for me? No. Respect the shit out of it? Yes.
R - Religious Affiliation: None, really. Had the whole Southern Baptist thing growing up. Have had interest in Judaism and Universalist Unitarianism as an adult. Haven't pursued either with any kind of conviction.
S-Siblings: None. But apparently my mom had a 2nd trimester miscarriage before me. A boy.
T - Time you wake up: Weekdays--5:55am. Weekends--as late as The Geej will let me sleep. Usually 7:45-ish.
U - Unnatural hair colours you've worn: If you count my wig collection--aqua, violet, firetruck red, platinum, royal blue, pink, magenta, black, If you count my adventures into actual haircolor, there are many: platinum, dark aubergine w/hot pink streaks, dark brown with bright red streaks, dark auburn with platinum streaks, basic auburn, bright red. If it's in the red or blonde color spectrum, I've done it.
V - Vegetable you refuse to eat: Beets.
W - Worst Habit: God, there are so many. I'll just grab in to my mental grab bag...um, ooh! What have we got here?! Oh..."Being Lazy." That's right folks: Any spare moment I can grab, I'm lying on the couch, gazing at the ceiling. I call it "down time." But really, it's time when I could be doing Pilates, or curing cancer, or sewing on buttons. So really, I'm just being lazy.
X - X-rays youÂ’ve had: Teeth. Neck. Foot.
Y - Yummy: Anything that has any one the following ingredients: Avocado. Salt. Cheese. A fried substance. So, like a skinned avocado, rolled in sea salt, dipped in batter, fried and covered in cheese would probably cause me to have a stoke with delight.
Z - Zodiac sign: Aquarius. Don't believe me?

That is the "water bearer." The symbol of Aquarius. It's (of course) on my lower back area. So typical, right? But I assure you: the circumstances around me getting this tattoo are not typical at all. But that's fodder for another post...

Night, night Freaks.

Reason to Love Austin, #731

Public Substance Abuse

I was driving north on Lamar the other day around lunchtime. I was in between Barton Springs and Red River, and looked at this dude to my right who was waiting on the bus. Waiting on the bus can be boring, but luckily for him, he had a fully-loaded one-hitter and was hitting it for all it was worth. My windows were down and I could smell the pot.
Later the same day, I was on my way to get The Geej at her daycare in a swanky neighborhood near downtown, and had to pause to let this guy cross the street from the minimart to the laundromat with his sixer of Shiner. Doing laundry, getting loaded. Why the hell not?

Up, up and awaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.

I'm going on my first work trip since the arrival of The Geej. I leave in a couple of hours, go to Colorado, have dinner with a dear friend, go to a ribbon cutting and presentation tomorrow morning, leave tomorrow afternoon, get home tomorrow night. Mom is taking care of the wee one for me. Said it before, but I'll say it again: The woman's a lifesaver. This is going to be my first journey without the baby, and I feel like it's going to be mega-weird.

I'm excited and nervous. Taking this trip means I'm sort of "getting back out there"--like starting to date again after a divorce, which I've never really managed to do. I don't want to ever have to travel like I once was--every other week at one point. But I could handle a short trip like this every month. If for nothing else, it's good for my career. So I'm frazzled, but I'm going. I'll let you know how it goes.

My weird friend Mike.

In junior high and high school, I was friends--just friends--with this guy, Mike M. who was a grade ahead of me. We wrote notes back and forth, but that was pretty much it as I recall. I have a bunch of notes from him in my Notebook from the Gods. Here's a pretty typical one:

Karla May,
You are lucky I am writing you. I am reviewing in English. The bell is gonna ring in 10 minutes. I am freaking out and going crazy. I swear. I need to find a mental institution. I love you with all my heart. Let's elope tomorrow. Let's go to the show, or you don't have to if you want to go with JASON or some other dude. I will be mad though. I have to go.

--Mike

P.S. Let's fuck
P.S.S. I'm just kidding, SILLY.

There are SO many more notes from this guy that are waaaaaaaaaay weirder. But what if my mom had found this one...with the "let's fuck"? Yikes.

The Summer of '83.

August 29, 1983

I talked to Lisa last night until 2:30. I got in trouble as usual. We got into a big fight (mom and me). She thinks I am some kind of a thug or something. She can be the biggest witch.
I still like Michael S. If he doesn't call me today or tonight, I am going to go crazy. I really do like him alot (sic). Lisa is so upset about Chris Y. I really feel sorry for her. I know what she is going through and I feel so bad for her. She loves Chris. And she told me last night that she might move. I can't believe it. She'll know for sure in November. I've grown so close to Lisa in the past few months, and I don't know what I would do if it all suddenly ended and she just moved.* I really hope she and Chris get to be friends again. She wants that so much.
Michael said he would call (or maybe even come by after swimming). I hope he does. I want him to like me as much as I like him. It always seems like I like the guys more than they like me. I hate that.**

*Lisa and I are still dear friends, by the way. Have been since we were in Montessori school together.
**God! Boys. Boys. Boys. The life of a 14 year old girl just fucking SUCKS.

No he's NOT!

I took Earl to the vet the other week for his annual check up, and a new doctor who I'd never seen did the exam. This doctor, whose name is Dr. Morfin (pronounced "Morphine," by the way), told me that my sweet baby boy is obese and needs to lose "at least 3 pounds." Um, excuse me? Earl's head is the size of a grapefruit, and his paws are as big as my fist. He's a BIG fucking cat. Plus he's lost 2 pounds since last year's visit--down to 16 from 18--and THAT doctor didn't say anything about him needing to lose weight. And he certainly didn't call him obese.

Look at him: He's just a big, orange boy.

Fuck you, Dr. Morfin.

Thursday and Saturday, September 15 & 17, 1983

[Modern-day commentary in blue.]

THURSDAY
Well, tonight was our first game to march at. [I played French horn. I was an uber band goob.] I guess we did alright. I don't know why, but I really want our band to be good. It's important to me. [See?! I told you!!] After the 9th grade games, I stayed after and worked at the concession stand until about 9:30 for the J.V. game.
I'm really getting nervous about tomorrow night. I never feel right about sneaking around behind Mom's back. I'l probably go through with it anyway. [Hmmm...what did Karla May have up her sleeve?] I think I might be starting to like Scott Taylor, but I'm not really sure.

SATURDAY
Last night was really a romp!! [Yes, that's actually what I wrote. God, I was a fucking dork!!] At about 6:30, I got mom's car and went and got Traci Bridges, we went riding around for about 1 hour and then we went & picked up Lisa, Tammie and Kim at Lisa's. [So THAT'S what I had up my sleeve! This was the first of many times I snuck the car out. In fact, I was so damn sneaky, I'd managed to get my own set of keys made. Mom never knew.] Went everywhere. Dropped Lisa's group off at Showbiz [Pizza, a Chuck E. Cheese knock off we all used to hang out at and around] at 9:30. Went and got gas. Came home at about 10:30. Mom called from Shreveport at about 11:30, so we went back out until 12:15. Didn't get caught. WHEW!!

A moment of great personal achievement.

I would like to pause and congratulate myself on doing something I've attempted but never been successful at before this weekend:

I, Karla May, went into Super Target without a list, and managed to get out of there spending less than $30.00.

It's not exactly climbing Everest, but it's almost as difficult to accomplish.

The Mother Lode

Remember, back in October when I wrote about the diary I'd found? Well, my friends, in all of my moving and unpacking and inheriting of things from my mom's house I've found it: the ultimate looseleaf binder of passed notes, journal entries and slam books, complete with paint penned bubble lettered phrases on its exterior. I read through it last night, and all I can say is, "Wow. I was one melodramatic teenager." But then, who wasn't?

To whet your appetite, I'm just going to pull something at random. Here I go...reaching in and grabbing a random piece of gold...

Friday, July 22nd, 1983

I can't believe it myself. I'm still not over Chris* yet. We broke up in February and here it is July. I still cry over him. I still love him. More than ever. Why can't I get over him. Lainey told me last night that she would say something to him about me. Maybe if he knows... Well I really shouldn't get my hopes up. If he would just realize that nobody could ever love him as much as I do. Everytime I hear a sad song, I just get down his picture and stare at it. I always dream that maybe he does the same thing with one of my pictures. Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I dream too much. I also get these crazy ideas that I am just going to call him and tell him everything I feel about him. Or maybe, I'lll invite him over and let him read everything I've written about him. Oh God!! These thoughts I get!!

*"Chris" was this guy Chris Lipscomb. What in the hell was WRONG with me?

Oh yeah, I was 14. That's what was wrong.

There is SO much more stuff in this treasure chest I've unearthed. Prepare yourself...

I am in love with a (very) gay man.

Okay, remember how I posted a while back that I'm in love with a dead man? Well right now, the dead man's only competition is a very, very gay man.

Here's the deal: I loves me some Rufus Wainwright. As long as he's singing or posing for photos, I'm cool. I really don't need to hear him speak or even read interviews with him (because then the fantasy becomes waaaaaaaaaaaay too hard to maintain). I just need to hear his sweet, amazing honey voice dripping into my ears through my iPod earbuds, and all is good.

I am a good singer. Hell, I'll even admit that I'm a very good singer--I have good pitch and tonality and a natural ease with harmony. But attempting to sing along with Rufus is a painfully humbling experience. Not only is his voice amazing, his phrasing is so unique that it's impossible to imitate. His music certainly isn't for everyone. But it totally works for me.

And did I mention that he's totally dreamy to look at? Cuz he is.


Man, I need to get laid...

Sometimes it's okay to screw with your kids.

Case in point: If you want to hike up your daughter's pants to her ears, and have her walk around looking like she's sporting "old man pants" just so you can laugh at her, it's totally fine. And if you'd also like to take photos of said child and post them on the internet for all to see, that's okay too.

Hurting but happy.

Last night I went over to a friend of mine's from work. Her name is Patty, and she's a big ol' dyke, and she has the most fun group of big ol' dyke friends you'd ever want to meet. There was pizza and beer and wine and all of the stuff you need to help you through a very tense but wonderful football game. We watched. We drank. We yelled. And then, when Texas won in the final seconds of the game, we freaked the fuck out.

Let me back up and say that, as a rule, I don't care for sports. But college football is a totally different animal. I love it. I watched every game this season. I am a bigtime Longhorn fan. And not only because I'm an alumnus and not only because I live in Austin. But because the college football SPIRIT is so fun to be a part of. The rivalries are a blast. And you just feel like it really means something to the school and the students--unlike professional football, which I find sort of nauseating.

So anyway, at the end of Patty's street, you can get a view of the U.T. tower. We all ran down there and saw it glowing orange, and there were lots of neighbors out there and everyone was just so damn happy. Then a few of us piled in my car and went down to the Drag. Utter freakin' pandemonium. It was SO much fun--the most fun I've had in a very long time. People were just out of there minds with joy. And it wasn't that "let's fuck shit up" kind of energy, it was a "I'm so happy, and I just want to be around a bunch of other people who are happy" energy. Everyone was honking non-stop; windows were down and people were walking down the middle of the street slapping high fives with the drivers and passengers of the cars they passed. There were people my parents' age and then little kids and of course thousands of students. Every person down there had on burnt orange and was hooting and hollering like they'd just won the lottery. It was awesome.

I finally got home (much later than I'd planned on staying out...my poor babysitter), and passed the hell out. Today I am tired, stinky, and hungover as hell. But it was totally worth it.

So thank you, Longhorns. Thank you Vince Young. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Stop it. Seriously.

To all you "reporters" who write the copy that goes underneath photos of pregnant starlets, you've really, really got to quit calling their pregnant bellies a "bump." When did this start? Why is it suddenly ubiquitous? Why do you care if you can see Gwen Stefani's growing bump?

Good God, you make it sound like some sort of enormous zit. It's a fetus, and millions of women grow them in their uteruses (uteri?) every fucking day, so get over it. So cut out the "bump" speak. Now.

THIS is how much The Geej loves her grandmother (whom she calls "Dah").

Oh look. It's a picture of me and Dah. Sigh. I sure do love Dah.
Perhaps I should take a closer look. Yep. That's me and Dah alright. Gosh I love her...

I miss her. I wish she were here with me. Maybe if I hold it close to my face, I'll feel like I'm closer to my Dah.

Oh screw it! I'm just gonna kiss all over this thing. I LOVE MY DAH, and I don't care who knows it!!!