Move Over, Beethoven

I know it may sound like I'm bragging, but I'm pretty convinced Bam Bam is a prodigy. Whether he'll make David Beckham look like a ballerina or make Bob Dylan look like a suburban emo only time will tell, but right now, at the ripe old age of almost 2, he masters everything he touches. 

It's kind of freaky to watch, but then I remember he does have my DNA, and it all makes a little more sense. 

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (A Series)

"Hmmm, lunch... lunch... what should I pack for lunch? Oh, I know, there's half a lasagna left from last night. I'll grab a bit of that."

[opens refrigerator; doesn't see lasagna anywhere; spots empty container picked apart by vulture man on counter top; eyes fall out of head in disbelief that a single human being can ingest that much lasagna as a midnight snack]

"Or not."

[heads off to work with the leftover salad that was completely untouched during the husband binge-fest]

I saw a perverted old woman... At Last

I love the Hollywood Bowl and I love Etta James, so when Etta decided to perform at the Bowl last week, it was basically the universe telling me to go, love, and smoosh it all together into a fun patty.

Paolo Nutini opened up the night, and if he wasn't so sweaty I'd be writing a marriage proposal right now. His songs were purely happy, and he kind of reminded me of the Beatles, only Scottish, a little drunk, and a little nerdier. As he rotated off the stage, Solomon Burke rotated on. The man showed up sitting on a throne big enough to hold an elephant and did not stand up one single time... because he was the size of an elephant. His voice was Barry White sultry though, so the love amped up so much that Mr. T had to remind me that he was the husband and as such, he should be putting his arm around me and secretly getting to second base.

Sometimes I forget.

Things were getting all lovey dovey touchy feely when Madam Blues took the stage. Since she's pushing 70 years old, she sort of hobbled out and immediately sat down on her hip replacement friendly stool. We also settled in to listen to her tell us how it is and were then treated to some of the creepiest old lady porn I've seen in... well... my whole life.

For some reason, possibly because she is crazy, she came out and rubbed herself. Her lower self. And then her upper self. And then she flicked her tongue around the microphone as if to say, "Hey there young boys, there's nothing but magic under these dentures."

It was so bizarre that whenever she made an advance on herself, the entire Bowl responded with gasps of horror and bursts of laughter. I couldn't look away because I could barely believe it was really happening.

Thanks to my FanciPhone, I was able to capture the moment in this triptych I call "Please. God. No." And now, you too, can experience Etta at last.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (part 2 of a series)

South Congress is a pretty notorious part of Austin, and after you've gorged yourself on Guero's, South Congress becomes a nice little stretch of asphalt that will aid in your digestion.

The strip has a lot of kitchy shops and restaurants, but unfortunately, it doesn't have a lot of trees. You're basically the egg frying on the sidewalk in August unless you learn how to hug the wall like Sarah does.
We wandered into vintage and antique shops with dusty old photos of people who are way past dead but who looked like they had a really nice life. I love old black and white snapshots of people. If it wouldn't be so incredibly weird, I'd like to make a family album of the pictures I really like and pretend that those are my ancestors and make up stories about them. Maybe in my secret life I will do that, but for now I'll let Shan be the primary weirdo in our clan.

Among the chandeliers, old farm equipment, feathered hats, tiny shoes, dishes and word cards that defined the four of us as Slow, Creak, Nerve and Prize, Kristin and I found a child's memory box. I had never seen one of those before. Since it's likely you haven't either, let me explain.

Apparently in the olden days, affluent parents liked to preserve their child's youth by collecting DNA samples and storing them in a velvet lined box. A lock of brown hair snaked around five little brown teeth in this particular box... and it was nasty. Interesting and mysterious, but nasty.

If I ever do become a parent, I must resist my pack rat tendencies and NOT save body pieces shed by my child. And if I simply have to keep these souvenirs, I must resist the temptation to put it all in a fancy box to make it seem special and not gross.

Since skin cancer was starting to materialize on Sarah's delicate skin, we called an end to our casual browsing and took refuge at a Doc's Motor Works Bar & Grill. Doc's was like a BW3s, only automotive. The beers were cold, brewed locally and called Fireman's #4. Just the way we like 'em.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (a series)

How Ruble, Sarah, Kristin and I managed to find the most incredible hangouts in Austin is either a testament to our abilities to sniff out good times or a clear indicator that Austin qualifies as one of the best cities in the United States.

Breathe now, because that sentence was a doozy.

It took us almost a year to the day for us far-flung friends to make it to the same geography, but it was worth the wait. We were barely off the plane an hour and we were sipping margaritas and eating queso at Guero's. A guy on the plane next to Kristin said he was going there as soon as he got out of the airport, so if he was that devoted, it must be a place worth devotion. Yeah, it was.
I was surprised to see how vegetarian friendly Austin actually was. I expected it to be like Dallas only worse, because Austin is known for its barbecue. Instead, I found veggie versions of practically everything. Which I'm sure I would have enjoyed if I wasn't already about to explode from all the queso I drank.

So, add Austin to your list, and at the top, write in Guero's. Also at the top, write "Hot as Hell... DO NOT bring your favorite hoodie."

I needed this today.

Ahh, the Torches of Freedom

Shannon, as we're pulling into Lake Charles for the first time: "Look at all the pollution. They're just burning it right into the air."

Mom, trying to look on the bright side: "Those are the Torches of Freedom, girls."

Shannon, after a long pause and five more sightings of burning pollution tubes: "Why are there so many of them?"

The Lake Charles Skyline

Annie's

I think we were on Common Street. I never did learn my way around since Lake Charles has grown so much since the last time I was there. It actually has several Starbucks now.

The place looked like a roadside shack, where genuine drinkers go to ease the pain, and as we past it I said, "We've got to go there."

Liz knows all about Annie's. Apparently she stayed there one night easing her pain and had Amy pick her up -- from the bar -- the next morning to catch a flight to Kentucky. That's what Annie's does. It sucks you in and gives you a place to wallow.

I'd left my ID in my suitcase with my boarding pass, so getting a beer wasn't as breezy as I thought it was going to be. The bartender refused to serve me even after I explained the ID traveling 30 years old story, when a woman three stools over asked me where I was visiting from. I told her California, Los Angeles, and that when we'd drove by earlier I'd told Liz we had to stop here and get a beer. The woman, Bonnie, called me over to "get a look" at me, had me take off my glasses, and okayed me for a beer. Since she was the owner, the bartender reluctantly complied, but not before a few cuss words were thrown around the room.

The bartender was a bitch. But Bonnie was awesome.

She'd been running Annie's for 26 years and had been living in Lake Charles for 40. As she explained, she was a "coon ass by injection." She'd named the bar for her grandmother, who used to go into bars in the days when women would cross the street to avoid walking in front of them. Bonnie called her a feminist. I understood.

Liz said I had to see the bathroom before we left, so I made my way to the back and, after a confrontation with a beetle the size of King Kong, went into the ladies room. It reminded me of my grandma's basement, where all the retired furniture and velvet paintings went to live. Delightfully tacky, yet refined, if you will.

We had to leave to meet up with Amy, but Bonnie told us to stop by on Saturday night for karaoke. She said things really get rolling at around 2:30... a.m. Good to know for the next time I visit Lake Charles.

Fast forward 18 years

One weekend when we were in the 7th grade, Liz, Amy and I decided to go to Wal-mart to get our picture taken. I borrowed a blue shirt with an over-sized collar from Amy, and the three of us went to the photo department of Louisiana's finest department store.

I forgot all about that afternoon until 2001, when my poor planning and geographical ignorance made me, Liz, Amy & I drive all over Louisiana and Texas in search of a good time. At a pit stop at Liz's house, there on the fridge, the past converged with the present.

She had three copies of the photo, so I stole a tiny one and added it to my stash in Kentucky. She forgives me for things like that.

Last weekend at Amy's wedding, where I was known as the one who got Amy into a fist fight at an amusement park with the unforgettable and foreshadowing statement "What? You're going to fight me over a place in line?!," the photo once again made an appearance. This time as a 5" by 7" framed enlargement.

Amy's mom, Ms. Bunny, had found it recently and decided to get a copy for me and Liz to commemorate Amy's wedding. So, to celebrate 18 years together, through fist fights and break ups and births and hurricanes and weddings, we decided to update the photo, with a photo featuring the photo. Photo.
I just feel lucky to have kept such good friends for almost 20 years (in Heather's case, though, it's been 20 years and counting). And I'm glad I've sort of learned to dress myself in that time.

A Planet Sized Belly Growl

Sitting at my desk, dutifully reviewing critiques of the website I run, when suddenly the concrete floor starts to shimmy and the earth lets out a growing grumble. I don't know what to do, so I get up from my rolly chair, scuffle to a doorway (right next to a glass wall because I am a genius when panicked) shouting, "What do we do?! What do we do?!" and watch as my fellow employees, all men, run past me into the parking lot.

Apparently more important than getting to a doorway is getting to an open space. Thanks, Guys.

My heart thundered twice as long as the ground did, and since no major damage happened (except Mack's car almost flipping because HE WAS DRIVING ON THE INTERSTATE when the earthquake hit), everyone's attention turned to the enormous flat screen TVs we all have at home that aren't attached to the wall. Shame on us.

For not attaching those shrines of HD to the wall sooner. Lesson learned. (Mack, get on that.)

I guess I deserved a planet sized freak out since I gave all my Kentuckians an earful when it happened there. For the record, I'm not a fan of 5.8 or higher and I'll be putting together my earthquake box tonight, under advisement from my style consultant and former Cali Queen, Leigh.

Lamy Lou is all grown up.

One of my best friends in the whole world who will likely be the only reason I get into heaven (privilege by association, you know how they decide things up there) got married this weekend.

Here is the new Mr. & Mrs. Lee Byrne.

My Lake Charles trek was a whirlwind adventure that actually had me in a drive thru bar and attending mass within 36 hours of each other. Expect a full report as the week unfolds.

Congrats Amy & Lee! It was amazing seeing/meeting/celebrating with you, and I wish you lots of happiness and wrestling-inspired laughter.

Everything's Bigger in Texas

I'm in Texas on the floor of the airport hoping this jetway door doesn't open and ruin my access to this coveted electrical outlet. I've only been in Texas for about 20 minutes and already the differences between home and here are stinging.

My hair is not pretty today. It's twisted into a clip and drooping from too many plane seats, security checks and a lack of attention. It looks bad because I didn't try to make it look good. But the lady I saw on the skyline train between terminals thingy at Dallas Fort Worth, she had put a lot of effort into getting her hair just right. And it looked all wrong.

I felt rude snapping a photo of her, so let me try to use my words to paint you a picture. You know how in 1987 when you'd wrap your bangs around a jumbo-sized curling iron, pull everything over to the side of your face and down toward your ear, and then lock everything into place with a steady stream of Aqua Net? Yeah, that, colored in the hue that comes to mind when anyone says "strawberry blonde."

The curious thing is that the rest of her hair was stick straight. A biscuit colored board that pointed right to her boobs and then abruptly stopped. The bangs should have been on another woman, in another era.

I also just finished stopping off at a Chili's Too to have a snack. The only vegetarian options available to me were:

1. Chips and Salsa
(*the menu suggests pairing the tortilla chips with ranch dressing for $1 more)
2. Side Salad

Everything else had meat in it. Everything. Fortunately, I'm a contender for the Chips & Salsa Eating Queen of the World, so I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin'.

I ordered the salad and the chips and salsa, and I got 11 pieces of white iceberg lettuce topped with 3 pounds of shredded cheese and a dozen fried croutons and a Family Size bag of tortilla chips with a side bowl of watery salsa. I should have known, I guess. They do say everything's bigger in Texas.
This is AFTER I was about to float away from eating too much.

4th of July Madness

I spent Independence Day 08 living a surreal existence and repeatedly asking myself, "Is this really my life? Because it is freaking amazing."

We woke up early and went with Mr. T's family to the San Diego Wild Animal Park because it was Tom's birthday and what 57 year old doesn't want to ring in another year at the zoo? Then, after sweating and wishing we could have gorillas in the yard, we headed back to LA because I was going to see the fireworks dammit.

Mack was sun whipped so he passed out on the couch, but I latched onto my neighbors and went to the beach. We stopped by the liquor store and bought 22's of Budweiser because at the time it was an American beer, and on the 4th of July you should drink American beer with the colors of the flag on the can. It's like a rule. Next year, I guess I'll have to turn to Pabst Blue Ribbon. Dear god, America, we gotta do something and quick.

From the beach, I watched as fireworks popped and crackled all around me. You could see them all up and down the coast, and then you could see the smokey haze in the sky that was their aftermath. The beach was full of people, shirtless, tattooed, many with convictions, and I actually felt proud to be an American, inspired by these ruffians who don't do what they're told. Cue the music.

Just as I was feeling all blessed to be a part of people who've made an annual tradition based on explosives and founded thanks to criminal behavior, the cops showed up. To confiscate our fireworks. Which were about as dangerous as a sparkler. After we made the kids who were with us pack them up and hand them over, the cops realized the error of their ways and told us to take them home and set them off. We obeyed.

The pops and flashes brought the night to life and made the entire neighborhood feel unified. It felt good to make noise, to cause a ruckus, to admire the beauty of eruption and to preserve a holiday that has always given me memories worth cherishing. Hooray for the USA.

An Old Family Recipe

In celebration of Sundays, fathers and not liking to cook, the Thomas clan decided to have lunch at an Italian restaurant a couple weeks ago. It was a lot like any other meal, where the grown ups got the grown up menus and the kid got the kid menu. And the kid menu was a lot like other kid menus, where there's a maze and a word jumble and a challenge to find the 13 differences between picture 1 and picture 2.

Because this was a family-feeling Italian restaurant, they also had a space for you to create your own recipe. Laila decided to show off her impressive reading and writing skills and share a recipe for Amber's sauce.
That's right. Put Amber in the oven and burn her. Crispy.

I take BlogHer, for better or worse...

I'm in San Francisco, around the corner from the action, at a hotel that epitomizes "charming." It's the Cartwright, a Larkspur Hotel, and I fit just right in the teensy bathroom and bedroom. If anyone else was here, it'd be crowded, but it's only me and the front desk is uber nice and it's half as expensive as the Westin and it makes me get out on the streets. Which is really where action lives.

At BlogHer's People Party and Newbie Mixer I filled my butt pocket with cards and bumper stickers and hopes of new friends and inspiration. I also drank Heineken because it made me think of heinies and that made things a little less serious. Oh, you blog about post partum depression, nice, well, heinie. (I should say here that in my family we call butts heinies.)

I met this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this nice man and this guy. Who totally creeped me out when he tried to invite himself up to my hotel room. Uh, dudes, if you're coming to BlogHer, try to remember that while there may be a lot of poontang there, it's not really interested in your man stick. Even if we're talking about man sticks in front of you. Gross.

After "networking," it was time for me to trek back to my dorm room to eat what was left of my Spicy Thai kettle chips and watch an old Batman movie. But on my way, I met a couple women who made all the women with blogs look like amateurs. Meet Vivian, the original, and Marion, the younger one (please forgive my cooing... I can't afford voice surgery).

Old Man & the Sea

I fantasize sometimes that if my dad goes crazy and starts to not be able to recognize his own life, I'm going to put him in a little fishing boat with cigars and whiskey and send him out into the middle of the ocean to take his last nap. Maybe because all of my favorite pictures of him are of him looking out at the water, wishing quietly that he was out in the middle of the action, where he could better hear the fish... laughing at him.

in Los Angeles

in Minnesota

Dear Chris Isaak...

Sometimes when you get a crush on someone and you're married, your husband will say, "Do you want me to get a paper and pen so you can write your marriage proposal?"

And you'll laugh, think your husband is quite funny, and then go back to oogling the man you'll never meet and who will, therefore, always be so much sexier, funnier, smarter and better than every man you know.



I inherited a crush on Chris Isaak from my mom, and Saturday night, while we were both at the Hollywood Bowl, bookended by our husbands, Chris decided he was going to walk up to our nosebleed section and dance with us. He decided that... but then he realized it would give him vertigo to go up as high as we were and he turned back.

And now I'm left with my virtual pen and paper, swooning over a bar fly, slopping around in memories of a weekend too intense to fully process yet, and hoping that because the above video featured a sexy woman, Mack will forgive me for adding Chris to my crush list... with Eminem, Johnny Knoxville and Rob Lowe.

Business Time...

We had to do head shots of Mr. T for his med school apps today (yes, Yale is interested to know more about him).

Mr. T hates, no, HATES having his photo taken almost as much as he hates having to wear a tie. For his head shot he had to do both.

This is what happens when aspiring doctor and beach bum student collide.

This is dedicated to one I love...

Spending the 4th of July at the Wild Animal Park near San Diego proved fruitful -- not for my in-laws bank account but for my knowledge bank. 

I was finally able to answer Liz's question about the spiked trees. Let me introduce you to the white silk floss tree...

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (a series)

Me: Whatever small animal you massacred in the sink while you were shaving, you need to rinse its hairs out so that I don't throw up when I brush my teeth in the morning.

Him: Those are my pubes.