Same-Sex Marriage?

Rather, is all marriage same-sex marriage?

I read an interesting article in Salon yesterday regarding keeping the sex drive alive in marriage. (You can read it if you're not a subscriber; I think you just have to look at an ad.) Turns out it's not always so easy, what with the mortgage payments and the birthday parties and the desire to keep one's house in some semblance of order. The kids get the new, fashionable clothes, because money's tight, and Momma can't afford BOTH school clothes for the kids and those so-ugly-they're-cute Keen Mary Jane shoes for her. (Or the red Elle Monza's. But I digress.)

So, the author of this book thinks that marriages in America are very purposeful creations. We marry to establish a family that is stable and loving, but do we usually also commit to the effort needed to establish a lifelong, hot sex life?

Y'see, a hot sex life usually involves mystery. An attempt at seduction. A frisson, if you will. Is it a purely American constraint that we don't keep that effort up after the days begin to be sucked up by lunchboxes, homework folders, and 10 pages in the library book before the Ambien kicks in?

Not to brag, but I have it pretty good. The Man is....well, let's face it, a huge sex pig. He makes me feel pretty, and understands that I sometimes need to dress up in something sexy and go out with my girlfriends to lightheartedly flirt with guys. And don't think he doesn't get some when someone else has been paying attention to me. It's not that I think that person WANTS me, but when another, attractive person talks to you, I do distinctly feel sexier. (It also helps that, in those circumstances, I am not wearing my ratty Target sweat shorts and a stretched-out tank top. That's always a help, too.) The Man's lack of jealousy makes me feel even more secure, if that's believable...he would sooner believe that I had miraculously become a size 6 than he would believe that I'd go off with some guy.

We also engineer time to ourselves and away from the darlings, but even with the children around, we make a lot of time for our friends. We play poker, we cook dinners, we go to movies, there are two distinct Boy's Night Out and Girl's Night Out groups, that sort of thing. Our kids play together, we take other friends' kids when they need to go out, they reciprocate, etc.

It's not rocket science, but her point was well made, I thought. Find a happy life for yourself, put on some sexy clothes (maybe the child will have to wear those shoes that are a half-size too small for one more month; that's OK, they honestly don't care), buy those brown Birkenstock mary janes that you have been wanting and would kick ASS with the new Eddie Bauer cords.
Then, put 'em on, do the smokey eyes and the can't-wear-to-work lipstick, flirt with your husband on your way out the door, make him notice how sexy your ass is, and then go out drinking wine with the girlies. Make no bones about the fact that you MIGHT HAVE CONVERSATIONS WITH MEN. And that it is OK. Come home that night, tipsy and laughing, and then JUMP YOUR HUSBAND'S BONES.

Rinse, repeat. Except that this time he gets to go out with the guys, and eschews the can't-wear-to-work lipstick. They drink beer, shoot the shit, talk about sports, beer, and women's body parts (I'm just guessing here; perhaps cars are mentioned as well?) My man, I know, will ask women (aka "floozies, in my parlance) to dance, if I, his regular dance partner, am not there. (And I will tell you something about floozies...a nice-lookin' young man who has his own teeth and that will ask you to dance is quite a catch. I almost had to drive myself down to Ginny's Little Longhorn after The Man came home one night with a story about how he had danced with a girl who was verbally stating to him that she didn't care about that ol' wedding ring on his finger, nor the frequent references he kept making to "my WIFE...my PREGNANT WIFE!!" God, he was cute when he told that story! And I jumped him.)

In the end, he gets a nice evening away from putting the kids to bed....you get a nice evening with your Target shorts and "Project Runway" - seriously, folks, this is a win-win situation. He comes home all tipsy and lovey, and is so happy that you let him go out that he does All. The. Dishes. Without. Being. Told. Sweet. And now you're double happy. Does he get some then? Probably!

So, Mags' advice for a flourishing sex life is to have a life separate from your kids and husband. Do something you are passionate about...politics, art,movies, sports, whatever. Forgo some of the drudgery for a sexy date out together whenever possible. (And you should both dress up so that the other person will find you most attractive.) Allow both you and your spouse to go out, to look attractive, and to talk and laugh with others that may be of the opposite gender.

Also, go out on dates with your friends. They're great for detox purposes, and yet, without exception, at the end of them, I'm so totally ready to come home to the person that I like best.

Anyway, I'll be off on my Hill Country Venture from Friday through Saturday. Day off Friday, hosannah, heysanna, zanna zannna ho!

(Oh, speaking of prayers, good thoughts, or what ever your shriveled little agnostic hearts can broadcast, give some out to Karla May. She's home from the hospital ordeal from hell, and she's attached to tubage. But, her blog is as funny as ever, so I assume she's doing better. Snaps to the KM!) And, for those of you who know Alamo Daniel, he had an accident on Cesar Chavez in which his truck flipped over THREE TIMES, and he was ejected out the window onto the road because his seatbelt malfunctioned. Can you believe that? He's just got a few scrapes. Amazing.

Have a good couple of days, you guys! (My Missouri friends are visiting, so I'm going to talk Missourian with them. So fuck all y'all.)

Crap crap crap

Connie is coming to visit tomorrow, and we're going on a Hill Country weekend! Yay! Chuck is stopping by, via his conference in San Antonio. Yay also!

However, my house is NOT YET CLEAN. Crap crap crap crap crap.

It may be that my friends will have to see how we actually live. What a horrifying thought.

Crap crap crap crap. No typing! More mopping! Yaahh (whip crack)!

The Mags Official Seal

Do you need a seal? I think we all need a seal.

I know, mine is lame. Unfortunately, I'm not feeling very inspired tonight. I feel a little soccer-momish, a little less than sexy, a little almost-37 this evening. My sass levels are way off.

You know, in fact, I hear my library books calling to me right now. "Mags," they say, "come and open us! You know you'll only get through 10 pages before you pass out, and that's if you get in here right now, so get yer ass in bed!" (No, wait, that last part was actually The Man.)

Because you care, these are said library books, in the order I'll probably pick them up:

1) The Mismeasure of Man by Stephen Jay Gould. He apparently completely rips apart intelligence testing as an inherently racist and flawed bit of pseudoscience. I can't wait to read this one. Is it all a huge lie?

2) The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon. I'm not sure if I know anyone that's read this, but clearly many people have; it was a huge bestseller, and it won the Pulitzer. It looks interesting, but I haven't cracked it open yet. Anyone have an opinion about this one?

3) A History of Britain: At the Edge of the World, 3500 B.C. - 1603 A.D. by Simon Schama. Really good so far, though I had to take my copy back to the library because it was falling apart so badly. (They're finding me another copy.) I was just getting into the good bloody Anglo-Saxon part, too. Bookus interruptus!

Have a good evening, yourselves. Get some book larnin' in.

First: An official diagnosis. Next: Bagina!

Well, kiddies, the OG has officially been diagnosed with ADHD by a pediatric neurologist.

I must say; there's no surprise there, to anyone who has spent even five minutes in the company of OG. I've known she was hyperactive pretty much since birth. At two months old, she could not sit in her baby seat at a restaurant; she had to be picked up, carried, and walked around. When she was a little bit older and still breastfeeding, she would rotate in a circle, and end up with her legs over my shoulder. At two, she made one of my friends cry who had offered to babysit her for an hour.

She's not a bad kid. She just has tons and tons of energy, and too many smarts to know where to put them all. She's really not been a problem in school; she occasionally gets reprimanded for silly, impulsive stuff, and I know she blurts out answers, but her teachers so far have been really good with her. They amp up her curriculum, keep her challenged, remind her where her backpack/notebook/pencil/sweater/lunchbox is, and she has done fairly splendidly so far, actually.

But...I know in my heart that this doctor is right. The "little problems" are already occurring more frequently this year. Acting silly in music even after multiple warnings, playing loudly in the bathroom even after multiple warnings, that sort of thing. Stuff like this snowballs. She already knows that she has problems focusing and following directions; god knows she's heard it enough from us. And I'm starting to see her face get a really familiar, defeated look when she's hearing it from us yet again.

I just don't want her to give up and think of herself as a "bad kid." So, after a very long and thorough conversation with the doctor, we're going to try her on Straterra. It's a non-stimulant, slow-acting, pretty safe drug; I know several parents who have had success with it.

Oh, but I hate doing this, still. It feels as though I've failed her. She inherited my father's intense will and temper, ALL of my anxiety, and The Man's ADD. (It's good to know she also inherited a very good, non-malicious heart and some quirky charm from somewhere; that keeps us from leaving her for the gypsies.)

I've read enough genetics studies to know this for a fact: It's NOT her fault. In fact, looking at her, I see a mirror of me as a young child. (I wasn't hyperactive, but I was a smart little spaz who refused to try to live up to her academic potential.)

Good luck, sweetie. I love you. Sorry you stumbled into our genetic stew. I hope that giving you a doting father and significantly happier parents than I ever had helps somewhat.

On a happier (?) note, this was the transcript of my two children's conversation in the back seat on the way home tonight:

YG: "Sissy, that's my bagina!"

OG: "No, (YG), that's your VAgina."

YG: "Yes, it's a bagina!"

OG: "VUH-gina."

YG: "BA-gina!"

OG: "VUH-VUH-VUH-gina."

YG: (crying) "I DID say BAgina!)

Me: (in traffic, after several more rounds of this discussion) "OK, I am DONE with this conversation!"

Because that's what I had, folks. There was nothing left after the day.

Don Walser dies

(Darn, and I thought we were going to have a happy post today. Ann, then 9/11, now this.)

Don Walser, the "Pavarotti of the Plains," died today from complications from diabetes. He was 72.

I have to thank The Man for bringing Don to my attention. Back in the early days of our courtship, there was many a night of two-stepping and waltzing to Don's fantastic, hard-core yodelin' country music. I bet we're married today due in no small part to the romance that was generated out on those dance floors 10 or 12 years ago.

Thanks, Don. You brought a lot of great music to this town, big guy. We're going to miss you.

My belated response to the 9/11 anniversary

I know, I know, I'm more than a week overdue for a post on this subject. Sorry; I've been ruminating. (Figuratively and literally; still chewing WAY too much food. But I digress.)

Last week, with all the televised memorials, I was shocked to see how much visceral pain that footage still causes in me. The feelings of anger, fear, and sadness came back with absolute clarity. Cliched though it may be, I was reminded yet again how we all changed that day. I remembered the solemn promises that we made to each other, and to the rest of the country, to support New York and the families of the victims. I believe we vowed to make the world a better place, did we not?

However, five years later, I do not see that we have improved the world. I see a war, raging, in a country that DID NOT attack us. I see Afghanistan, ostensibly the government most responsible for allowing this to happen (thanks to us interfering in the 80's, natch,) falling back into the hands of the Taliban, with Osama Bin Laden not even on the high priority list. I see a president, and his administration, who, when even the most impartial and empirical data are studied, have lied, lied, and lied again. More horrifyingly, I see an American public and media who have placidly allowed this to happen.

Something like 50% of the American people STILL think Saddam Hussein had something to do with 9/11, and had WMD's! Do you know how they did this, friends? It's like the old whisper the rumor game we did in high school. I say to someone, "Hey, I heard there really WERE WMD's," and then later on, that person will say the same thing to someone else. Thus, we create "conventional wisdom." (Note for the upcoming elections...some of the very same people are trying to spread around the practice of using the adjective "Democrat" instead of "Democratic" to be used to describe their opponents, as in "The Democrat candidate from Austin." It's supposed to be a slur. Watch for this.)

I just finished "Freakonomics." Great read, easy to get through, very thought-provoking. There's a quote in there from John Kenneth Galbraith about "conventional wisdom." It reads:

"We associate truth with convenience," he wrote,"with what most closely accords with self-interest and personal well-being or promises best to avoid awkward effort or unwelcome dislocation of life. We also find highly acceptable what contributes most to self-esteem." Economic and social behavior, Galbraith continued,"are complex and to comprehend their character is mentally tiring. Therefore we adhere, as though to a raft, to those ideas which represent our understanding."

So, we accept as true, as "conventional wisdom," that which is in our self-interest, or has the least chance of upsetting us. It is for this reason that so many people cling to notions that have been proved patently false; because, if they were to face the data with a cold, unbiased eye, it might be that they would have to accept the fact that going on 3,000 of our soldiers, plus multiple thousands of innocent Iraqis, have died for no good reason. And that is too upsetting.

Of course, this is the Mags blog. By default, it's all about me. So, I turn my Narcissismo Brand mirror back around to ask...how have I changed, lo these five years?

Well, first of all, though I was afraid five years ago, and perhaps thought thoughts that were unbecoming to me. But, no longer. I do not fear death by terrorism. As "Freakonomics" points out, we have a tendency to fear the rare occurrence, and trust situations that are FAR more likely to kill us. Do you let your child play at the house with the gun, or with the swimming pool? If you said the pool, are you aware that your child has 100 times the likelihood of dying over there than in the house with the gun? In that same vein, do you fear the plane or your car more? (How about your baby spinach? Do you fear that?)
However, if I, by some wildly erroneous bit of chance, am killed by a terrorist, these are my wishes:

First of all, I support your going after the guy that killed me, and locking him up in jail for ever and ever. (For TRULY, NO DOUBT guilty-type folks, though I oppose the death penalty, I'm actually not opposed to cruel and unusual punishment. Not Abu Ghraib stuff...just things like making it his life sentence to have an alarm clock set to play "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go," loudly, at 4:45 AM, forever. Do know that Wham! will please me, even in the afterlife.)

However, and this is important...after I'm gone, if someone wants to wave my bloody pink taffeta dress around like a flag, asking you to support their completely unrelated and misbegotten foreign war, would you please tell them to kiss my big, white, pulverized behind? And, if they tell you that Mags would have wanted you to surrender just a teensy few of your civil rights in her name, would you tell them, sweetly and decorously, to get the fuck out of your face?

Peace. Rememberance. Resolution. Change the world, for real this time. Vote in November.

(This rant brought to you by my outrage over "Path to 9/11," ABC's Rush Limbaugh-fueled piece of shit that portrayed Bush as the valiant leader while blaming all his administration's failings on Bill Clinton. Goddamn, how I wish I could boycott Disney. Oh, but I have girls. Two girls. With the Ariel obsessions and all. Urgh.)

I promise; no sedition tomorrow, only harmless frippery.

Jitterbug.

What Princess Bride Character are You?

Which Princess Bride Character are You?



Crap. I wanted to be Inigo.

Remembering Ann

As you have probably heard, we lost our ex-governor, Ann Richards, the other day. I was sad to hear that she was gone. Ann, you see, was part of the reason I moved to Texas.

You see, in the hinterlands of our nation - that is, the part that is NOT Texas - people do not necessarily view this state as a desirable place to live. When I told people that I was considering moving to Austin, many said, "Wow, Austin is supposed to be great...but, it's in TEXAS. They're CRAZY down there." I did wonder about the wisdom of deep, deep blue me, moving to the reddest of the red lands (albeit to the little blue heart right smack in the center of the state).

When I talked to my mother (who, if I am blue, is deep indigo), she, knowing I wanted to see Austin, said, "Well, they DID elect Ann Richards, so I think you might be OK. They appear to like strong women there." (Mom, you see, was at the Democratic convention in '88, when Ann made her famous speech about Bush Sr. being "born with a silver foot in his mouth." Mom was a staunch fan of Ann's from there on out.)

So, I moved to Austin, because she was right...Texas couldn't be all gun nuts and fundamentalists if Ann was governor. And, she was governor when I got here - for a year. Then...well, then came Junior.

I remember 1994; by then, I was wondering if Ann was really my kind of Democrat. She was too happy with the death penalty for me, too friendly to the gun lobby. (I had by then met The Man, who was then a long-haired, bike-riding hippie environmentalist Wheatsville-loving agitator, who clued me in on some of her less progressive opinions.)

But...oh, Ann, when I look back now, I wish so much that you had won the governorship back from him. I apologize if I didn't work harder for you. What havoc he has wreaked on the world; what horrible malfeasance we could have avoided if he had never even risen to the level of governor. (And what a noxious current governor we could have avoided, too.)

She was a good, salty, strong woman; a "broad" in the best sense of the word. She did more than "open the doors" for women in Texas government - she used a sledgehammer, because those doors were triple-deadbolted before she came along.

I never got to meet her, but she did sit in front of The Man and me seven or eight years ago at a movie at the old Village Cinema, before it became the Alamo Drafthouse. (You couldn't mistake that bouffant, and it was right in front of me. Oh, there were plenty of open seats, and I could have moved, but I felt strangely honored - and tickled - to have my vision obstructed by her big hair.)

So, thanks, Ann, for helping me decide to move here (which was apparently a good move, 'cos I'm really happy, gun nuts and fundamentalists notwithstanding), and thanks for helping women in this state and everywhere know that the glass ceiling was made to be broken.

Right before she left office, Ann said:
“I did not want my tombstone to read, ‘She kept a really clean house.’ I think I’d like them to remember me by saying, ‘She opened government to everyone!'"

Damn straight, Ann. (In fact, I can guaran-goddamn-tee you that my tombstone will say NOTHING even remotely like that.)

I'm not at ACL Fest

No, children, Mags cannot afford ACL fest this year. Mags does not have $130 for a three-day pass, plus parking, plus beer money, plus fried fatty festival food money.

Come to think of it, Mags does not sincerely have the desire to stand in the hot sun all day, potentially lugging two equally hot and cranky children who are usually only placated by more costly festival food items, or lugging an equally hot and cranky husband who is only placated by more costly festival beer items.

But would she like to see Gnarls Barkley, Son Volt, The New Pornographers, The Shins, Calexico, Nada Surf, What Made Milwaukee Famous, and Ween, were they playing in a nice, air-conditioned venue, with nice comfy chairs, for free? Oh, sure.

So, it's SNL with $6.99 Pinot Grigio tonight. And a kid with a fever; that's always good to throw into the weekend. ENVY ME, BITCHES!!!!!

Talking of Michaelangelo, and pain medications

Bit of writer's block tonight; possibly due to the fact that I was felled by another one of those massive headaches last night.

I don't know exactly what a migraine feels like, but these are damned debilitating, at least for a 24-hour period or so. There's no lights flashing, or weird tinglings or anything like that...it's more like my forehead is exploding outwards. And it hurts to move my head or neck at all; oh, lordy, it hurts so much. Regular pain medication doesn't do much for it, so I am forced to break into my ever-diminishing stash of Demerol and Darvocet (left over from foot surgery and childbirth; am NOT planning on having either of those things again, so my stash is not replenishing, damn it). The lovely D's make me drift off to sleep without pain, and when I wake up, it's not gone, but better. The standard ibuprofen plus coffee shot pretty much makes life bearable after that.

(As an aside, has anyone out there ever heard of something called a Goody's Headache Powder? My mother swears by them, and I have to admit, they are the shiznit. I always feel vaguely weird carrying them around in my purse, as they are literally a package of white powder wrapped in wax paper. However, if you like the sound of a cocktail of two ground-up Tylenol, a ground-up aspirin, plus 50 mgs of caffeine, mixed with water, then this is your drug of choice. Yes, the taste of that nasty little shot will linger for a few hours in the back of your throat, but DAMN if it doesn't work, and fast. Anyone comes over to the Mags domicile? I'll hook you up but good.)


Anyway, there was going to be a good bit tonight about my giving up coffee, and there was a strategically planned tie-in to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," what with my getting older and the perimenopause on the brain and how if I give up coffee, I'll have to measure out my life with homework folders and laundry, and isn't that way more pathetic?

And, there was going to be a really good exploration of how some literature makes so much more sense to me now, as a jaded old hag, than it did when I was a dewy-eyed virgin English major (OK, shut up, just an English major) in college.

Yes, friends, I was going to do some better things than this scattered, disjointed piece of crapola blogging, but I am apparently not coherent. Blame it on the Demerol. (Wasn't that a Milli Vanilli song?)

I leave you with some J. Alfred to ponder for the day...

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

(Readers: Please write an essay on the speaker's use of imagery to indicate his own self-consciousness and his hesitancy in choosing between the pedantic and the prosaic. Do not use the Cliffs Notes. A blue book is appreciated.)

Haikus to my lower body

(Karla, did you do this once? Can't remember. So sorry if I steal.)

Oh my belly
Once firm and flat, but now looks
like Appalachia.

My thighs could not be
more opposite from those of
Ms. Nicole Ritchie

My butt? It is a
big and friendly dog, always
faithful, always there.

Oh, I do not want

to do Tae Bo tonight. Look!
Veronica Mars!

Yet another haiku gauntlet is thrown, blogging ladies and gentlemen. To your muses; away!

Mags' Giggle Du Jour

I heard on Morning Edition this morning that Saddam Hussein, at his trial, was acting up, and said "I will crush your heads."

Do you think he was doing the Kids in the Hall thing?

Crush crush crush crush crush!

Told you so

I TOLD you the game to watch was Missouri vs. Ole Miss. That one kicked ass.

That other one...well, let's just say that I was happy to be at the wedding reception. Being tipsy on champagne at Laguna Gloria at sunset while listening to a DJ spin cheesy 70's and 80's dance music...well, that's just a little slice of heaven for Mags. I even had a cigarette; the first in years. (Or maybe since the last time Karla came to town; but it's a REALLY really infrequent occurrence. And, like the walking cliche that I am, only when I'm drunk.)

The Man had Dave and Shannon over to watch the game. Aggie Dave was reportedly most amused that I had made a baked brie for UT football-watching purposes; I was informed by The ("Grossly Ungrateful") Man that I had made a huge football faux pas, as that is apparently the Aggie stereotype of the UT fan. (Brie = gay, you know. Add in the bottle of pinot grigio I also bought...well, the Horns might as well be wearing pointelle lace shoulderpads.) I'm sorry I missed an evening in with the friends, but, as for The Man...eh, I see him all the time, and he's usually far less crabby than that.

Oh, and the best part of the evening? Was my DRESS. I was shopping at Ross (Dress-4-Less!) a month or so ago, when I found the cutest pink taffeta sleeveless party dress, double lined and everything, on the CLEARANCE SALE rack for $9.99. The only flaw that I could find with it was that it was missing a belt, and it really didn't need it. I tried it on, and it fit me perfectly. (I estimated that I would have paid at least $50-$60 bucks for it. But, being the girl that I am, I got them to knock the price down another dollar because of the missing belt.)

So, I put it on last night, with the vintage bling beaded necklace and earrings, and The Man made wolfy comments (but that is not necessarily always a good indicator of how I look; he also says these things when I am wearing my "clean the tub" outfit of old Target sweatpants and the bleach-stained tank). But, I really got tons of compliments when I got to the wedding. You know, when someone asks you where you got your dress, and you're all "Ross, $9," and they're all "No WAY," and you're all "WAY!" and it's really really cool like that? It was like that. (And my boss said, "I just saw a big article on how taffeta is back in a big way. I didn't know you were so fashionable." After the hysterical laughter and the falling to the ground, I thanked her graciously. I love my boss.)

I looked like this, except try to imagine that my actual face was not doing either of these things most of the night:


(Actually, that's a big lie. Those are pretty much my only facial expressions.)

Hey, Badger! Look! I tried to put on my new makeup! And I actually used an eyeliner brush and a smudger, two things I honestly did not know existed until this summer.

I'm trying, people. I'm not a size 8 yet, but...hey, at least it's not black! One step at a time...

A Buckeye is a Nut

Just remember that.

Friday Night Light Beers

Hi, I'm Mags, and I'm drinking a Pearl Light. (Don't tell The Man. I think that's grounds for divorce.)

It came from the neighbors, who were out drinking and letting their kids run around after work on a coolish (for Austin) September evening. As that sounded like perhaps the world's best idea ever, I joined them.

We have great neighbors. This is, by the way, why we stay where we are, as our property taxes soar higher every year, rendering us perilously close to being priced out of the neighborhood that we "discovered" eight years ago. Back then, my neighborhood didn't say "very desirable, cute. midcentury-modern 50's bungalows." It said "Wow, we can only afford this tiny little piece of crap with ancient plumbing if we want to live anywhere near the central city."

If you have not discovered the joys of The Pearl, you should; it's the 69-calorie can of water that'll get you drunk. (Eventually, after drinking enough of them that you will actually urinate a volume equal to your own body weight. I think it is actually somehow a diet aid in that factor.)

The Man and OG are out on a date, to a UT Women's Volleyball game. The Man likes volleyball, and swears it has nothing to do with the six-feet-tall amazons in tight shorts; OG likes dates with her daddy, popcorn, M&Ms, and sanctioned occasions to scream. I got to hang out with YG, go for a walk, chat with the neighbors, and then read to YG for a long, long time, without any competition from OG. Perfect evening all around. Well, OK, there was the not-quite-potty-trained-daughter-with-the-diarrhea-and-the-smearing incident, but best save that for another posting.

(As an aside, I am a little worried about the Longhorn indoctrination of OG that appears to be taking place. This city does NOT need one more person that bleeds burnt orange. Sadly, though, she seems to have inherited her father's competitive streak, and it is probably much easier to be a sports fan for teams that...well, WIN occasionally. Go Mizzou! You'll win a game again someday, I JUST KNOW IT!)

Speaking of the burnt and of the orange, there is some big football game happening tomorrow. Perhaps you've heard of it? I will actually be at a wedding tomorrow night, if you can believe that someone would schedule a fall wedding in Austin on a Saturday afternoon. Shocking, I tell you. (Oh, my, though, you should have seen The Man's face when, a few weeks ago, I straight-facedly informed him of the date of the wedding and started to make like I was going to go all wifey on him and make him go with me. I cannot even begin to describe the apoplexy in his eyes. He's all "But..that's the...that's the....I CAN'T GO WITH YOU!!" He is too funny.)

But, dears, it is really, really big shit here. People have been camping out since Wednesday - NOT for tickets, mind you, but for TAILGATING SPOTS. Yes, there have been people sitting over there for 3 days, drinking beer, so that THEY WILL HAVE A GOOD PLACE TO DRINK BEER. The Noxiouses are going, I know...though lord know how much they could have sold their tickets for (seriously, folks...the lowest price per ticket on eBay right now is $300, and that's for the crappiest part of the student section, and you have to have an ID for that. They're mostly up in the $500-$600 range.)

Hey, though, the REAL big important game tomorrow is Mizzou vs. Old Miss. Don't be fooled by the hype.

I shall now endeavor to shut the hell up about beer and football. Christ, I've merged with The Man and we've become one large codependent being. (Well, that would explain the ass, anyway.)

Delusions of Grandeur

I put a site meter on this page.

That number had better represent some level of climbitude, or I am so deleting that fucker.

And, old friends whoeth complain to me of my "only Blogger people can post" setting, I changed it. So I expect commentary. Do I need to name names? Do I need to tell potentially damaging stories? (None of you can EVER run for public office; you know that. I'm poor, and my price is pretty darn low.)

Oh, and damn you Karla, for the recommendation of Project Runway! I have actually started watching my first reality show, and I...gulp...kind of see the fun in it! (Hey, at last these guys have to create something to win, and the voting actually appears based on merit. Plus, apparently, fashion people are bitchy, which makes for funny snide commentary.)

More photo joy

This was at the ESPN bar...and, yes, why it is Coors Stadium, made entirely from Coors beer cans!

This was what you saw when you looked up from doing your toileting bidness at the ESPN bar. (You know, I don't know why I looked up. Who looks up when doing that sort of thing?)


These are from the first day of school...dig the Hello Kitty lunchbox on the younger girl. Already into those little labels and commercial products, I tell you.



And, last but not least, happy girls with grandma and Jessica, her licky little Shi Tsu. Yes, she's had the pony tails my entire life. It's a political statement; she's not cutting them until we pass the ERA.


Urg. I had to excise a couple of the full-body shots from Denver. I'm not liking the ass much these days. (And that's a big change, because, of course, I LOVED it before.) When, oh when, does the serious body re-shaping start? Will some blog buddy commit to jumping off this cliff with me?

Denver, Cuteness, Friends, and Jesus

Here's some loverly shots from my solo jaunt to Denver. Anita, Scott, and the two darlings were wonderful hosts. Didn't let me pay for a goddamn thing, though. Will repay you guys with Austin 'ritas and Cooper's Barbecue when you come down.

Here's Big Head Anita (TM) in front of a gorgeous gorge (with me reflected in her glasses; so very artsy):

This is the large blue bear that looks into the Denver Convention Center (not into the bathrooms, however, which is supremely disappointing):


Three quarters of happy family:


Some sugar for you suckers out there:


My own new patented photographic style...the Big Boob Shot:


Scott, when we found Jesus in his french bread!


(OK, maybe not Jesus; but a distinctly happy spirit. Maybe it's Sammy Davis Jr.)


I'm recovering from the trip, and from the heavy blow The Man dealt me when he handed me the letter stating that Dr. H., the world's best pediatrician, is leaving Austin. (Seriously, Dr. H., your cult of devoted followers are absolutely bereft. Leaving to take care of an ailing parent...well, that's just...I mean...ah, crap. Stupid noble doctors.)

He's a shy type, and not comfortable with too much praise. So, to pay him back, I may go force him to pose for a picture with us when I take my kids in one last time. I think that might kill him.

Hasta, children. I need to post the most excellent pictures of OG and YG on their first days of school this year...I can't resist making them pose on their way out the door every year. (That's just something else to tell the therapist later.)

I hate Blogger

OK, I just had a really great long post about a) my fantastic trip to Denver, and b) my complete and utter desolation and despair that my MAGNIFICENT pediatrician is MOVING TO HOUSTON. (Seriously. There were tears. More than once.)

But I went to send it, and I guess I didn't log in fast enough, because it DID NOT SAVE IT. I cannot backtrack to that page on my browser to cut and paste it, either. But, it's gone, because I'm not rewriting it now. It took me half an hour to begin with, and it's now 11 freaking 32 at night

So, you will just have to take my word for it that it was a funny and poignant treatise on the nature of friendships old and new, and the ever-continuing cycle of hellos and goodbyes. It had humor mixed with pathos, and hit all the right notes for an end-of-summer story. It was fucking amazing.

(I did have a great time, though. Perfect visit. I'll post the pictures tomorrow.)