Mistah Schleckah

Mistah turned 45 on Monday.

Happy Birthday Mistah!

We had a rousing time celebrating on Monday night. And since then, we’ve been trying to get out of Fort Davis. We’re trying to pack up stuff and move out of here so someone else can give us money to live here.

In the midst of it all, yesterday we drove down to Marfa to return borrowed furniture to our friend Elizabeth.

We had Marfalafels. . .

. . . from the Food Shark truck.

Read all about Krista and Adam in a story on “The Best Street Food in America” in the June issue of Bon Appétit. (The Bon Appétit website still shows its May issue content.)

Then Bill and Elizabeth wanted to go to the thrift store. I can’t stand thrift stores, I hate shopping, but mostly, I wanted to get back to Fort Davis to get back to it. Packing and all.

While they were shopping I wandered into the Greasewood Gallery in the Paisano Hotel, and checked out David Loren Bass' brilliant "Paintings of West Texas." I ran into the lovely Lana and she said, “What are you doing here?!” In Marfa, in Texas, aren’t you supposed to be GONE??

“Mistah’s shopping in the thrift store. We’re supposed to be leaving. Getting rid of stuff. Not shopping for more. He’s insane.”

I was heading back to the Westy when I heard, “Ellie!” I turned around and saw this:

Yep. Instead of ridding himself of unnecessaries, Mistah bought himself a yellow linen suit.

It’s very fancy.

It’s very festive.

It's VERY Don Johnson.

And when I exclaimed, “But, it’s a yellow linen suit!” a passer-by corrected me: “It’s tropical white.”

So here we come, Connecticut. Me, Mistah, and his tropical white linen suit.

.

Thanks, Elizabeth.

Blue daisies

Sunday, Mother’s Day, was a strange day for me. My first Mother’s Day as a separated-soon-to-be divorced mom.

I didn’t realize how much this first Mother’s Day alone with my children would affect me. I mean, it is about being a mom, so you and your kids should suffice, right? But it just felt strange and empty and big.

There is also the fact that Mother’s Day, like most holidays, has certain traditional expectations, and I could see pretty early on that this particular Mother’s Day was not going to conform to the modern Mother’s Day ideal.

There would be no restaurant brunch, or picturesque picnic or breakfast in bed. My kids are still too young to pull this off. (And you’re right if you’re thinking that I could have planned this for myself -- I could have, but I didn’t. I didn’t know I’d feel this way -- and honestly I’ve not been very good at planning anything in advance the last couple of months).

So it was going to be different. Big deal. And anyway, I was greeted at the door with a bouquet of flowers, which everybody knows is very traditional.


Dyed blue daisies and pink carnations -- an arrangement so obviously my children’s taste it made me grin.

I decided this Mother’s Day morning was going to be spent at Costco. I figured it would be empty because all the other moms would be eating brunch or picnicking or sleeping in.

We go. We shop. We even eat the greasy pizza slices and hot dogs (okay, AND churros) and wash them all down with the berry smoothies (which definitely do not contain any real fruit).

It’s Mother’s Day, I didn’t have to make lunch, I’m with my gorgeous girls, and we’re full and happy. Feeling grateful I thank them again for my flowers.

My oldest says “You’re Welcome, Mom” and then adds that Denise helped them pick the flowers out.

“Denise?” I ask, completely surprised.

“Yeah, Denise. She went to the play at Jr. Theater with us yesterday and then we stopped on the way home to get you flowers.”

[Denise, for those of you who don’t know, is “the other woman,” the woman my husband left me for. The woman he has been seeing sporadically ever since.]

Denise helped with the flower selection? Now I wonder if she suggested the pink carnations (the ugliest flowers ever grown) and the blue daisies that have since turned the water in the vase a shade the Ty-D-Bowl man would be proud of. Is she getting some perverse satisfaction from the fact that I received a rather hideous Mother’s Day bouquet?

Surprisingly, I laugh out loud. How absurd life is. How entertaining. How ironic.

And maybe, just maybe, Denise only wanted to help my girls pick out something they’d feel proud to give their mom. Maybe it had nothing at all to do with me. Or maybe it did, maybe she wanted to make sure that I’d get something traditional this first Mother’s Day alone.

Either way, Happy Belated Mother’s Day to you, Denise. (But please, oh please, steer them toward the Gerber daisies next year!)

Short

I have a personal philosophy that I think of as the “life’s too short” principle. It started when my kids were potty training. One day, I retrieved my daughter from preschool to find that she had had an accident, and along with her artwork there was a pair of poopy underwear tied up inside of a plastic grocery bag in her cubby. I looked at that little treasure and considered the possibility of opening it for only the briefest of moments before deciding:
life's too short to deal with this
and I dropped the whole bag in the trash can. Sorry, environment.

This perspective of mine is frequently reinforced by situations that involve the bodily fluids of my children. My girl clearly considers herself part camel, and claims to never need to go to the bathroom. ...Ever. So we have more than our fair share of incidents when she doesn’t quite make it. Life’s too short to ball up a pair of wet undies and stuff them in my purse.
This annoys my girl like you read about, because they are always her favorite undies, and I’m just going to throw them away like garbage? (I need bendier italics to convey her displeasure). But come on, girl! If you don’t like it, don’t shit your pants.

My philosophy often comes up around issues of food and drink:

Life’s too short to buy the cheap tomatoes.

Life’s too short to drink bad coffee
(no offense, El – but at least I didn’t say cheap wine)

Life’s too short not to send back poorly cooked food,
but that doesn’t mean you should be all snooty and impolite about it.

And sometimes my philosophy comes up in a good way with my kids:

Life’s too short to let the ice cream truck pass by unhailed,
even though I could buy a whole goddamn box of good humor bars for what that crook charges for just one.

Life’s too short to not jump in the ocean
fully clothed if you really feel like it


Life’s too short is a way of life, people! It transcends rules and expectations. It offers you an out when you know you should, but you just don’t want to. And why the fuck should you? There’s often a way to say yes instead of no, there’s often a way to make it fun instead of just getting it done. Life’s too short for this job, this affliction, this bore. And you know what?

Life’s too short to train for a 12k.

I think I hear the ice cream truck.

"I Hear Your Mom's A Knockout"

Our friends Pat and Keene were out of town when Mom and Dad visited us in Fort Davis in February, when Mistah and I threw a party so everyone could meet them. (We also made brisket, but that’s a different story). Keene missed the party, but he heard about it: when we saw him, back in town, a week ago, he said to me, “I hear your mom’s a knockout.”

“I hear your mom's a knockout.” What better compliment is there to hear about your mom?

Mom is a knockout. She’s beautiful, she’s game, she’s fun, and she’s so incredibly supportive it’s almost embarrassing. Except it’s not embarrassing. It’s the best thing in the world.

Dad’s great, too, of course. Dad’s The Man. But this isn’t Father’s Day, is it? And, I have a feeling Dad would maybe take one or two less trips a year if it wasn’t for Mom. . .

Because Mom and Dad didn’t just visit us in godforsaken, farflung Far West Texas. Mom and Dad went to Chicago for Easter a few weeks later, and got to hang with a couple of their other daughters, and a few grandchildren while there.

Then they went to Boston the following month, to see a few more grandchildren, and another daughter or two – one who ran a really really long road race… for fun!

They were in Asheville pre-Christmas – a daughter needed them, to be there for her kids, after all – and in San Diego earlier in 2007 (yes, they are tragically, criminally, overdue to visit their San Diego daughter and grandkids again; just ask Jacquie).

And of course, they pop in to New York City when the mood hits them. Another daughter there, afterall. And they don’t have to babysit when they're in New York. . .

The main thing is, Mom rocks.

Mom loves Mitre Peak:

She’s great to have an afternoon beer with:

She’s really fun to pick up:

And most importantly of all, she’s a knock-out:

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

Weekend 3-Way

Your participation in this is mandatory.

Yes, you.

If you read this and click away without playing, you will hurt our feelings. And there will be Trouble. That's right, with a capital T.

I'm not exactly sure how we're going to find you, but when we do? Oh, there'll be trouble!

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Answer in just a few words, you don't have to explain yourself unless you want to.


If you were a major league baseball player, what would your at-bat song be?


Ellie: Homeward Bound (because everyone knows that every time I get up to bat, I reach home and score a run. I'm just that good.)

Beth: Here We Go by Ozomalti. Here is their Dodgers (boo) song (Magnolia Soul) I would, of course, be a Padres player, so instead of the "Go Dodgers go" chants, they would be "Go Padres go" chants thrown in.

Jacquie: The Bitch is Back

Top dog

If you’ve been reading this blog semi-regularly you may remember that it was two Saturdays ago that I got busted by my daughter for spending the night at my boyfriend’s house.

This past Sunday I got busted again, but in a new and different way. A way that involved a Notice of Complaint, an actual yellow ticket, stuck on my front door as plain as day.

I have to admit that I knew I was in for some trouble before I pulled up and had a visual of the ticket, because I had just listened to a voicemail from my realtor.

Turns out, he got a call at 7:58 AM (yes, I’m absolutely sure I’m now his favorite client [if I wasn’t before]) from a County of San Diego Department of Animal Services officer. You see, his name and number are plastered on the For Sale sign in my front yard, so when no one answered the door the officer called him. (Not bad having my own answering service.)

The crazy who called the CSDDAS officer suggested that we had moved out and left the dog behind (I’ve many times admitted to not being a “dog person,” but come on! I just don’t think the new owners would want him, so I do plan on taking him when I go.)

Getting out of the car I’m wondering if my dog’s even still there. What if they’ve taken him away?

Turns out he’s fine, waiting for me like usual. It also turns out that CSDDAS officer #258 has a real concern that I’ve broken P.C. Sec. 597.1 (a) PERMITTING ANIMALS TO GO WITHOUT CARE. If so, the ticket explains, OFFENCES ARE PUNISHIBLE BY IMPRISONMENT IN THE COUNTY JAIL AND/OR A FINE.

Great! (Although I actually do need somewhere to live.)

The remark field says I’m to call by the next day with times available to meet an officer.

Like an interview, I wonder?

Lord knows I felt like I was interviewing for some top-management position when I adopted my kittens from the same CSDDAS office.

I dutifully call their office right away to schedule my interview. They’re not open. I call the next morning. They’re not open on Mondays either. (wtf?) I listen to all of their menu options and try to leave a message, but it’s one of those inane systems that just keep dropping you back into the same loop, with no where to voice your concerns. There is the option of using their emergency line, but well, this just does not qualify.

I resort to email.

Tuesday I finally speak with someone. The CSDDAS officer tells me some interesting facts: a neighbor did call (and used the emergency line!!) because they were concerned the dog had been abandoned; an officer had been out and had seen the dog, his water, food, and outside bed area, all contained within the fenced backyard.

Okay, good, we’re done, right? Because that all sounds in order to me.

But, alas, no.

“Your dog does not have any place to take shelter,” says the officer somewhat accusingly.

“Well, there’s the house.” I reply. “And if he’s outside he can ‘take shelter’ under the cover of the ridiculously big roof overhang.”

“But what if it rains?” She replies.

“The roof overhang, as I mentioned. He doesn’t get wet.”

“But what if the rain is coming down hard, on a slant?” She retorts.

Is she serious??? The dog lives in San Diego, for Christ sakes, where we enjoy an average daily temperature of 70.5 degrees Fahrenheit (21.4 degrees Celsius). He has a whole big yard to himself. He has never gone hungry a day in his life, and he gets to hang out and sleep in the sun all day while I go hustle up money for kibble.

“The dog needs to have access to a shelter with three sides and a roof and a door,” she explains.

“So dog houses are law?” I wonder out loud.

Yes, it turns out they are. Alternatively, you can have a dog door into the house. If you have neither of these, the law (here anyway) says your dog needs to stay inside all day. I mean, what if the dog is outside and gets wet?!?! What then?

But this woman is very serious, and informs me that an officer will be out the next day, between 5 and 7 pm, to meet with me and make sure these requirements are met. If not, I will get some type of citation. (Finally, I have my interview time!)

I’m actually a bit uncomfortable at this point because I don’t have a license for the dog and I’ve pissed this woman off, and this is obviously not only her job, but her passion. I back off and explain that there actually is a dog door into the garage (which qualifies as shelter), but that it's been closed because we had skunks and other wild critters visiting in the middle of the night.

She is happy to hear this. (Yes, what does she care if my home smells like skunk spray -- at least the dog won't get wet.)

We hang up. I brighten. I realize that I can actually get some photos of the officer and her truck and can try to be more like Ellie and include them in my post. It will be worthwhile. And I will be nice. Very nice. My kids will be proud. (Hey, they can even get in some photos!)

So I bust my ass to make it home by 5 pm on Wednesday to charm the officer. But a familiar ticket is sticking on the front door. “Sorry I missed you,” is the first line in the remark field. Reading further it says I’ve been cleared. I passed without the interview.

Even though there are no cute photos, I’m relieved. I don’t like to be in trouble. Additionally, now I don't have to be nice during a situation that borders on the absurd.

Because honestly, I’m baffled and confused and uneasy about the whole experience. Isn’t the whole system completely ridiculous? When, I ask you, did dogs become so spoiled? Their “proper care” so codified? When did we as a society decide that we should spend so much money making sure that neighborhood dogs remain dry, when there are people (lots of them!!!) living on our streets?

Who looks out for the wet humans? Who makes sure that they have food, water, proper shelter, and up-to-date vaccines? Who? Well we all know who, don’t we? No one. No one does. Instead they get hassled by the police, treated like dogs (uh, no, scratch that), treated like trash, and eat out of dumpsters.

In my next life maybe I want to come back as a dog...... (but not in Mexico)

Have a seat

I love it when it’s my turn! It’s so fun to play with ideas and see what might possibly be eeked out into a semi-entertaining post.

I thought I might write about condiments, and how Ellie is personally offended by the very existence of ketchup.

I thought I might write about scheduling the hour long reflexology massages that Beth and I are going to have next week after the big run, and my thought process when asked: "Do you prefer a male or a female technician?"

I thought I might write more about my girl, maybe the funny encounter we had over the weekend when I made her try on and judge every pair of undies in her unholy mess of a dainty drawer.

Or maybe the fact that she is terrified of the automatic flush. She is paralyzed with fear when perched atop a suspicious toilet. I don’t know how she pees with this much angst. You should see her face. I’ve told her about the motion sensors, and so she is frozen. She. Will. Not. Move. Anything. But. Her. Eyebrows. She has very expressive eyebrows. When she is done, she wants me to whisk her to what she considers a safe and reasonable distance from the scary toilet. Only then will she wipe and get on with her life.

When my niece, who is now a gorgeous almost-16 year old superstar, was little, she would only use white toilet seats. I remember one time we were at Laguardia, and my mom was taking this child to the bathroom, and you know those stairs by baggage claim? My sister yelled up to my mom: “Make sure the seats aren’t black!”

I didn’t have kids at that time, so I just chalked this up to generally weird things that I might need to know about kids some day. Black seats = bad. Okay, check.

But now that I have had the distinct pleasure to spend many, many, many hours of my important life in bathroom stalls with children of my own and often of my friends and acquaintances, I understand the critical issues around toilet seat selection.

At home, no matter how gross or uninviting your bathroom appears, you can sit on the seat. It’s your family; those are the arses of your peeps. Friends’ houses are fairly safe, but you have to be careful if you’re using the kids’ bathroom. Chances are very good that you’ll sit on some wet. Ick. I don’t care whose wet it is, I don’t care if you yourself just cleaned the toilet and you know that it’s rinse residue on you. It’s a terrible, terrible thing to sit in wet on the toilet.

If YOU sprinkle when you tinkle, ARE you neat and wipe the seat?

Good God, where was I?

What the hell am I talking about?

Toilet seats?!
Okay. So it’s a post about toilet seats! What fun!

There is the matter of toilet seats, or lack thereof, at the beach. The thing is, it’s so awesome to have a toilet at the beach! There is almost always toilet paper, and stall doors are for chumps anyway. I have no beef with hovering over the creepy metal rim once the seal has been broken.

Beach = Beer = Bathroom. The circle of life.

When my kids need to pee, I just want them to go in the ocean! The boy is too old and worldly to be dragged into the doorless ladies’ room, and the men’s room? Filled with crazy murderous loons and pervs, obviously. But boys can just pee on a tree or a rock, whatever. My girl? If she needs to join me, it can get a little tricky. She can’t hover; her legs are like one foot long. Sometimes there are seat covers, those are handy. But they always rip, and are you supposed to punch out the middle hole, or just let the force of your stream bust through it? We usually either fashion our own seat cover out of toilet paper, or just give the seat a good wipe down before placing her precious sandy buns atop. It’s a gamble, but at least there is no chance of automatic flushing. The real danger is in what you’re standing in. Ew.

Have you ever seen those rigs where you press a button and a plastic seat cover scoots around from one end of the seat to the other? Do you trust them?

What about this:
http://www.wsbtv.com/news/16139635/detail.html

Are you fucking kidding me?

But I would be totally psyched to find one at the beach.

Thirst

It hasn’t rained in Fort Davis since Thanksgiving. Think about that for 2 seconds. Christmas and New Year’s came and went. We arrived out here in January. Mom and Dad visited in February. We left for a trip to the West Coast in March, and were gone a month – most of it in the Motel 6 in Nogales.

I know it can be boring to talk about the weather, but Thanksgiving was a long time ago. That’s a long time for it not to rain.

All that changed on Monday night.

The clouds rolled in in the late afternoon, as they often do:

(They don’t call it High Sky Country out here for nothing…)


But this time,

Bam!

Crash!

Kapow!!

(That’s the Church in the Mountains, across the street from our house. You don’t think they should worry, do you? That lightning is striking right through their steeple? )

It was a spectacular storm, accompanied by a steady, heavy, drenching rain. The likes we’ve not seen since, well, since November.

Aaahhh..... said the thirsty prickly pear cactus:

Aaahhh.... said the thirsty pecan trees:

Aaahhh.... said the thirsty chocolate daisy wildflowers:

Aaahhh.... said the other thirsty prickly pear cactus:

Aaahhh.... said the thirsty globe mallow wildflowers:
.

Aaahhh.... said the thirsty barrel cactus:

Aaahhh.... said the Thirsty Girl:

Aaahhh.....

Shots

From the title above, you probably think you’re in for some tale of drunken debauchery, some sexy boozy story or juicy gin-induced gossip, but you’re dead wrong.

Instead, this is a short narrative that highlights my stupidity. So here goes:

My boyfriend and I were sitting in his backyard this weekend. It’s a great little backyard that gets lots of sun. We were each drinking a beer, trying to decide how to spend the rest of the afternoon. He leaves for a second and brings back this small, plastic, yellow “tennis racquet.”

You may have seen these before. They’re some crazy newfangled device used to kill flies, mosquitoes and other bugs. Slightly curious, I ask to see it, then try to figure out how it works.



My boyfriend informs me there are two small buttons, one on each side, that need to be depressed in order for it to work. Hmm, yes, I see them…

“So does this thing work?” I inquire.

“Yeah, it does, but I’m pretty sure there are no batteries in it.”

“Pretty sure?”

“Yes.”

I’m toying with the idea of trying it, but are there batteries in it or not?

I take a chance, depress the two buttons and touch it. Nothing happens. I’m relieved and disappointed at the same time. I mean, how bad can it be? It can’t take too much to kill a fly. Can it? I’m sure I can handle it.

So I push on..... “So what does it feel like, you know, if there are batteries in this bad boy? Have you tried it before?”

“Sure. I’ve touched it before. It feels like a pin prick."

He takes the racquet inside while I contemplate the sensation of a pin prick. I love acupuncture, and that involves multiple pin pricks in various body locations simultaneously. A pin prick? That’s nothing.

My boyfriend returns with the tennis racquet in hand, fresh batteries now installed. He hands it back to me.

“It feels like a pin prick?” I re-ask.

“Yeah, more or less.”

Why the hell not, right? I’m really not going to be able to contain my curiosity anyway, so I should just go ahead and get this over with.

I pick up the racquet, depress the two buttons and decide my finger is too sensitive an area to touch. I look at my leg, lift the racquet and bring it down on the front of my left knee.

“Aiiiiiiiiyyyya!!!” or some sound similar to that of a small puppy whose tiny paw is being crushed by a grown man’s work boot, involuntarily escapes from my mouth. It’s flipping painful. Truly. (Definitely on the "more" side of "more or less.")

Needless to say, my boyfriend is laughing, hard. And he’s informed me since that he’s had many post-shock chuckles over it as well. (Does this guy even like me, I have to wonder?!?)

But after looking at YouTube because my boyfriend had the foresight NOT to try and film this episode, I realize that this is not an uncommon activity, and that although I am stupid, at least I’m not as stupid as this guy.

Shots anyone?

Toofus, in photos

Glad Rags

We got invited to a fancy-schmancy party at the Paisano Hotel in Marfa Texas last night.

It’s a really cool place. It was built in 1930, and its claim to fame is Elizabeth Taylor, James Dean and Rock Hudson stayed there while "Giant" was filmed in Marfa in 1955. For what that’s worth.

We got ourselves all dolled up.

I braided Mistah Schleckah’s hair...

.

…and he wore the new bolo tie he got in Nogales... on the Mexico side.

We wiped our feet....

And headed on in.

The place was full of gorgeous friends, looking gorgeous. It was a great crowd.

And the food was delish – creamcheese-stuffed jalapeños, wrapped in bacon (which Schleckah gorged himself on). Falafel balls, cheese & crack, fruit, mozzarella/tomato/basil skewers. Yum.

The wine flowed:

Whew. How it flowed. Streams and brooks and creeks and rivers worth.

The band was fabulous:

Look at that horn section!

Mistah and I danced the night away.

Actually, I danced with anybody who’d have me.

Our hosts were the absolute epitome of graciousness.

Things got very silly by the end of the night.

And the best thing? We walked “home,” to Westy's perfect little campsite, in front of our friend Elizabeth’s house.

It was an awesome night. Today's a Day of Rest and Recovery. Did I mention the wine?

Weekend 3-Way

We are going to play with the weekend format a bit,

just for kicks and giggles.

Today we will post a question

and then each of us will write an answer.

Fans and faithful readers,

we challenge YOU to answer the question as well!

Do so in the comments section.

There are no wrong answers.

Unless it's stupid.

But no pressure.

Here is the question:

If tomorrow was yesterday,

would you do it the same?

Jacquie:

Okay, so this whole thing was my idea and I picked this question from a list we had going because I had a few things to say about yesterday. It was supposed to be a great day, the day I carried out my final act as a graduate student (or a student of any sort other than generally of life). But alas and alack, it was a fantastically poopy day. The thing, though, is that I don’t think anything I did made the day more or less poopy, it was all because of them - the jackasses. Let’s not get into it, shall we? If I can’t resolve my issues around Friday through personal reflection and buckets of beer, I’ll write a real-type post about it on Monday. For now, for the weekend 3-way, and for the purposes of answering the question that I demanded we ask before the tedium of this introduction causes you to collapse face first onto your keyboard, I will say:

NO.

AND ALSO,

YES.

Because I would do all the things that I did yesterday, but I would do them like the Buddha, with calm, quiet wisdom, and the peaceful understanding that all of the crap that the jackasses tossed my way yesterday? That was the small stuff, and if I had yesterday to do over, I wouldn’t sweat the small stuff.

Now today? Let's just say that although I made it to the gym for an 8:30 kickboxing class, the instructor did not (jackass), and I had to use the treadmill. Need I remind you?

The beach is calling me.

Next.......

Ellie here:

"If tomorrow was yesterday..." is that the question? Because somehow earlier I read it as, "If today was yesterday..."

Okay. If tomorrow was yesterday. If Sunday was Friday. Oh wait a minute. I get it. I get why I don't get it. I don't get it because I drank too much wine yesterday. Friday. And it's muddled my already-addled mind. So if tomorrow were yesterday, I'd drink less wine. Then I'd be better prepared to drink more wine tonight. Saturday. The night of the Big Party.

Everything else I'd do the same, especially the bike ride. Maybe I'd do that twice.

Okay. I'd do the bike ride twice and drink less wine.

The End.

Beth here:

Thank you, Ellie, laying it out as if Sunday (which is now today, because I’m a lagger) were Friday makes it much more clear in my mind……

It seems like a long time ago now, but, no, I would not do Friday the same way if I were to do it again (today). Mostly because I got really bitchy with a woman who works at the wine bar at which I'm going to be celebrating my 40th birthday later this month. (The same wine bar where Me and You and Ellie was born.)

I was anxious to send out the Evite for the soiree, but wanted to quickly double check that all was in order before I hit send. I also wanted to make sure it was okay to have a henna tattoo artist come out and practice her art on me and my friends. (A grown up version of face painting, if you will – ‘cause I knew they’d never go for the bouncy.)

Well, it turns out that, no, henna tattoos are strictly forbidden, some lame excuse about health and safety. “But they’re not real tattoos!” I exclaimed. Yes, she knew what henna tattoos were, but the answer was still no way.

Harumph. This pissed my off. Okay, I tried to let it go, and moved on to the next question…."The room’s reserved, the deposit been received?"I asked. Well, again, no. My name was penciled in, but no deposit or contract had been received. Lucky for me I had the fax I’d sent two weeks earlier sitting in front of me. The sticky I’d affixed to the fax read: April 23, 12:25 PM. (sometimes it pays to be anal).

She was unimpressed, the fact remained they did not have the fax and they did not have the deposit. This pissed me off some more, but I begrudgingly agreed to re-fax the contract/deposit. My tone at this point was not especially friendly.

Of course I had to call back after I re-faxed, to double check that they’d received it. It was Laura who again picked up the phone. She did not sound happy to hear from me. “Yes, yes, the fax is in my hand.”

I hang up, stew a bit about poor customer service, then remember I forgot to ask one final question. I call back. Laura answers (again!). “So who do I meet with prior to the party to pick wines, the menu, etc.?” I inquire.

You probably see where this is going, right?…… “Me.” Laura replies. “I’ll be overseeing your party.”

Well happy birthday to me!

Busted

Ever since my soon-to-be ex husband moved out I’ve had re-occurring, momentary panic attacks regarding the pick up and whereabouts of my children.

It’s been quite a while now, almost 17 months since he moved out, so I’ve had ample time to get used to having my kids part-time.

Our weekly schedule is fairly complicated, as we switch back and forth almost every day. I have the girls Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. My soon-to-be ex husband cares for them the remaining three days.

Needless to say, my children are very conscious of what day it is, because depending on the day, they are with either mom or dad. My three-and-a-half-year old (please do *not* refer to her as just three or almost four, as she is THREE-AND-A-HALF) is constantly asking what day it is, and when she finds out, tells me exactly what she will do that day, including, of course, where she will sleep.

I have to admit that I do almost the same thing (but not out loud).

My schedule is definitely tighter on my days with the girls. The San Diego Unified School District bus drivers have no love for me, and bring real meaning to the term “the bus is leaving.” They have no problem dropping off my 6-year-old daughter on the deserted sidewalk of a busy street, all by herself. Obviously, it is not a good idea for me to be late……

So my persistent, nagging fear is that I will get the days mixed up and my youngest will not be picked up at preschool and my oldest will be abducted from the before mentioned busy street. It would take just one little mistake. One miscalculation. One major fuckup.

A less frightening, but almost as humiliating scenario (which produces almost the same level of anxiety), is if I were to forget to pick up the girls from their dad’s house, or fail to be at my house when they were due to be dropped off by him. (I’m their mother for God’s sake!)

But for months and months and months my fears have been baseless, and fleeting.

That is until last Saturday morning.

I normally have the girls on Friday nights, but their dad was taking off Saturday morning for a few days, so he offered to keep them Friday night. This left me free to spend the night with my boyfriend. Great. All I had to do was be home by 9:30 AM when he dropped the girls off. Easy. Way easier than meeting that damn bus. And besides, when is the last time I slept past 8:30 AM? It’s been longer than I can remember.

“Are you fucking kidding me??” were the first words out of my mouth on Saturday morning. At guess what time? 9:35 AM! “Holy shit. Are you fucking kidding me??” I repeated to my boyfriend, who was looking at me bleary-eyed and stunned (probably thinking who the hell is this crazy woman? And why is she talking to me?)

I have never gotten dressed so quickly. I sprinted to my car, shaking as I fumbled for my cell phone. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck” was my mind’s mantra at that particular point in time. Because let’s look at the situation……it’s 9:38 AM, I’m wearing yesterday’s rumpled clothes, my hair’s a crazy mess, and my kids are waiting for me to arrive at my own house. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” my mind continues to chant.

The cell phones rings just as I grab it from the depths of my purse -- it’s my soon-to-be ex husband. My chant changes to: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

A very sarcastic “Thanks,” is the only reply before the call goes dead.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck” resumes and continues all the way home, through every red light, behind every slow car, until I pull up in front of my house, where both girls and their dad are hanging out on the sidewalk.

I pull into the garage and attempt to smooth down my unruly hair. I get out slowly, preparing to face the music, feeling like I’m in high school and I’ve done something that deeply disappoints my dad.

My soon-to-be ex husband, whom I thought would be livid, just gives my a coy smile. My oldest is simply happy to see me. But my youngest? Well she nails me with one innocent question:

“Mommy, did you have a sleepover at Tommy’s house?”

Busted. By a THREE-AND-A-HALF year old with polka-dot shorts and rubber alligator rain boots......

Gone to Texas

After we busted out of Nogales,we headed to Pagatonia Arizona.

Patagonia’s got mountains,

It’s got a creek,

It’s got javalinas, who may look like rats, but are actually collared peccories.

It’s got the author Chuck Bowden,

who invited us to stay with him at his friend’s gorgeous house.

It’s got a good ol’ watering hole.

(That’s our man Rubén’s handprint, from pushing our Westy into –

and out of – his taller.

We’re never wiping it off.)

We finally left Arizona and headed to Texas.
Imagine our delight when we stopped at this gas station in Van Horn:

Can you read the words on the cooler?

Yes, Free Beer.
Welcome to Texas!

Next stop: