Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Texas anymore

My last night in California. Just when I am used to the time zone, time to go home. Funny how that works.

The first morning here, I woke up at 6 am and just started working since it was 8 am back home.

The second day, I made it till 6:30 and got up.

Yesterday and today I hit snooze and rolled right back over. Dang it. Now I've gotta reverse the whole process.

(Me at the Mann's Chinese Theatre with my hands in Judy Garland's handprints. I thought she was the most appropriate since I'm so far from home!)

You know you're not in Texas any more when:

1.) You show up for work in July and your co-worker is wearing a jacket because 'it's cool outside?.' I don't know who thought who was more crazy. Her because I was wearing short sleeves or me because she had on a jacket. Jacket and July are not in the same sentence in Houston normally. The only jacket we might possibly wear in July in Texas is a straight jacket when my kids finally push me over the edge.

2.) There are signs for ROCK SLIDES? About every 300 feet on the way to Malibu there are signs for rock slides? Over...and over...rock slide warning signs. Okay so back in the south, the only thing that might fly at you on the road is an empty Budweiser can. We certainly don't worry about things falling down on top of us while driving. I kinda look at that like the Captain on the plane telling us that 'there is a slight delay due to maintenance.' Really, if a rocks start to slide on to my car, to the point that I am in trouble, I really don't wanna know, it's too late! Where would I go? Over the sheer drop? Save the tax payers money and skip the warning signs! Assume if you are driving in a canyon, rocks might fall, and they don't mean pebbles!

3.) You are brave enough to walk across the street in traffic. Apparently in Los Angeles, if there is a painted cross walk on the street, you can literally just walk out-light or no light-and people stop. I mean they just stop their car and let you cross. The first time we crossed a street, I was sure we were going to get killed. If you are reading this and you are from California and come to Texas, DO NOT DO THIS, you will get run over in the blink of an eye! Over and over we just walked out and people stopped. I nearly had a heart attack every time, it's very unnatural in Houston to walk out in front of traffic, light, no light, cross walk or not. We just don't do that, in fact some people will hit the gas and try to make you road kill. I kept telling my co-worker, do not do this, ever, in Texas.

4.) You find yourself in rush hour traffic. At 11 pm. Or 11 am. Or 2 pm. Doesn't matter.Traffic again. You hear all about Los Angeles traffic. Well, the thing is, they actually are no worse drivers than Houston, if you are used to Houston or big city driving. Other than the guy who was mad at the car next to him, opened the window and threw a cup of water on his car. But in Houston that's nothing really, if someone was mad and rolled down their window at me, I would duck and call 911 and hit the gas. It's like 24/7 rush hour traffic. I keep wondering, who are all of these people and where are they going at all hours of the day? It's non stop, bumper to bumper traffic all day long.

5.) You find the calorie count of every restaurant in the back of the menu. We went to BJ's Brewery and my co-worker pointed out the calories were available to read in the menu. Now I realize why it took an act of Congress or State legislature to make this happen. I looked it over, the waitress appeared and I said, 'I'll take some Honey Mustard Dressing.' She said, 'great, with what salad?'' I said, "I don't want a salad. Everything on your menu has the calorie count of my home zip code. Just bring me a dish of the dressing and a straw or spoon and I'll be fine." I cannot imagine what this would be like back home. We all eat out way too much, that wouldn't end. In fact I have a feeling some people might just order two T-bones instead of one!

I head home tomorrow, the kids get back from camp Saturday and life will return to it's normal chaos.

In the meantime, I never saw Brad Pitt to show off my bikini.

Leave it to me though, I saw his darn ex-wife Ms. Aniston, eating at a restaurant in Beverly Hills.

Hello!?!?!

That is so NOT who I was wishing for! How did that get reversed?

Wrong person! I bet she doesn't get stung by bees in Malibu either!

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The Beach, Barbra and Bee Stings

After I realized yesterday that there was no pool to strut around in my bikini in, nor was Brad Pitt delivering my room service, I decided to hop in my car and go somewhere-anywhere and see more of California (no, not in my bikini) before it got too dark.

I knew Malibu was relatively close, I quickly Googled the directions (where was life before Google?) and found a restaurant on the beach and headed to the coast.

Immediately, I came upon a huge difference in between Houston, which has a beach an hour a way, and California, which has beaches everywhere: you have to drive through a mountain to get to a beach.

We just don't have mountains in Texas.

Other than the mountain of traffic on I-45 South headed to Galveston at any given moment, you certainly aren't going through a mountain to get to the beach water. Nor would you want to.

We Houston drivers can handle just about anything. But driving through mountains is not something we encounter, and frankly, it's creepy. Put me on the toll road at 8 am and I am fine in that parking lot of traffic, cutting people off as required to get to my destination.

These California drivers zip around mountain curves like there is not a Grand Canyon size sheer drop to one side, as if there is plenty of room to pull over if someone gets distracted looking at their Blackberry, negotiating a movie deal in their Beamer.

Hello. Take your eyes off the road for a second, and you better be freaking James Bond with a parachute on your car because you are going off a cliff and into some remote canyon. The whole way there, I kept thinking, how am I gonna get BACK, in the dark, on THIS road?

I finally made it to Malibu, which is of course, amazingly beautiful.

Pacific Ocean straight ahead. Sunset. Forget Brad, at that moment I was really wishing my husband was with me.

I texted my mom (at a stop light, not on one of those crazy ass curvy roads) and ask her to remind me why I didn't apply to Pepperdine? Who goes to school there? Can I go back to college? Will she pay?

My restaurant is Bob's Paradise Cove Cafe, which I had selected in about 10 seconds off the list on Google. It sounded beachy and casual and not fancy. I lucked out, it was all of the above.

Since the sun was going down, I immediately skipped past the restaurant, which is right on the ocean, and walked right down to the ocean because Lord knows I'm not going in beach water past my toes in the dark.

What is it about beaches, especially the Pacific. For a brief second, all I could hear was the Jaws music in my head and I was glad I left the bikini at the hotel.

I got over that, stuck my feet right in. And wow, that Pacific Ocean water is cold! Now I'm wondering, who goes to Pepperdine, who lives here, and who swims in this water that is the temperature of a bucket of ice, in July?

I overcome my shyness, asked a stranger to take my photo, done, get back up to the restaurant.

I asked for a seat outside of course and get put in between two groups of people.

There I was, sharing a long seated cushioned bench, squished in between two groups of strangers.

I didn't care.

I had my beach view, my feet had just been in the Pacific, and I was eating on the beach.

I ordered a Strawberry Mohito and Raw Oysters.....

Waiting for my food to arrive, listening to the group of adults discuss going to a party with Barbra Streisand and drop celebrity names left and right.

I tried not to eavesdrop. Well, no I didn't, I just flat listened to every celebrity filled word.

There I sit, my little Texas self, happy as a clam, eating my oysters, drinking my Mohito on the beach, trying to not act too obvious as I listen to the conversation of the rich and famous. Missing my husband. Loving the sound of the ocean.

Then it happened.

I felt something on the back of my neck and reached up to brush it off and realized I had just been stung by a bee. I brushed it off, saw it in the sand, started to feel the pain, and brushed again and felt the stinger come out.

Didn't this happen to Cameron Diaz in Something About Mary?

I had just eaten half a dozen raw oysters and had a big fat Mohito.

I am not allergic to bees, thank goodness.

But, I don't want to be stung by one, certainly not sitting among a bunch of rich people, having just eaten, and not sure how I am going to react.

How come I don't get stung by a stupid bee in the Kroger parking lot at home where no one cares? I cannot remember the last bee sting I had, and here I am, IN MALIBU ON THE BEACH, and the one and only bee out that night finds my neck as his target!

I could feel my neck start to swell in the back. At least my throat was not swelling shut.

Can you imagine? This man 2 feet from me has just discussed being at a party with Barbra Streisand and I could have like passed out or gone into shock right there on the sand in front of them.

He could have gone back and told her about the crazy lady from Texas who passed out from the bee sting in Malibu and puked up her raw oysters and alcohol. UGH!

I calmly reached into my glass and got some ice out and held it on the sting and just smiled my Texas smile and acted like everything was fine, as opposed to screaming out that MY NECK IS ON FIRE which is what I really wanted to do.

If I didn't have to drive back through that ridiculous canyon, I would have ordered 3 more Mohitos to kill the pain, but then I knew for sure no one would ever hear from me again. I don't think my company would appreciate the negative press.

Finally, the pain started to go away.

I paid my tab. Went back to the beach one more time, in the dark, stuck my big toe in, Jaws music again, and went to my car and sat there for a minute debating how to get back to the hotel on that road, through that canyon or mountain or whatever it was.

No choice...I headed back the way I came.

A funny thing happens when you drive through a canyon with a sheer drop to your right, and it's dark outside.

You forget that there is a sheer drop since ya can't see it, and suddenly I was sort of just zipping along with the rest of those fools. I just pretended like I was on I-45 at night and forgot all about the fact that the vast darkness to my right wasn't due to a lack of street lights.

I made it back to my hotel in one piece, other than my swollen neck.

I'm trying to determine where I can work in Malibu or who's hiring so I can just permanently re-locate?

Of course, I mentioned that to one of my clients today, who used to live here.

He suggested that I grab a flyer off the first house I see for sale, before I start packing.

Maybe Brad will let me borrow his beach condo when he's out of town with Angelina and the kids? And I hope his beach condo is bee-free.

(QOTB: What's your favorite beach? Or what's your favorite spot in California?)

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Bikini Blues

I am working this week in sunny Southern California.

My kids are at camp. (I keep thinking I will get a call from camp that one of the kids has the swine flu. Or that one of them smells like a swine. I paid $475 per kid, they can deal with the smell.)

My husband is at work.

I've never been to this area of California. It's really beautiful.

I'm starting to feel like one of the rich and famous while I drive around in my rented white Toyota Camry. I wanted to rent a Bentley. But, I thought that might raise some eyebrows on my expense report and Avis doesn't keep a huge supply of them in stock so I settled for the white Camry.

I keep looking for Brad Pitt but he must not be looking for me because I cannot find the man, or his entourage, anywhere. Come on Brad, I'm not that hard to locate in that car!

So, over the last 10 months or so I've lost some weight, like about 55 pounds, give or take, I have about 5 more to go.

Before I came to LA, my husband was kind enough to buy me before I left, of all things:

a bikini

(he tried to act like this was a great swim suit on sale. We all know this was a totally self serving act on his part.)

I haven't worn a bikini since I was about 8 years old. Like I will be wearing a bikini on a work trip?

Like I will be wearing a bikini at all!

My stomach has not seen sunlight since I lived in Waikiki in the 3rd grade.

Wearing a bikini might result in third degree burns, and I am certain Brad Pitt isn't gonna come running in movie slow motion, at the sight of me in a bikini, and my plans of locating him would be dashed. A bikini does not an Angelina Jolie maketh.

Nevertheless, I brought it along, thinking, well, 'what have I got to lose?'

I am at a Hilton with like 25+ floors in southern California.

I drag out that bikini, dreading it but thinking, no one here will ever see me again, what the heck? You never know. Maybe Brad stays at the Hilton with Angelina and the kids and they've just kept them hidden on another floor and we'll all go swimming at the exact same moment?

Off come the tags, on goes the bikini and I am amazed. It fits.

My husband was smart enough to pick out a suit that meets in the middle and it hides the proof that I've given birth three times. And he picked the right size as well? Scary.

But, I stood there looking in the mirror thinking, wow, 39.999999 years old and I am on a work trip, no kids and no husband.

And I am wearing a bikini for the first time in 25+ years. And it fits like half way decently.

Now I'm really excited. Where's the pool. Forget the pool. Where's Brad. Or Tom. Or some papparazzi? Okay fine, where's the bellboy at this point?

I call the front desk cause now I'm excited to go show off my new bod, in my new swim wear, on a work trip:

'Yes, what floor is the pool on?'

'Sorry ma'am, we don't have a pool at this facility.'

SCREECH.

NO POOL?'

(How can a hotel this big, in this location, NOT HAVE A POOL WHEN I HAVE A BIKINI ON FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THIRTY YEARS ON A WORK TRIP?)

'No ma'am, not at this facility.'

Now what am I supposed to do? I am finally brave enough to wear this thing and there is no pool?

I consider the alternatives...

I could go down and ask for my white Camry from the valet in the bikini? I'm sure I'll have my car in record time.

I could go down to happy hour which is still going on and order a drink?

I could go sit in the lobby and act like I'm waiting on a visitor?

Well, no pool. And I'm not about to get in the Camry and try to find a beach.

So, I stood there and looked in the mirror and just reveled in the fact that the Target bikini fit, and it fit just fine and realized that I've waited many, many years to wear this as opposed to a flowered one piece with an enourmous Mickey Mouse t-shirt on top.

No one was here to see it but me, but it's okay. When I get home I can guarantee you I will find a pool.

In the meantime, maybe I will order room service?

(QOTB: Does anyone know where to find Brad Pitt? Have you ever met a celebrity?)

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Birth Order

We had dinner this weekend with our neighbors. Alright, well not much dinner, more like cocktails but who's counting.

We hit the neighbor jackpot 5 years ago when we moved in (new parents, pay attention.....)

Our wonder neighbors have 3 kids, just like we do. But (and this is critical) their oldest child is two years older than our oldest. And, our 2 younger kids are the same age as theirs.

While we've ridden the teenage roller coaster together for the past few years (me doing most of the watching as they raise the perfect girl next door teen two years ahead of us, they doing more intervening and less watching, when my kids pull stupid stunts like throwing 50 rolls of toilet paper all the way over their two story house and into their 50 foot tall trees like they used rocket launchers and then being unsure as to how to get it all down the next day...they are, I am sure, keeping their kids stupid stunts hidden from us.)

We all agreed the easy part is over.

Both of our families, it seems, lucked out with great first born children.

My oldest had a slight meltdown in 7th grade...you know, the whole 'I-hate-you-get-out-of-my-life' spell that lasted about a week. I didn't realize at the time how lucky I was that it was such a short spell.

Their oldest has I am sure had some meltdowns...they don't tell me about them...but I know they are happening over there, I am sure of it. They're sneaky like that.

Our oldest kids, with all their faults and issues, the S talk, driving lessons, you name it, have been relatively easy. Other than the time that I was supposed to keep help out and keep an eye on their house when the neighbors went out of town, and I did my last check at 8 pm and went to bed and the whole high school baseball team showed up a little later, they've been model kids. (Sorry about that one guys, I swear there were only 2 cars there when I went to bed.)

I think first borns, with all of the worries they cause parents, end up being the easier kids to raise. I guess it's because when kid #2 and #3 show up, #1 ends up being more independent.

Somewhere among the 'don't hit your brother' and 'watch your sister while I take a 3 hour much needed bubble bath and drink some mommy grape juice' you usually up with kids that are more independent. I cannot explain it. There are PhDs with dissertations on it. It's a scientific fact.

The problem is, you can only have one first born kid unfortunately and we each now have two other children remaining that we realized are going to require the A-Team and the National Guard to control.

For each of us, these remaining children are way too creative, risky, smart, cute, brave, and dumb for their own good and our own sanity. Combined, the four of them are downright scary.

These second and third children seem to have no fear? And their sense of risk is non-existent?

I realize now that birth order is a big deal. Can't every child be a first born?

We are considering motion detectors, private security, guard dogs (not rat terriers), and razor wire.

What is it about the middle and youngest children that make them the risk takers, the ones who walk right up to the line and stick their toe over to see if you are looking?

For every scary moment I've gone through with #1, at some point later, it's occurred to me we have two more scary moments to go.

I'm not sure who we should alert first about this foursome, two of whom are, and this thought alone should send me to church every Sunday without question, a year away from their own driving lessons. The thought of that makes me shudder.

I suppose we'll start with the Home Owners Association. If the community pool turns up bright pink or full of soap suds one morning, we didn't do it.

The other neighbors might need to be bribed. If you see anyone going in or out of a window, please know that's not normal, all of our doors work fine, please let us know.

Now that I'm thinking about it, it might be easier to just for us all to move out, let them take over for a few years, and ask them to notify us when they are grown and are not incarcerated.

It's either that, or we need Mr. T's contact info, and the name of the security system they use at Fort Knox. Stat.

Hold the presses...I just thought of the perfect solution!

Let's send them all to live with the Octomom!

Add 14 other kids younger than you and poof! We suddenly would have 4 oldest children!

This is better than summer camp! Why didn't I think of this sooner!

And I bet she won't put cat food in their Cocoa Puffs and she wouldn't notice if they had a Rat Terrier!

(QOTB: How has birth order affected your kids, if at all?)

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Coffee Karma

You would think in my house, people would know by now not to come in between me and my caffeine. It's really taking your life in your own hands.

Most mornings, I sort of blindly half stumble and half crawl to the coffee pot, which as we all know, doesn't always work out so well.

Two weeks ago, my husband decided to buy us a new coffee maker.

Just like any good husband would do if he went coffee pot shopping without his better half present, he bought a coffee pot probably designed by a man and made for men, and surely made by some engineer who doesn't drink coffee. (Sorry honey, you know I love you.)

I made the mistake of trying this thing out on some random Monday morning, how dumb was that.

I should have tried it on a weekend, for everyone's safety.

This thing....first of all, it's stainless steel. So I cannot tell how much water is in there, there are no little white lines, it's a guess and the first morning, I was thinking, well, what the he!!, we'll just go for broke and fill the whole darn pot up.

Second, the lid to the coffee pot SCREWS on. And I don't mean like one little groove and the lid is on.

Ahhh, that would be way too easy for us caffeine junkies who need this stuff to function.

This lid screws ALL THE WAY ON, there are about 15 grooves that have to line up perfectly or it won't fit.

Yeah, whoever designed doesn't drink coffee because the object of coffee is to GET THE COFFEE, not stand there all morning trying to get the lid screwed down! Hello!

But Mister-coffee-pot-designer was kind enough to put words on the lid that say 'align here'.

Align with what? I need COFFEE first so I am awake enough to know what in the world I am aligning! I stood there 10 minutes trying to figure out what I was aligning, other than aligning that stupid pot with the window I was about to throw it out.

Two weeks later, I'm able to mostly align the lid, with the words, with the stars and the moon and somehow I've had no major coffee issues, and the world is good.

Until this morning.

I crawl in there, get the coffee pot matched up to the big dipper, turn around to grind my coffee beans and guess what:

Someone has ground Lucky Charms in my coffee bean grinder!

I know it's Lucky Charms because there is a half open box sitting on the counter, and I can see the nicely ground pink and green marshmellow charms mixed in with whatever else makes up Lucky Charms.

And, there are three boys sleeping in my living room, two sleeping upstairs, and even with no caffeine yet, the scenario is clear in my fuzzy head: one of them went in there, probably at midnight or so to eat a bowl of cereal, since we run a youth hostel and all and have a money tree in the backyard and can afford to feed 3 or 4 extra kids all summer...cereal...bowl....milk..coffee grinder! AHA! Nothing else to do...why not, lets grind up some Lucky Charms!

So...I very calmly dumped out the Lucky Charms, cleaned the grinder thingy out the best I could, ground my beans knowing I would probably be getting at least half of my daily required vitamins and minerals with my coffee and finally, finally got my caffeine.

That's okay...Two can play at that game...I wonder how long it's going to take any of them to notice the dry cat food I mixed in with their Cocoa Puffs? ;)

(QOTB: What's your morning fix, if anything?)

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The Day After NKOTB

As it turns out, I was completely wrong about the New Kids on the Block concert last night, and the shrieking girls.

Before I even go on, a quick reminder that Jordan asked to go to this concert. As you read further, it's might sound like I bound and gagged three tween boys into going to this for my benefit. He asked, he likes their music and I could have thought of a million other ways to spend a Saturday night than held captive with thousands of screaming women.

We pull into the parking garage, and immediatly, all 4 of us know there is a problem. Already, there were hoards, and I mean HOARDS of women. Not a male of any make, age or model in sight.

Piling out of cars 4, 5 and 6 at a time.

There was a loud groan from all three of the boys at once, as if the realization of their worst nightmare was occuring.

I started to laugh loudly. I couldn't help it.

I guess they are too young to appreciate being surrounded by a bunch of women in skirts too short and tops too tight. Maybe my husband should have come after all?

Right about then, I informed them I had hidden undergarments in my purse to throw up on stage. They could not tell if I was kidding, no one was brave enough to look in my purse. Mean, I know, but I couldn't help it.

We got to our seats by 7, the show is supposed to start at 7:30, I'm thinking we are doing just fine. Except the opening act was late.

From 7 to 8, we sat and watched as group after group of mostly 30 year oldish women piled into their seats.

They came in groups.

They came, many of them, fairly intoxicated.

And they came in all sorts of clothes they had no business wearing.

The 4 girls in front of us a few seats to the right: matching pink tights that went to their knees, matching shredded pink 1990 ish NKOTB t-shirts they had apparently been saving for this moment. And matching side pony tails.

That seemed to be the dress code of the night-matching shirts, matching hair and alcohol.

And there I sat with the three boys.

They were not impressed at all, either.

They kept looking for other males to save them. Finally a few men showed up a few rows in front of us, clearly dragged there by their wives. But for the most part, this was sort of the opposite of the Superbowl.

Thousands of women. A man here or there, but that was it.

They kept looking at each other like, 'what have we done?'

Just as the boys were really re-thinking their decision to come to this show voluntarily, as if beckoned by some sort of male pre-teen God, three young 20ish girls come prancing down the aisle in front of us.

Three of them. Size 2 if they've eaten a Big Mac, really closer to size 0. Wearing skirts that didn't have enough material to one side of a normal tushie, much less the whole thing. Tops that were just as small. And carrying stadium size margaritas that were 18 inches tall.

And they plopped down right in the three seats in front of us.

Our night instantly got much more interesting. One of the boys suddenly had eyes as big as dinner plates as he tried to act cool and focus on his Iphone.

I'm sure he was texting something like, 'holy crap forget New Kids, wait till you see the babes who just sat down in front of us' to all the other 13 year boys in the greater Spring area.

I, on the other hand, am madly texting to my husband 'OMG. Those skirts are so freaking small. I only have two hands, if one of them bends over to pick up a penny, which kids eyes can I cover the quickest?' (Didn't wanna come to the show huh? See what ya missed!)

My concern shifted from looking for Donnie Walhberg to making sure these boys didn't go home and tell their moms they went to a peep show of some kind!

Opening act came and went, finally the New Kids come on stage and the boys stopped gawking at the private dancers they've been so lucky to sit behind.

I have been to many concerts in my 39 ish years. Madonna, Def Leppard, Bruce Springsteen...I cannot even remember them all. Lots of big name shows.

I have never, ever in my whole entire life heard anything like the shriek that started when they came on stage, and lasted the entire 90 minutes.

There really aren't words to describe how loud, high pitched, and non-stop it was. I really cannot explain it.

Nor can I explain how all these 30 year old women seemed to remember every single hand move, out stretched arm, or placement of hand over the heart, that the New Kids did in their old videos.

But there we were. Surrounded by thousands and thousansd of screaming, I mean shrieking, women, most of them re-enacting video movements from about 1991 that they must have practiced thousands of times as kids, and right before the show in the parking garage as well .

When Joey McIntyre sang 'Please Don't Go Girl,' I really thought we might need medics and fully expected one or two of these women around us to faint. Sheer pandemonium.

And as if that was not enough, as if the deafening roar of these women for 90 solid minutes was not enough, throughout the whole show, the 20 year old lap dancers in front of us gyrated and did things with their hips I cannot explain.

It got bad enough at one point with the hips gyrating that I thought, I might have to accidentally trip forward and spill this giant Dr Pepper on her to cool her off some. It was either that, or pour it on the boys to cool them off.

I think the boys were torn about who to watch. Cute babes? NKOTB?

It was like they got two shows for the price of one.

The funny thing was, the girlies proceeded, through the whole night, to take photos of themselves, drinks in hand, hands over heart, posing, primping, the whole nine yards.

But they were totally oblivious to the fact that in probably 90 percent of those photos, they are gonna see three boys gawking into the lens right behind them.

At one point, I caught one of the boys acting like he was taking a picture of the show with his phone, only that phone was NOT angled up it was pointing down.

I smacked the kid sitting next to me and made a hand gesture (because there was literally no way to speak or hear anything) that basically said 'tell him to get that off his phone now', he relayed the message in his own hand gestures, and the offending child tried to look at me and act very innocent like he was really taking photos of Jordan Knight. Ha. I've been around the block at least once. That was no Jordan Knight photo.

In fact, just as I am trying to get him to get this inappropriate photo off his Iphone, the most amazing thing happened.

The group switched songs, and out of nowhere, as if by magic:

Jordan Knight (lead singer, for those of you who are not educated on New Kids) himself appeared on a platform not more than 20 feet away.

Sweet Jesus, couldn't they have warned me?

There was suddenly a stampede and at the head of the stampede were my 3 boys. They were flying over seats, leading the pack of screaming, rolling, clawing women who were trying to get to that platform.

I tried to grab my purse and get down there and found myself face to face with a 5 foot tall female security guard who basically, with her own hand gestures, indicated that if I took a step, I would be out. Of course as she did that, two women came under the barrier, so drunk one of them nearly rolled down the aisle, and she took her attention off of me to go collect her before the woman herself killed in the stampede.

The security team was not well prepared for this event. They tried to hold women back but every time they turned around to stop someone, another one would dart behind her and run up there. This was better than an MTV video, really.

I stood my ground, afraid I was going to lose three boys in this herd and get kicked out.

And the whole time, the shrieking continued at some out of range decible level that I still cannot comprehend.

Finally, the song ended and the kids made it back to me.

Jordan said, 'I could almost touch him mom but there was a girl in my way!' Now Jordan, really?

Later on, when I could hear enough to get a few words out, I explained that trying to get to Jordan Knight over those women could have sent him to the hospital; never get in between a woman and a boy band member of that stature, son.

Between the lap dancers and actual band (oh, and someone did throw undies up on stage, Donnie Wahlberg caught them with one hand, he is clearly a undie-catching pro. All three of them looked at me consecutively like 'don't you dare') they ended up having a pretty good time.

Here is how I would sum it up:

4 New Kids Tickets: $125

3 Large Dr Peppers: $16

2 Concert Shirts: $70

Watching 3 boys sit in the middle of ten thousand shrieking women having a night to remember: Priceless.

QOTB (Question of the Blog): What was your most memorable concert, kid or otherwise?

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Duh....

So less than 24 hours after I posted about being both surrounded and nearly deafened in a hotel by a bunch of preteen girls dressed in pink, I realize I may have made a huge mistake.

I volunteered to take my almost 12 year old son and 3 friends to see:

New Kids on The Block

Yep. Tonight, it'll be me, three boys, and several thousand of our friends made up of pre-teen girls, or 30 year old women, take your pick.

And I'm sure their shrieking is going to far out-do whatever noise the girls were making in the hotel last weekend.

I really had good intentions. Jordan loves 80's and 90's music. His birthday is in August. Last year, we were supposed to go see Journey for his birthday and I waited too late and the tickets sold out. Mommy guilt set in.

After I bought the tickets, I asked my husband to take them? Like, sort of pleaded a little? Surely this is something we can trade for this?

Apparently not. Not so sure that look he gave me is describable. Somewhere in between 'have you lost your mind' and 'what have you been drinking. Or smoking.'

I bought the tickets before last weekend's assault of the pink tweens.

So, I've got my husband in the garage searching for some rifle-range-grade ear plugs.

Okay, so Jordan Knight is kinda cute.

And I share an exact birthday with Donnie Wahlberg.

I'm thinking of making a big poster board sign that says: "Hey Donnie, I know you turn 40 next month!"

Maybe if he sees that sign it'll get us some backstage passes?

I wonder what the kids would do if brought some undergarments in my purse and acted like I was going to throw them on stage?

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Road Signs

Tales from the our Lampoonish mini-trip to Dallas last weekend to pick up my wayward youngest two children:

-Four hour trip, barely out of the neighborhood, much less the city, and my husband starts discussing where we were going to 'eat' on the road, as if we were going to pick from 5 star restaurants that were Zagat rated and we had never eaten at before. His choices were the same places that have lined I-45 from Houston to Dallas, for as long as I can remember: Texas Burger, Dairy Queen, Jack in the Box, or the new Buccee's as our prime location to eat. He loooovvvvesss choosing places to eat on road trips so this was a tough choice.

-As we were walking into our hotel, a lady who looks like an grown adult cheerleader who never grew out of being a cheerleader, is talking on her cell phone outside the rotating hotel door, LOUDLY saying, "Honey, I see all kinds of people here with Pomeranians and Shiztus....next time I'm bringing the dog!" (This is a BIG Sheraton. I am not at Motel 6!) I should have turned around right at that moment and ran.

-I walked into the hotel and there were two hundred tween girls all dressed in pink with make up on. The lobby was full, it looked like a mini Mary Kay convention (sorry Kelly, I couldn't resist!) I politely requested a room as far from the tweens as possible but was told they were 'spread out' throughout the hotel. Does the hotel fridge come stocked with Valium then? I mean they were everyywwwheeee. I have all boys. I can barely relate to one pre-teen girl, much less two hundred of them running around dressed in pink and chattering-I don't even know what that noise they were making, collectively in a large group, was called? How were the hotel windows not shattering? Boys don't chatter like that. They mumble. I was thinking forget the room, lead me to the hotel bar. Quickly.

-We got into the elevator and sure enough, there were two people with Pomeranians on leashes. Who knew you could bring a dog to a Sheraton. Why would you?

(Note: right about then I was running down a list in my head of other hotels and random relatives I had not seen since the age of 10 but might be located nearby in case things got bad enough to switch hotels. I was willing to take a pinch or two on the cheek from a stray aunt if it got that bad.)

-We got to the room and the tweens were practicing a dance routine RIGHT OUTSIDE our room window which faced into a small lobby. This is a problem, I started thinking, over the blaring sound of Kate Perry. I considered going out there and asking to learn the routine with them, that would get rid of them quickly. My husband wasn't amused, I thought it was kinda funny, you would too if you saw me dance. Phone call to front desk, new room provided.

-We couldn't find a place to eat so we stopped at Tom's Diner (as in the song by Suzanne Vega, sort of...) where the waitress said the daily special was 'Grilled Rabbi.' Long stare. I've lived in Texas forever, like most of my life, and I'll admit I have an accent. But I've never EVER heard 'Ribeye' sound like 'Rabbi.' And then I couldn't stop thinking of Grilled Rabbi. And, um, clergymen of any kind are not the best thing to have going through your mind when you are in a nice hotel on the 15th floor with your husband. Enough said.

The best part was hanging out with my husband, who enjoys riding hotel elevators as much as my children. I even let him push the button with our floor number when we got in, just for fun.

Men are so easy to amuse.

But if you walk into a nice hotel and see more pink running around than the Pepto delivery guy carries in his semi, don't even walk in. Just stop and walk away.

(note: I hope I didn't offend anyone. It really sounded like Grilled Rabbi. My step father and several other close friends are Jewish, if they tell me this is offensive I'll take it down!)

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Hair Therapy

Tonight I went to go get my hair cut and colored.

I love my hairdresser, she's been doing my hair for a few years now. She's as cute as a button, 5 feet tall, weighs about 90 pounds wet, wears 6 inch wedges and I love going there.

I come walking up the stairs and she gives me a hug and says:

"Hi, how are you! You're not stressed are you?"

Okay, seriously? Do I have a tattoo on my forehead that I cannot see? Just to be sure, here's a photo of me in my glory, getting my hair done today. Anyone see a tattoo? Do I LOOK stressed?

I'm starting to think I am being Punked and everyone who sees me is supposed to ask if I am stressed? I'm hoping to see Ashton pop out of the bushes any minute!

This is getting silly. I was not feeling the least bit stressed.

After all, a hair styIST is one of the better 'ISTs' to be going to!

In fact a Hair Stylist is almost as good as a psychotherapIST, only a whole lot cheaper!

She works at a new salon where the sink, dryer and hair cutting chair are all in one small room, no switching areas along the way.

At her old salon, I would get my hair color and therapy session done in one chair, then go sit under the dryer in another room, while the woman behind me did the same thing. I never crossed paths really with the other clients, or heard their life confessions.

Wow. It wasn't until today when I got my color, and spilled my guts, and moved over to the dryer two feet away, and the next lady sat down and started to talk, that I realized how much hair stylists know about everyone!

I mean, I knew, but now I KNOW.

I've sat there before at the old salon and talked away while the lady next to me has gotten her hair done by another stylist, and not given it a second thought.

I suppose subconsiously we weren't using the same therapist so it didn't matter.

Plus, once the hair dryer is going, you can't hear the lady next to you talking, so it didn't matter.

Well, well, well.

What a wide awakening!

The next client sat down and started talking while I sat by the dryer, and I tried not to listen but okay, it was hard not to, but I heard her current life drama, all out in the open for the three of us in the room to hear.

These women hear more than lawyers and priests combined!

I have whole new respect for hair stylists/therapists now.

I sure hope beauty school training (that makes me think of Grease and Frankie Valley...'Beauty School Dropout'...) includes some sort of training in psychotherapy!

My next session is not for six weeks, I'm wondering if she will let me come in for therapy, even if I don't get my hair cut?

Like, maybe I can pay her to let me just sit in the chair and talk?

I wonder if she could have some red wine on hand? Hmmm.....

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Fair Warning

Sorry for the numerous posts today if you are on my e-mail list. I must be on a roll of some kind since I am not working tomorrow. I promise this will be a quick rant.

To the lady in red who was just at my Target. Well, to all Target shoppers everywere.

I love Target, I really do. Most of our disposable income ends up in their coffers.

But there are some of us moms who want to get in Target and get OUT and other moms who mosy through Target like they are at a Sunday flea market.

Which brings me to my point.

If you are the latter category, and you see one of us in former category headed down your aisle with our shopping cart in 5th gear, that is NOT the time to oh-so-slowly-bend-over-and-try-to-decide-between-the-Captain-Crunch-or-the-Cinnamon-Crunchies-and-sort-of-hang-there.

Really. I know it's tough...Peanut butter versus Cinnamon. I know for some people grocery shopping is as calculated and thought out as my husband's planning to install new shelving or read the installation directions on his new home theatre system, and you might not notice me headed towards you at 50 mph.

I'm okay with that. Really.

But, if you see one of us speed racers coming, could ya please just stand up for a split second and let us pass on the right?

Fast moving Target carts cannot stop on a dime so please don't be too mad if I cannot downshift quick enough one day and I run you flat over.

Those carts don't come with brakes.

That's all. Just had to get that off my chest. Happy Sunday. :)

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Road Signs

Tales from the our Lampoonish mini-trip to Dallas last weekend to pick up my wayward youngest two children:

-Four hour trip, barely out of the neighborhood, much less the city, and my husband starts discussing where we were going to 'eat' on the road, as if we were going to pick from 5 star restaurants that were Zagat rated and we had never eaten at before. His choices were the same places that have lined I-45 from Houston to Dallas, for as long as I can remember: Texas Burger, Dairy Queen, Jack in the Box, or the new Buccee's as our prime location to eat. He loooovvvvesss choosing places to eat on road trips so this was a tough choice.

-As we were walking into our hotel, a lady who looks like an grown adult cheerleader who never grew out of being a cheerleader, is talking on her cell phone outside the rotating hotel door, LOUDLY saying, "Honey, I see all kinds of people here with Pomeranians and Shiztus....next time I'm bringing the dog!" (This is a BIG Sheraton. I am not at Motel 6!) I should have turned around right at that moment and ran.

-I walked into the hotel and there were two hundred tween girls all dressed in pink with make up on. The lobby was full, it looked like a mini Mary Kay convention (sorry Kelly, I couldn't resist!) I politely requested a room as far from the tweens as possible but was told they were 'spread out' throughout the hotel. Does the hotel fridge come stocked with Valium then? I mean they were everyyyywwwwwheeerreee. I have all boys. I can barely relate to one pre-teen girl, much less two hundred of them running around dressed in pink and chattering-I don't even know what that noise they were making, collectively in a large group, was called? How were the hotel windows not shattering? Boys don't chatter like that. They mumble. I'm thinking forget the room, lead me to the hotel bar. Quickly.

-We got into the elevator and sure enough, there were two people with Pomeranians on leashes. Who knew you could bring a dog to a Sheraton. Why would you?

(Note: right about then I was running down a list in my head of other hotels and random relatives I had not seen since the age of 10 but might be located nearby in case things got bad enough to switch hotels. I was willing to take a pinch or two on the cheek from a stray aunt if it got that bad.)

-We got to the room and the tweens were practicing a dance routine RIGHT OUTSIDE our room window which faced into a small lobby. This is a problem, I am thinking, over the blaring sound of Kate Perry. I considered going out there and asking to learn the routine with them, as a quick deterrent. My husband wasn't amused, I thought it was kinda funny, you would too if you saw me dance. Phone call to front desk, new room provided.

-We couldn't find a place to eat so we stopped at Tom's Diner (as in the song by Suzanne Vega, sort of...) where the waitress said the daily special was 'Grilled Rabbi.' Long stare. I've lived in Texas forever, like most of my life, and I'll admit I have an accent. But I've never EVER heard 'Ribeye' sound like 'Rabbi.' And then I couldn't stop thinking of Grilled Rabbi. And, um, Grilled Rabbi (or Ribeye for that matter) isn't the best thing to have going through your mind when you are in a nice hotel on the 15th floor with your husband. Enough said.

The best part was hanging out with my husband, who enjoys riding hotel elevators as much as my children. I even let him push the button with our floor number when we got in, just for fun.

Men are so easy to amuse.

But if you walk into a nice hotel and see more pink running around than the Pepto delivery guy carries in his semi, don't even walk in. Just stop and walk away.

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Choices

I arrived in Austin last night, here for a quick work visit.

I haven't been to the Austin airport in years, probably at least twenty years. The minute you step into this terminal, instantly you know you are Austin. Even the air has an Austin feel to it.

I found the rental car terminal, gave them my name and asked for my car.

I had reserverd a standard car, nothing fancy, this was a work trip after all.

The lady behind the desk said, "well, you've reserved a standard, but we don't have any standard cars available."

I'm tired.

Not thinking clearly.

Wondering what 'reserved' means if you show up and nothing is 'reserved.'

Maybe she felt sorry for me.

Maybe somehow she knew from the look on my face that I had spent all day Saturday in weather that should only be reserved for goat herders in the Sahara.

Maybe she knew my son had blurted out things that probably made Walt Disney turn over in his grave.

Maybe she has a second job as Madame Marie on the weekend and has a crystal ball.

Who knows. Who cares.

Because the next thing she said was, "but we do have a 2010 Camaro available if you don't want to wait for the mini van?"

Pause.

Now she has my attention.

Mini van.

Camaro.

Mini van.

Camaro.

"I'll take the Camaro please."

A few minutes later I am standing in front of a car that would make my 16 year old son fall down on his knees in adoration.

Seriously. A 2010 Camaro? Everything I've driven in the last 16 years has had some sort of "mini" in the title-usually mini van. Mini-Suv.

None of them were very 'mini,' either.

And none of them looked like this car.

I walked up to the lady working outside and pointed to that Camaro and said, "Is THAT my car?"

She looked at my paperwork and said, "Yes, maam."

I said, "And I just get to get in that car and drive out of here?"

"Yes maam." (By now, I'm sure she's thinking I had one too many beers in the airport.)

I get in the car, which by the way, if you're used to driving things with 'mini' in the title, driving a sports car makes you feel like Fred Flintstone at first, not Mario Andretti.

I thought for sure at any second my rear end was going to be scraping the pavement, or that my head would pop out of the roof. It took some getting used to.

About 30 seconds, and I was good.

I learned two very valuable lessons from driving that car for 24 hours:

1.)Every mom should drive a sports car for a day. Rent one, borrow one, find one, but do it. It will make you feel young a lot quicker than trying to flay down on a bed and fit into skinny jeans. Especially if you've been driving mini vans around for years. I now have an idea for a great birthday gift for my girlfriends-rent them an awesome car for a day.

2.)No mom should ever let her teenage son drive one of these cars until they're at least 25 (the kid, not the mom.)

Before I was out of the parking garage, I called Tyler to tell him what had happened.

Stone silence. "You're in what?"

He instantly recovers from the shock and says, "Mom, have you hit the gas, I mean really HIT THE GAS?"

I said, "I am in the parking garage. If I hit the gas I am going to go flying off the third floor and land on a parking bus."

"Mom, when you get on the highway, you have to PUNCH it."

In that second, he instantly erased every ounce of guilt I had about not purchasing him a new sports car, or even an old sports car, when he turned 16 a few weeks ago. The 1995 Honda Civic he inherited suddenly became the perfect car for my new, young, male driver.

Punch it? Ha. Go and ahead and punch it in that Honda and let me know what happens.

Actually, don't do that-you might blow the engine out and then the Honda will be history.

As I headed back to the airport tonight to return the car, a young guy pulled up next to me at at a stop light and revved his engine.

I looked over my sunglasses at him and revved mine right back. Should I do it?

The light turned green.

Just kidding. But it sure was fun while it lasted.

And I'll put away that $300 I had set aside for Botox.

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