Once again…

…I’ll try this meme, from Karla May. Since I didn’t read the directions first time around, my answers were too long, ’cause it’s the ONE WORD MEME. Yeah. Just call me BrainTrust.

Yourself: replete
Your partner: lovefest
Your hair: funky
Your Mother: hmmm
Your Father: missed
Your Favorite Item: iBook
Your dream last night: weird
Your Favorite Drink: water
Your Dream Car: full
Your Dream Home: here
The Room You Are In: RanchMain
Your Ex: who?
Your fear: alone
Where you Want to be in Ten Years?: horseback
Who you hung out with last night: WholeFamDam’ly
What You’re Not: mean
Muffins: Gingerbread
One of Your Wish List Items: ScreenedPorch
The Last Thing You Did: flossed (and lost part of a tooth! Does that suck or what?)
What You Are Wearing: softness
Your favorite weather: now
Your Favorite Book: impossible
Last thing you ate: leftovers
Your Life: blessing
Your mood: mellow
Your Best Friends: incredible
What are you thinking about right now: LongHorns.
Your car: Beast
What are you doing at the moment: typing
Your summer: gone
Relationship status: primo
What is on your TV: football
What is the weather like: gorgeous
When is the last time you laughed: family

Fuckin’ A

So, I completely LOVE that expression, which the BFF and I use often, but appropriately. Like when you have to make cornbread dressing (with pecans and sausage), black-eyed peas w/sun-dried tomatoes and shallots, and calabazos con chilio verdes within the next two hours.

Because in two hours three thirteen-year-old girls will be front and center for a pie-crust lesson. At which time three cranberry pecan pies and one fruit tart will be forthcoming.

Also, I need to make the ornaments for the nieces/nephews, as it’s much easier to hand over packages now than ship them later. There is a large supply of beautiful seashells in my studio, which were intended for a fireplace front, until a Puerto Rican client of the BFF’s warned that seashells inside are bad luck. Which my ob/gyn, who is Cuban, confirmed. And this girl will not ignore island superstitions, because that way lies DANGER, MAN, DANGER! So anyway I have an idea for ornaments, which is what we give all nieces/nephews/godchildren each year; the idea includes seashells, wire mesh, silver cords, and a message on vellum. We shall see.

Plus I think there’s about two tons of laundry waiting for me.

THEN the Parental will be arriving at the airport, bringing tummy pats no doubt.

So what am I doing? I’m sitting atop my bed, two dogs snuggled up, blogging. Fuckin’ A.

Random Slothfulness

Is ’slothfulness’ even a word? If not, it should be– as defined by my weekend, which was in direct contrast to the one put on by Senora Abeja.

All males packed up and left the building, off to do manly hunting and gathering for their women. All females donned jammies and ordered delivery.

Seriously, living in central Austin is a huge treat. You’re ten minutes away from everything, or if you don’t want to leave home someone out there will bring everything to you. Not just pizzas (although we have awesome pizza delivery around here)– hamburgers, wraps, egg rolls, spagetti– plus the full yumminess of 34th Street Cafe, owned by my bud Eddie who is a truly great restaurateur. He has also been my personal hero for the last twenty years, after finding the emerald that popped out of my engagement ring. (Eddie and St. Jude and Michael Barnes, but that’s another story).

So the Littlest and I made two brief trips out: one to Food Food for emergency iced tea and empanadas, and the other to Randall’s for ice cream and queso makings, because that was what we wanted for dinner and we couldn’t figure out that particular delivery service.

Besides that, we watched movies (Akeelah and the Bee; Accepted; Hoot), snuggled, played computer games, did homework (Littlest), and went through twelve printer cartridges (me).

It was awesome.

Look — Matching Jammies!

The Goat Who Came to Dinner

The latest fad in hostess presents: barnyard animals! Seriously. When coming to dine at my house, no need to bring anything as mundane as wine or flowers. Just toss in a billy goat.

Last night my friend arrived for dinner and called from the driveway to say she needed help getting inside. I expected crutches when I went out, or maybe too many bottles of wine for one woman to carry (yes I know– Tuesday night– but a girl has to have her dreams). But no, she needed help getting the goat out of her car. Sigh.

I’m not talking about cabrito here, people–although the subject did come up. Nope, this goat walked and talked, stared at us through the back door all night, drove the dogs nuts, and was named Hernando by the babies. Thankfully he left after dinner.