Creamy Day

Yesterday was a creamy day.

 

Really.

 

In the morning I was on the receiving end of considerable teasing because I refused to use the half and half with a sell-by date of January 5. Nope. No no no. No. I don't know how long past that date it's good for, and I don't trust my nose. I'm a puke-aphobe, and I take no chances.

 

I started using a new moisturizer that's quite effective for this weird skin of mine.

 

When I got home, MOBB was working diligently on a fine crawfish and fettucine dish. Her only complaint: She couldn't get the cream sauce to thicken up. (That didn't stop me from eating lots of it. The kids too.)

 

AND, as MOBB worked on said dish, THEGIRL was in our bedroom, persistently stacking and re-stacking the little tubs of cream on the nightstand.

 

***

 

Weird coincidence:

 

On March 31, 1995, the day Selena was killed, I got the news as I shopped in the CD section at Best Buy.

 

I was in the Tejano section and, in fact, thumbing through the "S" CDs. A young man approached me and told me Selena had just been shot, and that the suspect was holed up somewhere.

 

I was stunned.

 

I wasn't, however, looking for Selena CDs; I was looking for Mingo Saldivar CDs. Best Buy had none.

 

***

 

THEGIRL held a tea party Sunday, and her mother and I were the guests. She put on her sequined gown (thank you Mimi) and poured us countless cups of imaginary tea, coffee, and juice. There was plenty of sugar to go around, and occasionally we had pizza to eat.

 

***

 

And last night she and I played one of her favorite games: Night night. We lay in the living room floor on a pillow, sharing blankets. She'd admonish me to "go sleep." I'd close my eyes and hear her making snoring sounds for only a moment before she'd yell, "Wake up!"

 

***

 

Headed to Houston this weekend to coach Whit through the half-marathon.

 

It'll go something like this:

 

"I'ma sit in this lawn chair for two hours while you go kill yourself running. Good luck."

 

Nah, seriously, I wish I could be running the race with him.

 

***

 

And no, no news on the various ailments I've got. Basically I expect everything from the neck down to be amputated. Just freeze my head and revive me in some era where TV is illegal, everyone is sober and our apple juice-fueled jet cars make Jetsons sounds.

 

***

 

On that note... So long.