Ode to Sweet Willie's Sweet Cheeks

Sometimes when something weird or funny happens, I'll make a note of it on a slip of paper so I'll remember to blog about it later. I also make notes to myself about books I want to read/buy, things to do, grocery lists, random phone numbers, etc. Recently, I left one of the "blog ideas" pieces of paper lying on the bar separating our kitchen from our dining area. Here is what it says:

1. [in my handwriting] completely insane squirrel
2. [in Sweet Willie's handwriting] My Ass
3. [also in Sweet Willie's handwriting] My Ass (Broken Down, Cheek to Cheek).

Since I know he thinks I won't actually write about his ass, I'm calling his bluff and here we are. Sweet Willie has a nice grabbable behind. It is firm (from yoga, swimming and running), it is round, and it is a lovely dark chocolate color. Like a Silky Dark Chocolate Dove candy bar (mad props to my homeslice Coolia, for hipping me to this tasty confection. The candy bar, not my husband's ass.). Indeed, the Cheeks of Sweet William, on a scale of 1 to 10, rate about a 15. They are quite fantastic.

I'll tell you about the completely insane squirrel some other time.

I'm a crabby old crone. Nice to meet you!

File this under the "you know you're getting old when" category:

I'm at the salon last Saturday, getting my locks hacked off because the only hairstyle I seem to be able to manage these days is a ponytail, and it. is. tired. It's not a hairstyle, really, it's a cop-out. So I got my hair cut quite short, as I've been telling you I might. It's cute. It's kind of sassy. It's low-maintenance (except that now I'll have to get it trimmed more regularly).

But while I was at the salon, blabbing to my stylist, the Fabulous Christine/a (more on that later), she said to me, "I can not believe how old you are. I mean, like when you're telling these stories and you're saying, 'When I was 32' and that was like, before you met your husband, and you've been married, like, what?"

"Three-and-a-half years."

"Yeah, and I mean, you don't look a day over 30."

For the record, I am thirty-six. And a half. And evidently I am at the age where looking 30 is a compliment. Cheezus!

The Fabulous Christine/a is all of 24 years old. I would have pegged her at 27. I'm not being bitchy, I swear. And the reason I call her the Fabulous Christine/a is that everyone (including her) calls her Christina, but her business card says Christine.

At any rate, she is a fabulous hair stylist, so I am not mad at her. Not really.

It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want to

...is what I think Viva will be saying if we move ahead with plans for a big birthday bash. Everything I have read says that for a child of her age (she will be 2), a party with more than three other kids at it will be too overwhelming. The problem is, if I invite her cousins (ages 6, 3.5, and 2) over, that covers the three kids rule and that means I shouldn't invite anyone else. I'd like to invite friends of ours who we rarely see who have kids around her age and also a few of the kids that we've met at our favorite park. This totals about twenty kids, which is completely ridiculous. I just really wanted to have around 8-10 kids, which is more than is recommended, but less than I feel obligated to invite.

I don't know if our apartment can handle that many kids. And if we have it elsewhere, I need to get my shit in gear, pronto. The standard price for an outside party seems to run about $300-$400. Errgghhh...

Oh, and by the way, Viva is sick now. Nose running like a faucet, and at times crabbier even than she was already due to the damned teeth. But still apt to throw her arms around me at random moments and proclaim her love for me. " I love love LOVE you," she says, and fondly, "MY mommy." Birthday prices be damned! Nothing's too good for my baby!

Whew, kids are rough on you, aren't they?

An Everything Update

1. Ever since Viva pooped in the tub, she will only take showers. She loves showering so much that she refuses to get out. I have to say, this has made my morning routine easier since I can just plunk her in the shower with me and she is happy as a pig in, well, poop.

2. I just spent a total of 59:03 minutes on the phone with my ISP, and I actually got referred to "Stage 2 Support," which meant that after 44 minutes of dealing with a customer service rep from India (and perhaps in India), I got transferred back to an American. (I am not a xenophobe. I just find it hilarious that the past three times I've talked to Tech Support, I've spoken with three men named "Mike," "Mark," and "Raymond." And they all had what sounded to me like Indian accents.) I felt like I had, hmm, maybe not won the lottery, but kind of like I got the FastPass at Disneyland. And for now, it seems like my DSL is fixed. Praise Jesus and all that sort of thing.

3. After weeks of dealing with UPS and Barnes and Noble, I finally got in touch with someone at Barnes and Noble Retail Customer Support, who tracked my order in two seconds and said, "Oh, how about I just send you a duplicate book?" And it was here two days later! Merry, merry Christmas, Sweet Willie!

4. Today is my sister's birthday, for which I burned her a CD of happy/"let's bury the hatchet" music. When I dropped it off at her house, I talked with my brother-in-law, who told me the only reason my sister was mad at me was that I wasn't in Oceanside for Christmas. All that other stuff was incidental. Hmmm...it felt very personal to me. I am trying to be zen and simultaneously Jesus-like (not in the Jesus freak way, but in the essential "love one another" kind of way that was Jesus' key message) and put all the bad vibes behind me, but this conversation brought it all back up. Ugh. You know I would rather stick my head in the sand, right? It's so nice in the sand. I can't see or hear anything. It does make it difficult to proof-read my blog, though...

5. Sweet Willie is doing yoga pretty much every twelve hours. He says something is happening, he can feel it. Can enlightenment be far off? And if it is, can I live with it? Did you ever read that Nick Hornsby book, How to Be Good? I'm just saying, is all.

6. I have done nothing at all about planning a birthday party for my diva, Viva. I mean like nothing. I have, in my defense, been preoccupied with sending her to preschool in a month and a half. Oh, and I fired our babysitter/housecleaner, so I have been scrubbing toilets and doing laundry and such. That is another story.

7. I don't think I've mentioned it here, but Viva is working on eight teeth at once. Four molars, four canines. The upper two molars have broken through, and the lower canines are just about there. I can see them gleaming through her gums. Come out, goddammit! She is driving me mad! The pain must be excruciating.

8. I have not bought any microwave popcorn in...hmm, I think nearly a month. I think I deserve a reward. You know what would be good? Microwave pop--d'oh!

Conversational Tidbit

Explaining to Viva why she can't use my lipstick:

Me: It's not for babies.

Viva (protesting): No babies! Viva!

Me: It's not for little girls, either.

Viva (nodding): Not for little girls. Or small Viva.

Why won't she sleep? Why? WHY??

My dearest child is doing her utmost best to drive me slowly insane through a fiendish plan of concerted sleep (and/or rest) deprivation. It's working.

It's 3 PM and she hasn't had a nap yet. Since she goes to bed at 7-ish, a nap at this point would be fruitless. I am really ticked off. I have left her in her crib, where she is talking to herself, and I am taking some time to myself. I must admit I was feeling really close to doing physical harm to her. I realize I can not control her, but I depend on her nap time as my only alone time -- it's my time to get my head together, figure out if I've bounced checks, write my book, write my blog, sometimes take my first shower of the day, or return phone calls without worrying about getting interrupted. Or, like today, rip CDs to make my sister's birthday present. (More on that later.) Oh, and do laundry, and tidy up the apartment, etc.

Don't get me wrong, I love her. But this no nap thing is killing my buzz in a big way.

The Glass

Is it half-full or half-empty?

Today is my half-birthday, I just realized. The only reason I am aware of this is that my sister's birthday is coming up soon, and when we were kids our families used to give both of us "half-birthday" gifts on each other's birthdays. This was to reduce any hard feelings on the part of the one not having the birthday. Since my sister's birthday is in February and mine is in August, this worked out quite conveniently for our family.

I'll take my gifts in cash, thanks.

(Is just joke. No gifts, please. Just your undying adoration. That's enough.)

That's Ruby Hamwich to You

Miss Hamwich if you're nasty.

Go here to try the hobbit name generator: http://www.chriswetherell.com/hobbit/.

What I love most about it is that Viva's name "translates" to Dimple. Her true name, that is. If you use Viva, her name translates to Bramblerose. I kind of like Dimple better. And Sweet William must now and forever answer to "Bungo." HA!

Okay, so maybe I'm kind of behind the times in discovering this (it has apparently been around since 2000), but you know, I think all it proves is that The Lord of the Rings is timeless.

Fly, you fools!

The Art of Conversation

A sampling of recent Viva conversations...

FUNNY

Setup: after fighting sleep for over an hour and screaming loudly throughout, Viva finally succumbed and slept through the night, waking up at nearly 8 AM and calling for me to come get her.

Me [picking her up]: Good morning, baby. You slept a long time.

Viva: Yeah, long time. [suddenly remembers, points to the crib:] I was scared!

Me [confused]: You were scared? What are you scared of?

Viva: I was screaming!

Me [realize she is talking about the night before]: Yeah, you were, I was there. It was loud!

Viva: Loud.

Me: What scared you? Are you scared of the dark?

Viva [frowns]: No.

Me: I mean, does it scare you when it's dark?

Viva: Yes...[looks confused, then:] I was screaming!

Me: Yeah, I know. Something scared you?

Viva [nods]: Screaming scares me.

Me [starting to laugh]: Your own screaming scares you?

Viva [laughing too, yells]: YEAH!

CUTE

Setup: We were supposed to meet our friends, Carolyn and Lucy, at the park at 10:30 this morning. We arrived at the park around 10:20, at which point Viva began to tell me she wanted to go home. She reiterated this point on the swings, on the slide, and in the sandbox. Finally, at around 11:00, I gave in, figuring Lucy must still be napping and we wouldn't be seeing them that day. Later, as I was snuggling Viva before her nap, we had the following exchange:

Viva: I play Lucy. I play Lucy. I play Lucy.

Me: Yeah, you wanted to play with Lucy, but she was sleeping. She was taking a nap when we were at the park. We'll play with her sometime soon.

Viva: Oh. [pause, then confidingly] I like Ca'lyn, too.

IMPOSSIBLE TO CATEGORIZE/POSSIBLY TOO GRAPHIC

Setup: I have just finished taking a shower and I am in the bathroom drying off and getting dressed. Viva is also in the bathroom, picking up Cheerios from the floor where she has dropped them and talking to me. She looks up as I am inserting a tampon.

Viva: You put in your bum-bum?

Me [trying desperately not to laugh]: WHAAAAT??? Nooooo, baby!

At which point, I lose the battle and we both just laugh and laugh, although she has no idea why. Oh my Gawd. It is too much!

Random Thoughts

This may be a very boring entry, but maybe I’m just a boring person. Or just very self-absorbed, as many bloggers are apparently accused of being. Whatever. For those that are still reading, I tip my hat (my pink Lakers baseball cap, that is) to you.

Now, here’s a question: why is it that when you are considering cutting all your hair off, someone inevitably tells you how good your hair looks? I ran into a lovely young woman in the elevator in my building last week, and she had a really cute short and curly natural hair cut. Since my hair is also curly and also natural (i.e. I no longer relax it because chemicals are bad bad BAD for your hair), I was thinking to myself, “Hm, that’s a cute look. Maybe I could do that.” Well, do you know that at that precise moment, she had the nerve to turn and tell me that my hair was beautiful? Can you believe that? I was taken aback.

In other breaking news, I recently finished a delightful book called Summerland, by Michael Chabon. If you are the type who likes stories that combine the real with the fanciful, I recommend it. It’s slightly Harry Potter-esque, but in a good way. I also highly recommend The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize.

In still other news, we have finished painting the living/dining room areas, have re-hung some of our pictures, and have cleaned the carpet. Now we just have to get curtains and our living room will be the bomb!

I may not have mentioned that our self-imposed deadline for finishing these home improvements was Superbowl Sunday, since we were having a small get-together. I guess I didn’t want to jinx us. At any rate, our Superbowl gathering went very well, and our guests made much of our paint job, having had to hear about it in painstaking detail over the past several weeks (much like yourselves). For those of you who are obsessed with food and its consumption, we had teriyaki chicken wing drummettes, wild rice salad, a green salad with red pears and mandarin oranges, sub sandwiches, tortilla chips with two kinds of salsa, and beer. Erp. And a variety of cookies for dessert…double erp.

Hey, speaking of which, I believe there are some cookies left. I’m letting you off the hook. Time for tea…

The Soap Opera Next Door

I almost just typed "next store"...what the hell is that about?

Anyhoo, about my next-door neighbor, who has been screaming on the phone for the last half-hour, making it difficult if not impossible to concentrate on anything:

1. First and foremost, he is from Boston. Translation: he is filled with rage. (Note well, I am also from Boston).
2. To keep his rage under control, he smokes a lot of pot. Like, a lot. Because if he doesn't, he gets "really aggro." And by a lot of pot, I mean "so much that the hallway on our floor pretty much always smells like pot." Nice when Grandma comes to visit.
3. Because he is such a weedhead and fits the stoner stereotype (shoulder-length blond hair, never wears a shirt, wears surfer clothes), we refer to him as "Dude."
4. Dude is married. Second or possibly third marriage -- he has one child from his previous marriage, but also has a stepson and a stepdaughter from someone before that. None of these children live with him, but they occasionally visit.
5. He claims he is thirty-six years old.
6. His wife, a twenty-seven year-old lovely from Japan, has left him more than once because she has caught him cheating on her.
7. He continues to cheat on her, and regularly brings his girlfriend to their apartment while his wife is at work.
8. The girlfriend is married, is a former friend of Dude's wife, and is practically a clone of Dude's wife (i.e., also a young, slim Japanese woman with long dark hair and high heels).
9. The reason Dude can bring the girlfriend over during the day is that he does not have the standard 9-to-5 gig. Since I have known him, he has worked as a stripper, a model, and a "concierge." In this last assignment, he was paid to procure drugs for a wealthy older gay man and then go back to his house to sit around with his shirt off while the man partook of said substances. Oh, and he also at one point was selling supplements. You know, the kinds the bodybuilders take.
10. I am not making any of this up. How could I?

Anyway, for a good portion of this afternoon, Dude has been on the phone with his girlfriend, on speakerphone. He yells at her for a couple of minutes, she hangs up, and then he calls her back. This has gone on for at least forty-five minutes now. He clearly thrives on drama.

I, on the other hand, could use some peace and quiet. My bedroom, where I like to write because all my writing stuff is at hand and I can hide it quickly if Viva wakes up unexpectedly, backs up to Dude's living room. So my writing time has been compromised somewhat today, but I have to give Dude some props because he may show up in one of my stories some day, with details ever so slightly altered. Have I mentioned that he has a dead tooth? Right in the front?

Booh-yah! I wish I had some microwave popcorn right now. It is quite a show. I might just call Mark Burnett and see if he wants to make a reality show out of this. Have I mentioned that the wife is bisexual? Is that titillating enough for prime-time? I have to say yes, yes it is.

I don't feel I am properly conveying just what a character Dude is, so give me one more shot at it: on their holiday card (yes, we're on their Christmas list!), Dude is wearing a crimson suit. With a crimson shirt. With a crimson tie. With a crimson belt. And parts of his suit, like his lapels, are shiny. And Dude's wife is wearing a dark velvet number with her midriff showing. Hot damn! Can you picture it? Because when I first saw this card, it took my breath away. I mean, come on.

The beauty of this too is that Sweet William and Dude, over time, have become friends of a sort. Sweet Willie goes next-door to watch football and such. This is one of those things that no one can prepare you for. Marriage brings all sorts of surprises.

And the fruit of that marriage is now making sounds via the baby monitor, indicating that she is awake and in need of attention. So for now, I must bid you adieu...

Show of Hands

Okay, an informal poll here as I throw my screwdriver into the corner and stamp up and down cursing in a whisper since my child is asleep:

Has anyone, anywhere in the known universe ever had an easy time assembling anything from IKEA?

I am not trying to put together something complicated like a bookshelf. God forbid. I am just trying to hang a space-saving dishrack on the wall above my kitchen sink so I can free up some counter space. First of all, IKEA does not include the actual screws to fasten it to the wall, much to my dismay upon opening the package a few minutes ago. But beyond that, the screws they include to attach the hooks to the dishrack so it can hang on the wall are too short to keep the damn thing together. I can't remember when I bought this (I know it was well before the painting started on Dec. 31st) and I am quite certain that my receipt is nowhere to be found, so I can't even take it back.

A pox upon IKEA! I have once again wasted valuable nap time doing something fruitless. Burgleflickle!

Sad, sad, sad

Bear with me. I am bummed out today because...

1. My sister and I talked on the phone on Monday. “Talked” isn’t actually the correct terminology, however. It’s more like, “screamed and cursed and cried for an hour.” Needless to say, I don’t feel better after talking to her. I thought we could clear the air. Silly me. Apparently, every thing I have ever done, said, or not done or said offends her and she is thoroughly sick of me. It was quite a laundry list. Since I don’t want to play the game of “Oh, yeah? Well, you did such-and-such and you said so-and-so,” I am really not sure what to do about this situation. I am exhausted just thinking about it.

2. We're still not done painting, although our dining area is just about done. Praise all that is holy. We keep taking breaks from the painting (like a week at a time), which is only prolonging this absurdly drawn-out process.

3. My DSL is not working (or is working only sporadically). I am writing this in Word with hopes of posting it some day. Sorry! I miss you!

4. I still haven’t received either a credit or a duplicate package from UPS. What the hell??

UPDATE: After 35 minutes on the phone with my ISP, I finally fixed the problem. I’m glad I wasted most of Viva’s nap on this, rather than working on my novel. J*^$ck$%!

A Fond (if Temporary) Farewell

Once again, I may be without DSL for a while. We are switching the DSL off on one phone line and installing it on our other phone line. This is one of those things which the phone company would have you believe is no big deal, but in my experience, there is always something that gets f--'d up and I end up cussing and being generally irritated for days at a time while I figure it out.

Things to tide you over while I'm away:

1. Viva has pooped in the tub twice this week. Notice I did not say "in the potty," because that would be wrong, although logical and much-hoped-for. When this happened, she screamed as if she had discovered a giant squid in the water, coming up from the depths to drag her down and drown her. It was fruitless to tell her that it was her poop, that it came out of her body, etc. For days now, she has periodically told the story at random moments: "Ezza wazza in da water, eeza enna I POOP!" She tells it with her eyes really wide, and sometimes with sweeping dramatic gestures, as if she cannot possibly convey to you the horror of what she went through.

b. Sweet Willie and I have begun discussing the possibility of throwing Viva a birthday party this year. If you thought reading about preschools was exhausting and made you want to gouge your eyes out, well, hang on, because it's going to be a bumpy ride.

IV(c). Strangely, Sweet Willie and I have also been talking about how little time we have together these days, and how we miss each other, and what can we do about it. Sweet Willie's answer is to wake me up at 5:08 AM with a cup of tea so we can do yoga together before Viva wakes up. This is not as bad as it sounds. And it's also not a euphemism. You pervs!

Okay, I'm disconnecting now. Have a nice year...

Woe betide me...and UPS

Before I get into my latest riff on modern life in all its angst and sunshine, I just have to mention that despite years of correction, my grandmother still pronounces UPS as “ups,” rather than U.P.S. And while technically she’s right, since there are no periods to indicate that UPS is an acronym rather than just a regular word, it kind of drives me around the bend. Because I am crazy about stuff like grammar and usage (and many, many other things, but we won’t get into that here). People who know this about me will often deliberately misuse the language just to watch my eyes bug out in spectacular fashion. Sweet William, for example, will say things like “Well, her behavior really runs the gambit” or “Break out that dreaded apparati” with a straight face, just to see how long I can stand it before I correct him.

I never said I didn’t have flaws.

At any rate, I am currently irritated with UPS because I am still working on getting them to credit me for a package – a Christmas gift! – purchased for Sweet William and delivered to the front door of our apartment building on December 10. I never saw this package, nor did anyone sign for it. I know things are busy around the holidays, but why would you leave a package sitting outside an 80-unit, 5-story apartment building on a fairly busy side street in a mixed-use commercial-residential area and expect that the rightful owner would (a) even know it was there and (3) be the person who picked it up and brought it inside? I am more than a little ticked about this, but not as ticked as I would be had it been a very expensive present. It’s a paperback novel, one that I thought my sweetie would enjoy, but certainly not an extravagant gift, and not his only Christmas present from me. But still.

And I can’t go buy a replacement, because it still isn’t clear, despite talking with UPS this morning, whether UPS is ordering a duplicate from the shipper (Barnes & Noble) or whether they are just going to issue me a check. They are still waiting for paperwork from B & N to determine which course they choose. Totally ridic.

And I’ll admit it: I wanted to read the book, too. Dad gum it!

I miss you. Do you miss me? Really? That much?

Please note: An alternate title for this entry might be, “Home Improvement Gone Horribly Wrong.” Consequently, there’s a lot of cussing (both real and imagined, but certainly not as much as there was in reality). Please also note that due to our home improvement issues, I am DSL-less and kind of freaked out about it (writing this in Word and hoping to post later).

On New Year’s Eve, having covered everything in plastic and spackled and masked and primed the night before, Sweet William and I rang in the new year by painting our kitchen an outrageous shade of yellow. Contrary to what you might think, we really enjoyed this activity: we got to spend time talking and laughing together, listening to a variety of old CDs as we painted and toasting the new year with a lovely Cabernet when we were done. We were so pleasantly surprised by our positive experience that we enthusiastically agreed to paint the living/dining area the following weekend.

This is where things went bad.

We have a small galley kitchen. The walls are covered mainly by cabinets and large appliances. So the area left for us to paint was relatively small. Painting it was not a huge pain in the ass because it was not a large area. But complete jackasses that we are, this did not occur to us. Did we decide to do something simple for our next project?

If you said yes, you clearly have not been paying attention and you deserve the complimentary smack in the head I’m giving you right now. (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, did that hurt? Do you need an ice pack? Why are you crying?)

If you said of course not, congratulations! You have won a year’s supply of toilet paper.

We decided that for our next project, we wanted two different colors of paint. One neutral, and one as an accent color. Because our kitchen has no door and flows directly into the dining area, we needed the colors not to clash with the yellow-gold color we have in there. After much deliberation in the paint store, we arrived at two colors: Sundown and Southwest Clay or some such shit. I can’t remember the exact names, but one was kind of a yellowy neutral and the other one was more of a red-orange.

After three hours of moving furniture, taking pictures off the wall, spackling, taping off and covering everything in plastic, I took the lid off the first paint can and began applying it to the wall. Oh, wait – did I mention that we had to drive down to South Pluto in a rainstorm to drop off Viva at Diva(my sis-in-law)’s? We had arranged to borrow a ladder from Diva’s hubby for the painting. In all the commotion of dropping Viva off, installing her car seat in Diva’s car, and discussing where to get lunch, we forgot about the ladder until we were already back on the freeway.

“Fuck it,” said Sweet William. “I’ll just go to Home Depot and buy one.”

So we went running around to the paint store and Home Depot in the pouring rain, for which you may not have much sympathy except that (a) this is Southern California and no one here can deal with the rain, making every move treacherous and (5) Home Depot is my worst nightmare. It is the eleventh circle of Hell. I don’t know how many circles of Hell there are, but Home Depot deserves its own special circle. With a parking lot.

So we got home after all this running around and we ordered Chinese food which upset my stomach, but I was determined to make a go of this, so after all the above-mentioned preparation, I opened the paint and started slapping it on the wall in my most authentically interior designy manner. And then I stepped back and looked at it. And it was fucking peach.

“I hate it,” I said. “It’s awful. It’s so…peach.”

“No,” said Sweet William. “It is bad. It is not good.”

“Crap,” I said. And then I poured the paint all over the floor and we wrestled in it and laughed and tickled each other and it was like something out of a movie.

Actually, what I think I did was open the other can of paint to see how bad that was going to be. And one of us started painting one of the other walls, I forget who or what. I think the paint fumes just ate up my brain. The other color…

“It looks like tomato soup,” I said.

“Can we live with this?” said Sweet William. He looked pained. I was really becoming dejected. The project had gone sour.

The good news is that we could live with the tomato soup color. The bad news is that we bought only a quart of it, and we ran out of paint after doing a wall and a half. We concurrently ran out of steam and decided to have a beer and go to bed.

The next morning, we had a crummy breakfast at Café 101 and then went our separate ways: I drove back down to South Jupiter to pick up Viva, while Sweet William got the house ready for her arrival. Later, my darling went to Home Depot and selected a neutral color called Swiss Coffee. After Viva went to bed, he primed one of the walls I had painted the day before (we changed our minds mid-painting). His plan was to paint the ceiling tonight, while I painted one of the living room walls.

Now, we actually thought we’d be able to paint the entire living/dining area in one night over this past weekend. Let me tell you, out of the seven walls in that area (it is of course an odd-shaped area, how could it not be?), only one is fully painted. We have surrendered ourselves to this totally and realize we will be painting after Viva goes to bed all week long.

Oh, and let me just add this: Swiss Coffee = white. Not off-white, not beige, not taupe, not anything with even a hint of brown as one might reasonably expect given that coffee is part of the name.

So now we need to find yet another color. Sweet William valiantly painted part of the ceiling tonight in his underwear. Sadly, I did not get a picture.

And the beat goes on…

The Yin, The Yang

Three Reasons Why Yesterday Sucked

1. My brand-new urban hipster hobo bag, purchased because I am utterly sick of carrying around a diaper bag, busted its zipper right after I finished packing it to go to the playground. I have owned this bag less than a week and have used it a total of: twice.

2. After re-packing my old diaper bag, I put Viva in the car to go to said playground since it was actually nice outside. Chilly, but no rain. We got about five blocks from home and she said, "water, water." What she meant was, "Hey, I thought it would be a really cool thing to tip my sippy straw cup upside down into my lap, but now I'm knee-deep in cran-raspberry watery juice(TM) and I'm not digging it so much." Cursed everything, turned around and went back home.

3. My cousin called and asked me a big favor, because it was a big emergency. She wanted me to lend her precisely $580. Since I have great difficulty saying no to people, especially to family members, this request stimulated great anxiety, heartburn and nausea throughout the day. Especially because I initially said yes, and then when I found out what it was for, revoked my offer. Are you ready?

It's for her car note.

Have I mentioned that I drive a 2002 VW Passat? It's a nice car, right? Sweet William drives a 1994 Jeep. We consider the Passat our luxury vehicle. It's the first new car for both of us and it's got the leather seats, the sunroof, the European styling and handling. But we are not wealthy people by any means. Neither of us grew up with money, and anything we have, pretty much, we've bought ourselves (except for our lovely wedding and baby shower gifts, many thanks all around once again).

My cousin, on the other hand, grew up with well-to-do parents who gave her her first car at 16, as soon as she was licensed to drive. (By way of comparison, I bought my first car [used, really used, like already 11 years old] when I was 28.) Whenever I talk to her, she is always either on her way to vacation or a long weekend in Cabo or Jamaica or Hawaii, or she has just come back from Cabo or Jamaica or Hawaii. She has a full-time job in the entertainment industry, carries designer purses, wears $500 boots, etc. She drives an Audi TT coupe.

My cousin told me she "forgot" to make a payment and that Audi was about to repossess her car*. Sweet William, who would be the one forking over the money since I do not have a paying job (oh, yeah, remember? I'm a stay-at-home mom. I don't have a trust fund. My husband supports the three of us by working hard at his job, coming home for lunch to save money, not buying stuff he doesn't need, and driving a car that is now 11 years old.) -- as I say, Sweet William said, "If she forgot to pay her car note, she could 'forget' to pay my money back. I'm not gonna be chasing her for six months trying to get my money." So there you have it.

* I know two people who have been involved in car repossessions. Both tell me that you need to stop making payments for at least a couple months before the car company will try to repossess your car. One late payment does not mean a big smelly guy named Shmedd shows up with a tow truck and tootles off with your car.

Three Reasons Yesterday Sucked Not So Much

1. I talked to my sister. We didn't talk about the day-after-Christmas blowup (go ahead, laugh at me), but it was comforting to hear her voice and know I can call her when I'm stressed.

2. I talked to Viva about potty training and she is enthusiastically on board. Our conversation ended something like this:

Me: ...so now, when you feel like you have to go pee-pee, all you have to do is tell me, and we'll go straight to the potty and you can sit and go, okay?
Viva: Okay! That is the greatest idea I have ever heard! You are the best mommy ever! How do you come up with this stuff? I am constantly impressed by you and your amazing parenting skills!

Okay, what she actually said was, "Okay! That's great!" and giggled and made circles in the air with her foot. But it was pretty cute, is all I'm saying.

3. I ate microwave popcorn not once, but twice.

Oh, while I'm at it

Here are my goals for 2005 (not, I repeat, NOT RESOLUTIONS):

• Learn Web design (see previous entry for today)
• Improve my overall physical, spiritual, and emotional health
• Have more sex (with my husband, you creeps, so don't send me any lecherous e-mail. I know I am one hot mama with my hair crumpled up into a ponytail, 3.4 zits on my nose, and ultra-sexy dishpan hands. Back off!)
• Start freelancing again. And make money at it. So, like, not in any kind of half-assed way.
• Overcome my newfound addiction to microwave popcorn.

Here are Viva's goals:

• Quit smoking
• Get some more teeth
• Kick the bottle

What can I say, we have to start somewhere.

Bloggity Blog Blog Blog!

For the past few days, I have been visiting some of the sites listed at The Best Of Blog Awards 2004 (see http://www.blogmechanics.com/bob/) and I have to say, after reading some of these and admiring the designs of the sites, I have concluded that:

1. I need to learn Web design. Like yesterday. I feel like a moron.

2. I need to write more.

3. There are some damn funny people out there. Is all.

Hey Nineteen...

So today I go to Nordstrom's at the Grove to return a horrible red sweater that I bought a few weeks ago. I bought said sweater to wear for our family Christmas portrait.

What's that, you say? You never received a copy of our family Christmas portrait?

Well, sweetie, that's because there is no family Christmas portrait. And there ain't no damn Santa Claus, either!

Getting back to my story: so I went to Nordstrom's, where they are so swanky that they have a pianist tickling the ivories every day as part of their store atmosphere. The nubile young thing in the Horrible Sweater department quickly and efficiently processed my return, and then said, half to me and half to her co-worker, "Oh my God, I can't believe the piano player is playing a Gwen Stefani song!"

Stupid me. I said, "What?"

She said, "That Gwen Stefani song, 'If I Was a Wealthy Girl.'"

I said, "Um, well, you know, it's a remake? The original song is from Fiddler on the Roof?"

"Ohhhhhhhh...."

Oh. My. God.

Hey nineteen, that's 'retha Franklin
She don't remember
The Queen of Soul
Hard times befallen
The sole survivors
She thinks I'm crazy
But I'm just growing old...

She probably doesn't know who Steely Dan is, either.

Is it wrong to eat an entire bag of microwave popcorn in one sitting?

Because I have some popping (I almost wrote "pooping," sheesh) in the microwave right now. I have already told you how much I love having a microwave again, right? This is Whole Foods Whole Kids Organic popcorn, which somehow makes me feel a little better about the prospect of eating an entire bag by myself while my toddler is sleeping and my husband is out having coffee with a friend of ours. We had a lovely late breakfast of steak and bagels and fruit, so I won't be eating lunch, but I needed a crunchy snacky-type item to tide me over until dinner.

I just edited this post because it was originally very long and dealt with bad feelings between me and my sister. Upon reflection and even while I was writing it, I felt it wasn't fair since I haven't discussed this with her yet. She blew up at me the day after Christmas and we have yet to clear the air. But it had a lot to do with why I came out of the Christmas season utterly sick of everyone and needing to stay home for a while.

I have a feeling she wouldn't want the whole mess splayed out across the Internet for all three of my readers to see. So, for those of you that wanted a front-row seat at the Dysfunctional Holiday Rodeo, sorry.

I don't think she reads this, by the way.

More later when I have wittier things to say (perhaps much, much later).

Little Miss Congeniality

I think Viva could win this award hands down. I love it that when you ask her if she wants a cracker, she says, "No, thank you," or "Yes, please," and if she wants you to go somewhere with her and you happen to be sitting inconveniently on the floor, she will grab your hand, look winningly into your eyes, and pull you in the direction she wants you to go while saying, "[I] help you?"

I am also flabbergasted at the number of tea parties she has thrown since receiving this from her grandma for Christmas. She is really the hostess with the mostest, running back and forth and asking genteelly, "More tea?" I admit that there is a part of me that is disturbed by this: is it genetic or is it something that I have already taught her by example? Full disclosure here: I love the idea of having people over much much more than I love actually having people over, and any kind of situation where I have to serve food really turns me into a spaz. I am a good cook, or so I'm told, so this is not where my anxiety lies. I just hate feeling responsible for other people having a good time.

Marriage to Sweet William is helping to cure me of this. His response to pretty much any situation involving guilt trips or undue obligation is this: "Are they paying my bills?" And you know, he's right. We are grown folks, are we not? (Well, some of us are.) Hopefully, Viva will (as I have) reject the "please everyone but yourself" mentality that I grew up with and be an assertive little number.

And thus ends my last pop-psych analysis of the year, I swear.

help

why won't Blogger let me add posts? why???

my frustration with technology has caused me to drop all capital letters off my posts.

The Sneer Factor

During the holiday season, I painstakingly assembled, hand-signed and sent out 47 Christmas cards. We have received 23. Clearly, this activity falls under the whole general "love everyone/Christmas spirit/'tis better to give than to receive" banner. I admit to feeling very "bah, humbug" about the whole endeavor, particularly because I Grinchishly set up a system this year to track this, and it only confirmed my suspicions that the Blah Blah family is getting the raw end of the deal.

In fact, I am very "bah, humbug" about my entire Christmas experience this year, except where it really counts: our Christmas morning with Viva was practically Norman Rockwell-esque. Never mind that we stayed up until 12:30 assembling all her toys, wrapping gifts, and stuffing her stocking, and that she woke up at 6:30. We had Christmas music going, great coffee a-brewing, and a little munchkin who was wide-eyed and awestruck about the entire affair. She was thrilled with everything, and we were thrilled with her. It was all very huggy and smoochy and make-me-almost-cryable, to such an extent that it almost made me rethink my boycott of Santa Claus.

Almost.

Reason #4,764 Why I Love My Husband

We went out to dinner at Sonora Cafe for Sweet William's birthday last night. (Yes, his birthday is right before Christmas. Yes, it makes it hard to get people together to celebrate. Yes, he does not usually have a lot of fanfare surrounding his birthday, although to be fair, he wouldn't want that. Yes, I am going to stop this parenthetical conceit right here.) When he ordered their signature pork chop, he was told they had just run out of the pork chops. He then ordered exactly the same thing I did (duck tacos, at his recommendation), and when the food came, periodically ate off my plate.

"How is it that we can be eating the exact same thing and you still have to eat off my plate?" I asked, mildly indignant.

Without missing a beat, he said, "It tastes sweeter off yours."

He is exasperatingly cute.

Female Trouble

So for those of you that have been following this and who even care, I saw my OB-GYN today. Dr. A is the ideal doctor for me. She is always calm, she asks lots of questions and listens carefully to the answers, I never feel she is rushing me, and she has a great sense of humor. I love going to see her.

She is very supportive of my resistance to surgery. While there is little she can do about my fibroids, she has suggested that I try a lower-estrogen birth control pill and use Ibuprofen for the pain (evidently, I can take up to three Advil at a sitting, if need be – see what handy knowledge she dispenses?). The lower estrogen will probably not shrink the fibroids but may stop them from growing larger. She also suggested acupuncture, saying that it has helped some of her patients. She wants to see me in three months to see how things go with this course of treatment.

This is all well and good, but the beauty of our whole encounter is that when doctors measure your fibroids, they like to describe them as the size of food. My largest fibroid measures 5 cm across. “That’s about the size of a large plum,” Dr. A said, showing me with a tape measure.

“How’s your fruit salad?” my friend M likes to say. He knows I have several fibroids of various sizes.

Now, have you ever seen the book “Once Upon a Potty”? It is a modern classic, of which there are two versions: one for boys and one for girls. I can’t speak to the boy version, but in the one we own, cute little girl Prudence receives a potty from her grandmother. At first she doesn’t know what it is, so there is this sequence:

“Was it a hat? No, it wasn’t a hat.” (next page)

“Was it a milk bowl for the cat? No, it wasn’t a milk bowl for the cat.” (next page)

“Was it a flowerpot? No, it wasn’t a flowerpot.” (next page)

“Was it a birdbath? No, it wasn’t a birdbath.” (next page)

Finally: “It was a potty, for making poo-poo and pee-pee into, instead of a diaper.”

You see the sorts of excruciating experiences you have to live through, over and over again, when you become a parent? Anyway, since that is my current frame of reference, I find myself thinking of different kinds of fruit, like so:

“Was it a plum? No, it wasn’t a plum.” (next page)

“Was it a tangerine? No, it wasn’t a tangerine.” (next page)

“Was it a kiwi fruit? No, it wasn’t a kiwi fruit.” (next page)

Finally: “It was a fibroid, for poking your tummy out and making sex really uncomfortable in certain positions.”

Whee, thanks, I’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.

(By the way, the fibroids have nothing to do with the blood in my urine, just as I suspected.)

Tra la la

Today, I found myself really irritated that I am not done with my Christmas shopping yet. Then I looked at the calendar and realized: we are only in our first full week of December. It’s still early. Give yourself a break, nutjob.

Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy and peace and all that. Deep breath!

As the year draws to a close, I have been making loose plans for the coming year. I say loose because things never work out exactly as we plan them, and yet I feel the need for some kind of structure, no doubt to allow myself the illusion that I am in some small way the master or mistress of my own fate. Well, for one thing, chirren, I am considering moving this blog* – perhaps to Blogspot**, which is a more logical place for it to be, and I think will be less of a hassle to maintain. Not sure yet what I am going to do about all the lovely photos I will want to post in the coming year, howsomever. Do I have to maintain two Websites, then? One more open to the public, and the other (with identifying photos) for friends and fam? Sounds like kind of a drag.

As for my other plans for the coming year, they are loosely this: enjoy the remainder of my time at home; get my multitude of health issues under control; enroll Viva in not-so-expensive summer school and then outrageously expensive regular preschool; begin working in some capacity to pay for said summer school and preschool. The question is: what to do?

Apparently, there is no easy answer to this. I know, I know, you think: how can this be? I have done my damnedest, looking it up all kinds of ways on the Internet, and it appears that there is no clear next step on my career path (if you can even call it that). So what I am saying to you, in plain English, is this: I need to figure it out for myself. Crap.

* Which I did, on Dec. 22nd. Get me, I'm some kind of 21st century gal.
** Hello and welcome to it. Now I'm archiving all my old blogs from the previous site. I know, it doesn't get more exciting than this!

Bono Paints My Kitchen

Since Sweet William has time off from work between Christmas and New Year’s, we are going to paint our kitchen. Now, while I was on bedrest during my pregnancy, and then while breastfeeding pretty much constantly for the first few months of Viva’s life, I became addicted to home design shows. I watched While You Were Out, and Trading Spaces (which won't hyperlink, don't ask me why), and Surprise by Design religiously. Months and months of watching designers re-do people’s homes in imaginative, horrible, and sometimes gorgeous ways.

Do you think I retained even one thing from any of that? The answer would be: of course not.

I can’t decide on a color. I have pretty much everything else I need but the paint – which is kind of the whole purpose of this project. I am making things more difficult by trying to find non-toxic paint without any off-gassing/VOCs (thanks to dwell magazine [Oct/Nov ’04] for making an already thorny decision more complicated).

I am going to rip and burn CDs right now while searching websites for design ideas. Repeat after me: “Uno! Dos! Tres! Catorce!” (What the flip is Bono talking about? Does anyone know?) Edit: why yes, here are some theories. Thanks, freaky Internet geeks!

Of Christmas and Crunk

Viva hates Christmas. Well, let me qualify that statement and say that Viva hates Christmas decorations. She hates the lights, and she hates the ornaments. She hates the furry boots we got her to wear for her Christmas portrait. She hates the slippers she picked out as one of her Christmas presents during a trip to Old Navy with Auntie Diva. She shakes her head violently and backs away when we turn the Christmas lights on, making little whimpering noises. I don’t understand it. Sweet William says maybe she’s reacting against the commercialization of Christmas. If so, all I have to say is, I’m with you, sister! Too bad she didn’t make this opinion known before we bought all her Christmas loot.

We haven’t even gotten a tree yet. Is 20 months too young to fake a heart attack? I guess we’ll see, although I know her daddy will be mighty irritated if he goes to the expense and hassle of getting a tree and she screams bloody murder at the sight of it. I’m hoping it won’t be the same experience as with the slippers: she allegedly loved them at the store and hugged them to her chest, but refused to put them on once they were paid for.

Viva does like: A Charlie Brown Christmas and gingerbread. That’s about it.

On a completely unrelated topic: I am thoroughly enjoying the resurrection of KDAY-FM in Los Angeles. Old school, new school (well, you know I prefer the music from back in the day, but that is because I am old as the hizzills). What could be wrong with that?

Speaking of age and trends passing you by, this past weekend, Sweet William and I were driving up La Brea, just north of the 10 freeway, when we saw a billboard advertising Crunk Juice. “What the hell is that?” said my honey. We burst out laughing, but he seriously did not know what crunk was. I barely knew what it was – I said it’s Southern ghetto hip-hop, which wasn’t completely off-base, but wasn’t completely accurate either. What is crunk? Read here on this apparently not-so-new phenomenon.

Crunk. Word to your mother.

I am not a Luddite

I am just behind the times. Until a couple of months ago, we had a microwave that was manufactured in 1988. It came with the apartment. It was good at reheating things, but that was about it. It was also missing all its knobs – yes, it had knobs, not buttons, that’s how old it was – and in order to use it, you had to pull out a pair of pliers and twist it to the approximate setting you wanted. So charmingly ghetto!

In September, Sweet William went to Wal-Mart while we were visiting family (we don’t have a Wal-Mart near us, which seems impossible these days, but I am here to tell you it does happen, and by the way, I am aware that you can buy microwaves at other places but this is just how it happened, so there you are) and purchased a new microwave. I mention this because I have just rediscovered the joys of microwave popcorn, on which I am now happily crunching away. And now I can buy and freeze things and defrost and cook them when it’s 6:03 pm and I realize there is nothing to eat in the fridge. It’s a win-win situation, and I know, you couldn’t be happier, right?

Well, hang on to your hats, because just this past week, I was at Target, and I saw this. It followed me home, and the Blah Blah family has since thoroughly enjoyed perfectly toasted bagels, English muffins, and French toaster sticks. Now we have gone totally appliance happy and my Sweet William is saying we should replace our stove (which also came with the apartment). His rationale, which is not bad, is that we should buy major appliances now and take them with us once the bottom falls out of the real estate market and we can actually afford a house. Hey, do I hear snickering there in the back? It could happen. Don't tinkle on my parade of delusion...

In other news, still don’t know what’s going on with my health. Am considering radically changing diet after the holidays in perhaps misguided belief that this may be a factor; have been reading a lot on the Internet about the links between sugar/dairy/caffeine/meat and fibroids. Wondering: if I can’t consume any of these things, what the hell kind of life is that? Further bulletins as events warrant.

I...Fall...To Pieces...

Who sings that? Patsy Cline? (Why, yes -- here's a sound clip.)

So the mysterious health thing continues, with the added annoyance of a common cold, the most bothersome symptom of which is a sore throat which I have now had for a week. Oh, and the coughing, which wakes me up in the middle of the night.

So the CT urogram showed that nothing is wrong with my urinary tract, but that I have multiple uterine fibroids (which I knew already). Although the scan says nothing is wrong, I still have blood in my urine, and palpation of my abdomen by my urologist, Dr. G, indicates tenderness in both ovaries. An internal exam revealed urethral stenosis, presumably brought on by the trauma of delivering Viva. Dr. G wants me to come in for a probe of my bladder in two weeks. Um, yuck. Sounds delightful. The troubling thing is that it appears I may have two problems converging at the same time: the bladder thing and the fibroids.

Generally not too happy about any of this. Sorry I can’t be all sweetness and light.

I feel like an old woman. And guess what? I have finally caved in to advertising and my own observations of what I see in the mirror, and I’m using night cream. Night cream!

I also recently discovered that I have dishpan hands. What the hell is happening?

Sloth and Lethargy and Torpor, Oh My!

Okay, so I mentioned I would be taking a short break from the blog so I might get some exercise in every day during the few chunks of free time that I have while Viva is napping. Let me tell you how many times I have exercised since I wrote that: twice.

The problem is that I have a mysterious health issue that is kicking my not-very-large ass. I have blood in my urine. The doctor thought it might be a simple urinary tract infection. It wasn’t. I’ve been prescribed three different courses of antibiotics, two of which made me sick with crushing headaches. I have developed pain in my urethra – not a good sign, and an indication that the course of treatment was not working. Now I have to go in and have a dingy-dang scan of my urinary tract next week, and then see a urologist after that. I asked my primary care physician yesterday what could be causing the blood in my urine, and she said “Well, it could be a number of things – a tumor, kidney stone, we just don’t know. So we’ll get you the CT urogram and find out.”

Hold the phone. WHAT?!

You don’t want to say tumor to me. Last time I heard that, I had to have surgery and it was not a trip to Disneyland, let me tell you. I don’t want to go through another cancer scare, especially when two close family members have passed away of cancer in the last year. I just so much did not want to hear that. So today, I Googled “CT urogram” and this is what I found out: you don’t want to have kidney stones. And you sure as hell don’t want bladder cancer. Just to see the word “chemotherapy” made me click the window closed. Realistically speaking, it seems more likely that I have a kidney stone (or stones), which does suck, but given the alternative, I’d feel like an ass for complaining about it.

Nonetheless, I still feel crummy.

Hey, on a lighter note, my photos should be ready today, so after Viva “Sleeping Cutie” wakes up, maybe we’ll stroll on over there and pick them up. And then maybe I can scan them and post them later. I’m not making any promises, though.

Toddlers for Hire

Toddlers are so helpful. They really like to pitch in and do their part, and Viva is no exception. Recently, I ate lemongrass chicken curry with rice for lunch, and Viva tried some. Most of it ended up on the rug, and she then stepped on it, so her formerly white socks had little rice-shaped yellow splotches on them.

(Here is where it becomes obvious that I am a first-time mom/mom of only one.) After lunch, I took the socks, got out the stain remover, and started scrubbing the socks in the bathroom sink. Viva stood on her step-stool next to me, swishing one and then the other of the socks in the water. Every time I would pick up a sock to scrub it, she would yell, “My turn!” and grab it from me.

Someday when she is fourteen, I am going to tell her this story and she is going to roll her eyes in disgust. “You were actually fighting for the right to wash socks!” I’ll say. “God, Mom, that is so not interesting,” she will say, inspecting her nails and glancing at the clock.

I just love her so.

Who Deserves a Break Today?

Well, me, for one.

I may be going on hiatus for a bit. A hiatus from this blog, not from my job, which as we all know is being a full-time mom, and there is no hiatus or break or vacation from that. Ever. It’s 24-7, 365 days a year (366 in Leap Year). For the Rest of My Life. Because let’s face it, even when Viva turns 18, which she will in the blink of an eye, I will still have to worry about her in the back of my mind. I will, in fact, probably worry more when she moves out of the house. It’s an exhausting prospect.

But as to my hiatus from my blog: I am hoping to use the time when Viva naps to exercise, rather than sit on my little ass and type on my laptop. Yes, my ass is little. I would have liked to say “big fat ass” but that would be inaccurate, as I don’t seem to store my fat there. I wouldn’t mind if I had a bigger ass, if it made my waist look smaller. Is all! I’ve got to get rid of this pudge. By the way, I am still a size 2, so I know you think I am being ridiculous, but I just want to tighten up the area where I grew the baby. It’s loose there. Do you know what I’m saying? It is slightly horrifying.

So over the next couple of weeks (pre-Thanksgiving), I may blog and I may not. But right now, I do want to report that we went shopping today and I bought new bras, which I desperately needed, and two new pairs of sneakers. I am so cool, I know you wish you were me.

Four More Freakin' Years

I am embarrassed to be an American today. There, I said it.

But you know, the solution is not to flee to Canada (or whatever foreign country you might choose). People, my people! Stay and fight. I admit I am confounded by the 51% of the American electorate who voted for W. I do not understand how this country can be so polarized. I do not understand how anyone with an ounce of sense can think that George and his cronies are doing a good job of running this country. I am deeply disheartened.

And I am, quite frankly, scared shitless that not only are we stuck with GW for four more years, but that the Republicans are now the majority in the House and Senate. And to paraphrase Dear Husband (who, in addition to being damn cute and funny, is also politically astute), I don’t even want to imagine what a George Bush who is not worried about re-election will do over the next four years.

I was in Mayfair Market in Hollywood yesterday, wearing my Kerry/Edwards T-shirt, and an old fart walked by wearing a God Bless America T-shirt and said disgustedly, “I would never vote for that guy.” You know what? Fuck you, and God bless America. Somebody has to.

That’s pretty much how I feel today, and I apologize for the potty mouth. But harsh times call for harsh measures.

We’ll get through this and turn it around, I know. I am just having a bad freakin' day.

War of a Different Stripe

Wow. It is November already. How the hell did that happen? So, hey, belatedly:

Woo-hoo, Red Sox! You kick ass!

And on a completely different subject, this afternoon, I said to Viva, “I can tell you’re really tired. Don’t you want to take a nap?” And she said, shaking her head, “No, I don’t.” And then, reaching into my cleavage, she said, “This is war.” I swear to God that’s what she said. Maybe she was trying to say something like, “It’s a bra,” but that’s not what it came out sounding like. And it was in context, too!

Well, I’ll have you know that within ten minutes of that statement, we were in the car and listening to the smooth jazz station. She passed out before we had driven even a mile. Now some might call this child abuse. I call it self-preservation.

Random Musings

Here is yet another Seinfeldian observation, if you like that kind of thing. Why must children always step on your feet? Particularly if they are wearing shoes and you are not? Viva likes to back up into me and stand on my feet with her little body pressed flat against my legs. She doesn’t stay still, because she is not on a flat surface, so she tends to grind her sneakers into the tops of my bare feet so as not to fall. God love her, she has many other fine qualities, but she just doesn’t understand why this is a problem.

Cute Viva Moment #1,324: Yesterday, I was sitting with Viva in the rocking chair before her nap. She was snuggled into her blankie and talking up a storm. I could catch a word here and there, so I would respond, which almost made it feel like we were having a conversation. It was like having a conversation with someone from another country who is just picking up the language, so you smile and nod encouragingly while remaining relatively clueless about what’s actually being said; e.g., “Oh, potato! Uh-huh, yes, potatoes are nice, you can eat them many ways – oh, tree! Trees are very tall, aren’t they? Are the trees tall in your country?” Except there’s not the attendant anxiety where you’re wondering if you’ve just unknowingly committed to having them and their 14 children move in with you.

At any rate, Viva was so enthusiastic about our talk, that it made me quite happy and warm and fuzzy, so I said to her, “You know, I really like this, talking with you. I really have a good time when we talk to each other.” Viva beamed, threw her head back so I could see her bumpy gums, and said, “I luh you.” And then we hugged like there was no tomorrow.

I know, it’s disgustingly sweet and I don’t care!

But on to more worldly matters. I haven’t said this yet, and I think I should, although pretty much everyone who reads this (among my vast, vast readership) is a registered voter. But PLEASE!! Do not fail us. Vote on November 2. It’s the right thing to do.

Hey, how about those Red Sox? Was that ALCS the bomb or what? What a battle! I have not followed baseball really for at least ten years, but I had to watch this series. Watching it brought back all my irrational childhood “everything-is-black-and-white” rage toward the Yankees. There, I said it. I started out the series really hating the Yankees. But then, as I watched the drama unfold, I gained some perspective and developed a more mature (I hope) attitude toward the rivalry. I don’t hate the Yankees. I’m just sick of them winning, and I’m sick of the ongoing rivalry between Bostonian and New York fans. The Red Sox needed to put the “redheaded stepchild” feeling to rest for the fans and show that they are every bit as good as the Yankees. And they did, quite spectacularly, which was even better and contributes to the overall legend quite neatly.

I am sad that the celebrations in Boston got ugly and, in one case, fatal. But you better believe I am going to be watching the World Series and rooting for Boston. Oh, yes. And I’ll be drinking a Sam Adams (brewed in Boston) while I’m doing it!

I am writing. Just not here.

To all: my deepest apologies for slacking off on this blog. I don’t know if you care, but I do feel sad that I haven’t been able to blog here. I have gotten back to working on my book, which is good, but I have also allowed myself to be distracted by myriad other things (like stuff I am researching on the Internet) instead of maintaining this blog. Added to that, my time on the computer is limited because my Smooch-Head (read: Viva) is jealous of any time I spend sitting in front of it. This is mainly because she wants to (a) type on the keyboard; (2) move the mouse’s trackball around; and (IV) watch endless slideshows of herself and various family members on the screen.

What am I to do? I turn off the computer and go play with her. Which means I don’t write here.

So as I said, I’ve been researching stuff on the Internet. What, you may ask, have I been looking for?

I’ve been looking at cars. My lease runs out next year and I’m trying to decide what to do. Since we now have one car and one SUV, we have decided to do a switch. I am going to buy a small SUV and once it is paid off, Honey is going to sell his SUV and buy a car. New cars are yummy. But I will probably buy pre-owned/certified this time. Of course, since you are so smart, you are asking, why don’t they just switch cars?

1. Because Honey’s SUV is 10 years old and doesn’t have all the safety features we would like in a car for our Smooch-Head to ride in.

2. Because my car is leased (for tax purposes) and we don’t want to buy the car at the end of the lease. Don’t get me wrong, I have loved my Passat. But I keep saying to myself: “This would be the ideal car, if only…” Once you find yourself doing that, it’s time to move on. It’s a car, not a person, after all.

3. It’s really none of your damn business, now is it?

I am leaning toward this, although it seems doubtful that we can afford it. I also like this, and this. Oh, and this. Hee hee. Honey is dying to buy this (for himself, not for me). Maybe a boatload of money will drop from the sky and make this all possible.

Don’t laugh, it could happen. It could!

I’ve been looking at shoes. I love shoes. Have I mentioned lately that I’d like a complete wardrobe overhaul and at least 3 new pairs of shoes? Especially since the weather here in Los Angeles has actually turned somewhat fallish? I like these. And these. I’m pretty sure there are more; I’m just too lazy to look up more links at the moment (and remember, I only have limited time as it is. I’m just saying.)

I’ve been looking at preschools for Smooch-Head. I think I have found The One. You have no idea how happy this makes me. I have talked to 9 schools, done “drive-bys” of 15 just to see what they looked like from the outside, and Viva and I have visited 4. Since I am an incurable worry-wart, this whole process has really been torturous. But finally, finally! I have found the place. That’s it. I’m done.

And so is this blog. Until next time…

When do we qualify as an old married couple?

Hey, it’s October. Hey, today is our wedding anniversary. We have been living in wedded bliss for three years now. Dearest Honey called in sick this morning, partly because it is our anniversary and partly because we were both so exhausted yesterday that it didn’t feel like we had much of a Sunday at all. Viva has not been sleeping well because she has a cold and she is still working on that fourth bottom tooth, which is taking its sweet dang time coming through.

But hold the phone! I haven’t yet described our Saturday night, which was yet another reason we were tired. Through the Diva (my sister-in-law), we got free tickets to a John Kerry fundraiser at the Avalon, where we saw Lisa Loeb and the Black Eyed Peas. I want to like Lisa Loeb, but I was actually kind of bored during her set. The Peas were phenomenal, a great live band. What a lot of fun! We had a great time, but since we are old fogies, Sunday was pretty tough with a toddler. Especially because she only napped for about half an hour all day.

So today on our anniversary, we went to breakfast at Highland Grounds, where we first met and where our wedding reception was held. Honey had French toast and I had the breakfast combo #1. Then he took Viva to visit his dad, and I went off and had a mani/pedicure and did the grocery shopping. Whee! Now he is off having his private time and we will go to the park later with our little progeny, who appears to be something of a prodigy (I am about to bust from actually using those two words in the same sentence). I say prodigy because Viva is only 18 months old, but is talking in sentences and can already count to 5. It is freaking me out a little bit.

I'm back, and so's my hair

Well, I don’t know what’s been happening. I don’t know why I didn’t blog last week. What was I doing? Oh, wait. Now I remember. I had to go get my hair done on Tuesday (when I usually blog) by the fabulous Christine, who was only in town for two days because she is the head stylist on (da-da-da-da!) Ambush Makeover. I have not seen the show, but I did look on the Website and was disappointed to see that she was not featured. Hmmm…

Anyway, my hair looks close to its natural color once again. That Christine, what would I do without her? I will never trust my hair to another.

In other world news, I have been having trouble with my e-mail, so apologies to everyone who I haven’t written to while I’m trying to fix it. I am not the most techno-savvy chick on the planet, is all I’m saying.

Oh, and I have to add to my list of the Worst Baby Names of all time: Magnes. This is the actual name of an actual kid who was playing in the sandbox at the park last week. The name was printed on the kid’s sand toys, so it is no mistake. Dear God! Doesn’t anybody have any compassion?

Stop the Insanity! It's Only Preschool!

Thoroughly sick of all this preschool business. I actually have an Excel spreadsheet with names, numbers, monthly tuition, and random notes about 12 schools within a five-mile radius of us. I got a message today from C., the other mom who is on the preschool warpath. She has actually checked out thirty schools. Thirty! She has personally visited most of them. And you thought I was nuts. She is a stay-at-home-mom to a 21-month-old (who is the cutest thing ever, by the way) and is seven months pregnant. Where does she find the energy?

Anyhoo, she said she really liked PS#3, where she was somehow able to get a tour. She just went today. That makes me want to scream. I do want Lovey to have the best start in life possible, but I could really work myself into a state of crazed anxiety about it all, which is clearly not healthy for any of us.

In other world news, if you ask Lovey what her own name is, she says, “Viva.” I like it. I think I’m keeping it.

TV's warm glow...fading...fading...

Our cable box is dying. Since it is a descrambler via which we were getting some channels we weren’t paying for, we can’t complain to the cable company. We are gradually losing all of our cool channels (HBO, Showtime, and the like), which is particularly vexing because the Six Feet Under season finale is this coming Sunday.

After that, we are going to disconnect the box and try to go without cable/satellite for as long as we can stand it. That’s right, you heard it here first! The Blah Blahs are giving TV the finger!

Until we go crawling back and pay some outrageous amount for a dish or something. Dang these modern contraptions!

Perhaps while we are TV-less, I will read Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television. (For those of you that click on the link, be sure to scroll down for some of the reviews of the book. It’s interesting to see what some people who actually don’t watch TV have to say about it.) Maybe that will strengthen my resolve!

I actually don’t think this is a bad thing. Theoretically, I will be able to spend more time talking my husband’s head off in the evenings, and how can that be wrong?

Blah Blah to the Nth Degree

Hello, dearies! Happy Labor Day to all.

Here (in no particular order) are the updates with what’s been going on with moi:

1. I went to the doctor last week for my annual comprehensive physical. Everything was fine and dandy until this weekend, when I received notice that one of my tests came back abnormal and I should come back and re-do the tests at my earliest convenience. Not what one wants to hear. I’m sure it’s nothing. You think it’s nothing, right?

2. On Saturday, I went at long last to have my hair color touched up. Because I’m vain like that, okay? My regular colorist, Christine (long may she reign), is on tour with an undisclosed extreme makeover reality show, so they booked me with Roger of the Two-Toned Hair. Part of Roger’s hair was platinum blond and the other part was a very dark brown and it was all spiked with gel. That should have been a red flag, but what was I to say?

So anyway, my hair was light brown when I went in. When Roger of the Two-Toned Hair rinsed my hair and brought me back to the styling station to style it, I said: “Oh! It’s RED.” “Yeah, it is a little red,” he said. “Oh my God,” I said, trying not to panic. Since I am not confrontational in the least, it was pretty much up to him to infer that I was not happy. But I think I got my point across, because then he decided to put a toner in it to get the red out. He was only partly successful. I then looked at my head and said to myself, “Well, it’s wet, so it may look different when it’s dry.” I paid up (too much for something I wasn’t happy with) and skedaddled back home. I had already been there for almost two hours and I was thoroughly sick of it.

Well, guess what? My hair is still red. I called the salon today to tell them how much I hate them and they agreed to schedule me with my regular colorist, who will be back on the 22nd. So I have to live with my hair like this until then, but that is fine, because I will trust no one else with my hair. But the salon receptionist, Marlene, and I are waiting to find out what the manager says because I told her I am not paying to have this corrected. Nor should I! And man, if they try to pull some b.s. with me, it will be on! Did I mention that my husband is a lawyer?

3. I am still fighting with Embassy Suites Hotel over $160.92, which they overcharged me in December of 2003. I left yet another message with them today. Do not ever use Embassy Suites or Hilton (their evil parent company). There, that’ll fix ‘em.

4. I am still (still!) researching preschools for my beloved cocoa puff for Summer/Fall 2005. We are visiting another one this Thursday and I am hoping to get in touch with the director of a third tomorrow. I had stopped thinking about it until I ran into a mom and baby on the playground a couple of weeks ago. They looked eerily familiar, and then I realized I had seen them on the tour of the first preschool we looked at. We talked (the moms, that is – the baby girls just swung on swings next to each other and did their girl thang) and exchanged info and now I have a co-conspirator in this whole preschool admissions evil disaster thing. She seems pretty cool. I need to call her today.

5. I still haven’t replaced our stolen sheets and towels. Nor have I purchased a new microwave. BUT! We rearranged our bedroom this weekend and moved our office area to a more sensible, easier-to-keep-BabyGirl-out-of area of the room, with a gate in front of it. AND! AND! We are finally wireless! My Genius Husband figured out how to fix it so that I can take my laptop anywhere in the apartment and not have to plug in to get on the Internet. That is pretty damn sweet, is all.

6. I had a facial today for the first time in…hmm, I honestly can’t remember when the last time was that I had a facial. It might have been when I was pregnant. No, seriously. My skin is practically vibrating with gratitude.

7. I have somehow managed to turn down two out of the three potential clients I was whining about in my last post, and the only reason I’m not three-for-three is that the third one and I keep missing each other (phone tag, you know the drill).

And that’s that. Happy September!

Getting to No You

So now I have yet another idea for a book (suggested by my Smarty-Pants Husband) and yet another idea for an essay (which came from my own brain). I am pleased that I have all this creative energy floating about, and I feel like I am in a good place.

EXCEPT.

Suddenly, last week, three separate people contacted me to do some freelance grant writing work. Eerrrrrrrrhhhh…and somehow, despite the fact that I have a babysitter only once a week, I almost said yes to all three. It would be good to earn some extra money, yes. But what the hell?! I actually did say yes to one very short-term assignment, agreed to a meeting with an old client, and talked to a prospective client about possibly working 20 hours a week.

The problem is this: I am really interested in working with that last one. The client is an independent producer who needs to raise money to fund a new public TV series, which I think is right up my alley. But I don’t really have 20 hours a week to give her, and I know that. The producer is one of those types who works evenings, weekends, etc. She is not sure about what she needs – whether they should bring someone on staff, into the office, full-time, or whether they can even do their fundraising with an off-site person on a part-time basis. They are already in production and need to raise nearly a half-million dollars, under the gun. She needs someone to jump right in and work quickly and be focused. I don’t think I’m in a position to do this type of job right now. Clearly, this is a case of the right project at the wrong time. So what the bleep am I doing?

The real problem is this: I just can’t say no.

And I’m doing all this (taking meetings, reviewing proposals, and fielding phone calls) despite the fact that my Dear Husband told me to take this year off from the grant writing, concentrate on Lovey, and write my book. I should really just call my old client, who I am to meet tomorrow, and call it all off. Sweetie Pie Husband, who is really quite practical, says I should take the old client business since I know them, know their programs, and can write things fairly quickly for them. On one level he is right, because there is some sense in keeping my hand in so that when Lovey goes to school, I can get back into the grant writing thing. However, this client is slow to pay due to cash flow problems, and since they are a small non-profit, they only write a few grants at a time. Is it worth it to bring our babysitter in more than once a week for some projects that aren’t going to pay off?

Sorry to inflict my petty First World problems upon you, but that is where I am at the moment.

Of Aversion and Evasion

Earlier today, I got in a good solid block of writing time on my book. Since I am on a roll, I thought that I could work on it some more tonight. Well, evidently, my muse had other plans, because I’ve been working instead on my personal essay collection. The idea behind this is that I write one personal essay a month for an undetermined span of time and that eventually I’ll be able to either (a) collect them in a book, (b) send them out with query letters as proof that I need my own regular column at Salon or some such place or (c) failing all else, paper my walls with them.

Well, tonight as I was putting Lovey to bed, I had a bunch of ideas for essays and that’s what pulled me away from working on my novel. I should mention that when I put Lovey to bed, I stay in the room until I am sure that she is asleep. After the bedtime stories, the rocking, the singing, the rubbing of her tiny hot little back, I pray. And when I pray, I always get ideas. I don’t ask for them, per se. When I pray, I basically have a little talk with God, during which I thank Him/Her for all the good things in my life, and ask Him/Her to help me in areas where I’m having trouble. Since I am not very direct, this generally comes out as the all-purpose “help me to be a better person” prayer. I feel God already knows the specifics anyway. He/She is All-Knowing, right? I also pray for God to keep my baby safe and healthy and to give strength to various people who I know are having a rough time.

I find that prayer calms my mind. And as soon as my mind is free of all the busyness and craziness that is usually zinging around in there (what Zen calls monkey mind), all these great ideas come floating through.

Tonight, I sat down to write about my grandfather. I started at 7:45 PM. I have written a page and a half. It is 9:42 PM. It has taken me nearly two hours to write a page and a half because every couple or sentences or so, I start crying and I can’t stop. I miss him so much. I keep trying to make sense of a world without him in it and it’s just not make-sensible. And if you try and tell me that make-sensible is not a word, I may just hit you (I am already emotionally fragile). Language is a living thing; it is constantly evolving. Are we not adding new words to our everyday lexicon, well, everyday? Ten years ago, would you have any idea what “blog” meant?

And see! Again I am not facing what I really meant to write about. I decided to blog to give myself a break from the emotional juggernaut that awaits if I go back to my essay. You see, how I am blogging as a break from my essay, which I am writing because I didn’t have the energy to get back into my book tonight? So many evasive tactics! I might convince myself that it is too soon to write about this. But that would be wrong. I think it is high time to write about it, and cry, and work through it.

One more thing: that stupid Microsoft Office help icon, Clippit, is questioning my use of the word "awaits" in the third sentence of the last paragraph. Clippit seems to think that "awaits" must have a direct object to complete its action. I think any idiot will realize that [me] is implied and may be inferred following "awaits." I hate that damn Clippit. By the way, a synonym for juggernaut is steamroller; compare "That smug Clippit doesn't realize the juggernaut of my wrath awaits to crush him into an even more useless piece of metal!"

Today started out like a Seinfeld episode. Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, I took out my contact lenses and threw them away. This is because they are “disposable” (although I’m not really clear on what this means. Odd terminology, since that’s what you used to do with contact lenses anyway after you’d worn them a year, disinfecting them every day. Am I overanalyzing this? Not that there’s anything wrong with that…). I have been told to replace my contact lenses every three months, and I bought a year’s worth of lenses about 9 months ago.

So this morning, tra la la, I go into the bathroom to put my brand spankin’ new contact lenses in. Open the right-eye vial, shake it out, insert right lens. Ah! Beautiful! I can see that my bathroom sink needs cleaning. Open the left – ergh, ugh – open the – what the – ergh – what the bleeping blank is wrong with this thing? Although I am a reasonably healthy adult, I can’t for the life of me get the top off the left-eye vial. My left contact lens floats benignly in its solution, oblivious to my frustrated attempts to free it from its soggy prison.

Now, remember, I threw the old ones away. And – of course – these are the last contact lenses in the box. And because I have toric lenses and such a strong prescription, they have to be special-ordered from the Contact Lens Distribution Center for the Nearly Blind, where no doubt they are manufactured by hand by specially trained rhesus monkeys. Who are on strike.

So at this moment, I am wearing one new lens and one really old lens which I scavenged from a contact lens case I haven’t opened in nearly a year. Thank God I had the presence of mind to decide to keep these in case of emergency. Hopefully, my Big Strong Husband can open the left vial when he comes home for lunch. Of course, if this were a Seinfeld episode, he’d break his glasses at work and call me to come and pick him up, and while I was driving to get him I’d notice a homeless person walking down the street swaddled in my purloined sheets (see August 18 entry). And as I whipped my neck around to scream out the window, my left contact lens would pop out and roll down the street.

To add to the Murphy’s Law mix of today, the beloved fruit of our loins has not been sleeping well (again). Last night, she went to bed at Nine. O’Clock. Two hours later than usual. And woke up at Five. Ay-em. An hour and a half earlier than usual. And fell asleep in her high chair in the bathroom while I was taking a shower. At 9:15, instead of at 12, which is when she usually naps. This has totally screwed up my day, but that is life with a little one. Che será, and all that. She looks very sweet, all snuggled up with Mao, her little white stuffed cat, under her green gingham fleecy blankie. So I have decided to seize the moment and work on my book and stuff. Toodles!

Sick and Tired. Oh, you too?

Well, ladies and germs, I have two things I wish to discuss today:

1. I am sick of myself.
2. And (I can barely stand to write this because, dear Reader, you are going to think “They must live in the ‘hood – they’re just frontin’ or something,” because) we had yet another unpleasant episode in our apartment building.

First, I am sick of myself, and I know you must be sick of me too. I am tired of my same basic uniform of T-shirt, cropped pants and flip-flops. I look in vain in my closet for some cute yet functional outfit; I pull out various items and reject them; I gnash my teeth and rend my garments. All of my former work clothes are just taking up space. And after one week of being on vacation, my mid-section, which was starting to trim down, has pudged back out. God, I am sick of myself.

In a similar vein, I am sick of our allegedly secure “luxury” apartment building. Yesterday, our babysitter Maria was here so I could go out and run some errands and then have some quiet time to work on my book (ratio of time spent on errands vs. time spent on book: easily 10 to 1). She was doing laundry, and she wasn’t finished when it came time for her to leave. She told me there was one load in the dryer, and she left the laundry basket in the laundry room, which is literally right next door to our apartment. An hour later, I went down the hall to get the laundry. It. Was. Gone. Desaparecidos! Like those unfortunate people in Argentina, whose plight was popularized and arguably exploited for commercial gain by Sting. So now I dance alone, with images of my best sheets and towels in my head (not to mention my laundry basket). If Sting is to be believed, one day we'll dance on their graves, one day we'll sing our freedom, one day we'll laugh in our joy, and we'll dance… Mutha truckas! If I catch whoever took my stuff…well, I just hope they know who they’re dealing with, is all. (Said in my most menacing, “I am five-one on a good day and a wind could blow me over” kind of voice.)

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Our delightful little family of three has been on vacation for a few days. We decided not to travel this time, but to take vacation right here in Los Angeles, and to act to a certain extent as tourists in our own town. To that end, here’s a rundown of what we’ve down so far:

1. Had meals at Mimi’s Café (chain, but not bad), La Belle Epoque (lovely French food, croissants that must have each had a pound of butter in them), and Highland Grounds (our old standby; had to check in and say hello).
2. Went to the Lake Shrine (Pacific Palisades, serene, full of love, unity and gigantic koi), the beach (Santa Monica, beautiful, gorgeous, fantastic) and the L.A. Zoo (hot as hell; we gazed enviously at the sea lions gliding gracefully about in what appeared to be the coolest and most refreshing water on the planet).
3. Visited the Hustler store sans Viva (unspecified purchases totaling $58.41). Oh, come on, people, we’re all adults here.
4. Processed six rolls of film, necessitating activity #5.
5. Poked around at Aaron Brothers and bought picture frames to beautify our bodacious pad.
6. Made approximately 28 separate trips to the supermarket for stuff we needed/forgot (see activities #8, 9, and 10).
7. Had a family caricature done. This need never be done again, because I really don’t need to know what I would look like as a cartoon character. Viva, on the other hand, would make a fabulous cartoon. I’ll get to work on that project, soon, believe me.
8. Ate more steak than a family of mountain lions (barbecued and pan-grilled -- both were scrumptious).
9. Ate cookies and/or ice cream pretty much every night of our vacation.
10. Lay around feeling bloated and sick.

And there you have it. I hope you have enjoyed your virtual vacation along with us, thanks to the miraculous powers of this newfangled thing they call the Internet. Ahoy hoy!

Age Ain't Nuthin' But A Number. Yeah, Right.

Some haikus in honor of my birthday:

I am thirty-six.
“Middle age” doesn’t scare me.
I am still the bomb!

A good strong number.
Years enough to know some things
And still have some fun.

My advice to you:
Keep brain and body active.
Don’t sweat the small stuff.

What? Thirty-six years?!
Glad to be on this planet,
Though it moves so fast.

“Don’t deny your age.
Defy it.” And yet you’ve had
Plastic surgery.

Thirty-six years been
Very, very good to me.
Sweet Lord, I am blessed.

Be in the moment.
Practice true self-acceptance.
We all have a gift.

I am still a hot momma.

Of Pickaninnies and Predators

I believe I have made peace with the pickaninny doll. I just sat down and had a talk with her, got to know her a little better. She’s asked me to call her Annie. What I realized in talking to her is that she is just a doll, a happy little black doll who happens to carry a basket. She is not that horrible stereotypical racial caricature with the huge mouth surrounded by big red lips, eatin’ watermelon and buggin’ her eyes out. She is not trying to glorify slavery or rewrite history to make us all feel better. She is just a doll. So I am just going to chill and let her and Lovey have their fun. There. (But for those of you that are interested in an analysis of the history of the pickaninny, click here.)

In other news, I’ve been having some trouble connecting to the Internet today. I am not sure what the problem is. I have checked all the connections and everything is plugged in and on. So what the?? I am writing this offline and hope to post at a later time.

In even other news, let’s talk about this movie Open Water. I haven’t seen it, of course (I don’t really get to see much of anything in the theater, and the only reason I know about this is I saw the trailer for it when I want to see Fahrenheit 9/11). But I am so freaked out about it that I have spent hours looking up info related to it. It’s “based on true events”! What could be more compelling?? Here’s the basic plotline: a couple goes on a chartered boat expedition to go deep-sea scuba diving during their vacation in the Caribbean. Due to a bungled headcount by the charter people, when they surface from the dive, the boat is gone. They are stranded in the middle of the ocean, and nobody realizes they are gone. Bad enough, right? Well, they are in shark-infested waters, and they start to see fins slipping past them.

Errrrrr!!! This is the kind of movie that makes me freak out about getting into a pool, never mind the ocean. Why do sharks freak us all out so much? I think it has something to do with (a) the fear of being hunted and (b) well, yes, the sheer horror of being eaten alive. I guess that would bug you. There is a bit of controversy over this film, because most people assume it is based on one real-life story (the disappearance of the Lonergans in the Great Barrier Reef in 1998) in particular. But in researching this, I have discovered that this is not an isolated incident. Not. An. Isolated. Incident. That is to say, it has happened before. More than once. So, kids, for those of you who really love the ocean and might consider being dropped off by a boat in the middle of the ocean to go scuba diving – well, consider yourselves warned, is all I’m saying.

I don’t plan on seeing the movie, by the way. Because I am not the bad ass “sharks don’t scare me” kind of gal that can handle this kind of movie. Oh, and I should mention that I do have a fear of being in water over my head, which stems back to my early trauma in the shallow end of the pool at the Allston-Brighton YMCA…but that is a story for another time.