Who you tryin' to get crazy with, ese?

Don't you know I'm loco?*

Last week, when we were driving down to Oceanside, Viva declared war on me, with (as far as I'm concerned) practically no provocation on my part. She was whiny and complaining for virtually the entire 95-mile ride. I won't get into all of it here, because I have conveniently blanked out certain nasty bits in my brain. However, at one point about 45 miles into the drive, Viva started screaming that she couldn't get her shoe off. To be helpful and to make the screeching stop, I reached into the back seat (while driving at about 3,000 mph), felt around for her foot, pulled her shoe off, and dropped it onto the floor. She then started screaming even more loudly: "I need my shoe! I want my shoe ON!"

Oh, people. The reason they make toddlers so damn cute is so you won't drive the car off the fucking road when they do things like this. I patiently explained that we were in the carpool lane and driving very fast, that she had said she wanted her shoe off, and that she was just going to have to live with it like that until the car stopped. After I calmed her down from that hissyfit, she started this a few minutes later:

Viva [screaming bloody murder]: I'm stuck! I'm STUCK! My shoulder! My neck!, etc.

Mama [looking back quickly once we get on a straight stretch of road, and realizing she is complaining about her car seat straps]: You're not stuck. That's your seatbelt.

Viva [suddenly calm]: Huh?

Mama: That's your SEATBELT. You need it to stay safe, remember? I wear a seatbelt, you have to wear a seatbelt, everybody has to wear a seatbelt to be safe in the car. [surprised not to hear any further protest from the peanut gallery] God, I'm losing my mind.

Viva: You want it back, Mama? You want it back?

Mama [laughing, but serious]: YES! By God, YES, I would like it back. Have you seen it?

Okay, so yesterday, this weird whininess returned. Again, we were in the car. Viva was complaining about everything: the fact that I had no juice box for her, the price of gas, how much her arthritis has been bothering her, you name it. This was punctuated by her asking me every couple of minutes, "Where are you going?" Since I had told her where we were going already about 18 times, I got just the tiniest bit fed up.

Mama: I don't know about you, but I am going lulu, crazy, totally bananas, 'round the bend!

Viva [suddenly really, really mad and on the verge of tears]: I don't want to go around the bend! I don't want to go around the bend!

Mama: Oh. My. GAWD.

* Apologies to Cypress Hill, but surely I'm not the only one who's misappropriated their lyrics.

Satan's Myths of Marriage

On Sunday, Sweet William was channel surfing and came across a Christian televangelist-type show. The preacher was talking about marital problems, and it became clear that he was addressing his entire sermon to the wives in the audience. Now, I don't know about you, but when I encounter something that blatantly misogynist, I can't tear myself away right off. It's like a car wreck or a street fight. I'm horrified, but I have to look.

Well, it's a good thing I did, or I would have missed this little gem: "Intimacy means 'Into ME see'." Sweet William and I gasped, and grinned huge, lunatic grins at each other. "Oh, honey," he said. He didn't have to say anything more.

"Oh my GAWD," I said. "I love it." And it was immediately added to the canon of goofball stuff of which the Blah Blahs are most fond.

This term is useful in so many situations:

• Perhaps we are irritable with one another. All one of us has to do is say, "Into ME see," and it breaks the tension, avoiding further escalation of irritation and possibly sparking a pillow fight.
• Perhaps one of us is interested in getting a little action. All one of us has to do is say, "8 o'clock, after Viva's asleep. Into ME see," and the other will wink and nod.
• Perhaps one of us is sick and regaling the other with details of gastrointestinal distress, at which the other is protesting, "Too much information!" All one has to do is say sweetly, "Into ME see," and the other must grumblingly acquiesce.

At any rate, if you, too, are interested in learning more from this earnestly helpful man of God (cough, cough, sorry, something in my throat), you may click here. And yes, the title of this post was the title of the sermon. Cheezus!

Ruminating

This morning, after dropping Viva off at preschool, I had breakfast with a friend of mine. We are not old friends, and we are not best friends, but she is one of those people that you can speak your whole mind to. She is articulate; she is brilliant; she is well-read; she is principled; and she is really fucking funny. I admire her a great deal.

After we ate, we went for a walk, and as it turned out, I spent my entire "No Viva" time with her. The whole morning! We just would not shut up. We talked politics and capitalism and feminism and ethics. We talked about the mundanities of everyday life. We talked about one's life purpose and careers and family and what the next step for each of us might be.

Well, for her, it's business school. She has been accepted to one of the top programs in the country and she'll be moving east in July.

For me, it's not so clear-cut. I want to write, and yet I have not made that happen. Not yet. So here I sit, after having this thought-provoking discussion, and I have no answers, and here is a quote for you to ponder:

There is never enough time for writing. It is a parallel universe where the days, inconveniently, are also twenty-four hours long. Every moment spent in one's real life is a moment missed in one's writing life, and vice versa. - Gish Jen

This pretty much encapsulates how I have been feeling. I am going to work this, though, so help me God.

I'm sick. I'm sorry.

I've caught Viva's cold. Wait, you're saying, didn't she just have a cold?

How perceptive of you. Checking back though the archives, it appears she had a cold a mere month ago. I didn't get it that time.

Damn preschools. They're nothing but germ factories, you know...an opinion which, in a way, is confirmed by these recent findings. Do you see how following the news can drive you completely 'round the bend? Now it turns out I haven't given my child the best start in life by keeping her home with me!

I am completely crabby, in need of a facial, and would love nothing better than to curl up on the couch and watch all the DVDs we own that I haven't yet watched. Actually, I should start with The Office: The Complete Series and Specials, which I borrowed from Coolia. I've only watched six episodes. I have watched the American spinoff, which surprisingly, isn't horrible, maybe because it features one of my favorites, the guy who played Arthur on Six Feet Under.

My little mucus-factory has just awakened. More to come...

Recent Blah Blah Tidbits

Heard around Casa de Blah Blah over the past couple days:

Sunday Afternoon

Our balcony door is open. There is a prodigious amount of honking and yelling from the street. Our downstairs neighbor yells back from his balcony, "I forgot my cocktail!" There is a period of relative silence, and then the honking and yelling begins again. Some thoughtful young gentlemen down on the street are hanging out by their ginormous SUV -- a Navigator? Who knows? -- and yelling, "Where are those cocktails?!"

Viva [gesturing toward the balcony]: What's that?

Sweet Willie [all weary sarcasm]: Probably a genius.

Viva: Look, Mommy, look! A genius!


Monday Morning

I have just finished taking a shower. I am standing in the bathroom in my birthday suit, putting on moisturizer. Sweet Willie is watching me from the bedroom.

Sweet W: Your booty looks like a cat's smile.


Monday Morning, Viva Awake Now

We are in Viva's bathroom, having just finished brushing her teeth and washing her face. Viva picks up an incense holder, which mercifully is empty.

Viva: Where's the stick? What happen to the stick, man?

The Phone is Not a Toy!

Recent phone message from Sweet William's dad, Bill. (A little context: their relationship could fairly be described as rocky, and messages like this come from out of the blue.)

Bill: Hey William? We are having a block party at our church and we would like for you to come and bring Viva. Okay, it’ll be Saturday, April the 16th from 10 to 4 –

Female Voice: Hello?

Bill: Hello? [sounding pleased] How you doin’?

Female Voice: This is Sylvia [laughs].

[Note: Sylvia is Bill’s wife, Sweet Willie’s stepmother. Sweet W cannot abide her.]

Bill: Oh. [not so pleased]

Sylvia: I’ll hang up, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone.

Bill: Oh, okay. [Sylvia hangs up.]

Bill: Okay. I was saying it would be from 10 to 6, 10 to 4, Saturday, April the 16th if you would like to come and be the special guest…

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

Well, today was Viva's first day of preschool, and miracle of miracles: it was fine. It was more than fine, it was great. I felt sick and on the verge of tears all morning before we got in the car and went to school. Once we got in the car, I thought to myself, "I wish her preschool was 100 miles away," because that is how completely insane I am over this milestone that (hello) every kid has to go through on some level or another. I was not so much worried about her as I was about myself, and yet...she is still so small, and she doesn't stick up for herself, and what if the other kids don't share, and what if she doesn't like what they have for lunch, etc., etc., ad nauseam.

Yes, I am completely insane. But at least I know that I am. Why, hello, are you completely bananas too?

Anyway, I kept it together until I got outside, where I started blubbering like a fool before I even made it to my car. I went home, drank some iced coffee, and:

called Coolia, did two loads of laundry, folded and put away said laundry, vacuumed, cleaned Viva's room, washed dishes, pulled together dry cleaning and Goodwill bags, threw library books in a bag after realizing they were DUE TODAY,and then realized I had 15 minutes to go return the library books, pick up Sweet Willie, and pick up my Viva (Sweet W works two blocks away from where Viva goes to school, so I got him on his lunch hour). We arrived just as naptime was starting. Miss Elsa opened the door, Viva popped out of the darkness and said, in a voice that melted me from curly head to lacquered toe, "MOM-my!" Like someone had just given her the best present ever.

Now, apparently she didn't cry at all. And either we have the most well-adjusted child on the planet, or there will be some sort of nasty delayed reaction.

But now that Viva's in school, I expect to be blogging more, and writing more, and maybe paying a bit more attention to current events. Did you know, for example, that the Pope died? I can see why you might not have heard about it, because it has hardly been covered by the media at all.

Oh, and I might even perform a public service for you. Given that I have to put premium gas in my car, I am always looking for the best deal possible. Well, my friends, here is the link for the cheapest gas in the L.A. area (just type in your ZIP code). And for those of you from other areas, just go here.

I mean, you can pay more if you want to. But you could probably find something else you need to spend money on.

Reality Check

Moving on: I recently saw Hotel Rwanda. Um. Sweet Willie worked on this movie in post-production, so he saw it about 15 times. He said that it was like Schindler's List, in that it is an intense experience, very moving, but because it is so, you really are not going to want to see it more than once. I have not found this to be the case. I find myself thinking about it again and again and wanting to see certain scenes again, and I would, except we have a screener DVD, which is essentially a video -- there is no such thing as scene selection, no extra footage, no "The Making of" kind of material. Since there are certain scenes that I really do not want to see again -- I'm not so crazy about genocide by machete, I don't know about you -- I would just have to fast forward, squinting and flinching, through the whole movie.

Anyway, I just felt really drawn to the characters and horrified by what they went through and relieved that it was over. You know, how sometimes you read a book and you're sad that it ends, because you've come to care for the characters and you want to know what else is going to happen to them? If this has never happened to you, then I don't know what to tell you. Maybe you should try reading a book, I don't know.

But I guess the beauty of this movie in some sense is that it is a true story, so I can now go online and read interviews with Paul Rusesabagina and his family to get more info. Hey, technology is an amazing thing.

I might go do that right this second. But first I'm going to sneak back into my kitchen and have a cookie and a cup of tea while Viva is knocked out and snoring. Viva la midday snack!

Where have YOU been?

So I had a couple of weeks there where I was not blogging. What happened, do you say? Well, Sweet William was on vacation, for one thing. Although that's not much of an excuse because we didn't go away. We often don't, because we like home a lot. Also, we wanted to have time to do all the prep for Viva's birthday and party, which was a smashing success. Highlights from her birthday week:

Sunday: drove down to Oceanside for Easter. Since my grandfather's death, my mom has gone crazy with decorations and my grandma doesn't seem to have the energy or inclination to stop her. There were bunnies and chicks on every available surface. There were also two kinds of cake. Have I mentioned yet that my mom has diabetes?

Monday: drove back to Los Angeles. It took nearly three hours because the grandmas were hanging on to us for dear life, so we didn't leave until the afternoon [read: rush hour traffic]. There is nothing quite like crawling into Los Angeles County on the 5 Freeway at 4 in the afternoon. Sweet Willie and I were quite ticked off about it. Viva could not have cared less because she basically slept the entire way home.

Tuesday: Sweet Willie spent most of the day with Viva, at his request. I cleaned house, got a mani/pedi, had my car detailed, and took notes on ideas for the TV show my friend Coolia wants us to write. Viva could not have cared less because she had her DADDY! All to HERSELF!

Wednesday: I seem to be blanking on what we did that day. It must have been fabulous. Oh, one thing I can tell you is that Viva took her first ballet class that day. And she looked cuter than cute in her tutu. Seriously, I could barely stand it.

Thursday: Viva woke up with a fever. Her temp could not be confirmed because she was fiercely resistant to use of the thermometer. Since she was pretty feisty, we decided to stick with the game plan and take her to the aquarium, which she seemed to enjoy. Later, when we got her home, she threw up all over the couch. We then put her down for a nap and debated calling off the birthday party. Decision held pending her condition the next day.

Friday (Viva's actual birthday): Fever gone, Viva got up and within thirty seconds of waking up wanted to open her presents. Once she opened everything, she said, "More presents?" What hath God wrought?! Later, we took her to the pet store to get her big surprise birthday present: an aquarium. We were talking to the fish guy, had decided on a tank and were debating the merits of various fish, when he said: "Oh, hey ya know, you can't take the fish home for five days, ya know that, right?" Since we had not done any homework of any kind on this issue (because why be prepared?), NO, we did not know this. Apparently you have to set the tank up and get the water to the right temp and right pH before you add the fish. Oops. And even then, they recommend you get "tester" fish (i.e., fish that cost 20 cents each) since they might die. "Oh, man," said Sweet Willie. "Dude, we have to get some fish today. We can't go home with no fish. I mean, look at her." Viva was the very picture of cute expectancy. So we bought two twenty-nine cent goldfish, who Viva promptly dubbed "My two Dorothys," and went home. I think you know what happened. The two Dorothys didn't even make it to the end of the day. Flush!

Anyway, Viva was interested in those fish for about 10 minutes, and then could not have cared less. So Sweet William made the executive decision to cut our losses and return the tank. I think Viva was much happier with the rest of her presents. She also liked her birthday cupcake.



Saturday: The morning of the party. Party supposed to start at 11. At 9:30, Viva had a meltdown:



Just had to share. The party went off without a hitch at 11, was over by about 1:30, and then Viva had her second meltdown, which we didn't document, and went off for a nap. I think she was really ticked off that all the hoopla was over. We should have a party every weekend!

Whew! That's all the recapping I can stand. If you have read this far, you must be a freakin' masochist.

Anyway, we had a good time. She is now two, for better or worse. And she is starting preschool tomorrow. Oh, dear God, my heart.

Un. Bee. Leave. A. Bull!

The scene: post-lunch. Nap time. Have just consumed lunch and in combination with our new "in order to get Viva used to going to preschool next week, have to get her and myself up and out the door by 8 AM every day this week" schedule, am practically comatose.

Viva is snuggled in her Dora sleeping bag next to her crib, talking my head off. I am lying with my head on the Boppy and nearly passing out. I tell her "Okay, baby, quiet down, let's both take a nap -- Mama's taking a nap too," and roll over with my back to her.

A few seconds of silence. Then Viva starts talking to herself. Then she starts talking to me. I pretend I am already sleeping (i.e., I do not respond).

Viva: Mommy, are you sleeping? [no response] Mommy? MOM!! [no response] Oh my GOD, this unbe-LEEV-able. [softer, more to herself] Oh my God, it's unbelievable.

I nearly bust something internally trying not to laugh, and then I roll over and say, "Okay, sister, back into the crib, let's go!"

And of course, I haven't had a nap and it's past time for her to get up, which means I have to go wake her. Mean, mean, Mommy.

Have a fabulosh weekend, all...

Just wrote post. Gone!

After nearly two weeks without posting, browser closed while in midst of writing entry. Can barely contain rage. Will try now to write abridged version. But can barely see through red mist. Must. Carry. On.

Writing, and writing and writing, and -- well, you get the idea

So for quite some time now, I've had two books percolating, which I work on haphazardly, and then this children's story. Now I am actually doing some freelance grant consulting work (I can't say grant writing because my client hasn't actually asked me to do that), which is okay. More on this in a moment. And now my dear friend Coolia has approached me with ideas for not one but two television shows and wants me to be part of her writing team.

Whew!

The "grant writing" meeting last Saturday went well, despite my arriving a bit late due to rain/last-minute car issues/Saturday afternoon traffic. I am being asked to edit a grant template and query letter, and to vet their list of prospective donors and provide recommendations on how to approach each one and how much money they should request from each. Since I have been in the fundraising business off and on for nearly ten years now (Holy shit!), this is no big deal to me, but the reaction of the committee was "Wow! This is great! You have no idea how much better this meeting was than our last meeting, we feel like we are finally getting somewhere, thank God you know what you're doing, we wish we could pay you for more than six hours of work, but clearly you are going to be able to work miracles in that paltry amount of time -- all hail Lisa the Magnificent!"

I think I mentioned already how I feel very odd when people look to me as the expert, but there you have it. Somehow I managed to gain their confidence, and for better or worse, access to some documents which indicated that they were willing to pay a consultant $15/hour more than they are paying me. I don't intend to use this against them, but I will be raising my rates to what is evidently market-value with any new clients I pick up after I'm through with this group. Especially since I just realized I have ten years experience in this bloody ridiculous field! They say time flies when you're having fun. My experience has been that time flies no matter what the hell you do, so you might as well enjoy yourself, right?

Hmmm...anyway, Coolia and I had dinner Monday night (sadly, she didn't drink this time, and also sadly, we didn't run into Ratboy) and she asked me what I thought about helping her write a sitcom. I know it is hellishly hard to write for TV, that if we write a pilot and it is picked up, the odds are against us that it will be successful, and that even if it is successful, the hours and the amount of work involved would break me like a twig. But nonetheless, I am on board, and so is our friend Xtal, and we are going to meet regularly and try and make this happen. Sweet William has a friend who writes for TV, so I am going to try and pick her brain about how we should get started.

Sleep. Sleep!

In other news, Viva and Sweet William both have colds and you know how much fun that is. I am so completely sleep-deprived that last night when Viva woke up at 11:30 (after we put her to bed at 7 and spiked her rice milk with Baby Tylenol-Cold to make her sleep), I melted down. Folks, it was not pretty. I put Viva in the bed with us and she started shrieking like I had laid her down on an anthill. I had just gotten back to sleep after passing out on the couch, being roused by Sweet Willie, and peeling my contact lenses out of my eyes. I had had enough.

I am not proud of this, but I'll be honest with you. I used the f-word, and I addressed it to my child. I said something to the effect of, "I can't take this, why won't you sleep, Viva, I am so fucking tired, I can't take this!" and stumbled out of the room, leaving Sweet William to deal with our little banshee. Unfortunately, he wasn't doing too much better, although at least he didn't cuss. I took a deep breath and went back in and calmed her down and of course we ended up back on the couch until 3-something-AM, when Willie woke me up by saying, "My poor wife!" He then put Viva back in the crib and I stumbled back to bed, where I lay awake for at least 30 minutes before going back to sleep.

But here's the best part, where you can see once again that I have The Best Husband Ever. Viva woke up at 6:30. Willie dressed her, put her in the car and went to the supermarket. When I got up at about 7:45, he was feeding her a smoothie and a scone. After a little huggy time on the couch, he then took her to the park and gave me the whole morning to myself! They didn't come home until nearly noon. We had lunch, put Viva down for her nap, and I gave myself a facial and a pedicure. Viva will be up shortly and you can be sure that she will see a completely rejuvenated Mama Bird. Squawk!

We are off tomorrow to Oceanside for Easter and all the accompanying madness. There will be ham, there will be roast beef, and evidently, there will be cheesecake. And three small children tearing about looking for eggs. Peace out.

Three posts in one day! I'm on fire!

Now I can't remember what was so damn important that I had to write about it.

I hate myself sometimes!

I wanted to update...oh, yeah. I have a meeting tomorrow (yes, on a Saturday) with a prospective client. Looks like I am actually getting my ass in gear to get back to work. Boo, hiss. I was so hoping they would cancel, too. It's with a committee of five people. I guess it will be all right, except that every time I have to do one of these, I always end up feeling like I am some kind of impostor, and that inevitably I am going to be de-cloaked. I get this queasy feeling whenever somebody says, "Well, you're the expert." I don't feel I am an expert on anything. What the hell do I know?

I do remember that I want to give props to my dentist, who is a freakin' comedian. We went to see him en famille on Tuesday, so Sweet William could get a cleaning and Viva could sit in the chair and get used to the idea of the dentist. I asked Dr. M how his kids were doing.

Dr. M: Oh, God -- trying to get out of the house -- I'm telling you -- this morning, it was the Leprechaun Trap.

Me/Sweet Willie: Huh? Whuh?

Dr. M: These kids, with their school projects, oh my God, I'm warning you. This is what's coming. And this morning they had to have a Leprechaun Trap for school, and the walls wouldn't stay on, and it was [mimics crying], wah-hah-hanh! And trying to get them into the car. Oh my God.

Freakin' hilarious! It took me a minute to figure out what on earth he was talking about (if you haven't already guessed, English is not his first language), but I am telling you, these school projects do scare me. I don't look forward to having to help Viva create a scale model of Mount Kilimanjaro or whatever the hell.

Oh God, that was a good laugh.

Molested by Seemingly Innocuous Animated Character

By the way, the other night, I gave Viva a bath. She has gotten back into taking baths, which I am kind of relieved about.

Anyhoo, I was cleaning out the bath tub after I had scooped her out of it and handed her over to Sweet William. I picked up all the tub toys and noticed that one sounded particularly splooshy, so I squeezed it to get the water out. And let me just tell you, this toy had developed a hole in a certain area. And, well, there's no nice way to put this: Boots the Monkey shot his wad on me. Like, right in my face!

I didn't think we had that type of relationship.

Woman Bites Dog

Why I Take Viva to a Park that's 2 Miles Away When We Live 2 Blocks from a Park

1. There are always at least three (presumably) homeless people sleeping in various places in my neighborhood park. It is just one block south of a main urban thoroughfare -- Sunset Blvd.

2. There are prostitutes of various genders and inclinations in the area. Which is fine and dandy, world's oldest profession and all that, but I would prefer that Viva not actually have to see any actual...um, I don't know, transaction, should we say?

3. I have witnessed what I believe is drug activity at the park. I think they call it possession and distribution. I have seen too many Law & Order episodes, clearly. But seriously, I have seen cars pull up, cash handed over, and a second person further down the block hand over the goods. By the way, this is about three blocks from the police station.

4. Sweet William has told me matter-of-factly numerous times not to go to "the Bum Park."

And yet, it is a lovely park. Nice big trees, park benches with little paths, and a playground area with sand and swings and climbing structures for little ones. It always looks pretty peaceful. I mean, the transients seem pretty pleased with it; it must be a pretty peaceful place to flop.

The other day, I piled Viva into the car and drove first to the post office, where I mailed my credit card payment, and then drove past the Bum Park on the way to the Nice Friendly Bum-Free park, where unicorns frolic and ice cream grows on trees. From the back seat:

Viva: I wanna go dere!
Me [hoping against hope]: Where, baby?
Viva: I wanna go dere! Dat park!
Me: Oh, baby, really? You wanna go to that park?
Viva: Yes!
Me: Oh, sweetie, but if we do that, we won't see your friends. Don't you want to see--
Viva [on edge of tears]: I wanna go dat park! [breaking down] I wanna go dat park...[sob sob sob]
Me [sigh, turning right]: Okay, honey. We'll give it a shot. It sure would make things easier...

So after I made a complete circle around the block, we parked, got out and walked into the park -- just behind a guy with two pitbulls. Red flag #1.

We went to the playground, at the far end of the park, furthest away from the gate. In fact, there is a gate at that end, but it is locked. I guess because if you are on the playground and need to make a quick getaway, you can't. Maybe this is helpful to the cops in some way, but it sure wasn't helpful to me. We said hello to the family that was already at the playground. They said nothing in return. We shared the climbing structure in relative silence, since although Viva kept smiling and saying "hi" every now and then, the kids did not return her greeting. Red flag #1 1/2.

We went on the swings, with me keeping an eye on the dogs, who were off the leash and chasing a huge stick, at times grappling with each other and snarling. Their owner was sort of keeping an eye on them, I guess, but then he got a cell phone call, which must have been very important. Too important to pay attention to his dogs and/or maybe put them on a leash, as many signs posted throughout the park demanded that he do. Viva and I had sat down on a park bench and she was eating a blueberry cereal bar, and all of a sudden these two dogs went thundering through the playground, chasing each other and snarling, right where we had been crossing the sand mere minutes before. Now, I don't know about you, but I have been bitten by a dog before. A dog that was not rabid, that was a family pet, that I did not provoke in any way. And, you know what? Fuck that. I picked Viva up and beat it the hell out of there.

Viva's friends were happy to see her.

Sharing and Caring

Today, we were at the park and Viva was playing with this little girl, Cate, who is almost 3. Cate was very nicely building sand castles and then telling Viva she could wreck them. Viva was thrilled in a shy kind of way; every time Cate would say even one word to her, she would glance at me with this look of such surprised pleasure that it made me fall to pieces.

Cate and I were also talking quite a bit, mainly because her mom was preoccupied with her brother, who might be about 6 months old. At one point, Cate said: "You can come swim in our pool."

"Really?" I said. "That's very nice of you to offer." Cate beamed.

"Don't get too excited," her mom said. "It's just a little blow-up pool in the backyard."

To me, that's the best kind.

It made me feel a little better about our park experience today, because Viva also likes to play with a little girl named Zoe, and when she approached her today and said "Wanna play?" Zoe frowned and said no. And then she ran across the playground chasing some other kid (who later knocked her down and punched her. Not that that was karma or anything). Viva looked at me like, "Huh?"

I admit to feeling a little bad, because Viva is shy and I have been encouraging her to be more pro-active about playing with other kids. But that's life, I guess. You win some, you lose some.

Oh my God, now I'm depressed!

Friends! How many of us have them?

Remember that song? I believe it was Nate Dogg, yes? With help from Snoop and Warren G? Ahh...

Anyhoo, I seem to be inundated these days with invitations to social activities. My friend Coolia and I are meeting for dinner next week, and I have to say that the last time we went out, it was quite hilarious. Not that we didn't get deep and share our problems, because we are very close friends and that's what we do. But we had just sat down for dinner in this lowkey West Hollywood eaterie when we accosted by our friend who shall henceforth be called Ratboy. If you know my circle of friends, you will know who Ratboy is. And if you don't, well, he doesn't resemble a rat at all, but he is quite mischievous and full of manic energy, so maybe that's where the name comes from. I would put his real name except that he is gay and closeted to his family and his real name is rather unusual. (And no, it's not Anwar, like that guy on American Idol. Not that I watch that show.)

At any rate, Ratboy was there for a blind date with some guy he met on Match.com. He hung out with us for a while, then went to the bar and found his date. Now Coolia and I had already ordered wine, which is unusual for us (not so much for me, but she rarely drinks, so I rarely drink when I'm with her. We are usually just so psyched to be together that drinking would be superfluous), but as we were tucking into our repast, pomegranate margaritas arrived, courtesy of (who?) Ratboy. We both got pretty snookered. As a result, when Ratboy's date ended and he came back to sit with us and tell us how horrible it was ("He sent me a picture that was 20 fucking years old!" "He was drunk when I got here!"), it was hilarious in that way that only experiences seen through a boozy haze can be. And since I run into Ratboy one out of every three times that I step into West Hollywood, I'm hoping he will arrive in another such chance outing (pardon the phrase) the next time we get together.

I am also quite pleased to report that my sister and I are friends again. We got together on Monday and took our two-year-olds to the park (okay, Viva is not quite two, but almost. Almost!) and out to lunch. My nephew is the cutest thing on the planet! He kept hugging and kissing us all day. I missed him. Oh yeah, and I missed my sister, too. No, seriously.

I have also spent a lot of time on the phone with my friend Brianna lately, since we are both in the same boat -- i.e., trying to organize children's birthday parties without even the smallest clue of how to do so. Her daughter's birthday was this past Monday (Happy 1st, Maddie!), so her agony is over, for this year, at least. Sweet William and I have decided, by the way, that this year we are doing a family-only party at home. Viva is too small and too high-strung to deal with all the people we would have to invite if we had the party off-site. But we are getting together with Brianna and friends this weekend. Yay!

I am in an "I love everyone" kind of mood today, and I don't know why. I hope you all love everyone, too. No, seriously.

Writing? Not. Slacking off? Yes.

I hate my book right now. It needs something and I don't know what. Let me stop and clarify: the novel I was working on last year (the political satire, hereafter known as P.S.) is on hold because it requires a lot more time and effort than I can give it. Because it is a political satire, I created a completely different world and political system to set it in. And just as I'd get down to the story and start writing a scene between characters, there'd always be these logistics to be worked out or research to be done to be sure things were making sense. In the meantime, the deadline to be finished (set by me, and coinciding with me having to go back to work/Viva going to preschool) loomed ever closer. I realized I was very far off from finishing and I don't want to do a half-assed job. It is a really cool story and I feel privileged to have even had the idea occur to me. Speak to me of the evils of perfectionism some other time.

So a few months ago, I decided to put P.S. on the back burner and resurrect this contemporary love story that I had written about twenty pages of a few years ago. I figured it would take less time to write and that it would ultimately be more sellable. Sweet William says I should just churn out a "Waiting to Exhale/Disappearing Acts" type of book and then I won't have to go back to work (yes, he fully expects my first book to be a bestseller. He has more confidence in me than I do in myself). So I have been working on it when Viva sleeps (which is not enough, by the by: she has recently violently rejected the concept of Nap and must be coaxed into it through a long and elaborate process that leaves me exhausted), and while I love the characters, I'm not loving the turns the story has taken. I'm trying to re-design the basic story arc -- I know my two lead characters have to break up at some point, just as I know they will get back together ultimately. But it's what breaks them up that I'm getting stuck on, and what happens in between, and how long the separation is. I get bogged down and then I'm not liking it. What the hell, writing is work, right? I wanted to use my brain, yes? (Does it mean anything that when I was just typing the word "brain" it came out at first "barin"? Am I reading too much into this? Is my brain barren?)

Then I was at a kids' birthday party yesterday (Happy 6th, Gavin!), and one of my friends asked how the book was going. I told her it wasn't going very well at all, partly because of Viva's sleep issues and partly because I had to fire my babysitter.* So then I got to talking to my friend's mom, who was telling me I should switch to children's books because there's always a market for them and they're even quicker to write. Here is where we get ironic (apologies, Alanis Morrisette): I have already written a children's book. I have even illustrated parts of it. I wrote it for Viva while I was pregnant with her. It took me about half an hour to write it. Have I done anything with it? I think you know.

* I promise I will explain at some point why I fired Maria. There is just too much else going on.

So I can beat myself up for not working on this stuff, and then I can look at why. We have a ridiculous amount of family drama going on (from both sides), I am trying to plan Viva's birthday party, I am trying to toilet train Viva, I am trying to work out*, I am trying to keep our apartment clean, our larder well-stocked, and our child clean, clothed, shod and fed.

* Sweet William purchased a scale this weekend. It is clearly the work of the devil. My weight fluctuated a full four pounds yesterday (I think I weighed myself at least four separate times; hopefuly the novelty will wear off soon). Surely this means the scale is defective?

The bottom line is that I can't do everything. No, it's true. But don't tell anyone.

Report from the Toddler Trenches, Part One

On behalf of toddlers everywhere, I have taken it upon myself to conduct a variety of experiments in my home laboratory (also known as our apartment) to help us all make sense of the bizarre world that adults meander about in.

Experiment Number One

While she is elbow-deep in soap suds, yell repeatedly at Subject A (more formally known as Mommy) that I need a smoothie. Once smoothie has been produced, yell that I need a straw. Once straw has been produced, drink approximately half of said smoothie. While Subject A is preoccupied with domestic chores that appear completely meaningless to me, open kitchen drawer and pour the remainder of said smoothie into the drawer.

Preliminary Results: high-decibel shrieking from Subject A, followed by removal of near-empty smoothie bottle from my possession, followed by removal of all contents of drawer, followed by thorough sponging-out of drawer and assessment and cleaning or disposal of contents thereof. Much frowning and groaning and "you do NOT do that" issued by Subject A toward my person throughout this process.

Further Results: in the evening of that same day, Subject B (more formally known as Daddy) is removing food from the device known as HOT! STOVE! HOT! and preparing it for storage in the device known as DON'T PLAY IN THE FRIDGE/CLOSE THE DOOR, YOU'RE LETTING ALL THE COLD OUT. He holds up a long shiny stick and asks Subject A, "What's up with the aluminum foil?" Unbeknownst to Subject A, peach smoothie has dried onto several layers of foil. Subject A rolls her eyes (note to self: keep facial gesture in tickler file, for use during pre-teen years and beyond) and explains earlier experiment. Subject B is clearly amused. Success!

Next Post: I will describe in excruciating detail the torturous device of confinement known as the HIGH CHAIR. Reader discretion is advised.

First Post by Viva

Testing to see if this works. Let's see...

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?