Gone Fishin'

It will be quiet here at Chez Blah Blah for a few days. Tomorrow, we are leaving for a three-day junket in Palm Springs. Sweet Willie has a work conference, so since we have a free hotel stay, we are lugging our (rapidly growing, increasingly heavy) Viva along to enjoy the luxury resort and spa. I picture her lying back on a chaise by the pool, drinking a lovely frosty drink with a paper umbrella sticking out of it. And then later, enjoying a seaweed wrap after her facial, followed by a Swedish massage. Oh, wait, that's me.

HA! As if. I will be gamely shepherding Viva from the pool to the zoo to the children's museum and back again, like the selfless, kick-ass momma I am.

Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city. - George Burns

Oh, where to start? I have not mentioned this most recent family issue because I try to respect the privacy of my family members. However, they provide some of my best material, and there is a situation going on with my grandmother, mother, and sister that has been gnawing at me like a tireless giant rodent for weeks. It has, unfortunately, brought up a lot of stuff that I thought I had buried quite conveniently and deeply in a far corner of my psyche. Apparently, repression is not the happy catch-all solution I have been brought up to believe it is.

At the crux of the issue is this: my family tends to treat me differently than they treat my sister. My theory is that this is it is part of our family culture to do things the hard way. My sister seems to love to choose the hard way, while I have no patience with this and generally say so, despite all the aforementioned repression. One example of this is that my grandmother had the expectation that we would each pack up all our Christmas gifts and come and stay at her house with our kids and husbands on Christmas Eve. This is so we can all wake up together as one big happy family on Christmas Day and share in the joy of the kids opening presents, stockings, etc. To my sister, this is a necessary part of Christmas. To me, it is a huge pain in the ass. I would rather spend Christmas morning in my own home, with my little family, where it takes maybe 30-45 minutes to open our gifts and play with everything in a leisurely fashion, rather than having it be a three-hour extravaganza, at the end of which the kids are exhausted and cranky and are still expected to sit quietly at the grown-up table for an elaborate Christmas brunch.

Oy, I am getting off track. I can't even begin to explain how they push my buttons.

At any rate, I am irate because my grandmother wants to buy a house for her, my mom, and my sister, brother-in-law and their kids to all live in together. By no means do I want the same thing for myself. There is no way that I could live peaceably with my mother and grandmother -- I would be alternately spitting nails and swallowing my tongue, and aside from being a dandy visual, it's not how I want to live my life.

I'm just pissed off that my sister continuously gets help (she gets free childcare from her in-laws and pays them about one-quarter of what we pay in rent, to live in a 2 bedroom house) and no one gives me shit (we have paid for childcare since Viva was 4 months old, and we pay market-value L.A. rent).* There, I said it.

*Also, when my sister had her kids, my mom helped her for the first 3 weeks or so of each kid's life. I was on my own. My mom happened to be in L.A. when Viva was born, so she saw her on the first day of her life. But after that? Despite the fact that she was staying at my sister's, 5 minutes away, for the next several days, she left L.A. and drove home without coming back to the hospital, without coming to my apartment, and damn, I don't even remember getting a phone call. Am I bitter? You better fucking believe it.

I deliberately missed my mom's birthday a couple of weeks ago, and my grandma's birthday is tomorrow. Am I being petty? You tell me. I need a break.

Added to that, Sweet Willie's dad, Not-So-Sweet-Bill, called yesterday to ask to borrow $6,000. It is so outrageous that all I can do is laugh. This is the man who did not attend his daughter's wedding because he did not want to have to contribute financially. He didn't tell her he wasn't coming, either. On the day of, he just did not show up. So Sweet William (who was in high school then) had to give the Diva away. Can you believe that shit?

And there is even more family stuff coming out of Texas (Sweet Willie's mom's side) that I can't get into here. Sweet Jesus, I need a damn vacation.

On a Lighter Note

Must end here, it's almost time to wake Viva up, struggle her into her tutu, and take her to ballet, where she will leap about with enthusiasm and turn my stormclouds into sunshine.

One Hell of a Commute

Hold on to your hats, kiddies, because I have a big announcement to make.

WE ARE IN ESCROW.

Wait, you say, wait! How can this be? Isn't home ownership well out of the range of most first-time, middle-class home-buyers in Los Angeles? In fact, doesn't the current issue of Money state, "In Los Angeles... just 5% of homes sell at prices affordable to a median-income local family"?

Well, yes. We are in escrow on a residence in Arizona, which we plan to rent out. And then sell in a few years. And hopefully make a profit. And eventually, buy our own damn house to live in here in beautiful freak-show Los Angeles.

I still can't believe it. Sweet Willie and the Diva (his sis) and Big Mike (Diva's husbin) and I are indulging in real estate speculation.* Who'd a thunk it?

* "A tongue in cheek definition of speculation is: when I invest in real estate in a rising market, it’s to safeguard my financial well-being and provide for my retirement and my family. When someone else does it, it’s speculation." (Source: "The Role of Speculation in Real Estate Cycles," Stephen Malpezzi and Susan M. Wachter, paper prepared for the July 2002 joint meeting of the American Real Estate and Urban Economics Association and the Asian Real Estate Society.)

Okay, so I'm all cool with the quotes and citations, so I bet you think I'm gonna be all articulate and have something else to say about all this. Well, I don't. What are you, new?

Blah Blah Los Angeles

Favorite Movie Titles on the Marquee at the Tomkat Theater, West Hollywood:

• How the West Was Hung
• A Rim with a View
• Dawson's Crack
• I Know Who You Blew Last Summer
• Drill Bill

I think it goes without saying, but for those of you who don't know the L.A. area all that well, the Tomkat is a gay porn theater, conveniently located on Santa Monica Blvd., mere blocks from my local Whole Foods. So on my way to pick up all kinds of, well, whole foods, I always make a point of checking out the movie titles because, well, it is damn funny, is all. I share with you out of the goodness of my heart.

Love Notes. And Not.

I love Los Angeles. It reinvents itself every two days. - Billy Connolly

Los Angeles is a microcosm of the United States. If L.A. falls, the country falls. - Ice T

I'd move to Los Angeles if New Zealand and Australia were swallowed up by a tidal wave, if there was a bubonic plague in England and if the continent of Africa disappeared from some Martian attack. - Russell Crowe

I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're beautiful. Everybody's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic. - Andy Warhol

Until the Sun Comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard

I was reading this book recently, and parts of it are set in Los Angeles, and at one point, the protagonist is thinking about how much she loves Los Angeles and why. And I realize I'm not going to change anybody's mind about it if they already have a strong opinion, but damn, I love living here. I am a Bostonian by birth and spent the first quarter-century of my life there. Boston has its good points, but you could not pay me enough money to move back there.

Why do I love it here so much?

For one thing, for the endless, and soooo random, parade of freaks I come across in my day-to-day meanderings. I know that non-Angelenos inevitably cite all the Beautiful People running about Los Angeles and how annoying that is; every Starbucks/Target/gas station is filled with model/actress wannabes, etc. Also, everyone, and I mean everyone, is working on a script. Fine, I'll grant you that, but that doesn't really interest me, due to the freak show previously mentioned. The whole Beautiful People thing is just mildly amusing to me, something about which I roll my eyes and say fondly, "Oh, L.A.," as if the city is just a mischievous pet of some sort.

As I say, I love the assortment of freaks:

• The Lampshade Lady of Los Feliz, who generally wears a floor-length green dress in all kinds of weather, with a piece of cloth wrapping a lampshade to her head;
• The Walking Man of Silverlake, with skin like scrapple, who speed-walks several miles each day, in shorts and tennis shoes, reading a newspaper and rarely looking up;
• The Turbaned Homeless Lady of Hollywood, who greeted us affectionately with, "Hello, lovely family!" as we were taking a Sunday morning stroll through the Hollywood Media District (aka The Abandoned-on-Weekends-Post-Production Corridor);
• The guy I've seen more than once at bus stops holding a rubber chicken. 'Nuff said;
• Francine of the long flowing white hair, who has her own public access show, but who also travels the streets of Hollywood in a wheelchair...and sometimes rides her bicycle. Why does she need a wheelchair if she can ride a bicycle? You tell me.
• Also, more pissed-off clowns, in a variety of settings, than one person should see in a lifetime. You don't want to mess with a pissed-off clown.

Then, there's also the weather. I was born in the summer and have never been a cold-weather person. I hate the cold. I hate the snow. I do love big snuggly sweaters and scarves and stuff like that, but I would much rather be slumming along in my flip-flops in January. I love being able to go to the beach when you'd least expect it, like on Valentine's Day, when there's a freak* heatwave and it's 85 degrees.

* There's that word again. I am a freak for the word "freak"! Can't get enough of it. It's like heroin to me.

I also love (here it comes, that horrible buzzword) the diversity of Los Angeles. I love the sheer variety of people you run into here. It is not a homegeneous place by any means. Coming from a place where life was difficult if you could not be pigeonholed ethnically, I love the fact that most people here could really give less than a shit if I am not of the same ethnic or racial background they are. Vive le difference! is what they'd say if they all spoke French. (Of course, I don't speak French, so I'm quite sure that phrase is supposed to have some accent or other. Perdon.)

And I love the friendliness and hopefulness of Los Angeles, the sense that anything could happen here. Maybe other folks don't get that vibe, but those folks can write their own damn blog.

I leave you with a scene from L.A. Story:

Sara: Roland thinks L.A. is a place for the brain-dead. He says, if you turned off the sprinklers, it would turn into a desert. But I think - I don't know, it's not what I expected. It's a place where they've taken a desert and turned it into their dreams. I've seen a lot of L.A. and I think it's also a place of secrets: secret houses, secret lives, secret pleasures. And no one is looking to the outside for verification that what they're doing is all right. So what do you say, Roland?

Roland: I still say it's a place for the brain-dead.

Can it be that it was all so simple then?

I'm having a nostalgic moment. I ordered some stuff for Viva online from Old Navy a few days ago, and via the e-mail confirmation, looked up the current status to see where my stuff is. Well, not only can I see my current orders, but I can see orders that previously shipped. The last online order I made through O.N. was in March of 2003, when I was on bedrest due to preterm labor and panicking because it seemed likely Viva would arrive, very inconveniently for me, at any second. (Of course, she breezed on through and was born on her due date.) My baby shower had been cancelled, I didn't know what I might need, and in my anxiety mixed with cabin fever, shaken and stirred with hormonal overload, I powered up my laptop and ordered a slew of newborn items like socks and onesies and tiny, tiny little slacks.*

And today, Viva is wearing "my first Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt" and Hello Kitty underpants. Underpants! What, are you kidding me? Where the hell did my baby go?

* I love the word slacks. It's so...old-timey to me. Do you not just love it? All right, already.

(Viva Says) Hell, No, I Won't Go

"...unless I am (a) standing on my step stool washing my hands, having just gotten up from the potty without peeing in it; (b) standing on the bath mat in the other bathroom (the one without the potty in it) or (c) standing in the laundry room, helping Mama put clothes in the dryer. And by the way, I want a smoothie."

Damn, this toilet training is frickin' exhausting. You do not realize the myriad mundane steps in your day that you never think about until you have to train someone how to do them for the first time. And you have to tell them over, and over, and over. How much toilet paper to use, how to rip off the toilet paper without pulling all the paper off the roll, how you can't flush the toilet over and over but have to wait until it stops making noise and then flush. Oy vey.

We are making progress, but I want to flush my potty training book down the toilet, because one of the things it says is, "In most parents' minds, potty training is a monumental task to undertake." Well, it is. There's no way around it. And that's all I'm saying.

Follow Your Bliss

So I'm actually going to a yoga class now in a real yoga studio, with a yoga teacher and everything. Prior to this, I had been practicing yoga sporadically with some tapes at home, and had seen improvement, but man alive, going to an actual class is the kicker. The kicker-in-the-ass.

Last night, prior to class, we (Sweet Willie, our friend Kareena, and other classmates) were hanging out in the little garden area outside the studio, drinking tea and waiting for class to start, when a Really Bad Driver tried to back her car around a corner of the building. She scraped the side of the car against a pole, and then just stopped. She got out of the car, looked at the pole, looked at the car, got back in the car and got on her cell phone. She basically refused to move for fear of damaging the car more. Meanwhile, there was someone in a car behind her, waiting for her to get out of the way. Sweet William went over to see what he could do, and it was then that we determined that the car wasn't even hers. Ouch.

There was also no way for her to move the car without scraping it more, whether she went backwards or forwards, and Sweet W told her so. She refused to accept this, screamed something in Armenian, and returned to the phone. We all kept wondering what she was waiting for: a helicopter? A band of weightlifters-for-hire? A time machine, so she could go back 10 minutes and not scrape the hell out someone else's car? The person in the car behind her was patient for several minutes, but finally told her she would have to suck it up and move. At that point, Really Bad Driver exclaimed, "It's your fault this happened, so you're just going to have to wait!"

Eeeee! Cat fight! We all started laughing, I'm sorry to say. Not loudly, but we were not a sympathetic audience anymore. I love when people blame their own incompetence on other people, don't you?

The Driver Behind would not be baited, so the two of them stood there, glowering at each other on and off, until some guy arrived, got in the car, and backed it up s l o o o o w l y around the corner. Entertainment over, time for serenity and all that crap.

Namaste, my peeps.

I have hit a new low

I am so tired today that I can't write. This is bad, because this is my second day in a row of feeling this wiped out. I still have a sore throat, which I've had since recovering from my cold a couple of weeks ago, and I can't tell if I'm getting sick again or what fresh hell this is.

So, since I am completely useless, I ended up actually reading my spam mail on my Yahoo! account. If you read my spam, you would conclude that:

(a) I really need to LOSE WEIGHT FAST!

(b) I have an online gambling problem.

(c) I am in desperate need of Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra.

(d) I am missing out on LOW LOW RATES by not refinancing my nonexistent house.

(e) I need to see Julie and her girlfriends doing things they've never done before...naughty, naughty Julie.

Hmm. What's it all about, Alfie?

To show you how mundane (and completely inane) my life has become: I drove to Target today in search of this. I would like to purchase it, bring it home, put it together and make Viva's room instantly neat as a pin. You will notice that there is no mention of this being a "Web-only" item. I don't particularly want to pay shipping for it, as it is a heavy item. Tax and shipping add almost thirty dollars to the price of this thing. Do I look like a sucka??

However, neither the Target nearest my home nor the Target Greatland (considerably more of a trek) carry this item. This is mighty irritating to me. The trip was thus a big old bust -- except that, as I was driving, I came across a shiny black Honda Accord with the following bumper sticker:

YOU ARE YOUR OWN FORTUNE COOKIE

I felt as if I had been tapped on the shoulder by a giant hand of indeterminate gender and color! I felt as if this message were meant expressly for me! Here, on this day, at this time and place, I was reminded by divine intervention that I am the mistress of my fate!

And if I can ever get off my ass, well, maybe I'll do something about it.

(By the way, for your own virtual fortune cookie fortune, click here.)

I've gotta go lie down. Smell ya later.

Don't Crap Yourself!

...will be the theme of this Memorial Day weekend. Yes, ladies and germs, I have decided to step up the intensity of our toilet learning efforts and begin an all-out, sit-on-the-potty-every-hour-on-the-hour training regimen in an effort to ensure that Viva is pretty much trained for daytime dryness by the beginning of August. This is when she will start preschool full-time, 5 days a week.

Viva woke up at 4 this morning, which I was disappointed about, since I went to sleep around midnight and she was kind of cramping my style. But I staggered into her room, realized I had to go to the toilet, and dragged her out of her crib and into the bathroom with me, where we both sat on our respective thrones. And we both peed! I was not so excited about my pee, because I have been going to the toilet on my own for quite some time now, and the novelty has worn off just a smidge. But I was thrilled that my daughter actually released about a pint of urine into her potty, and that the diaper she was wearing was dry. I wanted to put it on a billboard or something, it was so damn cool (not the diaper itself, just the news of several hours of night dryness). I also realized this is probably why she wakes up a few times a week at this time. Time to limit the fluids partaken before bedtime...especially the beer.

I know, I don't get out much anymore. Stay tuned for the next exciting dispatch when I discuss my toenail clippings! You won't want to miss it!!

Lemme Holla Atcha

Holla holla holla, holla holla. If you've ever seen Chappelle's Show, you know I'm talkin' about the Holla Man. That is one of my favorite things ever in the history of the universe.

Today, I took Viva to the beach. We had a blast, running into the ocean, running back, eating Pirate's Booty and chasing off predatory seagulls. About halfway into our beach visit, as I was sitting on our blanket snuggling a towel-swaddled Viva, a man walked by, a few feet in front of our towel. I noticed he was looking at us intently, so I said hello.

Now, the beach we were at is a public beach in a predominantly white section of Los Angeles (in the South Bay, for those of you familiar with the area). The man walking by was black. Although it is not apparent to an estimated 95% (margin of error +/-3) of the general population, so am I. (I hail from a long line of what we used to call "high yalla/bright, light, and practically white" folks. I believe they call us multiracial now. Who the hell knows, I can't keep track.) Viva, of course, is more noticeably so, since her daddy is black as hell (direct quote from Big Willie himself). In my circle, if you are out and about and run into another black person, particularly if there are mainly non-black people around, you say hello or what's up or how you doin' or whatever. It's just a thing we do.

Well, Mr. Man said hello and kept going. He wasn't dressed for the beach (jeans, blue polo shirt, sneakers), so he kind of stuck out. A little while later he crossed back in front of us, a little further away this time. I was busy feeding Viva, so I didn't feel it was necessary to shout him out again. He must have come by to get a second look, because don't you know, some time later, after we had gone back in the water and come out and I was drying Viva off, here he comes --shirtless, with some sort of mat which he quickly unrolled and lay down on just a few feet away.

People! He came back with his shirt off. To holla at me. Can you believe this?

And he commenced to talking to me. Started asking about my baby, then moved on to the weather. Just talking and smiling as suave as could be.

I am 36 years old. I am not grotesquely hideous, so I have had men hit on me before. But this took me by surprise. Here I was, drying my baby off and thinking about what I was going to feed her for lunch, and I got sideswiped by A Rather Awkward Situation. What Would Jasmine* Do?

I'll tell you what I did. I bounced. Packed up all our stuff, wished him a good day, and shlepped back off to the car. How you like me now?

* As in "multiracial actress" Jasmine Guy, who played Whitley on A Different World. "DaWAYNE!!"

Edited to clarify:

1. The man was (a) out of shape and should have left his shirt on; (b) I would guess in his 40s; and (c) not handsome. Not ugly, but not handsome.

2. I did not flirt with him, I merely said hello. Apparently, I am such a gorgeous knockout of a creature that that's all it takes.

3. I was not wearing my wedding ring. Oh, come on, don't tell me you've ever forgotten to put yours back on.

4. The best time to tell this type of story to your husband is not on a Friday evening, when he's had a bad afternoon at work, is not feeling well, and is waiting for a phone call to tell him if the problem that fucked up his afternoon has been fixed. (The phone call came at 8:00 pm. The problem was not fixed. All was not bueno. Sweet Willie was steamed beyond the beyond.)

5. Sweet Willie's abs would kick this guy's abs' ass.

6. I think Sweet Willie would kick this guy's ass in a heartbeat -- when I first started telling him the story, he got all testosteroney until he heard more of the details -- except that he believes I prompted the mackdown by even acknowledging the guy in the first place. Whatever. I am simultaneously flattered and exasperated by his response to this event.

Let's hope this is the end of all discussion of a matter that I foolishly thought was kind of funny. Gawd!

Gun Control. I'm Friggin' Serious!

I guess I shouldn't be shocked by this, but with my own sweet dumpling in preschool, these kind of stories freak me out to no end. Sometimes I feel like I should send Viva out into the world wearing a full suit of armor, complete with helmet. She could be all fashionable in a Joan of Arc (not Joan of Arcadia, which has been cancelled*) kind of way. You laugh, but just you watch. Old Navy will jump on the bandwagon and you'll be able to get a whole set for just $19.99. And they'll put together some ridiculous ad using a catchy late-'80's tune to market it. And if you don't think so, well, you can just bust a tunic!

* An ironic aside: if you actually click on the Joan of Arcadia link above, you'll notice that the episode which is to air next is titled "No Future." Kind of prescient, don'tcha think? Also, if you read the news item about this, which is easily Google-able (ugh, okay, here it is, you lazy bastards), you'll find that among CBS' plans for next season is a series in which Jennifer Love Hewitt talks to dead people. God, I hate TV sometimes.

P.S. I am not a Joan of Arcadia fan. I have never watched the show. I just happened across the news item while reading other crappy news items. Thank you and good day.

Six of One, Half Dozen of the Other

Here in Los Angeles, we had our mayoral election yesterday, and Antonio Villaraigosa emerged victorious. I am sort of happy that he won, because for one thing, he is the first Latino mayor of Los Angeles since hell-and-gone, which is kind of ironic considering the huge Latino population here. Our last Latino mayor left office in 1872, when the population of Los Angeles was about 6,000 people (according to the Los Angeles Times). Things have changed just a teeny bit since then -- I believe the current population is close to 4 million, give or take a few, and the city itself has grown just a tad.

Aside from being Latino -- and I hate that I bought into all the media bullshit and actualy mentioned that first. Hello, I am a lemming -- Mr. Villaraigosa is also alleged to be a progressive Democrat, though I'm not sure what that could possibly mean in Los Angeles, in which even if you are a Republican, you are more liberal than many (most?) Dems elsewhere. If I had to characterize myself (and which you must know, I hate doing -- I reject labels of any kind), I would describe myself as a reform Democrat. That would be as opposed to a same-old-shit Democrat. In the interest of full disclosure, I will also say that I have flirted with the idea of changing parties, since the National Democratic Party is floundering around in a way that I find deeply embarrassing. But I do hope that this is a step in the right direction for my dear adopted city.

The reason I say I am only sort of happy that Mr. Villaraigosa won is that I have developed a deep distruct of politicos of any stripe, and it seems to me to all be bullshit. The hype, the gladhanding, the pandering to special interests -- oh, you know. At any rate, I hope Mr. Villaraigosa can live up to his promises. I don't think this job is going to be a walk in the park. No sir, no how!

Reason #82 why we don't need another kid

I just did four loads of laundry today, and I could easily do three to four loads more. Now that Viva is in preschool, she is soiling her clothes with spaghetti sauce, Los Angeles-area dirt, and God knows what else at an alarming rate. We also seem to be breezing through washcloths like there's no tomorrow.

This morning, as I was loading up the washing machine and feeling a bit like this was a futile exercise, I had the thought, "This could be worse. What if you had two kids?"

Thank God for birth control. Props to my homegirl Margaret Sanger!

Can't Get to It

I am pissed about losing part of my last post, but now I don't have time to reconstruct it and in the wider scheme of things, it's not very important. I am heading down to see my mom and grandma today. My grandma's oncologist has summoned her for a bunch of tests and we are all nervous. Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers, if you do that kind of thing.

Will try to post more over the weekend.

Catharsis

Ah, the joy of spring cleaning! Yesterday, I went through one drawer of my four-drawer filing cabinet, and removed any files that were either (a) completed projects or (2) work done for clients that I haven't worked with in over a year. I ended up with a towering pile that weighed 11.5 pounds, according to my bathroom scale.

Now, I might be skeptical of this weight, since a few days ago the scale seemed to think I weighed 82.5 pounds, while Viva weighed 0.0. However, the scale seems to have had a change of heart and now registers a much more reasonable weight, which I won't share with you, because that would be totally obnoxious. But I feel confident that this pile of paper can be reasonably represented as weighing nearly twelve pounds.

It's now sitting on my bedroom floor, threatening to topple over the next time one of my neighbors slams their apartment door. I have to shred most of it, and if I take the time to do that, I won't have time to blog or work on my other writing, so there you go. I feel certain that I will add to it next week when I continue the purging process. Maybe I will use it to make some sort of fabulous papier mache project which we can store with all the other ridiculous stuff we can't bear to part with, thus rendering this entire clean-up project completely oxymoronic. Or maybe just moronic. You be the judge.

Starry Eyed...

When I was a teenager living in Boston, I used to listen to WBCN-FM sometimes in the morning. WBCN started out as a progressive rock station which did a lot to break out Boston groups like Aerosmith, the Cars, and the J. Geils Band. Anyhoo, in the mornings, they used to feature The Cosmic Muffin (aka Darryl Martini, now retired), who would give the horoscopes for the day. At the end of this segment, the Cosmic Muffin would intone, "And remember, it's a wise person who rules the stars...it's a fool who's ruled by them." And then I would put on my coat and grab my book bag and haul ass out into the dark Boston morning to catch the first of two busses to get to school by 7:30 AM. Damn, it was cold.

At any rate, I am apparently not ruled by the stars, as during my clean-up, I cam

Oh my God, this has been truncated by some fuck-up with Blogger again. I have to end here but will try and edit this tomorrow. Color me pissed. To No END!

What happens to a rage deferred?

It kind of shrivels up into disgust, that's what.

Yesterday, I composed a most amazing post. It was lengthy! It had links! It had subheadings! I was totally out of control! And then I went to post it and got an error page and a message that Blogger was down for maintenance. I was clinging to some small shred of hope that I would be able to recover my post today -- it's a new! Blogger! feature! -- but upon looking it up, I found this little tidbit:

"You'll need to be logged in to the same blog that lost the post, on the same browser and within 30 minutes of losing your post in order for this to work."

Arrrrrrgggggggggggggggggh. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Still sick. Still!

Yes, it's been almost two weeks since Viva and I got sick, and we are just barely coming out of it. Sickness sucks.

I say this as an explanation for why I haven't posted anything for lo these many days.

Sorry. (As if you care. Cue self-pitying violin music.)

Sunny Day, Sweepin' the Clouds Away

So despite our lingering coughs, we went to see this with friends Nick and Carla and their little munchkin Jolie, who is just a few months younger than Viva. Have I mentioned that Sweet Willie and I are not big fans of the musical? The things we do for our child. Anyway, the girls were thrilled, and it was all heart-warming to see how into it they got. Since there always has to be some drama wherever we go, I am happy to report that this time, the drama did not involve us. But Sweet William pointed out to me in the row in front of us, near the aisle, a little girl had gotten one of the sparkly twizzly lighty things that they were selling at the souvenir booth stuck in her hair. It kind of swirled around in there and got ensnared. Her [presumed-to-be] mom had to remove her from the auditorium to go off somewhere mysterious and extricate it. I laughed because it wasn't happening to me. (Apologies to The Simpsons, and I can't seem to find the original quote.)

Afterward, we got food here, which in my opinion was not all it was cracked up to be. I think they make their greens without pork. How can that be good? I will give them props for their black-eyed peas, but still, when I want fried chicken, I will stick with Roscoe's. And gimme a waffle on the side, dammit.

Anyway, whenever we see them, I always wish Nick and Carla lived closer to us. And then I also wish that Ericka and Aron and their little pookums Isabella lived closer, too. Then we could all hang out and our kids could play together all skippy skippy skippy. Sadly, Nick and Carla live in the Deep Valley (practically in Ventura County, so not exactly a ten-minute drive), and Ericka and Aron live even farther away, in the Bay Area up nawth. It is a damn shame. Sweet Willie, Nick and Ericka all went to law school together, and then our daughters were all born within four months of each other, so it would be a cool little sisterhood.

Since apparently none of us are having a second kid, I'm all for the siblings-by-association thang, but it looks like it's not going to happen. Ericka claims she would move back down here if only I would write a bestseller and build us a compound in Malibu. Okay.

Mother's Day is Among Us...Be Very Afraid.

And I wish I had something more witty to say, but you know something? I hate Mother's Day. It seems to me to have become almost as commercial, crass and weighted with expectations as Christmas.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mother, despite all her zaniness. But in all honesty, I hate the obligation Mother's Day imposes on me. I visit my mother and grandma regularly on non-holiday occasions. Both of them say not to spend any money on Mother's Day. They just want us to spend time together. I will show up with cards and some potted orchids and make them some cake or Sunday brunch. My sister, on the other hand, will buy gifts as well as flowers and agonize over what to cook and call me about it to find out what I am doing and then it turns into an unwieldy, anxiety-spewing thing.

My friends, I hate a thing. I just can't abide it.

Now, my mom's birthday is just a couple of weeks after Mother's Day, and my grandma's birthday is just a couple of weeks after that. So I know I am going to go see them on those occasions. And you know, we really still are sick...

Okay, okay, I know you think I am hateful for wanting to avoid Mother's Day. Every day is Mother's Day for me with Viva, so it's not that I feel I'm missing out on our Special Day if we go visit my family. I just don't want to get dragged into a thing.

Do you know what I'm saying? Do you? Ugh.

Shower the people you love with LOVE. Love, dammit, not all kinds of crap they don't need.

Clearly, Madame Blah Blah is in a foul mood. This transmission will end here, with our apologies for the peevishness of it all.

Recipe for Success

I have come to the conclusion that in order for me to get anything creative done, I must do the following:

1. Ignore the housework.

2. Give myself time to noodle a little. Go for a walk, or as I did this morning, go get a facial (which I desperately needed, and which allowed me time to work on a story idea while a collagen mask dried on my face).

3. Write. Every day. It's that simple.

Handy Home Treatment Advice

By the by: my aesthetician, Helen, is 45 years old and looks, hell I don't know, at least 10 years younger than that. She told me that she doesn't have time to get regular facials because she's too busy giving them to other people. But she told me this simple trick: in the morning, boil some water and pour it into a cup or mug. Place 2 chamomile tea bags in the water and leave them there all day. In the evening, take the tea bags out and throw them away. Pour the chamomile tea into an ice cube tray and place it in the freezer. The next morning, after you rinse your face with water (only wash your face at night, she says), take out the ice cube and rub it over your face. She claims it firms up the skin and prevents wrinkles. What the hell, right?

She also said I have the skin of someone under 30. "You have beautiful elasticity to your skeen," she said. (She is Russian, and calls me "dahlink," and I can't help but think of Natasha from Rocky & Bullwinkle when she does so. With great and abiding affection, of course.) This is because my skin is pretty damn oily, but as Helen says, "Would you razzer have peemples or wreenkles? I'll take the peemples any day!"

Easy for her to say. But she is lovely, dahlink.

Tune in tomorrow and watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat (nuthin' up my sleeve...presto!).

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!