Hacky McHack Hack

Yes, I have been sick for nearly three weeks now. I finally went to the doctor this past week and guess what? I have bronchitis. Cheezus! So now I am on Day Three of antibiotics and a heavy-duty expectorant. I really expected to feel better by now, and yet, sadly, no.

To all of my intrepid readers who wrote to say how hilarious my hubby’s prank was: I fear that you have inspired him to top himself. Who knows when, who knows where, but I do have some concern that further hijinks are in the offing. Watch this space for further details.

I have been far, far too busy lately. I’ve been working my tuckus* off, and yet not getting paid, for I, my friends, am the hugest sucker in the land. Aside from preparing business correspondence and grant materials, I’ve also been preparing presentation materials for a board meeting of the charter school that I’m pro bonoing for. I’ve also prepared a writing sample for a freelance short-term grant writing gig and created two writing samples from scratch for an online writer/editor job I’m applying for (yay me! I made it to the second round!). I’m also having lunches/coffee/whatever all over the damn place. And then I go pick up my Viva so she can abuse me horrifically.

What is that about? Well, my theory is that Viva has to behave all day at school, so when she gets home, her inner Saddam Hussein comes out. All I know is that I feel shell-shocked until Sweet Willie gets home, which is when she then vents her spleen upon him. I think we are in for a rough time until she is around 5, at which point things should smooth out a bit until she hits, say, 11 or 12. So at this point, we have to just strap ourselves down and ride it out. [Note: please do not correct me if I am wrong. Let me just splash happily in de waters of Denial.]

In somewhat related news, one of Sweet William’s high school friends, who is raising three children (one not her own), recently said, “I have to decide soon if I’m going to have another one. I mean, I’m running out of time.” And then she had the audacity to ask when we’ll be having another one. Let me say this: when someone invents a time machine allowing me to take the money Will and I have now, go back in time and invest in, say, Google, and magically retain the reproductive system I had when I was 25 – well, yeah, that’s when we’ll have another kid.

* Just out of (pardon the pun) anal-retentiveness, I Googled “tuckus” to make sure I was spelling it correctly. One of the links it spit out was this, which is certainly not for the faint of heart. I am pretty sure that I am glad I had never before heard of the Dirty Sanchez. No offense. But gaw!

In closing, your Simpsons quote of the day from Springfield newscaster Kent Brockman:

Things aren't as happy as they used to be down here at the unemployment office. Joblessness is no longer just for philosophy majors. Useful people are starting to feel the pinch.

End transmission. Over and out.

Crank Yanker

Two posts in one day! I should be getting paid for this. (Reasoning and logic are not my strong points. Neither is a Firm Grasp of Reality. Moving on…)

On Tuesday, Sweet William was not feeling well. You may recall that Viva and I were both sick recently; Viva has bounced back, while I, sad to say, appear to have been reinfected. My cough has never gone away, and now I have a sore throat. So Sweet William has gone and gotten sick, too. He took the day off to rest, but later on, decided he would go out.

Now, as I have mentioned here, I got a new car recently, and since he was going out, I asked him to accompany me to my car and see if he could figure out the gas cap. I am not kidding. I knew I was going to have to get gas soon, if my heart could stand the shock, and so I had tried to unlatch my anti-theft gas cap in the privacy of our garage, so I wouldn’t look a complete ass at the gas station. Because, you know, nothing is more humiliating than looking a total ass in front of people you have never seen before and will probably never see again. I couldn’t get it to open. I am not kidding. Thus, my appeal to Sweet William’s manliness or whatever the hell.

We went down to the garage together. Sweet William figured it out in no time flat. Then he said he had forgotten his hat, so he headed back upstairs via the stairs at the back of the garage. I put some stuff away in the trunk and then shut it. The car alarm beeped and my trunk popped back open. Weird. I opened the trunk all the way, shifted stuff around and closed the trunk, then activated the alarm. All of a sudden, the alarm beeped and the trunk opened again. What the hell? I was getting irritated now, because this was a new car and it appeared there was some sort of electrical short or some shit like that. I deactivated the alarm and went all around the car to make sure everything was closed, I checked the display to see if it would say something was open/unlatched that was not supposed to be, and then I shut the trunk and activated the alarm. Two seconds later, the alarm beeped and the trunk popped open again.

“What the hell--?” I muttered, getting pissed now.

“HONEY!” I heard this breathless scream, and I looked over to the back of the garage to see my husband, doubled over and crying with laughter, his remote in his hand.

“I hate you so much,” I said. I hate him fourscore and dickety.

I can't get anything done

...because every time I log on to continue my job search/do my pro bono work/check my e-mail, I get sucked in by all the Katrina aftermath all over the Internet. Is anyone else having this problem?

More Crap. Literally.

Switching gears completely: today is school picture day at Viva's school. This has caused me no end of anxiety because I felt pressured to do her hair as cute as it could possibly be. I oiled her scalp last night and quickly sectioned off and braided her hair before she went to bed, so I could take it down this morning, re-comb through it, section it into tiny sections, do double-stranded twists on each section and finish it all off with assorted brightly colored butterfly clips. Viva is very patient when it comes to doing her hair, but it's always when I'm braiding or twisting the very last section that she starts to wiggle. People, it is like she knows. It is uncanny.

So I had finished her hair, she was wearing her school T-shirt and I was about to put her skirt on, when I noticed she was standing stock still with a kind of glazed look about her. "What's the matter, baby?" I said.

"I'm going poop," she said. I hustled her into the bathroom and got her onto the toilet (yes, she has graduated from the potty to the grown folks' john) and foolishly left her to her business while I got her socks and shoes and lunchbox ready by the door. In all fairness, even though The Experts will tell you not to leave a child unattended on the potty/toilet, Viva prefers privacy when she does her business, and I am not one to complain. Moments later, she came running out in just her Muckity-Muck School T-shirt, which is basically like a dress. The Muckity-Muck School requires all students to wear school apparel for the pictures, and yet the smallest size they have is a size XS youth, which is made for 6-year-olds. "Did you wipe? Did you wash your hands?" I said, knowing she hadn't, and then seeing a large wet spot on the back of THE ONLY MUCKITY-MUCK T-SHIRT SHE OWNS.

Oh. My. God.

You guessed it. She partially pooped on the inside of the T-shirt, because it was so long that part of it was hanging over her tiny bum. CRAP! This was at about 8:30, and class starts at 9:00. I had no idea what time they were taking her picture.

I grabbed a bunch of toddler wipes, and I wiped and I scrubbed and I sniffed and I scrubbed, and then I grabbed the bottom of the shirt and twisted it up to a knot at the side like they used to do in the 80s, so it fit her better anyway and then you couldn’t see the stain, and then I put her skirt and socks and shoes on, and then, my friends, I proudly took my Viva to school. It is moments like these when I ask myself not, what would Jesus do, but what would Courtney Love do? Because I think I am a slightly better parent than she. What with her narcotics problems and all. No offense.

Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, Get Your Adverbs Here

Viva has lately become especially enamored of one of her dolls, a Groovy Girls-type (I don’t know if it’s a real one) that she likes to drag around and include in all her reindeer games. Recently, I asked her what the doll’s name was. Keep in mind that when I ask a question like this, Viva will usually say something like, “Baby Girl.” Very literal, that Viva. But not this time, no. Viva looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Actually.”

“ACTUALLY?” I shrieked in delight. “That’s her name?!”

“Yeah,” Viva said. “Actually.”

That is the coolest. I have also been informed that Actually’s daddy is named Angry. We haven’t yet come to a conclusive decision on what her mommy’s name is. I will report back.

In closing, I leave you with your Simpsons quote of the day.

Grandpa: My story begins in the year Nineteen Dickety-Two. We had to say "dickety", because the Kaiser had stolen our word "twenty". I chased that rascal to get it back, but gave up after dickety-six miles.

Martin: Dickety! Highly dubious.

Grandpa: What're you cacklin' about, fatty? Too much pie, that's your problem.

Addendum: One more reason I can't get anything done: I hit "publish post" and my screen froze up and I lost half my post and had to reconstruct. I blame it on the terrorists.

My wrath spins up to 175 mph

Taking a break from my hurricane rant to complain about comment spam. I've recently started receiving comment spam and just would like to know: what the hell is the point of it??

Now back to our regularly scheduled program: five days later, the cavalry finally arrives. Muthatruckas!

I Have No Words

I've been quiet this week. Not in real life, but in Blog-o-land, because yes, I have been busy with my little slice of life over here, going to interviews, sending out resumes, calling auto insurance companies, doing laundry, keeping my family fed and the like. And when I'm not doing these things, I am transfixed, and horrified, by the coverage of Hurricane Katrina and the disaster it has wrought. And of course my concerns about, say, why a basket of blueberries at Ralphs costs $7.99, are completely insignificant.

There are people dying in the streets. Pregnant women going into labor with no medical care in sight. Anarchy and despair. Where is the help? Why won't anyone help these poor people? I keep looking at the footage of the Superdome and the Astrodome and there's no medical support anywhere. The images that come back fill me with rage and helplessness.

I don't have anything bitchy or snarky or even mildly funny to say. Here's one way to help: Hurricane Aid.

Edited to add: And here's another: America's Second Harvest - The Nation's Food Bank Network. Thanks to Poppymom for the link.

Edited once more to link to an amazing "compare and contrast" between President Bush and New Orleans Mayor Roy Nagin's points of view on how well this situation is being handled (scroll down just a couple of paragraphs for the comparison, although the whole post is good, so you might as well read it). Oh my God, I just want to SCREAM.

Breaking News from Navel-Gazers Anonymous

Welcome back! Sit down and have some Cheerios!

SOTM! What, are you kidding me?

Yes, it is true. Viva has officially been crowned Student of the Month of her preschool class. I almost thought Miss Svetlana was joking when she first mentioned it, and then she kept telling me Viva was going to be Student of the Month, and I had to ask what the criteria were. I mean, she is two years old. Is this not a little nuts?

Well, apparently I have been doing remarkably well with my home-schooling program, you know, with the flash cards and the subliminal message tapes and the 5 AM drills, because Viva knows all her shapes, colors, the alphabet and numbers up to 20, and is able to identify all the animals Miss Svetlana throws her way. Also she never has to be told anything twice, listens well, follows directions, etc. From what Miss Svetlana says, Viva is the youngest child in the class, but also the most advanced. I think this is all perfectly wonderful and hilarious. I already have a copy of the school newsletter with the official announcement, and I am waiting with bated breath for the bumper sticker, which neither Sweet William or I intend to put on either of our brand spanking new cars.* Oh, yeah, speaking of which…

* Sweet W says he is going to hang it in his office at work, but as you may have surmised, he is a bit insane about his child.

Vehicular, Splendicular

I finally got my car. Now I do not need to think about this again for…oh, another couple of years, since I like to spend the year before my lease ends off and on obsessively researching and agonizing over which car to get. I got this, in Lakeshore Slate (basically a blue-grey), which was a big deal for me, because every single car I have had up to now has been either black or white. Oh my God, what does that say about me? Is there some sort of crazy symbology to all this?

Search for the Jobby-Job

I have a job interview tomorrow morning for a position for which I am ridiculously qualified*, in an organization where I know two reasonably influential people** (via the pro bono stuff I’m doing). I am also meeting a former colleague later this week, ostensibly to pick her brain about the stuff I am doing pro bono, but also to get the lay of the land where she works. This whole networking/schmoozing/being all diplomatic and shit wrings my brain out, man.

* and ** I say this because it seems like one of those situations where, if I want the job, it's mine. But I'm not really sure I want the job. And yet it might lead me in a completely new and much cooler direction, ultimately. More on this post-interview...

Shut up, brain, or I'll stab you with a Q-tip!

Speaking of brains, here is a great book to check out if you haven’t read it yet: Drop City, by T.C. Boyle. It’s kind of The Beach meets Lord of the Flies meets Easy Rider. Speaking of books, my library list is running low. I’ve received almost all the books I requested and I am almost done with them all. Still waiting on three: I am #123 on the holds list for Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go; #8 on the list for Martha O’Connor’s The Bitch Posse; and #301 for Nick Hornby’s A Long Way Down.

You want links to all these? Sorry, maybe I’ll come back and edit tomorrow. By the way, since I haven’t come up with my own tagline, from now on I’m going to end these transmissions with favorite Simpsons quotes, because I am that kind of gal and because that show is never going off the air, so I will have plenty to choose from, ad infinitum, and when you get right down to it, I am just lazy that way. So:

Homer: Oh, you know what Arthur Fortune did lately? He donated two male pandas to the zoo and got them to mate, successfully!
Mr. Burns: And a stunt like that impresses people?
Homer: Oh, yeah. And I'm not easily impressed. (looking out window) WOW, a blue car!*

* See the relevance? I just bought a blue(-grey) car. Aren't you impressed by my, um, ability to look stuff up on the Internet and somehow make it about me?

Petty Problems, Go Away. Come Again -- Well, Never. Duh.

You may want to skip this part of my entry, as it is way too self-absorbed, but I need to bitch somewhere. Thus: I have been car shopping. Sweet William went ahead and bought his Jeep, and the lease on my Passat is fast drawing to a close. I am not interested in buying the car, because it is tainted by (a) VW's horrible customer service; and (b) having to visit the mechanic at least three times this year. So I did all my research on midsize sedans, and I decided on the Saab 9-5. It's really safe, an IIHS Best Pick, it has the European styling/handling I like, and since Saab is now owned by GM, they have incredible finance deals. I took one for a test drive yesterday. You know what? Not so much. I was surprised. Not crazy about it. And if I am plunking down a wad of cash, I want it to be for something I am wild for.

So I came home and scanned through the Internets again. And I am not liking anything. I was going to drive to Glendale today and do some comparison shopping, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I hate cars today.

Cover Your Mouth!

Viva has a cough, and thus I have a cough. I have been having trouble sleeping because I keep waking myself up to cough. And that wakes up Sweet William, so I get up out of bed to go read on the couch, whereupon he says, "Come back to bed! You are a mess when you don't get enough sleep." See, this is where he is wrong. I am a mess, regardless.

Needless to say, I am tired.

It Really Is!

I found a postcard in one of my library books. Someone started writing a lovely thank you note and trailed off. Here is the entire text: "Dear Sally, Thank you for the birthday & engagement gifts. It's really of you" Poor thing. I bet whoever it was, they were tired as shit and then they went and wasted a perfectly nice card because there was no way to edit the card without making it look not-too-well-thought-out. The front shows an Andy Warhol image of a shoe (similar to this), which tells me that this person was really kind of making an effort at being both hip and well-mannered. It's a crying shame, is all it is.

Leaning Tower of Babble

Heard recently around Casa de Blah Blah:

"I can clean it! I'm da man!" [Viva, using her washcloth to scrub the side of the tub]

"NO. The color red is not fun!" [Viva, asserting her twoness.]

"You are GIANT WALK." [I have no idea what she is talking about.]

Oh, Internet Friends, I have something that I so want to share with you, but it would be violating the privacy of one of Viva's little schoolmates. But one of these kids has the most fabulous name EVER. Both her first and last names are the last names of very famous fashion designers. I don't think I can do it justice, but it would be like naming your kid Dior Versace. But better! Damn my ethics all to hell!

Operation Get A Job 2005, continued

It looks like I may have a job interview next week. The job is downtown, which kind of sucks. I am still hoping the perfect well-paying, 30-hour-a-week position will miraculously materialize so I won't have to leave Viva in school a full 8 hours. But I am thinking this is a pipe dream. Ergh.

Camp Rosecoloredglasses

After reading my last post, Sweet William told me he thought I painted too rosy a picture of our camping trip. "You forgot to mention that I spent the night on that horrible bed [i.e., the master bed with the foam mattreess in the RV, right next to the bathroom, which people were oh-so-covetous of] holding my feet in the air, in agony because they were burning and itching and falling off," he says. Duly noted. I think I did mention that he was miserable. I guess I meant to say that he was wretchedly miserable. Oh, and I forgot to mention that we couldn't park the Jeep right by the campsite; we had to park it in hell, also known as Lot A, Overnight Parking. Had the Jeep actually been parked behind the RV, we might have either (a) slept in it; or (b - who am I kidding?) gotten in it and driven away as fast as our little urban leadfeet could take us. So there you have it. Consider yourself updated.

Gather 'Round for Geekfest 2005

My fellow wordfreaks have gotten their panties in a bunch about this. Of course, it is gramatically incorrect, and how thankful I am that someone noticed. What's next?

Trying to come up with some cheeky catchphrase with which I will end these posts. Accepting applications now!

You Might Also Like…

Oy, what a weekend. Hope yours, at least, was fun. Before I start pissing and moaning, let’s start off with a little light reading.

Let’s Make Litter of the Literati

Recently read: The Preservationist, by David Maines, a reimagining of the Noah and the Ark story, told from varying points of view. Very quick read and hugely entertaining.

Currently reading A Gesture Life, by Chang-Rae Lee. It’s wicked good. Almost finished.

Next up to bat: The Safety of Objects, by A.M. Homes.

On to more painful subjects.

Camp Makemewannaholla

Camping. So not what I thought it would be. Expected some minor irritations but overall, figured we would have a good time. Here is what transpired.

Friday night, the night before we leave for camping trip: after a day running around like a crazy person, I am still packing and making food. Sweet William is at the Jeep dealership, trying to buy a new car, because he has realized that we can’t go out into the middle of nowhere in August in a car that is either (a) rattling like it is going to fall apart (mine) or (b) sorely lacking in the air conditioning department (his). While I am simultaneously preparing dinner, finally getting the birthday cake into the oven, and supervising Viva’s bath, he comes home with paperwork for me to fill out. Because – get this! – while he has an outstanding FICO score, he has no credit history. Student loans don’t count. He has a very well-paying job and generally pays cash for everything; the one credit card he has (which he pays in full every month) is a card in his business name, so that doesn’t count either. Since I have a credit history (and also a good FICO score, amazingly, though not as high as his), I had to co-sign on the car.

He returns after Viva is in bed, sometime after 9 PM, bringing the salesperson home with him, so I can sign everything. And then, my friends, we are the proud drivers of this.

It is fully loaded (leather everything, power everything) and it rides like a dream. One down, one to go.

Saturday: Thought we would be on the road by 8 AM, but we don’t actually get on the freeway until 9:30. We drive to Bakersfield (please note well: this trip was arranged by my sister-in-law, since she actually camps on a regular basis). We get lost. We are on the phone with my sister, who is also lost. We keep passing each other on this two-bit highway in the middle of nowhere. It would almost be funny except we each have small kids in the car, and they’re all sick of being in the car. It’s also already really frickin’ hot, so thank God for the beautiful new air conditioning.

Now, we reserved a campsite to share with my sister and her two kids and my sister-in-law and her husband and two kids. Since the Blah Blahs don’t camp, Diva suggested we rent an RV instead of having to get a tent, sleeping bags, etc. That way, we could have a cool place for the kids to nap during the day, as well as a place for everyone to pee and use the shower instead of traipsing to the public bathrooms.

All well and good. We finally arrive, unload, get settled. It is hot, and a long day ensues. We are lucky enough to have a huge tree providing shade in the middle of the campsite, with a picnic table beneath. Diva, Big Mike, Junior Mike (17), and Cousin Charles (16) arrived the day before, so they already have tents set up, trash and lights taken care of, etc.

At the adjoining site are friends of Diva and Big Mike. Herein my woes begin. Because I knew that a couple of their friends were coming with their own RV, but I didn’t realize that they would be sharing their site with other friends and relatives – all of whom, it will soon appear, think it would be no problem to use our RV as well. During the day, this is not really a problem. Of course, it’s easier to go to the bathroom in the RV, why should anyone shlep down the path to the public toilet?

But as the day begins to wind down and people return from the “lake,”* where they have been boating and (illegally) swimming, everyone decides they need to take a shower. Between the two campsites, we have nineteen people. And the sun is down and we are getting ready to put Viva to bed, but people are cleaning up from dinner, and they want to wash pots and pans out in the sink. In the RV. And they want to use the bathroom. In the RV. And they want to just for whatever fucking reason, be in and out of the RV, slamming the door over and over. Finally, I make a stink with Diva, which really isn’t fair, but these are her friends, not mine. One of them stayed in the shower for over half an hour, which is incredibly rude when you know other people are waiting. And by the way, they have not paid for the RV, we have.

Sweet William, in the meantime, has been bitten by bugs and/or is having an allergic reaction to something. (We later determine it might be peaches.) Earlier in the day, at around 3 PM, he has told me he is miserable and we should leave, that we are city folk and this is not what we signed up for. I have some sick idea of family loyalty and don’t want to abandon my sister with two small kids and a bunch of people she doesn’t know (besides Diva and fam), so we agree to stick it out and leave at dawn the next day. By the time the RV (our only sanctuary, since we don’t have a tent, unlike everyone else) has become Grand Central Station, Sweet William is in “I told you so” mode. I hate everyone, but mainly myself, and end up walking first my nephew Tyler (age 2.75) and then Viva** around and around the edges of the campsite in the dark, as neither of them can fall asleep with all the commotion. My back is protesting fiercely by the time we get them to bed (at 10 PM), but the walking and cuddling are kind of soothing, so I am resigned to make the best of things by the time I get back to the RV. I fall asleep next to Viva on the pull-out couch in the RV “living room,” waking up throughout the night as people still come in and out to go to the bathroom, although with far less frequency.

The power in the RV (including the AC) goes off at some point in the middle of the night. I wake up with Viva’s huge sweaty forehead pressed to mine. I am sweating buckets. Did I mention that I began menstruating the day before? Do you have any idea how unpleasant that is?

Sunday: we get up at about 7. I get to take a shower in the RV that we paid for – which I didn’t the night before, since by the time I got Viva to sleep and even thought about getting into the bathroom, there was already someone in there and I was too exhausted to fight it. We have breakfast, play with the kids, load up the truck, and we are out of there. Geez Louise.

* It is a man-made lake, which I didn’t realize until the day before we left. Gross. Just seems like a breeding ground for all kinds of bacteria. I (of course, you know me) do not even set foot in the water, as a result. Did I mention that it was hot, and swimming might have been refreshing?

** Gratuitous cuteness: since I graced you with a picture of Tyler's brother in the last post, here is my most recent pic of Viva and Tyler, for fairness' sake:



How Much is That Doggy in the Window?

Moving on and keeping you in the know: How insane is this?? A related sidebar estimates that Americans will spend $35.9 billion on their pets by the end of 2005. Wow.

Don’t get me wrong, I am an animal lover, not a fighter, but still: Whoo!

And with that, I leave you for today. Time for leftover pizza…but wishing I had ice cream.

It's like something out of that twilighty show about that zone

Today I have: sent out a resume and writing sample to another prospective employer (this time someone who is looking for a freelancer); gone to two markets in preparation for our camping trip this weekend; forgotten to get bread and beer, despite being in two aforesaid markets; stopped off at the party store to get dinosaur figurines to put on top of my nephew's birthday cake; made several trips from garage to 5th floor apartment, unloading all groceries, etc.; diced and boiled 4 pounds of potatoes to make potato salad; disemboweled a watermelon, cantaloupe, and two mangoes; sent an e-mail update to my charter school/pro bono work contact; and had a phone conversation with another potential freelance client. On top of all that, I still have to bake the cake for my nephew*, to bring with us on the camping trip, and I haven't had any coffee yet.

* My darling Matt Man, who just turned 7:



SEVEN! Next thing you know, he'll be driving!

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Viva's Teacher

Viva's teacher, who I will refer to here as Miss Svetlana, though that is not her real name, hails from Russia. She is a big-boned gal, middle-aged (whatever that means these days), has a charming accent, and light brown hair teased up into not-quite-a-bouffant. The most important thing for you to know, though, is that Miss Svetlana is FAB.U.LUSS.

Example: the other day when I dropped Viva off, Miss Svetlana arrived wearing a royal blue dress with a sailor collar, and carrying a matching blue handbag with anchors embroidered all over it. Clearly, she had the nautical theme going on. She also always wears heels, despite dealing with 2-year-olds all day. How hot is she???

But the thing I adore is that yesterday, when I walked into class to pick Viva up, everyone was dancing. Yes, including Miss Svetlana. She was getting down with her funky self to some kids' tunes, and she was really diggin' it. She said to me, "Oh, Viva loves to dance! As soon as I turn on the music, she take off dancing!" I am well aware of Viva's love of the dance, so this was not surprising, but what I was touched to see was that this morning, when I dropped Viva off, Miss Svetlana mentioned it again, and turned on the music so they could dance together. I forgot to mention that Miss Svetlana was today wearing a bright yellow top and a black and yellow skirt. Viva was the first kid to arrive today, so it was just the two of them. When I left, I turned back and saw through the window this tiny little kid, grinning and leaping about with abandon, and a giant bumblebee with a helmet of hair, shaking her groove thing, shaking her groove thing, yeah, yeah.

Bumper Sticker Alert

Seen this week: FIGHT ERRORISM

And, on the back of a pickup: YES! THIS IS MY TRUCK! NO! I WON'T HELP YOU MOVE!

Out of Gas

I recently spent $36.31 to fill up my gas tank, at $2.93/gallon. Well, we knew it was coming, but a few days later I was driving north on La Brea Boulevard and I saw this at the Chevron station at Beverly and La Brea: $2.93/regular, $3.03/plus, and $3.11/premium. My heart palpitated wildly, because, you see, my car "requires" premium. Which means I am now paying well over $3 a gallon to fuel up and run around town doing whatever the hell it is that I do.

Why are all the hybrid cars either (a) too small for anyone with children, or (2) cars that I have no interest in driving? I drove the Ford Escape as a rental while in Boston a while back, and I have to say I was underwhelmed. I would like to be somewhat environmentally responsible, and it makes me depressed, until I remember something my old friend George once said to me: "Ah, the environment -- what's it done for me lately?"

I gotta go bake that cake. Have a lovely weekend!

The Low Down (Not the Down Low)

Operation Get a Job 2005

I am sending out, on average, one resume per day. Just sent another one out today. My bowels are all aboil as a result. Just thought I’d share!

Shout Outs!

And a hearty welcome and hugs and kisses to my darling Ratboy, who says he’s been reading my blog, unbeknownst to me. Maybe at some point I will figure out how to track my loyal readership, but for now, I have thrown up my hands in disgust. I did try downloading one of those free “stats counters” but I could not for the life of me get it to work. I am, as you know, not the most techno-hip chiquita ever to walk the earth.

Anyhoo, Ratboy says he found out about my blog from a little birdie. This sounds suspiciously like M, also known as Mr. X. Not that he looks anything like a little birdie, but I can very easily visualize him flipping the bird, so it seems like a match. So I'ma holla at him, too! Shout out to M, with the delightful buzzcut which I haven't yet seent!

Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape

I went to my yoga class this morning and it was delightful. My yoga teacher-slash-new best friend, whose name I can’t write here because (a) it is really unusual and (b) it is really impossible to spell, told me today that I am very flexible. I think she is full of shit, but I like her anyway, because we don’t just do yoga in her class – we incorporate Indian dance into it. We’re all like, Bollywooding around! We’re all Monsoon Wedding and shit. It’s frickin’ great.

Soon I will have a job and no longer be able to take this class. Booo!

More to say, but I must get in my Blah Blah Mobile and go pick up Viva and take her to ballet. Tutus, people! Tutus!

My Home is a Wreck

...but I'm not a home wrecka like Angelina Jolie.

It's the post-vacation clean-up time. I just did the grocery shopping, and I need to wash dishes and vacuum and maybe do some laundry. My bed isn't made, there's crap lying all over the living room, and I just made myself a cup of tea and decided to blog.

It's not really procrastinating if I look up job stuff while I'm online, right?

Speaking of which, I e-mailed my resume to some poor unsuspecting soul yesterday, along with a letter about how great I am and how they would have to be completely insane not to hire me. I think those were the exact words I used. We'll see what happens.

In the meantime, I am doing some pro bono work for a local charter school, or rather for the group that is trying to get a new charter school off the ground. If this all works out, we might send Viva there in 2008 for kindergarten. If she actually did end up going there (instead of the private school in which she is now enrolled), this pro bono work could potentially save us somewhere between $85,000 and $90,000, depending on how much tuition goes up. Yes, for primary school. So it may actually not be pro bono as it is traditionally defined, but in its truest literal sense, it will, i.e., for good, i.e., all to the good. All to the good for the Blah Blah Family, that is!

[I'm sorry, I know I am such a huge geek. I took years and years of Latin, from 8th grade all the way into college. I can't help myself.]

Random Gushing

Can I just say how much I love the Farmer's Market? I just bought a basket of tomatoes for a buck. One dollar!

And Now for an Important News Break...

Scary earthquake news from Japan, although from what "experts" say, Japan got lucky and so far, there are no casualties and only a couple of small tsunamis. I have nothing snarky to say about this. It reminds me that Southern California could be hit at any time, and we have no preparations made for a Viva of this size and season. Our earthquake bag probably has six-month size outfit in there for her. And no shoes!

Anyone Care for Ham?

Last night, I was treated to a re-enactment of a scene from Return of the King.

Sweet William: Here, I'll be Faramir, and you be Aragorn.

Viva [in a slow, deep voice]: And the king...came back...[moving slowly]

SW: And Faramir, the last Steward of Gondor, bowed low before the King...[bows low] and gave him his crown... [tries to put imaginary crown on Viva's head, but she is bouncing all around and giggling]

SW: Aragorn? I've never seen you behave this way. [more giggling and squealing] Well [deepening his voice again], Faramir picked the King up, and swung him high in the air! [screeching laughter] And then Faramir put him on top of his head! [screaming hysteria from Viva]

What am I supposed to do with these two?

I am shocked and awed. There, I said it.

Oh, Mis-con-sin!

Very happy birthday wishes to Aileen: Go Badgers!

Aileen, your friend Tammy was not able to set any flamingos on fire on your lawn this year, since you live at such an inconsiderate distance. But she asked me to wish you a happy birthday as a surprise. I am sure it is not quite the same, but here is your obligatory flamingo:



[Picture flames licking around it. My graphics skills are subpar.]

I wish you every happiness this year -- good health, prosperity, and the extra energy you will need for dealing with a two-year-old.

And by the way, 34 is not so bad. As I recall, it was actually quite a lovely year. Enjoy!

Pampering. Not the Diapers.

How can I tell you, O Internet, of the beauty that was my birthday?

Let me count the ways.

(1) Viva! Woke up grumpy. As she was sitting on the potty, I reminded her that today was my birthday. Her face lit up. "Happy Birthday!" she crowed, opening her arms wide in the universal "give me a hug" signal. We hugged nicely. She smelled of sweetness and light. "I'm so excited!" she said. I just love her so.

(2) Milk Bath! At a spa. In a dimly lit room with soft music and flickering candles.

(3) Facial! At same spa. Long overdue. Hey, there's my skin!

(4) Lunch! At a restaurant. Focaccia, shrimp fettuccine and goat cheese salad.

(5) Massage! At home. Given by Sweet William's alterego, who prepared both a glass of wine and some tea for me prior to the massage and put Miles Davis on the CD player.

(6) Birthday sex! In the afternoon, while our kid was at school! No chance of being interrupted!

(7) Reading a book! In the afternoon, while our kid was at school! No chance of being interrupted!

(8) Balloon! Flowers! Cake! All delivered by my husband and child, who was nap-free and giddy with excitement/exhaustion by the time she came home.

(9) Dancing! After the cake. Apparently, to Viva it is not a party if there is not music and dancing. I guess she's right. My in-laws came over for the cake and singing and were forced to dance with all of us to the sweet strains of "Bananaphone" (not the Raffi version, the Rhonda Vincent version; click here for a funny sped-up animated version). It's a small price to pay for tiramisu cake and hijinks with your granddaughter, I'd say...

It all deteriorated shortly thereafter, due to the afore-mentioned lack of nappingness on the part of the fruit of our loins. She morphed into a complete velociraptorish, shrieking-at-high-decibel mess by about 6 o'clock. We said goodbye to our plans of a romantic dinner out and by the time we put her to bed, a scant two hours later, we were both wrung out as though we had run a marathon.

I felt every one of my 35 years after that. (I forgot to mention that I've decided that with this birthday, I'm going backwards. I've decided I should at least be younger than Sweet William, who in real life is 16 months younger than I. Hmm, for a very interesting look at age and time and marriage and life, I recommend The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. I read it this past week, courtesy of the Los Angeles Public Library and their fabulous online hold feature. Yes, regular readers! I have already received some of the books I requested! It is just as fabulous as I feared -- I mean, hoped!)

Many happy returns of the day.

Ten threes and a seven

Tomorrrow is my birthday. Since I will be spending it first getting Viva ready for school and then getting her to school and then speeding over to the spa for a milk bath and a facial and then having lunch and then doing heaven knows what until I go out for a fabulous romantic dinner -- well, I don't know that I will be blogging much, is all. But I've missed you and I wanted to say hello, again.

I will be thirty-seven years old tomorrow. I wish to share some hard-earned words of wisdom with you all, but naturally, I can't think of any. [Insert tasteless joke about early-onset Alzheimer's here.]

I have a sense of anticipation about the coming year. I feel lots of change in the air -- and not the quarters and dimes kind of change, but like real change. Not like the change of life, I hope, but change in my life. I'm quite looking forward to it.

I'm on Vacation!

Checking in to say I'm on vacation. Quick rundown:

Viva's first few days at new school: somewhat disappointing. Her teacher called her by the wrong name the entire first day. Ma and Pa Blah Blah very unhappy. Viva confused. Hopeful things will improve. We are, after all, paying an obscene amount of money to send her there.

Number of times we've been to the movies so far on vacation: 0.

Number of times we've eaten out: 3?

Number of car dealerships we've been to: 2

Number of test drives: 0

Number of cars bought: 0

Number of cars we currently own serviced by a mechanic this week: 2

How many days until my birthday: 1!

Sorry so short. More later...

Celebrational, Educational, One Bad Situational

I Can't Transcribe a Guitar Riff...

...But if I could, I'd put the opening chords of "[You Say it's Your]Birthday" up there. The birthday greetings have begun! What fun! This, despite my birthday being a week away. I received a card from one of my bestest friends, Coolia, yesterday, via which she said since she has been late with birthday greetings she is sending mine early.*

Also, my dear friend M sent me an e-card today, the text of which (in its entirety) is, "Truism: It's your birthday, so rock out with your cock out!" Sadly, it appears he meant to send this on my actual birthday, but it came prematurely (get it? Get it? Ouch, sorry, but that pun was just floating out there...)

At any rate, I love all the early birthday wishes. Thanks, guys!

* This is all the more sweet as I know she is consumed with work problems, personal issues, and flying to Phoenix every two weeks to help care for her mom, who is, it appears, in the early stages of a deteriorating illness. Coolia, you are the coolest and I love you madly.

School's Out!

For one day, anyway. Viva ended her career at one preschool today and will begin at her new, bigger, better, bionic preschool on Monday. One of the moms (O's mom) at her preschool was pressuring me to get together with them tomorrow for a play date at LACMA, but I made her back off. "Back off, bitch!" I said.

Um, actually, what I think I said was, "That's so sweet, but you know, tomorrow is kind of our last hurrah, since Viva will now be in preschool five days a week and I will be going back to work, so I think I'm going to just spend the day with her, you know, just the two of us." And of course O's Mom was completely understanding, but still was reluctant to let us go, as was pretty much everybody at the school. Viva told me on the way home that Miss Elsa (her teacher) was crying. I was a little skeptical of this, but then when I asked why, Viva said, "She goin to miss me." Awww, so sweet.

For my part, I did write Miss Elsa a very nice note and brought her flowers to thank her for being so great and making Viva's first school experience such a positive one. And I even brought cookies for the kids! (Not homemade. Come on, now, people.)

I do think she has really had a good experience at school, and I am hopeful that her experience at the new school will be just as good, if not better.

Oh, but wait! Hold the phone! Here is the big news of the day: when I picked Viva up, she was wearing the same outfit as when I dropped her off. This means that she kept her pants dry, and used the toilet only, for the entire day thus far (as she also just peed before her nap and is currently sleeping like a babe). As it is now almost 3 PM, I think this is pretty damn fantastic, and practically light years away from a mere two days ago, when she brought home poopy pants in a bag. I high-fived her at school when I saw she was dry, and I am thinking this calls for some kind of special treat. Ah! Fortuitously, I bought fingerpaints just yesterday. Perhaps we can try them out when she gets up. The carpet needs cleaning anyway...

Warning: Do Not Try This at Home. Or in the Car.

Forgot to mention my latest near-heart attack. On Monday, I took Viva to the park, and after playing and snacking and playing some more, I determined that it was nearly time for lunch, so we headed back to the car. Now, Viva does not currently like to just get in the car and head merrily off. Oh, no. She decided she needed a drink, and she didn't want to drink it in her car seat. She wanted to sit in my seat and pretend to drive, which I allowed her to do (Neophytes: Note well, choose your battles.). We sat there and talked and she looked in the vanity mirror and pushed buttons and it was all very nice, but then I said we should really be getting home. She happily clambered into her car seat, and we buckled her in (she knows how to buckle the top buckle ALL BY HERSELF, "I DO IT MYSELF"), and I shut the car door and went around to the driver's side, and --

The door was locked. All the doors were locked. Viva had hit the "lock button" while the doors were open, and I had just locked my kid inside the car. With the key in the ignition, but with the engine (and air conditioning) off. Near noontime on a Southern California summer's day.

Here is a basic transcription of what went through my head: OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK OH MY GOD Okay wait the front windows are ajar and we are under a tree so she won't die right away from the heat Let me see if I can push the window down and reach the button NO GODDAMMIT Okay, Honey works ten minutes away and he has a key to the car OH FUCK my purse is in the fucking car with my fucking cell phone inside it wait WAIT here comes somebody "HEY! Does one of you have a cell phone PLEASE, I just locked my daughter in the car" -- and two very nice men, parents themselves, stopped to help me. One gave me his cell phone, whereupon I called Sweet William, who was just about to run out the door to come help me when the other nice man who stopped managed to force the window down further and pushed the button and opened the door.

It took all of maybe five minutes, but I would not wish it on anyone. I was trembling and about ready to throw up. Adrenaline can jack you up, man.

Whew, just thinking about it, I need a drink. Dang! Who's with me?

Old School, New School, Old Car, New Car

One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.

Back to the Future, Forward to the Past

(Not one of my strongest subheads. Sahr.) Have you ever watched that PBS show "Frontier House"? I've watched some of it before, but this weekend, I had the opportunity to see the first episode, and it was pretty great. I realized that the mom from Tennessee came in behaving like a bitch, and that it really wasn't the strains of 1883 Montana that made her that way. The premiere episode really went beyond expectations, in that it featured a team of runaway horses, a washed-out road (making the wagon train grind to a halt), a dog attacking a child, and a woman complaining as she loaded a wagon, "Sure makes me miss my Land Rover." Tee hee.

But the best part of all was when Sweet William said, "Hey, how come they don't do a show called 'Ghetto House'?"

How fabulous would that be? Drop a few "all-American" families into the ghetto armed with nothing but 100 bucks in cash, a couple of sick kids, no health insurance, no jobs, and rent due on the one-bedroom apartment that eight of them have to share? Now, that would be entertainment.

The Velociraptor in My Home

Today, Viva wore cloth training pants to school. I dropped her off with an extra change of clothes, of course, and when I picked her up, she was wearing a different outfit, of course.

"How did she do?" I asked Miss Elsa, as she handed me a plastic bag. She made a sympathetic face. I looked at the bag.

"She pretty much peed all over everything, didn't she?" I said.

But no, this is actually incorrect. She peed in her pants once, made it to the potty once, and had one hell of an accident in the second pair of training pants. Unfortunately, because Miss Elsa was trying to get the rest of her little charges ready for naptime, she didn't have time to tell me about the second incident. It was over an hour later at home, after Viva had her pre-nap snack and we went to the potty, that I remembered to open the plastic bag and --

Sweet Jesus, what happened here?

Holy crap and excuse the pun, but Viva pooped in her training pants. Oh, wait, have I mentioned that I once again had dental work? So I'm standing there, with my jaw throbbing and yet numb at the same time, looking at a shit-stained pair of pink-flowered undies. I'm stunned.

Viva hardly ever poops in her pants. She is very particular about getting to the potty for this particular function. So that is surprising enough, but the truly stunning part is that I realize that I am somehow going have to get the shit off the pants. And the only way I can think of is to flush the toilet so I have a fresh bowl, and then swish the undies around in it.

Is your stomach churning, too? Have I mentioned that Viva starts at her new school next week, where they expect her to be pretty well toilet-trained? Ah.

At any rate, Viva watches me swish and flush, swish and flush, and then shrieks with disbelief as I remove the now poop-free undies from the toilet and toss them into some soap and water in a separate receptacle.

"I wash the training pants!" she screams, leaping up and grabbing them from the water. "I wash in the toilet!"

"Yuck, honey, no," I say, trying to grab them back. We tug-of-war for 2 seconds. I prevail. She loses her mind and starts shrieking like a velociraptor. I know I am prone to exaggerate, but I actually say to her, "Oh my GOD, what are you, a velociraptor?"

She runs into the living room screaming, realizes she has missed the "Goodbye Song" on Blue's Clues, and freaks out afresh. Try to imagine the sound a velociraptor might make when it realizes it has been bamboozled. Now multiply by a factor of five.

At this point, I have washed my hands of any residual poop-water and caught up to her. I grab her and hold her and talk to her calmly, explaining to her that washing poopy pants is something I want to do for her as part of the way I take care of her and that it's nice that she wants to help, but she can really just leave it to me. And also that this is a tape, and we can rewind so she can say "See ya later, sweet potato" to Joe. At this, she calms down, we rewind, she sings and dances with the song, and shortly thereafter is all snuggled in her sleeping bag taking a nap.

And me? Goddamn, I have the worst fucking headache ever.

Vehicular Woes, You Got to Go

Sweet William's Jeep is 11 years old and it's getting to that point where things are starting to go wrong with it and it's not seeming worth it to fix them. The really rough part of this is that his air conditioning is broke. And it's summer. And we live in L.A. And he has no covered parking at work. And so at the end of the day, his Jeep is, how do you say, an environment in which one could grow orchids. That is to say, like a greenhouse. Woe is him.

Added to that, my lease ends in October, so not only do we have to probably buy Sweet Willie a new car, but we have to decide whether to buy out the lease on my Passat or get me into a new car as well. Let me remind you that only one of us is working right now. D'oh!

However, we certainly have been having fun dreaming about the new cars we might get. Oh, yes. All is well in the Fantasy Nook at Chez Blah Blah. Come on in! Sit down! Have some Haagen-Dazs and beer! I promise they won't stick to your thighs! Or your waist! What's that you say? You seem to be leaning only toward German or Swedish-made automobiles? Not to worry -- with employee pricing, you can practically get two cars for the price of one! Who cares if they're more expensive to repair and maintain?

Hmm, my headache appears to have gotten worse.

My Synapses are Short-Circuiting

I Don’t Think I Need to Elaborate

I hate potty training and I’m sick of it. There, I said it.

Gratuitous Cuteness, Followed by a Fortuitous Discovery

One of Viva’s many fixations is birthdays. Tomorrow is her Granny’s birthday, and in less than two weeks, it will be my birthday (don’t mention it). So we bought Granny some gifts from Viva yesterday and that is a ridiculous story in and of itself, in that we actually lost the gifts we picked out, but I can’t bear to relive it in all its heated frustration, so…

This afternoon, we are on our way to pick up some tissue paper at the store so we can wrap Granny’s gifts. Viva starts talking about my birthday.

Viva: Your birthday is coming couple weeks? We have to buy you presents!

Mama Blah [somewhat distracted by traffic]: Well, that would be nice.

Viva: And balloons! And cake!

Mama Blah: Hmm. What kind of cake do you think I should have?

Viva: Some lommy cake!

Mama Blah: Salami cake?

Viva: Yeah!

Mama Blah: That’s a very unusual cake. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of having a salami cake before.

Viva: And mushmallow.

Mama Blah: Salami and marshmallow? Now, that is funny. [thinking, "I better write this down or I will forget it, as I forget so many of the priceless things my sweet dumpling says because I am such a horrible mother." I'm paraphrasing here.]

Viva dissolves into laughter in backseat. I search unsuccessfully for a pen to write down “salami cake” (by this point I have pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car).

Mama Blah: Oh my GAH! How can I be a writer and have no pen in my bag or in my car?!

I lean over and go through the door pocket on the passenger side of the car. While I don’t find a pen, I do find: Sweet William’s wedding ring.

[Cue dramatic violin and horn section: duh-dunh-DUNH!]

Okay, it’s not so dramatic, because we knew it was missing. It’s not like he took it off and threw it into the door pocket so he could run amok and have affairs with nubile cuties who think he is unattached...or so he says. He claims to have lost it when he took it off at the beach a couple of months ago, and he claims he put it in one of the pockets of our beach backpack. We searched the backpack and the car to no avail. How weird is that?

Anyway (back to present tense), I am relieved, and call him at once. A nubile cutie answers the phone – I mean, Sweet William answers the phone and tells me he and his cousin Diggity are watching a movie. Mrs. Diggity and kid are out of town, so I’m sure Sweet Willie and Diggity are up to all kinds of shenanigans. Shenanigans! But I don’t mind, because they haven’t seen each other in it seems like forever, and I think he could use some Diggity time.

No diggity, no doubt.

I Need a Job, I’m Out of Work

Do you remember that song by Gary “U.S.” Bonds?* Neither did I, until I was thinking up a title for this part of the post, and it swam up from some scary netherworld in my brain. I think that was trivia better left to the 1980s. It’s making me shudder just thinking about it.

Anyhoo, in the past two days, I have sent out my resume twice. Ack ack ack! And that’s all I’m saying about my employment update. Further bulletins as events warrant.

* I Googled this lyric and discovered it was a Springsteen tune. Can that be? The more I think about it, I guess so. Where did the Gary "U.S." Bonds reference come from?** It boggles the mind.

** I couldn't leave it alone, so I went back to the Internets and found that yes, indeedy, "Out of Work" was Gary U.S. Bonds' last hit single, waaaaaaay back in 1982. Here's his Website, if you're interested. And now, for God's sweet sake, I'll let this one rest.

Book 'Em, Dan-O, Part Deux

Shout out to my pal Splooey, for pointing out that I am impossibly ignorant: indeed, quite possibly too ignorant to live. After reading my last post, she posted a comment to inform me of the online library hold function at the Los Angeles Public Library. I was flabbergasted, and simultaneously, deeply shamed. It's so obvious that I am not meant for this technologically advanced age. What will they think of next? I immediately went online and put 11 books on hold for delivery to one of my local branches. Sweet! Splooey, you rule! (But you knew that already.)

Book 'em, Dan-O

I am pretty sure that my title up there has a misspelling. It doesn't look quite right. But, moving on...

This week, Viva and I went to the library. Now, one thing I should tell you is that we rarely go to the same library twice in a row. We have three libraries quite close to us, one of which is closed for renovations. Since I am a big book freak, I always like to try one we haven't been to before, or one we haven't been to in quite some time. Since Los Angeles is quite spread out, this is not really all that difficult.

On Monday, we ventured to the Los Feliz branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. It is only a few years old, and it has a heavenly selection of picture books to choose from. After spending an indecent amount of time in the children's section, Viva informed me that she had to go to the bathroom, holding on to the front of her shorts with the universal signal for "I have to go RIGHT NOW." So I stopped at the Information Desk to ask them if (a) they would hold our books for us and (2) they would tell us where in God's name the bathroom was. The librarians seemed to regard our situation with fond amusement, graciously sliding the books away for safe-keeping and directing us to the bathroom. We got to the bathroom, but it was too late, sad to say. Accidents happen. So I got Viva squared away and we went back to the liberry proper, where I told her it was Mama's turn to pick out books for herself.

I keep a running list in my head of contemporary authors and books I want to read, and I was horrified to discover that not a one of the ones on my list was in evidence. So Viva was trying to help me, and I was trying to get her to be sort of quiet while also running through the list in my head. But she kept saying stuff (loudly, in the way that only unself-conscious toddlers can be loud) like: "You want this book, Mommy? You want the pink book? How about this book? You want this book!" As if, by saying it emphatically enough, I would agree that, "Yes, I do indeed want to read Shogun by James Clavell, rather than the contemporary work of fiction I came in for, thanks, sweetie!" You know, I went to Borders the other day looking for a specific book and it, too, was not available. What is that about?

Here are Viva's current favorite liberry books:

(1) Please, Baby, Please by Spike Lee and Tonya Lewis Lee
(2) Felix and the Worrier by Rosemary Wells (which they didn't have, but it's still high up there on her list)
(3) Bunny Money by Rosemary Wells
(4) Whistle for Willie by Ezra Jack Keats
(5) Angelina Ballerina by Katharine Holabird

Unfortunately, I can't tell you what some of my current favorite liberry books are because, dammit, I left empty-handed. Last night, I picked up Even Cowgirls Get the Blues from our bookshelf and flung myself down on the couch with a sigh.

"What is that?" Sweet Willie asked, and after ascertaining what it was: "Why are you reading that?" and before I could even say anything: "You poor thing. We need to go to the bookstore."

We speak each other's unspoken language.

You mess with the 'fro, you got to go

So I went and got my hair did this morning. It is short. Like, I don't know, short. Which is what I asked for, but nonetheless, I think I'll like it better in a couple of weeks after it's grown out a little bit. Did I mention that I went to a black salon? I walked in and the receptionist was like, "Can I help you?" and then when he realized I was actually there to get my hair did, he was all like, "Oh. Oh. Um, please have a seat," and I'm wondering if he was thinking "My bad" or "What the hell is she trying to prove?" And either way, whatever. Does nobody know about miscegenation?

Anyway, I did accomplish my stated goal, so one tiny thing can get checked off my never-ending, monstrously unwieldy, ever-pullulating "To Do" list, which I no longer even bother to write down as I would get depressed before I even started.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

Speaking of depressed, Viva and I spent a lovely late afternoon/evening at my friend C's house yesterday. C is not depressed, but I am, because her husband got a new job and they are moving to Noo Yawk next month. I like C very much. Our girls are about the same age and take ballet together, and when we get together we gab like there is no tomorrow, and I'm bummed that she's not going to be around. She says she wants to move back to L.A. in a couple of years, but I have the feeling once she gets to New York and settles in, she will really like it there...and may never return! Of course, her mom is in California, so they will be coming back to visit, but I am still bummed. I have nothing funny to say about it. Sorry.

Office Space

I'm looking for a job now. Sorry to spring it on you like this, but that's what's happening. In less than two weeks, we will be sending Viva to school full-time, and that means Mama Blah has to get up off her ass and bring home some bacon.

Since I need some fairly steady income, it looks like I will no longer be freelancing. And you know what that means: the dreaded office job. (Cue scary music and terrified screams.)

It's not the end of the world, but it is the end of an era. I will miss spending so much time with Viva. Yesterday, I bought her a little ladybug lunchbox. A lunchbox! What the hell is that! And today someone outside her current preschool screamed across the street to me about how cute my baby was and wanted to know how old she was. She said she looked like she was only about a year old. Like I'm already not freaked out enough about sending my precious lamb to school for 8 hours.

And I'm not looking forward to going back to an office. But hello, welcome to the world. It sucks, but hopefully not this much:

Peter: So I was sitting in my cubicle today, and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.
Dr. Swanson: What about today? Is today the worst day of your life?
Peter: Yeah.
Dr. Swanson: Wow, that's messed up. *

*This dialogue, of course, is courtesy of the classic "there is no hope" work movie, Office Space.

You Can Take the Man out of Boston...

But you can't take the RAGE out of Dude. My next-door neighbor, Dude, native of Boston (where, as you know, they are filled with rage), former stripper/model/drug procurer, has not worked a "job" job in 10 years. I hope you're sitting down, because he just got a job. As in, someplace where he has to go on a regular basis and spend several hours and get a paycheck. Okay, okay, I can't stand it: he is working in cosmetics. There, I said it. And right now, he is screaming and cussing (and has been for about 30 minutes) on the phone and I'm hoping he hasn't lost his job already. Because I am really rooting for him to work his shit out.

Kind of funny, yet sad (an ongoing theme in my posts, let's analyze that another time): his wife really wants a baby and they've been trying to have one for quite some time. She was actually taking fertility drugs at one point. Sweet William finally pointed out to Dude that perhaps he should get his sperm motility tested, because as I've mentioned before, Dude smokes pot pretty much all day long, and that can mess with your fertility. What's funny/sad about this is that it had not even occurred to Dude that this might be an issue.

Oh bla dee, oh bla dah, life goes on...

I wish I had some microwave popcorn right now. So bad. Gotta go. Muchos smoochos!

Good Hair, Bad Hair

Life is an endless struggle full of frustrations and challenges, but eventually you find a hair stylist you like. ~Author Unknown

So, several months ago, I cut my hair all off. It went from being just-above-the-shoulders short to curly pixie cut short. Think Halle Berry, except that my hair is light brown. And I have green eyes and fair skin. Oh, and I look nothing like her.

So! I loved my new haircut. It was easy to take care of, it was sassy and yet sophisticated, and I felt free and kind of cute. There was just one problem: my hairstylist charged me $60 for the haircut. And it is the type of haircut that needs to be maintained once a month or so. When the time came for me to have a trim, I didn't want to spend $60. I wanted to spend about $20 and perhaps have money to buy an iced mocha and some shorts for Viva or whatever else struck my fancy.

So, my friends, I went to Supercuts. I can hear you groaning already. I know, but come on! Sixty dollars! Well, I explained what I wanted, but I didn't bring a picture with me, and instead the stylist cut my hair nearly the same length all over my head, leaving it slightly longer on top. This has given me, as it has grown out, an almost spacesuit-helmet kind of look, which is not, I repeat, NOT what I was going for.

Since then, my original stylist (The Fabulous Christine) has called and told me that the salon has closed. She is now working out of a salon in the Valley. Now, if I take the freeway, it should take me twenty minutes to get there. But I have discovered a salon near 3rd and Fairfax (either through nappturality.com or naturallycurly.com, I can't remember which) whereby I can get someone to cut my hair for $45. It is also about twenty minutes away, but on surface streets and I don't have to go over the hill. I hate going to a new stylist, have I mentioned this?

I'm going to be brave. It's just hair, right? And as they always say, you get what you pay for. Errrrghhh...

Haicuts are always agony for me. Maybe I will post pictures when it's over -- but I'm not making any promises!

Dos. Ay, ay, ay!

About this whole blog business: I often don't think about what I will write about before I sit down at my trusty laptop and let loose. Occasionally, I will write myself a note so as not to forget something I want to write about, but even so, sometimes I sit down and just start writing about something completely different. I know, I know, and it shows, right?

Today, I could sit down and blog about Karl Rove or John Roberts, assuming I'd been keeping up with all that, which I haven't, so it wouldn't be very interesting, and I'd just be stumbling along lamely, kind of like this sentence. Or I could snark about Tom Cruise or Jen and Ben or Bradjelina, if I gave a damn about their crazy asses.

But no, my friends (and I do think of you as my friends, or why bother?): today, it's all about my sweet puka shell, Viva.

First, the bad news.

Lately, Viva has embraced being two with gusto. She is not always terrible, but when she is, it is big, as in, "I Am Viva, The Great and Terrible! All must bow before me! The streets shall run red with the blood of the disbelievers! Hear my wrath and tremble!"

Here are some recent situations in which Viva has unleashed her wrath:

1. Out of habit, I pushed the "up" button for the elevator instead.of.letting.her.do.it.

2. While I was doing her hair this morning, I picked up one.tiny.butterfly.clip from the pile amassed in front of her.

3. After she finished using the potty, emptied the contents into the toilet, flushed and put the potty bowl back into the potty, I made the mistake of closing.the.lid.

In each of these situations, my child has morphed into a screaming meemie due to my arrogance. It is, how shall I say, destroying the enamel of my teeth, as I grind them in frustration and try to refrain from strangling her. I know other people have compared living with a toddler to living with a tiny drunk. Having lived with an alcoholic for many of my formative years, I'd like to say that at least Viva does not reek of vodka, although she does often reel around in only a T-shirt and Pull-up, so there is something vaguely familiar about it.

Still, she is so funny, even when she doesn't mean to be.

Sweet William works only ten minutes from home, and quite often, he comes home for lunch -- usually at least 4 days out of 5. Viva and I are generally out and about in the mornings, and usually get home at lunchtime, before Sweet Wills gets home. When we pull into the garage, Viva will look for Sweet Willie's Jeep, even though 9 times out of 10, he gets back after we do. Lately, when we pull into our parking space and Will's car isn't there, she has started doing this thing from an episode of Dora the Explorer. (Bear with me.) In this episode, Dora and Boots find a little blue bird that is lost, and when she cries because she misses her mama, tears squirt copiously out the sides of her eyes and she whimpers, "Peep peep peep," in a sad little voice.

So now, to indicate the depth of her anguish that her father isn't home, Viva screams, "Peep PEEP PEEP!" and will actually start to cry. It is funny and exasperating at the same time. She knows it is ridiculous, because she will start laughing if I laugh. Yes, I laugh when my child starts to cry. Don't you?

Yesterday, she came into the bathroom while I was peeing and clapped her hands. "What a big girl! I'm so proud of you!" she said, beaming. "Thanks," I said, pulling up my pants.

"Mommy? What you have?" she said, coming forward quickly and grabbing at my pants.

"What do I have on my pants?" I said, looking down, bewildered. "Snaps, and a zipper?"

"No, Mommy, what you have? You have Minnie Mouse?" she said, fingering the snaps.

"Minnie Mouse? No, I -- oh, you mean, these," I said, as she unsnapped my pants and pulled them back down. She is a persistent little critter, and that is why I was stuck in the bathroom showing off my Felix the Cat panties to my 2-year-old.

I guess it's only fair. And I have more to add, but I must now go pick up my sweet coconut at school. Toodles!

Cursed Lack of Melanin!

For those of you in the Great Big Internet Out There (hi!) who have never laid eyes on me, I have to tell you that I am rather fair-complected. This, despite the fact that my birth certificate actually identifies me as "Negro". I could go into a whole long explanation of this, but suffice it to say that despite identifying alternately as African-American and mixed-race (whatever that means), I have pretty pale skin. I do tan to a nice golden color, but there are times when (as now) I have applied sunscreen incompletely and the result is, shall we say, unpleasant.

I refer, my friends, to the dreaded sunburn.

I get some sort of sunburn at least a couple of times per year, mainly because I am an incompetent sunscreen applier. I almost always fry some portion of my back that is unreachable. Well, this one is a doozy. It is so bad that Sweet William was actually moved to go to the store and purchase this. Mmm, Lidocaine! Sweet Lidocaine! I almost want to break into song, by which you can tell I am truly delusional with the pain. (I am also shocked to see that the link to this product indicates a sale price of $5.89. Sweet William paid $10.99 for the same product at our local Ralphs. Ouch! I'm not the only one who got burned!)

Viva has been very concerned about my sunburn, and quick to reassure me that her own back is fine. That's because she has skin that is naturally the color of just-baked gingerbread. Mmm, gingerbread. She also has someone to slather her completely in sunscreen. (That would be me, again. Hi!) Since we were at the beach Friday sans Sweet William (who has skin the color of a freshly-baked brownie. Mmm, brownies), I was out of luck. I thought about asking one of the lifeguards to help me out, but then I didn't want to be responsible if someone started to drown and my lifeguard was all preoccupied with the Hawaiian Tropic.

I have to admit that it has always irritated me that my skin is this light, although no doubt it has worked to my advantage in countless ways throughout my life. I guess I would rather piss and moan about a sunburn than get pulled over for driving while black or, worse, get turned away from Hermes. (Oh, Oprah. I feel your pain! Oh, wait, I feel my own. It's this damn sunburn!)

When I was a kid, I used to think that my melanin lay somehow dormant somewhere, and that it would wake up and protect me from the sun if I were exposed for an extended amount of time -- say, stranded on a desert isle somewhere a la Gilligan's Island, The Blue Lagoon, or Lost. But now I know the truth: I would sizzle like bacon in the sun. And to continue with the pork product analogy, I vow here and now, I will not make my skin like unto Hawaiian jerky! Henceforth, I will spray sunscreen liberally down my back before going into the sun, and I will put on a cute cover-up after 30 minutes of sun exposure! This is my vow and my promise.

That is all. Go now, and may the Sun Gods smile mercifully upon you.

Friday Update

...or, What I've Been Up to Instead of Blogging

1. I've been writing! Yes, writing! And if I keep writing as much as I've been writing for the next month or so, I may actually finish my book. At least a first draft. And that would make me so friggin' happy, you can't even imagine. Because regardless of what happens to it after that, at least I will have done the one damn thing I've been trying to do my whole life. I am also in the midst of creative idea mania, so that once I finish this book, I have a variety of other projects to work on.

Here is a quote for you: "Writing is hard. Not writing is harder."

Strange, but true. As far as attribution, I believe Janet Burroway said it, but I am too lazy (and it is too close to the end of Viva's nap) for me to look it up, so you'll have to take my word for it.

2. I've also been reading a lot. And my problem is that I read so fast, I can't keep my "Bookish Blah" sidebar updated, because I'd have to edit it every couple of days. So sorry...just finished Music for Torching, which was horribly good, dark comedy, which I loved right through to the end, when it took a horrendously tragic turn. So not funny. I'm so mad at the author I could spit. Oh, but I just can't be mad at her because she is so enormously talented. Damn her!

3. I've been playing around and doing Viva's hair in different ways. This has been, in a weird way, a creative outlet of sorts. She actually likes to have her hair done, and she likes it if she gets to choose what I do with it. For example, I will give her the option, once I've parted her hair into sections, whether to leave it in Afro-puffs, or take the extra time to do either double-stranded twists or just mini-plaits. She is such a vain little creature that she hardly ever opts for puffs unless we are trying to get out of the house to do something she wants to do -- and even so, she will often decide it's worth it to take the extra ten minutes or so to wait for further embellishment of her coif. Someday I will take pictures of her various hairstyles and post them, but um, not today, mm-kay?

4. I talked to my mom and Grandma. I don't feel that all that much has been resolved. Their point of view seems to be, "Well, yes, we are treating you differently, but you shouldn't feel bad about it." In actuality, this has been kind of liberating, because at least now I know where I stand. Nobody's knocking themselves out for me, so I don't need to knock myself out for them and I don't need to feel guilty about it.

There's more to say, but I realized that as usual, I've gotten carried away writing and Viva has now been asleep 2.5 hours and I need to go wake her up or she won't go to bed until 9:00. Eeps. See youse!

The Cows and Chickens...

...are goin' to the dickens

I love you a bushel and a peck,
You bet your pretty neck I do...

So I bought this CD recently during my trip to Kidspace with Viva, and I know that musical taste is very subjective. Let me state for the record that I hate pretty much almost every kids' CD that has darkened the door of our household.

But this one, I like. Not all the songs, but many. How could you not like a song titled "Bananaphone," particularly when it features a banjo so prominently? So I am listening to this CD a lot, and I like the lyrics to this one particular song, and I actually went ahead and read the liner notes, and I discovered that it's a song from Guys and Dolls. As in, the musical.

Are you aware of my distaste for the musical genre? It's one of those things that I just can't explain to people who love love LOVE musicals, but it's an ongoing problem for me. I find many Disney movies unwatchable for this reason. Well, many Disney movies are unwatchable for a variety of reasons, but the fact that the characters break into song every few minutes? Definitely not a plus for me.

But now, oh my God, I have a showtune stuck in my head. Help! Help!

Reason #88 why we don't need another kid

I was just trying to tidy up in the All Purpose Junk Room -- oh, I mean, the Master Bedroom, and I came across a stack of photos, which I leafed through and quickly put back in their "I'll do something about those later" pile.

Oh, the photos. We have taken scads of pictures and developed them over the past -- oh, I don't know, 6 months or so? And like, they've never made it into the photo album? And um, I haven't scanned any of them or posted them for friends/family to see in -- oh, I don't know, 3 months or so? Add another kid into the equation and just fuhgeddaboutit. It would be a lost cause.

That is all. Over and out.

Time Lost is Brain Lost

So ever since I had my cavities filled last week, I've noticed a lot of sensitivity in my lower left toothal* area. I assumed it was because I had a cavity filled in the molar at the very back of my mouth. But goddamn, it hurt all to hell every time I chewed or ate something cold. So I went back in to see my dentist, Dr. M, today, and he sprayed outrageously cold water into my mouth, in the lower left toothal area, making me cringe and moan (and not in a happy way) and discovered that the tooth in front of the tooth he just filled had a silver filling that was leaking. This filling has been in my mouth for about 500 years and it was my only filling ever until a week ago.

* Yes, I just made that word up. Toothal, adj. "Of or relating to a general area where teeth are found."

Oh my God. So then! He had to remove my existing filling and drill way the hell down into my tooth. He then said, "Hmm. Wow, this is a deep one. Do you want to see?" I indicated that I did, and as he got me a mirror, I said, "Do I have any tooth left?" because that is my way: when things are going badly, I make lame-ass jokes about them.

But upon examination, it looked like he had to practically hollow out my entire tooth. What in hell is happening? Am I 90 years old? Have I never been to the dentist before in my life? Do I not follow a routine of dental hygiene at all? (Okay, so I don't floss after every meal. But how many of us do? Admit it!)

Dr. M then put a temporary filling in and told me to come back in three weeks, because I may have a bigger problem. If all is well in three weeks, he'll just put a permanent filling in. If not (i.e. if the decay is more extensive then he thinks), I'll have to revisit him and possibly have a root canal. A. Root. Canal.

Sounds fun. Isn't that one of those things where, when people are presented with a horrible situation -- like "my girlfriend is pregnant, how am I going to tell my wife?" -- they say "I'd rather have a root canal"? It's unpleasant, is what I'm saying. And painful, is what I'm also saying. And like, I don't frigging want to have one, is what I'm ultimately saying.

Crap.

So, at any rate, after my emergency dental work, I went and picked up sandwiches and then went and picked up Viva from school and went back home and we watched Little Bill and ate. (Note: Viva does "eat lunch" at school, but since she is such a picky eater, we often have a snack at 12:15 when we get home, before nap.) (One more note: I am starting to develop a ridiculous crush on Little Bill's dad. He's fun, he still has a thing for his wife despite having had three kids, and he makes up goofy songs all the time. I'd hang out with him if he would lose the sweater vest.)

Um, have I mentioned that I just had dental work? Again, the Novocaine had not worn off. So I was sitting there, chewing while Little Bill and Bobby went to meet the new neighbors, and one side of my mouth wouldn't work. I went to the mirror to check myself out as I chewed and it looked like I had had a stroke. Naturally, I decided I must blog about it, and naturally, once Viva went down for her nap, I got online and Googled strokes.

According to the American Stroke Association, you should learn all you can about strokes to decrease your risk of having one: "Learn all you can today, time lost is brain lost."

Did the person writing this copy actually have a stroke? Because it appears that they used a comma when a semi-colon, or even, God forbid, a colon was called for.

Yes, I am that tacky. Hello, nice to meet you! Excuse me while I drool on your pants. Have I mentioned that I just had dental work?

At any rate, I've decided that "time lost is brain lost" is my new motto. I'm having T-shirts made. And mugs. Place your orders now!

Isn't it Ironic? Don'tcha think?

So: I have been avoiding talking to my mom and grandma for a couple of months now. I didn't mean to not talk to them this long, but I was mad at them and then once I got over it*, it had been too long. Do you know what I'm saying?

* I am not completely over it, by the by. I mean, I am not as mad at them as I was, but I still have things we need to discuss. What I believe has happened is that I'm pissed off about a larger pattern of behavior and this was the last straw, so now we need to fight about that larger pattern of behavior. I'm not a fighter, so I've been staying away out of fear.

At any rate, I took a deep breath and dialed their number this morning.

It was busy.

Somewhere, God is laughing and laughing at me.

Ah, Phoenix

I haven't yet written about our trip to Phoenix. In truth, I was kind of taken aback by my first Phoenix experience. Forget the heat (my God, the heat!) -- the areas we saw (except for downtown) had me scratching my head about why in hell people would want to live there. Granted, there's a booming housing market, with lots of development of the scary "every house looks alike" variety, and you can buy a house for substantially less than in other major metropolitan markets. And apparently, there's been explosive employment growth over the past few years. And it is huge and spread out, even more so than Los Angeles, apparently, so I am basing my first impression on what is evidently a smidgen of what Phoenix had to offer. But it seemed kind of desolate, dirty and cow-town-ish to me. There was a brown tinge to everything. And don't forget the heat. My God, the heat!

But one of the things I love about it is that according to the city of Phoenix's official website, the residents of Phoenix are called Phoenicians. Kind of ironic (wait, this is a theme today), since the original Phoenicians were a seagoing people historically associated with maritime trading, and Phoenix is, well, in the middle of the desert. Indeed, one might say land-locked. I am a geek, so I love this type of juxtaposition.

I did see my first ever dust devils during this trip. Keep in mind that I was only in town for about eight hours.

Low points of the trip:

Getting dropped off by the Budget Rental shuttle in front of our car rental, which was supposed to be an SUV (since there were 5 of us). Instead, it was this.

Eating at a restaurant/bar in the Phoenix Airport, where they allow smoking in eating establishments. Oh my God, come on!

Bizarro point of the trip:

A rodent (either a small rat or large mouse, it is debatable) got trapped and died in the electrical panel of our new house. Big Mike donned some rubber gloves, removed the rodent, and then came running into the house, swinging it in a plastic bag, doing an Eddie Murphy: "Doo-doo! Gonna put it on you!"

Cool part of the trip:

Realizing we actually owned this house, even though we are probably just going to fix it up and re-sell it rather than renting it out. We friggin' actually own something besides a Jeep Grand Cherokee and thousands of dollars in student loan debt. Pretty sweet.

Trick Question

Quick! What's more fun than trying to toilet train a 2-year-old?

(a) Toilet training a 2-year-old with diarrhea
(b) Realizing said 2-year-old, due to diarrhea, will not be napping today
(c) Sticking a piece of wire through your hand accidentally (well, one would hope accidentally, wouldn't one?)

Well, you've already realized this is a trick question, so I screwed up already. Story of my life.

Ironically, earlier today, I called Sweet William and told him, "We need to have another baby. This one's getting too big."

Well, sweetie, I take it back.

Sweet William and I are off to Phoenix tomorrow (with Diva and Big Mike) to meet the property manager for our house* and, presumably, write many, many checks for things like paintin' and shingle fixin' and all that fun stuff. I am hopeful that I will have many bloggable stories to share upon our return. I promise in advance not to mention the ungodly heat.

* Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you, we closed. We are officially homeowners. Too bad we won't actually be living in the house.

Dear God. Viva is now screaming from her crib, where I am insisting she sits and has "quiet time" for at least half an hour, since she's not taking a nap. I fear she may have to visit her friend Senor Potty once more. The prospect is positively cringe-worthy.

Kiss kiss, ta ta and all that. I'm off to deal with shit.

I can't think of a snazzy title

I am sorry to report that today I went to have two cavities drilled and filled. I have always had very lovely teeth, by which I mean they have always been strong and healthy and I've never had issues with them. I was horrified to learn at my last checkup that I had two cavities and that my dentist, the esteemed Dr M, was also placing a "watch" on one of my upper front teeth! He thinks I may have a cavity developing there but it's hard to tell because it's on the side of one of my front teeth. You know that very small area between your two front teeth? That's where he's been trying to look. I guess he could take an X-ray or something. I am just picturing myself, three years hence, as some toothless old crone gumming my food, while my vibrant, youthful husband eats corn on the cob -- but I guess that's because I have an overactive imagination.

Sweet William hates corn on the cob.

Dr. M also told me that it's common for women to develop cavities after a pregnancy because during the pregnancy (and perhaps due to breastfeeding, post-partum?) you lose calcium. One more thing to hold against my Viva-love.

Anyway, I didn't eat anything before I went to the dentist, because I was preoccupied with getting Viva's hair done (it looks BEYOND cute this morning*) and getting food into her and getting myself dressed and out the door by 8:15. I had two sips of coffee and that's it. Now it's 11:43 and my Novocaine hasn't yet worn off, so I still can't eat. The dental assistant told me to rinse after they finished. Was that some sort of sick joke? I drooled water all down my chin. I am so sexy right now -- who wants a piece of this?

*Viva's hair is parted into small triangles (probably about 10) all over her head, each with a brightly colored ponytailer holding it together, and then twisted into twisties about three inches long. Oh my GOD. For this I need a digital camera. Click here to see a little cutie pie whose hair looks sort of similar (the twists, the twists, people! So cute!)

Revisiting my New Year's, Er, Goals

Hey, remember how I said I don't like to make New's Year's Resolutions, that I prefer to make goals? (I know it all seems just a bunch of semantic bullshit, but if you know me even a little bit, you know I am all about these subtle nuances of language.) I was thinking to myself just now, I need to learn Web design. I am sick of the limitations of other people's templates, etc. and I realized that this is on my list of goals for 2005.

So, here we are, half-way through the year, and I think this is as good a time as any for a self-assessment.

My original goals were:

1. Learn Web design

2. Improve my overall physical, spiritual, and emotional health

3. Have more sex

4. Start freelancing again

5. Overcome my newfound addiction to microwave popcorn

Hmmmm...have not done anything about the first one aside from bookmarking a couple of sites and researching stuff like Typepad and Movable Type. Which means, I guess, that I have actually done something about it, but still have not yet actually taught myself to do it. Seems like I'd better get my ass in gear because no doubt by the time I learn it, it will be outdated.

Health: I have been doing yoga and have seen my doctor to try and take control of my physical well-being. Spiritually, uhh -- I have been praying more and even trying to meditate when I can. These moments are few and far between. I still have not gone to church. Emotionally: I am just as repressed with my family as I always have been. Well, no, I have to give myself some credit and say that I have been a lot more honest with my sister, and a lot more in her face, than previously. Just not doing so well with my mom right now.

Sex: Sweet William was horrified that I wrote that in the first place. "You make it sound like I'm not getting any!" he said. That wasn't my intention at all. Sex is natural, sex is good, we should all have more of it, don't you think? But sadly for you, I am going to respect his privacy and not discuss this here. (But I think I have improved. Tee hee.)

Freelancing: Blech. I did start freelancing again, technically. But I still haven't really gotten off the ground, and I need to.

Popcorn: I've fallen off the wagon a couple of times. It's hard to kick that habit...but at least I haven't replaced it with something worse. I mean, I could be doing heroin, right? Although that's so passe.

So, basically, I have been making small but steady changes in my life, most of which relate to these goals which I had totally forgotten about until I started reading through my blog archives. I have the attention span of a -- wait, what was that?