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.