i obsess.

award, uh, I mean, a word, please.

Hi.  My name is Debbie, and I'm a big geek.  I'm excited, so excited, because I got to email Jaelithe her perfect post button-widget-thingie today, and that's the most fun I've had in awhile.

The post itself is wonderful.  I happen to have a deep, deep fondness for stories I read as a kid (no.  really.  !!), and her skillfully-woven tale takes me back to that time.  She manages to capture the truth of childhood in her piece; the ennui of insufferably hot summer days, wiling away the dull hours with a book, arguing with siblings just to shrug off some of the miserable, het-up yuckiness.

Jaelithe suggests that her mother is a woman with a talent for writing, either in the piece or the comments that follow, but I venture to guess that she at least matches her mother's abilities in *her* well-embroidered stories, if not eclipsing her altogether. 

I encourage you to read the piece.  It's really something. 

p.s. Ruth Dynamite nominated an essay I wrote about falling off a ledge, and I'm at a loss for words as a result.  My deeply ruddy cheeks speak for me.  Thank you, Ruth.

*runs off to dunk face in a cool bath*

I do as I'm told.

Okay, so I promised Mel that I'd post my Oregreenian pickshures, therefore, without further messin' around, I give you - the blackberry bush that would, if we would let it (and thus far, we seem to be letting it).

This was taken on Monday evening.  Monday of this week.  Monday, June 26th, 2006.

This was taken about 8 minutes ago.  8 minutes from before now.  8 minutes in the past.

Darn that monstrous, insidious berry bush that tastes so delicious in pie and makes my fingers and hands angry when I have to pull its driving-me-mad children and other assorted family members out of this wee plot of land.  (Or, in this case, chop it down as it slides in serpentine fashion over the fence.)

Darn it all.

*shakes fist in bush's general direction*

thanks for the autograph, Steven Kellogg.

Mr. Kellogg was a sweet, friendly man who indulged my wish for a cartoon along with his signature, because I was too nervous to ask for anything brilliant.  Not that I'm complaining.

Did you get the occasional book from RIF (reading is fun!damental)?  I don't remember if it's because they were encouraging kids to read that they gave away free books or if it had to do with the parents' income level, but I never looked that gift-horse in the mouth.  The library seemed better than a house made entirely of chocolate, complete with chocolate doll's house and chocolate soda fountain (like in Escape to Witch Mountain - lucky Tia and Tony, with their special powers!) on those days.  Tables piled *high* with books, and you could choose one you wanted, and could keep it, for free!  Although choosing was its own personal nightmare-quandary.

A few of the books that my grandma purloined from her gig at the Tulare County Library in central Cali, when they had book sales.  I loved the following ones very much.

Thanks, Jenny, for keeping this topic in the air.  It's like diving into a downy pillow all fragranced with my most-cherished memories.  Delicious.

the best-laid (folded?) plans.

I'm folding laundry.  I'm wrapping t-shirts up like packages, like they taught me to do way back in 1991, the summer that Iworked for the Gap.  'Course, I don't have the folding board, but I don't need one.  I could do it blind, I'm that anal good.  I've stacked my pants and stretchy gauchos on top of his shorts that create fabric pallets in the bottom of the scratched, blue basket with the broken piece in its heart, the one that grabs clothes and pulls them under and pisses me off.  I rely on the giant, twill fabric pallet to save me from the irritation, by keeping the broken piece hidden and hungry.  I've got my t-shirts and tanks laid neatly above the pants, and the baby's items are perfectly placed alongside my things, because there's an exact baby-clothes-sized slot erected by the merger of my smaller-than-his clothes.  It's all very neat and tidy and aesthetically pleasing.  I tuck a portion of the button-up shirt that he wore on his business trip into a remaining isthmus, so as to remember to hang it immediately after bringing the basket to the bedroom, to keep it from wrinkling further.  I give the clothes a final, satisfied once-over, then pick up the basket and rest it, a little precariously, on the large, square, foam footrest that sits on it's side near the stairs.  I figure I'll leave it there for but a moment, because I'm only going back to the laundry room to throw away the rumpled fabric softener sheets that are in my pocket, having pulled them from the midst of the clean clothes I was just folding.  I smile at the corner of a story that pops into my head, the one where my mom does something similar, then spies my brother or me toppling the basket from its resting place, and romping through the once perfectly-folded contents, creating havoc where there was peace and (near) perfection.  I think of this as I walk away from the basket.

I spend a bit more time in the laundry room than I'd planned, because I realize I'd left it a bit disheveled.  (I'm big on leaving things in a tidy state, so that when I return to use them again, they're prepped for me.  Walking into a disorganized workspace deflates my desire to do the chore and I find myself neglecting the task simply because of the mess already there.)  I'm just concluding the tidying when I realize there's an eery silence coming from the living room, and my mind returns to the corner of the story about the overturned laundry basket and I'm slipping around the lip of the kitchen and into the main room as I'm still imagining the scene and there, in front of me, is my son.  Romping happily amidst half-unfolded, fresh laundry, spread about the entryway floor.  Laughing his silly, belly-chuckle laugh.  Sunshine streaking across his forehead. 

I laugh.  Hard.

It's funny.

                           

me me me and other related subjects.

The beauteous and gracious Mel has tagged me for this sucker, and I shall tackle it with aplomb, because it's a groovy way to do a bit of venting, unload my little annoyance from earlier in the week, and get a new post up, all at the same time.  It makes me feel liberated, by god.

Ten Things I Hate.  (These shall be listed in no particular order of importance, because that's something I'm really not good at.  Determining the importance of things.  The minute I've pegged something as really, TERRIBLY necessary or whatever, I realize that it isn't all that much.  So.  Onward, ho.  Hee.  I said "ho.")

Thing One: I hate my husband's company, and his boss, very much.  They/he stole him away from me on Sunday, early, the first father's day of his life, and one that he was ridiculously excited about, in order to go on some far-from-necessary trip to the big apple for a trade show that turned out to be a huge bust, because the company just isn't prepared to do the kind of business the boss/owner of the company thinks it can (due to his head existing in his nether regions).  The worst part?  He didn't have to go on Sunday, because the trade show didn't begin until Tuesday.  However, his boss can't handle doing anything alone, and needed my husband to play nurse-maid/sidekick because he wanted to get to NY a day early in order to sightsee.  Yeahhhh.  I have not a small amount of ANGER stored up in my chest for that sad excuse for a person.  This is the reason I was so depressed this weekend.  Well, depressed and scared to hell that I wouldn't survive four days of parenting solo.  And I didn't want to mention that he was out of town, for security purposes, until today, as he'll be arriving home in a few hours' time.  FREAKING OUT ABOUT THAT, btw.  Couldn't be happier.  My skin is tingly.

Thing Two:  I hate that I have just enough energy regarding all things food preparation related to fix/prep/cook/<insert cooking term here> for my son's meals, and am then spent.  Which means I get the short end of the nutritional stick (otherwise known as a power bar 'round these parts).  Mmm, well, and I usually finish most of what he turns his nose up at, especially if I spent any length of time preparing it (hey!  that's good food, there!).  Yeah.  I can see where this is going, because that sort of statement still lingers creepily in my sonar receptors from the time spent living in my parents' abode.  And, may I say, Yipes.

Thing Three:  I hate tantrums.  I hate that I must find a delicate balance between giving in to my kid's desires and my own ideas of healthy boundaries in order to keep myself from going mad due to the incessant whining that results from the outright refusal of his moment-to-moment, fluidly mutating idea of "need."  On the other hand, maybe that's parenting in a nutshell, in which case, aH-HA!  Now I know why people with adult children are so nutty.  Oh, and I forgot to add that, while I despise *his* tantrums, I don't so much mind my own.  I think they're kinda cute.  (Okay, I don't really, but I sort of do.  While I'm throwing one.  When it's over, I'm chagrined and eighteen shades of red.)

Thing Four:  I hate illness.  Particularly when it occurs during my husband's lengthy, depressing, unnecessary absence on/after his first father's day, and dovetails with my young son's involuntary need to awake for an hour or more per night, suddenly, after having slept through for at least a few weeks, or that is, just long enough to fool me into thinking he's starting to sleep through the night habitually, thereby screwing my sanity into oblivion.  In other words, fuck. the. flu.

Thing Five:  I hate that the baby gets distracted, and this seems to happen oftener and oftener btw, just as my painful, jaw-clenching milk let-down reflex occurs, and he pulls away just as the spray begins, refusing to return no matter how much I coo and plead and beg.  through.  my teeth. 

Thing Six:  I hate how much soiled bedding and costumery results from this distraction/spraying bullshit syndrome.

Thing Seven:  I hate that this day is lasting an ETERNITY, because my husband's ETA is in approximately three hours, at which point I am OFF DUTY, and will get to finally rest for the first time since Saturday.  I don't hate that.  At all.

Thing Eight:  I hate that when I'm catching up on blogs, I open about twelve different windows simultaneously, and as soon as I've speed-read/commented on one, I open two + more, very Medusa's-snake-hair-like, and proceed to have an inner meltdown because of how much reading I must do before the time I've allotted myself to be in front of the computer has dwindled away.  Rather than just savoring the reading of each one.  Sunuvabitch.  (Although I'm getting better at relaxing about the whole thing of late, I've noticed.  Something about so many of the bloggers I dig saying, hey, fuckin' settle, there aren't any rules, no need to get all wound up, so shut yer yap already! on their respective front pages.  And I really appreciate it.  It's a good reminder.)

Thing Nine:  I hate coffee stains.  HATE.  Also, wine stains.  But coffee is the real ghost killah.

Thing Ten: I hate my parents' MOTHER.  FUCKING. motorhome/obsession with their new motor home/their fucking abhorrent decision to desert me at this early stage of motherhood for three + months in order to travel all about the country and see all the folks and have a rowdy, church-social kinda good time.  Yee-fucking-haw.  Christians, my ASS.  Where's the christian in "deserted?"  (I'm kinda het up about this one, you may have noticed.)  I'll diatribe about this issue at some later time, right after I vent about my brother's insanity and subsequent homelessness, also something I blame them for (at least partially, and for good, evidence-supported reasons); in other words, it's gonna be awhile.  Not that you're all, oh, but Deb, pant-pant, hurry up and *spill* about your parents and their bullshit religious beliefs and their insanity-induced behavior regarding your brother's illness and their need for pity from all sectors/at all times?  Their utter SHAMELESS PLEAS for said pity?  Yeah.  I'll get right on it.

Thing Eleven (Bonus Round!):  I hate that, sometimes, the only thing preventing me from creating/preserving a brilliant, dazzling blog post is that I lack Stephen Hawking's computer.  Sunuvabitch (not him, he's cool or whatever, just that I don't have his computer.  Sunuvabitch.)

*must tag people for meme.  Hmmm.  Who ignored my tag last time around?  Oh, Ruth, c'mon, you know you wanna.  And, humm.  Lily.  Lessee if she's into it.  Also - Dawn, and also Feral Mom.  Sweet.

I really enjoyed bleating this all out, with the ready-made excuse of a meme handy.  It's been very.  Thanks mucho, Mel.  I owes ya.

the mean reds.

I feel like Holly Golightly did, only in a far less elegant way.  It's the combination of having been off the meds for my thyroid, having pms - and one other thing that is bumming me out beyond belief, but I'll keep private for now.  It's nothing too horrible, and it's temporary, but it kinda feels like I just got dumped.  It's gross.  I have no appetite, and yet I'm bloated.  So - rather than continue in this vein, I shall instead tempt you with the silliness of my kidlet in hopes that you, dear internets, will be appeased by the offering until I feel slightly less bloated and heart-achy, and am ready to return and delight you with my tangenty, run-on-sentency, stream-of-consciousness blather.Smooches.
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gotta get [cable/sanity/etc.] back in my life.

Our lives.  The evidence that confirms this need, via pictorial:

Allow me to set the stage.  The couch, innocently blanketed by the soft, cozy Ikea coverlet.  The one that my husband left in its disheveled position the evening before, after, ahem, reading.

As I was tidying up during the baby's first nap (which is a testament to my slippery slide into utter slob-icity, because I used to do it before I went to bed, and then I started doing it when I arose in the morning, prior to having my *gasp* first cup of coffee, and now I'm doing it during his first nap - it can only creep toward its inevitable demise, the tidying - but back to my tale), I pulled the blanket off for folding, to reveal:

Yes.  Those are his socks.  Because, apparently, in his world, it's *okay* to remove your apparel and hide it under a blanket on the sofa, as the wife doesn't get around to tidying anymore and you may have a chance to, at some point, re-discover them yourself and sneak them into the laundry, and she'll never be the wiser.  Or something like that.  (The truthiness is probably more like, take-off-socks-put-here-forget-snorrrre).

I mean, really.  What else would I do with my day, if I didn't spend it tidying up?  I ask you.

duh. and, oh, wow.

So I ran out of my thyroid medication about a week and a half ago, which explains a lot.  For instance, my sudden, intense need for re-cableization.  And my sudden, intense need for cookies.  Many, many cookies.  And why I'm feeling so out of sorts, and irritable, and fat, and tired, and lethargic.  Why I haven't been able to put any posts together, why I'm so sluggish in my thoughts.   Why the baby's crying for close to an hour b/w the midnight and one o'clock slots this morning was enough to make my teeth push through my lower jaw. 

In other words, the thyroid medication *was* doing its job, and since I've stopped taking it, I've been heading back to hypothyroid mania city.  So it all makes sense, and not to worry, I've got my prescription refilled and the dude-man I refer lovingly to as my marriage partner is picking it up.  And being extra-nice with cheese (if he knows how he likes his fighty wife when she's not prone to the fighty, which she most definitely is at the moment).

(Dammit.  I was planning on keeping this brief.  So much for that.)

I was hopping around on some of the non-momma blogs for a bit this afternoon, and I found this on one of my favorite political blogs, Eschaton:  A really great song - Save the Internet.

Don't talk.  Don't read another word.  Just go, just click on that link and go, with all speed.  Funniest shit I've heard for a good little while ('course, without cable, that's bound to happen, being deprived of funny). 

And, not that you want my pompous attitude to ruin this post, but I'm gonna throw it out anyway (my thyroid's fucked up, people.  cut me some slack for having no sense of proportion, and hopefully by the time I'm back on my meds I'll have a new excuse for why that is):

You're Welcome.

xoxo

unnatural high.

We caved and got our cable back yesterday. 

We lasted one-and-a-half months.  Six weeks.  Forty-two days.

1,008 hours.

(We didn’t have any high-minded, scruple-related reasons to toss it; we just wanted to save some scrilla.  And we did.  But the price we’ve paid in exchange for that lack of television?  Suffice it to say that my husband has been forced to read.  BOOKS.  It was a terrifying sight.  There he was, hunched over on the sofa, grey from the lack of the tv screen’s effervescent glow on his western/eastern-European-mutt pallor, in what can only be described as a manic state, biting his nails as he read – it was shocking.  I want my husband back.)

And now – in four more of those cable-deprived days, where I wander aimlessly around the house during what used to be my television break each afternoon, the part where I sat down with some microwaved leftovers and a glass of water (after always talking myself out some of the white wine chilling so temptingly near the leftovers) and, while I nutritionalized my body, my mind got its dose of Jon and Stephen (sighhhh), and, well, if I’m being honest, a design show or, ahem, two; but at the end of those four days?  Cable.

I’m excited about the prospect of HGTV and TLC and A&E (have you seen “Sell This House”?  Those people are *tragic*.  It’s the best – I adore Tanya Memme, or as we like to refer to her, Tanya Mammary).  But I’m ravenous for the Style channel and Bravo.  Oh, yeah, sure, I suppose one could sit and watch the mindless runway shows, but I have no intention of doing that.  Nope. 

I’m going to be plopping my arse down for a marathon of “Clean House” with mah girl, Niecy Nash.  And I CAN’T.  FUCKING. WAIT. 

Also, there’s Queer Eye, and that designer competition show that I can’t remember the name of and I’m sure the internets will have my head for forgetting, but whatever.  And there’s Stacy and Clinton; oh, how I’ve longed to hear you get all three-snappish on the dumpiest dressers of the land, only you almost always sorta miss the mark during the insult and manage to score about one and three quarters of a snap, but still sort of visually high-five each other, and I LOVE that.  It’s my kinda television.  And – did I mention –

Jon?

And Stephen?

Because, while I still have a soft spot for Conan and Dave, they just don’t cut it anymore.  They were the gateway to my love for ribald humor.  They got me high for awhile, but now I need the hard, nasty shit that Jon and Stephen serve up summarily on a nightly basis.  I’ve had the shakes for about, oh, 1,008 HOURS, and I need a fix.

Here it comes.

Only four more days.

Four.  More.  Days.

*Drums fingers on countertop in anticipation, begins pacing*

(I may disappear for a bit after the great cable re-invasion occurs.  But once I’ve woken up from my woozy, post-cable-induced stupor, I’ll try to come around and say hello, or whatever it is I did when I didn’t have cable.  Caaaabblllleee.)

p.s. did I mention, HBO?  Because, HBO, people.

*goes over to television, humps its lustrous, wood-paneled edge*

holidays on i$e.

I took a break from le cirque du blog today.  Sort of a forced break, really.  I had a lot of doin's with my money-making ventures, and I'm trying to prepare for a sort of emotional tsunami that I know is impossible to be ready for, but I'm girding up my loins, nonetheless.  Whatever.  It left me with no time to peruse all the fancy, new window-displays of posts on any of the awesome-licious blogs out there that I normally eat up with a spoon.  Sad.

So.  No time = me pulling a post out of my arse.  Which would be painful if I were speaking literally, since the fissure that dare not speak its name has re-erupted.

I penned this not-quite-a-story several years ago, pre-baby, pre-wedding, pre-mortgage, pre-engagement, -- pre-life-with-responsibility.  It pops into my head somewhat often of late, just because I find it so fucking laughable (and when I say "laughable," what I really mean is that I bury my face in a kitchen towel so as to prevent others from hearing my mentally unstable sobs).  To think that I ever had the intention of living my life without a kid -- ahhh.  Ha ha.  But - the evidence is there.  In the not-a-story.

Anyway, here's a toast to my silly, old, carefree self.  (Drinks entire beer at once, then looks around, surprised by all the looks of shock on everyone else's face.  Blushes.)  Um, cheers?

(Oh, and btw, I left the old thing in all its musty, unedited glory.  Try not to grimace in horror as you discover weird-ocities amidst the dust.  I'll be here, chewing my nails fiercely, as I try not to let the bejeebus be bothered outta me.  Well, I'll be that and a little (a lot) drunk and also exhausted from chasing the kid around all day and working like a madperson during his naps.  xoxo.)

***********************

A Well-Heeled Error in Judgement.

Immediately after slipping accidentally from the ledge, the shock of it led her to wonder whether she’d remembered to lock the kitchen door. They’d had a conversation about the puppy not being old enough yet to guard the house if someone tried to come in, and she struggled with the feeling that it wasn’t important enough to make herself remember every morning. Which she fought against because she knew how high on the priority list it was for him. That thought felt wrong, somehow. She should be thinking about something else, shouldn’t she? Her life flashing before her eyes, or whatever it was people were always telling you they saw during a life-threatening experience. Was that right? What was she supposed to be thinking? She felt ashamed for never seeming to think or feel what was the correct way to think or feel. It occurred to her that she’d never find out if she would’ve done the right or wrong things as a mother. And that if -- no, make that when -- people pointed out her errors, she wouldn’t have stood up to them the way new mothers were supposed to, confident in their comportment toward their offspring. That was such a tedious thought. Not that she couldn’t make them stop saying those things, or tell them they were wrong. She could do that. But whether she could prevent their voices from penetrating into her brain, from slowly melting her resolve; that was what filled her with a dull horror. She believed firmly that she couldn’t keep the voices from providing her with the eventual conviction that she was wrong. So they won. And she staunchly refused to award them their trophy, the tangible form of which was a baby.

How could she possibly have had time to go through all of those thoughts inside of a milli-second? She still had so far to fall before she struck the earth, cold and unforgiving, her body bending in unnatural ways that would shut down her central nervous system and burst tiny capillaries and large arteries and fill her lungs with fluid and pop bones through soft tissue in altogether inappropriate directions, leaving her turgid and distended. She almost saw herself already lying there in a misshapen heap of jacket and denim and sinew and partially exposed brain. It didn’t bother her. The wind whipping in screams around her face felt better than anything she had experienced before, even while it felt so ghastly. It was the entire spectrum of feeling. So maybe that is what they meant about life flashing before your eyes, all of your senses alert at once, the combination of which under normal circumstances is impossible to achieve. Well, next to impossible, because otherwise anyone who’d experienced it wouldn’t have survived, right? Again, she wondered, why wasn’t she thinking about the correct things? How could she be posing such inane questions at that crucial moment? Anyone else would’ve been in the proper solemn frame of mind. Somnambulant. Solemnatory. Was that even a word? Case in point! (Point in case!?) Oh, why couldn’t she get it right? Her last chance at it, at proving to herself that she was capable of the appropriate attitude, and she was doing word play. Too bad her friend who shared her love of such things couldn’t hear these thoughts; he would’ve appreciated them, possibly to the point of getting it, her alien take on her headlong tumble into the physical void. Funnier if she replaced ‘void’ with ‘avoid’. Unfortunate, though. Too late for that switch. No avoiding the present fall. Fall. Oh, she’d been so excited to start wearing sweaters! She gave up trying to control her errant mental scramble. It was at least amusing. She was happiest when she was laughing, so even though she hadn’t breath to laugh, she could do it in her head at the last. She thought of the joker in Batman, his plastic laugh toy chuckling skin-crawlingly after his downward career from the spire of that dark church in Gotham. The most perfect rendition of Batman. Tim Burton a genius. She’d never meet him. D*mn. Nor would she meet Kevin Spacey, and then she couldn’t remember who else she cared to meet. She would’ve liked to see her brother again. Although he wouldn’t have known her, so it made no difference, really. What else? What else?! She was running out of time, she was out of time! She had to think! She had to keep thinking. If she kept thinking, she could prolong her deathmatch with gravity. Celebrity deathmatch. Oh, why had she wasted so much time on MTV? Kicking herself for not finishing The Pickwick Papers or The Brothers Karamozov. No full sentences now. Could be full of fancy literary tidbits rather than stupid contemporary trite crap. Feeling angry. Cheated. Then embarrassed. Whose fault if not hers? The time had belonged to her. She had chosen to wile it away with her friend, Mr. Remote Control. And candles. Vanilla. Cucumber. No babies. Too many people already on the planet. And soon one less. Ha! That was a good one. Cucumber-melon. Melons.  Split wide open with juice and flesh spread all over. Overripe. Bad smell. She hated overripe melons. She hated herself. She loved herself. She felt all of the love and all of the hate surge through like electric currents. The chuckling toy whirring in her head, slowly dissipating, the electric current zapping and then just a faint smoke evaporating into the air. The woman in heels who ran over and stood near her thought she saw the smoke as it drifted off.

i can quit anytime i want.

Great.

Nothing done.  Again.  The house is a reservoir of filth.  He’s going to be so pissed when he comes home. 

(Echoes of his disgruntled opinions, of a few nights past, regarding your inability to successfully manage the household duties while simultaneously managing your blogging habit, begin playback in your head.)

Stick the kid in the high chair.  Scratch rear of scalp.  Swallow the last of the water in the old container that you’ve been pathetically re-using as a glass for the last several days, mostly because you know you won’t have to shove it in the dishwasher at any point – when you tire of it, you just toss it.  No muss, no fuss.  Scrunch nose because water smells a little bit like dirty socks.

Scurry around the kitchen like a madwoman, ladeling dishes into the sink, then ladeling them into the dishwasher.  Look over to see the kid scooting his snack side-to-side on the tray, a sure sign that he’s over it.  Run to fridge.  Scan anxiously through the shelves, praying that there’s a piece of overlooked fruit hiding in its recesses.  Nuh-uh.  Instead, you spy the sugar-free jell-o paks, sisters to the one that you only gave him once because he had a look on his face that said he’d just eaten from the tree of forbidden fruit, and you were only trying to stave off some of his (eternal) suffering from teething pain.  You think, what the hell.  He’s only a kid once – and really, is sugar-free jell-o *that* bad?  Probably.  But, oh, fuck it.

You scoop a big dollop of the limp, wiggly, orange goo onto his tray.  His face lights up.  You:  “Okay!  Good enough!”  Run back into the kitchen.  Scrape weird, black bits off counter by toaster.  Wonder why your mate seems not to notice these kinds of things when he’s “cleaning” the kitchen.  Sigh.  Stack more garbage on the counter because the garbage can, the big, shiny, alluring garbage can that is apparently akin to a toddler mecca, is in the bathroom, which is behind the door that you have just shut so that he won’t try to stick his hands in the dog’s water dish, also behind the door. 

Give the kitchen a visual once-over, tell yourself you’re satisfied with the level of tidiness achieved in the hyper-speed straightening quickie that you are wrapping up, even though you are forcing yourself to squint during the process.  Keeping your eyes open wide during the cleaning process, these days, is too much for your sentimental, anal-as-fuck spirit.  You know just how little in the house actually merits the title of “clean,” and it sort of breaks your heart to know how incapable you are of doing anything about it.

You rush over to the laptop to bring up the program that is your bread-and-butter, and open a few windows that are jobs waiting to be completed, in order to create the appearance of having spent even the slightest amount of time on them today.  You start in on one, so as to flesh out the deception, only to be interrupted by a loud “sshhhhhhhhhhhhwaaaaaaah!”  Your door to finish clearing up, provided so kindly by the questionable jell-o, has slammed shut.  You high-tail it over to the kid, who is now dumping chunks of jell-o onto the dog’s head.  You pull him out of the chair, wipe him down, pull his goo-encrusted pants and onesie off, and set him free in the living room.

You wipe down the high-chair, wash off the tray, yell at the dog to eat the remaining bits around the chair’s circumference and stop hanging around underfoot.  Run to the dryer to grab a clean set of clothes for the baby.  Run back into the kitchen before he can pull open the drawer with the plastic wrap and sandwich bags, tossing them all over the room.  He only manages to pull out four plastic bags before you sternly correct him and reveal the drawer *beneath* that one to be *his* drawer.  He seems to accept it with little fuss.

You pull his squirming body onto your lap and slide the shirt over his head, his pants onto his bucking frame.  He throws himself headlong onto the ground, then leaps up and toddles back to a pile of toys.  You heave a sigh of semi-relief.

You call your husband.  He answers, his tone curt.  You: “So you insist on bringing dinner home?  Okay.  I guess I’m fine with that.”

Okay, so fast food is the devil incarnate.  You start to adjust to the notion that you no longer feel as concerned about things that used to seem devil-incarnate-y.

You look to make sure that the baby is happily ensconced among his toys.  You rush back to the laptop to squeeze just one or two more blog-reads in.

After all, you deserve a break.  

the cute. it slays me.

I got nothin'.  I just wanted to share a little bit of my kidlet with my bloggy pals.
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open for bidness.

Consider this an open thread... use it responsibly.  Welcome to all who are currently experiencing blogspot dysphoria.

I just ask that, as one of my favorite bloggers says in similar situations, you please try to refrain from shooting anyone in the face.  (And seeing as how he's also on blogsuck, er, blogspot, he may wish to stop by and partake in the discussion.  He's welcome, too.)

I kiss you.  (kudos to Turkish guy for that old chestnut.)

what she said.

Andrea said it as well, or better than, I could.  'Cause the control over my vocabulary declines in direct inverted proportion to my emotional state.  And I'm pissed.

Me no likee blogger.com so much at this moment.

(So I guess it's a good thing I'm at typepad, huh.)

* I forgot to add that I spent a great deal of time being frustrated over my inability to comment at all y'all's blogs yesterday, due to my lack of communication skills (that are a direct result of my frustration with blogger.com, therefore, this mess that I am in that keeps growing gigantic-er by the minute).

Rarrr.

turned a corner.

I'm blatantly lifting from Something Blue's idea to use a theme to complete this meme.  Urgh.  I hate when I rhyme accidentally (which makes it sound as though I just *love* it when I do it on purpose).  I hope she's cool with it, and doesn't think I'm a super-lame copy-cat-queen.  Although she'd be right.

Twenty years ago, I was riding bikes with my friends to the nearest video store to rent

• The Goonies,
• Back to the Future,
• St. Elmo's Fire,
• Girls Just Want to Have Fun,
• Real Genius,
• Fast Times at Ridgemont High,
• Weird Science,
• All the Right Moves,
• Mask,
• Fletch,
• Sixteen Candles,
• Agnes of God,
• The Outsiders,
• Risky Business,
• Oxford Blues,
• The Sure Thing,
• War Games,
• The Karate Kid,
• Footloose,
• All of Me,
• Vacation & European Vacation,
• Mr. Mom, and
• The Breakfast Club. 

                                 

(We would've rented Pretty in Pink, but it wasn't released on video until that winter - a few days before my birthday/the slumber party of the season.  We rented it then, instead.  It was a big deal 'round my house; I had to coerce my mom into allowing it, but no one paid any attention while it was on, b/c we were too busy planning the gigantic tee-peeing bonanza for late that night.  Whatever.) 

Along with the video rentals came the food edible crap purchases; Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, the miniature ones (because they were ten for a buck), and chicken and jo-jos with ranch dressing.  And a big ol' coke.  I still remember the way that old video store smelled; it was musty and not so very clean, and the oily fragrance of deep-fried food hung heavy in the air.  There was always some older guy in a red flannel shirt, open, with a stained, greyish t-shirt on beneath, sitting at the folding table near the register, waiting to see if his Keno ticket had won.  He made me a little nervous, because, as a gambler, he must've been a bad person (my parents made sure I knew all about the sinister world of chance, and how desperate and nefarious its participants were).   

Ten years ago, I jaunted out to the cinema on a regular basis, sometimes with friends, but often alone, in order to enjoy such fare as

• Waiting for Guffman (I ate an entire bucket of popcorn during this movie, and probably scared some of the patrons away, I laughed so hard and so loud)
• The Daytrippers
• Basquiat
• Party Girl (yes, I was obsessed with the inimitable Parker.  still am)
• The Doom Generation (I had such a crush on Rose McGowan after this film, although I went to see it for PP)
• Swingers (swooooooon - I spent a few years around the release of this movie visiting my L.A. dwellin' friends and dragging them to Hollywood to find some of those dumb, mysterious, lacking-in-signage bars.  and dragging them to the Derby.  and dragging them onto the dance floor to do the lindy-hop.  and dressing like June Allyson.  supernerd)
• Scream (Rose McGowan.  sigh.  also, this totally refreshed my love for Drew.  and I developed a wee crush on the Skeet character.  lastly, Neve who?)
• The Last Supper (I thought it was *so* esoteric and brilliant.  Until I saw it again recently on IFC.  *shakes head mutely*)
• The Cable Guy (I still love Jim.  even though he's losing it, sorta)
• The Truth about Cats and Dogs
• Kingpin (HI-larious.  I laughed until I cried.  that may have been a partial result of the marijuana I'd smoked before pressing the play button)
• Everyone Says I Love You (ahhh.  more delightful Drew.  and - oh, god - the dreamalicious Ed Norton)
• The Professional (was the pinnacle of Natalie's career.  I'm just sayin')
• The People vs. Larry Flynt (oh, Courtney.  Court-ney, Court-ney, Court-ney)
• Beautiful Girls (okay, Natalie was cute, here, but Timothy Hutton was D. Lishiss)
• Citizen Ruth (love Laura Dern - this was a really funny movie, if you don't mind the subject matter.  which I didn't)
• Four Rooms (Tim Roth - sooo cute.  and the bit with Antonio Banderas and the kids - awesome)
• I Shot Andy Warhol (I fell asleep during this movie.  Doesn't say much.  I still heart Janeane, though.  Actually, now more than ever)
• Braincandy (I barely remember it, I was so stoned.  but it was very funny.  I recall that much, at least)

                         

• Girl 6 (Spike Jones did well, here.  I love the lead actor, Theresa Randle - she's brilliant *and* gorgeous)
• Stealing Beauty (I didn't want to see it, but I ended up liking it, anyway)
• Fargo (the film that spawned a thousand bad imitations of North Dakotans)
• Trainspotting (I still have tracers involving babies crawling on ceilings, thanks)
• Flirting with Disaster (so.  funny.  reminded that I think highly of Ben Stiller)
• Romeo + Juliet (I dug the cinematography)
• Bound (hot, hott, hottt.  seriously.  Gina Gershon, from what I hear, is regarded as a goddess in the lesbian world to this day, because of this film)
• Secrets and Lies (really gorgeous story)
• The Craft (cheese.  I love me some cheese)
• Shine (the guy that was in Flirting, a great film, and has since besmirched his rep, imo, because of his participation in such barf-tastic celluloid as the Lara Croft series.  sad.  but, oh, Geoffrey Rush - a cinema god)

I wanted to include some that I rented that were from a year or so previous or hence, but I won't.  For the sake of my crappy memory, and possible error as a result.

Things I was doing when I wasn't at the movies: attending acting school.  going to karaoke. a lot.  I was (and still am) a huge, HUGE karaoke-monster-nerd.  going to bars in general.  going to lots of rock shows.  (I think I saw Pavement, plus Supersuckers, and ... oh.  god.  I totally can't remember.  I've been to lots of shows, and that was a big year for 'em.  So fuck if I can recall.  Oh - Dance Hall Crashers.  Hummm.  Uh.  Local bands, like Sleater-Kinney and - and - Quasi - and well.  I'm gonna end this 'cause it's painful.  I could probably remember if I were drinking.  That always seems to kick-start my ability to reminisce about those times.  Ehhh.)

Five years ago, I didn't go to the movies a lot.  My now-husband, but at the time still just my live-in-boyfriend, and I weren't as into going to movies as we were into going to bars.  I think.  It's a little fuzzy.  I'll try to recall any of the films I saw from that period.

• Donnie Darko (I decided, after seeing this, that I'd like a little Jake on my daily morning toast.)
• The Royal Tenenbaums (Gene Hackman?  Genius)
• Zoolander (Magnum + Milla Jovovich x Will Ferrell = laff city)
• Wet, Hot American Summer (I won't bore anyone with my rhapsodic opinion of this movie)

         

• Waking Life (really interesting film style, but kinda lost me toward the end, and that made me sad 'cause I love R. Linklater mucho)
• In the Bedroom (although I had a really tough time swallowing the wrap-up to the plot.  I won't go into details for the sake of those who may not have seen this one, yet.)
• Ghost World
• A Beautiful Mind
• Heist
• The Score
• Monsters, Inc.
• Shaolin Soccer (although I confess to not having seen this until a year or so ago, after seeing Kung Fu Hustle, also made by Stephen Chow, and *totally* awesome)
• Gosford Park (oh, but I loves me some Clive Owen.  goddddd.  also, Helen Mirren is fabulous in this, as is (the divine) Emily Watson, Kelly MacDonald (Trainspotting), and Maggie Smith; "Oh, yummy yummy yummy!")
• The Cat's Meow (EDDIE.  IZZARD.  that's all.)
• The Shipping News (dame Judy is just amazing in this role, and I heart Julianne Moore.  and there's my long-time secret beau, Kevin.  also, the plot is wonderful.  oh, and Cate Blanchett's in it, too.  I need to see this movie again.)
• The Lord of the Rings.  Yes.

One year ago, I was heavily pregnant, and doing my best to live up to the advice of everyone I encountered, which was to attend as many films as possible (or, well, to just get out often), prior to delivery.  So we saw these five films during the six or so weeks before lil mister arrived:

• Sin City  (more Clive Owen.  mmmm.)
• War of the Worlds
• Star Wars:  The Revenge of the Sith (cringe.  I did it for my man.  I'm kind like that.)
• Batman Begins  (Chrisssstian Bale.  duuuude.  also, there's a matter of the delicious morsel of actor that played the madman - his name isn't on my register, but his simmerin' ass certainly is)

      

• Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

And we saw one movie after he was born:

• The Corpse Bride

Yesterday, I watched a Baby Einstein video (Baby Mozart) on repeat play with the kiddo.

Today, I never turned the television on, instead opting for a heady disco mix (Abba!  Donna Summer!  A Taste of Honey!) to enliven our spirits.

Tomorrow (and this is entirely dependant on whether we get any sleep tonight, as opposed to last night), we shall endeavor to again avoid flipping on the television, although it's highly likely that I'll look to Tivo'd Sesame Street to get us through some portions of the day.

In the next year, I will do my best to track down a nice, healthy, upstanding, polite young adult who belongs to Mensa and is willing to watch our child of an evening, so that we may go forth and view a film in the movie theatre, the one with stadium seats, and movie-theatre popcorn, and nasty candy and stomach aches and dolby surround.

It's gonna be very.

The End.

* I forgot to include a "three years ago" entry.  Woops.

* I forgot to tag some other participants.  I tag Cristina, Jaelithe, Andrea, Ruth, and Marcie.

* Phew.  Done.

although I'd rather make history...

I'm stalling.  I was supposed to have finished the 20-years-ago-etc. meme, as mandated by the sweet bubandpie, and I haven't yet.  Okay, I'm lying.  I have finished it.  I'm simply not sure I'm ready to share that much stuff about my past.  Plus, I'm almost positive no one else is ready, either.  (Is one ever truly prepared to see others' dirty-nasties?  I'm.  just.  not.  sold. on the idea.)

So, while I hem and haw over the level of preparedness I possess in regard to cracking open my storage bins full of a mildewy, emotional barrage o' crap, all the old journals and weird collections of junk and oh-so-much garbage-ready bidness -- well, rather than dump all of that out here and sort through it in front of everyone with a modem, as tantalizing as that sounds, I think I'd rather display something a little less, well, buried.  Instead, the thing that is going on the front page of i-obsess news for today is a thing that is always on my personal front page: my hair shame.  (And, quite honestly, I'm hoping that the revelation of my face, in all its scary, yellow-toothed glory, will distract everyone from my true intention, which is to avoid sharing my icky past at all costs.  Did it work?)

A story in pictures.  It runs the gamut, from pretty, to pretty vomitous, but in the end, is as honest as I can make it (given that I'm featured in about 2 out of every 100 pictures taken by the camera, these days - my husband, somehow, has made it into a lot more of them than that; something to do with my being more aware of how much pictures from this period are going to mean, someday, than him.  unless it's that he has more shame over my hair's descent into madness than I have, and just hasn't wanted to enhance my already abysmal feelings on the subject by telling me outright).

Hope the smell is less noxious than the emotional garbage would've been.  *wink*

                                                          A Personal Hairstory.

When hair shame (along with my little mister) was but a twinkle in my eye.  (And, to be fair, I'd just returned from le salon that afternoon.  What did I ever do with all the oodles of time?)

                                                

This one, with lil mister all smooshy and soft (what was that like?), was taken following what was probably my first shower after the whole troupe of family members had departed, leaving me trembling in the wake of their dust.  The hair, though, while wet, is still doing its job, quite inobtrusively, and without any noticeable difference from BPD (before pregnancy/destruction).

                                                                     

I confess; this is my piece de resistance, this photo.  The hair - she is so shiny.  So luxuriant.  So soft.  So ... sigh ... straaaiight.  With just a few, delicious pieces sorta tousled and slightly curled, for effect.  I think I hair-peaked on this day.  (It helps that there was salon-intervention the day before, of course.  Because second-day-after-salon-hair is, as everyone knows, le creme.)  It's all downhill from here, my friends.

                                                         

The hair in this one is still fairly good.  Caring for the baby has already started its drain on my desire to refrain from looking unkempt; although I haven't quite faced that harsh truth yet, I'm beginning to see it looming.  The hair, however, has only *just begun* to fall out.  Thus far, there is no disruptive re-growth, and no horrific amount of gray that has initiated the attempt for domination over the other, more bashful, pigmented variety. 

                                                      

Ah-hah!  The re-growth has spurred its armies into action.  The wisps of evidence, even here, in this early photo, have begun to appear.  At the time that this picture was captured, btw, the visits to the salon have ceased.  Enhanced color options are out the window, because really, who gives a shit when your baby *won't stop crying* and your main concern is preventing yourself from doing batshit crazy stuff, nevermind finding someone to watch the baby so you can get your freaking hair done.  Oy.

                                                

Ahhhh.  Now, that's refreshing.  This photo serves a dual purpose; 1) it highlights the manner in which I have spent not a little time recuperating from the severe head trauma that is sleep deprivation (from which I am still mid-recuperate, if I'm honest - hell, will I ever be finished?), and 2) it's kinda what I need if I'm going to make it through this hall of hair shame.  This was a very nice bottle of wine.  Btw, I'm neither a wine aficionado, nor am I a novice.  I am a third thing - a wine drinker.  'Cause it's got  - *pssssst* -- booze in it.  Yep.  Back in the day, it was strawberry hill Boones, and currently, it's fancy-schmance p. noir, shiraz, etc.  It all serves the same purpose, though, non?

                                                   

Another refreshing visual.  Ahhh.  Soak it in, my friends.  Soak.  it.  in.

                                                     

So it isn't *my* hair.  It's still hair.  And this is a hairstory.  It works.  (And for the record, I was the one who had to brush it out, so I deserve *some* credit.  And, may I add, Ugh.)

                                          

The final descent into hair-fug madness.  Don't look at it, folks.  Don't look.  Shield your eyes.

                                                                        

You can't say I didn't warn you.

p.s. "... Maybe not even that... can you bleach out [coffee and wine] stains?"

p.s.s. I'm going to go through some pretty intense hysterics this afternoon for having posted the lesser of these pictures.  Hell, any of 'em.  So if I don't show my face, er, fingers for a while, that'll be the reason.

p.s.s.s I just realized how potentially insulting I sound in describing my inability to share my personal history, because I make it seem like something no one should do, etc.  That isn't true.  I'm just uncomfortable with the sharing of my shit because I don't know how to do it briefly or without sounding really whiny.  I'd like to either be able to convey a good amount of self-deprecation throughout any such diatribe, or I'd like to just hit on the terrifically interesting parts, neither of which was I able to do when rough-drafting.  So that's kinda where I'm at with it. 

p.s.s.s. Oh, good god, this is getting ridiculous.  I just had to add that I am now hiding in a corner in my bedroom, arms wrapped around my knees, rocking back-and-forth, as I whisper to myself, "Oh, they're going to think I'm vain.  They're going to think I'm ugly.  They're going to think I'm a freak for being so insecure."

But I can only get away with the rocking and whispering for a little while, because the baby's down for a nap.

sunday morning pretties.

Featuring: the lovely new chalice for mah purty earrings and baubles.  I figure, if I can't wear them, I can at least enjoy the way they look through vivid green glass with nice, etched thingies on the sides.

saturday night's alright for fighting. er, reading.

Alright, dudes.  I am *so* ready for a break.  We're still caught in the ear-infection vortex, spinning madly, but I refuse to dwell on that (or the brain that I used to trust that is so lurchy and broken for all the reasons I have been overly wordacious about in past posts, so again, no dwelly herey), and instead, I am going to celebrate (cerebrate?  broken brain syndrome is hard to shake, unlike my booty, or a Polaroid picture). 

Celebrate what, you ask?  Ahhhh, that is the magic of broken-brain-ish-ness.  Anything, everything, the world!  The floor!  The quasi-invisible (invincible?) bits of plastic strewn about our home that are affixed with infinitesimal homing devices, the kind that only a child of the age of my son can detect, the kind that I find in his tiny paw as it approaches his tiny maw, and rescue from the abyss in the nick of time.  Stevie Nicks.  I was never that into her.  I like some of the Fleetwood Mac songs, though.  Big fan of "Rhiannon" and "Go Your Own Way."

I shall now settle the loose-association words that are teeming and clamoring in the queue, by giving them the promise of story-time.  And maybe a nice, kid-sized shag-pile rug, and a cookie and some apple juice.  But what should I read?  I have a list, and it is compiled of my favorite books from grade school days.  Ahh, those halcyon days.

The Great Brain series.  I especially loved the one where the Great Brain goes to boarding school and starts a "store," vending contraband candy bars to his buddies, after he has managed to carve a key for the washroom out of a copy he made impressed on a bar of soap.  Heart.

Encyclopedia Brown.  Oh, but I loved me some Encyclopedia Brown.  I couldn't get enough.  I really dug the endings, too, where the bully-kid used to say something like, "let's make like drums and beat it."  Or "let's make like trees and leaf."  Only, I sorta think he used to confuse them, as in, "let's make like babies and leaf."  Ahhh.  Loooved it.

Mrs. Piggle Wiggle.  Magic!  Cookies!  Strange, upside-down stairs, weird, magical cures, pirates and buried treasure.  And parents who say really odd things.  Wicked cool.

Ramona Quimby (written, I am shamelessly proud to say, by a fellow Portlander, Beverly Cleary.  Every time I drive by Klickitat, my heart thumps.)  Also, Henry Huggins and his dog, Ribsy, and of course, The Mouse and the Motorcycle.  Fabu.
   

The Diamond in the Window.  I think it was about T.M. -- very taboo subject, in my mother's opinion, because it was one of those buzz topics I think they must have mentioned in her bible-study group, something she should keep an ear out for.  I didn't really care about the transcendental meditation aspect as much as I did the cool, magicky stuff.  Naturally, my mom's desire to keep me from the magicky, ESP-ish stuff just drove me straight into it's cozy bosom.  I never could get enough of the mysterious, magical, telekinesis stories.

The House with a Clock in its Walls.  I loved all the books I could get my hands on by the author of this book, John Bellairs.  I especially dug the illustrations by Edward Gorey.  So dark and eery, but with a slightly funny bent.  Bitchin'.  There were many, many nights of terror and bad dreams and sleeping on my parents' floor, by the foot of their bed, as a result of these stories.  (Needless to say, I had an even harder time with horror films.)

 

Behind the Attic Wall.  I don't remember it very clearly; I just recall loving it and returning to re-read it, library visit after library visit.  I know there was a doll, or something, and some weird, old aunts.  Awesome.

Half Magic.  I love the whole magical series by Edgar whats-his-name.  And I diggg the series he introduced me to through his books, penned by a woman who was a single mom, during a time when single moms weren't getting published all too often.  E. Nesbit.  Totally gnarly.

James and the Giant Peach.  I never did read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, believe it or not, because I was so afraid of the movie that I couldn't bring myself to read the book.  (I had an unholy fear of the girl who turns into a blueberry.  Really.  I would always run from the room, crying, whenever that scene began.  I was such a little panty-waist.)  But I looooooooooved James.  And I felt so close to his insect friends.  *heart throbs softly*

Oh, sigh.  I am afraid that's all I can dredge up for the moment.  Y'know, I so look forward to reading those stories to my kid as he gets older.  It's gonna be great to traipse down those dear, dusty halls with him, to see his eyes widen in excitement at the geography of the imagination -- its sheer enormity is bound to blow him away. 

Can't.  Wait.

What are some of the imaginary places you look forward to unlocking for your kids?

piss and vinegar. minus the vinegar.

In my inaugural post, I mentioned that I am not skilled in the ways of intentional funny.  And it's true.  I'm not.  I'm quite good at giving vent to really random thoughts that skew pretty extreme, and that's true in my life as well as my writing.  I've always been a slave to the weirdy-weird, demented stuff.  That's why I dig Tim Burton's films, and Robert Smith's lyrics, and the Coen Bros., and Wuthering Heights - I am forever indebted to Ms. Bronte for creating Heathcliff and Catherine.  And Heathers - oh, sigh, Heeeaaathers. 

"Real Life sucks Losers dry.  If you want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly."

But - and it's a big, white, glaring, jiggly one - I adore the funny.  The humorous shit is what gets me through (the day, the week, a nasty bout of flu, whatever).

So why doesn't my brain gravitate that direction in writing?  Why is the weird shit the predominant aspect?  Why do I wax philosophical when I would much prefer to laugh myself horse? (incorrect spelling intentional, dudes.)

Now, if I could have it my way (and technically, I should be able to, since these words are mine, but it doesn't seem to work like that - the muse, she is a cruel mistress who never lets me take thoughts in the direction I would like for them to travel), I would scribble furiously and the end result would be darkly comedic.  That's my oh-so-favorite blend of verbal magic. 

How is it possible - I begin with the best of darkened, infectiously funny intentions, and on the re-read, I discover that I sound like wet bread. 

I want to write about my weekend, about our trip to Oakland, about our presence at the first birthday party given for the son of our good friends, and our subsequent stay at the wood-paneled halls of the FIL's, the double-ear infection/middle-hearing-loss my partner is currently dallying with, the fever-that-won't-quit that has descended upon my son because evidently his eustachian tubes are BROKEN and he will be blessed with ear infections until the day he goes off to university, the mind-numbing quality that has taken my brain hostage due to my severe sleep disorder, thanks to the baby's perpetual fever, maybe I have brain fever? and don't people die from that - wait, is that malaria, and was that resolved post-Secret Garden South Africa colonialism oh shit we're still perpetrating colonialism only now it's the USA that's doing it instead of G. Britain - see?  I *do* have brain fever.

I went to the front window earlier, coffee mug in hand, watching as the rain sullenly squashed my hopes for a mood lift during today's weekly installment in our exciting series on "trips to the pediatrician" (where I'm sure to be given the golden opportunity to drop cheddar on another round of antibiotics to dose up my ten-month-old son).   I wished ardently for someone to be driving up to my house, someone of the never-endingly-lovely blog friends I now possess, maybe the huggable, giggly, politically astute Marcie, or the pithy, delightful MotR; Jaelithe, who I'm sure would head straight for the kitchen in order to whip up an animal-friendly culinary masterpiece,  or Andrea, who would pour some coffee and engage me with a chilling ghost story, or Dawn, who would throw early-morning caution to the wind and crack a bottle of syrah, then fill our glasses and encourage me to finish it at a go, while regaling me with the antics of the peeping workmen.

All I got, surprise, was rain.  Reigning.

In the end - I must resign myself to posting depressing blather about the current state of my life, that I really don't think anyone wants to read, not even me; aware, as I am, that I can't force the funny, while still sensing that I must post or face the realization that my blog has died on the vine. 

You know what?  You can't make me be your monkey, internets.  Although I would be if I could.  But I can't.  In fact, internets, I just hate you, and I hate your ass face!

So there.

p.s. Nyyahhh.

p.s.s. I'm real mature.  (Oh, yeah?  If you're so mature, how come you say it like that?  it's supposed to be "matchure," not "ma-toor."  Duh.)