Fussy

When You Gotta Go

2009-07-03T23:07:00.000-07:00

As I was driving down to LAX this morning I was mindful of holiday statistics, thinking, "Okay, how many barbecue drunks could there be on the road at 7:30 a.m. on a Friday?"

When we got in the car Jackson immediately plugged himself into his own iPod using the little green frog ear buds I gave him for his birthday. I wasn't feeling quite sharp enough for NPR and I thought it would be rude to plug in my iPod and get into some sort of weird hearing-loss battle, so I just drove. Ninety miles of an unselfconscious little boy singing in that half-tuneless, badly-enunciated way people do when they can't hear themselves was probably the better choice anyway because honestly, running all that Kanye West and Katy Perry through the Jackson Filter was far more entertaining than listening to it first-hand.

The commute down the 1 through Malibu was a surprisingly noncompetitive, and while I was swerving back and forth, thinking not just about all the half-naked surfers changing out of their wetsuits by their cars on the side of the road -- I totally do that thing where if I'm looking to the right I'll also pull the wheel to the right, whoops! My bad! -- but also about unattractive people who die in unexpected, disease-free ways, how everyone always mocks them afterward. "Sure, he lived on broccoli juice and hemp crackers, his cholesterol was zero, he had the unblemished heart of a lumberjack, and the strength of his erections could have pushed the leaning tower of Pisa back to plumb -- and he got hit by a bus! Haw haw haw." As though you should never do another sit-up again and live on bacon cheeseburgers on the off chance the downtown express will run a light and paste you and your last lard smoothie all over Cliff Drive.

But what if being hit by a bus was God's reward for showing respect and goodwill to that corpse-to-be you're currently calling home? What if God reserved only the most instantaneous, never-saw-it-coming deaths for the people who took care of their gifts? Took your vitamins, wore comfortable shoes, and strove to develop an enlightened and giving political voice? BOOM, you get hit by lightening before you ever had a chance to decline physically or mentally, see ya. Kissed your wife with all your heart, every single time? Here, have a fatal heart attack in your favorite chair when your team wins the championship.

I'm back in Denver for my mom's funeral, so I'm afraid it's just a deathy kind of thought-weekend. Now that she's gone we can really get into the meat of this house, all the chipped trinkets and unfinished thoughts and unlabeled photographs of people we vaguely resemble but will never be able to name. I'm going to take pictures of everything that means anything and then it can all go to Goodwill. My brothers very kindly gave me my mother's wedding band and now that's the only souvenir I really care to walk away with. Well, and maybe that kimono. And I'll see if that sundress fits.

What a Life

2009-06-26T08:07:00.000-07:00

My favorite Michael Jackson video is actually a Janet Jackson video. It's also my son Jackson's* favorite Jackson video.

* Despite some minor speculation on almost no one's part, Jackson wasn't named for the Jackson 5, or Reggie Jackson, or even Phil Jackson, despite their dearness to our hearts. No, here in California, as in ancient times, one names one's son for his father and just tacks "son" on the end, and prays he won't end up being named Larry Bird.

The cat was fine. They only really need three legs, anyhow.

2009-06-24T09:19:00.000-07:00

You know what's almost as fun as launching a new site? Having your web host take a big dump while you're doing it. Asking thousands of people to click on the site and then sitting by helplessly while it crashes over and over again. Dreamhost can suck it. Service may be intermittent while we ~~hold hands and pray~~ transfer everything over to Liquid Web today.

In the meantime, I gave in and canceled Jackson's dentist appointment this morning because I got a lot of astonished looks when I said he had to have two teeth pulled a couple hours before his birthday party. In my day, we would have toughed it out! Why, I remember clearing an acre of stumps and pulling a sled full of dead elk six miles through the snow before the cabin burned down the day I turned eight. "Happy birthday!" my father shouted over the roar of the flames. Then he handed me a blanket and told me to smother the dog, who was also on fire.

Announcement!

2009-06-22T09:42:00.000-07:00

So, a few summers ago, after Alice came out for BlogHer '06, in San Jose, she asked me if I could drive her to the airport on my way out of town, and I said sure! I know exactly where the airport is! And I promptly took off in the wrong direction.

Alice -- she is so cute when she's trying not to panic about missing a cross-country flight -- politely let me know that she was a little worried about our trajectory. NONSENSE! I shouted, and then I began bellowing sea chanteys at the top of my lungs to drown out her shrieking.

I don't know if it was the combination of decibels and a cruelly unresolved chord or what, but suddenly we found ourselves hurtling through a vortex of time, space, and garlic. My car came to a lurching halt in . . . A LAND BEFORE TIME.

Well, long story short, we had to hole up in this cave for a couple of weeks and subsist on prehistoric nuts and berries. They were pretty good.

One day, while I was out foraging for jumper cables, I happened upon a red velvet duffel bag full of wondrously carved chips of stone. Also inside the duffel was this scroll-type deal that was written in what appeared to be a language that corresponded to the symbols carved into the stones. Alice began calling them "mystical runes," because she's fancy like that.

So, we threw the duffel in the trunk and doing that opened a time portal. We jumped into the car and drove straight through it. We got Alice to the airport in plenty of time to fight about who was going to be in charge of the duffel bag. Well, it turned out to be a little too big for carry-on, but Alice convinced me that because she lived in a large East Coast city with access to universities and secret underground laboratories, and all I lived near was a pretty good taco stand, SHE should take the runes and get them translated.

I didn't hear from her again until last Christmas, when she parachuted out of a helicopter and tried to stuff herself down my chimney. When she emerged from the flue with the duffel on her back and a twinkle in her eye, she excitedly told me that a man named Dr. Ronald Tischman had translated the runes and the scroll and made Alice swear that she would do everything in her power to bring the world's attention to their mystical pronouncements. It turns out that the scroll was a pre-Etruscan parenting manual. The pre-Etruscans had some really crazy ideas about how to raise children, but Dr. Tischman knew that their ancient beliefs could serve as a balm to our modern anxieties about childrearing, mostly by INTENSIFYING those anxieties. I know, right? Totally counterintuitive! And you should read the stuff about pregnancy. It's nuts.

So Alice hired a designer and we got to work organizing the material. We're not done yet, but we've managed to get the first phase uploaded. So thanks to the hard work of Dr. Tischman, himself a disgraced pediatrician, we are happy to announce the web site LET'S PANIC About Babies!

Things My Son Has Discovered Lately

2009-06-17T09:08:00.000-07:00

The Disney Channel is on at 5 a.m.!

The dog doesn't mind if you fart on him, but then he might try to bite your balls.

Once the bushes stop flowering, you don't have to worry about bees so much.

If you accidentally delete all the photos on your mom's camera she will be pissed as hell, but then she'll forgive you because you were brave enough to tell her what happened and say you were sorry.

If you leave your scooter out all night, someone can steal it.

Putting up LOST SCOOTER signs around the neighborhood can make you feel a little better, even if no one brings it back.

Losing a scooter can give you the motivation to learn to ride a bicycle.

Riding a bicycle is easy, duh.

If you let a hamster run out of food, he will bite.

If you wear surgical gloves to protect yourself when you try to pick up a slightly-less-hungry hamster, he will still bite.

Gum and Coke is what's for breakfast, but Mom will yell at Dad when she finds out.

THANK YOU kind, invisible people who live in the Internet!

2009-06-05T11:26:00.000-07:00

It was kind of unfair for me to leave the big My Mom Is Dead post at the top of the page for so long, perhaps giving you the impression that I was too grief-stricken to lift the lid of my laptop and post my thanks to everyone who left their best wishes here.

I'm actually feeling pretty good. Really, amazingly good. For me, it seems like the first parent death kind of cleared the neural pathway for the second parent death to process a little more smoothly. In fact, I was so very mentally prepared for my mother to go that it was a total surprise how much I felt it physically. My body felt, and still feels, somewhat sore. If someone dies and takes a little part of you with them, then I'm missing a rib, I think, or some organ I can function without, but still feel the loss of. More appendix than kidney, I think -- my mother and I weren't kidney-close. But she was a part of me all the same.

I've got a couple of big-ass projects cooking and I am so pleased to tell you about the first of them right now, if you haven't heard already, which is how you, and me, and an unspecified number of attractive people are all going to read David Foster Wallace's Infinte Jest together this summer. It's totally a thing we're doing! Due to the fact that I've agreed to post my thoughts on what I've read on a weekly basis, I'm probably going to get past page 130 this time.

Threes

2009-05-28T10:44:00.000-07:00

Well, my mom's dead, there's no way around it. I've tried six different ways to write it down but there it is.

She had some company, though. Last week's first death was the most distant, an elderly yoga teacher, and it affected everyone in my circle. My teacher and his wife flew off to India. Class is being taught, for the time being, by a wonderful woman who's six months pregnant. She came up behind me yesterday to give me an extra squish in a forward bend, just laid right on top of me and pushed my torso down into my thighs and I thought, did she just push her baby into her own lungs to do that? Yoga teachers are such a mystery.

The week's second death was a horrible shock. One of Jack's subcontractors was murdered in his own kitchen, along with his wife, who was five months pregnant. The construction community here has been reeling. A detective has called, looking for clues. Was it random or was it planned? We remember to lock our door.

The third death hit closest to home, of course, even though it took place a thousand miles away. My brothers had kept me updated -- she stopped drinking water, she became unresponsive, her back was bruising, her lips were blue. Saturday I couldn't bear waiting around for the phone to ring anymore so I went up to Yoga Soup to hear Howard Wills give a talk about whatever it is Howard talks about. I went because Eddie had written such a startling, funny post about him and I thought, well, if there's one thing I could use right now it's to have someone snap his fingers and drain this grief right out of my heart.

Actually, I was terrified that Howard would snap his fingers at me and I'd burst. I managed to avoid the cosmic thunderclap (for now), but I did settle into the space Howard created, a space wherein I got a chance to meditate and spread the peanut butter of peace and love around on the, uh, bread of . . . my soul. In truth, it's Howard's belief that many of the ailments that we experience have nothing to do with us, they're manifestations of anger and whatnot that have come down the line of our families. (Anyone who's read that John Sarno book I never seem to shut up about -- about the physical and emotional aspects of pain -- may find this sort of reasoning persuasive.) So we meditated, twenty-five or thirty of us, on asking our parents to forgive each other, and that is what I was doing while my mother died. My grief transformed -- into what? I'm not sure I have a word for it. Cotton balls? Then my phone started buzzing in my purse and I knew someone was trying to tell me she was gone.

I am grateful that she went slowly enough for us to adjust to each stage of her withdrawal. (God knows, my father died and the height of the LOLcat craze and look at what he got for a farewell post. *sigh*)

Yesterday I called up a guy I know who was also at the Howard thing, and while we were on the phone he gave me a visualization to do for my mom. He said, Imagine you're in a room somewhere, someplace that's not really on the earth but it's a contained, comfortable place where you can sit. (I imagined myself sitting on a purple silk cushion.) Now, imagine your mom's in front of you. What is she doing? (Standing there, smiling at me with her hands folded in front of her.) Now, imagine her parents behind her, supporting her, and their parents behind them, and their parents behind them for generations. (I can't really see them, they're transparent.) Then let's just give them some wings. Now give your mother a gift. (I give her a sweater. She taught me to knit!) Now give her a basket filled with whatever currency she'll need for where she's going, a big pile of cosmic cash for her to take with her. (Her parents lift her up! She's floating away with her sweater and her basket of cosmic cash and I'm crying like a baby.) Now breathe. (And suddenly she's a little girl again and she runs to me and jumps into my lap and hugs me! Oh, the crying!) Keep breathing and tell her you love her.

HULK GUEST POST!

2009-05-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

WHERE MRS. KENNEDY GO?! HULK NOT SURE! HULK READ LAST POST, GET VERY SAD, WONDER IF EVERYBODY OKAY. POST STAY UP FOR LONG TIME! TWO WEEKS, HULK GET WORRIED! HULK E-MAIL MRS. KENNEDY, GET NO RESPONSE. HULK HACK INTO BLOGGER. IT NOT HARD.

HULK BUSY THESE DAYS, WORKING ON EXCITING NEW PROJECT. CANNOT SAY WHAT IT IS YET! SHHH, SECRET.

UH, NOT MUCH ELSE GOING ON WITH HULK. LAST MOVIE KIND OF SUCKED, HULK TAKE BREAK. HOPEFULLY MRS. KENNEDY BACK SOON WITH MORE NICE BLOGGING, OR MAYBE JUST FUNNY TORTOISE PICTURE. SOMETIMES A BLOGGER JUST TIRED OF HEARING HER OWN VOICE.

It all ties together somehow in the end.

2009-05-06T13:42:00.000-07:00

One delightful summer many years ago I was in Las Vegas for a convention, and I ventured away from the gaudy, steaming Hell of the Strip to a wee little -- I guess you'd call it a day spa. It was in the back of someone's house, where I got an allegedly nontoxic manicure, and then the woman who ran the place psychically diagnosed what sort of aromatherapy I needed. Rosemary, lime, and something else, as it turned out, and I said to this woman (whose father, she told me, was the spitting image of Don Adams) -- this woman who lived her life as the faux daughter of the guy from Get Smart, I said to her, This smell reminds me of my mother's kitchen.

The rosemary? she asked. She had red hair.

No, I said, Lime popsicles.

This photo is far too artful to show the real difference between Palmolive green (left) and Method green (right). Palmolive green hasn't changed in fifty years, and I love that about it. It's science-y and it smells like Madge and you know how many germs it kills? ALL OF THEM. Method green, on the other hand, is rhododendrons and Martha-fresh. It rounds up all the germs and carries them down your drain to a free-range germ farm.

I'm writing this from my mother's bedside. She's turned another corner on the long road to checking out altogether, and on this street the air is fresh and the lawns are trimmed and she only eats a couple of times a week. She doesn't know who I am, I'm pretty sure, but she smiles at me as though she likes me anyway.

When my dad died two years ago, every night for three weeks I watched 40-Year-Old Virgin and read Doonesbury cartoon books in bed before blacking out for the night. This week I've got a Netflix'd copy of Darjeeling Express in my laptop and I've developed a terrible crush on Adrien Brody. Yes, I'm much older than him and it would never work, but all the same, my apologies to his fiancee.

Yesterday I went out for a groceries and ended up cruising the Southwest Plaza mall. I bought a copy of Tootsie at Target and some tights at Macy's and some school clothes for Jackson off the Gap sale rack and then I went to Border's to laugh at them for going under*, and then I went to Spencer's because it was the only place I could think of that might possibly have incense. They did. After a quick stop at the liquor store for margarita fixins, I went home and lit a stick of what turned out to be fairly traditional (in my limited experience of such things) Indian incense.

*My apologies to all unemployed Border's employees but do you have any idea how many independent bookstores you displaced over the last decade? Quit pointing at Amazon.com. What goes around comes around.

My brother, surprisingly, said, Oh, you're going to clear the energy in the house? And I guess that's what I did. I walked at a moderate pace through every room and closet (and the garage), smoking out the ghosts. I don't know how deeply I subscribe to this sort of thing, but it felt pretty good when I was done. And at bedtime, the traditional hour when I get spooked out of my skin and have to watch a movie or read a book or pray to Satan to leave me alone, instead of any of that for the first time in years I felt nothing at all, just quiet, and I went to sleep.

The birds that start singing at 5:00 a.m., however, need to die. And this foam foldout couch is bullshit. But apart from that everything's fine. How are you?

This one's for all the insomniacs

2009-04-29T11:20:00.000-07:00

I forgot April was National Poetry Month and now I'm pissed. But I have a poem here somewhere that ties in neatly with something I was talking about with Amanda this weekend.

Namely, what fun it is to become fully wake at 3:30 a.m. for no discernible reason. Or rather, that reason possibly is discernible, by someone with a panoramic X-ray machine and a home phlebotomy kit. That person better have big, pulsing veins in their head, too. And I want to see some sweat.

Amanda and I were at Erin's for her "Randy and Erin Managed to Stay Married a Month!" party, and it was marvelous. I met some lovely people, including Melati and her ghost.

I think one cure for insomnia is to stay up five hours past your bedtime. Watch as you collapse into the most comfortable stranger's bed you've ever had the luck to luck into. Like a ton of bricks, you are, and still are, when you wake up after five hours of dreamless sleep and squint into the face a cloudless blue oven. I mean sky. Not wanting to disturb our hostess, Amanda and I Mapquested the nearest Starbucks. And I'd probably still be walking there, in my bathrobe and Birkenstocks like some sort of sad, Jesus-y Cathy-figure if Erin hadn't ignored our text messages ("Coffee?" "COFFEEEEEEE") and sorted us out like a pro.

"I have to take another one, your eyes were closed."
"Yeah, I did that on purpose."

New sock zombie!! I think there's a definite resemblance.

Auto-Lullaby

Think of a sheep
knitting a sweater;
think of your life
getting better & better.

Think of your cat
asleep in a tree;
think of that spot
where you once skinned your knee.

Think of a bird
which stands in your palm;
try to remember
the 21st Psalm.

Think of a big pink horse
galloping south;
think of a fly, and
close your mouth.

If you feel thirsty, then
drink from your cup.
The birds will keep singing
until they wake up.

Franz Wright

"All of life's riddles are answered in the movies."

2009-04-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

Getting to work was a little weird this week because Hollywood was just all over the place.

Hollywood's outer perimeter involved trucks, vans, semis, SUVs, and burly men with walkie talkies attached to their butts.

Conveniently, the street in front of the post office was blocked off. On tax day.

That man in the brown t-shirt and shorts was being paid $8 an hour to walk up and down the sidewalk and pretend to shop.

There were Meryl Streep sightings, and intimations of Alex Baldwin, but in the ten minutes I was out there I didn't see anyone but crew and extras, so I gave up and went back to the office.

The next day I had to drop off some stuff at the post office. I'd been thinking about trust, in a very New Agey way, and how if you trust that things will work out, sometimes they will, though maybe in a way you never imagined they would. I thought I'd try giving the universe a chance to show me something unexpected, but in order to do that I had to get over to where shit was more likely to happen. So instead of heading straight to my car, I decided to cruise past the set one more time.

Hollywood wants this movie to have an organic farmer's market foodie type of thing going on, so dozens of potted trees had their root balls sawed off so that De la Guerra Plaza could be turned into a Christmas tree lot.

This circle of hell was also populated by lights, umbrellas, and small women in thick coats. Well, you know, it's Southern California. With all those palm trees around the only way to signify winter is to show people wearing long sleeves.

I'm sounding kind of down on this little invasion, aren't I? It's one of the more perverse aspects of my nature to complain about things that I'm actually sort of excited about. I love movies.

"Hi, Steve!" That's what a woman standing next to me said. She said it loudly but in a real friendly way. Steve looked over and smiled, and that made a couple of other women behind me say, "Oh, he's such a nice guy."

The only thing that popped into my head to yell was, "Hey, Steve, let's get small!" I'm glad I didn't, though. Referencing thirty-year-old catchphrases only opens the door to remorse. Plus, the smile of a movie star stepping into a car he's not going to drive can be a complex thing. To me, his seemed to contain measures of gratefulness for the attention, embarrassment at the attention, weariness of the attention, indifference to the attention, and just enough concentration to listen to his messages. All wrapped up in a polarized lucre shell.

For a moment he rolled down the window so we could see him again -- the weird status acknowledgment and graciousness of a gesture like that in our allegedly classless society merits an essay that someone smarter than me would have to write -- and still with the same weary/indifferent/worthy smile. Then his window hummed back up and he was gone and I decided the universe had just given me a little punch in the arm to show it liked me, but that I shouldn't push my luck and wait for Meryl Streep.

Looking Ahead

2009-04-15T09:01:00.000-07:00

So! The good people at BlogHer have announced that we're doing another reading night at the conference this July in Chicago. The Community Keynote (which is its fancy name) will be a lot more fun for me this year because I won't be covered in tinsel -- and by that I mean crackling with nerves the entire day of, and man, and I didn't even read anything last year, I just did the introductions. (I did remember to put band-aids on my heels so my shoes wouldn't rub, though, so there's that.)

The point being, the call for submissions was announced today and we've got some dynamite categories this year, so let's go ladies and gents! Let's don some well-fitted brassieres and confidence wigs and nominate the hell out of ourselves.

Spring Broke

2009-04-07T12:02:00.000-07:00

Jackson had spring break last week. I covered the morning boy-watching shift, which meant that we laid around in our underwear until noon every day. Then Jack would come home and look at us in disgust and we'd get dressed and I'd go to work and I have no idea what they did while I was gone. Embroidery? Ditch digging? There was some talk of squirrel hunting but since none of us owns any squirrel hunting weaponry, no violence was done to our chipper little rodent friends.

By Friday I couldn't take the relentless inactivity anymore so I called in well to work and Jackson and I drove down to the science museum. It takes about two hours to get from here to downtown L.A., so we left early. Early-ish. Okay, maybe 9:30 isn't that early.

Apparently L.A. schools are on a different schedule than we are because there were approximately ten thousand school groups in varying stages of hysteria running around with us.

The first thing we did was go into the hurricane simulator, which is a glass booth with a big fan directed into it. It's pretty much a $2 blow dryer, and you end up just standing there, attracting a small crowd while your hair gets all whipped around. If you have hair, which I don't. (Did I mention I cut my hair? I couldn't take that anymore, either.) Anyway, I didn't manage to get a picture of Jackson with his hair standing on end, instead my camera took this one of him looking all angelic. Thanks, camera.

The science museum has lots of really good interactive sound and light and basic engineering exhibits, but throw a lot of amped-up kids raised on video games into rooms filled with big, chunky levers and cranks and you'll see the light slowly fade from their eyes. Like, sure, it's kind of cool how this prism bends color but EWW, THAT'S A FETUS! WHERE'S RAMON? CELIA, YOU TOOK MY HAIRBRUSH, EEEEE!

In a quiet hallway, however, Jackson stumbled onto this fog bowl and was able to practice his airbending.

I was feeling a little lightheaded -- the aftereffects of an extra glass of pinot grigio the night before -- and watching this kid ride the high-wire bicycle just about made me pass out.

I was immoderately pleased that there was a McDonald's in the museum lobby. The food anticipation I was feeling reminds me of a story my friend Leslee told me when she was pregnant, how she got some Chinese food for lunch one day and then had to close her office door so no one would see how intensely she horked it down. Yes, manners and food ethics go straight out the window when a plain double cheeseburger with fries and a Coke (and an extra Monsters vs. Aliens toy) are at hand.

Hi, everyone, my name is Eden and it's been six days since my last Happy Meal.

After lunch we cruised the gift shop but it was absolute pandemonium so Jackson suggested we walk over to the natural history museum.

Whose entrance is so large it defies the powers of photography.

"Blue lamps!"
"Mom, no one cares."
"Wait, I'm going to take a picture. Those are crazy!"
"I'm going into the gem room."

Okay, the gem room was amazing.

The side room where they display the rubies other valuables even has a bank-vault door. You'd think a kid would be impressed by a 10,000-pound door? He would not.

"Hey, baby, you know where the tar pits are?"

Yeah, unfortunately the tar pits are over on like Wilshire and La Brea, and despite the fortifying cheeseburger lunch I only had enough gas left for ten minutes in the touch-a-skeleton room in the basement and the usual argument about spending money as a form of entertainment in the gift shop.

I like to imagine this guy having the same accent as Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Awwww, babies! God, I hope I still have some M&Ms left in my bag.

And so, after dropping $20 on a mood ring and a diamond-cut chunk of green glass, we bid adieu to science and nature.

"I can see that guy's nuts!"

2009-04-07T11:23:00.000-07:00

Sara was a regular NaBlo blogger right from the start, and she always volunteered to help with the blogroll because, as she joked, she only had one leg so she was on the computer a lot. She was funny and gave me her time without asking for anything in return and I'm horrified at myself for not knowing how sick she was. I dedicated a yogabeans! post to her once. I'm really sad she's gone.

Abandoned Blog Posts

2009-03-31T11:41:00.000-07:00

2002

Frequently Asked Questions
1. How can I avoid herpes?
You can't.
2. Is it true that your house is a pigsty?
Right now there's only one waste basket overflowing with diapers.
3. Does it bother you when you pet your cat and the underside of her tail's all wet, and you're not sure if it's pee or if she's just been in the bath tub, licking water off the bottom again?
Yes.

"Where WWW means Wretched Writers Welcome"

It's always amusing when someone from the East Coast arrives in Santa Barbara in January expecting tropical nights and mosquito netting over their beds, only to find the local population dressed for rainy season in leather jackets and hats (even the old-timers will give in and put sweaters over their board shorts and flip-flops).

A few weekends ago we were watching VH-1 and there was Kid Rock, and there was Tommy Lee. And Jack asked me, "Is Kid Rock cute?" And I said, "No, Tommy Lee is cute, even though he's a total dope. Maybe because he's so dopey." And then I turned all red on the inside because I'd just told my husband that Tommy Lee was cute.

2003

MY DESERT ISLAND DISCS
The Real Ramona, by Throwing Muses

2004

13 ways of looking at insomnia
with no apologies to wallace stevens, nope, he's dead so fuck him

Not being able to think of a better way to say FUCK YOU

Shying away from painful realities

2005

White towels are a bad idea if you live with a four-year-old boy. Or a forty-five year old man, or yourself, who inhabits a body that houses a soul that never learned to bleach anything without burning a hole right through it.

2006

Lost gameboy

taking apart jackson's bed
sleeping with katie
flossing until he bleeds

"Mommy" is the new "Nigger"

tears over cheese
passive-aggressive karate mom
earth shoes and birkenstocks!
whore heads

Fake spiderweb freaks out real spider

Post about my parents waiting for me to come and cut their hair.

No floam!

2007

Hi Eden,
I just wanted to check in with you to see if you had a chance to take a look at the review copy of [redacted]. I think your readers would really enjoy this book and your writing a review could get the word out to them. I�d love to discuss other ways we can use the book�s content on your site. The authors would love to guest blog. Give me a call or shoot me an email when you get a chance.

I was in the shower yesterday after my bi-annual yoga class, contemplating all the body parts that potentially required shaving, and the smell of yesterday's substitute-teacher's musky, fur-exploded armpits as she adjusted me in marichasana C came wafting back to me. Well, she probably has lots of health reasons for not shaving them, a lot of women do, those antiperspirants are pure lymph poison, after all. But then I thought of this other yoga teacher who kicks my ass occasionally, whose pits are as smooth and delightfully benign as Parvati, daughter of the mountains. And for the millionth time I wondered what the yogic answer to armpit grooming was. Heavenly, blue-skinned Krishna, to shave or not to shave? I'm looking for spiritual direction here!

Lost two teeth in a week, now he looks like Shane McGowan

Watching The Tempest, Paul Mazursky -- hate to say it but if a six-year-old can get hooked into your film you've got a compelling story, good characters, straight dialogue, good arc -- kids sense bullshit a mile away -- you can distract them with green-skinned orgres, but honesty works just as well

Whatever makes you different makes you pretty

It's weird that children get used to being served, and then one day you're all, get your own glass of milk, bloodsucker.

Jackson's ten favorite things about Alice

2008

Mom eating with her eyes closed

Naomi Foner story

vegetarianism

100 Things

Who are all these pet-related twitterers?

Parse This, Batman

2009-03-24T12:34:00.000-07:00

A nice person who commented on my last post left a link to a site called Fly Lady, where you can follow their daily cleaning and organizational suggestions and get your life in order. So that sounded good -- my god, you should see my desk -- so I went on over and read the first Fly Lady tip, which was to polish your sink. Even though the Fly Lady site looks like it was designed about fifteen years ago with a box of crayons and a copy of Pong, polishing your sink is not a bad tip. It forces you to actually get all the dishes out of there, though where you put them is your business -- if you're like me, your oven is already full of old newspapers, but the bathtub. . . .

So I busted out the Comet and took about 60 seconds to get almost four years of whatever, coffee stains off the so-called "stainless" steel in our kitchen sink. Hey! According to the Fly Lady philosophy, smiling into your shining sink ". . . is how I get to hug you each day! That shiny sink is a reflection of the love that you have for yourself. " Fly Lady wants to keep distracting me with small successes in order to keep me from speculating about the carnage she may or may not have inflicted to earn her Butcher of Lyons-ish nickname, and the distinct shaming vibe I'm starting to feel every time I look at her tutu, her concerned expression, and her index finger, poised to shun me back to my cluttered web 2.0 hell.

Fortunately, the second day tip stopped me cold. Much like the time a grammatically impenetrable translation of The Communist Manifesto kept me from further enjoying the works of Karl Marx and Co., Fly Lady's tip #2 made me realize that she is actually insane.

Day Two: "Get dressed to lace up shoes."

Here are some possible interpretations I have come up with for this mysterious phrase:

Get dressed and then put on some lace-up shoes.
Put on your finery and then sit down and put some new shoelaces in your shoes that have old, broken shoelaces in them so that you can enjoy wearing them again.
While you're getting dressed, put the song "Lace Up Shoes" on your Victrola and gaily prance about, delighting in the possibilities of gleaming small appliances.
Get dressed up, all the way down to your lace-up shoes.
God help me, I keep picturing Judy Garland in "Meet Me in St. Louis."

Fly Lady herself offers no further illumination, she just says, "Today I want you get up and get dressed to lace up shoes when you first get up in the morning. This means fix your hair and face too."

Needless to say, our kitchen sink is developing a familiar patina of neglect and the clothes in the washer smell like compost.

Yesterday

2009-03-19T09:46:00.000-07:00

4:30 a.m.
"Mom. Mom. Mom."
"What?"
"I had a bad dream."
Sit up so Jackson can squeeze in between me and Jack. Quickly reaccustom myself to sleeping while teetering on a two-inch slice of mattress.

5:30 a.m.
Clock radio begins playing some blowsy string orchestra piece. Quickly shut off alarm, check breathing of bedmates with hope that they are still asleep. Success.

5:45 a.m.
Everyone on the highway has had way more coffee than me at this point. What's the hurry, people? Jesus.

6:00 a.m.
Open the door into a warm yoga studio. Robyn is already there, and another guy whose name I can never remember. Jim? Tim? He has a British accent, is all I know about him. He smiles and nods and I unroll my mat next to his. A full practice takes me two hours, but today I've only got until 7:00. I do what I can to keep my body from slowly, painfully contracting into a dry husk of withered flesh. Ask me in 50 years if it worked.

7:00 a.m.
People have trickled in and the room is almost full now. I am winding things up and don't worry, beautiful uptight woman across from me, your updog is truly spectacular. You're twenty years younger than me, it's no contest. Do you want to win yoga? You win. Have a nice day.

7:15 a.m.
Stop at market for milk. Oh, how about a raspberry scone, I've already worked it off, right?

7:30 a.m.
Give milk to Jack for Jackson's breakfast. Decide to take dogs for a quick walk on the beach so they don't lose their minds being stuck inside all day.

7:45 a.m.
God, one of these days Cookie is just going to wash out to sea. Have a nice trip to Australia! Quit drinking saltwater, you're just going to barf it all back up, Jesus.

7:55 a.m.
Wave to Jack and Jackson, driving off to school. My back seat is covered with sand. Should I give the dogs baths now or should I realize that no one made Jackson's lunch? And also realize that I have a root canal in an hour? I didn't need a shower anyway.

8:30 a.m.
Get to Jackson's school with a lunch bag full of Jell-O, Cheezits, a peanut butter sandwich made with the bread he hates, and other ridiculous foods from our cupboard, but I can't give it to him because it's time for assembly and everybody's saying the pledge of allegiance. Ask a fellow mother to give Jackson his lunch and run back to the car.

8:55 a.m.
Realize I haven't followed up with woman I contacted through Craigslist to buy her extra ticket for John McLaughlin Friday night. Thank God for my iPhone (again), find her number in an e-mail, and tell her that if all goes well I'll pick up the ticket around 10:30.

11:00 a.m.
"That's very rare! Less than 1% of the population have molars with four roots!"

11:30 a.m.
Find an ATM and call the ticket woman to apologize and tell her I'm on my way.

11:31 a.m.
Holy shit, I'm almost out of gas.

11:55 a.m.
I make it home. I have a half hour to eat a proper (not scone-based) breakfast/lunch, take a shower, figure out what to wear, and get out the door to work. But wait! Our mortgage payment was due yesterday! I have to go to the bank and pay it directly.

12:35 p.m.
God, I hate this bank. They're so fucking cheerful.

12:55 p.m.
Park my car in the lot and run to the office.

1:00 p.m.-5:30 p.m.
Work, work, work, work, work.

5:35 p.m.
Call Jack. What do you want for dinner? Jack has a homeowner's association meeting at 6:30, so Jackson and I are on our own. I have 50 minutes to get to the store and OH MY GOD I NEED GAS.

5:50 p.m.
WTF is up with this traffic, it's never this bad. Oh, hello, people standing mortified but unhurt by the side of the road while tow trucks disentangle your three-car pileup! We didn't need that lane anyway. Hope your insurance company doesn't drop you!

6:10 p.m.
I am that lady in work clothes buying frozen pizza and a bottle of wine, yes. Do you want to step outside? I DIDN'T THINK SO.

6:20 p.m.
"I'm sorry, I had to stop at the gas station, I think I was running on fumes. If you have to get to your meeting go ahead, Jackson will be fine for five minutes by himself."
"Are you pumping? Right now?"
"Yes, I'm PUMPING."
"This is the closest we'll get to having sex today, isn't it?"

6:30 p.m.
Preheat oven. Open wine. The dogs look hungry. Do the dogs look hungry?
"Jackson, do you know if anyone fed the dogs?"
"No."
"No, you don't know?"
"Yes."

7:00 p.m.
Fall into a hole of pizza, wine, Bloglines, and Facebook. Is that a -- yes, that IS a picture of Patrick's underpants.

8:00 p.m.
"Yeah, so you should probably get ready for bed now."

9:00 p.m.
But, you know, some horrible magician's award show is on.

9:30 p.m.
Okay! One more page of Diary of a Wimpy Kid and then you HAVE to go to sleep.

9:45 p.m.
"Tell me a story about you when you were a kid."

11:00 p.m.
Wake up, get out of Jackson's bed, find night guard, get in bed with Jack. Get out of bed because yes, the front door WAS unlocked, go back to bed.

At the Moment

2009-03-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, at the moment all I have for you is this melon-carving contest.

The Explainer Strikes Again

2009-03-05T10:37:00.000-08:00

Jackson: "What's a terrorist?"

Me: (Uh-oh) "Ahh, it's someone who tries to scare and intimidate people into doing what they want them to do. Like, Oh, I don't want women to vote, and I want them to walk around with pillow cases on their heads! And then the terrorist might threaten to blow up a building if the government doesn't make a new law and do what they say, even if no one else really wants women to not vote and wear pillowcases on their heads."

That's okay, right? Sort of defined it without getting too scary?

So then later it's bedtime and we're skipping around to different sections of Jackson's 2008 Guinness Book of World Records, and we start reading about the world's most expensive hotel room. And Jack then comes in and Jackson goes, "Dad! Did you know that the world's most expensive hotel room costs thirty-seven million -- "

"Thousand."

"-- thirty-seven thousand dollars a night? And it has four beds, and a jacuzzi, and you get your own private terrorist!"

"TERRACE."

He was disappointed when he found out what a terrace was.

I'm not actually sure what I'd do with my own private terrorist.

And also, I blew my nose before the interview. The second one, anyway.

2009-03-02T11:45:00.000-08:00

Yes, I GOT THE JOB.

I was unprepared for the whirling blender of mismatched emotions I felt when I put down the phone after saying yes. I was thrilled, and I was also -- sometimes change, even good change, is slightly sort of terrifying. Fortunately, Jack's flexible enough to be able to pick up Jackson after school every day, but Jackson's not so delighted that he'll be doing homework and playing his DS without having me around . . . to ignore. He spent the weekend trying to cough in my face (he and Jack were both horribly sick with the flu all last week) so that I'd be too sick to start Monday and he could come home from school and we'd, I don't know, cuddle for six hours?

Anyway, in the interest of following through, and because this is such a ridiculous time to be looking for work, I'm going to post a few of the things that helped me, just in case any of it can help someone reading this have a little more confidence throughout their own work-looking-for ordeal.

1. I figured out what kind of people I wanted to work with. After six months of failing to land jobs in areas in which I actually had a fair amount of experience, I decided to rethink the career path I'd followed since college. Instead, I thought about some of my best friends -- sharp, funny, intensely smart people -- and realized that most of them were in the same profession, and that maybe I'd be well served to look for some sort of entry into working in that profession as well. Then I hit Craigslist.

2. I asked for help. There's nothing the Internet loves more than giving strangers advice, and man, you came through! Those interview tips really helped me start feeling like I had more control in the situation. The tips that helped me most were:

a.Remember that you are interviewing them. Ask the interviewer about their own career arc. Remember to ask them what they like about their job and what they like about the office. Be not so sure you want the job. LISTEN.

b. It is all about chemistry. "I [the interviewer] want to like you and know that it isn't going to drive me nuts to see you every day, that you have a sense of humor, but are detailed and will pay attention. I want the person to come and work for me and take over lots of work and do it well and make us all happy so I can stop interviewing people and doing two (or three) jobs."

c. At the end of it, ask for the job. At least ask for the next step in the process, even if you're not sure you want it. If you want the job, tell them. Ask for it. So many people never actually [say], "I want to work here. I want this job."

All of that helped me to realize . . .

2. It was time I stopped trying to be somebody I wasn't. There is little more emotionally draining than pretending you're interested in a job that is already boring you to death during the interview. People always know when you're faking it. In the past I've tried to pretend I was ready to take on all manner of tedious assignments but it was just because I wanted my job search to be over with as soon as possible, which was really lazy and disrespectful to myself.

3. I knew my bottom line. I'd been out of the work force for awhile so I needed to be realistic about what I was qualified for. And I knew that if all else failed and I needed a paycheck ASAFP I would have been happy to take a retail job. You might feel the same way about housecleaning or telemarketing. With me it was running a cash register and keeping an eye out for shoplifters while I kept looking for a job that would do more than just pay the bills.

4. I let my freak flag fly. This is going to sound absurd but for the second interview I dressed to match the interior of the office. Seriously, same color scheme. I know! They probably didn't notice but it gave me the a little psychic boost to feel like I already belonged there.

5. I lucked out. I totally lucked into finding a place that was looking for someone like me. And I can't wait to get started.

Get. Out!

2009-02-21T10:10:00.000-08:00

I love Gail Collins so much, she makes reading about the bank bailout fun.

"One problem with the government plan is that nobody is ever going to have any confidence in a savior called �public-private investment fund.� The term aggregator bank has been floated around; the Treasury Department should consider stealing it, since it sounds like a kind of Transformer. In a crisis, Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner could just yell �Aggregator, we need help!� And a normal-looking office building would instantly change into an enormous avenger who clumps down the street squashing the nasty little toxic assets that scurry around, making unpleasant squeaks."

Transformers! It's all so much clearer now.

So, I'm being called in for a second interview on the job thing. This is what I ended up wearing to the first interview:

Yeah, so I didn't actually iron any of that. I didn't want to appear snooty. The skirt is wool, anyway. My mom made it for me when I was in college. Black and white houndstooth never goes out of style, except when it does, but then you just wait a couple of years and, bam! You hope it still fits.

Anyway, we're on a little impromptu visit up to San Francisco this weekend and man, did I need to get out of the house. The first hotel room we got was terrific but when Jack woke up at 5:00 a.m. to pee he said he felt like he'd walked into an episode of C.S.I. Miami:

Honestly, I could see his point. After the blood spatter expert finishes up you just hose the place down, right?

Jack, never one to shy away from testing the front desk help, got us moved to a different room with a less hospitalized bathroom. While we waited with the other tourists in Union Square, someone got a pretzel.

"Also, if you just prop up dead banks, they could turn into zombie banks. That is definitely something you want to avoid. Imagine walking down the street and there�s a zombie bank plunked on the corner, gazing emptily at the passing traffic and making strange grunting noises. Occasionally, it will snatch up some pedestrians and feed them to the toxic assets."

And now, to Chinatown for stink bombs!

Get Your Heart On

2009-02-13T15:39:00.000-08:00

The job interview went really well, thank you very much! I think my relative confidence going in was in large part due to the good comments everyone left and the efforts I took to be somewhat prepared. After that, it became a question of just connecting with the interviewer, who was so nice that it would have been hard not to. Which led me to realize how often I've neglected the importance of "chemistry" in so many jobs and, oh god, other aspects of my life, and just gone for what appeared to be the "best" thing, instead of confessing to what was best for me. Partly from not knowing myself very well, and certainly from not trusting myself. But I guess that should be between me and my therapist, if I ever go back, and let's face it, I probably should have never left.

And that is all you will ever hear about this particular job on this blog ever again, except for maybe "I got it" or "I didn't get it." Because we all know THAT'S THE RULE.

So last night Jack went off to see Kurt Elling and Jackson and I stayed home to watch Madagascar 2 (for the third and fourth times -- once in the theater when it came out, once when I bought it last week, once last night during dinner, and then the disc automatically started up and we started to watch it again because the whole opening airplane sequence hasn't come anywhere close to getting old yet) and address his box of "Pirates of the Caribbean" valentines for his class. Jackson's school has a strict valentines-for-everyone policy so that no child is left (emotionally) behind, which is good, but Jackson still found ways to send a clear message to his recipients which of them were more equal than the others. His best friend got the biggest card; he signed the cards for boys who were not his best friend with a single question mark ("It's all about mystery, mom, don't you get it?"); and certain (or maybe all the) girls (I wasn't hovering!) got red heart stickers on their cards. I did happen to notice that instead of using his name he signed one girl's card as being from "Cupid" and another girl's card from "Destiny."

Like the indifferent teenager he will one day soon become, he expertly stonewalled me on the whole destiny thing. And THEN he addressed his teacher's card using just her first name. "Uh, I think it would be more respectful if you used her full name," I said. "Oh, she doesn't care," he said, and then he made me help him tie her Jack Sparrow card to a heart-shaped tin of Ghirardelli chocolates.

It was all very matter of fact.

Anyway, � propos the distress of Valentine's Day in general, I thought I'd mention that a couple of months ago I began trying to put my finger on (if you'll pardon the expression) what made me feel loved. Then the New York Times published this big article on "what women want" and, you know, it was sort of interesting but in the end I'm not terribly illuminated by studies that prompt women to endure vaginal probes and pictures of ~~dogs~~ apes fucking.

No, before I'd even read the article I came to the conclusion that one of the ways I knew someone loved me was if they loved something about me that I loved about myself. You know, the feeling that someone "gets" you. It's terribly narcissistic but whatever, too bad. That's just the way I am, I guess.

And now it's Friday the 13th. And here's a link to a bunch of women eating chocolate.

Interviewing Tips

2009-02-12T14:00:00.000-08:00

This morning I asked the Internet (via Twitter and Facebook) two things: one, should I wear a skirt or trousers to the job interview I have in an hour, and two, what was everyone's number one tip for job interviews? Because I suck at them. I get flustered and drunk on my own pleading insecurities and then I think, "Do I have a bug on me?" and reach up to find a river of sweat sluicing down my cheek.

Fortunately, the Internet responded thoughtfully, as it will, sometimes, when it realizes you're not fucking around. Here are the (serious) tips that I got. If you have any other good ones would you leave them in the comments? I'm sure we'd all be interested in what hard experience has taught you.

1. Ask interviewer, "what would success in this role look like?" Every time I've used it, they've said "wow, great question."

2. Be ready to answer the "What are your weaknesses?" question with something that makes you sound humble but still awesome.

3. When they ask for weaknesses, also say how you compensate* (always late so I use a planner). *This does not have to be true.

4. Skirt. Practice your "tell me about yourself", sit up straight, & at the end, ask if they have any reservations about you.

5. Flattering, stylish slacks. Tip: bring a portfolio. Reduces nervousness for you & impresses them.

6. Interview tip: be not so sure you want the job. Qs to figure out whether you do, make you sound interested; also, reduces stress.

7. If you want the job, tell them. Ask for it. So many people never actually tell me, "I want to work here. I want this job."

8. Skirt for me, it makes me stand up straighter for some reason. And always blow your nose before you walk into the office.

9. Skirt or slacks depends on job. Slacks more conservative. Breathe, and compose your answers in your head before you speak.

10. At the end of it, ask for the job. At least ask for the next step in the process, even if you're not sure you want it. Close!

11. Smile! And also? No swearing. At least those are the things I have to remember.

12. If it was me, DEFINITELY SLACKS. One thing I do is convince myself I don't want the job. Not sure why this works, but it's gold.

13. Keep the position in question in mind with every response you give. Make your answer relevant to the position you're after.

14. #1 wear whatever makes you feel most like a rock star. Tip - do your homework, ask good questions and LISTEN.

15. Ask the interviewer about their own career arc. People love talking about themselves.

16. Remember that you are interviewing them, too. But keep focus on what you can do for THEM. Ask what your first projects would be.

17. Suit. And be honest, look them in the eye, focus on cans not can'ts.

I also asked my friend Pamela, who has interviewed a lot of people because she's fantastically important and needs a rock solid staff, and she had this to say:

Remember to ask them what they like about their job and what they like about the office. I do a lot of interviewing and it is nice for people to ask that so I can pontificate about how great [the job] is. It is all about chemistry -- that's mostly what I've realized after lots of hiring. I want to like you and know that it isn't going to drive me nuts to see you every day, that you have a sense of humor, but are detailed and will pay attention. I want the person to come and work for me and take over lots of work and do it well and make us all happy so I can stop interviewing people and doing two (or three) jobs.

And sorry, have to say skirt. Think of it this way -- your interview at an office is in everyone's mind THE MOST dressed up you will be in that office. Short of going on a day when there is a blizzard (unlikely in your case) or a typhoon I'd go for a skirt. Don't take any of it personally though. Remember -- from the interviewer's point of view it is all about them, not you at all.

Okay! My interview is in an hour, I've memorized the company's web site, I'm about to iron my skirt, and I just ate an entire bag of Orville's microwave kettle corn and I'm about to be sick.

Abandoned Car Update

2009-02-03T11:24:00.000-08:00

For those of you following along, the car I mentioned that hadn't been moved in well over six weeks IS GONE. The day after I'd idly threatened to soap its windows I was out with the dogs and beheld a big, rattley tow truck idling in the street. Could it be? I thought, clutching my chest and wondering if the imminent removal of this petty obstruction would bring a swift and merciful conclusion, not just to this chapter in our condo association's story, but to my wretchedly pampered existence as well.

Not to put too fine a point on it, or anything.

With the help of a therapeutic dose of nitroglycerin, a sword disguised as a cane, and several raccoons harnessed to a lawn chair, I made it upstairs and looked out the window. A young woman I'd never seen before spoke briefly with the tow truck driver and then opened the car's driver's side door and tried the engine. It wouldn't turn over. Looking sort of apologetic, she got out and then stood on the sidewalk while the driver attached her car to his truck. I don't know what happened after that, I was too busy alerting Reuters and the Associated Press.

So! Car not stolen: hooray. Car possibly left in the same spot for nearly two months because owner can't afford to have it fixed: boo.

In other news, I went to an informal blogger meet-up the other night. Leah was all, "Hey, all these people are going to get together, you want to come?" There was something in her e-mail about "Orange County" and "leaving at 2:00 to beat the traffic" that didn't initially sink in. There was also something in my head about not drinking anymore on account of imminent heart failure and not being as entertaining in person as I am online, drunk or sober that didn't really rush to the surface, either.

Nevertheless! I made my way down to Leah's and then we had an incredibly pleasant and chatty drive through pre-rush-hour L.A. traffic. Since we made it to Newport Beach a healthy two hours early, Leah settled in at the bar with some work and I walked to the mall across the street to relieve my wallet of some excess birthday money. A low blood sugar-y feeling overtook me in Macy's Gwen Stefantastic shoe department, so I found a place that served broccoli-cheese soup at the exact temperature and consistency of Hell.

While I was Googling local emergency rooms on my phone and trying to bathe the third-degree burns on my tongue with my own saliva, I heard a voice say, "You look familiar!" THIS is why you post pictures of yourself all over the Internet, people, so that Brandon can walk up to you, look deep into your eyes, and say, "Next time that thing happens with your heart, just bear down!"

We made our way back to the bar and I succumbed to two pints of Newcastle, I believe it was, and had a lovely time drinking water shots and ogling Danny's buttery nipples until I realized that I'd been up since 5 am and still had a three-hour drive home. So, not wanting to bring the party down just because of my advanced age and craving for ~~death~~ bed, I took Leah's car keys and ditched her. (No, Joe was there, he drove her home, sheesh, I may be devoid of human feeling but I'm not a complete monster. And just because I stiffed everybody doesn't give you the right to JUDGE ME.)

UPDATE: It's back! The car is back! In a different spot, though. I'm toying with the idea of putting chalk marks on the tires to track if she's moving it, as befits the role of neighborhood busybody I've begun to assume. I'll also be out measuring the height of the grass with a ruler, yelling at drivers to slow down, and ratting on the kids who keep putting dish soap in the Jacuzzi.

Getting old is AWESOME.

I need a hug

2009-01-28T12:41:00.000-08:00

Well, let's see, when was Thanksgiving? How long have I been drinking in the new year? Jack's week-long birthday celebration capped off two months of overindulgence and there I was at two o'clock this morning laying in bed with an irregular heartbeat. Six hours later an EKG clocked my heart rate at 144 and the staff at the walk-in clinic confirmed a bout of atrial fibrillation. I now have a date with a cardiologist and a prescription for beta blockers and baby aspirin because of the increased risk of blood clots which can lead to stroke.

STROKE.

Yes, I am a little panicked right now, thanks for asking. Why don't we change the subject for a bit and see if that helps?

Monday Jack took me to Sly's for lunch, which was nice.

OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO DIE.

He said something funny at one point, what was it. Oh, he said on his birthday he was going to go for a long bike ride with a $500 Carl Yastrzemski baseball card clipped to his spokes with a clothespin. Is that funny? I thought it was funny. (Because Jack's a Yankees fan, and Yastrzemski played for the Red Sox. So, good, now we're all up to speed.)

I CAN'T DIE YET, JACKSON NEEDS ME. ALSO, I NEED A CHANCE TO BURN MY DIARY.

This black Mustang has been parked in front of our house -- condo, whatever -- for more than six weeks now. It has Texas plates on it and it's becoming more and more difficult to resist the urge to start vandalizing it. Jack's first suggestion was to let all the air out of the tires. My impulses run more toward writing on the windows with soap. I don't know whether the owner flew off to Hawaii and is treating our street like long-term parking, or if he's trapped in a Mexican jail, or maybe he had A STROKE AND HE'S IN A PERSISTENT, VEGETATIVE STATE oh my god, why are people in irreversible comas called vegetables? I don't want to be a vegetable, oh, I'm dizzy, is it the blood clot in my brain or the panic? Where's my Rescue Remedy, oh, help.

You know how people sometimes use the word "gay" to describe something that's ultra fruity in a way they don't like? "Fruity" meaning earnestly goofy or superfluous (WHY AREN'T PEOPLE IN COMAS CALLED FRUITS? WOULD EVERYONE THINK THEY WERE ALSO GAY?). Personally, I think "fruity" is sort of a compliment. But "Dude, that is so gay" means Please stop using your cravat as a headband, your masculinity and your I.Q. are now under suspicion.

The solution to the defamatory nature of "gay" was suggested by M. Doughty on his blog a while back. Because you need a word with a slightly sarcastic edge that isn't associated with a class or group of people who don't need any more of your shit. The gays, they don't need that, and let's not even go into what the retards think of you and your poorly timed insults. So as Mr. Doughty suggests, what the world may need is JOLLY. No, it's not perfect, but try it and see how it works for you. Well, Phil, that pumpkin hat you're wearing is certainly well crafted, but now that Halloween's over it looks a little . . . jolly. Phil's kind of trying too hard, right? Inappropriately exuberant? But still sort of pleasant. "Jolly" doesn't kick the legs out from under your macho status like "gay" does. I know we're far from living in a post-macho world, but the least we can do is let language evolve, even if some of us can't.

I need to go lie down. Check on me in an hour, would you?