As I type this, I'm a good fifteen minutes past the point of no return and well on the way to Herbal Essences' Radiant Ruby.

It itches. Oh how it itches.

And yes, I know I always do red. But I don't believe I've ever tried THIS particular shade of red, and that makes me slightly impulsive-crazy but not leave-your-kids-at-Walmart-on-accident crazy.

Okay! Time to go see if my hair falls out. And I'm not saying that wouldn't be amusing too.

If you were working at the computer and all of a sudden a huge, black, hairy moth interposed itself between the computer screen and your head… would you jump back out of your chair and yell things like holy shit and fuck?

No, of course you wouldn't. Moths can't hurt you. They're just dumb, light-seeking, butterfly-type bugs.

It certainly wouldn't make you rapidly back away from your office door watch anxiously as the moth fluttered around your ceiling, your pulse pounding in your ears.

As the moth descended and crawled behind your office chair, I'm sure you wouldn't feel the need to cautiously poke and kick the chair with your outstretched toe, hoping to provoke the moth out of hiding so you could call someone else over to deal with it.

Okay, and I'm sure if you couldn't get the moth to come out, you wouldn't be sitting on the edge of your chair listening for signs of the moth's movement or intent, ready to freak out and bolt at the merest sign of it.

Because that would be silly.

If a problem can be solved, there is no point being unhappy.
If a problem cannot be solved, there is also no point being unhappy.
-- Shantideva

I'd like to be zen, but I'm crabby.

It's really hard to leave a sobbing little girl at preschool on her second day. It's heartbreaking, actually.

My fingernails are inexplicably brittle.

None of my clothes fit.

The air conditioner broke.

The chiropractor wants more money.

I can't find my favorite black sandals.

That's all, I think.

No wait. Also the tap water at work smells like feet.

That's it.

Someday there will be a reality TV show dedicated to the World's Smelliest Vomit, and Gertrude will be worth several million.

Oh yes, Gertrude vomits and miles away a dozen emergency response teams don hazmat suits and ask which way to the biological disaster.

Gertrude vomits and around the world hundreds of bulimics are instantly cured.

It eats through ceramic tile. It corrodes metal.

Even the dog runs from it.

And worse, it hits the floor running and slithers into cracks so that days later you'll still be smelling the vomit that's hiding, breathing, and spawning inside the walls.

First, a bit of shameless bragging. After a few IQ tests and knowledge inventories recommended by her teacher last year, Matilda made it into Alpha, colloquially known as the "gifted" program. Whether this is a good thing or bad depends on whom you ask. Personally I think it's pretty cool to have a kid who can out-logic and out-analogy both her parents with several brain synapses tied behind her back.

So one day a week, they pull the Alpha kids out of regular classes and bus them off to the middle school where their delicate little brains will be nurtured and cultivated in a plan to take over the world.

They're being indoctrinated into the secret nerd society. Cool.

So last night they asked all the Alpha parents and their little Alphas were asked to sit in on an Alpha orientation for the coming school year. Matilda and I went, feeling very Gilmore Girls.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. Executive blonde mothers in suits with blonde, perfectly groomed and nannied children? At-home mothers waving flashcards and living vicariously through their bright-eyed little Baby Einsteins? Not really. Lots of normal-seeming people who, like me, were just trying to figure out which forms to fill out and give to which teacher.

We slid into hard plastic seats near the back of the middle school cafeteria and watched the Alphas file in. I discretely pulled out my knitting so as to avoid having to interact.

Matilda was horrified. "Mom!" she said. "You're not going to knit during this, are you?"

"No!" I lied. "Just until they start talking."

When they started talking and I was still knitting, Matilda gave me many dirty looks.

Welcome, etc., said the program director. And then he smiled broadly and said something about these kids being the future and having the potential to change the world.

I kicked Matilda. "That's you!" I hissed.

"Shut up," she pleaded.

The teachers came to the podium one by one and explained different things about the program. One of them described how hard the kids work and all the wonderful things they accomplish throughout the year.

I leaned over and whispered, "Sounds like a lot of work. Should we bail?"

She ignored me. I poked her.

She glared at me.

"You smart kids are no fun," I said.

I keep having dreams about being fired, and it's really an unpleasant feeling being without a paycheck and insurance. I really do appreciate that insurance. I very much enjoy not having to worry about anything but co-pays to cover hospitalizations and tooth-pullings. And I know that merely by giving voice to these fears I'm guaranteeing that something unfortunate will befall me. I'm superstitious that way.

Two "you're fired" dream in a week. It's got to have something to do with my deep-seated feelings of incompetence on the job and the conviction that no one likes me. But I really would like to keep my job, and so…

Dear boss of mine, who undoubtedly reads this site and is fully knowledgeable of the fact that I sometimes blog instead of work (like now),

I am not perfect. I sometimes feel unmotivated and unchallenged or completely out of my league on a project. This doesn't mean you should fire me! I bring a lot to the table, actually.

Like, for example, I often bring that chocolate éclair cake to potlucks. Depite the fact that it really only takes about ten minutes to make, it tastes like I poured my whole heart and soul into it. Which I did, I believe! For ten minutes. And that is the kind of dedication you should appreciate in an employee.

In addition, I am not currently pregnant. No maternity leave to plan around! Yet! Er, I mean, ever! I think. Let's move on.

In terms of job performance, I may not be the flashiest writer on staff but I do have an excellent history of correct spellings. I'm not to bad with verb agreement, either. Plus also, I have never used the word "modicum" to my knowledge with any degree of seriousness.

And let us not forget who recently spent several hours reorganizing the supply closet and labeling the shelves. The extra five seconds saved every time you don't have to search for those pens you like… well, you can thank me for that.

And let's just ignore all those visits to knitty.com on my Internet activity log, okey doke? It was business-related.

I arrived at work with a throbbing need-caffeine headache, despite the obnoxiously large travel mug of coffee in my hand. What is that all about? Then I realized. My brain must have heard the rumor that due to circumstanced beyond our control (Meet the Teacher night at school), I'll be foregoing the usual Tuesday night Starbucks/knitting fix upon which brain and I have become so dependent. It is truly sad that my brain has come to anticipate caffeine shortages and respond accordingly.

I conclude that Starbucks coffee is ten times more habit forming than crack. It has to be. I've been drinking coffee my entire adult life and have never felt dependent on it the way I do on this stuff. It's over-roasted and poorly brewed, but throw in some sugar and I keep going back. Why? I don't know!

Of course, this obviously means it's time to shrug off the Starbucks monkey. Time to renew my commitment to living a healthy lifestyle that does not accomodate an addiction to creamy, frothy, caffeinated beverages, iced or otherwise. I deserve the right to freely choose whether to indulge in a grande mint mocha chip Frappuccino – not because of a chemical urging, but because I feel like it.

Unfortunately right now I really, really feel like it.

I love you, little monkey. Come here and let mama scritch behind your ears.

If you happen to be one of the few people in the greater St. Louis metropolitan area with power after this weekend's storms, and if you by chance ever dabble in the fiber arts, please make quality use of your Internet connectivity by laughing your ass off at You Knit What??

Being published in a pattern doesn't make it okay, people.

Meanwhile, I've been "commissioned" to knit a backpack for someone known to me only through Craftster. I told her I could probably get it done in a few weeks. That was two days ago. I'm almost halfway done. I know…obsess much? She seems like a cool chick so I'm optimistic she'll come through on the payment side. Knitting for fun and profit! I asked Gary if I could now quit my job and knit full time, but he said no (damn).

An interesting postscript to the Instead test...

It's Saturday morning and there I am in the shower, indulging in a good, leisurely leg shave. In mid-lather, Gary bursts into the bathroom.

"EWW! The dog got your bloody toilet paper out of the trash!"

"Ew!" I agreed, and resumed my business, figuring a little toilet paper is nothing a grown man can't deal with.

A few minutes later, I heard screaming. "Oh my God! Oh my God! He's eating it!!!"

I reluctantly shut off the water and grabbed a towel.

It wasn't immediately clear whether the sounds coming out of my children were of laughter or crying. My husband met me in the hall with an expression of horror on his face that defies description. "Oh. My. God," he said.

"What?" I said, "The toilet paper?"

Gary pointed. The children were indeed laughing. The dog was lounging in the middle of the kitchen, casually gnawing on a pink rubber ring.

"OH MY GOD!!!" I shouted.

And then I laughed so hard I think brains came out of my nose.

And now, friends, I present to you the conclusion of yesterday's product testing. For those of you just joining us, yesterday around 2 p.m. found me leaving the office for an afternoon of meetings, squeezing my thighs together to prevent a rubber donut from launching itself into restricted airspace.

2:10 – Promise carpool people would be right back and ran to restroom for one last place check. Product seemed to be holding steady. Retrieve maxi pad from machine on wall for backup. Mildly berate self for not thinking of doing this sooner.

2:17 – Confide in coworker about product testing, to circumvent the need to spill to random folks at happy hour later. Voice concerns about being shaped weird.

2:44 – Stop in swanky restroom at hotel to check. Leakage. Blah. Reposition. Congratulate self for picking up pad.

3:15 – Hate this.

3:28 – Hate this.

3:42 – Hate this. Never doing this again. Very uncomfortable. Actually, hate everything in the room right now. Hate uncomfortable hard chairs. Hate speaker. Hate stupid slide show. Grrrr.

3:55 – Escape meeting and head for restroom. More leakage. Very frustrated. Consider giving up. No, must not give up. Probably just doing it wrong. Deep breath, relax. Hmmm? Well, okay! Definitely feel a difference. Still aware of it, but less "popping out" anxiety. This is probably more right. Exit stall with confidence and hope.

4:30 – Find self in small, intimate conference room, seated directly across from head of Market Development. Consider winking inappropriately.

4:36 – Hey there, Mister Market Development. Guess what my cervix is wearing right now?

5:08 – Raise pencil and ask probing question. Deliberately place too much emphasis on the word "instead," causing me to giggle on the inside.

6:20 – Things are not going too badly. Then again, I am holding a glass of Merlot.

9:12 – Join husband on couch for post-child couple time in front of TV. Show him the box. He is horrified. I sometimes forget he's not as fascinated by female biology as I am. As I'm explaining the concept to him, he interjects, "But what happens if your cup runneth over?" Groan.

9:48 – Completely give up. This is not working. It's no fun. It's not worth it.

9:52 – Study package directions intently. Examine illustrations. Have an epiphany. Down and back! Maybe…?

10:00 – One last try, and this is it. I mean it.

10:03 – Wow. I feel nothing. Nothing! WOW! It worked!

10:07 – So ecstatic! Bounce down steps to feed cat. Do several leg lifts in the kitchen. Squat. Jump. Whee. This feels like not even having a period.

6:42 a.m. – All night, no leakage! Success.

Conclusion: If you can get the hang of using it properly, Instead is really great. I couldn't even tell it was there, and it was like having a completely normal, non-period day. However, there's a lot of inappropriate touching involved. It's slightly messy. And it really doesn't like to be positioned incorrectly. Plus, the more I think about it, I'm not sure I'm crazy about landing all those rubber rings in the landfills. I don't see why you couldn't wash them out and reuse them, but it's probably got something to do with spooky bacteria, and that's good enough for me. I'm going to check out the Diva Cup since it's reusable. At the very least, I could see using something like this overnight and on weekends.

Now, I really, really promise not to discuss menstrual blood with you again for a very long time.

I hope eventually I can persuade the boys to come back into the room. It's safe, y'all.

Those of you who enjoy making boys cringe at the mention of things like tampons and childbirth will appreciate this. Next time the conversation lags, ask the woman next to you if she's heard of Instead.

This happened at work the other day, immediately causing two males to stand up and exit the room.

Instead, as the website boasts, is "a unique, proven advancement in period protection."

My friend at work described it as more of "a plastic condom attached to a thick rubber band."

She went on to tell how well it works, and in the process actually mimed the removal technique, which we nicknamed the Hook-and-Pull.

I decided I must try it.

As a public service for my readers, exclusively on this website, I hereby dedicate Heavy Flow Day #1 to personally testing and reporting my impressions of Instead.

8:35 – Stop at Walgreens to purchase product. $6.99 for a box of 12. If, as stated on the packaging, each one can be worn for 12 hours, this represents an economical bonus. I use the pad/tampon tag team technique, which is effective but not cheap.

9:17 – Close door to office and begin perusing the product website. Am highly, highly, HIGHLY relieved to learn after a few clicks that their "send us a picture of you using Instead" is not a call for money shots, but rather a marketing campaign featuring real women in real life scenarios.*

9:48 – Time for a tampon change, which means subbing in product on its first rotation. Exciting! Feeling a little tingly as I pop open the box. Nothing like shaking up the routine now and then. I remember my first tampon was just as thrilling. Inside the box are 12 neat purple packages that look a lot like ultrathin pads.

9:50 – Open packaging and remove product. Aw, isn't it cute! It looks just like a big, fat diaphragm.

9:51 – Now how the…?

9:52 – Oh! Okay. That makes so much more sense.

9:53 – "*&)(*$&#*(@)#($&$#*(@#)($&#*$#(*#!!!!!!!!! Fu&*ing mother )(&#(*#$&!!

9:57 – Feeling lighter, freer, and quite wonderful, actually. Why doesn't everyone use these? It's the tampon revolution, I tell you! This is the best feeling in the world!

10: 02 – Is it working? How do I know if it's working? What if it's not working? Why, oh, why didn't I wear a backup pad? Am I stupid or something? I'm way too trusting. This is going to be a disaster. Like a murder scene. Wish I'd brought a change of clothes. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

10:06 – Leakage! I sense leakage! Run to the bathroom for a Hook-and-Pull. Hmm. No. Product seems to be working perfectly.

10:07 – Thought this would be easier the second time. Goddamnmotherfu…

10:14 – Feeling a bit like if I sat down wrong it might cause product to shoot out and thwak someone in the eye.

10:31 – Acutely aware of feeling completely normal. This is so weird. Something must be wrong.

10:45 – Another leakage scare reveals no leakage whatsoever.

11:58 – Finally starting to relax a bit.

11:59 – Yes! This is great! Love this product! Am never going back to tampons!

12:05 – Realize I have a happy hour with important people tonight and probably should not drink at all. Am quite sure I would end up telling a VP all about my experiences with Instead.

1:10 – Just managed to entirely forget about leak worries for over an hour! Need to pee. Confidently proceed to bathroom, only to discover leakage. Small and spotty. No big deal. This is Heavy Flow Day #1, after all. Obviously Heavy Flow Day can defeat even the most dedicated period protection device. Removal, however, was not unlike a murder scene. A little disturbing to see that much blood at once (yet kind of cool).

1:16 – Aware of someone entering stall next to me. Resist strong urge to "drop" bloody toilet paper.

1:18 – Reinstall device. Slightly easier this time, but really starting to question whether I want to be this familiar with my anatomy multiple times per day.

1:52 – Product feels like it's in a perpetual state of slipping out and running away to join the circus, which is really unnerving if not uncomfortable. Realize it was a terrible idea to test anything while on one's period. Mood swings causing me to hate product right now. Wishing someone would invent a cure for cramps.

2:00 – Leaving office to attend long meetings at really swanky downtown hotel, followed by happy hour. This scenario all but guarantees disaster.** Will keep you posted.

* Since I have always been extremely grossed out by those "Tampax was here" TV spots (especially the beach scenes), this approach did not win points with me.

** Possibility exists that Instead SoftCups make really great frisbees in meetings.

Wee Juniper

juni
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

This is not my baby. That is not me holding someone else's baby. But I did have the opportunity to hold this particular baby yesterday when she was brought in to work for a visit.

Of course I held her! And again. And again. And then while she was sleeping. And then one more time.

I want one of these in a bad way.

My youngest is starting school, after all.

Psychologists will tell you that The Monsters are a child's manifestations of uncertainties and fears surrounding events in their lives. But you can't really tell that to a three-year-old.

The Monsters have recently moved in with Gert. In part, I blame the impending start of preschool. In part, I also blame this book. But with Gert's imagination, I knew it was only a matter of time.

Gert will describe to you exactly what The Monsters sound like when they talk in their growly voices at night. She'll tell you what they look like, where they sit in her room, and what time of night they usually show up.

Gert came into my bed around 4:30 this morning and plopped her head down on my pillow. " I didn't close my eyes all night," she said.

"You can't sleep?" I asked, pulling her into bed with me.

"Sometimes," said Gert, "if you keep your eyes open, The Monsters won't come."

I thought about repeating the it's-in-your-imagination speech, but I was too tired. Gert, however, was clearly not, and she proceeded to tell me (in very animated tones) every detail about last night's encounters.

"My bed was spinning! And I would sit up, and I would get really dizzy. And the pictures on my wall turned into diamonds. Not the Lance picture, but my Bambi picture did. And it started to spin. And the walls were spinning too. And The Monsters came when I closed my eyes. But when I opened my eyes, they would not come. So I kept opening my eyes all night. But then my ceiling turned into a tunnel! And your ceiling looks like a tunnel too! But my eyes are open so I don't see any Monsters. They talk like this – GRROWLLERROWWLL! And when I looked at the window it looked like morning, so I thought I could wake up. Because Monsters only come at night time. But then I went potty, and when I came in here it was still night time…"

I haven't told you this, but I have an overactive imagination too. I sometimes lay in bed awake totally paralyzed with fear that aliens have stolen my husband and replaced him with an alien. Or that if I put my feet over the side of the bed to go to the bathroom, something will grab my ankles.

I still remember being about Gert's age and Actually Seeing Monsters. They were cartoonish and a little transparent, but I watched them wander around my room, climb into my baby brother's crib, and swing from a chair.

Gert's talk about beds spinning and gravelly monster voices was giving me the serious willies.

Then Gert leaned over with her face close to mine and put both hands on my cheeks. "Mom! One of The Monsters has eyes like a flashlight!"

Craaap.

Help, my littlest girl is starting preschool and I'm completely flipping out. How did she suddenly attain the ability count to twelve, write the letter "C," and run in a circle around a group of seated children, slapping them in the head and yelling about ducks and geese?

She's going to school, and somewhere upstairs in the same building her sister will be sitting in a fifth-grade classroom learning about things like ecology and geometry (and she'll be enjoying it too, because she's weird like that).

I'm now frantically finishing the cross-stitch baby blanket I started for little Gertrude when I first found out I was pregnant.

I was sitting on the couch with it yesterday, trying to untangle a knot in a thread that was supposed to be the outline of a teddy bear's head. Gert came over and poked her nose into what I was doing.

I told her, "I'm making a baby blanket for my very special little baby girl."

"THAT'S ME!" Gert squealed. "That blanket is for me? I get a blanket?"

I told her yes, and she squealed some more, and then did a little dance on her toes.

Then Matilda ran into her room and showed Gert "Baby Blank," which is the cross-stitched blanket I made for her when she was a baby. It's looking a little worn, but it's in pretty good shape considering she's slept with it for the past 10 years.

Gert said to me, "Can I have my blankie now?"

"I'm almost done with it. I just have a few more outlines to sew."

"Can I sleep with it tonight?"

This all made me feel very much appreciated and incredibly guilty. The child is about to start preschool, and good God, here I am still stitching her "first" baby blanket.

"Gert, I promise I'll be done with your blankie before preschool starts."

At least three separate times last night, Gert sat up in bed and called out, "Mom… are you still working on my blanket?"

I am, actually.

I'm working on it now. And now. And also right now. Good night, Gracie.

Fish guts and more

table rock waves
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

In my blogging absence, I managed to convince my two neurotic daughters that it was safe to wade into unchlorinated lake water.

Yes, you might step on a fish. Yes, you might get your head cut off by speeding boats. But that's all okay because the waves feel cool and wet on your little toes, and you're children, and this is what summers are for.

I'm going to be turning 30 in November, which will mean that I can no longer consider myself a teenager.

I don't think it's too early to start coming to terms with the implications. It's going to mean a major shift in perspective. A reckoning with my list of Things I'll Accomplish Before I'm 30. And time for a new list:

How Turning 30 Is Different (and coincidentally, better) Than Turning 20

1. My love life. Yay! I'm one of those lucky people that got matched up with a soul mate. And now we have this stable and nifty thing called a marriage. Much better than finding out the person you thought you were in a relationship with was actually sleeping with two of your closest friends. Two! Not one. Yikes.
2. Finances. I have a career, y'all. I'm not working two jobs plus a work-study in the cafeteria at school. I can buy grown-up things like a house and a car. I have a retirement plan. I have life insurance. I have a bedspread that didn't come from Goodwill.
3. Parenting. Can I just tell you how nice it is not to always be the youngest mother in every playgroup? And how nice it is to be parenting with an invested partner? It's nice. It's also nice not to have random strangers offering me advice like "You should put some socks on that baby's feet!" Because I guess now I look like I know what I'm doing. Or maybe now I just look mean and unapproachable.
4. My goal weight. Then: 97. Now: 118. Progress!
5. Creative outlets Knitting is so much more portable and (dare I say it?) practical than hauling around loads of paints of other supplies for a creative fix. I wonder if I had been knitting at 20 if I wouldn't have minded so much that my boyfriend was a fuckwit and I felt compelled to work things out because of baby Matilda. At least I could have knitted some witty diaper covers.

Weird, I'm nearly a grown-up.

On my drive to work, there's a certain left turn that I never feel confident making without a green arrow. It's on a busy street, with oncoming traffic coming up over a hill around a curve. You can't actually see the car barreling toward you until you're halfway into the turn. So I usually sit there and wait for the arrow.

Inevitably, there is a middle-aged man in an SUV behind me in the turn lane, just itching to lurch into traffic and arrive at his destination one fraction of a second sooner. Often he's smoking a cigarette. Sometimes he's a woman. But regardless, my sitting at the green light ahead of him as traffic whizzes by is infuriating.

At the slightest break in traffic, I can somehow read his thoughts: "Come on! You could have made it!"

I anticipate the honk:

HONK.

I know without even looking that he's shaking his head at me in disgust.

I glance in my rear-view window. Yep! There's the head shake. Occasionally it will be punctuated by an angry drag on the cigarette.

I used to take it personally, but it's become so routine now that I almost count on it. I think it's funny that no matter who is in that SUV behind me, they unfailingly participate in the traffic break/honk/head shake ritual. They probably don't even realize that every SUV that's gone before them in that same turn lane has experienced the same frustration at my little green car's failure to make that left-hand turn.

They should take comfort in that, I think. It'll give them something to do while they sit there and fume.

Sometimes when the kids are clingy and clients are complaining (and vice versa) I find myself thinking things like, "What I really need is a good bout of the flu to make me stay in bed and knit for several days."

What I fail to remember is that the flu doesn't make you want to sit in bed and knit. It makes you want to curl up in a fetal position and wish for death. It also occurred to me that weeks 6 through 12 of pregnancy felt a lot like that, and so, no thank you, we won't be having any more babies in the near future. I'm just glad that after several days of compulsive vomiting I no longer have to know what my food looks like after I swallow it.

In the meantime, the spiders in my house have disappeared as mysteriously as they arrived. This lends credence to both Jim's and Carole's theories below, that a) they were venturing inside in search of moisture because it has been so rainless lately; or b) that something very primal and female-weaver-spirit-ish was trying to make itself known.

I listened to the spiders. I finished one of the ten thousand half-finished knitting projects stuffed behind my shelf, and lo! They are gone. Huzzah.

Plus, summer rain makes me happy. Knitting while it's raining is pure joy, I tell you. It's better than s'mores.

Gertrude decided last night that it was high time she showed everyone the contents of her stomach. Repeatedly. And that is why I have this knot on my head. Because at 2:42 a.m. when one is sleeping on sofa cushions on the floor beside a sick child, and that child suddenly bolts upright screaming, "Mama, PUKE!!!"… well, it is very easy for your feet to become entangled in your blanket while lunging for the trash can. And you can very easily wind up cracking your head on the bed post of child's bed.

As such, I'm too exhausted to pick up toys strewn about my living room or to fill the dishwasher with virus-contaminated water cups and plates holding crumpled, half-eaten pieces of dry toast.

I am not, however, too exhausted to finish eating the entire fruit pizza we had stashed in the freezer. Frozen fruit pizza is even better than fresh fruit pizza. And those frozen strawberries (embedded in frozen cream cheese frosting, atop a frozen sugar cookie crust) have assured me they contain enough super-charged vitamin C to keep a thousand viruses at bay.

So I obviously have nothing to worry about.

Except those really cute size 7 jeans I just bought on clearance. That was stupid, what with fruit pizza in the freezer and all.

Can someone please explain to me why there are spiders in my house? Big, black, hairy, angry spiders. And they're everywhere, including my bedroom. I'm so freaked out I don't even know what to do.

The irony is, I've never been especially afraid of spiders. I'd rather have spiders in my house than cockroaches. Or flying bugs. Or flying cockroaches. Brrr. I had one of those things find its way into my room when I was a kid, and I'm still traumatized. Even my cat went into hiding from it.

I remember it actually being about as big as the cat.

Anyway, here's a milestone for me:



My first sock! It's an actual sock, with a turned heel and a decreased toe and everything. I'm so proud of it.

You'll notice it's toddler-sized, and there's a reason for that. These socks are for Sam, a little handknitted footnote to the Pixie Dust for Sam campaign. He's an adorable two-year-old baby who's about to have a bone marrow transplant, and I figured he could use some warm fuzzies on his tooties. If you want to knit or otherwise make something for Sam, let me know and I'll add it to the package. In addition to the socks, I'm going to send a couple of Sam-sized hats like this one:



…and maybe try to knit a toy or two, because we all know how kids love getting socks as gifts. Maybe he can use them as hand puppets.

First of all… look!



Little baby tomatoes! Aren't they cute? They're even cuter because they belong to a plant named "Sweet Baby Girl" cherry tomatoes. Gertrude loves this plant the best, and every morning she asks if we can go check on how Sweet Girl is doing.

What makes their appearance even more astonishing is the poor (actually, lack of) planning that went into this strip of garden. In fact, if my garden were a city, the zoning commissioner would have been fired. Or shot.

On the outskirts of the city is where we have the high-crime district:



Cucumbers bordering one edge and string beans against the fence invite bunnies by the thousands to nibble at low-growing leaves. The bean population was all but decimated, necessitating the erection of a protective wire barrier. It hasn't stopped the violence, but it's slowed enough to permit some rehabbing and rebuilding of the community.

In the heart of the city, we see all the symptoms of overcrowding and poverty unleashed on this blended tomato/cucumber neighborhood:



Positioned too close to our next-door ornamental plant garden, the tomato population feels suffocated and undervalued, sometimes lashing out against its oppressive cucumber neighbors.

Where the line of cucumbers ends, the tomatoes have established a harmonious suburb, with rows of free-standing cages and little competition for resources from surrounding plants. Sweet Baby Girl counts herself lucky to have been planted in this area of relative prosperity.

And then, we have an incidence of urban sprall, where a homogenous community of hot peppers has trended away from the inner city and invested in new housing developments:



At least something's growing, that's all I've got to say.

A few years ago, my boss had everyone over for a winter holiday party, and she served a pasta dish that we affectionately named after her.

Served warm, it's a wonderfully comforting blend of melty cheeses, aromas, and flavors. Cold, it makes an excellent pasta salad that's just right for, say, a summer barbecue. There is no skill involved, and you can (in fact, should) make it a day ahead. Need I say more?

Pasta Sharona

1 lb box bow tie pasta
1 block fontinella cheese, cubed small
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
2 boxes cherry tomatoes, quartered
1/2 cup fresh basil, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp salt
1 tsp pepper
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes
1/2 cup olive oil

Dump all ingredients EXCEPT pasta and cheeses into a large zip-top bag that seals securely. Shake to mix and let this sit in your refrigerator for several hours or overnight. Before serving, boil and drain the pasta, and combine everything in a big serving bowl. Serves 6-8 (or if you need more servings, just add another box of pasta – you'll have plenty of marinade).

Want to see a really blurry picture of me in the new summery sweater I finally finished knitting?

Well okay! Here you go:



I finished it at about 6:57 this morning and was so excited to wear it and post a picture that I used my little camera phone, which normally takes much better pictures than this. But hey, it was early and little camera phones need to wake up slowly and perhaps have a cup of black coffee and a banana before they can be expected to perform.

I'm calling it "Caliente" because all the best knitting patterns have exotic names, and this one is knit with a yarn color called Fiesta so it clearly wants to party with the Mariachis.

Hey, chica – do you recognize it? This was one of the skeins of yarn you gave me on my birthday! I liked it so much I bought three more skeins.

And then I found myself on a blisteringly hot school bus filled with fourth-graders on their way to an Art Museum field trip, seated next to one of those sticky, needy kids who gloms onto parents and pummels them with anecdotes. It was either listen to this kid drone on about her pet hamster for 45 minutes or quickly devise an escape via yarn. Thus was born the idea to cast on 200 stitches and simply start knitting.

I posted a pattern for it over at Craftster because obviously I have too much time on my hands.

Father's Day at my house went very well, with the girls bestowing handmade cards and electronics upon Dad (the electronics were store-bought).

Father's Day with my family of origin, however, as with any other Hallmark holiday, has always been marked by potato salad and drama. And more drama.

I was not a drama-loving kid, so I usually started working on a new ulcer several weeks beforehand.

First, you'd take a stab at mind reading: What does my father/mother/grandma/grandpa/sibling/etc. want or expect from this day?

Then you'd add a personal touch: How best to solidify this nebulous concept of "appreciation" into a gift or action that would be looked upon as worthy repayment for the past year of sacrifice and apparent misery of serving as my father/mother/grandma/grandpa/sibling/etc.?

I never got it right, expectations were always blown and feelings were hurt. But did we discuss the apparent malfunctions and try to avoid a repeat? Ha. No. Patch everything up and hunker down for next year's crossfire.

It's kind of a relief to see that the same thing goes on even without me playing any role in the chaos. I called my dad, we had a nice conversation, we expressed mutual affection and I promised him a lemon pie next time I came over. He and my mom had argued, but that had nothing to do with me, of course. I listened sympathetically and offered affirmations. I hung up feeling like everything was fine, in fact possibly the best Happy Father's Day exchange ever.

Four hours later, my mom called. "I think your dad is having a nervous breakdown."

"Huh? I just talked to him."

"Will you come over and see if you can calm him down?"

"How am I going to calm him down?"

"He's just going nuts. I'm afraid he's going to give Grandma a heart attack. I think your presence will be calming. It's Father's Day, he just needs to have a fuss made over him."

Okay, I should clarify that no one is allowed to be angry at or near my mother, and if you are, it will make her angry, thereby making the whole thing your fault. Stifling emotions until you explode is quite normal.

But on the other hand, I think I'm over that. Or at least I recognize that it's okay to express anger if you're angry. In theory, anyway.

I said, "I really don't think my coming over there will do any good. He's just upset. He'll calm down."

In the silence on her end of the phone, I heard myself morphing into the Bad Daughter.

"I guess I'll try to make him some potato salad," said my mom after the silence. "I'll see if your brother will come over here and talk to him." Click.

This whole idea of "your dad needs to have a fuss made over him or else" leaves me cold. When I was about 13, I spent the morning making my dad a card for Father's Day, meticulously cutting and gluing, composing a message that struck the right balance between humor and sentiment.

The day exploded as usual, devolving into slammed doors and raised voices. Later, I retreated to my room and found the card I'd given to Dad crumpled up and left on my bed. "Garbage," it seemed to say.

Days later, Dad brought me a red rose and apologized. That was nice, but I think after that I avoided putting anything of myself into these holidays. At least wherever it has the potential to be judged and discarded. I'm almost 30 years old, and I'm tired of hiding under my bed.

Pie, anyone?

Sometimes a day ends like that final lap on the track in P.E. class, where you come limping in behind the people who could actually run, gasping pathetically, stitch burning in your side. Coach Jim is hollering at you to walk it off with your hands up behind your head so you can get plenty of oxygen.

It's like that moment just before you step off the track into the grassy field, bend over, and hurl in front of the cute boys.

And then for the rest of the year you're The Girl Who Puked in P.E.

Some days are like that. If you see me leaving the office with my hands behind my head, that's why.

My ballerina shoes

my ballerina shoes
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Ooh, I forgot one!

What I'm wearing: Ballerina shoes! Aren't we exceptionally en pointe today?

A brief and thoroughly uninspired update:

What I'm doing right this minute: Preparing to route brochure copy by stapling a little white "routing slip" to printouts of my draft for everyone to initial and write comments about how brilliant I am. Or not.

What I had for lunch: this was actually the highlight of my day. Gary recently invented this really amazing blackened chicken cream sauce with penne pasta that is equally as delightful reheated as leftovers the next day. And the next. And possibly the next if I can keep from being a pig about it. And I had yogurt, because yogurt is my latest miracle food. Plus an apple.

What I'm tired of: This nagging, hacking, mucus-generating throat virus. Either make me sick enough to stay home from work or don't bother me.

What I'm knitting: A Monk's Travel Satchel -- careful, that's a PDF you're about to click on. It's from the book Folk Bags which I do not own but would very much like to someday.

What I'm looking forward to: Matilda's year-end Musical Theater performance of West Side Story selections tomorrow night. A little blonde-haired, blue-eyed Caucasian nine-year-old trying to be a Hispanic teenager, now that's entertainment!

You know it's going to be a rough Monday when you start up your computer and realize you've forgotten your network login.

I also had a bad habit of forgetting my locker combination minutes before the homeroom bell was going to ring.

I'm sunburned and sore, and slightly depressed because we went into gun-ho landscaping mode over the weekend and took down a plum tree. I'm completely glad we did, but still a little weirded out.

The arguments against the tree were entirely logical. It interfered with the DirectTV dish (shut up, this is important!). It hogged sunlight from my garden. It was too close to the house and was effing up the gutters. It regularly dropped an assload of stupid green plums all over the yard that had to be picked up. The dog compulsively ate the green plums and vomited, cheerleader style. And don't even get me started about the ripe plums that squished and rotted everywhere.

It was 100% logical for the conversation to move from "We need to trim that damn thing," to "We need to cut that thing down while we still can!"

In the span of an afternoon (and with the help of a neighbor's chainsaw) (and after a brief conversation about how "kickback" is so much more than political posturing) Gary had dismantled the entire tree into a stack of branches, leaves, and unripened plums.

Gazing at the newly opened-up space, I think we both felt an odd mixture of relief and "hey… where's the tree??"

Adding to my spiritual angst, we discovered a bird's nest in one of the branches.

Man…You stake out what would appear to be the ideal nesting spot, surrounded by an endless supply of ripening fruit and shade for your babies, located in a fenced yard well protected from predators… Everything seems to be going well, and then wowza, some assholes come along with a chainsaw and ruin everything.

There are no guarantees, just brief pockets of happiness.

As it turns out, my string beans got their first real taste of full sunlight, and they were entirely content.

I came into work this morning and realized that the tables had turned.

We used to be a department made up entirely of girls. We openly discussed menstruation, breast exams, pregnancy, and leg hair at our weekly meetings.

But now we are five boys and nine girls. And although the occasional placenta discussion still comes up, the boys have staked out their own obnoxious territory.

On the departmental dry-erase board, I saw this message: "Farting is the most fun you can have with your own butt."

A girl did not write that. I'm sure of it.

80s flashback

Fashion plates
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Hey, remember Fashion Plates?

Remember the little back crayon that slid longways into that little plastic grip, and how smooth and flat the crayon would get on one edge after a day filled with the rubbing of heads and torsos?

That didn't come out right. But you know what I mean!

I almost squealed when Diana brought out a box of these as I was dropping the kids off at daycare. Maybe I did squeal, I didn't notice. I was instantly immersed in a full-on flashback to my childhood -- I even saw everything around me dissolve into wavy streams and I heard the noonooleenoo flashback music.

Oh, the dainty little lines of the tiniest little detail captured by the side of a crayon, the impossibly lashy eyes, the curves of lace trim on a skirt and the deliberate straight lines that traveled the length of a leg in shorts.

I'm sure I liked to draw before I got my set of Fashion Plates, but it was this toy that got me hooked on it like crack. Fashion Plates is like a sketch on steroids. Behold, a blank piece of paper... and with just the mere flick of a crayon, behold! Exactly the image I had envisioned appears on that blank page.

And that's where the colored pencils came in. Hoo, lordy!

I wish I'd known this when I was single. Apparently all a girl has to do to attract attention is try to buy tomato cages at Ace Hardware on her lunch break wearing a skirt and chunky heels.

First of all, I haven't sold out completely. I normally wear jeans to work. It's just that I had a pitch meeting this morning. I didn't want it to be just, "Look how clever this concept is!" I was going for more of, "Look! I came up with this and still had time to throw on a skirt. My team must really be hot shit."

Anyway, over the weekend I ran short of tomato cages while I was planting, and that left the shrimpy little tomatoes sitting there on the ground very exposed to rabbits and strong winds. They're babies. They need love and cages.

So figuring that since tonight is knitting and the girls have a date with their dad to ride some kind of double-decker merry-go-round at the mall, I ran up to Ace at lunch.

"I would-a figured you were heading into the tanning place!" said a man hanging out by the Ace entrance. There's a tanning salon next door, but I've never tanned in my life unless you count forgetting to put on sunscreen at last weekend's gradeschool picnic. I'm what you'd describe as pale. Pasty, white pale, with occasional pink splotches.

"Yeah," I said, somewhat confused. What the hell? You're not supposed to comment on other people's state of paleness. It's rude.

"How you doin'!" called the overly friendly guy behind the counter as I headed for the gardening aisle.

"I'm fine, how are you," I said, thinking that, my goodness, this was the home of the helpful hardware man.

"You need any help finding anything today?" asked Friendly Man #3.

Yikes. "I think I've got it covered!" I assured him.

Friendly Man #4 approached me as I was untangling tomato cages from a stack. "How many of those you need? Need me to hold those bottom ones while you pull them off the top?"

I could feel the smile freezing on my face into something resembling a snarl. "Actually, I can handle it! Thanks anyway."

Then, as I was standing in line with my stack of tomato cages, Friendly Man #5 slipped into line behind me. "Looks like someone's growing tomatoes!" he observed.

"I have two breasts and a vagina," I replied.

No, I didn't really.

Because if you say the word "vagina" out loud in a hardware store, the support beams start to melt and everything shrouded in testosterone disintegrates into a pile of ash.

catphone

catphone
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Meet Nippers, my cell phone cat. Sorry the photo is a bit blurry. You know how it is to try and get pets to sit still for a picture.

I've found she's especially twitchy in the morning before her first cup of coffee.

I started knitting her on Saturday at Matilda's school picnic. We spread a blanket out under a tree near the playground equipment so Gertrude could climb and I could lunge into action as soon as she would start to fall.

Let me tell you, knitting a cell phone cover in the form of a cat will make you amazingly popular with all the nine-year-olds. I had several children tell me they wished I was their mom.

I'm enjoying that while it lasts. In just a few years, I bet the very idea of me knitting a cat-shaped cell phone cover in public will make Matilda burst into tears of embarrassment.

I always knew I'd be an embarrassing parent, I just didn't know it would be so much fun!

You know that whole Myers-Briggs business of INFP, ESTJ, etc? Introvert versus extrovert, thinking versus feeling? If you have no idea what I'm talking about, take a short version of the test here and find out your personality type.

I'm a self-proclaimed pseudo-expert on it now because I recently had to bring everyone on my team up to speed on the subject. And as INFPs tend to be "awkard and uncomfortable with expressing themselves verbally," I can't explain anything to anyone unless I feel like an expert.

Anyway, while I was doing a ridiculous amount of reading on the subject, I started thinking that in the face-to-face world there's a certain type of person who is most socially prized – the ENFP. They're outgoing, warm, idealistic, creative, and enthusiastic. ENFPs are well-liked and highly regarded by everyone around them, and social interactions are as natural as breathing.

This is not at all me, but it's the way I've always wished I was. I admire people who can carry on effortless conversations and make others feel instantly welcome and at ease at a party.

It seems like everywhere I look the world is filled with these friendly, expressive, chatty people… so what is wrong with me? I'd rather write about how I feel than talk about it, I feel perfectly happy in a room by myself, and if I'm at a party I'd really rather sit and get to know one person well than struggle to remember a room full of names and personal details.

I used to think I didn't like people, but that's not true. I'm actually pretty much neurotic about wanting people to be happy and trying to make sure everyone gets along. I'm just a less-is-more gal when it comes to socializing. And that makes me different and weird.

But the dynamics in the blogging world seem completely reversed.

People who would rather write than talk are naturally drawn to blogs, whereas people who are happiest around friends are out interacting in the physical world. The online world is a place where the loudest voice is not necessarily the one that attracts attention – it's the most articulate voice. It's the one with something interesting to say. People who can effortlessly shape words into thoughts and new ideas, who can draw emotion out of the reader, those are the most socially prized types among bloggers.

So the introverts who always felt different and weird in a world of extroverts come online and find a world populated largely by other introverts. Where everyone's weird, no one is.

It's nice that we all have a place, that's all.

It's for you...

itsforyou
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Look at her, isn't she a thing of beauty?

Sad thing is, the dog is already getting more calls than me. It's no secret he has a richer social life. Now he gets to rub my nose in it.

But only I have the thumb dexterity required to flip it open. Ha.

You're all going to think this is hilarious. I don't own a cell phone.

What's even funnier is that the one and only time I ever did have a "cell" phone was a decade ago, back in 1995. It was a sexy model, too. A big, plastic handset attached by a coil cord to a black, pleather bag the size of my grandmother's beach tote. To make a call, you had set the thing up on the passenger's seat of your yellow, 1982 Ford hatchback and plug it into the cigarette lighter. Then you'd extend the fat, plastic antenna, wait for the power bars to line up, and try to correctly dial a number on the rubbery little keypad.

And be prepared to justify any use of the phone to your mother, who had you on the "emergency only" plan of $3,874.69 per minute, off-peak.

It should come as no surprise that when I left home and turned in my bag phone, I didn't have it high on my list of priorities to acquire a new one.

By the time I did realize cell phones were much cooler than they used to be, my husband came to own of one of today's very coolest communication devices, the
sidekick. I siphoned off enough cool from him to keep me happy for a while.

And besides, every time he hands me his phone to take when I go out, I turn into a retarded person and juggle it like it's a radioactive grenade. "What do I press? Where do I talk? Am I supposed to push this first? What do I do if it rings? What does this do? Where's the antenna???"

Well, laugh no more. I'm getting a cell phone. And I'm going to learn how to use it like the reasonable, intelligent adult I pretend to be. Either that, or it will become a really expensive fashion accessory, which, if it's cool enough, isn't necessarily a bad thing.

I can't wait to knit it a cozy…

Less than an hour yesterday after my rebuke of Burpee's shipping, Gary called to inform me that my plants had been delivered.

I took them out of the box and noted that they all looked exceptionally sturdy and difficult to kill, which is an important consideration in any garden of mine. In fact, considering that they had just traveled across the country packed in cardboard, they came out looking like they could kick the ass of any other plant that so much as glanced at them sideways.

I set the butch plants up by a window in the garage to harden off (which they seemed to think meant something else), and I reassured my tray of wussy, seed-started hot peppers that they were being safely planted on opposite sides of the strip.

Eventually they're all going to end up in the same salsa. I hope they can resolve their differences before then.

Notice to all concerned. It is a scientifically proven fact that unchecked consumption of Rolos will lead to weight gain. It is further known that certain individuals possess an unusual sensitivity to Rolos, which results in an inability to stop eating them once their presence has been detected.

I can personally attest to both of the above statements.

And now, a prize for the best interpretation of this dream:

I'm in a room with no doors or windows. I have a bucket of white paint and a paint brush, and I'm painstakingly painting the entire room white. As I finish the last spot, I'm aware of someone standing behind me – a monk or priest, or someone who is giving off an aura of wisdom. He says, "Now, what have you learned?"

Rolos are my favorite, favorite thing, I think. Because they contain the perfect caramel.

My beans, cucumbers, and hot peppers have sprouted, making mama immensely proud of their quick germination. Which brings up an interesting point: hey, Burpee…? Where are the tomatoes and sweet peppers I ordered back in February?

Please can you send them? I really need to be eating more vegetables and fewer Rolos.

bikin'

bikin
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Why do I have a sinking feeling that it was a bad idea to introduce a certain thrillseeking child to anything with wheels and a power source?

I don't think we've seen the last of Dirtbike Gert...

Seems like most of my brochures lately have needed really specific types of people on them, in really specific settings. When that happens, one must ditch Stock Photo Annie (and her ethnic friend, Sister Diversity) in favor of picking up the digital camera and cornering one's co-workers.

Today, I was in need of a dental assisting student in her early or mid-twenties. Female. Non-Caucasian.

"Hey, Connie…" I said to a certain graphic designer on my team. Who also happens to be female. And Korean. "How photogenic are you feeling today?"

I used to think this was a delicate subject, the idea of using someone's race or gender to fill a gap in a photo. I think you lose that touchiness the first time you find yourself on a college campus running down a checklist and shouting to your partner, "We have our Asian females but we still need at least two black males 18-24. Hey, there goes one! Go get him! We have pizza, offer him pizza!"

Connie agreed to be my dental assistant, and my partner Jon and I scouted for a homey-looking office with good light. I closed the door behind them and turned to Connie. "All right, the first thing I'm going to need you to do is take off your top."

"The camera loves you," added Jon. "You are a lioness."

"You're both going to be med-surg patients in my next brochure."

It worries me, because I think Connie is promoting an obstetrics textbook.

Mother's Day was the best ever, filled with sunshine and dirt, flower seeds, mulching, and the hacking down of overgrown shrubbery. A good time was had by all, but mostly me, because I had the least to do with the shrub removal and everyone just gritted their teeth agreeably and did what I told them.

The bushes came apart in long branches, which meant that the girls immediately took off with them and constructed a fort by leaning them up against the fence. It's cool when they get along. And Gary and I both got a little nostalgic about how much we both used to love playing outside with random bits of nature.

With the oppressive bushes removed and our yard cleared Feng Shui-like, I really could have sat in the sun and watched the kids play happily all day. But we decided to up the stakes and take them and the dog to the park, stopping along the way at 7-Eleven for necessities.

P.S. The dog has added Slurpies to his list of reasons to live. Mountain Dew, please.

One of my gifts this Mother's Day was a serene Buddha statue seated in front of my house. I love it. But I think Gert loves it more. "Can I go see the Buddha?" she keeps asking, so we go out the front door and she sits down reflectively on the walkway in front of the statue. If the neighbors didn't think we were weird before, they do now.

We had to visit the Buddha this morning before going to daycare too. She made a beeline out around the front of the house, plopped down on the walkway and regarded the statue with great seriousness. "Why do we have a Buddha?" she asked.

"Because he reminds us to be kind to all the living things," I said, supposing it was too early in the morning for lessons on mindfulness or attachment.

"I am kind!" said Gert.

"Yes, you are."

And then Gert stood up with great enthusiasm and planted her very kind foot down on one of my flowers.

I would like to make a deal with whatever karmic force is bestowing an endless string of migraines upon me this week:

Please stop. Name your price.

Now that that's out of the way, I'm happy to report that the refinance has evidently gone off without a hitch, saving us a few hundred dollars per month for the next 5,000,000 years, or however long it takes for a loan signed in blood to be paid off. So I've been entertaining myself by seeing how many different ways I can mentally spend that money.

Yes, a wiser person would invest it or save it toward some grander purpose. I am still young and foolish, as I have not yet turned 30. Are you really going to argue with a girl who's riding out her sixth consecutive migraine?

First I'm going to buy a set of sophisticated patio furniture. It will probably involve wrought iron and perhaps a mosaic table top. If I'm feeling fancy, we'll get the swivel chairs.

Then, of course, we'll have to buy a new grill for all the outdoor entertaining we'll be doing, and because, quite frankly, Gary's ribs deserve better.

And to keep the kids occupied while we're grilling and entertaining on the patio (with wine!), we'll need a sturdy swing set and perhaps a tree fort.

Since this means the kids will never want to come inside, we'll also start construction on the new deluxe double-paned glass doors that will be conveniently installed on the yard-facing side of the house. This way they can defy me in full view, and I can continue to drink wine in the air conditioning.

While reclining on a new velvet chaise lounge. Or something. Wow, my head hurts!

I normally try to make a point of not calling people out on this site because of things like ethics, common decency, and the fact that we are all beautiful and unique snowflakes.

But whatever.

Dear Anonymous Client:

You are annoyed with me because I gave you three days to review copy for a letter kit. You said, "THREE DAYS is not enough time for a careful review of copy!"

Just how carefully were you planning to review it?

Did you need to lay the pages out, end-to-end, in a brightly lit hallway so you could dance and flit among the paragraphs in your stocking feet? Did you need to analyze the placement and connotation of each preposition? Was there a need to scrutinize the font and point size of every letter?

Because sister, I wrote the thing in three days. I don't care who you are, if you need that much time to read a handful of generously spaced pages, your third grade teacher has failed you and that's the honest truth.

And it's not so much the fact that you're irritated with me about the short turnaround. I can understand that. It's the implication that I could have given you more time if I had only written it sooner. I'm sure you imagine me in my office shuffling papers around, rearranging paperclips, picking my fingernails until I sense that enough time has passed – now, now, if I give this letter kit to my client now I must ask for it back within THREE DAYS, and sweet Jesus, is it ever an emergency.

Good thing I didn't route it yesterday, or several weeks ago. Then there might have been enough time for a careful review of copy. Whatever all that entails.

Sincerely,
The Surliest Copywriter in the World

Less than an hour until we sign the refinance papers, and I don't know where to go. We could either be meeting at the mortgage office or the title company, and they're on opposite ends of the planet. So I hope they call me back and fill me in. I like a little drama as much as the next girl, but honestly.

While talking to Laura at knitting last night, I discovered that if I am ever to be truly happy, I must someday own a serger. That may sound extreme, but how else would I be able to trim, seam, and overcast in one simple step? It's just beyond inspiring.

Okay, off to sign my name eight hundred times and hope I'm not accidentally deeding my children to the state or anything sinister like that.

Congratulations Harper Rose! You picked a couple of really cool parents. And you got a pretty neat big sister too.

We're glad you're here!

Sales meeting work comes in three flavors: denial, avoidance, and raspberry panic.

Right now I'm in denial of all the projects piling up into a giant bottleneck, have you noticed? It's kind of like the toilet you don't want to flush because you know it's going to back up and overflow.

I'd rather blog than plunge a clog. I think that's my new motto.

Onward to avoidance! In which our hero nonchalantly exits the proverbial bathroom and hopes to be long gone before any "issues" are discovered.

I'm going to invent a fad diet called The Monochromatic Revolution. And because you're all my special friends, here is an exclusive sneak preview of what is soon to be known as the diet that revolutionized the way people approach healthy eating and weight loss. It will also make me rich, but that's beside the point.

This groundbreaking regimen is based on ancient principles of light infusion, color psychology, nutrient density, and inner harmony. Of course, all supporting scientific studies and case-based evidence has been reviewed by scholars from around the world. I won't tell you what they said when they reviewed it, but at least one review contained the word "remarkable."

So here it is, an excerpt from my yet-to-be-written new book, Take Control: Lose Weight and Feel Great with the Monochromatic Revolution!

I guarantee you will lose weight if you follow this plan to the letter in combination with the recommended 90 minutes of physical activity per day.*

How it works: Each day you will eat only foods of a certain color. On "red" days you will eat only red foods. As much as possible, the foods you choose should naturally contain the color of the day, so you can't just add red food coloring to your mayonnaise or binge on cherry Lifesavers.

For example…

Day 1: Orange
Breakfast: 1 tangerine, 1/2 cup sliced mango, 1 slice pumpkin bread with 1 tsp orange marmalade
Snack: 10 baby carrots
Lunch: 1 baked yam, 3 oz. cheddar cheese, 1 ripe peach
Snack: 1 cup sliced cantaloupe
Dinner: 1 cup macaroni and cheese, 1 cup baked acorn squash, 1/2 cup mandarin orange sections
Dessert: 1/2 cup orange sherbet

You may also choose to purchase our convenient, color-coded meal packages that contain an entire day's ready-to-eat meal plan. These packages will be available for a limited time at the low, introductory price of just $29.95 each – that's a savings of nearly 30% off the suggested retail price!

When you've reached your goal weight, then you'll be ready to embark on the next step of Multichromatic weight maintenance. You'll begin combining foods of different colors in the same meal. Proceed with caution here, because the wrong color combinations can sabotage your weight loss and reduce your sense of well being. My book will explain precisely how to avoid this pitfall and learn from common mistakes.

Are you intrigued? Do you happen to be sitting on a $30,000 advance and a publisher's contract? Then go ahead and float it this way, sister. I'm more than willing to start turning out chapters.

*Consult your physician before beginning this or any other diet and/or exercise program.

Oh, how I love ordering yarn online. I've only ordered from elann.com and I can't see any reason to ever not order from them because they're so wonderful. Well okay, maybe if I needed a specific type of yarn and they didn't have it… well. That would be a reason. But I digress. Go order something from elann.com right now, you'll see what I mean.

I love coming home and finding a box of yarn in the mail. And then opening it. And feeling it. And making swatches, and unraveling them, and swatching some more. I won't lie. I don't really make proper swatches. I don't do the whole 4x4 washed and dried and properly gauged swatch route. I knit until I get bored, check the gauge, figure that looks about right, and then start a new project.

The problem is actually that I love starting new projects but then I get bored and shove it behind something heavy, like a bookcase.

So yesterday I came home to a fresh box of yarn that I'd ordered for a new baby project. Someone at work is always pregnant. And I love making baby things. So I stashed my current project (that brings the tally to, um, seven half-knitted things stuffed out of sight) and spent the evening playing with the new yarn.

I have no excuse for ordering new yarn, actually. I have an entire room devoted to holding yarn. Don't get too excited, the room is also holding sewing materials, scrapbooking and card making supplies, paint, canvases, etc. This room basically holds a bunch of stuff that keeps the right side of my brain from becoming bored, restless, and destructive. Inner children need art supplies, that's just the way it is. Luckily I have a husband who understands this and doesn't begrudge the extra room being used in such a way. Now that I think about it, the room also houses his "electronics graveyard," which, in a way, also nurtures his own geeky inner child.

Anyway, I ditched knitting group last week due to a school project emergency, but I hope the ditching wasn't contagious to the rest of the group. I'm feeling knitty. And no, I didn't actually mean that as a pun. But these I did:

• holy knit
  
• knit happens
  
• knit hits the fan
  
• I have to take a knit
  
• looks like knit
  
• smells like knit
  
• they knit all over it
  
• are you knitting me?
  
• take knit
  
• give a knit
  
• what is all this knit?

I now open the floor to all you lurking punsters. You know who you are.

Over the weekend, Gertrude picked up the adorable but frustrating habit of awakening at the crack of dawn and plodding into her parent's room for a squirmy, restless, early morning cuddle. The sweet cheek stroking and hugging would last for about five minutes before it degenerated into whiny demands for television, snack foods, beverages, and all of my pillows (not one, but all of them).

I've been trying to be patient with it, because I know it won't last. I was just thinking back to Matilda's days as a cuddly 3-year-old. She used to do the same thing, wake me up wanting snuggles, and more often than not I sent her back to her own bed. I wish I would have cuddled her more when she was small and cuddly, because now getting her out of bed in the morning requires bracing yourself for growling, flailing, and sometimes the baring of teeth.

It's very hard to be patient when you're robbed of the last good hour of sleep before the alarm on a Monday morning.

It's less hard when you open your eyes and see a smiling, bright-eyed little one resting her chin on the edge of your mattress.

It's not fair that they have such power over us. Blame the cuteness.

Leading off with the TMI news of the day, it's that time of the month and not only do I feel compelled to eat everything within arm's reach, coincidentally none of my pants seem to fit.

So I'm crabby. Because the pants I wanted to wear this morning looked like sausage casings. And I dreamed incessantly about a gay couple down the street throwing out perfectly good bar stools because they'd gone out of style, and I really wanted them to give me their old bar stools, but they told me I wasn't cool enough to pull them off. Instead, they gave me a chair shaped like a high-heeled hooker shoe. So here I am, in fat pants, feeling bloated, dissed, and unworthy of nice bar furniture.

But thankfully today is not about me! It's happy-birthday-day to my sweet husband, the one who makes being married new and fun every day, who laughs at the same twisted humor I do, and talks to me about important stuff like feelings and ideas. He's the kind of dad other kids wish they had. His girls always come first, and you can see it in his eyes how much they mean to him, and how he'd do anything to make sure they grow into beautiful, smart, happy human beings.

He also has this annoying knack of guessing what his presents are with spooky accuracy, or wheedling the secrets out of me. This year is no exception. But I think I've kept him in the dark on at least one thing. I hope he at least acts surprised.

Tonight is dinner at Bandana's ("We hand rub all our meats!") followed by Angel cake, as Gert calls it, and cool whip. Draw your own conclusions.

In the meantime, birthday boy has tagged this blog for its first ever Meme:

Immediately following there is a list of different occupations. You must select at least 5 of them (feel free to select more). You may add more if you like to your list before you pass it on (after you select 5 of the items as it was passed to you). Each one begins with "If I could be..." Of the 5 you selected, you are to finish each phrase with what you would do as a member of that profession. For example, if the selected occupation was "pirate" you might take the phrase "If I could be a pirate..." and add to it "I would sail the 7 Seas, dating lasses from around the worlde." See how easy that is? Here's the list:

If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be an astronaut...

My answers:

If I could be a linguist... I would have done the college professor who taught the classes, because lordy was he hot. In a patched-jacket, unkempt, intellectual, language-wrangling sort of way. See, you think I'm kidding but I'm not.

If I could be a gardener... I'd be able to figure out a better method for starting seeds than setting them out in trays of dirt on the windowsill of my bedroom where my cat might easily mistake it for a place to take a crap. Because, you know, there ain't nothing like crapping in front of a window when the opportunity presents itself.

If I could be an athlete... I'd want to be the sort of creepy, circus-performer type of person who can bend over backwards and stick his or her out head between his or her knees.

If I could be a librarian… I would wander around all day opening books at random and smelling them. Mmm, bookish, inky, musty, papery, nostalgic smell. Let someone else reshelve them, my eyes are too crossed from lack of proper oxygen.

If I could be a scientist... I'd find a way to bottle that bookish smell and market it to English majors and linguists as an aphrodisiac.

In return, I shall tag one of my favorite people whom I selfishly declare don't post nearly often enough: Momma-YaYa.

And I would also tag Carol if she had a blog, but as far as I know she does not, and she should, because she has interesting things to say. If Carol were to start a blog, the above material would make an excellent first post… Just sayin.

I am going to refrain from selfishly tagging a certain very pregnant person because you don't want to do anything to irritate a person who would rather be having a baby than doing just about anything at the moment.

Thank you, and good night.

It's okay, I'm still alive!

But I'm sure you knew that, because if you read Gary's site you surely know that he wouldn't be talking about a zebra penis if his wife had just checked out. Not right away, at least.

I'm not going to say anything about the new pope, because no matter how unCatholic a person may be, it's just not right to mention any religious leader, including Benedict XVI, in the same post as a zebra penis. The fact that I have just done so is merely my own little "score one" for the altar boys. End of nondiscussion.

I was brought up Catholic, and I attended 12 years of Catholic school. When I think about how much money my parents spent on tuition they couldn't afford, it makes me sad. They really couldn't afford it. We were always in debt, and I went to school with a bunch of stupid rich kids who made me feel like crap for wearing K-Mart tennis shoes with my plaid uniform. And they dragged us to church every morning where the other kids would laugh at anyone who even half-assed participated in the service. I went to 3 different Catholic grade schools and Catholic high school, and the climate was the same. It was cold, oppressive, cliquish, and uncaring. Anyone who had a problem fitting in or doing well academically was made to feel like they were the problem.

I'm sure my parents are still paying off that education, and I'm still trying to feel okay about myself.

Every time I hear anyone with a conservative political agenda talk enthusiastically about the "Catholic youth" I feel a little bit like throwing up. But I guess that's just me.

We met with our friends at Alternative Mortgage Solutions (highly recommended) yesterday to see about refinancing our house. Gathering up all the pay stubs, tax returns, and such brought back all the horrible, heart-palpitating anxiety of two years ago when we were buying our first house and trying to keep the deal from falling through two days before closing due to sudden, complicated financial circumstances.

The preliminary stuff went smoothly, and we brought up the idea of paying off a few bills with the equity in our house, depending on what it might reappraise for. The loan we were investigating would let us borrow up to something like 85% of the equity in the house.

(Just so you know, when I say things like "reappraise" and "equity," I'm totally talking out of my ass.)

I thought to myself, wouldn't it be cool if our house had shot up in value so much that the equity would entirely wipe out our credit card debt? So I started adding up in my head how much the house would need to appraise for.

Turns out, we would need to live in the only eight-story, fourteen-bedroom Victorian mansion on our modest block of suburban split-levels.

Coming back down to reality, I pointed out a few of the nastiest creditors of whom we would definitely like to be rid, and that seemed feasible.

("Feasible" is a word I use only when speaking of financial matters, and I'm not sure why.)

But I'm not even convinced any of this is really going on right now because two days ago I cracked my head on the corner of an open cabinet door. For all I know, I'm lying on the kitchen floor bleeding out of my skull, and all recent events have been a very vivid, mildly unsettling coma dream. And you were there! And you. And you. And Uncle Fred. And little Toto…

I made several life-and-death decisions this past weekend.

Specifically, I spent a lot of time on my knees in the strip of dirt I call a garden, hearing arguments from both sides of the perennial ground cover debate.

I have this weird yet somewhat attractive (if you're into that sort of thing) perennial plant that refuses to give up its territorial hold on a certain spot of land. I've pulled it out, tilled the soil, mulched over it, and no matter what it just keeps coming back. If only the rest of our lawn were so resilient.

Not surprisingly really, with the warm weather we've been having, the damn ground cover has sprouted right up, invited friends, and chilled a few six-packs.

I went in Saturday morning with the mindset that I was going to pull everything (yet again) and really stay on top of it this year. I have a lot of plans for that strip of dirt – tomatoes, peppers, pole beans, cucumbers, and a variety of herbs. We're not set up to accommodate decorative foliage.

As I started mercilessly digging out hunks of earth and roots, I noticed something. Mixed in among the annoyingly persistent greenery were happy little strawberry plants sporting bright yellow blossoms.

So here we had a dilemma. I have an "arrangement" with plants in my garden: I will offer protection in the form of watering and weeding you if you make it worth my while and repay me with some form of produce. The strawberry plants seemed quite amenable to that sort of agreement.

And yet, they were so inextricably interwoven with the other stuff. It would take hours of meticulous work to try to separate them, and knowing that ground cover I'd be out there doing the same thing week after week.

Reason spoke up, reminding me that if I did have to have strawberries I could simply purchase a new flat of them for several bucks, thereby sparing myself the pain and frustration of salvaging these plants.

But I have a soft spot for growing, thriving things (unless you're the ground cover that I've tried unsuccessfully to kill, and then you can just get the F out). I also am irresistibly compelled to root for the underdog. The strawberries gazed up at me hopefully and brandished their fuzzy yellow flowers.

"Oh, all right!" I said. The strawberries erupted in celebration, and I proceeded to spend the next 14 hours squinting at root clusters and cursing.

And now the damn birds will have a nice crop of well-groomed berries to dine on. Trust me, I harbor no false illusions.

I'd like to propose that days of the week be given a different numbering system than weekends. If something is due on April 1 and I get it to you on April 4, for example, it's only one day late. But that's not how it looks on the status report.

This weekend I learned why I am not allowed to bake cakes.

Because I eat them.

I made the cake Friday because Matilda was starting to emerge from marathon puking, and as we were sitting there watching TV, she saw someone pulling a cake out of the oven. And Matilda said, "Cake sounds good!"

When your child has refused to eat or drink anything for three days, as a mother you start to get a little crazy. I pounced on it. "What kind of cake?" I asked. "Do you want icing? What kind of icing? And ice cream? With strawberries? And chocolate milk? And cookies?"

Matilda shrugged and settled back into her ketone-laced food indifference. I, however, now wanted cake almost as much as I wanted her to eat something.

There's something about having a big, fat, fluffy cake in a 9x12 pan sitting in your kitchen all weekend. No matter what you're doing, you're acutely aware of it. It beckons you in from working in the yard just to hack off a chunk of it and shove it in your mouth. It draws attention to itself when you're stacking dishes in the cabinet. You can even hear it calling over the roar of the vaccuum cleaner.

And it seems like no matter how much of the cake you eat, there's still about half the cake left in the pan.

"I had cake for breakfast," Gary confessed yesterday.

"So did I," I said. "And I'm also planning to have cake for lunch."

If it keeps up like this, we might be able to feed several impoverished nations with one cake.

There's a loaves and fishes parallel in here somewhere, but I'm not drawing any grand conclusions.

Hi there, today because Matilda is still sick I've decided to clean out her closet. And can I just say. Sweet. Holy. Christ. The child keeps every scrap of paper she has ever scribbled on. Every McDonald's toy. Every sticker, gum wrapper, and plastic pencil topper that has ever crossed her path.

It's my fault, I think. No, actually it's my mother's fault. My mom can't throw things away. She assigns sentimentality to everything her kids have ever touched or even thought about touching. My room was always full of crap because I thought it was all valuable and worth keeping because it had memories attached to it. Come to think of it, it's her mother's fault. This is a totally learned behavior.

I'm breaking this cycle. Stuff is not going to run my life.

If Matilda could get off the couch without vomiting right now, she'd be horrified at what she saw in the trash. Yes, I'm kicking her when she's down. I'm horrible. But she'll thank me for it when she's not cleaning out a basement full of her kids' first-grade papers someday. She'll just have to find something else to blame me for. Like the fact that I threw out a plastic cricket in a soda bottle that she's been hoarding in her closet for six years.

Does this happen to anyone else? One of the kids stays home sick, and instead of being attentive and doting on the sick kid you decide to start fifteen different projects.

I seem to forget that a sick day is still only about five or six hours. One cannot remodel a living room in six hours.

But that doesn't stop me, and by the end of the day I have half-peeled wallpaper hanging off the walls, half-sorted boxes of junk spread out all over, and piles of dust sitting in the middle of the floor that I hadn't quite gotten around to sweeping up.

On the last sick day I baked cookies, scrubbed out the fish tanks, and folded all the laundry while Matilda napped off a fever on the couch.

"You can never just stay home," Gary observed.

Today I took Matilda to the doctor for some antibiotics and then parked her on the couch so I could clean out her dresser drawers.

Part of me feels guilty. On the other hand, it's the only time I'm ever actually motivated to accomplish things.

They're threatening to take away my iMac at work, which has me a little rattled.

Granted they've been talking about putting all the writers on PCs for years now, but this time they're bringing in a PC to put in our common area for us all to "try." This sounds like IT's way of saying, "Here, you stupid, whiny Creative crybabies. Acclimate yourselves to the inevitable so we don't have to listen to your Mac bullshit anymore."

I love my iMac . Not just because it makes me different and special in a wide sea of uniform PC users. But because the iMac is beautiful and elegant, sophisticated and loyal. It's kind to small animals and homeless people. It often donates to the March of Dimes. How could they take such a loving, affectionate machine and replace it with a cold, soul-less PC?

Besides, if they get rid of my Mac before I get an iPod, the Mac would be heartbroken.

Oh, you were wondering about the iPod link over on the left? Funny story, that.

It all started several years ago when the iPod was born and I began to lust after it.

The iMac and I have grown to develop a deep, shared appreciation for all that is sleek, elegant, and efficient. We love birch trees. We love spheres. We love the Dodge Viper. We love evocative, austere color palates. We love Scott Patterson.

One day, a coworker of mine came into the office and set something small and white on her desk. My iMac gasped.

“I love her!” he whispered.

“You love Mandy?” I asked, thinking it might take a lot of convincing to get me to see that point of view.

“No! Her.”

I looked closer.

There, upon her desk, was a small, white, elegant iPod with its striking circular control and long, spindly earpieces. And I loved it. I loved it so much that when Mandy told me she'd paid $500 for 5 gigs it actually didn't sound that bad. Not that I had $500 lying around. And then three months later, Mandy was cursing because the 10GB iPod came out for the same price. Then the 20. Still… not like I was any closer to having $500.

All the time I watched Mandy playing with her iPod, the "free iPod" spam taunted me. The banner ads mocked me. They almost wore me down, but I held out.

I work in advertising. I know the lingo. Promises are relative. Nothing is free. I tried to put the iPod out of my mind.

Then, a few weeks ago, I got to talking with my brother J. Somehow, the subject of iPods came up. I joked, "Hey, we should just get 'free iPods' by clicking on those ads!"

"Yeah, my roommate actually did that," said J. "It does work. He got one."

Huh???? It's not a scam? Why, then, do I not have my iPod?

I felt a little dirty, but when I got home I went ahead and clicked through one of the banner ads. It turns out there is a hoop to jump through, but there's an iPod at the end of it. Sign up for an offer and refer five people who also sign up for an offer. Okay, that sounded painless.

So I signed up. And it was remarkably painless. But because I do have shame, I'm not going to go around asking people to sign up for stuff on my behalf.

My blog has no shame, however. Especially that sidebar. I've seen it take off its shirt for a longneck and dance on the table. It also sings karaoke. So it has graciously volunteered to hold the link for me.

And if you're like me and you'd do just about anything for an iPod, go ahead and click over there because it beats dancing on a table.

Two things. Three, actually. Number one, I'm incredibly high on Tylenol Cold Daytime right now, and it seems to be causing short-term memory loss. Number two is. Um.

Moving on, then.

We had Easter at my grandma's house, in a manner of speaking. We don't actually go inside my grandma's house. My dad pulls an RV up along the side of the house, relatives mill around in the yard waiting for Grandma to make an appearance, and at some point Grandma will emerge from her house for several minutes, offer observations and a bit of unsolicited wisdom, and then go back in to feed the cats.

It's all very oracle-like.

And then when we got home, Gertrude became so wrapped up in watching a bizarre stop-motion animation Little People video over and over that she apparently lost track of her bladder function and urinated on the couch.

Meanwhile, the dog learned that if a jelly bean falls on the floor, all he has to do it lick it once and the kids will throw it in the trash. From there, it can be dug out and consumed at his leisure when no one is looking.

This may explain why I later found the dog lying in the middle of the floor moaning, while his sugar-spiked eyeballs jittered around in their sockets.

Matilda's idea of a good time on spring break is coming to work with me and filing stacks of papers. The only thing more fun is three-hole-punching them and placing them in binders.

This immediately makes her everyone's favorite. She takes big, ugly stacks of paper and makes them go away, and she always manages to do it right. I don't know why she finds this fun. Maybe she's keen on having finally discovered a practical use for the alphabet. Or maybe, judging from the state of her bedroom, she's suffering an organizational deficit that only filing can fill. Perhaps she's a case of OCD just waiting for the chance to bloom.

Yesterday I think she was a little bummed because she barely had any chance to dig in on the filing before Mommy dragged her along to a photoshoot. She got to do some amateur modeling. She got to hand out freebies and collect photo release forms. She had several middle-aged women fall in love with her and ask if they could take her home. I would have considered that a good day. But it wasn't until we returned to the office to find a looming stack of filing waiting for us that she really got excited.

I can only hope she still holds this task in such high regard when her college friends invite her to Florida. I want to believe my daughter will say to them, "Are you freaking kidding me? What are you going to do down there, lay by a pool and flirt with boys? Drink, vomit, and flash your titties? Whatever. I'm going to file some shit, baby. Yeah!"