We Are Family

Sometimes I really hate my husband. Take yesterday, for instance. To make a long story short (and to make me out as the hero) a few months ago we received a notice from our mortgage lender that we were late on a payment. I know, snore, blah, E.F. Hutton, that's exactly what I said. I called and squared it away only to receive yet another notice. And then another. A few trips down to the bank and more blah blah Charlie Brown adult voices and I thought it was resolved only to receive a final notice that we had been reported to a credit agency. Blah blah but wait! There's more! Soon I will huck my cell phone across the room in this story and it shatters in two! Not the story but my phone! So yesterday morning my husband is throwing a manly man conniption fit that we will never be able to refinance our house, buy a new car, a sailboat, a motorcycle for Zoey, that our credit will be ruined. Ruined! Ruined, he tells me! And then he obtusely infers that it is my fault by point blank saying this is all your fault and here is the point in the story when I throw my cell phone and yell at him for not unloading the dishwasher the night before because obviously the dishwasher is IN the house and thus part of the fight, for stacking his papers on the kitchen table, for never making dinner, for only changing one poopy diaper for every 417 that I have ever changed and for beer farts, his and those of all mankind.

And then he goes and does something like this:

And the man's shit? So long as he is wearing a head full of flower barrettes and letting Zoey hack away at his head with a plastic hairbrush, that other shit? It. Does. Not. Stink.

p.s. While on the phone with the bank (who is TOTALLY in the wrong, BTW) I maybe might have lied a little bit and said my brother is a segment producer with KCBS and looking for human interest stories regarding the mortgage crisis. Then I paused with the phone to my ear and thought touché motherfuckers, tooshay! But the bank totally called my bluff and said go right ahead and air it, bitch, we've got you by the short and curlies except maybe she left out the bit about the pubic hair because financial institutions almost always deny existence of the nether region. And of course my brother is not a segment producer for the local news but a commercial director so please, if anyone out there just so happens to be a producer for KCBS (or other! KTVU? Anyone? Anyone? Fox? I'd even do Fox!) and would like to pretend I'm your sister then email me and together we will take them down. Silkwood of the Menses, people! Keepin' it real!

A Tale of Two Cities and One Day, That Being the First

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was my first day. So as not to be quite as wordy as old man Dickens, here is my summary of Day One (and counting):

Things I Like About The New Job:

1. Throughout the day the company provides healthy snacks gratis: granola bars and organic fruit in a big bowl just like in your momma's kitchen.
2. There is a free gym that I will never ever use in this lifetime of chai with donuts and tunics worn long and breezy. But it is there and free and that makes me feel as if I am getting a deal and if there is one thing I like better than a donut it is a deal. Or a deal on donuts! Baker's dozen!
3. The commute is easy-peasy. Even though I have to drive to across a bridge and to another county, I actually get to pick up my daughter earlier than I ever did at The Old Job that just so happened to be two exits from my house.
4. The girls with whom I work don't seem to be the type who would mind that I might call them "the girls with whom I work." They seem as if they respect the proper placement of a preposition plus they knew who I was talking about (about whom I was talking!) when I referenced Jocelyn Wildenstein at lunch.
5. The girls with whom I work seemed not to be too alarmed with my non sequitur regarding one Jocelyn Wildenstein.
6. If I wish to donate to charity the company will match my donation up to $500 per year!
7. Next Friday there is a company Luau at lunch and everyone is urged to wear Hawaiian attire.

It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness...

Things I Don't Like About The New Job:

1. Next Friday there is a company Luau at lunch and everyone is urged to wear Hawaiian attire.
2. If I wish to donate to charity they will match my donation for up to $500 per year, which makes me feel like a total shit if I don't donate to charity.
3. They do not provide free tampons in the restrooms. Come to think of it, neither did my old job or the one before that. But still. I think they should, I don't know why. Perhaps I will start a petition tomorrow, my second day? Or perhaps set up a charity to provide free feminine hygiene in the workplace, and then the company must match it with $500 worth of Have a Happy Period? I will be the Silkwood of Menses.
4. Above my desk was a signed Josie and the Pussycats movie poster. I say 'was' because I immediately threw that shit away and while it is now long gone I fear that my area will forever be tainted with the ghost of Tara Reid's pre-op abs.
5. If I were Wild Bill Hickok I would be veeerrry unhappy with my seat, one corner of a design bull-pen. And let's face it: I am Wild Blog Hickok and need me some privacy. I'm thinking of getting a fish eye mirror to glue to my monitor like they have in the corner of the 7-11. That way I can see if anyone is stealing Slurpees behind me. Although...
6. After yesterday's comments about getting fired for blogging at work I am completely paranoid about the whole thing. I am thinking of having the letters 'b,' 'l,' 'o' and the letter 'g' removed from my keyboard at work. Failing that I am thinking of changing the name of my blog from http://www.petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/ to http://www.howtosaveyouremployermoneyandboostsalesallwhileonyourlunchbreak.blogspot.com/ because surely that would not raise any IT flags, right? And then you could read it all day long at your places of employment, as well, safe in the knowledge that if anything, reading this here blog might bode well for your next review? Let me noodle on this one...

We had everything before us, we had nothing before us... But we'll always have this:

Off to Day Two! Happy Tuesday to you!

Slouching Towards Employment

Monday. First day at the new job. I've got my back to school outfit on: Ton Sur Ton jumpsuit featuring a rakish design of New Wave people, peach squiggles and a turquoise triangle or two thrown in for effect. Oh, wait, no--that was my first day of school outfit for the 9th grade and yes, I still remember it. How could I not? I even had matching socks and believe you me, it wasn't easy matching socks to Ton Sur Ton what with the way my Reebok's shown in the bright September sun. I kid, I kid. I NEVER wore Reebok's because that would have been ugly.

I could not find a photo of a jumpsuit as fetching as my Ton Sur Ton number. This will have to do.

So here I am. As nervous as the first day of high school. I don't know where my locker is nor do I know the combination. I have not seen my schedule. I have no idea if I'm taking Spanish or French, if I will eat lunch at my desk or at the end of the fourth corridor along with all of the slow kids and that short boy who is rumored to only have one withered testicle. The only thing I know how to do right this very second is to show up. I can do that. I'm doing that. Just as soon as I finish this post.

For the past week I have been a bit dramatic about my impending job. I have done ALL of the laundry in the house. Stocked the fridge with groceries. Had my hair cut, a facial, bought new bras and underwear, as if maybe leaving on a Monday morning for a 9 to 5 office job is a deployment rather than an employment. As if maybe I will be gone for months when really, truly, honestly? This new job is letting me leave every day at 4ish to pick up my daughter. I get 3 weeks paid vacation with an additional 10 paid company holidays. I get paid medical and dental for my family and paid membership to the gym on the ground floor of the building. Which I will never use but still. A gym membership. And did you clock how many times I said paid?

The house I did not want to lose. The house I will not lose now that I have a job. Our house.

Yeats was right in "The Second Coming." Things most certainly do fall apart. But the Center? Well, he was wrong about that. The center can hold.

And so here I am on a Monday morning Slouching Towards Employment, a full recap to come. Which reminds me: for those of you that blog and have an "office job," when do you write? At home, at night? At work, one finger poised to switch to a spreadsheet should your boss appear at your back? How do you balance your blog and work, not to mention family? How do you blog and still have a life to blog about? I need answers, people. Please leave your suggestions in the comments section.

Summer Lovin' Happened So Fast

What I will miss most about being unemployed:

Bryan and Zoey on the beach. Bolinas. A random Tuesday afternoon.

Off to make more such memories before Monday. Have a wonderful weekend!

Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself

Click on image to read the fine print. It's worth it.

Found at What Would Jane Austen Do? A mighty nice blog, that one.

I Heart SGM

She had me at US Weekly. (Yes, I know it is really Us (little 's') Weekly but when I capitalize both the U and the S it makes me feel like I am reading U.S. Weekly which sounds vaguely newsy and highbrow. Say it with me, a little nasal twinge in your voice, perhaps a British BBC accent, US Weekly: Celebrity News from Around the Globe).

Recently I participated in I Suwannee's Summer Swap Extravaganza (again, I'm taking artistic license with the name) and I happened to luck the eff out by getting paired with Emily of Scented Glossy Magazine. Because if ever there were a blogger out there that I want to be, or failing actually taking over her body, her sense of humor and her voice, that I want to simply befriend, it is SGM. She is the Ebony to my Ivory, the Elizabeth to my Jessica.

SGM, take note: I am totally fine with being the Ebony if you prefer Ivory, with being the Elizabeth should you fancy yourself the Jessica. All's I'm trying to say here is that I am honored to have been paired with you. I would totally dump Todd Wilkins for you, blow off Bruce Patman and let you drive the little red Fiat whenever you wanted, just so long as we both wore identical gold lavalier necklaces.

So the other day I finally got my package from my soul sister of the blogging world and it felt as if I were away at Camp Bloggapoopoo and receiving a care package from my mom. Although I never really went away to summer camp like that. Instead my parents sent me to the Point Reyes Environmental Camp where we learned to pull apart dried owl scat to see what the owl had eaten the night before. Yeah. Anyhoo. So I got the package and there it was:

Magazines. A book. Chocolate (for realism's sake I must admit this is NOT the actual bag of SGM M&M's. I ate them immediately and had to replace them for the photo). A yummy smelling candle. Cute post-its for my new job. A darling bird card. A glittery ring for Zoey. Again, for realism's sake I must admit that the ring is not featured in the above photo. Zoey immediately grabbed the ring and disappeared into her own little world where she is a princessballerinakittycatringwearingsoftpuffofsingsongsweet. Now I cannot find the ring. I fear she may have eaten it, so in love with it was she. With each diaper change I fully expect to see a bright orange plastic bauble shining up at me.

Thank you, SGM, for that. For everything. For the awesome swap package, for the even awesomer blog post you did for me yesterday. Thank you for making me laugh every day with your awesomeness. I will totally be your lesbian lover, sight unseen, should we both ever decide to go lesbionic. In the meantime, you will remain my most favoritest blogger, my soul mate of the internets, my Wakefield twin in this sweet, Sweet Valley of the www.

How Many of Us Have Them?

I have never made friends easily. Wait, let me amend that: I have not made friends easily since bonding over booger walls in grade school. What? Don't tell me you didn't have a booger wall as a kid?! Yeah, me neither. Because that would have been gross. The point is that many of my friends have been kicking around my life since I was wee. They knew me before I could read, or before my first kiss. Maybe they got drunk with me for the very first time on cooking sherry or let me cry viscous tendrils of snot on the puffed shoulder of an Esprit sweatshirt because a boy didn't like me. They knew me when I wore a constellation of zit cream to bed at night which is not saying much as that would only date them back to last week before I got a facial and was told I now have combination skin and not the oily slick of "dew" I used to have in my youth circa two weeks ago. Yes, I'm afraid the depletion of the world's oil reserves has impacted my pores. That's when you know it's gotten serious.

This might say something about me, the fact that most of my friends are from high school or even elementary school. It might say that I am a complete social retard incapable of wooing a prospective friend in a grown up world where the walls are all painted Navajo White, nary a booger to be seen. But I prefer to think it says that I am loyal.

Zoey and her big 5 year old friend, the lovely Miss Ruby. You know, Ruby from Daisy Chain?

It's hard to make friends past puberty. To see a strange woman across a crowded Starbucks and admire her jeans, to think to yourself, yeah, she looks cool, I like her style, we could have lunch together, she'd order the Cobb Salad and I'd get the BLT, we'd split each dish while dissecting last night's episode of The Real World and talking much too openly about our men, our kids, our kegels, sure, yeah, BFF's! Because how do you make that happen? Introduce yourself? Ask her if she's a Virgo? Slip her a folded note with your phone number? Would you like to be my friend? Check this box for yes, this box for no. Check this box for grow the fuck up and stop watching reality shows about drunk horny people half your age?

I mean, sure, I've made a few friends post-prom. But it's not easy.

Remember when it was all as simple simon as trading stickers? Giggling at belly buttons? Shrinky Dinks and lemonade stands, braiding each other's hair, your shoelaces heavy with friendship pins?

Zoey and her itty bitty girl friend, the divine Miss Sadie from Ramblin' Rose.

It's just not that easy anymore, either making good girlfriends or keeping them. Now there are jobs and boyfriends, husbands, families. Bills and dirty dishes, a cat that needs an updated rabies vaccination, dry cleaning, doctor's appointments, milk stains on the couch, bathtubs in desperate need of fresh caulk. Don't look now but there is a head of lettuce liquefying in your crisper. There are missed calls and messages never returned, emails with emoticons that don't even begin to convey tone or intent. There are miscommunications and years, decades even, between now and the last time you braided a girlfriend's hair. There is that gap, that second when you sit down to lunch and don't even know where to begin, your life no longer a story to be rehashed over a chinese chicken salad but a list of things to get at the grocery store.

And yet, despite the years, despite the fact that your shoes no longer even have any shoelaces to house a friendship pin or two or twelve, sometimes all it takes is a glass of wine and a plate of grown-up mac and cheese to close that gap. To find the story in your grocery list, to laugh at the silliest of things. To remember that girlfriends, true ones at least, span time and space and age and even squabbles over glittery stars.

This is for my friends. New ones and old, real and blog. I hope that one day Zoey has girlfriends as dear to her as you are all to me.

Monday Pop Quiz! Now With Answer Key, Teacher's Edition!

UPDATE AT BOTTOM!

Who is this former child star?
The years have not been kind to him. Bonus points if you correctly guess his age.


Golf claps for all who guessed Hobie Buchanan, Mitch's son from Baywatch (real name: Jeremy Jackson).
Extra credit if you knew he is only 27 years old. Woosh. Stay away from the meth, kids, stay away from the meth. And the sun. And shag cuts combed forward. And you should probably stay away from nude pink lip balm while we're at it.

A Fairy Tale Known as Freedom

Once Upon A Time 15 years ago there lived a Princess named Susannah. She lived in a faraway land called San Diego where she knew no one but her boyfriend, a long-haired Prince named Bryan. It was the 4th of July weekend and Bryan decided to break up with the Princess because he was a horny 20 year old, and everyone knows how stupid 20 year old Princes can be.

Not My Prince, but a Prince nonetheless. Nor is that me but it is my boobs. That is totally what my boobs look like. Get out. This is my fairy tale.

Of course this tale did not take place in the Black (and White) Forest but in San Diego where the skies can be a bit grey in July. There were no witches or villians or frogs, just a stupid Prince and an admittedly stupid Princess who wore tee shirts under babydoll dresses and followed the Prince around wimpering, but I love you! Which, of course, only made the 20 year old Prince gallop away in his '68 Dodge Dart that much faster.

So on the 4th of July the Princess was alone with her cat named Kitty. (And no that is not a euphimism for masturbation because this is a fairy tale and not a porn.) The Princess went down to the beach alone where it seemed as if the entire kingdom was laughing, calling to eachother and tossing frisbees as if they were filming a Sunkist commercial and she were an extra, or worse, working at the craft services table. The Princess felt as if at any minute a cranky short man with a clapboard would wander onto the set and kick her off the beach because she simply didn't belong. So she kicked herself off and went home and listened to the fireworks from her teeny basement studio apartment with the wall to wall carpet that was infested with sand fleas.

And every year since then the sound and smell of fireworks takes me back to that place, to that time when I felt as if Independence Day was a funeral and Yankee Doodle Dandy a Dick. If you're in that place this weekend, a kingdom of your own Grimm's Fairy Tale, here are some of my recommendations to get you through it:

1. Chocolate covered pretzels: the perfect combo of salty and sweet (just like young love).

2. Postcards From Yo Momma: In case your own mom isn't around to make you feel better, check out this website that features funny correspondence from other mothers. Here's a sampler:

I NEED HELP AND SOON, BEFORE I STARVE TO DEATH !!!!

I am guessing that you are wondering how come I’m doing this — it’s just because I am locked into my computer room and cannot get out. I was trying to put a door knob on the door and got started, but the thing went completely closed as I was trying to see if it was going to fit — and now here I am having to stoop so low as to write an email to you to see if you could call someone to come get me out. My phones, of course, are all in the other room. I thought that perhaps you could call Beverly and have her and Howie come over and get me out. If you happen to have Tami’s number then call her.
Anyhow, can you get me out of here. I guess I’ll just play games on the computer until someone lets me out of here. Send me an email to let me know you are doing this for me.

3. Rent the first season of Californication. I realize I'm a little late to this party, but I have spent the last 48 hours watching these DVDs and oh. my. god. I have never really liked David Duchovny before, but now? Oh. The characters are just so good. The 12 year old daughter Becca is like a modern day Phoebe Caufield if Phoebe dressed like Emily the Strange and sang punk rock thick as syrup sweet. She is my new muse. Is it weird that a 12 year old fictional character is my muse?

4. And lastly, find out just how truly fucked you are by visiting I Am Neurotic. This website allows you to post your particular neurosis and lets people comment on your instability. My fave: Everyday i ask my family questions only they would know to make sure they’re actually my mother, father, etc. like, what if they were robots or aliens. i just want to make sure. Wait--that's neurotic???

Okay, there you go. A fairly random list of my long weekend recommendations in case you've got the 4th of July Blues. Me? Luckily the Evil Spell of the Two 20 Year Old Idiots Who Were Only Royal In That They Were Pains In The Asses broke long ago so my Prince became my King and I, the Queen. We are taking our little Princess Zoey to the beach. To film a Sunkist commercial.

Be Safe!

The Dr. Laura Schlessinger Show: A Love Story

Hi, this is Susannah from California and I am my kid's mother. I am also my husband's wife. My cat's bitch. I am a writer but not an author (the difference there being moolah and a silly little thing called publishing), a product developer, a lover of fine chai and pedicures. I can be selfish sometimes, moody, but for the most part I do these things well, I go about my life with sincerity and with love. This is who I am.

No, not THIS, God no. This isn't me. This is Dr. Laura, Mother Laura to some. A vision in lemon chiffon.

The problem lies, I think, in doing it all. Ah yes, the age-old dilemma of the modern mother, the precarious tippy-toe tightrope walk balancing family and work, self and financial worth. I haven't written in depth about this issue before because it would be like writing about the proverbial iceberg: I could wax poetic about the tip but never really be able to reveal the whole frozen mess underneath the surface. I would risk hypothermia if I tried.

And yet here I am, wearing a parka and sliding across the ice wearing flip flops. I start my new job on July 14th (Bastille Day for you francophiles, July 14th for you regular folk) and I wonder if I haven't completely fucked up yet again. Because while I am a liberal and believe in everything good and fair and happy, I admit to listening to The Dr. Laura Schlessinger Show from time to time. That ass-crack lady who abhors living in sin (oops), who disdains daycare (ahem), who tears working mothers a new one on a daily basis. I loathe her but love listening. If I were to call in? Oh but would she hate on me.

1-800-D-R-L-A-U-R-A. Of course it's nothing I haven't told myself. A two year old is better off with her mother. We could probably sell our house and move somewhere far away from our families, far from Zoey’s grandparents, somewhere more affordable so Bryan could be the sole breadwinner and I could be a Stay At Home Mom. We could sell our cars, stop shopping. We could be the family Dr. Laura wants us to be. And I struggle with this woulda coulda shoulda, it gnaws at me at night. I close my eyes and I see her:

And she wants to kick my ass.

But if I have learned one thing these past few months being unemployed (and I have learned a lot) it's that I don't have to fear spending time with my daughter. It can be boring, but you know? So is work. Zoey means more to me than life itself, than Anthropologie and reality tv, she means more to me than paychecks and pedicures and whiskers on kittens. Zoey is my breath.

What I have learned is that I get to be the one to dictate what my family will be. Well, Bryan and I. Together we determine the dynamics of our life. What I have learned is that it's never easy, tightrope walking, that sliding on ice wearing flip flops leads to frostbite and you need your big toes for balance. What I have learned is to close my eyes and see her for the answer:

I don't want to be a working stiff forever and so I'm thinking of writing a book about being a working mother. Most of what I have read out there is either highly political or focused on strategies to make it work. And I have read those books, every last one of them. They've helped, to an extent. Some made me angry, others made me feel empowered, some just made me feel even more trapped even if it was trapped in a HavaHart cage. But none of them felt like I was talking to a good friend when that’s what I really need. A shoulder to cry on because I have to leave my daughter, the one person who really makes me laugh from inside out. My story, my truth about the myth of the working mother. My humor in a situation that often makes me cry. My own shaky tippy-toe balance on the tightrope walk of work and motherhood, fifty stories up and without a safety net. How I had a baby, kept my job, lost my mind, lost my job, loved my baby and found myself.

Whaddya' think? Would you read it?

Stranger Things (Have Happened)

I think I may have mentioned before that I don't really like people. And that's true to some degree. I don't like people in line. People in cars. I don't like people in crowds, people in Disney apparel, people doing the wave at sporting events. I don't like people wearing fanny packs and pleated pants, double breasted blazers, drunk people, loud people, sweaty people, the stupid, the greedy, people who are too serious, people who sit right smack dab in front of me in an otherwise empty movie theater. As a general rule suicide bombers pretty much suck. But mostly I don't like people in theory.

In reality, though, people are pretty awesome. People who hold the door. People who smile sincerely. People who stop you on the street to ask for directions, that vulnerable look in their eyes as if they are searching for soft cookie crumbs of strange kindness. I like my friends and my family, small people, old people. The hopeful. I like the woman who makes my drink at Starbucks every morning with her sharp nose and smart blue eyes, the way she tells me to have a nice day. I can tell that she means it. For the most part, I like people in reality.

And so it was with interest that I read of the guy who tied a disposable camera to a bench with a sign that read: "Good afternoon, I attached this camera to the bench so you could take pictures. Seriously. So have fun. I'll be back later this evening to pick it up. Love, Jay / The Plug." I mean, what a pure idea, right? It got me in that tiny slice of my heart that thinks people are A-ok. Aside from his moniker of The Plug, which, let's face it, sounds a bit unsavory, this is just a perfect social experiment.

Granted I am not the first blogger to post about this. I actually found out about it from Jessie at The Lucky Stone (great blog, btw. Go there now. No, wait, go there after you've read this. And maybe commented on it. Because I love your comments. Remember? I like people? Yeah, that means you, too. I like You.)

Anyhoo, I lay awake on Friday night thinking about conducting this experiment. It seemed so enticing, so cool, and yet something about it made me feel shy, as if the universe were sprinkling my bare skin with salt. I almost backed out at least a dozen times until finally with nothing else to do on Saturday morning Zoey and I went and bought the camera and some string. We decided to add a blank notebook and a pen to make it our own. Our sign read a little something like this: "Hi! I've attached this camera to the bench so you can take pictures. Seriously! So have fun! I'll be back late this afternoon to pick the camera up. Oh! And here's a notebook, too. In case you have anything to say. Have a great Saturday!" And we tied it to a bench right in the center of our small town and went home for a nap.

When we awoke, here is what we found:

Two amigos with hair and one without; slightly foggy morning.

Adorable dog with a very large head, complete with happy owner.

Friendly man waving goodbye to the fog.

Safety first.

Safety second, plus one possible taco.

I'm sorry, lady, for showing your nostrils, but the composition is divine.

Handsome man, possibly Dermot Mulroney.

Attitude with striking eyes, the male version of Zoey?

Sadly there was nothing written in the notebook except a short note thanking me for the camera fun.

Of course I am nothing if not a woman of (too many?) words so undeterred I took the notebook to an Art & Wine Festival the very next day and I tied it to a bench with a note that read: "I NEED ADVICE. Please write some advice in this notebook. I'll pick it up at the end of the day. Seriously. Have fun! Thank you." It is my belief that good advice should pertain no matter the situation. And then I strolled around in the sun with my friends looking at bad art and inhaling the wet hot scent of gyro and tannins for a few hours until we decided to go back to the park and spy on the notebook.

When we got back to the park we saw an older woman sitting on the bench next to the notebook and if anybody so much as paused to read the sign she'd say in a voice full of gravel and wine, "I'd tell that person to stop asking for advice!" And then she'd chuckle as if the bench were center stage at The Laugh Factory and she was the headliner. She sucked. I'm pretty sure I'd have flipped her off in traffic if she so much as crossed me in what is sure to be her Chevy Nova, that she had spent her entire adult life waiting in line somewhere while wearing a Donald Duck tank top and possibly a homemade bomb in her "check-me-out-I'm-an-asshole" fanny pack. (Remember! I love me some people!) I was with my friend Rosalie who is just now getting some hair back after completing chemo and we thought about grabbing the notebook from beside the crotchety Disney lady and tearfully telling her that Rosalie really needed advice, that she was dealing with breast cancer and her therapist suggested she seek out strangers for healing. But then we realized that while we could spend two, maybe even three hours shootin' the shit with Bezelbub we don't necessarily want to burn in the fiery depths of Hell for all of eternity so we opted to get some smoothies, instead.

And yet at the end of the day when I picked up the notebook it was full of pearls of wisdom. Inside I found:
--"Follow your heart, use your brain. You'll do fine and take care!"

--"All of the answers to your questions are within--be true to yourself. Good luck."

--"Follow your heart and don't listen to anyone else! Remember this!! But! If your parents were fucked up so are you! But! Don't give up, just do your best! If you do you might be okay. The fact that you are asking for help is promising. I am an LCSW." (Scary indictment of the profession?)

--"Stay present. Move forward. Acceptance is key."

--"Don't believe everything that you think or feel. Depression, anxiety and fear are all liars."

--"Find that thing that makes you fall in love with yourself. Remember what it was that you were drawn to as a child if you don't know what to do right now."

--"Seek regular counseling, a psychic, therapist, channeler, whatever."

--"I am not going to give any advice, only a suggestion. Forgive yourself!"

Hidden camera shot of people doling out advice.

At the end of the weekend I felt secure in my belief that people in general suck, especially when they have spent the afternoon in the sweaty sun drinking wine and feasting on fried festival food, but people in particular? They make me feel as if I am part of something larger, something warm and breathing, something undeniably beautiful, messy and real, every. single. time.

"Special"

I just came across this image at Design Crush who found it here. If you're in the mood for some inspirational tidbits and tasty recipes, head on over to Design Crush.
But of course that's not entirely why I'm re-posting this beautiful piece of letterpress. Nah, I bring it up because it reminds of this one time? Our friends Alex and Melanie used to live right on the Great Highway at Ocean Beach in the city. Bryan used to keep some of his surfboards at their house so he didn't have to haul them around the city if he wanted to surf after work. So one day he goes to Al and Mel's house and they're not there, they're already out in the water. But they had given Bryan a key so he let himself in to get his board and wetsuit. He was feeling a little wobbly--remember, he is diabetic. His blood sugar was crashing and he needed energy to surf. So he spotted a platter of brownies on the counter and he gobbled them up. All of them, every last one. Have you ever seen a diabetic with low blood sugar? Next thing he knows he's paddling out to surf and he hears the waves. Actually listens to each molecule of water as it crashes over his head. He feels his heart pounding and the clouds overhead are looking at him suspiciously. He thinks he might be having a heart attack or possibly a psychotic break; somehow he manages to paddle back in where he collapses on the beach and just lays there, breathing. Hours go by, or maybe it's just a few seconds. The sky overhead is laughing at him and one black lab won't stop sniffing at Bryan's head. Finally Melanie comes in from the surf and finds Bryan sprawled out on the beach, still in his wetsuit and probably developing a bad ball rash, a skinny beached whale that they might just have to bury there in the sand to decompose, a rancid gelatinous mess sheathed in black neoprene. She couldn't figure out what was wrong with Bryan until she finally asked him if he had eaten the brownies in the kitchen. Of course they were pot brownies, and poor low blood sugar Bryan had eaten the whole pan without knowing how very special they were. If only we had that beautiful letterpress stationery to commemorate the event but no, all these years we just had the story, which we've told over and over and over, a story which is now made public to you, my dearest friends. Love, Susannah

Start the Week Off Right

Crazy busy weekend worthy of a looong post complete with photos galore. Sadly I don't have time right now but here's a quick vid to tide you all over. (The blogosphere will rue the day I learned how to operate the video function on my camera!)

Giggles and swings, even a snort thrown in for good measure. Happy Monday!

Clean and Dependable!

Now that I actually have a job I probably shouldn't horde all the fantastically promising leads I was working on these past few months. So if you're in the job market, have a college education and your own method of transportation, are a non-smoker within the normal BMI range and produce normal BM's, without further ado, here are your employment options courtesy of Craigslist:

1. Got Good Genes? Why Not Share? The Sperm Bank of California. *This is a part-time job.

Of all the leads I was working on, this job promised to be the most enjoyable. The absolute only reason I turned it down was because I do not produce sperm. I did not go to college for sperm-production nor do I have any work experience in the daily production of spunk. Plus, it was a part-time job and I was looking for something a bit more consistent.

2. Sign Spinner: Must be energetic, enthusiastic, and able to stand outdoors in all weather moving the sign constantly with your arms.

This position boasted an outdoor office, fresh air, a gym of sorts. The problem is, my arms are the size and consistency of rubber bands. In fact, friends have been known to call me T-Rex. So while I am energetic and enthusiastic and could probably stand outdoors in all weather albeit with a bad attitude if it were foggy, I do not think I am the best person to move the sign constantly with my arms. Now if the job description had said "move the sign constantly with your legs," then I might very well be standing on the corner right this moment as my other nickname is kangaroo, strong legs, spindly arms, poochy c-section pouch and all.

3. Nemesis Required: I've been trying to think of ways to spice up my life. I'm 35 years old, happily married with two kids and I have a good job in insurance. But somethings (sic) missing. I feel like I'm old before my time. I need a challenge, something to get the adrenaline pumping again. An addiction would be nice, but, in short, I need a nemesis. I'm willing to pay $350 up front for your services as an arch enemy over the next six months. Nothing crazy. Steal my parking space, knock my coffee over, trip me when Im running to catch the BART and occasionaly whisper in my ear, "Ahha, we meet again". That kind of thing. Just keep me on my toes. Complacency will be the death of me. You need to have an evil streak and be blessed with innate guile and cunning. You should also be adept at inconsicuous pursuit. Evil laugh preferred. Send me a photo and a brief explanation why you would be a good nemesis. British accent preferred.
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: $350 up front

I often fantasize about tripping people and knocking their coffee out of their hands. Already I steal parking spaces. So I thought this was a natural for me, a done deal. Unfortunately, the only British accent I can muster is sort of a bad Cockney/Eliza Doolitle way way waaaaay off Broadway, like Pygmalion put on by a small community theater and directed by Christoper Guest, and sadly nemesises (nemeseses? nemesi?) are usually a wee bit slicker than that. Than I am.

4. Writer/End of the World I am making a small book and needs fact in regard to End of the world. If you beleive that now is the end of the world and you have solid fact I will buy the info from you for $5.00 each fact, For example you can say: According to ABCD- EFG this is the end of the world. I need a total of 200 solid beleivable facts it equals $1000. I will buy as little as 1 fact for $5.00.

I emailed this person with my End of the World fact and it went a little something like this: "The fact that you are writing this book and yet cannot publish a post on Craigslist without at least a dozen typos proves to me that the End of the World is coming. Didn't you notice the birds all flying inland? The dwindling population of bees? George Bush? Beleive it!" I have not yet heard back from this employer nor have I received my paycheck for $5.00.

5. Will Pay to Catch Your Cold! It's a long story, but I need to be down with a cold by the end of this week. If you have a cold, I will literally pay you to cough all over me. Not a joke.

So I called this person up and we met for coffee and a loogie at Starbucks. I sneezed on him and let him borrow my eyeliner. As an added bonus I let him lick my $5 bill before I handed it over to the barista. Unfortunately, my watery eyes and itchy nose turned out to be allergies, so he is still looking to catch a cold. I dunno,' seems like an easy buck to me.

6. Take My Son to His Prom I won't go into the whole story, but my son got dumped by the girl he was going to take to his prom. The prom is in a few weeks and I want him to have a date. So here is the deal. Go with my son as his date. No expectations on his or my part other than going to the prom with him. He is tall, fairly good looking, but somewhat unexperienced with girls. He is not a geek as he played on 2 varsity high school sport teams for the past 3 years. What's in it for you. $500 cash for your time and I will pick up the cost of your dress, hair styling, etc. up to another $300. You will be picked up in a limo. Requirements are that you are cute and could pass for 17-19.

I loved 21 Jump Street. Like really loved it, past the point of normal. So I totally thought I could do this, go to the prom with this kid, knock back some Zimas with the high school crowd, back my shit up on the dance floor and then puke in the limo to make his mom happy. But I choked. I couldn't do it. I'm afraid I am Richard Grieco when clearly this kid needs a Johnny Depp. So the position is still open. I mean, maybe the prom is over, but perhaps he needs a date to the water slide park? To the kegger? To his freshman orientation at college?

So that's that. A comprehensive list of job openings in this down-market recession in which the price of crude oil is currently fetching $143 a barrel. Let me know if you need any references.

The Birds and the B's

There will be no image with this post, just the words, thank you.

Zoey has a bagina. You might think this is some hybrid of a bagel and a vagina, but no, it is just what she calls her hoo hoo and she is quite insistent that it NOT be called a 'v'agina. Bagina. Bagina in the bath! Bagina in the baaath! BaginaaaaaaAAAAAH! Zoey very much loves her bagina and sings songs to it while bathing. I am very happy for her, that she has a good relationship with her bagina. I hope they have a lifelong relationship worthy of soap and song.

I cannot remember the last time I sang to my vagina, if ever. Or bagina. Hoo hoo, vagine, VJ, kitten, kiwi, there are so many names for it, most of which make me cringe. At what age does your bagina lose the friendly 'b,' beginning instead with a sharp 'v'? At what age does it lose its name altogether, no longer worthy of a word but becomes one raised eyebrow, a smirk? A joke?

I saw the Vagina Monologues way back when. I have heard the proud reclamation of cunt. And yet still I hesitate to even write that word. C U Next Tuesday, pursed lips and disapproving exhale, my hands tightly gripping my pocketbook. (Ah, yes--there's another term for it: pocketbook.) No matter the political stance of Eve Ensler the word still sounds gutteral and mean. Vaginas are to be discussed in clinical terms with a doctor, half-laughing with your friends, with a wry turn of phrase by the media, in the bedroom, dark, the secret life of sex.

How do I make certain my daughter retains her bagina? That it never turns into a, a, a something else, something that no longer belongs to her? That it always merits the lifting of her sweet voice into song?

Maybe by not blogging about it, for one? Oh, and Mom? You are not allowed to comment on this post. I am afraid of the stories you might tell. The rest of you: please. Let's discuss.

Booya: From This Day Forward I Pledge To Use This Word At Least Once A Day

Booya motherfuckers! Guess who got a job? Guess who bought herself some glittery sandals to celebrate? Guess who's booking herself a massage today? Guess who's treating herself to a real grown-up haircut complete with scritchy scratchy scalp massage to fix the wrath of Supercuts? Guess who desperately needs to buy new bras so she can stop wearing the same pill-y nude one every day and can now afford to do so? Guess who's boobies will be oh-so happy? Guess who's officially off COBRA, off unemployment? Off her freaking rocker?! Booya www! That's me! Me! Me! Me!

This image has no real relevance to my post other than it came up when I typed "booya" into Google images. And maybe this is just a little bit how I feel today: as if I am oiled up and wearing leather gloves, tipping my hat to the ladies.

Of course I wouldn't be me, exclamation point and all, if I also weren't guessing who's having just a teensy bit of buyer's remorse. Guess who's already nervous about the first day? Guess who's worried she oversold herself in the interview? Guess who wonders where she'll eat lunch, and with whom? Guess who wonders if using "with whom" makes her socially un-lunchable? Guess who is scared this means she'll never write a book? Boo-yeah, that's me.

But more on that later, motherfuckers. (And I only say motherfuckers tenderly, as a term of endearment, like punk ass bitch, which is Bryan's pet name.) You all helped me in ways you couldn't even imagine these last few months, what with your comments and support, making me laugh when I felt as if my mouth were made of stone and debt. I love you. I honestly love you.

Pop quiz: Did I include this photo because a.) it showcases the finely coiffed layers of my Supercuts haircut? b.) I honestly love you a la Olivia Newton-John? c.) I love me some turned up collar? or d.) all of the above?

Off to celebrate!

Ah, Yes, One of THOSE Days

Today I am surrounded by wildfires and the air outside is thick, gray with ash. It hurts to breathe. Here inside my house I have already given Zoey cookies and juice. She has watched too many episodes of The Wiggles and my internet connection keeps crashing. It hurts to breathe.

Inhale pink, exhale blue. I am hitting the Refresh button on my day.
See you manana (miss you already).