An Open Letter to My Husband

Dear Bryan,

I recognize that sometimes we have very different tastes. For example, this morning when I showed you my new shoes? And you glanced down at my super sweet flats with the olive colored bakelite button adorning the toe just so and you asked me with concern if I knew I had dropped cucumber slices on my new shoes? I realize now that was your way of saying you did not fully appreciate my new shoes. And I get it, truly I do. Ha ha, that was a good one, Bry. Cucumber on my shoes.

But here's the thing. My birthday is in T-minus 9 days. August 30th, not the 31st as you proudly exclaim when I quiz you on such things. Valentine's Day is February 14th, every single year, okay? Just like my birthday is on August 30th. Consistently. For like the last 36 years. Another tip? The thought does not count. Because really? The thought? The thought is just a fart when I want me some shit.

You didn't know you had married such an eloquent young lady, did you? And I am young. 36 is still young. Because no matter what I will always be 37 days younger than you.

Because you are old and doddering and I know oh-so tired, this year I am doing you a favor. This year I am making it so you don't have to take the time and effort to print out yet another gift certificate from the Anthro website. I mean, I know how you hate to use printer toner. No, this year, I'm telling you EXACTLY what I want. And what I want is this (no ink cartridge required):

I want a trip to Giraffe Manor. Just a long weekend, really. It's a good thing that my birthday this year falls on Labor Day weekend because with a telephone number that starts with + 254 I'm thinking it might take a while to get us there. But that's what I want. To feed a giraffe a slice of fresh mango through an open living room window on my birthday. Not a massage or a bauble or even a frock. A giraffe.

Is that so much to ask? Yeah, I didn't think so, either.

And the good news for you is that the website proclaims that the property is not only home to giraffes but the indigenous Bush Buck, and Lord knows how you love yourself some Bush Buck.

So there you go, dear husband. You can thank me later. And on the morning of August 30th I swear I will act surprised when I open my eyes to the flutter of long feathery giraffe eyelashes on my cheek.

Love you, too.

Your (much younger) wife.

Y, H, W, H

There once was a God so sacred it was forbidden to say his name out loud. Yoo-Hoo! Woo-Hoo! Instead the people referred to him as "the name," or "ha shem," because it is a sin to take God's name in vain. Yes, He Was Here. Written in Hebrew, the letters signify the name Yahweh, and they are believed to symbolize life, to possess magical and healing powers. Yes, He Will Heal. Because the people weren't allowed to say his name, the correct pronunciation of God has been forgotten, and we are left with just the letters. Y, H, W, H.

The best way to become a god is to disappear. To be silent, unspeakable. In not saying something I fear I have created a false god and I’m here to dispel the power, to say the words and stop believing. Or start. I don’t even really know what the eff I’m doing with this but I feel the need to fill in the blanks. You Hid, Waiting Here.

People have asked me how or why I am so open on this blog. Anxiety attacks, getting laid off, the fact that I have a flat ass, my relationship with my mother. You’d think I’d need a speculum to be any more open. But there is one thing I haven’t written about, one giant pachyderm standing in the middle of this blog and I cannot ignore it anymore. I’m stalling. But the floorboards are creaking from the weight and everyone knows that elephants return to bury their dead.

I will start with the facts: My step-father has multiple sclerosis. His name is Allen. I have known Allen since I can remember. He was my father’s best friend. Growing up, I would go out in the Pt. Reyes estuary with them, netting for clams. Or lobster. Something, I don’t know. All I know is they would bring chocolate bars and when we pulled up the net we would guess how many whatevers were in the net and I always won. Now I know that they let me win. I would sit at the bow of the boat and feel such peace knowing that those two men with big 70’s beards were good. Life was good.

At some point my dad and Allen had a falling out. Then my parents got divorced and it was ugly. War of the Roses ugly. Allen sided with my mom and things get a little mushy here. Allen was diagnosed with MS but he was still strong. Still bearded, a contractor who made jewelry. An artist who could figure out how to fix anything but his rapidly scarring myelin sheath. My mom and Allen got married. They bought a house and renovated the downstairs just in time for Allen not to be able to walk. Yield! Halt! Wait! Here!


This is getting much too wordy. The thing is I could write this story a thousand and one times in six different languages and I still wouldn’t get close to the truth of what is happening.

Just the facts: Allen is now a quadriplegic. He lives at home with Fijian caregivers while my mother lives in the city in a tiny apartment close to her work so that she can pay for it all. Before he was in a wheelchair Allen used to tell us he would kill himself when he lost the ability to walk. Then he did and he said he would die when he lost use of his hands. Then he did and now his voice is a whisper, his lungs shallow with oxygen from lack of movement. When he speaks I can hardly hear him and yet he is not dead.

The tragedy of this is what is unspeakable. I cannot wrap my head around the why and so, in its own way, it has become my god. You Had Waning Hope. I don’t know how to deal with it and so I go numb. I tingle. Literally. I tell people I have panic attacks and anxiety but that is really just a quick explanation for what is really happening. What is really happening is this: I get MS myself. I drag my foot. I cannot walk. Doctors and neurologists have examined me and there is nothing there but fear. I am a hypochondriac with a specialty, a head case, my own myelin sheath shiny and new, the wires in my brain a twisted tangle of what-the-fuck. If only I could use this power for good I would be able to bend spoons, to lift cars. I would be able to cure the ill. But I can’t so I take a tiny peach pill that makes me remember: I am healthy. He is not. So many many people are not.

Lately Allen has been in and out of the hospital. A bowel obstruction. Bladder infections. Pneumonia. Sepsis of his blood. Small maladies that pull at his dignity, this man with a beard who gave me chocolate for guessing how many whatevers were in the net even when my guess wasn’t right.

MS has torn my family apart, rendered us all paralyzed in a way waiting for what comes next. Allen will die someday not because he lost use of his legs or because he cannot move his hands. He will not die of his own accord. He will die because a cut on his foot won’t heal or because his bowel muscles won’t constrict to poop. He will die because of some insipid fuck-ass neurological disease, a disease that I don’t have but somehow sometimes convince myself I do because I don’t know how else to help.

And when Allen does die I can only hope that I remember him for who he is and not for his disease, this big terrible tragic god that invaded his nerves and our lives. Allen is a kind man who loves fixing clocks. A man who loves peanut butter and animals, plays on words, an artist who made the most beautiful jewelry years ago when his fingers moved like butterflies.

I was so afraid to write about this. It’s too real. Writing about it makes it all too real. But if I don’t write about it it becomes bigger and my toes, they tingle.

Today is Wednesday. There is nothing special about today. Allen is not in the hospital right now. And so I begin to write this knowing full well I will never get to the truth. It is what it is. Just the facts. Allen has MS and I do not. We are all dying and thus we spin gods from yarn and twigs. Why? What is the meaning anyway? There once was a god so sacred it was forbidden to say his name out loud. Yoo Hoo! Woo Hoo! Because the people weren’t allowed to say his name the correct pronunciation has been forgotten and we are left with just the letters. Y, H, W, H. But some of us are tired of waiting, and so we have to make up the name ourselves, in a language bereft of signs and symbols. In a language only we can teach ourselves. Y, H, W, H. You Have Wounded Him.

A Fairy Tale Road Trip. Oh, Indulge Me, Will Ya'?

Once upon a time there was a little girl with eyes wide blooms of petunia.

One day this little girl got into a car, an SUV if you must know, and drove drove drove down the coast of California, the theme song of D-D-D-D-D-Dora lilting out the open window like so many Willie Nelson tunes, weaving through San Luis Obispo and on into Del Mar, a tiny hamlet of sand and money by the sea.

The little girl soon realized that being holed up in hotels gave her even more power over her parents, so afraid were they of ruining other travelers' vacations with the gleeful joy of a toddler.

Wheeeeee! she screamed down the hallway at dawn, and was promptly given a cookie for her efforts. (At this rate, in fourteen years you just might see me handing Zoey the keys to a brand new Hummer on a very special Petunia Faced episode of My Super Sweet Sixteen. Kingston Rossdale is rumored to perform.)

On Thursday the little girl and her family arrived in Santa Monica for a wedding. At the rehearsal dinner, she was given her flower girl basket to practice and she quickly took the opportunity to wander through the restaurant tables collecting cash. Dollars flowed like so much wine and somewhere in the Greek Isles the honeymooners are now having a drink courtesy of the little girl and her panhandling Petunia Faced eyes.

Oh, sure, it was not all bills tucked into the tops of bikinis. There were moments of self-doubt. Moments when Mommy had to give the girl a pep talk. You can do this, she said, knowing all along that the best flower girls freeze. The best flower girls don't part with the petals. Instead, the best flower girls shuffle down the aisle, only realizing on the return trip that all eyes are on them. Then and only then the best flower girls stop mid-aisle and face the photographer smiling, tossing petals high overhead, spinning around and around on tippy toed Target glittery slippers like a cheap jewelry box ballerina. In this manner, the little girl was the best flower girl ever.

After the ceremony, emboldened by love, the little girl went out to find her own Prince Charming.

She looked all around but did not find her one true love. When suddenly!

The little girl looked up! And there it was! Her Prince Charming, his Royal Highness the Ferris Wheel, handsomest truss system in all of Carnie-landia.

Alas, the little girl was too small. You must be this tall to ride the ferris wheel, said a sign at the edge of the ride. And the little girl fell short. This fairy tale may well have ended here with a poisoned apple and a tantrum had the seldom-known eighth dwarf not appeared, a carnie named Bored. He allowed the little girl to ride the ferris wheel sandwiched between her parents, a bastion of safety was he.

And ride she did. Over and over and over. The little girl was enrapt.

And oh so happy.

Later, much later, the little girl discovered that there is no such thing as ONE true love when she met the older girls, a gaggle of cousins who fed her steak (the same steak she would not eat with her mother) and blew her bubbles. She was in love many times over, girl crushes galore. Soon the little girl was acting like a pre-teen and would have nothing to do with her parents. She scoffed and tch'ed and no'ed her mother, never once letting her cut in to dance with her.

The next day, clearly hungover from too many bubbles, her feet aching from tripping the light fantastic, the little girl allowed her parents to take her to the Santa Monica Pier where she got to ride yet another ferris wheel. This one had gondola seats and thus did not give the same sense of vertigo in rolling over the top. The little girl was not impressed.

Hmph.

And so it was that the girl who had begun the trip as little had grown just ever so much. A tch here, a ferris wheel there, as a mermaid swimming in pools, a flower girl whose feet never once touched the sand. The girl with the eyes wide blooms of petunia had blossomed on a trip by tossing rose petals high overhead on a ribbon of road studded by Bells of Taco and Big Dels Supreme.

And then we all lived Happily Ever After.

The End.

My Blogger Went on Vacation and All I Got Was This Lousy Post

I come home bearing no gifts. No San Diego fridge magnets, no miniature California license plate with your name on it to pimp out your banana seat bike. Not even an animated drawing of my head, big eyes and bigger cheeks, a cotton candy memory straight from the sweaty Santa Monica pier. Just one tired blog mama who had the best vacation ever.


Stories and photos to come tomorrow which I realize is the modern equivalent of me inviting you over to see slides of my family vacation, you all bored, squirmy and polite on my couch nursing a drink, me standing at the back of the room, clicker in hand. Click. And here we are at the beach. Click. And here we are at the other beach. See how the sand here is finer? Click. Oh look. Here we are at the far end of that beach. Click. Don’t worry. I’ll make the drinks strong and the slideshow short.

But really all I want to do today is my laundry. And thank all the lovely talented ladies who guest blogged for me. YOU ARE ALL EVER SO AWESOME. Really. I owe you. You name it. Like, if you ever need money or maybe my womb to house your fetus, just ask. I won't eat soft cheeses or drink any wine, really. I owe you all big time.

Although I do want to correct one statement made in the comments section of Paige’s post. The crotchless Spanx suck. Literally. You think you’re in the clear as you crouch over the toilet to pee but no, not necessarily. That ace bandage masking as a crotchless panty girdle doesn’t, um, open wide enough, and if you’re not careful you will pee onto the sides and the fabric wicks it up, quick! Like that. And then you are forced to hang out the rest of the night with the octogenarians of the family so if anyone smells urine they will assume it is wafting from the nether region of the old ladies, not you, no, never you in that skintight dress printed with peacocks. I mean personally I’d rather smell like piss than have a gut, but that’s just me. I’m just letting you all know so you can make your own decision.

Okie dokie artichokie, ready spaghetti, let’s go. See ya later alligators, same bat time, same bat place with pics and stories galore. Missed you all fiercely and now I am off like a prom dress!

And Introducing...

Well hello there! It’s today’s Mystery Guest, Judy, aka Susannah and Andy’s Mom, Zoey’s “Grandma Glitter” and… oh, screw it. I’m a lot of things and I’ve tried to write this post so many times telling who I really am and, well, I can’t do it. At least not in the space, time and writing talent allotted me-and after trying to describe my many identities, I realized neither none nor all are WHO I am. I shall retain the mystery.

I was surprised, flattered and very nervous when Sus asked me to do this post. Amazingly, the ONLY limits she gave were regarding length (several times, in fact). This is too big a responsibility for me. I am truly in awe of Susannah and all you bloggers. I marvel at your dedication, bravery, wit, intellect and TALENT. I am a lot of things but, as I have commented before, I am not a writer. I am a talker, for sure. I can talk anytime to anybody about anything--there are some who would say too much and too long. But sit me down to write and I become self-conscious, dumb--though still not brief. Never brief (that's my motto). One of the things I so admire and respect from talented writers like Susannah, Andy and her Dad (HEJ) is the way they not only come up with fresh ideas but that they can write in many directions seemingly unrelated, and then, miraculously, pull it all together in a flawless ending. Be warned: this won’t happen today. If anything you’ll probably get to the end and say, “What the Hell?” And, if one can write about anything, then how to decide? Anyone who knows me at all knows that I am genetically challenged when it comes to brevity. Because my father? Oh, how he did talk. I could tell you a story but... There’s so much to say, to talk about, so many words, ideas. Good writers say so much in so few, carefully chosen words and, as I warned, I am not a good writer. It took me all those words just to say that.

Here I am. Susannah's mom, now referred to as “Grandma Glitter.” (I must say I read my “intro” describing me as Charo… really! Maybe just a tiny bit with regard to accessorizing but I don’t like her--except for her energy which I covet.) I’ve thought about what I, at my age, with my experience and, dare I say, some degree of wisdom, could presume to say to you. The sad thing is that no one ever gets wisdom handed to them-we must earn our own. But if I could tell you the things that after many years and many life experiences I think are most important, it would be these:

First off: Family and most specifically, children, are the most important thing, period. I spent the early part of my life with the sure knowledge that I would be “special”… somehow “famous” (does everyone do that?). I didn’t know what I would do to get my name in lights or print, but I knew I would. Then in my early 30’s (yeah, it took me awhile to lose the illusion), I realized I would NOT ever be famous… and it was okay. Now, I look at my life and say that while I am very good at what I do (Director of a Homecare Agency) and love it, the FINEST and BEST thing I have ever done in my life is raise my children: Andy and Susannah. I should be famous just for that. I love my family more than I have words to express and they give me so much. Your family is everything in whatever form it takes: by birth or by choice through making a family made up of friends.

Numero 2: Live in the Present. It’s all any of us can do anyway. Live out loud. The most miraculous thing I’ve discovered is that none of us have any clue what’s going to happen. Ever. “What’s the best way to make God laugh? Have a plan.” If anyone had told me 8 years ago that I would be working for my competitor, living alone in a studio apartment on the edge of San Francisco's Tenderloin District and that I would absolutely love it, I’d have given them a big Elaine two-handed chest shove and said, “Get OUT of here!” Life just happens and you have no choice but to be amazed.

3. Love yourself. Look in the mirror to find your best friend. When I was younger I didn't know this, never even suspected it. But now? Now I cherish my own company. Now I realize how much I need my space and alone time. My bed is my safe place and I make it as scrumptious as possible, quilts and sleek sheets, soft fuzzy things and scented candles. Give yourself what you need.

Quatro: Laugh… if I couldn’t laugh at myself, my life, my tabloid magazines, my parrots, the fire station blaring across the street, I’d go mad. I often look at myself as if I were in my own sitcom. For instance, I live a block away from the city's own Grand Central Tranny, a hot bed of prostitution. Not only do I often get great compliments on my way to work (they LOVE my huge metallic gold, crystal and metal studded purse! Susannah hates it) but just the other day I was solicited! I’m 63 years old for chrissake. I was dressed for work and trying to hail a cab. While I am less conservative in style than my daughter, I don't think I go around looking like Mimi from The Drew Cary Show either. A 30-some odd guy pulled up in a muscle car, rolled down the passenger window and gestured for me to come get in the car. I thanked him and declined. He persisted. At first I thought he was just trying to give me a ride and wondered if he thought I was stupid enough to get in the car with a stranger. Didn't he realize he'd have to offer me candy first? Then it dawned on me… he thinks I’m a transsexual hooker! Hm. Compliment? For me, probably. Yes, I decided yes. What I’d say about that (other than ridiculous) is embrace the contradiction!

Well, I’ve gone on too long. I haven’t even explained how and why I came to be called “Grandma Glitter.” But given my daughter’s intro for me and some of the above it’s probably evident. I wear a lot of jewelry. I have never been of the belief that you twirl around in the mirror and take off the first thing that catches your eye. Instead, I twirl around and pile on more sparkle! I am the Original Fancy Nancy, Eloise before she ever stayed at The Plaza. And Zoey has always loved my bangles. Whenever we meet, the game of transferring the bracelets one by one from me to Zoey begins. She especially loves and remembers my “Zoey Heart Bangle.” Now the parting drill is that she puts a kiss on the heart for me to keep as she hands over the bangles one by one. If I have to pick a regret (and I try to live without regrets--what’s the friggin' point? No do-overs allowed!) it’s that I am not the grandmother I had. For one I don’t have that Grandmother house, all gingerbread and cocoa. I work. My very best and most nurturing, life-saving memories from childhood revolve around my grandparents in North Carolina. To this day the smell of BenGay, Mentholatum and the ticking of a Big Ben clock make me feel all warm and fuzzy. I would just sit there for hours cupping the loose skin underneath my grandmother's arm, cup cup cup, so soft and cool to the touch. Of course Zoey will have her own unique memories of her Grandma Glitter when she’s my age. Perhaps the glint of a QVC moissanite ring will warm her heart, I don't know. I can only hope that whatever they are, they will mean as much to her as mine do to me.

That’s it, folks. Nothing neatly tied up--just sort of stream of consciousness. Just sort of me. And this is where I twirl and add some more! Grandma Glitter is over and out, just a trail of sparkle where once I stood.

TGIF Bitches!

Have you ever been too drunk to get your Spanx back up in the bathroom stall of a public establishment? This may – or may not – have happened to me recently. Said Spanx may – or may not – have been crumpled up into my purse and they may – or may not – still be in there.

Hi everyone! I'm Paige, your Petunia Face cruise director for the day. Please allow me to introduce myself. I blog over at I *Heart* You about random ass shit like the true muse of Katie Holmes' recent hair hatchet job, Project Runway recaps and the general hideousness of one Miss Jessica Simpson.

I am not all snark. I love The Hills, braided hair on cast members of The Hills, John Krasinksi and cool stuff. I explain things with way too many metaphors and start way too many sentences with "That totally is just like that episode of Sex In The City/Friends/The Office/90210." Enough about moi, let's get on with it, The Soup style, and see what this week served up for me to blog about.


First up, how does this dude get that much action? Why are Dems so darn horny? I kind of have this mental picture of The Democratic Convention looking like the last 3 minutes of an episode of The Real World – everyone is drunk, naked in a hot tub and about to fuck one another with the subsequent follow up morning after confession of regretting the entire thing. I mean, the Dems are the donkeys so I guess it means they like 'dat ass, right?


Next, Katie Holmes is being feted for designing a not-so-flattering dress that even she can't feign excitement over. I mean, look at her. Reeeaaaallllyyyy look at her – in the eyes. She looks miserable. She needs some vitamins and a trip on the treadmill, right, Tom?


Someone photo shopped the truth into Britney's family picnic. Just like a Napa Valley Merlot compliments a nice steak, everyone knows that nothing brings out the cheesy delectibleness of a Cheeto like a can of Sunkist.


Clay Aiken became a dad and the world did not implode. So we got that going for us...which is nice.


And since I cannot leave you with that fugly image of Clay Aiken, here. Me and my two year old niece, Chloe. Susannah blogs day in and day out about the joys and hidden surprises that she has found in motherhood. I emailed her one time and told her that her stories make me want to become a mom...like yesterday. Chloe also makes me want to become a mom because I have so much fun with her. She is my little buddy. I teach her all kinds of inappropriate things like saying "Peace out, homie" when she leaves the room and how to do The Snake which she calls The Snail. She is obsessed with "cherry lippy" which is really my Dr. Pepper flavored Lip Smacker and loves to dance to our song, which just so happens to be Bad Girls by Donna Summer. And while she isn't giving political endorsements yet like the The Wonder Zo, she and Susannah and her Mini Me make me so excited for what awaits me one day when I become a mom – dirty diapers, sleepless nights, rogue Cheerios stashed all over and all.

So everyone, thanks for stopping by and Happy TGIFF (Thank God It's Fucking Friday). I hope you enjoyed yourself this week with all the fabulous guest bloggers. I have a feeling you all know who is up to bat tomorrow so come back to confirm your suspicions. Enjoy your weekend and remember, friends don't let friends drink and wear Spanx. Seriously, I think I pulled something.

Ramblings from a mad guest blogger

Tap tap...

Is this thing on?

*ahem*

Oh hai! It's me, J. I'll be your blog sitter for today. Like Rosalie down there, I had a stressful time figuring out what to write. (Shut it Anon, if you even give me any lip I swear, I'll call my hoodoo voodoo people and F some S up. Feel me?) (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, read the comments section from yesterday.)

So, who am I and what am I doing here? Well, I'm a blogger, I guess (Am I? I have no idea. I have a blog, how 'bout that?) and Susannah invited me to entertain you for the day. My own blog is a hodgepodge, really. A mushy mishmash of me ranting and raving about my "feelings", things that piss me off, all while coveting some hot ass shoes I can't afford. I really have no idea what I'm talking about half the time. (There, did I pimp myself out enough with those cleverly embedded links?) (Also, do you love my love for parenthetical expressions?)

Soooo, annnnyway, I didn't know what to write for my bloggysitter post. Then the following thing happened at work yesterday and my fountain of hate started spewing forth green frothy words. They bubbled up, erupting in a fantastic display of goo and ooze. So I'm setting up a fan, turning that sucker on high, and letting the words splatter here, all over Susannah's blog, for your reading enjoyment. Here goes... (boy I hope I didn't oversell this story with such a grand set up. Now you're all going to be disappointed. Sigh.)

Yesterday afternoon, while eating my lunch at my desk, I noticed something. Something that was on the floor, near my toes. Something that appeared to be, upon further inspection, a mouse. A dead mouse. A rotting, substantially decayed dead mouse. I looked a little closer. Yes. That's exactly what it was.


So I did what any strong, independent, low maintenance woman would do. I IM'd my friend/coworker Matt and told him to ahhgetthefuckuphereimmediatelyandgetridofitewwgross! Actually, the conversation went more like this:

J: um Matt?
matt: what?
J: i think there is a rotting mouse carcass under my desk
matt: oh gross
J: in fact, i'm sure of it
J: um
J: ;alksjd;laksjdf;laksjdf;lkasjdf
J: i can't deal
J: what do i do
J: i can't touch it
J: ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
matt: facilities? that seems like something they'd fix, right?
J: nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, they'll take forever!!!!!!!!
J: now now now now
J: GET IT OUT OF HERE
J: RIGHT NOW
J: it's been there for a while i can tell
J: there is some serious decayage going on
J: I CAN'T STOP STARING AT IT
J: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
J: GROSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
matt: gross
J: ah;lsjf;alskfj;alskjf;lasjdf;laksjdf;laskjf;lasjdf
J: HELP ME!
matt: ugh
matt: i hate you

Then Matt put down his homemade chicken lunch meat and cheese sandwich (who the eff eats chicken lunch meat btw? Gross. Sorry, Matt.) and came up to rescue me. He kindly removed the offending carcass and disposed of it (not in my trashcan as I adamantly instructed.)

Fast forward a few hours...

I remember the incident (I had blocked it out temporarily so as not to barf my spinach and rice lunch concoction all over my office) and, being the generous person I am, decide to let an officemate of mine know.

[Piece of background information that will make the story better #1: I moved into my current office not too long ago. There is a 'wall' which is more of a partition that separates my office from a cubicle area where we store bins with files and such. Rotting Mickey was lying under the partition, between my office and the cubicle outside. My officemate often accesses the bins and files located in close proximity to where the mouse kicked it.

[Piece of background information that will make the story better#2: Said officemate has issues. 'Nuff said.]

Still with me? Good... recap: so, I decided to let my officemate know about the filthy dead vermin 'cause I'm all generous and shit.

Me: Hey, Officemate. Just a heads up - there was a rotting mouse lying on my floor, I think it came from underneath. Must've been there a little while, too, cause it didn't even smell. So if you are going through bins and stuff, be careful.

Officemate: Oh, that must have been the one from a year ago.

Me: Huh?

Officemate: There was a dead mouse under there a year ago. I guess no one cleaned it up.

Then my head exploded and I died.

The End.

It's Wednesday, My Homework is due...

Hello Fellow Bloggers,
I had no idea how much stress this whole blog sitting would be. It’s like having homework, but worse, because it’s not homework and it’s supposed to be fun.



What the hell is wrong with me I am thinking? I even typed this all out in Word first so as not to make any spelling and grammar mistakes. I was also going to take the easy way out and divulge a bunch of anecdotes about Susannah, you know, silly stuff only I would know, being her friend for many years and all, but that’s a cop out and the good student in me won’t allow it.
To be honest, I feel all this pressure because for the first time, I actually get to write whatever I want to write. I started my blog as a way to keep friends and relatives and any one else interested in my health issues informed (fabulous breast cancer and all its glory) and to avoid many phone calls forcing me to repeat the same info over and over again. Now that I am relatively cancer free and just waiting for my new boobs my blog is mainly about my baby Sadie and how wonderful she is. And this makes me feel weird. I mean, who am I to think I am so special, my kid is so special, that a blog needs to be dedicated to her, that strangers and friends and family alike would want to spend their precious hours in front of a computer screen to see Sadie eat, pull at her toes and eek out a small smile? Frankly, who are any of us to think we are so special that anyone else at all would want to hear what we had to say, look at what we think is cool, watch what we think is interesting? Because that’s what blogs are. A sort of look at me, listen to me, here’s what I have to say forum.



I guess my conundrum is about not wanting to appear self centered, yet I spend at least a few hours a week doing nothing but writing about my life, my kid and myself. And blogging in general is such a new form of communication, there really are no rules. You can do whatever you want. Yet still, I feel so strange doing just that. I guess all communication had to start somewhere. I doubt the Egyptian drawing himself holding a vase of water over his head got made fun of by fellow Egyptians for, ‘writing all about himself’. Not that I am likening blogging to the ancient art of cave drawings, but would if I was? So what, right? All I know is that I hang out with Susannah all day and I still rush home to check her blog. All I know is that I have received amazing support from total strangers that have brightened some pretty dreary days. All I know is that I am going to keep writing, as long as people are reading.
Anyway, that’s what I had to say, being free of the Sadie and Cancer subjects, house sitting for Petunia face and just free thinking.
But I won’t leave you hanging. I know what you all really want to know, and it isn’t my confusion about blogging and what it’s supposed to be. Here's something only I would know about little Miss S (Well Big S since Sadie is the Little Miss S in my life now).

We used to work at a café when we were...hmmm… I don’t think I’ll divulge the age because we were way to old to be doing what I am about to tell you we did. The café was in a bookstore (remember when those were sprouting up everywhere?). The bookstore workers were snobs and made us feel like idiots for being café workers. The customers were even worse. Anyone that can spend the bulk of a weekday reading magazines they didn’t buy and getting free refills on coffee are total weirdoes. The job was a waste of our time, but the hours were good and it was easy. To blow off steam pent up from being mistreated by both the bookstore snobs and the weird customers, Susannah would doodle penis’s on napkins. Oh yes, lifelike and flaccid, with pubic hair details and saggy scrotum. I am cringing with embarrassment at the memory.
Then we would tuck them in to the stack and wait as unsuspecting patrons grabbed a napkin with their latte and have fits of laughter in the back when her artwork was discovered, like ice tea coming through our nostrils it was so funny. By the way, it's taking all my moral strength not to post an image I found online that resembles these drawings. Every time I do it, I delete it because it's just so wrong.

I am sure Susannah would rather I told you all she was a cheerleader her freshman year and could play Madonna’s ‘Love Don’t Live Here Anymore’ by ear on the piano (these are other less interesting details only I would know, though the list is far shorter now that she has a blog), but I thought this one just might pack a larger punch with her faithful readers. Ok, got to go, Sadie is waking up.



Take care,
Rosalie

It's Bee, bitch.

Hi y'all. It's Bee! Do you like my sparkly disco pants? Take a Cheez Doodle and pass around the bag. We're going to be here for a while.

So, last week, your friend and mine, little miss Petunia Face, asked me to tickle the ivories on my PowerBook G4 and serenade you with some words of wisdom. I was BEYOND honored, but I hadn't a clue as to what I was to offer. How could I deign to share space with such a master of the blogosphere? Someone who conducts exorcisms to rid themselves of the evil spirits of jobs past? Someone who so effortlessly weaves in prose about Tara Reid's pre-lipo abs with Jocelyn Wildenstein's feline-y face. Someone who, just like that!, slays you with a beautiful thought about her darling bebe.

I was dumbfounded.

Where would I begin? I felt so, "I'm Veronica Corningstone. Tits McGee is on vacation" and shiz.


And then it hit me. The reason I come here in the first place, the reason I adore mama Susannah so much, is that she just puts it all out there. Every day. She inspires me to push the limits and be just as weird and strange and silly as I want to be. And so, in a nod to Susannah's trip down the California coast, I will share with you a little story about my own California adventure.

A few years ago, when I first started dating P, I quit my job and the two of us hopped in a Jeep Wrangler with our chocolate lab, Reggie, and drove out to San Diego—which, of course, in German, means "a whale's vagina."


We took our time navigating across the country, stopping at every Subway and Bob's Big Boy along the way. It was Paul's idea to do a picture-a-day project, and when we got home we gave each other photo albums with our favorite pix. I peppered mine with snippets from my journal. Here's one I thought you might enjoy:

"Today I ate a hot dog, a chocolate chip cookie, a Dove ice cream bar, and like 1000 carbs. Nasty. But delish. And so fun. It looks like I squirted some ketchup and mustard on the windshield, but really those are just dried bug guts. Bug condiments. They are everywhere. My nose is dry, my back is sore, and a tumbleweed just crossed the highway. Reggie needs my attention now. He has apparently caught some trout on the ride out and is sharing the aroma with us. When he breaths, it smells like a toilet."

Oh, Susannah! No, don't you cry for me. For I know you will have your own ups and downs and laughs and tears throughout this trip. And I know I speak for all of us when I say that I CAN'T WAIT to hear all about 'em. Every last one! Until then, we shall wait patiently for your return.

Signing off now. Stay classy, San Diego!

For those of you who are not vacationing in Southern California

Hi! Happy Monday! I (SGM) am blog-sitting today, and instead of missing Susannah and being bitter and depressed about our beach-less lives, we're going to have fun! While I'm in charge, we're going to eat crap and gossip about stupid stuff. Sound good? Okay then. Pass me one or five of Susannah's secret stash of Cadbury creme eggs (she's been hoarding them since Easter) and let's get started on Dumb Questions about the Olympics that Must Be Answered:

1. Am I the only one who thinks that gymnast Alicia Sacramone looks like Jessica Simpson?

Minus some boobs and muscle? Sorry to hit you with that Jessica photo without warning, by the way, but there is a passing resemblance, right?

*UPDATE*

Sharp-eyed reader Erin noted that Alicia also looks like Kristin Cavalleri of Laguna Beach fame. I agree!



2. Does this commercial make you tear up every. single. time?


I'm a little upset with Visa for making me look like such a little tiny baby 5 times a day.

3. Do Olympians have day jobs? Who pays for all of their training and coaching and fancy outfits and Gatorade and trips to China? Does anyone know how all of this is financed? It's not like the Olympics culminates in a huge multi-million dollar contract and you can pay everyone back. Unless, of course, you're Michale Phelps.

4. Speaking of Michael Phelps. His body? NOT TOO SHABBY.

By the way, I also cry when I see him talking about his mom.

5. How do you all feel about Paul you'll-have-to-pry-this-gold-medal-out-of-my-cold-dead-hands Hamm? What is his legacy after that debaucle in Athens? He is allegedly one of the greatest gymnasts in history, but his conduct during the 2004 Olympics left a bad taste in my mouth. I know he won his gold medal appeal, but he would have been such a (rich) hero if he would have given that medal up to the South Korean guy, who technically won. Is he paying a karmic debt with his injury this year? What do you think?


6. How cool is the swim cube?

Nice work, China! Now get cracking on that smog.


Well! Now that I've posted some photos of half-naked people, talked shit about an Olympic gold medalist, and eaten most of those Cadbury eggs, I'll be off!

Have a great week even though you're not relaxing on a sandy beach, everyone! Mommy will be home soon.