Category: that joe

Posted on

Once Again

Yes. We’ve heard the pitter patter of tiny feet around here for the past few days. Very tiny feet. It was so funny and cute when we thought it was a lizard. OH-ho! Ho! Look! It’s a lizard! Our home is blessed and we’ll have no insects running around willy-nilly! Let’s set up a small bed in an empty matches box! I’ll make him a tiny quilt in case he gets cold! Good times.

Apparently, birdseed attracts rodents. Who knew? And our bird (with no name) is messy. I’ve had birds before that were messy and so I’m not surprised at the end of the day when there is a smattering of seeds and hulls on the carpet underneath the cage waiting for a good dustbustering. But I swear, this bird sticks his beak in the seed dish and just writhes his head back and forth. He looks like a dog exuberantly shaking his fur after a bath. Or me shaking my hair in the wind. He sometimes hits me over 6 feet away! Maybe he’s aiming. (Give me an effin name already, woman!) I’m making him a cage skirt toot sweet. He looks great in green.

In any case, these brazen mice that run the baseboard from the cage to the fireplace and up and out are not lacking for food. They dosey-do, do the soft-shoe and then tip their tiny hats in thanks as they leave. And then they party all night at their secret hangout at the top of the chimney getting drunk on zinfandel out of tiny thimbles and sharing a cheesepuff while talking about what terrible television we watch at our house. We’re completely uncultured.

Call me old or ornery or curmudgeonly (or sad since I wasn’t invited to the party) as you please but I’m sorry – no more mice in the house. Thank you.

But I did cry when the first little guy got stuck on the sticky strips. He squeaked. I cried. I called Joe and he walked me through the steps of putting him in the dumpster. (Which, seriously, I think I could have figured out. I’ve got a few ounces of common sense. But I tend to use My Man for these types of things. Does that make me weak? Look! A spider!)

I realize that the more humane way to deal with the mouse would have been to put him out of his misery, but I could not abide smashing him in any way shape or form. And I didn’t want to let him go because he would most likely just come down the chimney again and back into my rodent-free zone. And I didn’t have enough oil to pour on him anyway to remove him from the sticky strip. And if it’s hot tomorrow, won’t the oil on his fur just get really hot and crispy and make him a tasty fried snack for a bird, cat or snake? And that, in turn, would most likely make those animals ill. I can’t take all that responsibility.

And I am in denial because I’m imagining he found tiny broken toothpicks and was able to extricate himself like we would in quicksand, completely intact but with rumpled clothing and wacky hair. Immediately afterwards, he put on a freshly ironed Hawaiian shirt, wrapped the kerchief around his walking cane and took a train to Philly. He’ll soon be working as a bouncer in a bordello.

But, no! Instead, he is in a box with a bag tied around him in the dumpster. And all I can think about is The Secret of NIMH and how now I’m the really awful People who are evil and kill the mice.

I imagine I’ll get over it. Not going through the couch cushions looking for and vacuuming up tiny mice poopy-pellets every morning is going to help.

Posted on

Less Time Thinking and More Time Doing

I want to do something and I want to do it well. I need something, anything, to fill this hole in my heart a mile wide.

Excuse me while I wax slightly melodramatic. I’ve spent years of my life with one purpose, my only purpose, a sole purpose, to now find that it’s not needed in the slightest. I am, in fact, unnecessary. Can you imagine? Spending years of your life believing one thing and working towards something with every fiber of your being in every way that you possibly could? To believe something as a solid truth only to find out that you were completely wrong?

I’m crushed. I’m saddened beyond belief. I do not, in fact, even know the words to express my pain. I’m screaming with my hand over my mouth. If only you could hear me! If you were in my head you’d know. You’d feel the reverberations so deep, your bone marrow would vibrate. The tune hasn’t been written, but only touched upon by the dark and soulfullest strains of the blues song you’ve never heard, barely skimming with its tawny, skinny finger along your cheek.

Ah, yes, you think. There she goes again. Going on about the kids and her feelings and the dreadful inadequacy of it all. Believe me when I tell you this is different. At least for me it is. For you, you could be entirely correct. If that is the case, feel free to spend your time accordingly and move on to the next reading spot of your choice.

My husband is going through one of the hardest moments of his life thus far. I support him and love him the same as always and even more because of his deep sadness and fear. He keeps his feelings reigned in, on my behalf, I suppose. He cries by himself, afraid that I’ll come apart at the seams if he isn’t strong and all put together. It hurts me. Oh, how it hurts me to hold him and have him keep his sobs silently inside, with only his shoulders heaving slightly, a smile on his face when we pull away and barely a tear in his eye. Careful not to get any of his sadness on his wife whom he thinks couldn’t handle it. He didn’t ask me if I could take a little of it for him, rest it on my back like a mantle for a bit and give him reprieve. He doesn’t dare. He knows what he knows and he has his tight-knit family for the sad-sharing. They know each other. They take care of each other. I’m glad they do. I’m glad he isn’t worried about how I feel. All their energies have much more important things to do at this moment and I support that 100%. Even more, if it were possible. Even more, if he would let me in. In the meantime, I’ll have to do with the cursory reports of progress.

There is a natural and opposite reaction to every action. The counterpoint for his is mine, namely, my kids. But, really, who’s to say which came first? Perhaps I met him like this. As much as he won’t allow me into his family, I don’t allow him into mine. He can forge relationships with all of the children that will let them, which by my estimation is roughly 2.75 of them collectively. I can try to nurture his attempts but on the outset, it’s his journey, as I have remained a neutral party for my children’s benefit. I’ve been a safe harbor for them to come to at any moment, including a disagreement or confusion with him. And I’ve repeatedly told myself that this was oh-so-very necessary. A duty of love from their mother. My never-ending job, to be there always and unfailingly for them, my beautiful offspring. First and foremost, failing nothing.

So odd when your perception shifts. You’re looking through the lens in one direction and then suddenly you’re off balance and falling to the floor on one ear. The way you’ve seen things suddenly turned 90 degrees and the first thought to your head is – Of course! Why haven’t I seen things this way the whole time? Why didn’t I know this – this – thing? Why? Am I daft?

My children don’t need me. They don’t need me in the way I’ve been projecting for ages to myself and to the world. In fact, they have a mother and a fine one at that. My ex and his wife are entirely the perfect parents. It could be completely true that I need them far more than the other way round. Because without them, who am I? But, without me? They are still themselves in a complete family unit lacking nothing. I, on the other hand, am only part of a half of a relationship where deep feelings are kept to the person who feels them. I can’t say a solid half because no one sees me that way, let alone myself. So, only a part I remain.

I’ve been so stubborn and self-centered. I haven’t listened when they’ve tried to tell me. They are happy the way things are! I’ve been supposing that I had things to offer, things that could be had no where else but I was deluding myself. One of them was finally brave enough to tell me how they all felt.

Oh, the planning I’ve taken. The silly and thorough planning. Working the entire day around one of them popping in for less than five minutes. The miles I’ve traversed to see an hour of a football game or pass off a book left behind. All because I thought in some way I was important in their lives. Well, to be fair, I am important as much as a beloved aunt or friend of the family can be. Just not in the way I thought I was: a Mother.

I think of my attempts at being their mom as so sad. I’m embarrassed. How awkward for them, to have to pretend I was doing somewhat of a good job at it. There were clues along the way. Their reluctance at putting personal items in their rooms here. Their indifference at whether I’m in attendance at a school or sports activity. I thought it might be a way of protecting their feelings. But I was wrong. It was the reality of the situation I was afraid to look at. And now, the Universe has cracked a bit and the sound is hurting my head.

Do I sound bitter? I suppose I am. But not at them. Really, they’ve done the best they could with what they had. When you go through years of hearing that someone is a mental case, it’s hard to see them as anything but. They’ve managed to become a family with close ties to their father and their step-mom, which is so much better for them than the opposite. I suppose I’m just nursing my wounds at being on the outside again and wishing I were on the inside for once with my kids. A family where I’m the mom and they are my children.

At some point I’ll have to figure out what’s next. What is the next step? Certainly less time thinking and more time doing is the order of the day. I want to do something and I want to do it well. I need something, anything, to fill this hole in my heart a mile wide.

Posted on

The Weekend, She Rocked

On Saturday, Joe and I went to Ariel’s reading at the Tangier Lounge. I took some photos. We laughed and laughed. This was the final book reading of her Offbeat Bride tour and we were lucky to be included. It was a packed house and we had front row seats. Ariel does a mean sock puppet like nobody’s business.

The second half of the night was spent with L.A. Daddy and some other fabulous bloggers at the L.A. Blogger Party. I hope we do that again sometime real soon.

Sunday night was the first LA Angst. There were a few hiccups regarding the venue, but a new birth always comes with a few. (We’ll be meeting somewhere new next time.) We had just under 20 people attend and there was much laughing and cheering in our intimate and dark nook of the bar. (Thank god Ariel happened to have a small flashlight.) The vibe was really great and I can see that group getting crazy large at some point when the word gets out about how fun it is to read old journals and reveal your angsty teenhood. Thanks to Ariel and Andreas for being good sports and putting up with my company two nights in a row. Two, people. Two nights. They are practically saints.

And thanks to Joe for being a wonderful partner for the weekend. His sense of direction will always amaze me.

UPDATED: This is the best replay of the evening. I love Kevin Charnas. And I think Joe is ok with that.

Posted on

And I Was All……

Today I’m wearing a bra that is so great at giving support that I’ve gone through college, medical school and an internship by lunch. The other night I was laying on my back on the couch and Joe said, ‘Your breasts are truly amazing in that bra. They are two proud mountains, erect and waiting for someone to climb and conquer them.’

——-

Ty had a huge school project due today for History Day. He worked on it in drips and drabs over the long weekend but there was no convincing him that he should buckle down and do-er till she gets done. ‘This is how I do it, Mom. I think about it and figure it out in my head and then do the actual work the night before it’s due.’ ‘What about sleeping?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, I don’t sleep.’ This brings us to last night, when he ‘accidentally’ fell asleep (stupid body! sleeping!) and woke up this morning in a panic. Or so I hear since he was at his dad’s last night. But as I sat and waited for him to show up at the brunch* held for all the kids that got Student of the Month over the past school year, knowing he was running late and how much he hates being late, I felt like I should have pushed him harder to get the work done over the weekend in between running back and forth to Santa Barbara for his basketball tournament and after he finished the Grisham novel he also had to finish by today. I thought of many ways we could change his homework habits and had my own report on Applying Homework Skills to Avoid Stress and Sleepless Nights written in my head.

When he came in the door of the multi-purpose room, hair still damp from the shower, carrying a poster with glued rectangles of green over white containing text about Joseph Smith, my little speech left my brain. He looked harried and tired and still so handsome all freshly washed that I simply said, ‘I don’t think your way is working for you, Ty.’ He sighed. And then he ate part of a bagel and some fruit. I think it was more than enough, as talks go.

*When did Brunch start including 8am breakfasts?

——-

When the kids walk out the door I become a pillar of slow moving sludge on the couch. I sit as if a statue, doing various internetty things of no consequence which expend as little energy as possible and still be alive. I forget to eat. I forget to hydrate. I almost forget to relieve my bladder. My fingers clicking the keys are the only way one might know my heart is beating.

And then, when the kids walk through the door, I’m suddenly careening back into the movement of life, staggering on legs that have fallen asleep and smacking the dust out of the corners in my brain with the palm of my right hand against my forehead. As my engine revs up, I continue going faster until I’m almost going normal speed – going normal speed – attempting to pass on the right and then finally, breaking the speed limit and accidentally knocking the side view mirror off by hitting the mailbox. I’m doing the dishes. I’m folding the laundry. I’m looking at the vacuum and thinking really hard about getting it out. I’m straightening the cupboard. I’m putting the whites in the washer. I’m fluffing the pillows on the couch. I’m fixing a snack for Alex. I’m looking at the vacuum again. I’m sorting through mail. I’m fixing a snack for the boys. I’m slamming the garage door shut so I don’t have to look at the vacuum anymore. And most of all, I’m not thinking. I’m just doing. And very most of all, I’m not feeling. Alex is telling me about so-and-so and I’m um-humming, but I’m not feeling anything. I’m marinating steaks and cutting brussels sprouts into quarters and listening to what Dev tells me about the wonderful qualities of the Hookah and I’m nodding and occasionally rolling my eyes but not feeling anything beyond very mild sarcasm. I’m wiping counters and putting in a new trash liner and giving Tony advice on older women but I’m not feeling anything. I’m cutting up tomatoes for the Pico and Ty walks in, taps my shoulder from behind on the right, then sidles quietly to my left, waiting for me to turn and see no one so he can smile at me. And I think, ‘I sure wish I could feel something. This would be the moment to feel something. Right now.’ But I don’t, so I smile and hope he can’t tell.

And then they leave and go to their dad’s home. And I sit down on the couch to do my best impression of Timpanogos.

——-

Devon, aged 18, says, ‘You should try Disarono. It’s kind of cherry tasting. It’s very good.’ And damned if he wasn’t right.

——-

I’m not going to write about moving or moving boxes or the not unpacking of said moving boxes anymore. Because seriously, who cares? I’m bored and I live here. There are more important things to worry about. Like, why my underage sons knows what Disarono tastes like.

——-

Alex puts on the blue shirt with white polka dots and the white sweater. She takes it off and puts on the black tank top with the white sweater. She takes it off and puts the blue shirt with the white polka dots on over the black tank top. Then she adds the white sweater. ‘Mom, which of these looks better?’ ‘What are you trying to say? Friends or Flirty?’ ‘Um, probably mostly friends with a little bit of flirty.’ ‘I like the blue with polka dots and the white sweater. It says: You like me but I don’t want to date you so don’t ask me out or I’ll have to say no and then we can’t be friends anymore since we’ll both feel weird.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Awesome.’

——-

The bird with no name sits on my shoulder and nibbles my ear. He nestles up under my chin. He makes tiny chirping noises and puts his beak by my lips, craning his neck so I will scratch his head. He makes soft kissy noises of love. Then he shits on me.

Posted on

Dinner With Grace

grace_dinner_grace_daughter

Grace told me a few weeks ago she was going to David Sedaris and I begged and pleaded to go with her. Mr. Sedaris was going to be appearing in Santa Barbara with the wonderful Sarah Vowell and it was all just too much to bear: Grace, Sedaris, Vowell, all within my grasp only a hop skip and a jump away. The wonderful woman that she is, Grace graciously (get it??) allowed Joe and I to come along. Eden was there as was her friend Jennifer. Also, Grace’s daughter, Jenn, and her boyfriend, who’s name I’ve forgotten. (That’s how great of a friend I am. Invite me again!)

Dinner was lovely. There was wine.

Sedaris and Vowell were hysterical but dinner was better.

Posted on

Found

We’re finally, mostly, for sho moved in. What that really means is that all the furniture and boxes are in one house instead of two. The garage is almost solely a storage unit, but there is a tiny aisle you can walk through if you have balls of steel and don’t mind heavy boxes of books falling on your toes.

After so many days of strenuous physical labor, today was quite light. I’ve just been walking around the house placing things here and there. Moving a pile from one side to the other. Picking up a stack from one room and sticking it on a table in that one. The kitchen is almost really done. I found most of what should be in there but somewhere under piles of cardboard boxes full of cables and cleaning products and shoes there is a box of plates. Until I find it, I hope you washed your hands real well since you’ll be holding all your food between your interlaced fingers.

I did find the coffee maker, though. And the bean grinder, which I almost didn’t need since my teeth have been doing just fine. I also found about 25 jars that once held jam, mayonnaise, olives and probably pickled pigs feet for all I know. 25 jars that Joe saved after they were empty because he can use them again for SOMETHING. 25 jars that sat in the cupboard until I got the chance to throw them away. 25 jars with lids, carefully and lovingly wrapped in paper and bubble wrap by my daughter, her friend and her cousin. Two boxes worth. I can just picture them in the kitchen (while I was upstairs rolling bedspreads and sheets into one giant taco roll and tossing it over the balcony) encouraging each other to make sure and take enough of the $115/yard bubble wrap to carefully enclose each and every beautiful inch of the jar that once held creamy white waves of mayo. So we could carry the boxes into the truck. And move them. And carry them again. And unpack them. And then throw them away. Or better, pack them up again and haul them to Goodwill. Didn’t you just say the other day that you wanted 25 used jars? Some still have the labels on them.

But every once in awhile, while rummaging for socks or toilet paper or hand soap or fingernail polish remover (JUST GO TO THE DOLLAR STORE AND BUY NEW!!! IT’S FASTER!!) you find something really important. Something that will make every day from now on so much better. Thanks goodness.

darth pez
Posted on

Week Recap (With Links!)

-My post on real estate the other day stirred up quite a little flurry of emails. A couple of them were soft and fuzzy like Easter bunny rabbits. And some of them were jagged and nasty with the intent to maim and cut me. Ha ha! I am a robot and cannot be cut. I still think the bottom line is – be smart and do your own research.

-The day when we have to be out of this house is creeping closer and will leap at me in a few weeks. Scary.

-I started reading Breed’em and Weep a few weeks ago. I do actually cry sometimes and I have bred some, so I guess I’m allowed. Her latest post, an open letter to teenage boys, has lots of good stuff in it. This post resulted in me sending her a fan letter, an action that always results in almost immediate remorse because I am a dork.

-If I could afford it and wasn’t moving and didn’t have to figure out how to pay for a new crown for my stupid tooth, I would buy SuperHero Jewelry.

-We had our first craft trade day at Leahpeah’s Craft. All I can say is that next month will be an improvement which is a nice way of saying I think no one traded anything. I’m reminded of a dance in junior high and no one wants to dance first. But next month, I’m uploading something(s) really awesome and everyone in their right mind will be compelled to participate because they will want one THAT MUCH. !!

-I interviewed for a job yesterday and found out that one of the people in on the call knew my uncle and his family from Arizona. Small world. This particular uncle is a judge and it brought to mind a very hyped up reunion we had one year when there were bodyguards following him everywhere. Us kids/teens all thought it was really awesome or rad or something. Good times.

-You’ll all be happy to know that my first marriage has been officially annulled according to the Catholic Church. I received the letter in the mail yesterday and it states it was no one’s fault and that we are all just great etc. I’m not Catholic but I do appreciate that these men are Holy Men and are acting in a way they feel inspired to. I don’t understand how a marriage of almost 14 years which produced 4 children can be annulled. (Um, we obviously consummated.) But in any case, my ex can now marry his wife in a Catholic church and have it be a valid marriage which makes them very happy and me happy by association. I suppose it also means that should we ever wish to, Joe and I could get married by a priest and have it be a valid Catholic marriage also. Religion is still a weird area for me. I think because I was raised in such a structured religious environment I am a little loathe to get involved or join any other organized religion. I mean, if I wanted to do that, why not just go back to the Mormon church? I already know all the good and bad stuff in that religion and have the 13 Articles of Faith memorized. Also, there is no sudden and repetitive kneeling in the middle of the service. Just lots of little kids and dry cereal and crayons.

-Joe upgraded his phone. This new, improved phone comes with voice texting. It’s my new favorite game.

For example, he says into the phone:
Leah comma I’m coming up on Topanga Canyon period I Love you exclamation point Love comma Joe period

And what I get is:
Betty, thank you hiding sheet tactile canyon. Lambda unit! Lilac, Chet.

To which I reply:
Oh, Chet! My tactile canyon is hiding under the sheets waiting for your lambda unit. I love you, too! Betty.

And he has no idea what I’m talking about.

Posted on

With the Bonnet

You know your husband loves you when he is willing to let you take this picture and then post it to your blog. Susan, this is for you in case you could use a smile.

Posted on

New Family Game

And when I say ‘Family’ I mostly mean Joe. Man, that guy won’t get off the game and let the kids have a turn. He’s all ‘It’s my microphone! It’s my song! I’m your mother! If you love me you’ll let me play!’ Oh, wait.

Joe picked up the American Idol version of Karaoke Revolution complete with Simon, Dog-you-know-what-Dog and some odd lady that is NOT Paula, which is shameful.

game_simongame_dog

Because the whole reason you watch Idol is to watch the most-likely-intoxicated Paula slur out slightly irritating and unintelligible compliments to the contestants. And she’s not even in the game! It’s this other helmet-haired woman with absolutely no personality at all. Like, imagine the opposite of Paula: she’s completely sober, not entertaining and never says anything except ‘I think the middle was pitchy. What do YOU think, Cowell?” In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Simon Cowell had created her simply to make himself look better in the game.

We had a BBQ the other night and it was interesting how different the singing game was from the guitar game. (You know I shred, right?) When the guitar game is in, just about anyone will try it, even if they have never seen it before. But you put in the singing game, half the room will leave or refuse to try it. I guess I don’t get it since I’m willing to belt out as loud as possible in front of just about anyone. In fact, come over. I want to sing in front of you right now. Hurry. I just unlocked Achy Breaky Heart. Just kidding. That song isn’t on this edition. It’s probably on the country edition, though. But wouldn’t it be great if I could sing that for you right now?? THINK about it! I also do awesome dance moves while on stage.

game_leahdance

My character looks kind of like KristyK. How cute, eh? Here I am singing “Love Will Keep Us Together”. My *ahem* attributes are very generous in the game.

game_leah

Here’s Joe. You haven’t truly heard “What A Girl Wants” until you’ve heard him sing it.

game_joe

We need to get a 2nd mic so we can play duets. My one complaint: the font stinks. Pick a font that is easy to read, dudes! Don’t make me work so hard to input my name.

Posted on

Inappropriate Non-Carnivorous Chomping

Sometimes, I get a look at those baby toes (like these and these) and I want to *Chomp!* Joe will be looking over my shoulder and I’ll actually say ‘Chomp’ out loud and he’ll give me this look that clearly says, ‘There is something WRONG with you, woman!’

I can’t help it. Baby toes are delectable and delightful. They invite, nay, require a Chomp! and I’m just the one to do it. When my babies were born, I spent many glorious moments mimicking eating noises while kissing their feet and PLEASE tell me I’m not the only one. I can’t be. There must be more people out there that pretend to eat baby feet or perfect ears and fingers and chunky thighs, yes? Of course, this totally changes around the age of 1 when baby feet inexplicably turn into toddler feet and start to sweat and stink and get toe-jam. At that point, feet are feet and I’d just as soon not put them near my mouth, thanks. But, until then, YUMMY!

——-

Here’s a little story to let you know just how weird I am sometimes. Every time Joe loads the dishwasher, I go in after him and pull the spatulas and whisks and long knives up from the bottom shelf where he put them in, vertically, in the flatware holder and I place them, horizontally, on the top shelf next to the bowls where they FIT because they don’t FIT on the bottom and they impede the propellers that need to turn-baby-turn in order to get the dishes really clean. I mean, WHY is it so hard to remember?

A few days ago, we were in the kitchen together, loading the dishwasher and every time he placed one of those items in the flatware bin I reach over and placed it on the top shelf. Kind of like a robot. A dishwasher loading robot. Finally, he stops and asks me what I’m doing. So, in my most patient voice, full of dripping kindness, because really, is it his fault I’m just better than him at loading the dishwasher? No. It’s not. So I can be kind while I completely obliterate his method. I explain exactly what he’s doing wrong and how the blades can’t turn and then the dishes won’t get clean. And he says, ‘No. You’re wrong.’ And I’m all, ‘What? Are you crazy? Look! Look what happens!’ And I reach down to show him how the propeller blades can’t turn and they get stuck on those long utensils and guess what? No, guess! There are NO propeller blade where I thought they were. Those long utensils on the bottom shelf? The vertical ones? FINE where they are. Apparently, I’m thinking of a dishwasher from my other life with my other husband in another house in another universe because THIS one has the propeller blades on the bottom of the dishwasher and there is no way that the way he loads it is getting in the way. What’s even a little weirder is that this is the ONLY dishwasher he and I have ever had together in 5 years and we have only had it the past 2 years which means I’m thinking of some lame-ass dishwasher from over 6 years ago. Let’s just assume that THAT dishwasher had some kind of utensil-blade issue, ok? Thanks.

Posted on

Free Form Confessions

I wore my cute, breezy, brown and summery short pants* yesterday. I haven’t pulled them out since last summer. It’s been so hot it seemed like a good idea. Except for the fact that yesterday it was overcast and raining all day. That is so like me – just a few days off in my timing.

I put my hand in my pocket sometime after lunch and pulled out this card**:

mkcard

This tells me two things: 1) the last time I wore these pants was at Blogher and 2) I didn’t wash them. Awesome.
_______

I want a job, like, yesterday.
_______

I made my stomach upset by eating a marshmallow bunny and a Reese’s peanut butter egg. My body is not used to sugar. I can only assume that Easter is evil and the power of Christ compels me to fill my body with yummy sickness inducing chocolate treats. Thanks a lot, Easter Bunny.***
_______

I’m sensitive to latex. Bandages make a red patch on my body wherever they are attached and it lingers much longer than whatever the original owie was. When I tried to quit smoking those last couple of times, I tried the patch only to find I was constantly itching around and around it. Like that mosquito bite that you don’t want to bother but you can’t leave alone. The gum eventually did the trick for me, as bad as it tasted. So, here comes the part where I share too much information (as if it hasn’t happened already) in that I remind you that I’m trying not to become pregnant. The status of Joe’s and my sex life is not really anyone’s business and not really suitable for public internet consumption but let me just say that latex has become an issue in this department. So much so that the only thing Joe wanted for his birthday was for me to find some type of condoms that would work for me and not result in me jumping up from bed and exclaiming ‘My cootchie itches, dangit!’ which isn’t really the finest ending to being intimate with your partner. I found these during a hilariously eventful trip to the drug store where we only purchased gender-appropriate items like sanitary napkins and Gillette shavers. At $38 per 12 pack, each use coming in at just over $3, I feel like I better rent a video and hone up on my pole skills to make buying that pack worth his time and money. No pressure.
_______

Frequently, Joe will try to push a little culture towards the kids’ general direction. He’s quite observant for an old guy (He’s 37!!!) and he watches for things that they might find interesting. A computer game here, a geek conference there, a movie from the era of raging musicals from time to time, and then tries to entice the kids to participate, to broaden their horizons, if you will. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. One great experience was the other night when The Goodbye Girl was available via HBO on Demand. Joe and I both love the movie**** but I’ve heard groans from my daughter in relation to movies seeming to be a much better match seeing as how she likes to sing and dance and would like to be in the movies some day (Guys and Dolls, West Side Story) so I didn’t have very high hopes. I was wrong. She loved it, giggling and laughing, mostly in reaction to the deadpan humor and cuteness of the daughter in the story, Lucy, played by Quinn Cummings, who was fabulous and was nominated for a Golden Globe and an Oscar for her role. Out of curiosity, because I’m nosy like that, I found her online.***** Her blog is The QC Report and her writing is brilliant. I think we all know of a few celebrity online spots where the writing is sub par and un-witty making it hard to read except for the fact that you really, really, really want the person to have something great to say because you liked them in some movie. But Quinn’s writing is poignant and real, well written and funny. If I were still doing blogger interviews I would hit her up for a session in no time. Instead, I’ll just point you to a couple of my favorites.

Love Means Never starts out with how people don’t actually apologize when they apologize anymore and ends up telling an experience she had of being held up as the show-and-tell item of the night. I’ve had nights like this. I’ve been so angry and left the party rather than talk to the person about it and I then avoid them forever after and wonder, as I replay what I would have said in my head for the next eight months, if I would have done better to confront them.

Big Daddy is a beautiful tribute to her father, Sumner, and includes the heart breaking tale of the last day making the movie, The Goodbye Girl.

Even in her most recent post, To Live and Dye in LA, she uses words in such a wonderful way, weaving them in and out and creating this tapestry that you can see and touch and taste.

Also, she is the creator of the Hiphugger.
_______

I’m kind of a Law and Order freak. I have a need to see bad guys put away. On the rare occasion that they leave it open-ended with no pat resolution and the perp not on his way to Rikers, I throw things and pitch a fit. I need RESOLUTION, bastards!
_______

For those of you receiving your latest issue of JPG: Street, please thumb through the pages until you find the interview I did with the amazing National Geographic photographer, Nick Nichols. The entire interview couldn’t fit in the issue, and he’s got a film festival coming up that sounds fantastic, so please read the entire interview on the JPG site here for more details.
_______

I like Simon Cowell more than Paula Abdul. He seems to tell the truth and for the most part appears unintoxicated.
_______

*I realize that historically, ‘short pants’ is meant to describe above the knee pants, or, shorts. I use the term ‘short pants’ here because I get all the capri, palazzo, flood, ankle, and crop terms confused and what I really want to say is my pants are shorter than regular pants, ok? Play along with me.

**I’d like to apologize, Eden, not just for not keeping your card in a place of honor these past few months (it’s now in the Honor Bin) but also because I didn’t even know it wasn’t. If you can’t forgive me, I’ll understand. (at least I didn’t wash it!)

***Just kidding, Mom. I don’t really believe that Easter is evil. I used the phrase ‘The power of Christ compels thee!’ because no matter how much I don’t want to, I like and keep watching the movie Just Like Heaven with Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo and there is part in there where a completely ridiculous priest says that over and over while spraying holy water all over the floor where I’m sure it burns holes clean through to the apartment underneath where people are looking up and wondering where the acid rain is coming from.

****The part at the end where Paula is standing out on the balcony in the rain? With Elliot’s guitar positively soaked through? And hugging it as if it was the embodiment of Love? That is truly a wonderful moment.

*****Actually, Joe found her. But we share a brain, in a completely un-codependent way, so it’s the same as if I found her. Right? (thanks, joe! xo)