Pee Mail.
Mood:  cool
Topic: Basenji
Nicky is slowly getting used to the idea of having Rudy around, although he's not best pleased, to say the least. Nicky is neutered, and Rudy is not yet sexually mature. But to see their territorial issues you would think they each had balls as big as church bells.

There is peeing -- much, much peeing. There is something in the psychology of male dogs that requires them to scent mark all that they claim for their own, which in Nicky's case in particular encompasses the entire known universe. Therefore, he pees on things. Or poops on them. If he absolutely cannot summon a bodily secretion, he kicks with his back legs, stirring up dirt and grass; or he rubs his body vigorously against things. EVERYTHING MUST SMELL LIKE NICKY.

Things reached a crescendo the other night when the two of them were out in the yard. Rudy started to take a whiz, an act he performs in a dignified crouch, and Nicky came straight over, lifted his leg, and started peeing on Rudy. That was such a clear FUCK YOU that Nicky might as well have spoken the words; the message was that unmistakable.

Perhaps the world would be a better place if human males did this sort of thing, instead of doing the equivalent with lawsuits or guns.

In Which I Reveal Myself As A Terrible Bitch.
Mood:  not sure
Topic: Motherhood
Yesterday was Mother's Day. Alert readers might recall that for Mother's Day last year, Ben invited one of his buddies for a barbecue, and the guy brought a Big-Titted Belly Rubber and two thirteen-year-old boys, and my Mother's Day was not one for the record books. This year for Mother's Day, Ben has a broken foot.

So here was my Mother's Day. We came downstairs and I ran around taking breakfast orders from everyone, then ran into the kitchen to prepare everyone's breakfast and back out to serve it to them, then back in to clear and do the dishes. A morning of being waitress and busboy. I also got to run errands, cook food, do laundry, fetch and carry, and gouge my ankle rather nastily while rushing to clamber over a baby gate with too many things in my hands.

We did enjoy some nice family time, but I have to confess that especially on the heels of last year's Mother's Day, this stuck in my craw. As much as I love my husband and as good as he is, he has a real knack for sitting on the sofa. I have to be the disciplinarian with the kids, because he doesn't go in so much for discipline that involves putting down the remote control or his glass of wine, or getting up off the sofa. In fact, it seems that a substantial portion of my life is spent running around waiting on everyone in the household while they stare at the television and/or sit on the sofa.

And now Ben has a broken foot. You can imagine how much sitting on the sofa that entails. Lots and lots. So I still have all my usual stuff to do, plus a whole bunch of additional stuff occasioned by the broken foot. This has been going on for just over a week now, and while I am well aware that Ben didn't exactly sign up for a broken foot, it sticks in my craw. Especially on Mother's Day. I have taken to leaving the boys under Ben's watchful eye and going off to do errands with Julia, and what do I find when I return? The boys covered in Crayola marker full-body tattoos because Ben dozes off or watches TV when he's watching the boys. Sam and Matt could burn the house down, and Ben wouldn't notice what they were about until the flames started licking at his ankles.

I would like to thank Erika for brightening up my Mother's Day considerably -- she has become such an awesome young woman! -- but to the males in my life, I have this to say:

NEXT YEAR HAD BETTER BE GOOD, FUCKERS.

My Basenji Is Smarter Than I Am.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Basenji
My new pup Rudy has quickly proven himself to be a rocket scientist among dogs. Nicky is sweet, but not the sharpest pencil in the box, if you catch my drift. Rudy, on the other hand, is a real whiz kid.

The doggie door that Nicky ignores? Is now used by Rudy on a regular basis. Instead of simply pissing on my floor like Nicky, Rudy will duck out in the middle of a conversation to take a dump. I like that in a dog. So when I go out, I leave Rudy in the kitchen, where he can let himself out when nature calls. But I have to leave Nicky in the yard, or face a dismaying assortment of bodily secretions on my kitchen floor when I return.

Yesterday I arrived home to discover that Rudy had apparently decided he and Nicky needed to go for walks. So what did he do? He climbed up and got both their leashes from the kitchen table, put his own leash (with the Grateful Dead dancing bears) in his bed, and carried Nicky's blue leash outside, through the doggy door, to Nicky. That is not just smart, that is scary.

My Apple G5 is smarter than I am. My Basenji is smarter than I am. Ben, that prick, is notoriously smarter than I am. Thank God for Nicky and the kids, otherwise I would be having a real inferiority complex.

Perfect Date.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Happiness Pie
I went to Ben's office at noon so I could take him and his broken foot out to lunch. Of course, I was all calling him Gimpy and stuff, and he in turn was giving me shit about having a gimp fetish and cozying up to crippled guys. At one point we ended up singing Hittin' on the gimps to the tune of Puttin' on the Ritz.

We sat around noshing sushi and reading the paper at each other, punctuating that with periodic howls of derision or chortles of glee at some article in the news. Talked about the kids. Talked about hockey, as the Ducks are having awesome and unexpected success so far in the playoffs.

Driving him back to his office, I started groping him at a stoplight. He protested, but I said Honey! We're married. GOD WANTS ME TO GRAB YOUR MAN PARTS. It's true! Our union is blessed by God.

And oh shit, do I love that man, him with the broken foot over there.

Automotive Decor.
Mood:  chillin'
Topic: Happiness Pie
I would like to point out that in addition to the pink hippie flowers sprinkled all over the exterior of my white minivan, I have added the following decorative touches:

-- Ladybug steering wheel cover.
-- Grateful Dead sticker on rear bumper.
-- Grateful Dead decals in both front side windows.
-- Tinkerbell floor mats in front. It's one of those where Tinkerbell looks pissed off instead of smiling.
-- Sts. Simon and Jude Catholic Church window decal.
-- Cross hanging from rearview mirror along with wooden beads.

So here I am driving this strange Catholic hippiemobile around Orange County with my three kids. Not your typical Newport Beach soccer mom, and proud of it. The only disadvantage I can think of is that I probably should make sure that no one is ever carrying pot on their person when riding in that vehicle (there is absolutely no chance of anyone SMOKING anything in my van, of course), just because the Dead stickers are a bit of an advertisement.

And We Can't Even Sue Anyone But Ourselves.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: The Tao of Ben
My poor sweetheart tripped and fell and broke his foot yesterday. It's my fault he broke it; I bought a new dragonfly doormat for the front door, and Ben was watching Matt more than his footing when he misstepped and fell yesterday afternoon while washing my minivan with the boys. We waited until this morning to go to the ER, but suspected a break. And we were right.

Ben would like to thank Vicodin for providing a silver lining to his cloud. He's right now laid up in our big bed watching TV and chatting on the cell phone; I brought him lunch and a drink, so he's all set. Four to six weeks to recover, during which time I will have to drive him to work and back (it's his right foot, so he can't operate the pedals) and wait on him hand and . . . . um, foot.

Some people will do ANYTHING to get to lie in bed watching TV and taking drugs all day.

Basenji Happens.
Mood:  amorous
Topic: Happiness Pie


He's here. Rudy. Kazor's Rudolph Valentino. Basenji puppy of my dreams. Four months old today. I have waited 40 years for this dog. And now he's here. He and Nicky get along fine. Matt is going to be over the moon. And Ben is the best husband in the Universe, because he understood that this is my heart's desire, and he let me have it with a bare minimum of token protest.

Welcome Rudy. THE OHANA IS COMPLETE.

Revenue!
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Happiness Pie


Do you see what that is? That there is the upper left-hand corner of a check. A check from a law firm, and it is made payable to MENSA BABE LEGAL SUPPORT.

That is my first income as an entrepreneur. Well, actually my second check, but the first one was just made payable to Gretchen Crumpacker. Ben said Do you have a bank account in the business name? Then how will you deposit it? I told him I endorse it in the name of the entity as owner. That is RIGHT! The Chairman of the fucking BOARD.

Hellfire, now I gotta open a business account and start KEEPING BOOKS and all this other what-have-you. Hee. Hee. And HEE. I am as happy as a pig in shit, and today Julia and I went to Staples and bought file folders and whatnot. She picked out some seriously fashionable ballpoints. I introduced her to the cashier as my Employee of the Month.

And then we took our entrepreneurial little asses back home.

Tending The Home Fires.
Mood:  hug me
Topic: Ohana
This week must have been cooked up in Hell especially for me. My mom, who was born six weeks after the stock market crash which began the Great Depression, and who also has lung cancer, fell and broke her leg last Saturday. Everything since then has been a sort of blur of worry and trips to the hospital and phone calls to my sister and so on. The good news? When something bad has happened I stop eating and sleeping, so I get to have for free that hollow wasted look that Kate Moss used to have to spend SO much money on heroin to achieve. And I watch lots of TV in the night! I would like to take a moment here to personally thank the Three Stooges and On Demand cable for helping me make it through.

I think that since Saturday I have had about six hours of sleep, and have been subsisting on energy drinks, a Pria bar or two, a rather tasty Cobb salad had with Ben for lunch yesterday, and the milk from my Starbucks drinks. Can't eat.

We lost my dad to lung cancer shortly before Ben and I got married. He never did see Sam, Matt or Julia. And I would like to take a moment to thank Winston cigarettes for helping to make that happen. I remember the vibe I was getting from him when his time was almost done, and this week I was getting the vibe from Mom.

Her mind's been playing tricks on her, and at times she is pretty disoriented, and has trouble knowing dream from reality. She was fussing about losing her mind, but I said Don't worry, Mom. You don't really need to use it for anything just right now; Monica and I are taking care of everything, so let it go. I told her I was jealous -- finally she gets a rest! That seemed to make her smile.

This morning we settled her into a skilled nursing facility and I brought Sam, Matt and Julia in to see her. I told them beforehand that I wanted all the other old ladies to say Did you see those grandchildren of hers? They are so beautiful and well behaved. And Sam and Matt did a great job being quiet as mice, and Julia was in full bloom -- smiling and charming everyone.

My mom's face just lit up as she looked at them, and she played piggy-toe games with Julia Rose, her little namesake. And Julia squealed, and Sam and Matt grinned and blushed, and all at once I wasn't getting the vibe from Mom anymore.

Sometimes the best way to scare away death is to bring in a bunch of life. Thanks, Crumpacker kids! Tonight, I'll eat dinner and get some sleep.

My Religion.
Mood:  bright
Topic: The Human Condition
I'm about to get my youngest child baptized in a Catholic ceremony, and to be honest, I'm not sure I remember how to walk the walk and talk the talk anymore. I was raised Catholic, absolutely Catholic -- I never attended a public school below the college level. The nuns had me from day one.

For a long long time I went with the program, but eventually, intrusive thoughts began to crop up. I think my watershed moment was had in response to some bit of mumbo-jumbo they wanted us to do, can't remember what -- but I thought Jeez, only an ASSHOLE would require you to do all this horseshit. And I refuse to believe that God is an asshole.

What's up with that? Why do so many people want to see God as this uptight pain in the ass who's always trying to ruin everyone's fun? I don't think he's like that at all. I think all he really wants is for everyone to treat the universe with respect, which means, you know, the earth and all the living things on it, EVEN ASSHOLES IN SUVs WHO PARK LIKE THREE INCHES AWAY FROM YOUR PASSENGER DOOR BECAUSE THEY MUST HAVE THEIR HUGE WIDE EGO-MOBILE THAT DOESN'T FIT INTO MOST PARKING SPACES. So, you know, don't kill people, don't hurt people in mind or body, don't screw up the planet or be mean to animals, just generally DON'T FUCK WITH THINGS.

Apart from that? I think he wants us to appreciate the universe, too -- like just taking a second to drink in the sun of a warm spring day, or watching the waves roll in, or watching your kids play when they don't know you're looking. He wants us to notice the good stuff. When we smile at something, that's like a pat on the back to him.

Also, we're meant to leave the place better than we found it, in whatever way we can. We should try to do a good job loving and taking care of the people we're meant to love and take care of. God doesn't require that everyone be Mother Teresa, but you know, try not to use up your time causing messes and sorrow and problems.

He probably isn't even a "he" at all -- it's just the "force", you know? But if God is personified, I know a bunch of stuff about him for sure. One, he's not an asshole. He has a great sense of humor and it's pretty sick sometimes. And all he really wants is for us to not be stupid and to not fuck with the earth or with each other. Reasonable. I don't think for a minute he's the kind of guy who would make you go through a lot of meaningless mumbo-jumbo and ritual. If you want to worship God, love his creation. The rest is all smoke and mirrors.

So that's basically it. But there's no -ism that says this, so when it's time to fill in the blank, I just write Catholic.

Conversation With Sam.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Sam
I have recounted some fairly startling conversations with Sam over the months, but let me tell you: this one TAKES THE BISCUIT.

The Ohana is finishing up getting ready to leave on Wednesday morning, and Ben has just entered looking smashing in a blue striped dress shirt.

Me: Oh, honey, you look HOT. (Aside to Ben) Hmm, maybe you should come home at lunch for a nooner!

Sam: Ewww, Daddy's going to come home at lunch and they're going to HAVE SEX.

Ben and Me: *stare at Sam with our mouths hanging open*

Me: We are SO in trouble.

Despite the family bed, we do not have sex around Sam. We do not TALK about sex around Sam. We don't watch racy TV shows or movies when he is awake. Where he gets this stuff, I do not know. The kid obviously hears all, absorbs all and understands all, not saying a word -- UNTIL ONE DAY HE COMES OUT WITH SOMETHING LIKE THIS AND MAKES YOUR HEART STOP. Sam is not five years old yet. Precocious? Uh, yeah. Too much. God help us.

Friends Of The Devil.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Julia loves the Grateful Dead. We have been listening to the American Beauty album -- a milestone in American rock -- in the car, and she loves to coo along. When she hears Friend of the Devil in particular, she unleashes a volley of round vowel sounds and keeps them up until the song is over, singing along, as Sam makes faces at her from the back seat, to entertain her. Thus do we serenade my daughter as we drive down the road.

Perhaps the biggest blessing of being a middle-aged parent is the ability to recognize the good old days for what they are, even as you're right in the middle of them. Sharing music with my kids is a delight, hippie music pouring from our flower power minivan as we cruise the Pacific Coast Highway in the spring sunlight. Even the backseat squabbles -- Mommy, Matt said the F word. I HEARD him! -- are music to me.

Bit Of An Ephiphany.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: The Human Condition
Okay, so I lied. This isn't an entry on what people are wearing; that one will have to come later. I've got entries stacking up here. This one has to come first.

Some stuff has happened lately. First, Elvis Costello and Burt Bachrach put out a single -- have you heard it? -- called Who Are These People? It's generally an anti-war sort of thing, and it's notorious for the fact that EC can clearly be heard singing the lyric We are all FUCKED quite loudly and clearly -- with relish, in fact. And hold the mustard. I was cautiously in favor of the Iraq War when it started, but that was two years ago. And there is no end in sight.

Then I started reading a book about the Grateful Dead. They are, if you don't know, one branch of my Holy Trinity of Rock: first there was Dylan, then there were the Dead, then there was Elvis Costello. The Big Three. And this book got into a lot of the sociological background back there in the Haight in those old days, what was going on in the country and suchlike. You might remember. National Guardsmen firing on civilians on American soil. That sort of thing. At the time all this happened, what did I know? I was in grade school.

Then I started listening to the Grateful Dead. Hadn't done much of that for a while. They're fun to listen to. Nice. No angry young men, those guys. Or old men. Whatever.

Then -- and this is the important bit -- I went into Target two days ago to buy some allergy pills. You had to take a little card back to the pharmacy to get them, because Sudafed contains pseudoephedrine, and for a while they've been concerned about meth manufacturing and so on. That's okay with me. I don't mind showing I.D. for cold pills, if that's what they need.

But this time it was different. They didn't just want I.D. -- they wanted to know WHO I WAS. I had to show my driver's license, and the guy took the information down, and I also had to sign. He explained to me that as soon as the new system was up, people would have to swipe their California driver's license -- much as you do a credit card -- to purchase this stuff, and then the information would go automatically in their computer. He said it was a new thing, something to do with the Patriot Act.

THE PATRIOT ACT?

This does not feel patriotic to me. This feels like a camera up my butt. This feels an awful lot like a microscope up my nose. Because I'm buying fucking SUDAFED.

Okay. I've been patient. I've been all about national security and my children growing up free and goddamned fucking apple pie and the American way. BUT THE AMERICAN WAY DOES NOT INVOLVE A CAMERA UP MY ASS.

Bush has to go. There, I said it.

Grateful Bed.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Ohana


Here you see the family bed, freshly made. Can you believe this crazy shit? For 25 years I never made a bed because I DIDN'T FUCKING HAVE TIME, THANK YOU. Now they expect me to make beds. Next thing you know, they'll be wondering why there isn't a freaking CHOCOLATE on the pillow when they come in.

Although today I left little Easter eggs for the boys. Sometimes adjustments should be made. And yes, that is totally a Ron Weasley pillowcase! Hello, Rupert Grint. My baby will barf on you now.

I've got an entry brewing about how mommies dress every day. So take a look around you: What's the unspoken dress code for mommies where you live? Hold that thought, and I'll be back with an entry just as soon as I get done MAKING BEDS and EARNING MONEY. (Yesss! It can be done.)

Episode Of Julia.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Julia


She turned eight months old yesterday, and I've finally been able to take some pictures that capture her, that do her justice. I owe this baby my life, and I'm not exaggerating or being dramatic. Just trust me. Ben and I call her the cherry on top -- the crowning glory.

The Juliebug is the most winsome baby you could ever hope to see. She's all smiles and sunshine, hugs and kisses. And she's strong, too; already you can see muscle definition in her little arms as she crawls and pulls up to stand and makes her determined little way in the world. This girl comes from a small army of formidable women, and she could be the one who trumps us all. This girl could conquer the world even as she's charming its pants off!

I can't tell you how much she means to me. I bore Ben the sons he wanted, and I adore Sam and Matt. But Julia? She's all for me, the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow. It's going to be such a pleasure watching her grow, beautiful and strong. The arc that started with Erika is complete, and this baby girl takes my breath away.

Nice one, God.

Vocabulary Building With Elvis Costello.
Mood:  chatty
Topic: Happiness Pie
In the car, we listen to Elvis Costello. This is, of course, at my behest, and the Ohana is happy to play along; the guy is pretty fucking awesome, after all. And literate! As a lyricist he is without peer; his use of wordplay is incredible. The man is GOOD.

Just as I still remember all the Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett songs my parents listened to when I was a kid, my sons know the songs of Elvis Costello. As a result, when Sam sings to Julia, he sings things like If the failure is great, then it tends to fascinate, or distorted beyond reason. These aren't words you hear every day in the preschool set.

Or his explanation of Daddy choosing Mommy: "He knew he didn't want another episode of blonde, so he picked Mommy for his girlfriend."

Eat your hearts out. I'm not just listening to Elvis Costello AGAIN -- I'm building my kids' vocabularies.

Hat Trick.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: Poop
There is an expression in hockey, a feat a forward can accomplish during a game called a hat trick. That is what you call it when a guy scores three goals in one game. Hockey is not a high-scoring sport -- the average number of goals per team per game is between two and three -- so for a guy to complete a hat trick is a marvel indeed. They call it hat trick because people used to toss their hats onto the ice upon the third goal. Little traditions and superstitions like that are some of my favorite aspects of hockey.

At our house, though, hat trick has a different meaning. We've come to apply it to Nicky when he takes a particularly productive walk. I always bring a plastic bag with me when I walk him, as it's the law to pick up after your dog, and we Californians are pretty serious about keeping the Golden State golden. So when Nicky takes his little dump, I pick it up.

However, schnauzers being the way they are, poop is used to mark territory, in the same way that a boy dog would pee on something to mark it. So usually there is a SECOND dump, and with a little sleight of hand I can manage to fold the bag over a second time to catch the second dog pie.

But lately Nicky's been really fucking with me -- he's been COMPLETING A HAT TRICK on our walks. Which is to say that he takes not just two but THREE dumps. How such a little dog can pump out so much poop is beyond my understanding, but it might explain why his eyes are brown.

Then the other night Ben walked into the bedroom, where I was reading, and announced that HE had completed a hat trick. This was, of course, way too much information, but I laughed my ass off. A hat trick! They're even more remarkable in the men's room than they are in the hockey arena.

We've decided that to complete a PERFECT hat trick in our house, you have to catch all three bathrooms -- one poop in each. Would you care to come over and try? We promise not to laugh at you if audible grunting can be heard from behind the door. At least, not so you can hear it.

And then we will throw our hats at you.

I Completely Suck At The Housewife Thing.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Motherhood
A couple of months into my new gig, I have to admit that I make a really bad housewife -- I mean, I completely suck. It's a good thing you can't see my house right now. Actually, it doesn't look that much different from usual; but the difference is that I am not bringing in money at present. Therefore I am meant to be keeping house, and the place should look a hell of a lot better than it does.

And for me, this is as alien as if I'd gone to bed and woke up on another planet. See, I'd always thought I was made for "better" things -- from the time I was a little kid, and those percentile scores kept popping up in the high nineties, the idea was that I was going to BE SOMEBODY. I'm indebted to my parents that they raised me to believe the sky was the limit -- that girls could do absolutely everything boys could do, academically and careerwise. That was pretty forward-thinking for the mid-'60s.

So as I went along, it was always with the understanding I'd have a career -- housewife just wasn't on the menu. And my career isn't exactly impressive, as you know; paralegal is one of those half-assed careers. Because I am dreadfully lazy, is why. But for years and years, it paid the bills.

And then here came Ben Crumpacker, and you know the rest. It took me a little time, because I am wondrously thick, but after a while I began to realize that this meant I should make the beds and have the dinner on the table and that the foods he likes to eat should appear for him in the pantry and refrigerator. And that he comes home from work and horses around with the kids while I finish up cooking the dinner, and so on. All that may seem axiomatic, but I promise you this: to our intrepid girl genius, it was anything but. Because I am book smart, but housewife retarded.

So I've been cleaning and cleaning, with Elvis Costello continually pumped directly into my brain, courtesy of the iPod. And I've been thinking and thinking. I've been thinking about the word homemaker and what it really means, and about how some of the most valuable lessons we learn are lessons in humility. I've been thinking about labors of love, and about Ozzie and Harriet. All that isn't so bad, you know. It's just . . . different for me.

And I think I've learned what some of my wise women friends have known for a long time: That there is something noble about shelving our careers for a while to just be a mommy. This work isn't beneath me; it's just another challenge, maybe the toughest one yet. I'm going to try to get good at this. For Ben and the kids. And for me, too -- wife and mother, for better or for worse.

Seven Day Weekend.
Mood:  cool
Topic: Happiness Pie
We are about to leave on vacation, and you can TELL, because the lot of us are getting punchy as hell. As if it wasn't enough that I spent a full fifteen minutes last evening decking out the Holly Burns Vacuum Cleaner (I'm just going to call it the HOL-VAC from now on; sounds very Red Dwarf, doesn't it?) in sandals, milliners' wares and Prozac in order to photograph it and send the photos to Holly. I mean, things are just starting to get seriously weird. And it is fun -- it is SO fun.

Yesterday we were trying to figure out which CD to listen to in the van, and for poor Ben it was like trying to order something without Spam in it on Monty Python. I'm all digging through and saying Okay, there's "Imperial Bedroom", or "Trust", or-- wait, that's a bonus disc from "This Year's Model", or, um . . . . oh look, here's "Armed Forces". And Ben looked at me and said Don't you have ANYTHING without Elvis Costello? To which I, of course, had to respond How about Squeeze? That's only got a LITTLE Elvis Costello in it. (Which was true, because the album was "Eastside Story" which EC produced and whereon he lends a vocal or two.)

My long-suffering husband. This is what he gets for having me as his Lieutenant Uhura.

But today, today -- today we found a sushi clock. Ben and I have been searching for a sushi clock for the whole time we've been a couple, but do you realize how hard those things are to get? I saw a few on eBay but didn't want to fuck around with all the unknowns of such a transaction, possibly in a foreign language, and we just sort of back-burnered our quest for a few years while having kids and working at jobs and so on. Today, however, we strolled into a Ross Dress for Less in Santa Ana at lunchtime (YES, I KNOW, SHUT UP) and there it was.

We bought it instantly, despite the fact that the checkout line was moving more slowly than the seasons change. At one point we decided to divide our labors and wait in two different lines. (Which is an asshole maneuver, I don't deny that, but we were under extreme duress -- Ben's assisting with a trial prep and trying to salvage his vacation). So we stood there in line, and I called across to him Think of glaciers forming and moving. And tectonic plates, and continents and subcontinents. Ha. Get it? Geological time. Ben was right there with me: Minerals depositing in strata, layer by layer. Carbon 14. Our smartassery didn't make the line move any faster, but I guarantee that none of the bystanders had any idea what on earth we were talking about, and good God we had fun.

So here it is, the sushi clock on the wall of my kitchen. I don't know if it keeps time or what sort of battery to use; to steal yet another line from Douglas Adams, the instructions appear to have been translated from the Chinese via the Japanese and to have enjoyed many adventures along the way. And now you see the walls of my Polish hippie kitchen! Apart from the obvious fact that YES, WE SHOULD HAVE HAD THE PLACE PAINTED BEFORE WE MOVED IN SIX YEARS AGO, you can also see:

One Grateful Dead Aoxomoxoa tin sign.
One original "A Guide for the Married Man" (1967) movie poster.
One spice rack.
One variegated pottery fish.
Some of the other crap on my microwave stand (the microwave is kept somewhere else).

Did you notice they are all hung crooked? Ben and I have widely varying excuses for that, which include:

We were drunk.
The person telling me whether it was crooked or not was drunk.
It was mounted straight, but there was an earthquake and now it's crooked.
I was trying to mix a martini while driving the nail in.
I was in a hurry.
It's always so dark in here.
We didn't hang those! Whoever hung those was HIGH!

. . . and so on. The Ohana has had a rough little time of it here, but we are going to have ourselves one excellent vacation -- or SEVEN DAY WEEKEND, as in the incredibly obscure Elvis Costello song.

If I don't get a chance to taunt you between now and then, enjoy your St. Patrick's Day and your weekend . . . and the ensuing week! See ya, wouldn't wanna BE ya! Neener neener neener!

God, we're such assholes. Love y'all.

Bring Me The Holly Burns Vacuum.
Mood:  on fire
Topic: Motherhood
And then there was the thing with the vacuum cleaner.

I haven't much used one in years; we had Polish people come in to clean for us. Ah, we would say, the Polacks will clean it up. And I may say this because I myself am of Polish descent.

After I resigned from my job, we fired the Polacks -- at that point, I became the Polacks. The Polack will still clean your messes up, but she will grumble mightily and give you the stink-eye. But this Polack didn't have a functioning vacuum cleaner.

The Polacks used to bring their own. There is one lurking in our hall closet, which I bought at Wal-Mart and which blows much more than it sucks. So that wasn't going to do it. And then I read about how Holly Burns got herself a wonderful vacuum, and I was all set to go get one, but then my mother-in-law piped up.

I have a vacuum I paid a thousand dollars for, she said, and it has too many damn attachments and I never did learn to use it. I'll give it to you.

This warmed the cockles of my heart. My lust for a Dyson in years past is well known, and I figured this must be something along those lines -- I didn't want to ask too many questions, gift horse in the mouth and all that stuff -- but I figured I was about to get hooked up and hooked up good.

This past weekend, Ben's mother arrived with the vacuum cleaner. It's not a Dyson; it's a Kirby. And what Ben's mother forgot to mention is that it is a MOTHERFUCKING ANTIQUE.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. The thing looked like it had been plucked out of Pleasantville and deposited in my living room. Actually it only dates back to about 1987, but think about what great strides in SUCK TECHNOLOGY have been made since then! Furthermore, the goddamned thing weighs as much as I do.

So I swallowed my tongue and gamely plugged in this Behemoth Retro-Vac, and pushed it around on the floor some. Which was difficult, on account of its great mass and density. And for all my labors, IT SUCKED RATHER LISTLESSLY.

So there was nothing for it. I looked Nicky, our dog, straight in the eye and said I will have the Holly Burns vacuum. And I marched my Polish ass down to Target and lugged one up to the checkstand and paid for the fucker and brought it home.

People: It was like my first date with Ben, where you just can't believe that anything could feel so right. It was a breeze to remove from the carton, a cinch to set up, and a pleasure to operate. I vacuumed the entire downstairs. And then I vacuumed the steps, each and every one of them, with the little hosey tool. And then I vacuumed the upstairs. And OH MY GOD DOES IT PICK UP SOME SHIT. It tried to ingest one of Sam's socks. I almost got down on my knees and worshipped it.

At the moment I'm feeling rather postcoital, all sweaty and enthusiastic. HOLLY, YOU DIDN'T FAIL ME. YOUR AIM IS TRUE. And good sweet Jesus, I love that vacuum cleaner. The last time I got this high for a hundred dollars probably involved Peruvian blow sometime in the early '80s. I am a woman fulfilled, a woman at peace.

Thank you Holly, and thank you Sean. And thank you Hoover EmPower. I will even forgive you the silly name, because GOD I LOVE YOU SO.