Hello, I Must Be Going.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Happiness Pie
Well. So all sorts of shit has been happening, including the dispute with Tripod which is inducing me to move over to Dreamhost and forever quit vile Tripod with their nonfunctional comments and their stupid fucking moods. (WHERE'S THE ICON FOR FLIPPING THE BIRD?) Which means that after approximately two (two? It's near midnight on Sunday, and I don't think outside of business hours) years, the Mr. Baby Show is about to shut down.

I've moved on, y'see. Mr. Baby was my name for baby Sam, but Sam is five years old and has gloriously come forward to claim his guyhood. We're giving him his own room, result of Matt getting jealous and sneakily putting two of Sam's birthday presents IN THE TRASH. And not confessing until the trash had gone to the garage. It is not worth Ben's time and toil, not to mention the stench, to dig through the garbage for a Pirates of the Caribbean action figure and a widescreeen disc of Men in Black, so I will replace those tomorrow. And Sam needs a place to KEEP HIS STUFF. So his little brother won't mess around with it. I can definitely respect that.

So Sam is anything but a baby; in fact, he reminds me of the guy I had a crush on for ALL OF GRADE SCHOOL. His name was Robert Patterson, and he was a man of science; intelligent, blondish, with dark dark eyes (just like Sam) and definitely didn't have time for FEMALES. That Sam is just going to slay them someday. I can just imagine the phone calls I'll have to field.

But anyway. On Saturday we went up to Los Angeles, mid-Wilshire area, for a birthday party. Ben took us to the Farmers Market up there on Fairfax, the heart of Los Angeles. I think Dooce wrote about it, and definitely you never know who you'll see there. I didn't see anyone interesting, apart from us; we really do stand out, we Crumpackers: a huge grey-haired man, a little noisy brunette, and three beautiful kids. I went up to one stand and ordered an espresso drink with five shots. The girl almost fell over backwards. That's one shot for each member of the Ohana, I told her.

Out in the parking lot, I stood there on Fairfax, spread my arms out, threw back my head and yelled, I HATE YOU, LOS ANGELES! Whew. That was long overdue. A final fuck you.

So here's what's going to happen. This week I am going to work my ass off doing laundry and earning money. On the weekend we'll take the kids to the fair, and early on the morning of Monday the 17th, baby Julia and I will fly to North Carolina to spend an abbreviated week with my dear friend Kristy and her family. (Forgive me, I am too lazy at this hour to make links, kiddo.) Meanwhile, I have enlisted the assistance of the gorgeous and talented Holly Burns of Nothing But Bonfires and her scrumptious consort Sean Slinsky of Sean Slinsky dot com, and will be opening a whole new blog.

So, a little while from now, I hope you will visit me at my new home: Suburban Hippie. It'll be just as pithy and vulgar as before, but with a new look and attitude. Because I'm so over L.A.

The Grateful Deadmobile.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Happiness Pie
This must be the week for photos.

Here is my minivan, rear view. If you could see the sides, you would also see "Sunshine Daydream", "American Beauty" and "Om" decals on the windows, as well as lots more pink flowers. All the other mommies have SUVs, and they're welcome to them -- you can see this puppy coming a mile off!

Ain't Love Grand?
Mood:  lucky
Topic: Happiness Pie
Y'all, I heard the coolest piece of news today. Did you ever get what felt like concrete evidence that God's in his heaven and all's right with the world? Because I had something like that today.

There are these two people I've known since forever and ever. Well, not THAT long, but the whole time I've been in California; months go by without I see them or talk to them, but they are two people who are just meant to be together. You know what I mean? We'll call them Liz and Dick. She's not a Liz, more of a Beth maybe (although that's not her name either); and he's neither a dick nor a Dick. (My father was a Dick! And proud of it. Yes, I am a Dick's daughter.)

So there is Beth and there is Dick; they work together, side by side. It's a small company, so for 20 years and more they have shared each other's ins and outs and ups and downs and sorted out problems together, and confided in each other. (No, not THOSE ins and outs. And shame on you, with your mind in the gutter!) These two were absolutely meant to be together, but it's been one of those impossible things where the timing is never right; they both ended up married to other people and having kids and so on, but the years have marched on and the kids are pretty darn big now. And Dick and his wife have split, and Beth has been going through this separation thing, and so they've climbed the ladder of years, not together but never far apart, up until here and now, this day.

And today I learned that they are finally, finally together. And to Beth and Dick I would like to say: IT'S ABOUT FUCKING TIME, PEOPLE! AND YOU THERE, DICK, WHAT DID YOU NEED A TON OF BRICKS TO FALL ON YOU? A PERSONAL MEMO FROM GOD? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I WANTED TO TELL YOU OH, ENOUGH WITH THE HIGH-MAINTENANCE BLONDE! HERE SHE IS, PAL, THE GIRL FOR YOU. Well, I guess Dick finally got the hint and put his money where his dick is.

Or something.

And I am just as pleased as punch -- so pleased I want to shout it from the rooftops. But cannot; how would that go? ATTENTION, PEOPLE OF AMERICA! WORLD-CLASS AND LONG-OVERDUE BOFFING GOING ON OVER HERE! NOW LET'S HEAR IT FOR THESE TWO CRAZY KIDS. Especially since Beth is a sort of Orange County Cinderella -- this devilish witty knockout bombshell just waiting for a place to happen, but married to Mr. Average and tending to persnickety relatives. And finally, FINALLY this girl gets her reward for putting her own needs on hold for everyone else's all these years.

Doesn't that just take the biscuit?

So, if you're in a commenting sort of mood, please take a second to post your congratulations to Dick and Beth, and I'll get the word back over to them. And as if this wasn't enough, do you know what?

I HAD A VOICE MAIL TODAY FROM THE IRS LADY SAYING THAT IT LOOKS LIKE THE BACKUP WE FURNISHED ALL CHECKED OUT RIGHT AS RAIN, AND OUR TAX NIGHTMARE IS ABOUT TO BE OVER.

People, I feel like a kid who came downstairs on Christmas morning to find the puppy AND the pony under the tree. So, Beth and Dick, this entry is for you -- TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH, DIDN'T IT?

Scoop up all that life has to offer you, hug it close and breathe it in deep. As John Irving wrote, life is a fairy tale; as I wrote, life is a John Irving novel. And I'm a sucker for happy endings.

It's Hurricane Season.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Happiness Pie
You may or may not know that last night, the Carolina Hurricanes won the Stanley Cup, beating the Edmonton Oilers in Game 7 of a nail-biting final round. For too many years I have been a girl without a hockey team; since I left the East Coast I have tentatively embraced the Southern California teams not because they don't SUCK -- because they do -- but because they were local to me. Well, not for long they won't be. Or so I fervently hope! Furthermore, I hate the fucking Oilers -- more out of habit these days than anything else, but I did NOT want to watch those Canadian bastards hoist the Cup. Not in Carolina.

So, I'm a newly minted Hurricanes fan. I like their team colors -- red and black -- and their captain, Rod Brind'Amour, an old favorite from my Philadelphia days. I like their rookie goalie, Cam Ward, who was playoff MVP and looks to be a rising star. And I love North Carolina, their home and soon to be -- if The Plan unfolds as we hope -- ours.

So the Cup has come South. It's Hurricanes season. See you next season, boys. You've got a friend in So Cal.

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.

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.

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.

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.