Still Life With Hippie Chick.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Miscellany

(Thinking: Does my hair really look like that from the back? Will anyone ever clean up this room?)

And the Magic Eightball answers: (1) yes and (2) NEVER.

But What Would Be The Answer To The Answer Man?
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Miscellany
Hmm. "Ask Me Anything" landed with a sort of resounding THUD. But since I promised, here goes!

Still Bill asks: What is your favorite free porno site? What is your PIN number for your bank account?

And I answer: Still Bill, the answer I have for you is not so much a written one as a visual one. So if you could see us, imagine that the entire Crumpacker Ohana is blowing big wet noisy raspberries at you, and also flipping you off with both hands, and even we will do that thing like in "Slap Shot" mooning you out the windows of our minivan -- an ass in every window! And that is my answer for you, and I would like to take a moment to note that you sure as hell are still Bill.

Jennifer asks: If you had to choose just one post that you've written in this blog as a "favorite", which would it be?

And I answer: this one.

Melissa asks:What was your favorite thing about the July 2001 board? Your least favorite? [This was our online mommy group from when I had Sam.]

And I answer: My favorite was Sawyer and Spencer stories, hands down. These were a pair of twin boys with the very devil in them, and oh how we loved the tales of their doings. Least favorite? Ahh, you know, the usual catty type stuff. Me, I like dogs.

Someone asks: How do you forgive your husband for doing something incredibly awful and hurting you deeply?

And I answer: Did he betray your trust? Because if he did, then there are problems in the marriage that run deeper than whatever he did. The one thing Ben and I can count on from each other is honesty -- there is no lying or deceit. If you don't have honesty, y'all need to get it.

The ever brilliant and gorgeous Holly Burns asks: Why (or how) did you choose the names you chose for your children?

And I answer: Sam is Samuel Nicholas. We chose Samuel because it means "asked of God" (see the Bible) and we sure as hell did want us a kid. The Nicholas bit we just threw in because we liked it. We now have a dog named Nicky.

Matthew William because Matthew means "gift from God" and that was what he was -- we got the kid we asked for, and then God threw in a little gift, and that was Matt. William is Ben's father's name. But God wasn't done with us yet --

Julia Rose Kathleen because Ben and I agreed on Julia as a good and worthy name, both strong and feminine. Rose for my mother; it's her middle name. And Kathleen for a dear dear family friend who died at 41 the same week I found out I was pregnant with Julia.

Diane asks: From your entries you and Ben seem to have hit the motherlode - a happy marriage with all that comes with it. My question is - how have you managed to keep the happy in your marriage?

And I answer: Humor and honesty, and a shared love of our home and our kids. We have problems, but we face all problems together.

Amy asks about the kitsch thing.

And I answer: It probably started with this book entitled (guess what!) "Kitsch" that Ben somehow brought into the marriage. It's an old book, and odd, and we thought: "Cool! We're there!" I think the first kitsch item was a small statute of a miniature schnauzer playing with a roll of toilet paper, followed closely by a really dreadful cow creamer. We also collect Black Americana -- you know, the old-time stuff they could NEVER do these days. There is lots of Uncle Remus and Aunt Jemima in our kitchen.

Piper asks: What are your favorite and least favorite things about yourself? And Ben?

And I answer: I think my favorite thing about me is that I appear to be as strong as an ox, which is a good thing seeing how I got myself knocked up three times in my forties. Least favorite? That would be my big potty mouth. Usually it serves me well, but sometimes it gets me in trouble.

My favorite thing about Ben? God, let's talk organs. His brain and his heart. Those I love very much. I might also love one or two other organs of his. Least favorite? Tuning me out when I'm trying to talk to him.

So there you have it. And now I will have to get up off my fat Polish flu-ridden ass and write an actual entry.

Trick Or Treat.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Miscellany
They had an awesome Halloween. They had candy for dinner. They slept in their costumes. Hey, it only comes once a year, and childhood is so short.

Everything old is new again when seen through their eyes.

FAQ.
Mood:  cool
Topic: Miscellany
I always love it when people start getting FAQ sections. That is, like, a total sign that you've made it. If you have a readership sufficient to warrant a FAQ section, then you have one mighty blog on your hands, and you can sit back and be all self-satisfied about it.

Me? I absolutely don't rate a FAQ. I'm permanently not ready for prime time. But let's take a moment and pretend that I have a FAQ, just for fun:

Q: Since we've established that you're up to your ass in alligators on a daily basis, how the hell do you find time to do this?

A: I don't have time to do this. I must be completely out of my mind to do this, but if the truth be known, if I DON'T do this, I WILL go completely out of my mind.

This is what's known as a paradox.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not blog when I'm meant to be writing briefs or spending time with my children or scrubbing the toilet or sleeping.

Actually, that is bullshit, except for the bit about writing briefs. I DO blog when I should be spending time with my children, or actually I combine the two activities. I don't scrub toilets. I pay people to do that. And as for the sleeping bit, it's true -- but not on school nights.

For example, right now it is 12:19 a.m. PDT on a Friday night, make that Saturday morning, and my family is all asleep upstairs. That is RIGHT. Ben, Sam, Matt, Julia, all at the same time. Even Nicky is asleep in his crate. Do you know how often this happens? Not enough. That's how often.

I don't have to work [think] tomorrow. I can take a nap if I want. And this is the only free time I get, these days.

That's how I find time to do this. And will continue to do, because it keeps me sane.

Sideways.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Miscellany
Damn. I'm sorry, but this is another movie entry. Go ahead and skip over to Miss Doxie if you want -- I totally deserve it. But Ben and I have been watching that movie Sideways on cable, and certain things must be addressed.

That movie can't help but resonate with us. Because some of you may know that in our dating days, Ben and I were these big wine tasting types, and like those Sideways people, we haunted the wineries of California's Central Coast. We used to do these big jet skiing/wine tasting weekends with our other pathetic middle-aged single friends, a whole bunch of guys, me as the token skirt, and sometimes a random fleeting other girlfriend or two. Our stomping ground was Paso Robles, which is known for its zinfandel. We were crazy about those huge jammy plummy Central Coast fruit bomb zins -- and we certainly downed our share of them. It was a Sideways kind of life for sure. Except, you know, we tried to avoid deliberate car wrecks, sex with strangers, and Thomas Haden Church's bare ass.

In fact, our first date was a wine tasting at Hi-Time Wine Cellars. It's true! That's where this whole Crumpacker situation got its start. On the rare occasions when we go in there now, we wave a hand in the direction of our children and tell them This is all your fault.

Even after we got married and had Sam, we kept the party going to an extent. Without our friends, but with Sam and with Teddy, the miniature schnauzer in office at our house back then, we made the rounds of Central and Southern California. Sam and Teddy went on their first wine trip, in Temecula, when Sam was four weeks old. Later, when Sam was about seven months old, we took our own trip to the Santa Ynez Valley, which is the region featured in Sideways.

People, it was uncanny. The movie hadn't been thought of yet -- oh, probably thought of, but not seen -- yet we hit all the locales. We stayed, like the Sideways guys, at Best Western Pea Soup Andersen's -- in fact, that was the scene of the famous Buellton Diaper Incident. We went around to all those wineries. We drank a bunch of cabernet franc. I liked it; Ben, not so much. We ate at the Hitching Post, although we didn't pick up any waitresses there. We went to the ostrich farm. We kicked around Solvang. In fact, did those Sideways people follow us around? Do you think they maybe owe us some money? Hell, for having to look at Thomas Haden Church's bare ass, we probably deserve compensation.

But that, you know, was then. Matt, Julia and Nicky have never gone wine tasting. Hell, I don't even drink anymore, and Ben drinks almost not at all, for a zillion different reasons including but not limited to breastfeeding and health concerns. So, in the Sideways sense, the party's over. But, you know, not! Because our kids are just so much fun.

And because we have learned that to change a really repulsive diaper, you don't need to go to Buellton at all. You can do it right at home.

October.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Miscellany
Yippee skippy, it's October. Oktoberfest. Autumn. Football weather. NHL hockey. Halloween and stirrings of Christmas. My favorite time of year.

Mmmmm, pumpkiny goodness.

Religious Experience.
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Miscellany
I have led a rich and varied life. Due to my wildly divergent pursuits and interests, which some would attribute to undiagnosed ADD, I've pursued higher education and pondered the great (and not so great) literature of the English language; I've done a little bit of traveling, the best of it with my globetrotting husband; I've explored nature from the skies to the birds in them to the animals and plants and even down to cells and tissues. I've been a bit of a wild child, drinking and dancing the night away, even perhaps partaking of a touch of ganja or possibly nose candy (back in the days before everyone realized that stuff was strictly for assholes). I've loved. I've had children. In short, I've lived.

Therefore, it is a sad comment on the present state of my existence that the opening of the new Target store in Huntington Beach is the single most exciting thing that's happened to me since Julia was born. And thanks to the epidural, they might even be neck-and-neck in the competition for Official Peak Experience of 2005.

We've been awaiting it for months; they actually leveled the old Target to the ground and put up an entirely new structure in its place. Today was opening day, and I decided to use a bit of these last short days of maternity leave to prowl the sparkling new aisles in relative peace. People, it is a masterpiece, the Dom Perignon of Targets. I managed to spend eighty bucks there despite the fact that I went to Target yesterday. But that was the OTHER Target. The OLD Target. I am SO far past that now.

In addition to the huge, spacious, generously stocked aisles, there was a definite holiday spirit in the air. Shoppers who on an ordinary day would snarl and run over each other's feet with their carts were striking up conversations, admiring each other's children and jewelry, smiling at strangers. Total retail magic. This Target has a toy section bigger than an entire Circle K store. I foresee a sad holiday retail season for Toys R Us. Freaking awesome. I even picked up a tidbit or two for the boys' Christmas.

And do you want to know the crowning glory, the final touch? THE NEW TARGET HAS A STARBUCK'S. When this was discovered, that thing that hasn't been happening very often in the Crumpacker bedroom almost happened to Mrs. Crumpacker, right then and there. I bought a venti nonfat no-whip pumpkin spice latte with an extra shot and sipped it as I danced out to my car with my baby and my purchases.

Somewhere in a parallel dimension, the idealistic anti-consumer earth-minded hippie self of my young womanhood is rolling in her grave. Because today? I have officially and absolutely turned into my parents. Have a nice day, and thank you for shopping at Target.

That Can't Be Accidental.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Miscellany
Today, as becomes necessary after the birth of each child, we went to Ikea and bought a bureau. One of the happy byproducts of the family bed is that it gets you off the hook for all the time-consuming and expensive nursery and bedroom decor; although the boys do now have an official bedroom, we haven't exactly put our hearts and souls into decorating it because hello, they don't sleep in it. They go in there and play with the toys that are there and mess it up occasionally, and also that is where their clothes live. But that is all.

However, the one thing we do end up needing every time I drop another puppy, which happens like all the time around here, is another bureau. Yes, I know Julia is two months old, but I try not to be a nag. This weekend, however, I finally took the plunge and told Ben I need somewhere to keep her clothes. You know, a girl should have a wardrobe storage system more respectable than a laundry basket. Which is what Julia has been using up until now.

Miss Doxie has already blogged the amusing names Ikea gives their products, but I want to know why everyone pretends some of them don't sound dirty. I am talking about, for example, the TITTA finger puppet, the BLIMP drawer and the SOT stuffed toy. You can't make me believe that's not on purpose.

And Ben and I, because our senses of humor are in junior high school, elbowed and pointed and sniggered about it all the way through the store. Thanks, Ikea. My husband will be swearing at your inscrutable Swedish assembly instructions all afternoon, but at least we got a couple of laughs.

Small Mercies.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Miscellany
Sometimes the Heavens open and God beams His Heavenly light down upon a mother. I had such an experience today.

Today Sam needs new shorts. He needs them, like, yesterday. So I gritted my teeth, waddled to the minivan and made a trip to Old Navy, expecting frustration and sorrow and disappointment and much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Instead, I found:

- A parking spot directly in front of the store.
- A rack full of boys' shorts marked down from $17.50 to $6.99.
- Five pairs in cool styles and Sam's size.

In and out in ten minutes, with exactly what I needed in hand; back to the office with time to spare, having spent $34.95 instead of $87.50. And Sam will wear these shorts again next year, and Matt and even Julia will wear them too, someday. That's a lot of bang for my $6.99.

Such are the pleasures of motherhood.

Boobie Talk.
Mood:  surprised
Topic: Miscellany
Over the past few days, as so often happens, boobies have thrust themselves into my consciousness at various times and in various forms. No, I've not gone lesbian. But when you're the pregnant mommy of a two-year-old who still clearly isn't weaned in his heart, as well as a lazy lactivist and the wife of a red-blooded American male, there are boobies lurking around every corner.

This week, boobies and the public use of same for their intended purpose is a hot-button issue due to a negative remark about public breastfeeding made by, of all people, Baba Wawa on The View. I have the honor of never having seen that show or, indeed, any current show except Dave the Barbarian. If anything, I'm a little startled by the news that anyone still cares what Barbara Walters has to say about anything apart from the merits of Geritol. However, the idea of public breastfeeding becoming a "mainstream" issue just makes me weary. Please. I just don't have the strength to imagine what will become of nursing as an "issue" in the hands of Middle America, and all I can say is it's a strange country indeed where women can openly talk about their cheesy see-you-next-Tuesdays in commercials for yeast medication, yet it's considered a political act to breastfeed your baby. Nursing your kid wherever you happen to be is so not a big deal that the idea of actually having to think about it makes me want to go have a lie-down. Some lactivist I am. You see? Lazy.

I am also thinking about boobies because Matt has clearly not been weaned, despite my best efforts. This is to say that I spend my falling-asleep period with my back to Matt and my forearms crossed against the old milk jugs just to keep him from digging about in my top with his hands, which is his preferred comfort habit when falling asleep. The other night he told me Don't touch my boobies. I replied that it was kind of rich for me to hear that particular instruction coming from him, until it became clear that by "his" boobies he meant my boobies -- he was instructing me to quit protecting them and give him access already. So help me, I'm going to end up tandem nursing a newborn and a 31-month-old. Again, the very idea of this makes me tired.

While all this was going on, Ben had a sudden change of heart and informed me that after I finish nursing Julia, which we estimate will happen maybe two years from now, he will spring for a boob job. This means one of two things: either (1) he has finally got it through his head that I'm not going to leave him the minute I get my tits done or (2) he has reached the point where my soon to be thrice-postpartum body is really frightening to him. I'm going to set this issue aside for later, because I've got other, more pressing boob matters to worry about.

Maybe I will skip the boob job altogether and just resign myself to aging gracefully, with all the wrinkles and sag and grey hair nature has to offer. Certainly, by the time Julia gets done nursing I will have plenty of all of the above. And by that time, which will be some seven years after conceiving Sam, my boobies will have earned a rest.

Afterword: I'm amending this entry to point out, to those who don't know this, that I weaned Matt from the breast at 26 months because my new pregnancy made nursing so painful it literally made me cry. That is the only reason. I'm all about child-led weaning; the fact that a child is two years old is, in itself, not a reason to wean. Just by way of clarification.

Remember Them.
Mood:  special
Topic: Miscellany
Setting aside absolutely everything you do or don't think is or was right about Afghanistan, Iraq or Vietnam, please take a moment today to remember the men and women who have died in the service of our country. Focus on World War II if you wish; it's the last time Americans were truly united behind a military cause and stayed that way. In between barbecuing and swimming and visiting with family and friends and enjoying the warm weather, remember them.

Oh, and it's okay to wear white shoes now, if that's the sort of thing you do.

You Don't Know Dick.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Miscellany
Yesterday, casting about for something to do once a trip to the Cal State Fullerton Arboretum proved impracticable (police, barricades, a sign directing Event Parking several blocks away), we diverted to the Richard Nixon Library & Birthplace in Yorba Linda. Yorba Linda is a town rich in religious/ conservative destinations; in addition to the Nixon Library, there is also to the John Paul II Polish Center, where we've gone for the Dozynki (Harvest) Festival every September. Hot and smoggy, but a Catholic Republican's dream town.

I knew Sam and Matt wouldn't tolerate the Nixon Library for long, but I did want to see gardens, and it's got those. "We're going to go see Dick," I told the kids as we parked the car. And then, inside the huge vestibule, which was mostly deserted due to the early hour and where his voice rang loudly off the walls, Sam frightened the docents, who were mostly retirees. by asking "Where's Dick? I want to see Dick!" This is not a question you ordinarily hear south of West Hollywood.

The gardens were nice, and on the way home we stopped off at a store I'd spotted called Wild Birds Unlimited, whose merchandise is geared to the backyard birder and of whom I'd been previously unaware, where I couldn't resist buying a platform feeder and a bag of thistle seed. And then we stopped off for lunch at a restaurant called Amazon Churrascaria, where grilled meats of all description are brought to your tableside on swords. The boys were delighted, and we all ate rather too much, and you haven't heard anything until you've heard a two-year-old demanding "More quail!" and "More alligator!"

We also brought home refrigerator magnets depicting (1) Nixon's famous meeting with Elvis at the White House and (2) Nixon, Bush Sr., Ford and Reagan gathered together for some event or other. This, we confess, was mostly so Erika could be annoyed by them when she comes to visit. We aren't Republicans just to annoy liberals, but it's certainly a perk.

Netflix In Bed Night.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Miscellany
We are developing a Saturday night family ritual which could be described as Netflix In Bed night. See, I put my foot down a couple of weeks ago and announced that we were actually going to start watching our Netflix rentals, rather than paying $17.99 a month or whatever they are charging these days to not watch movies. That, I explained to Ben, we could be doing for free.

So we have been watching our Netflix. Recently we have watched an ABC documentary on Pope John Paul II (surprised?) and A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum (1966). And the way we do it is to all pile into our Cal King bed of a Saturday evening. The boys never nap on weekends, so they are pretty much asleep by 7 p.m., and Ben and I get to actually watch movies that include things like cuss words and tits (well, preferably not too many of the latter, because I'm not particularly interested in them). Sometimes there is even nick-nick, on and/or off the screen!

Last night's feature was Dude, Where's My Car? (2000), with Ashton Kutcher and Seann William Scott. It is both incredibly stupid and hysterically funny, and Jennifer Garner was so not famous yet that she got fourth billing behind Kristy Swanson. And now Matt would like to close for me by saying:

bkygcvcvvvv

I'm outa here. Have a happy Sunday, and do lots of whatever floats your boat.

Benedict XVI: The Short, Conservative Yet Individualistic, Peaceful Papacy.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Miscellany
So, Cardinal Ratzinger of Germany got the nod. Ben said Sieg Heil! but it would be wrong to say that, especially considering I've blogged an oblique Nazi reference as recently as, I don't know, yesterday.

The good Cardinal, or Benedict XVI as he shall henceforth be known, was one of J2P2's right-hand men. But not, as some say, a clone: he has signalled this by not choosing to be John Paul III, as some predicted he might do. Despite the close ties to his esteemed predecessor, he's his own man.

Realistically, and not in a mean way, you know, it's not going to be the longest papacy on earth. Our new Pontiff has just turned 78, and we can safely assume we're not in for another 26-year reign. Some might say the Catholics are using him as a placeholder, but I get the idea that no one should underestimate him. John Paul was no dummy, and that remained true right up till the end. Like all good leaders, he surrounded himself with shrewd advisors, and Cardinal Ratzinger was prominent among them.

It will be disappointing to the more liberal voices among us that Pope Benedict has made it very clear that like John Paul, he's going to brook no talk of homosexual marriage or female clergy. I happen to agree with their point of view, and I'll not debate it with you. Consider the source -- y'all know I tend to be a righty. I have mostly been a very lousy Catholic, but that doesn't give me standing to argue Church dogma with the Holy Father. It is what it is.

As a final tidbit, the name this pope chose could be just as revealing as the name he didn't choose. To give you a brief bit of history, Benedict XV reigned at the time of World War I and in 1917 made a Plea for Peace to the leaders of the world. They mostly ignored him, but at this moment in history, the name Benedict could be particularly timely.

That is all. We now return to our regularly scheduled roo-roo.

My Three Youngest Kids & Their Nana.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Miscellany
Belly Shot. (Not to be confused with one of those shots of hard booze you take out of someone's navel.) I forgot to make Ben take a belly shot over the weekend, so here is one taken in my home office mirror at 6:30 a.m. That explains the shitty lighting and the reason my head, which appeared only as a flash of white light with curly brown hair anyway, is cropped out. Typically huge for one of my pregnant bellies at 22 weeks, and I must say there is nothing like a gigantic belly to make one's enormous Polish ass look smaller. And one's boobs, now that I think about it. You win a few, you lose a few.

Despite my ongoing Fear of Fatness, the scale revealed this morning that I've gained only 14 total pounds so far this pregnancy, and clearly that's all belly. I'm relieved; I keep expecting to get on the scale and find I've gained eight hundred pounds, all of it composed of Italian food and all of it residing in my thighs.

This week I'll get Ben to photograph my belly uncovered, so as to display the lack of stretch marks about which I am so insufferably smug. That is, if I can persuade him that I'm not using such photos to entice Internet wankers. Did you know there is a whole subclass of online porn featuring pregnant women? It's unspeakably perverted -- I fail to see what could be sexually attractive about a naked pregnant woman, except possibly to the guy who impregnated her, but it's true. Ben, however, can put his mind at ease. He and only he will be forced to look at my pregnant nakedness.

Speaking of the guy who impregnated me, we were reflecting the other night that our two youngest children, Matt and Julia, owe their existences to booze. It's true: Matt is the result of bathtub-sized Margaritas in Old Town San Diego at a time when we were fixing to get ready to try to make a baby anyway; Julia is the product of a bottle of good Central Coast zinfandel and an ill-timed, spur-of-the-moment decision to skip the condom. Let this be a lesson to the young. Alcohol really does lead to teen pregnancy, or worse, middle-aged pregnancy.

Sam & Matt Shots. They were clowning around Friday night and I got some truly choice photos, having somehow persuaded Haz Matt to hold still once or twice. We did not, by the way, instruct him to pose with underwear on his head, although it's just the sort of thing we would go and do; it was solely his own idea. Shortly after these were taken, Sam procured another pair of miniature jockey shorts which he wore on his own head in a number of fetching styles: Ninja, with only the eyes and nose showing; Babushka, over the forehead and under the chin; and Monster, covering the entire face with the hands making rahhhhh! claws. Their father was so proud of them: Not even in preschool yet and already wearing underwear on their heads. Surely bright futures await both of them.




My mom is doing a whole lot better and is going home from the hospital this morning. Let's hear it for old girls with gumption! She had me really scared the night her lung collapsed, but she has bounced back admirably and we were giggling together when I went to visit her last night. I am so jazzed about this -- she's got a ton of fight in her, and that's going to be of enormous help. We still don't have a prognosis, but I'm more optimistic than I've been since the initial diagnosis.

Have a winsome and productive week, y'all. Remember, Arbeit macht frei!

Suspending The Smartassery And Cuss Words For A Moment.
Mood:  down
Topic: Miscellany
If there's one thing I don't like, it's people who spread doom and gloom about the 'Net. Hey, if I wanted to be depressed, I'd contemplate the sheer amount of big housework projects I should be doing on the weekends. So as a rule I'm all smartassery and sunshine. But let me get serious for just a minute.

My mom's in the hospital. She's recently been diagnosed with probable lung cancer, and yesterday after her needle biopsy her lung collapsed. This might not be so bad for most people, but Mom's been in poor health for as long as I can remember -- since she was my age, really. Always some health issue. She's 75 years old and to be brutally honest, if you'd asked me 25 years ago, I wouldn't have predicted she'd make it this long.

I visited her in the hospital last night. I don't like the way she looks. We lost my dad to lung cancer six years ago. It is not a gentle way to go into that good night. She is scared, and I don't blame her.

I promise I won't have on about this any more, but two things: (1) say a little prayer for her, if you pray; and (2) for God's sake, if you smoke, think that this could be you someday. You won't always be young and perky. One day you might be 75 years old, gasping and frightened in a hospital bed. I may sound like a prat, but honestly? I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy.

That is all. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. Want to hear a quick joke? This is from Garry Shandling: I think my dog is gay. His dick always tastes so bitter. There. That sounds more like me, doesn't it?

Pope Circles Drain.
Topic: Miscellany
I just wanted to see what it would look like actually posted as a headline. CNN is no better and has even posted POPE IN GRAVE CONDITION on the TV news crawl. Hey, I may be a smartass, but at least I'm not stooping to macabre puns. Note to anyone taking, or preparing to take, offense: I was born Polish Catholic.

I've always loved the guy to pieces. I remember when he became Pope. So proud! He's been a fighter from beginning to end. Stubborn Polish son of a bitch, and charmed the pants off absolutely everyone in the process. In recent years, people have spent so much time speculating how much time he has or hasn't got left, no one talks very much about the splash he made in his heyday. He was big. He was rockin'. He was Live At Budokan!

Karol Jozef Wojtyla, I wish you peace. You've always had a special place in my heart. You kicked some major ass, and you're going out fine and feisty. You rest now. Done us proud.

In Which I Move By Increments From A Phallic Symbol To Terri Schiavo.
Topic: Miscellany
For various reasons, the State of Florida periodically thrusts itself upon my consciousness, if I may use that verb when speaking of a state shaped like a phallic symbol. The most chronic reasons for this are Dave Barry and hurricanes, which of course are the main exports of the State of Florida.

I also happen to have several old friends living there. They are from Delaware, Pennsylvania, Virginia, New Jersey, Maryland, and they mostly don't know each other. They are an accountant/martial arts expert who is rumored to now have a much younger lover (nice work, Melinda!), a mad scientist, a family law attorney who has converted to Eastern Orthodox Catholic, a computer geek, and a multilingual, multitalented attorney. Somehow they all ended up in Florida, and I communicate with each of them only in fits and fugues, but have been talking to a few of them lately. So that is another Florida thing.

Furthermore, as further proof that I am a hopeless nerd, I collect those 50 States quarters in a very casual but very earnest way. And I am missing Florida, which was released last year and which I still don't have, and exactly whom do you have to blow to get a Florida quarter around here? (I hope it's Ben.) In that respect, Florida is vexing me to my very limits. I am quite serious about my casual quarter collection.

My sole direct experience with Florida was getting stuck in the Miami airport for hours and hours and hours on the way back from the Caribbean, six years ago. Bienvenido a Miami! And fuck you very much. Of that, I will say only that the little sports bar saved my life, and those seats in the waiting area are ill suited for napping by my linebacker-sized husband, who was then my boyfriend, who was pretty cool to take me to the Caribbean, don't you think?

My mind has also been drawn to Florida because Terri Schiavo is there. Now, as a rule I strenuously avoid discussing issues and controversies online. There are a million reasons why, but to show you the tip of the iceberg, (1) I'm a Republican, (2) I'm also a hippie and (3) I loathe arguments. You see? Mum's the word. But this time I will make an exception and give you my conservative, loving, hard-nosed, compassionate, pragmatic take on the topic.

Terri isn't in there anymore. Am I a doctor, have I examined her, have I reviewed her medical records? None of the above, but my instinct is that she isn't home. There's something left, but it ain't her. So let's start with that idea.

Her husband makes me suspicious. Why does he want her dead so badly? As evidence that she would want to die, we have only his word, and he has a new girlfriend and clearly wants to get on with his life. That's okay, but he could seek a divorce. There's nothing to say he must be a widower. If there's any doubt about her wishes, and I think there is no doubt that there is doubt, why not hand her over to her parents -- who clearly want to preserve her life -- and get on with his life? He says he is motivated only by what he knows Terri would want. I don't believe him.

So let's say she did want to die. I can see that; I would probably want the same thing, if my mind really was gone and not coming back (as opposed to just having stepped out for a quick breather). Ben, you taking notes? The thing that really bothers me is the way she is dying. They are dehydrating and starving her to death, and all the carefully chosen words in the world do not change that.

Yes, you may say, but didn't you just say she's not really in there? True, but that doesn't mean that what part of her is there isn't suffering. Why is it that entities who can't verbalize physical suffering are deemed not to have it? Think of circumcised baby boys, and even of the insect you step on. Maybe they can't speak up and say Good gravy, that hurts like hell, and would you mind not doing that to me? But that doesn't mean they don't suffer.

But euthanasia is, of course, illegal. So it's a really, really fucked-up situation. And that's all I have to say, except Ben, honey, if it comes to that, go ahead and get a girlfriend and stuff, but if it comes to this type of thing, try to off me real quick on the sneak instead of starving me to death, okay? So bad for everyone involved. But they shouldn't starve her to death. Because I think she knows what is happening to her. And no one should have to die that way.

If I were really cynical and tactless, I would mention in passing how ironic it is that a woman who had an eating disorder would ultimately be starved to death. Did I just say that? I didn't just say that.

Do Not Adjust Your Television Set.
Topic: Miscellany
No, you are not hallucinating. Well. Maybe you are, but don't decide yea or nay by looking at this blog. If you believe it has changed color, you are correct. Now check and see if your walls are breathing. If so, you are hallucinating. Either that or it's time to raise holy hell with your home warranty people.

My friend Anna Beth complained a while back that my red and black color scheme had made her go blind. (To which I responded Nah, that was from masturbation.) I do like the red and black for some reason. It evokes, oh I don't know, the Georgia Bulldogs or London double-decker buses.

But I don't want AB to go blind, and now it's starting to happen to me too. (No, I haven't been. Shut up.) So I give you: Earth tones. If you're still seeing red and black, refresh your browser, clear your cookies and temporary files, and if that doesn't work, you are hallucinating after all.

Not With So Much Cussing.
Topic: Miscellany
If you're sick to death of long-winded rants, offensive topical humor, and cuss words, and especially if you miss Dave Barry's humor column -- did you know he blogs? (Well, mostly he links and collects comments, but at least he's still present, presumably with a doob or a cocktail in his hand. I mean, what is retirement for?)

Dave Barry's Blog

The Miami Herald still keeps him pretty tightly under wraps -- he will always talk about boogers and doo-doo, but that's about as crude as he gets. (I'm a little disappointed; I sort of hoped that, like Bob Saget after Full House was cancelled, he'd start working blue.) Still, the guy is very funny and an inspiration to me. His field experiments involving the interplay between Rollerblade Barbie and fire, and strawberry Pop-Tarts and fire, are legend.

He is also in a band. I'm not sure if they suck or not -- you would think they would, but you never know -- and that's cool too. Bastard, he's living this girl's dream, except with less cussing.