I'm In Love With The Guy Who Writes The Forecast Discussion For The National Weather Service Forecast Office In San Diego.
Mood:  amorous
Topic: Geekery
It's true: I'm crazy about him. I've never spoken to him and I don't even know his name, but he sets my geeky heart on fire when he writes words like these:

... DYNAMICS LOOK BEST FROM THU 06Z TO 18Z... TROUGH AND VORT LOBE SAG THROUGH SOCAL FRI MORNING. WEAK CYCLONIC CURVATURE OVER THE AREA ...

That's weather geekspeak, roughly translated, for This system appears poised to produce the most rain from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Thursday; the front will sink south into our local forecast area on Friday morning under a weak low pressure center. Melts me like a cake left out in the rain.

This isn't my first weather-related Internet schoolgirl crush. I once spent a number of hours admiring the wall cloud and tornado photography of one of the mesoscale forecasters at the Storm Prediction Center in Norman, Oklahoma. Oh, I won't mention his name. It was hopeless -- we are both married; I was pregnant at the time with my older son, and he is the father of two children named after famous hurricanes. There was nothing even remotely sexual about it. It was all about the weather.

God. I am such a fucking geek that sometimes I startle even myself.

Coochie Doc Codicil: I'm Just Asking.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Rants
You often hear women say I don't feel comfortable with male gynecologists. I will only go to a female gynecologist.

I have a friend whose family emigrated to the United States from Vietnam. She once mentioned to me that she prefers Asian physicians, and if the doctor is Vietnamese, so much the better. It just puts me more at ease, she explained.

In Southern California, there are lots of immigrants who don't have enough English yet to really converse in it fluently, especially with respect to scientific or technical terms. Most such people, without too much effort, can locate a health care provider who is fluent in their own native language, so they can discuss their medical concerns with full understanding and confidence -- there's no language barrier whatsoever.

Do these people have the right to choose their treating physicians according to the standards I've described? Is it offensive or "wrong" for them to do so? Do I have the same right? I'm just asking.

Last night Ben said to me You're blogging the Italian doctor thing? Balls, girl. You are going to piss off some people with that one. I frowned for a moment. Why? I asked. Did I just say that women shouldn't be admitted to medical school? Did I tell you that foreign-born doctors shouldn't be issued licenses to practice? I said no such things.

He said no, of course I hadn't. It's a consumer issue, I said. Wide open market. Everyone has the right to choose, and I choose as I do.

All very true, he said. I predict hate mail, anyway. And then we spent the next ten minutes discussing synonyms for the female sexual apparatus, which astoundingly aren't covered in Webster's Thesaurus.

The Coochie Doctor.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Pregnancy
My ob/gyn, aka Dr. Jellyfinger or the Coochie Doc, who delivered both my sons, announced today at my monthly preggo exam that he is retiring as of the end of this week. This freaked me out. At not quite six months of pregnancy I'm faced with finding a new doctor for my hey-nonny-nonny.

In recent memory, only four males have been anywhere near the Holy of Holies. One is, of course, my husband. The second is Patrick Quigley, M.D., the ob/gyn who is leaving me high and dry. And the third and fourth are my sons, who were only permitted in the area long enough for Daddy to put them in and for Dr. Quigley to take them out. I'm reluctant to expand the circle, but expand it I must, and fast.

So, this afternoon I set out to find a new doctor. And I chose him the same way I chose Dr. Quigley some six years ago: By his name.

(Some people may already believe I'm a completely reprehensible person, and here comes more proof: What I'm about to say may convince you that I both deserve, and am partially responsible for, everything you hate about both the Bush Administration and the Vatican. Here goes.)

The only type of doctor with whom I feel comfortable is white, male, and preferably Catholic. The sort of doctor I was raised with. Female doctors are groovy for other people; I don't like going to them. Nor do I want a doctor whose native language isn't English; I want there to be absolutely no ambiguity in my verbal communications with my treating physician. Bear in mind that being an HMO subscriber and chronically pressed for time, I have to pick my doctors from a catalog; I don't have time for personal interviews.

Therefore, Patrick Quigley. Good Catholic; he's even been to the Vatican. And now my new doctor, Fred Galluccio. I have high hopes for him, despite the perhaps questionable wisdom of allowing an Italian guy anywhere near my coochie, something I swore off upon separating from Anthony.

Wish me luck. In three to four months, Julia will make her appearance, and Dr. Galluccio will be waiting at the entrance to the Fun Zone with the catcher's mitt. I hope his aim is true.

Dear Starbucks: Kiss My Ass.
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Evil Things
Dear Starbucks: I'm mostly a very loyal girl, but it turns out that in your particular instance, I'm one fickle bitch. As recently as last week I was singing your praises to everyone who would listen, but today I'm leaving you. Oh, maybe I'll stop in for a quickie now and again, but I've replaced you, and you won't be seeing much of me anymore.

After a few days of playing around in my kitchen, I've perfected a homemade latte recipe and can reliably produce a lowfat latte which made both my husband and my daughter, in independent taste tests, say Damn! and drain what was left in my cup. That makes them evil, evil people who only claim to love me, but they did corroborate my belief that I had come up with a rather brilliant cup of coffee.

Better yet, I have done calculations of the out-of-pocket costs and determined that the stuff I make at home costs $0.36 per cup versus the $3.45 I've been paying at Starbucks, plus I don't even have to tip myself unless I've given really, really good service. So, Starbucks? I mean this in the nicest possible way, but fuck off.

Because I have a generous spirit, and also because I am a bit startled to realize the full extent of the anal rape I have been undergoing at the hands of Starbucks these past months, here is the recipe, for which you will need a Senseo or an espresso machine, a microwave, and one of those whirly twirly milk frothing thingies:

Big Latte

2 shots espresso
3/4 cup lowfat or nonfat milk (lowfat froths better)

While espresso brews, pour milk into 2 cup Pyrex measuring cup and microwave on full power for 60 seconds. Empty espresso into a large latte mug. Froth milk with the whirly twirly thing until, well, frothy. Pour atop espresso. Admire the esthetically pleasing blend of brown espresso foam and white milk foam. Laugh like hell at the $3.09 you did not just spend at Starbucks. Repeat as it may please you.

Elvis Costello Homage.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
I can't keep up the Morning Commute Soundtrack forever. Monotony is a good part of the reason; last week things were, within my boundaries, eclectic, but if the truth be known I mostly listen to Elvis Costello, Elvis Costello and Elvis Costello. Have I got anything without Elvis Costello? Well, there's Squeeze. That only has a little Elvis Costello in it.

It is easy for me to listen to EC that much because his recording career has spanned nearly 30 years and every musical genre from rock to traditional country to chamber music. I like his vocal style, which I once characterized as perverse crooner; while it's true that he can be nasal and grating when the material calls for it, he can also be achingly melodic.

The guy has had virtually zero airplay for 25 years. Some say this is due to a long-ago drunken insult of Ray Charles delivered to Bonnie Bramlett of Delaney & Bonnie, the fallout of which involved EC being labelled a racist and ruined in the American record business. That may be true. It may also be true that contemporary American tastes in music are so abysmal that people like Jennifer Lopez and Eminem are popular, and if middle America is eating a steady diet of dog shit and enjoying it, well, need I say more?

I first started listening to Elvis Costello around 1990; in hindsight, that is the only justification for Anthony, my second husband, who introduced me to his work. I believe it was early 1993 when I attended an EC concert for the first time and decided then and there that he was probably God. It was the night before my Contracts final and I was admittedly a bit overwrought, but I went on to kick the ass of my exam the next day and love the hell out of EC for all these ensuing years. Apart from musical genius, the guy exhibits intellect, wit and humor. Those three characteristics, in combination in any male creature, have the power to knock me clean out of the ring every time.

Take, for example, the cover of his album Spike (1989), pictured. It depicts our intrepid hero decapitated and mounted upon blue satin on a wooden plaque with a tartan background, his face painted in startling harlequin pattern and wearing a truly alarming grin. Beneath the plaque is a brass plate reading The Beloved Entertainer. Even after all these years, this visual atrocity has the power to captivate me; looking at it recently, Ben stared for fully a minute before whispering reverently, That sick, sick fuck. Surely one of the reasons I'm crazy about Ben is that he understands and appreciates Elvis Costello.

In other news, I'm off to the ob/gyn today for my monthly exam and weight check, and also to explain why I blew off the gratuitous additional gestational diabetes test (no time and no point), and why I'm blowing off the repeat ultrasound (ditto). Doctors hate girls who don't follow orders, and I hate the fact that doctors have to spend so much time covering their bases, and their asses, for fear of malpractice. Yippee!

Yum.
Mood:  hungry
The boys were conversing in the back seat as we drove home from brunch this morning, and I heard Matt say to Sam, "Say bubble gum."

I turned around. "You want him to say bubble gum, Matt?"

Whereupon Sam explained, "He thinks his boogers are bubble gum, Mom."

Oh.

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.

Pssssssst.
Mood:  party time!
Topic: Sam
Y'all. Ssssshhhhh. Get in here. I'm afraid to say anything too much.

Sam woke up this morning with a dry Pull-Up, asked to go to the toilet, peed a humongous male morning pee, then asked to put on underwear when getting dressed.

That was six hours ago. So far, so good. He did have one accident, but I suspect that was because he was tired of the gecko underpants and wanted to wear the Hulk instead. And then I played my ace in the hole: I put him in his Darth Vader board shorts. Would you pee on Lord Vader? I sure wouldn't try it.

And you know what else? Midway through the last paragraph, he went to the toilet again.

Hush now. Let's not put a hoodoo on it. Maybe he won't go to college still peeing his pants. Maybe -- just maybe -- there is light at the end of this pee-soaked tunnel, and I won't have three kids in diapers after all.

Schadenfreude Department.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
My husband and I don't get to spend enough time together, but most workdays we have long, entertaining e-mail conversations. This afternoon we were discussing Paula Abdul and her increasingly shrill, insistent denials to the press that she is addicted to drugs. Apparently the lady is unacquainted with the concept of protesting too much. I am proud to say that I have never seen American Idol, but I understand from Howard Stern that poor Paula is barely coherent.

Ben's take on the situation: These days, drug abuse is a more acceptable explanation than brain damage or sheer stupidity. Sadly, Anna Nicole Smith's public behavior incorporates unmistakable elements of all three.

We have also been talking about Central Coast dry riesling, a 56-year-old Los Angeles attorney who moonlights as a porn star (I find the fact that the guy is appearing publicly naked at his age far more shocking than the fact that he's a member of the Bar), and the "finger in the Wendy's chili" hoax that spawned so many tasteless comments about finger food.

And, of course, we can't mention schadenfreude without bringing up Michael Jackson. Did you hear the one about Michael Jackson, the young boy, and the jar of Vaseline? It would be funny if it wasn't the subject of proposed testimony barred from evidence by the presiding judge yesterday because it was too inflammatory. You can't make up stuff like this. I'm sure that kid could tell us a thing or two about what's inflammatory.

The Other Side Of Summer.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Music
Friday is here, and this week just gone by has been a special gift from Hell. Today's new pregnancy complication is sciatica; my initial impression is that I'd prefer roo-roo, although I'll have to get back to you on that. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything; and therefore we will move directly to the

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Elvis Costello's Mighty Like A Rose (1991). A strange offering, it's one of the Apocrypha, the lesser-known EC albums, or what some would call simply the bad albums. Bad isn't the word -- it includes some of the Paul McCartney collaborations, including an uncredited McCartney lead vocal on Playboy To A Man in full scream mode -- but it's wildly uneven, falling as it did in the wake of the acrimonious departure of bassist Bruce Thomas and the breakup of the Attractions.

I have a strong affection for this album, including as it does some tracks very close to my heart, but there is also plenty of stuff that leaves me scratching my head and wondering why he bothered -- in places it's ponderous, dissonant or trivial; at its worst, it's all three. Despite all that, well worth the listening.

Someone asked me if I know a lot about rock music. I don't. In specialized areas I am a wealth of useless knowledge; apart from that I'm indifferent and staggeringly clueless. It's true I did college radio for a few years, back in the days when DJs were still literally spinning records; sometimes, when we were short-staffed, I was on the air for 12 or more hours at a stretch, moving from genre to genre in four-hour increments.

It was a hell of a good time. If only I'd had the same tenacity for academics. But it didn't teach me anything about music, apart from the fact that if some drunk guy calls up at 3 a.m. and requests Cat Scratch Fever during the experimental music slot, it's perfectly legitimate to agree to play it, but do it by putting the turntable in neutral and propelling it with one's finger at varying speeds. (I wonder to this day whether he ever noticed the difference.)

Monstrous Pregnant.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Pregnancy
By the calendar, I won't even hit the third trimester of pregnancy for another couple of weeks. No matter; yesterday I felt myself move into the final stage. I've done enough of this to know the signs.

Physiologically, it's perfectly understandable. The uterus, in its undisturbed state, is about the size of a plum and nestles safely behind the pubic bone. My uterus, as of this morning, topped out about three inches above my navel. I'm a short girl and short-waisted; there's not a lot of space between my ribs and my pelvis. What this means is that not only do I have a belly the size of a Volkswagen, but all my internal organs are being shoved about rather rudely.

The practical result of all that is chronic heartburn, shortness of breath and backache. My belly has developed corners; it seems to move independently of the rest of my torso. And the Braxton-Hicks are not so much contractions as a perpetuity. I spent enough fruitless time on the fetal monitor during my last two pregnancies to know that this is not a sign of premature labor, just my peculiar version of normal.

Does this sound like endless kvetching? It's not, really. There's a fair amount of discomfort, true, but mostly I find it fascinating to have my body taken over by another entity, its form and function changed so radically by someone who weighs, at this point, only a pound or two. She moves in me, and I try to guess from the sensations what she is up to in there. As I told Ben this morning, it's a lot like the movie Alien, only with luck my little Julia won't actually burst through my abdominal wall to make her appearance.

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Babylon And On (1987) by Squeeze. At this point, the band's lineup included Jools Holland but not (thankfully; my God, that guy is tiresome) Paul Carrack. I think this is Sam and Matt's favorite Squeeze album; listening, Sam remarked, "I like Squeeze. They're very good at singing."

The track Some Americans features not a guitar break but a sitar break by the adorable Glenn Tilbrook. The best-known single, Hourglass, spawned a cool, trippy music video; five years later, the movie Toys (1992) would feature an ersatz MTV video that echoes many of its visual elements (and also borrows heavily from the painter Rene Magritte). (Reader Challenge: If you can procure for me the Hourglass music video on DVD in Region 1 format, I will give you oral. I'm only about 65% kidding.)

Hello, I'm Eleven Years Old.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
About ten minutes ago I read in the Sts. Simon & Jude RCC parish newsletter that Karol Wojtyla, later known as John Paul II, was appointed Titular Bishop of Ombi [Poland] on July 4, 1958.

I've been giggling to myself ever since.

Corporate Juggernaut.
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Evil Things
I have surrendered to the corporate juggernaut known as Starbucks Coffee Company. It's true: I glibly toss about words and phrases like venti, frappuccino and no whip, and an almost invariable part of my morning commute is the stop for a venti (that's Starbucksian for large) nonfat cappuccino.

Even on the weekends and away from my standard morning route, I will track down a Starbucks and get my usual. That's not hard to do, given that there appears to be a Southern California zoning ordinance mandating at least two Starbucks stores in each square mile. I'm not really exaggerating -- in Newport Beach, a city of 25 square miles, there are ten Starbucks.

I know. Reprehensible. I don't even care if it does turn out that Starbucks is merely a corporate front for an evil empire bent on world domination. Hey, I'm a registered Republican -- according to some of you, I'm all about that sort of thing anyway, right?

And I must give due credit to Nicole, the girl who mans (womans?) the coffee bar at the Starbucks at Harbor & Adams in Costa Mesa during weekday morning drive time. That chick has a photographic memory and the quickest hands in the business. The moment I walk in the door, she queues up my drink, and it's always ready by the time I hit the cash register. Her personal best is two minutes from the time I shut off my car until the time I start it back up with cappuccino in hand. Nicole is fucking awesome, and I hope the corporate juggernaut is taking good care of her. Hell, for all I care, she's sleeping with Number Two. (Eeee, sounds messy.)

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Show Some Emotion (1977) by Joan Armatrading. Her style was echoed in ensuing years by Tracy Chapman and then Macy Gray, with increasingly limited success. As with most things, nothing can compare to the original.

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.

Roo-Roo.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Evil Things
By popular demand:

Two men were captured in the bush by cannibals and taken captive. They were brought before the tribal chief, who informed them both that they would be killed. He advised the men that they could choose to be put to death one of three ways: By boiling water (and he pointed out a large cauldron being heated over a campfire); the quick death by spear; or roo-roo.

The first man thought for a moment and asked the chief what roo-roo was. The chief replied that roo-roo was an ancient sexual ritual. The first man chose roo-roo.

The chief replied, "That's an excellent choice." He led the man to a large tree, where he was tied naked to the tree, raped by all of the men in the village, and left to die.

The other man had witnessed his partner's demise and told the chief that he preferred to die the quick death by spear.

The chief looked at him and said, "That is also an excellent choice. But first, roo-roo."

Simple Twist Of Fate.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
The soundtrack for this morning's commute was Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks (1975). It's a great album, of course, but . . . maybe this is peevish of me, but it's a bit too see-you-next-Tuesday around the edges, you know, all that relationship examination and talk about feelings.

It's odd listening with a critical ear to the musicians I adored unconditionally 25 years ago. Unconditional adoration is not something I tend to go handing out these days, and even with those I love the most, at a certain point I will say Hey, you're the greatest, but this thing you're doing right now is, honestly, bullshit. You see? Peevish.

I prefer the Dylan of Blonde on Blonde, the rough edges and raw energy: I want you, so bad. I do understand that Dylan's marriage was falling apart at the time he wrote the songs for Blood on the Tracks, so I suppose he deserves some slack. I can't seem to tap into those emotions anymore.

I never really think about being apart from my husband. Ben and I have neither drama nor indifference between us, and if you think about it, it's usually one of those two things that will tear a couple apart. (Well, I suppose sex with other people is also a biggie, but my husband and I are pretty damn clear in our mutual understanding that it doesn't happen.) This looks to be a "till death do us part" situation, and from where we stand now I can't easily empathize with sturm und drang.

Someday, of course, death will do us part. Selfishly, I sometimes sort of hope that I will go first, because that would spare me having to go on without him. But it will be strange if I am the one left behind, because for the first time in my life I would truly lose my love -- he wouldn't just be off with someone else, he'd be gone. Gone where, I do not profess to know for sure, but lost to me in this life for certain. If someday I have to find out what that's like, I hope it's a very long time from now.

This started out to be an album critique and ended up as something completely different to that. Love and loss are not topics I usually tackle over morning tea. I guess maybe I was wrong about Blood on the Tracks -- I guess it does have the power to move me even today, only for different reasons.

Ahem. The office is coming to life around me, so I will shut up and write this here settlement agreement. But first, roo-roo! (If you know the joke that goes to that punch line, you get extra bonus points.)

Papal Conclave.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
As you can imagine, I await the results of the papal conclave with bated breath. (That's bated breath as in breath held in abeyance, not baited breath as in breath which smells like dead fish or perhaps breath designed to lure and entice.) It is important to be clear about these things, and if you're among the approximately 98% of Americans who tend to confuse the two, there went a complimentary spelling lesson! You're welcome.

One of the topics of my most intensely burning curiosity, vis-a-vis the papal election, is the name which the new Pope will choose for himself. This is the subject of much speculation, and I believe Vegas is even posting odds. My choice? I vote for Pope Vinnie I. You'd think, with all these Italians holding the office over the years, someone would have picked it by now. I have a strange affection for that name. I once had a turtle named Vinnie, and in fact, when I was in the hospital having my oldest, I tried very hard to persuade my roommate to name her newborn baby boy Vinnie, just to see if I could do it. God, I'm an asshole.

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?

His Vocabulary's Better Than Mine, Too.
Mood:  amorous
Topic: The Tao of Ben
At this rate, I'm going to have to start a new category called Ben Crumpacker Is A Prick. He just sent me an e-mail containing the word miscegenation, and damn if I didn't have to look it up. Webster's defines it as a mixture of races; especially: marriage, cohabitation, or sexual intercourse between a white person and a member of another race. Lest anyone jump to the conclusion that Ben is a racist, I will hasten to add that he used the word in describing the plot of the movie Love Is A Many-Splendored Thing (1955). At that time, of course, miscegenation was considered a big deal. Today, one of my most beloved Internet friends partakes of it frequently, with great relish, and with a particularly gorgeous specimen of malehood. Take a bow, Vince Chao. Let's hear it for miscegenation!

Note to my husband: I'm the one who is meant to be tossing about words that send people scurrying to Webster's, you prick. The fact that you can do that to me is one of the myriad reasons you are a prick, and is also one of the even more myriad reasons I adore you.