The Flirting Kind.
Mood:  flirty
I love to flirt, although I get very little opportunity to engage in it these days. In its pure joyful form, flirtation is like calorie-free, meltproof dark chocolate: Absolutely delicious, and never ever leaves you feeling guilty or gooey. (If, after flirting, you are left feeling guilty and/or gooey, then you have crossed the line from flirting into actual sex, and should be ashamed of yourself.)

Flirting with a guy you truly find attractive is sheer pleasure and joy -- unless the guy in question is so staggeringly oblivious that he doesn't even realize you're flirting. I'm speaking, of course, of the man who was someday to become my husband.

I met Ben at the office and he captivated me with his wit and humor in very short order -- I mean, imagine my reaction to a man who loves and is well-versed in Elvis Costello, Douglas Adams, Frank Zappa, Monty Python and politically incorrect humor. I was smitten. All that would be enough to capture my heart even in a troll-like being, but he was cute besides. Not only that, he had a decent career (if lawyering can be called decent in any weather), and no obvious mental illnesses. And so I commenced to flirt. And he didn't seem to get it.

The day he turned forty-two (ha!), I offered to spank him. Stuff like that. He never appeared to catch on. Months and months later, lying in his bed one morning, I asked Didn't you ever wonder why I used to come into your office and bend over all the time? He looked at me for a long moment. I thought you needed those files, he replied. You see? Completely clueless.

Of course, it all worked out in the end. And now that I think about it, this lack of flirting aptitude may be a dismaying quality in a prospective boyfriend, but it's a fantastic trait in a husband. If some chick at his office someday decides to try to seduce him, she can flirt her little heart out, but for it to work? She's going to have to actually get naked and spread-eagle herself on his desk. I doubt the femme fatale has been born who would be that obvious, at least during business hours.

Public Service Announcement.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Pregnancy
To everyone who stared at my belly today (and yesterday, and last week) with their mouths hanging open:

Yes, I'm pregnant! That's right. Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant! Yes, that's why my belly is so big. Wow! You figured that out by yourself? Yes, I sure am pregnant, and guess what? I'm going to get a whole lot more pregnant before I'm done. In fact, I've got a whole bag of pregnant with your name on it! All for your staring at my belly with your mouth hanging open like an idiot pleasure!

Yes, I sure am big. Thanks! No, it's not twins. Yes, we're sure! Yes, they checked! Thanks! By the way, is that half a roll of Tums in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me? I mean, as long as we are talking so personally about what bits of us are big.

Yes, it's a girl. Yes, we were sure ready for a girl after two little boys! Thanks! Yes, mmhmm, they sure are energetic. Thanks! We hadn't noticed! No, we don't watch Nanny 911. Do you watch Richard Simmons? 'Cause your big fat ass sure could use some help! Thank you!

Yes, Daddy's been a busy boy. You're right -- we sure do have our hands full! Wow, you're right! We sure are old to be having kids! No, we didn't need medical help to get pregnant! Did you have medical help getting those boobs? I'm just asking! 'Cause they sure are lopsided! And by the way, if you light that cigarette before I get upwind of you, I'm going to shove your Zippo up your . . . Thank you.

If, on the other hand, you want to smile at us and tell us we've got beautiful kids and congratulate us that a new one's coming: Thanks. We enjoy them. And you enjoy your Sunday afternoon.

Wish He Was Here.
Mood:  blue
Topic: Geekery
Today we took the kids to see The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Geeks all, Ben and Sam and I have been very much looking forward to this. Even Matt liked the movie, although in the manner of two-year-old boys, he failed to sit through it, and Sam didn't want to stay after that. Once again I will wait six months to see the rest of the movie.

I did see enough to know they did a wonderful job. Because I am silly and softhearted underneath it all (and probably also because I am pregnant and prone to weepiness), at the point where they introduced the Guide and played the familiar theme music from the BBC radio series, I started to cry.

Douglas Adams died suddenly in May 2001 at the age of 49; I was pregnant with Sam at the time, and I can very clearly picture sitting in bed with Ben reading the newspapers on Mother's Day morning (ah, those luxurious pre-baby Sunday mornings) and being shocked as hell to see the news of his death. Then as now, I got my news from the 'Net, but the CNN website doesn't especially spotlight news for Anglophilic geeks, and the American press tended to bury the story in the back pages. Up till today, I hadn't properly mourned for him; I hadn't cried for him yet.

Today, four years later, it hit me. The movie version of HHGTTG, as we geeks call it, had been lost Hollywood Purgatory for over 20 years, and Douglas hadn't completed the script when he succumbed to a sudden heart attack in Santa Barbara. I thought he should have lived to see the completed product; he should have attended the premiere with his wife Jane and daughter Polly, and given a whole bunch of witty, whimsical interviews to coincide with the release of the film. I think he would have been proud. Perhaps he is anyway.

Trivia Footnote: On that May morning, Sam had already been named Sam for many weeks, and the only reasons he didn't end up called Samuel Adams Crumpacker were that we didn't want to name our child for a beer, and we didn't want SAC to be his initials. It's hard enough being called Crumpacker without all that on top of it.

I Hope Their Babies Pee All Over Them.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
My office building circulated a memo earlier this week indicating they were about to remodel the lobby of the seventh floor, which as you may have guessed is the floor on which I work. Rock, I thought. Until I read the fine print on the memo, which indicated that the restrooms on the seventh floor would be included in the remodeling process, which would take six to eight weeks (translation: three to eleven months), during which time seventh floor tenants would be required to use restrooms on other floors.

Whatever. Right? Except for the fact that 28.5% of the full-time female employees in my office are pregnant. Well, okay, there are only seven of us. But two of us are pregnant, and if you've ever had a tenant in your uterus, you know what that involves: Peeing. Lots and lots of peeing.

Honestly, I'm all about progress. I think the remodel is a wonderful idea, but it only began this morning and already it's clear that the guys doing the work are evil, evil people. They showed up at 7:30 a.m., gutted and disabled the women's restroom, then left and haven't been seen since.

I hereby place the following hoodoo upon those guys: I HOPE YOUR WIVES GET PREGNANT AND HORMONAL AND MAKE YOUR LIVES A LIVING HELL AND INSIST ON STOPPING TO PEE EVERY SEVEN MINUTES WHENEVER YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE. I HOPE YOUR BABIES' DIAPERS LEAK BADLY EVERY TIME YOU HOLD THEM. I HOPE THEIR POOP SMELLS WORSE THAN KERN COUNTY. AND I MEAN THIS IN THE SINCEREST AND MOST LITERAL WAY. HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, ASSHOLES.

I hope you, on the other hand, have a truly good weekend.

The Bird At The End Of The Universe.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Geekery
It was with great delight that I read yesterday that the ivory-billed woodpecker has been confirmed alive in the Arkansas back country. I fear this won't mean much to most of you; even Ben, who has jumped on board with my bird fascination and now can distinguish easily amongst six varieties of heron, said The what? when I told him.

Apart from formal extinction, which is bad enough to start (the last confirmed sighting had been some 60 years ago), the ivory-bill has suffered from a lack of press. Had it retained the publicists utilized by such famously extinct or threatened species such as the dodo, the whooping crane, the nene or the kakapo, the ivory-bill's return from oblivion might be lauded by more than just aviphilic Poindexters like me. But Ben, my touchstone, assures me that my happy news will leave the majority of the population scratching their heads.

Some society we live in. A perfectly magnificent animal has returned from the dead, and no one notices -- they know all about what's up with American Idol this week, but the ivory-bill is off almost everyone's radar. Priorities, people! Christ Jesus, some days you just want to take the world and slap it.

Newport Bitch.
Mood:  special
Topic: Evil Things
As further proof that I'm an utter asshole, I have to confess that one of the perks of having Julia at a different hospital from the boys is that her birthplace will be Newport Beach rather than Orange, California.

If you're local, you know all about Newport Beach; if not, my best explanation is that Newport Beach is the Orange County equivalent of Beverly Hills or Bel-Air, or Manhattan's Upper East Side. I have lived in the Newport Beach vicinity for 15 years. Not in the best neighborhoods, where the houses are 10,000 square feet and are situated on hills with simultaneous ocean, mountain, valley and city light views. But for ten years I had a Newport Beach address.

Five years ago, Ben and I bought our current home. It is located in a weird gerrymandered neighborhood where our cul-de-sac is in Newport Beach and the next block is unincorporated Orange County. But our address? Is in Costa Mesa. And I am such a shallow bitch that I have a bit of a complex about this.

Y'all, we are so close. Many days I park my car in Newport Beach and walk into my front door ten seconds later. We take our evening walks in Newport Beach. My official CV recites, Mrs. Crumpacker resides with her family in Newport Beach, California. But our zip code is 92627, not 92660, and we don't even like to think about how many thousands of dollars that tiny fact shaves off the value of our home.

The really funny bit is that I lived in Newport Beach, actually and technically, at the time I started dating Ben. The neighborhood was lousy compared to the one we live in now. Well, not lousy if you don't mind people peeing and barfing in your front bushes and having loud drunken parties by the pool; definitely by no means upscale. The slums of Newport Beach, Ben called it.

The hospital where I'm having Julia is considered one of the best in Southern California, and is very close to home; you can't beat that. But I take guilty satisfaction in its Newport Beach address. You see? Shallow.

The Maids Did It.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Rants
What follows is the love letter I faxed to my cleaning service this morning. Even Matt knows to say "The maids did it" if anything is misplaced in our home, but after today, he's going to have to find a different batch of maids to blame when he can't find Buzz and Woody.

To Mega Maid of Huntington Beach:

I write to express what I can only call my dismay at the condition in which my home was left after your employees cleaned it on April 26, 2005 and, to a lesser extent, on April 12, 2005. I chose not to bring the April 12 issues to your attention because they were matters more of inconvenience than of damage, but after yesterday’s cleaning that was no longer the case.

To summarize, I arrived home from work at approximately 6:00 p.m. on Tuesday, April 26, after your team had cleaned presumably that morning, to find my house thermostat turned up to its maximum, which is approximately 90 degrees, and my freezer door not fully closed. As a result, the temperature in my home did in fact measure 90 degrees downstairs, where the thermometer/thermostat is located, and I estimate it at 100 degrees upstairs (as you may be aware, heat rises). It took three hours with every window in the house open before the temperature in our home was even bearable, and while I have not yet received the statistics from the Gas Company regarding the expense of heating my home to these temperatures for an entire day, I fully expect that my April gas bill will be doubled as a result. I keep tarantulas and a reptile in my home, and while fortunately they do not appear to have been injured, they cannot be expected to tolerate ambient temperatures such as these. Moreover, several rather expensive cosmetics in my upstairs bedroom vanity area were destroyed by the sustained 100-degree heat.

Furthermore, when we had addressed this problem and began to prepare dinner later in the evening, we went to open the freezer and discovered that the door was already open – it was pushed to and appeared to be closed, but was not. That, in combination with the 90-degree downstairs temperature (and bearing in mind that these conditions had lasted all day until we discovered them), necessitated discarding the majority of the food in our freezer for fear of spoilage. Certainly, all of the ice in the ice trays was completely melted, which indicated to us that nothing in the freezer had been maintained at a safe temperature. I have no idea why your employees would open my freezer, but it was firmly closed at the time we left the house in the morning.

By way of background, at the time of your employees’ last prior visit on April 12, 2005, we arrived home to find our digital cable box unplugged, with the result that the cable box had to be reset and the digital channel guide required several hours to reactivate. Worse, some glass item had apparently been broken on our kitchen floor, and there were several large glass shards remaining on our floor. While we don’t have any valuable glassware stored anywhere in our kitchen, we do have two toddlers and were understandably dismayed to find broken glass where they might walk on it or pick it up. Moreover, there were NO glass items out to be washed that day, so it’s a bit of a mystery to us why there was broken glass in the first place. Certainly, I believe most companies’ policy is for employees to report to the service, and the service to report to the client, when any item in the household is damaged or broken during cleaning. That was not done. Again, these were matters more of inconvenience than of damage, but after yesterday’s disaster, I feel compelled to bring them to your attention.

I suspect that your response would be along the lines that these incidents were accidental, that I can’t prove that any of this was done by your employees or even that it occurred, and so on. However, no one is in my home during the day between the time we leave and the time I arrive home from work. Moreover, I don’t intend to turn this into a civil dispute. I don’t know what change has been made in your staff during April, but these sudden problems are remarkable and disappointing after several years of satisfactory cleaning services.

At this time, I will be seeking the services of another cleaning company and wish to terminate my service effective immediately. I realize that your $75.00 fee for the April 26, 2005 cleaning has not yet been paid, and to be honest, I believe that amount has been more than offset by the perfectly good food and cosmetics we were forced to throw away and by what promises to be a large increase in our Gas Company bill for the expense of heating and maintaining our home at 90-100 degree temperatures for an entire day.

Please return the two keys to my home which are in your possession to me, by mail, within 24 hours of receipt of this letter. Responses, if any, regarding this matter should be made in writing, as no telephone calls will be accepted.

Regretfully,

/s/

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.