The Gayest Thing I've Ever Seen.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Evil Things
Today I met Ben at South Coast Plaza for soy lattes and a little shopping; we've been needing to spend more couple time, and lunchtime rendezvous are the perfect vehicle for that. It involves fighting the noonday traffic, and South Coast Plaza is swarming with both housewives and the work/lunch crowd on a Wednesday noon, but it's well worth it in time spent laughing and flirting like we used to do. See what kissing leads to? Two little kids snapping at your heels, one enormous belly, and not enough of the stuff that produced the kids in the first place, that's what.

In our travels we stopped off at the Sephora store to sample the new Philosophy shower gels. After some sniffing and some discussion, we settled on one bottle of Coconut Milk and one of Hot Cocoa, then approached the cash registers. Our cashier had hair cut in a cute chin-length bob and bone structure reminiscent of Jennifer Aniston's. Imagine our surprise when our cashier spoke to us and we realized that our cashier was a man.

It wasn't Pat; he was far more effeminate than that, clearly female, or so it seemed to the casual eye. Now, I'm the last person to be put off by gay men, or if not exactly the last, I pretty much shrug and think Cool, whatever floats your boat. But this cashier was the knee-jerk caricature of gay, the epitome of gay, the embodiment of every gay stereotype you've ever seen or heard. Lisping, limp-wristed, ever so consciously camp. Now that was shocking to me.

Imagine happening upon a black guy who was walking along making goo-goo eyes, eating watermelon and picking cotton. To me, this was the same thing, and I'm not at all sure what to make of it. Gay people don't make me uncomfortable; I've known a whole bunch of them, and they are just like everyone else. We all do our own thing when the lights are off, after all; we all prefer to have sex with whatever kind of person is attractive to us. But this cashier made me uncomfortable. It was the stereotype thing.

Why is this? Am I really uncomfortable with gay people deep down, and don't like to be around them unless they "blend in"? Who's to say? I don't have time to think about it right now, but I wish I knew.

Ivory-Billed Woodpecker In My Backyard!
Mood:  special
Topic: Geekery
I lie, of course. God, I lie. This is not the ivory-bill, as anyone can tell from the lack of white feathers on the wing edges. This is the pileated woodpecker, its close cousin.

Pronunciation was an issue, so I went searching once and for all for the proper way to say pileated; is it pill-ee-ated or pile-ee-ated? Apparently both are considered proper, but I found a webpage featuring a Poindexter with binoculars around his neck who held that according to the rules of pronunciation, it had to be pile-ee-ated; if it were pill-ee-ated, it would have to have two Ls.

I related this to Ben. "What about depilatory?" he asked immediately. I stared at him. (Prick.) "Well, this guy's a bird geek, not a grammarian," I replied. "But I'm going with pile-ee-ated."

Immediately after taking this picture, some disaster involving the boys pulled me into the house, and when I looked back out the window, my pileated friend had fallen from the jade tree, which is located near the feeders, to the ground. Dashing outside to rescue it, I told this to Ben, and we looked at each other and said simultaneously, One of them must have tried to fuck it.

My woodpecker's virtue was intact, I think, but it sure is fun being married to someone who thinks exactly the same way you do.

Extreme Kitsch.
Mood:  incredulous
I'm not kidding; these are the actual objets d'art which daily grace the top of our living room television set. You are not hallucinating; they are two ceramic schnauzers (one complete with roll of toilet paper), a gilt Buddha and three Jesus figures (Jesi?). The latter consist of a Buddy Christ, a dashboard Jesus on a spring who looks extraordinarily Middle Eastern, and a Jesus Action Figure complete with raisable arms and wheeled base for smooth gliding action.

The theology of all this is a bit questionable, not to mention the esthetics, but you have to admit it sums up our general household personality for those walking in the door for the first time.

Meanwhile, we spent yesterday busting our middle-aged butts around our house and garden, and today promises to be more of the same. Apparently we're nesting. I told Ben that however much the rest of us want to procrastinate about various projects, the one person in this household who is not going to delay her assigned task is Julia Rose Kathleen. She's due to appear in three months tops, and we've got to get a move on. How'd this pregnancy slip by so fast?

Gonzo Lactivism.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Rants


Sometimes, when mom and baby are wacky breastfeeding nuts, a baby's gotta do what a baby's gotta do. Sam and Matt agree. I've seen pro-breastfeeding messages before, but very few with quite so much edge. Of course, the moment I laid eyes on this shirt, I knew I had to get it for Julia. She probably won't wear it over to my mom's house, though. Mom hates it when I put black on my baby girls, always has, and I'm not completely convinced she quite knows what a pussy is, even though my dad was a big James Bond fan.

Happy early birth day, Julia Rose. I promise you won't ever taste that nasty shit unless absolutely necessary. Your brothers will totally support you. Boob men all.

Little Jenny And What Became Of Her.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Some people are going to keel over from shock at this news, but I've been listening to some music that doesn't date back 25 years; in fact, the album in question was released in 2004. I'm talking about Rilo Kiley.

Back when Erika was a kid, there was a little actress named Jenny Lewis. If you're female, you might remember her as Shelley Long's daughter in Troop Beverly Hills (1989); if a gen-X male, as the tweener female lead in The Wizard (1989) with Fred Savage; or if a male wanker, as the only chick in Foxfire (1996) who didn't show her tits. Back in her child actress days, there was something about Jenny that made you notice and remember her -- the red hair, maybe, but also a way she had of looking at someone and delivering a line that said You are completely full of bullshit, and don't think I don't know it. My kind of girl. I never forgot her.

So when she popped up years later as the lead singer in the L.A. indie band Rilo Kiley, I was taken by surprise. There is, of course, an Elvis Costello connection. I was listening at work to his Artist's Choice collection of songs put out by the insidious Starbucks (which includes offerings by artists as diverse as Louis Armstrong, Paul Simon, Diana Krall, and Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell), not really paying attention, when one of the cuts made me look up and think Interesting. Who IS that? It turned out to be Rilo Kiley, and the cut is Does He Love You? from the More Adventurous LP. Little Jenny has grown into an accomplished singer and, as I might have expected, a wry and witty songwriter.

People! This is probably the only time you will hear me rave about any "current" artist, especially a female singer -- I tend to refer to such people as Alanis Morrissette and Jewel and Fiona Apple and their ilk as a bunch of stupid boring twats whining about their stupid boring feelings -- but Jenny caught my attention, even before I realized it was the same Jenny. The girl's got a quirky angel's voice and a whole lot of chutzpah. Woman after my own heart. Buy her album.

What A Wonderful World.
Mood:  amorous
Topic: Sam
Last night we were all lounging in bed watching So I Married An Axe Murderer (1993) with Mike Myers. At one point, Mike mistakenly walks in on Amanda Plummer while she's in the shower, and there is a brief view of naked soapy backside.

"Hey! I saw that naked girl!" Sam said.

"What, did you see her butt?" I asked.

"I saw her woo-woo," Sam confided.

"There aren't any woo-woos in this movie," Ben interjected.

"There are woo-woos everywhere!" Sam exulted. He spread his hands wide and flashed his biggest grin. "Welcome to my world!"

Words fail me.

Oh God, Part Deux.
Mood:  energetic
Topic: Geekery
Surprise: I'm not about to bitch about something. Well, yes I am. But it's something I'm actually sort of excited about, while simultaneously kicking myself and railing against my own folly.

Y'see, they have been painting our townhome complex. To that end, we had to rip out all the climbing ivy rooted in our yard which has been so tenderly overgrowing our next door neighbor's wall for all these years so they could, well, paint the wall. It wasn't going to be so good if they just painted over the ivy, you know? So out it came, by the roots.

Over in the other side of our yard, beyond the sandbox and the three bird feeders (and bearing in mind that our yard is the size of a paper towel and most of that is paved), is the pitiful shadow of the garden I so ambitiously put in five years ago, when we were newlyweds and I didn't have all these kids running amok. It's long since gone to seed. A xeriscape, Ben called it, and that is true only if xeriscape is a euphemism for exactly like a hideously overgrown vacant lot, except located unhappily within the confines of my yard. So, pregnant or not, I must undertake some serious emergency gardening, because otherwise I am going to burn down my backyard.

So, my Bright Idea: I am going to turn my little yard into a bird haven, populated with native plants and, in addition to the feeders, such bird-friendly equipment as water supply and maybe even a nesting box. It's a plan that's been percolating in my little pea brain for quite a while, and probably the house finches are to blame. But the idea has taken hold of me, and now, damn it, it's like a case of the herpes. I will never get rid of it.

Of course, it's going to be a major pain in my ass, what with all the research required (So Cal is full of imports of every kind, from flora and fauna to automobiles to registered voters, and for this purpose I must make careful distinctions), not to mention the actual purchase of the plants, the anguished cries of my husband as I sign off on the sales slip, and the hassle of getting my family out of my hair long enough to actually put the stuff in. (That is, assuming I'm physically able to do more than point and say please by that late in the pregnancy.) But I'm a girl on a mission.

Please, there is something wrong with me. The last thing I need is more stuff to nurture; but God help me, I can't stop myself. Hello, my name is Gretchen, and I'm an incurable mommy masochist. Excuse me, I'll go chain myself to a fence and beat myself up now. Just as soon as I figure out which native shrub to plant against the eastern wall.

Coo Coo Ca Coochie.
Mood:  on fire
Topic: Evil Things
This morning I was about to step out of the shower when I suddenly realized my coochie was still full of soap. As I sighed and turned the water back on, I figured that stood to reason; I haven't seen the benighted thing in weeks. Which could only mean one thing: the hedge must be in need of a pruning by now.

I sighed again and pulled out the scissors, reflecting that this particular exercise is a lot like carefully tending a garden no one can ever enter or indeed approach, because it is guarded by three angelic imps who never sleep. But a girl has certain maintenance duties, and these days, the grooming of the woo-woo has found a place on that list.

It wasn't always that way. Back when I was coming of age, the only thing required was that we keep the area squeaky clean. The upkeep of the Fun Zone with razors and such was considered racy indeed, in those days when Fear of Flying topped the bestseller lists. Gamely, I tried the shaving thing when I was about 18, with the result that I suffered first razor burn and later, of course, stubble. My boyfriend at the time, who was also an English major, dubbed the region the fretful porpentine, a la Bill Shakespeare. (Thanks a lot, hon. You got yours later, the time I tried to give you a "sensual massage" with that homemade cinnamon oil concoction. How was I to know cinnamon was so caustic? That wasn't on purpose. I swear it.)

These days, I act my age and adopt a style best described as well-trimmed retro, which like my taste in all hairstyles is hopelessly outmoded. In the 21st Century it's deemed obligatory to go Brazilian, or at least do a landing strip. Shit, even Morgan Fairchild, who is even older than I am, shaved down for her Mrs. Robinson stage role, as Miss Doxie hilariously revealed. Razor burn is no longer an issue, thanks to modern technology; I think Howard Stern's girlfriend has her parts sanitized of secondary sex characteristics by laser removal. Me, I'm sticking to my guns. I figure that if God had intended for men to tangle with bald coochies, He would have made it legal to have sex with eight-year-old girls.

The people I really feel bad for are gynecologists. Before my beloved former coochie doc retired, I used to puzzle over the etiquette of how to present my see-you-next-Tuesday when I went in for my pelvic -- he was around 70 years old and I figured too much grooming might scare him to death. But if the guy's a gynecologist, you have to figure he sees plenty of scary coochies anyway, what with yeast and chlamydia and what have you. The idea of that dear old man spending his day facing down twats with infections and heart-shaped curlies was more than my mind could handle. So I refused to think about it, and so should you. However mightily some of them might dispute it, that would be enough to turn any man gay.

Here Is My Money. There Is My Mouth.
Mood:  chillin'
Topic: Pregnancy
In the interest of finally putting my money where my mouth is, I give you: The Belly At The End of the Second Trimester, in order to prove once and for all that I do not have a single stretch mark to show for the three puppies I've already grunted out and the final puppy I'll be grunting out later this summer. The navel may be half-inverted and beak-shaped, the tattoo faded and stretched and barely visible, but of stretch marks there is not a one.


What good this does me, I am not altogether sure, and furthermore, I am far too sleepy to work it out -- it's not quite midnight on the West Coast and I was only startled awake by the transition from Matt kicking my belly from the outside to Julia kicking it from the inside. Perhaps that's how they communicate with each other? But earlier this evening (or does that count now as last evening?) I asked Ben to photograph my belly, to prove no stretch marks. And here is my proof. One doesn't need to have stretch marks to have babies, and one needn't be awake or coherent to blog, either, apparently. So it's back up to bed with my warm little Matt and my Julia-laden belly. Good night, kids, and easy on the kicking, please.

The God-Help-Us In The Mirror.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Evil Things
I must preface this entry by pointing out that I am not a beautiful girl, nor am I artfully groomed or coiffed. I have large teeth, fine hair, "natural" fingernails, and Eastern European thighs (thanks a bunch, Ma!). My looks are routinely described, at least to my face, as elfin, not pretty. My body, while not unbearably hideous, is nonetheless in the process of producing my third child after the age of 40, with all that entails (except stretch marks! Ha ha!). And my hair, although pregnancy this time round has mysteriously made it curly, has been in a style best described as God only knows what, with bangs, for the last 25 years or so.

So you might say I lack standing to criticize anyone's appearance. But I'm going to do it anyway, because Christ Jesus alive, what in hell are some people thinking?

First of all, let's take men's hairstyles; or more to the point, let's take most of them and thrust them away from us with a sharp stick. In the '80s we had spiky hair for men, and wasn't that an eyesore all round? I have never seen a hairstyle that can spoil the good looks of 95% of everyone like a spiky 'do. Take Sting, for example, who is a handsome man and who completely ruined his looks in the '80s because someone (who was THAT asshole?) decreed that spiky 'dos were de rigeur for male rock stars. Even today, there's a guy in his 20s who works in my office building and who would be perfectly adorable if he'd just wash out the three tons of gel and let his poor tired hair have a lie-down. But he's doing the retro spike thing, and as it is, he looks like a science experiment.

I was so relieved when that look mostly died, then nearly plotzed when it was replaced not so many years later by shaved heads and goatees. Y'all -- what the smeg are you thinking? Patrick Stewart you ain't, nor Yul Brynner, nor even Telly Savalas. If you shave your head, then everyone can see your bumpy ol' noggin, which would look perfectly acceptable if you'd just drape it in a Beatle cut instead. Rule number one: Unless you have science fiction bone structure, everyone on earth looks better with some hair around their face. As for goatees, I have two words for you: prison pussy.

(By this time, I have succeeded in insulting the husbands of almost all my female friends, plus half the other random males who are reading this, except for those who happen to be my old old friends, because y'all have retained your common sense as far as what not to do with your hair, and y'all look great. To anyone who is insulted, I can only say (1) you should know to expect that from me by now; and (2) tell him to shave his damn chin and grow his hair back already, because damn, why would anyone want to look like he's just walked out of Rahway? I will admit that yes, my tastes are hopelessly behind the times, and yes, I would be perfectly happy if every male on earth would just put on a Beatle wig and have done with it. And to that I reply, to paraphrase Calvin's dad: I blog what's right, not what's popular.)

I would like to close by sending shout-outs to (1) the woman in my building with the teased, black-black dyed hair with the three-inch-wide streak of purest snow white in the front (Hi, Cruella!); (2) the chicks who are 50 pounds overweight and run around in belly shirts, because y'all make it so easy for my husband to honor his marriage vows (I have the good sense to cover my fat from his sight with flattering clothing until the lights go down); and (3) that broad with the femullet at the Arco station this morning, for making ordinary girls like me look not only good, but relatively educated and affluent.

I would never ordinarily encourage anyone to emulate Michael Jackson, but in this case, some people should definitely start with the man in the mirror, because he's apparently the only one not going oh shit, what's up with THAT?

GOD.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Rants
So, I got an awesome Mother's Day present, and my snake is cuddled up in my bra and I'm all happy and stuff. It transpires that the gift of the snake was a sort of atonement in advance for something I didn't yet know was about to happen, some stuff that was guaranteed to irritate the living shit out of me, and Ben knew it. And in typical Ben style, he decided that it would be easier in the long run to atone afterward than to gain my permission. He's right, of course, but still. GOD.

I knew very well that our friend Brian and his 13-year-old son were coming over to barbecue last night. What I didn't know was that they would come toting another 13-year-old boy and some annoying blonde. I don't take to my husband's friends' females, especially the kind who are trying hard to make a good impression, because usually I am stuck having to entertain the Barbie of the week while the men go off to drink too much red wine and argue about when to turn over the steaks. Pregnant, I am somewhat less patient than that. Our little dinner party tested me to my very limits.

Oh, she was ingratiating to a fault. Right away she's saying stuff to Ben and me like Oh, I can sense that you're the kind of people who . . . Just fucking beautiful. She's been in my house for five minutes and she's getting all Deanna Troi on my ass. But, y'all, she's qualified! She has a college degree! In communications! The only major on earth that's more Mickey Mouse than mine [English] was!

And then of course we had to hear all about my cute pregnant belly, and how cute it is, and don't I look cute in my maternity top? (With a snake in my bra, which apparently I have because I am such a cool mom for little boys. Hello, if I were really a cool mom, I'd be playing Game Boy with my kids instead of blogging and playing with snakes.) So cute, the belly and the snake and all. And then, without further preamble:

SHE. TOUCHED. MY. BELLY.

Didn't just touch it. Fucking caressed it. Anyone who knows me at all knows that this is a very, very bad idea. There are a tiny handful of people on earth who are allowed to touch me without reserve, and if you're reading this, odds are you're not one of them. I had to restrain myself to keep from scooping up my passport and leaving the country on the spot.

Later, Ben and I found ourselves alone with Brian in the backyard.

Me: So how long have you been going out with this one?

Brian: I'm not going out with her. We're just friends.

Me: Good. GOD.

Brian: Why?

Me: SHE. TOUCHED. MY. BELLY.

Brian: But I like her. She has big tits.

Me: She does? Okay. But still. She touched my belly.

Brian, who had downed approximately 800 glasses of red wine by that time, immediately started rubbing my belly himself, whereupon I invited him to go rub some random bit of Ben and leave me the hell alone, thank you. He's an old old friend, and I can talk to him that way. Whereas I had to be nice to the Barbie, because it's not typically my job to scare off Brian's girlfriends; he does a wonderful job of that all on his own.

Did she have big tits? God, I don't know; I guess so. Not big enough to justify all the annoyance, I didn't think, but what do I know? Ben assures me that large breasts can atone for a multitude of sins. Fine, but I'm not the one trying to get her top off. Let Brian listen to her psychobabble.

She did say one entertaining thing in the form of an observation that Ben and I reminded her of Phil Donahue and Marlo Thomas (presumably because we are a big white-haired guy and a little curly-haired brunette with bangs and a big mouth). Now that shit cracked me up. Oh yeah, just like them, if Marlo said shit a lot and Phil dealt in offensive humor. The evil Phil Donahue and Marlo Thomas. Ben and I had some fun with that one, later.

I could easily rant for another half-hour about the effect of a pair of bored, rambunctious 13-year-old boys on a Sam and Matt who had not napped, the additional 800 glasses of red wine Brian consumed before the night was out (it was his 49th birthday, but it sure is odd being around drunks when you don't drink yourself), and the further blitherings of the blonde, who will have been long since replaced with a different blonde by the time we see Brian again. But: GOD. From where I sit now, Monday morning is a bit of a relief.

Meet The Fearsome Bra Snake.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Geekery
Meet my latest baby. He's a baby ball python, only a few months old. I met Erika's red-tail boa yesterday afternoon, and he was so cute and cuddly (yes, cuddly) that nothing would do but that I have my own snake. Ball pythons are gorgeous, as you see, and are so named because of their defensive habit of curling themselves into a tight ball when threatened. Better yet, he will only grow to about three feet in length (males don't grow so large as females). I don't want an enormously huge snake, and I don't relish the idea of feeding guinea pigs, even though I hate those little fuckers and do tend to believe that the only good guinea pig is a dead one. So the ball python is the perfect size for me.

I'm trying to raise him tame, so I handle him a lot. And because they like warmth, the perfect place to carry him is in my bra. Trust me, I am not one of those types who think reptiles are erotic, like this chick -- in fact, that type of thing has a prominent place on my ewww list. (Also, it's too obvious.) But your cleavage is a great place to carry your snake, trust me. In this sense, it's a clear advantage being female, because if I were a guy, I can't think of a single bodily crevice where I'd be inclined to stash a small python.

(It's really funny to watch Matt, who as you may recall has an issue about constantly reaching into my top, come to grips with the snake in his Mommy's bra. Last night after the snake was safely back in his cage, Matt kept climbing into my lap and looking down my shirt to see if there were any pythons in there. Ha ha, kid -- you've been supplanted! Wait till the baby comes along. It's going to be every man, baby and snake for him- or herself.)

After careful consideration, I've dubbed him John Paul, for three reasons:

(1) In honor of the Pope, of course. I am Polish Catholic.

(2) May 7, the day I brought him home, is the feast of St. Stanislaus, bishop of Krakow. Pope John Paul II was bishop of Krakow, and the story goes that he wanted to be called Pope Stanislaus I, but the Italians put the kibosh on that one right quick.

(3) I relish the irony of mixing snakes and the Church; you know, the snake is quite a problematic figure to the Christian way of thinking. But at our house, there is no separation of Church and snake!

I have become pretty good at folding laundry with a snake in my bra, and am off to practice that skill. As a child, I would have been startled quite out of my wits by the news that in 40 years I would spend Mother's Day with a python in my bra. But you know, it's not so bad.

But Why Would He Want To Be A Skeleton?
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Evil Things
The Michael Jackson prosecution has rested, and that odd Ben Franklin/William Penn clone, Mesereau, has commenced putting on the defense. First up: A "dancer/film director" (!!!) who testified yesterday that although he visited the Neverland Ranch over 20 times as a boy, Michael never tried to put a move on him.

Maybe it's just that Michael didn't think he was cute enough to molest. Do you think that's ever occurred to the guy -- that Michael simply didn't find him sexually attractive? I wonder if his feelings are just a little bit hurt.

Sam came up to the computer and saw a photograph of Michael leaving the courthouse with his poor mother, Katherine Jackson, and here is how that conversation went:

Sam: Eww, Michael Jackson. Who's that lady?

Me: That's his mother.

Sam: She's not a skeleton.

Me: No . . . his mother is just a lady. See, Michael Jackson wasn't always a skeleton. He became a skeleton, later. At first, he was just a kid.

Sam: He was?

Me [realizing that Sam might now be worried about becoming a skeleton himself]: Yes, but see, he wanted to become a skeleton. People don't just turn into skeletons, but when he grew up, he wanted to be one, so he went to the doctors and told them to turn him into a skeleton. Nobody knows why.

Sam: Is his mother scared of him?

Me: Probably.

Sam is not a fearful child, and I'm glad of that. That's some strange world his mind cooks up, populated with deliberate skeletons lurking in courthouses and dead birds flying through the air. He's a sunshiny kid, really, but who knows -- perhaps I have given birth to the next Tim Burton.

Birding 101: Sam Meets The Great Blue Heron.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Geekery
Driving the boys to day care this morning, I was conversing with Sam about George Harrison's music when a pair of great blue herons flew about 20 feet over our van as it crossed the Santa Ana River bridge. Whoa, I sighed instinctively, even though great blues are in fact as common as SUVs in these parts. Sam asked what was up, and we had the following conversation:

Me: A couple of great blue herons flew right over us. You know those great big birds with the long necks and long legs that stand down by the water? The grey ones? Well, a couple of them just flew right over us.

Sam: Really? Were they dead or alive?

Me: Well, if they were flying, they were alive, weren't they? I mean, you don't see birds flying around, dead. If you see them flying, you can pretty much figure they must be alive.

Sam: Right. That would be scary, if they were flying when they were dead.

Me: I sure wouldn't want to see it.

It's important to know your dead birds from your live birds. Next, we'll study the Norwegian Blue parrot . . .

Good Morning, Julia Rose.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
My baby is getting strong in there, and she's kicked me into reluctant wakefulness around 4:30 a.m. these last two mornings. Can't a girl get any rest around here? It's raining and windy today, and Matt opened his eyes briefly and smiled his biggest smile at me before cuddling back down -- tough to tear yourself away from a friendly bed like that one, but Julia Rose assures me it's morning and no time to still be in bed.

Outside, the house finches are already singing and farting around in the feeder. I'm embarrassed to admit that up until yesterday I believed them to be the purple finch, and it bugged me for years: Why in hell is it called the purple finch when the coloration is clearly orange to red? Well, now I know. I could have identified the little fuckers by their calls, which are said to be distinct from those of the purple finch (wheat versus churlee). But I have certain boundaries when it comes to bird geekery, namely that I do not go trying to distinguish among various sandpipers and I do not kill myself trying to hear and sort out calls. There is such a thing as taking things too far.

(The Louisiana Ornithological Society has a detailed article in one of their winter newsletters on sorting out the differences among the three common U.S. rosefinches, namely the house finch, the purple finch and Cassin's finch. Apparently making this ID is an issue even for really extreme Southern birding geeks, so I don't feel quite so bad. Thanks, guys.)

Well, there's one mystery less, Julia Rosefinch, and now it's off to face another day. Maybe it's not so bad being kicked awake before dawn; together we've sexed the tarantula and hit the rosefinch problem clean out of the park. What a team. But if you wake me up early again tomorrow, we're going to have to cure cancer or something. These things can only be taken so far.

Wow, Check Out That Uterus Externus.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Geekery
(This is not a large, dead spider cuddled alongside my glasses and latte mug. If this were a large, dead spider, I would have screamed very loudly, broken both the glasses and the mug through leaping gracelessly out of my seat, and certainly would not have taken the time for a photograph. Furthermore, God, does my desk need refinishing.)

Have you ever found yourself in the middle of doing something, humming tunelessly and puttering along, only to suddenly realize that what you are doing is something most people would find extremely odd?

For the past half-hour -- that is, beginning at approximately 4:45 a.m. on a Wednesday, while it is still dark outside -- I have been poring over the newly molted exoskeleton of my Mexican Red-Knee, examining abdomen and chelicerae in an effort to, well, sex my spider. In this regard I've been perusing texts crammed with helpful advice like The chelicerae of females are larger, wider and more robust than in males. (Breene, College of the Southwest, Carlsbad, NM.) There is a scientist in Atlanta who will sex your tarantula for free if you mail him a fresh exoskeleton treated with alcohol, but honestly? I just haven't the energy.

Arachne is really only a baby yet, a birthday present last Halloween weekend. So, hard to tell much in terms of the spermathecae. I'm going to go with the chelicerae and pronounce her still a female. She sure is a bitch; then again, if I'd just lain on my back for eight solid hours and then crawled clean out of my skin, I'd probably be surly too.

Speaking of surly, it's getting light outside. And now back to our regularly scheduled weekday routine. Have a good day, stay in your skin if you can, and mind those chelicerae.

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.