Finally, An Entry Which Includes Actual Writing.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Rants
There is something remarkably liberating about having my Comments broken. It's the way I used to feel doing the 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. shift back in my college radio days: Is anyone listening? Maybe not! Maybe I'm back-announcing to no one but myself! But I digress.

The fact is that I have been in serious mode (see photo; now DON'T I LOOK SERIOUS?) for a few weeks now. Serious about making money, that is. The law firm where my husband works, which I call my biggest client, is in fact my only client, and I have been spending my days there. They've got me stashed in a nice big office, way up in front near the receptionist, far far away from Ben's. (This is a good thing, because it keeps us from goofing around together too much on the job.) And now that I am in business for myself, the quantity and quality of my work product becomes crucial.

I get easily bored on the job, just as I used to get easily bored in high school and college and even in law school. As John Berryman wrote in The Dream Songs, "Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so." Do I ever agree! The practice of law is particularly boring, even more so for paralegals than for attorneys, because we don't even get to argue in court or send fuck-you letters to opposing counsel. We're the legal janitors; we handle the messes the lawyers don't want to deal with. If it's tedious or thankless or just generally a pain in the ass, that's when they say Fuck this. Give it to one of the paralegals.

Too bad I couldn't stand to stay married to Anthony even one minute longer. I'd have been a lawyer for years by now! Still bored, probably, but at least I'd have been better paid. And I ADORE writing fuck-you letters. If you've got a really good vocabulary, you can insult the shit out of people without them even realizing it!

But I didn't come here to bitch; all this started out as an explanation of why I never write anymore, or follow my friends' blogs properly, or post in my groups or e-mail anyone. (Well, there is one noteworthy exception to that last, but that's another story, and I AIN'T TELLING IT.) I hope y'all have enjoyed my recent silence as much as I've enjoyed yours!

And my kids are snapping at my heels again, as they tend to do; and I am SO out of here. Enjoy your Fourth of July holiday, everyone. We are planning to illegally set off a bunch of fireworks in our cul-de-sac (because although our house is in Costa Mesa, where they are legal, our cul-de-sac is in Newport Beach, where they are NOT). Shhh, don't tell the Newport Beach Police -- although they are SO swamped with drunk-in-publics down on the Peninsula they won't have time for us. BONUS.

BULLETIN BULLETIN
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Rants
Bloody comments are BROKEN, BROKEN, BROKEN. Tripod's response: Yes, we know! La di da da! (Wow, thanks, guys. That was SO enlightening.)

Drop me an e-mail at gcrumpac@pacbell.net (no, Tripod doesn't allow clickable e-dresses! Thanks again, guys!) -- or light a candle and curse the glare.

Tropical Heat Wave.
Mood:  cool
Topic: Rants
Here it is the first of June and already Southern California is brandishing summer at me again. To Southern California I say Yes, yes, yes, summer. Too right. You know how to do summer. Shit, you're the LORD of summer! But -- what else have you got?

To which Southern California, typically, does not reply.

It is stupidly hot here in the OC today. Too hot to move. Too hot to be doing this laundry or cleanup or errands or what have you. Definitely too hot to blog. So I leave you with a small tour of my front garden.

Coke Blakmail.
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Rants
You might have noticed that the Coca-Cola company has come out with a rather interesting response to the current energy drink and coffeeshop wave. This is Coke Blak, which is basically coffee in Coke.

I have to admit that it's pretty brilliant. Whoever dreamed up that one must have received a tidy bonus and maybe even an upgraded office. Coke Blak is sold in four-packs of small bottles. Ben and I picked one up at Target this morning.

And you know what? The shit is GOOOOOD. The combination of Coke and coffee has an interesting taste, and of course coffee with carbonation is a novel experience. They don't have a sugar-free version yet, which is a damned shame; but I don't think we will be buying any more Coke Blak anyway.

Because after we got home, I perused the Target receipt and discovered that the four-pack had cost me $5.99. FUCK! You hear that? Six bucks for four piddly bottles of soda with coffee mixed in. The shit costs nothing to produce -- why the high price tag? Four bucks I might swallow, but six bucks shocks the conscience. Assholes! I guess they figure the yuppies will pony up for anything and not blink an eye at the price. WRONGO BONGO.

Of course, Ben and I immediately started experimenting with homemade Coke Blak. Thanks to my pretty yellow espresso machine and the twelve-pack of Diet Coke we had just purchased, I was able to come up with the same substance for a fraction of the cost. The problem? Is that the Coke foams up like there's no tomorrow when you put the coffee in. I've tried adding the Coke to the coffee and adding the coffee to the Coke, and every time it's the same effect. FOAMARAMA.

I'll get it right eventually though. Those fuckers! They came up with a great product, but that price tag is tantamount to jeering at you.

Auntie Meme.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Rants
God, I am SO fucking out of it, what with beating my brains out trying to conjure up some money without signing up with the Borg for yet another assimilation. I'm too old to be an outlaw.

So, without further ado, my answer to the fours meme. Those of you who know what I mean, know what I mean; and those of you who don't, please humor me. I've been under extreme duress these past few weeks.

Four Jobs I've Had:
1. Candy girl in a movie theatre.
2. Paralegal.
3. That is all.
4. There ain't no more.

Four Movies I Could Watch Repeatedly:
1. Raising Arizona
2. The Wedding Singer
3. Twister
4. Everyone Says I Love You

Four Places I've Lived:
1. Hatboro, Pennsylvania
2. Newark, Delaware
3. Middlesex, New Jersey
4. Newport Beach, California *

* Yes, the ACTUAL fucking Newport Beach.

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch:

1. Dave the Barbarian
2. The Simpsons
3. Home Improvement
4. The Brady Bunch

Four of My Favorite Books:

1. A Son of the Circus by John Irving
2. The Stand by Stephen King
3. Last Chance to See by Douglas Adams
4. Galopagos by Kurt Vonnegut

Four Places I've Been on Vacation:

1. Kauai
2. Long Beach Island, NJ
3. Tobago Cays
4. Palm Desert

Four Websites I Visit Daily:

1. CNN
2. National Weather Service San Diego
3. Bank of America
4. U.S. Bankruptcy Court Central District of California

Four of My Favorite Foods:

1. Bread pudding
2. Latkes
3. Scrapple
4. Dim sum

Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now:

1. Hell in a handbasket
2. The golden road to unlimited devotion
3. Easy street
4. The Starship Heart of Gold

Four Bloggers I Am Tagging:

In Southern California, tagging is something you do with spray paint if your name is Ramon. I'm not tagging a fucking thing.

. . . There's something about responding to things like these that just feels so centerfold, to steal a Miss Doxie-ism. It's like My turn-ons include long walks on the beach and men who love their mothers! My favorite color is pink, and I'm going to try to the ignore the fact that you're staring up my cooch right now!

Once again, you're probably thanking God I don't turn on the camera.

Well, Isn't That Special.
Mood:  special
Topic: Rants
I have been thinking of Hindu gods, and of writing.

I've always admired Hindu gods for their pragmatic usefulness -- the way they are always endowed with multiple eyes or arms or what have you. I was imagining what the Hindu goddess of mothers would look like. Surely she would have many eyes, and many arms, and many breasts. To watch over everyone, to do all the work, to hug everyone that needs hugging, to nourish everyone and also to entice Daddy to come home to her, rather than to some teenage temptress, at the end of every long day.

As far as the writing thing goes, I had been fond of saying for quite a while that I would like to write, but that the Dave Barry job was already taken -- that he was the original funny blogger, and so on, and wouldn't it be nice to spend your days setting Barbie dolls on fire in your driveway and writing columns about it, or Googling the word booger and blogging about it.

I thought I was original. I thought I was unique. But the more I read of and about Ayelet Waldman, I realize that it's her job I really wanted -- the funny witty loving blogging nursing mommy, married to a gorgeous and wonderful man.

Goddammit. Am I doomed to be forever a day late and a dollar short? Surely there is room in the world for a mommy blogger with a potty mouth and a heart of gold. Well, shit, I guess there is, because here I am. With my thousand eyes and multiple arms and dozens of boobs, a midlife Hindu geek/goddess come to life.

Maybe I don't have to worry about having missed out on the Dave Barry job or the Ayelet Waldman job. Maybe someday someone will lament missing out on the Gretchen Crumpacker job. Or not. Either way, I'm going to have the time of my life finding out.

Public Service Announcement.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Rants
A little Jewish bird from New Jersey pointed out to me today that my Comments thingy is again possessed by Satan and, apparently, a black hole, because it has been eating comments and otherwise spewing hate into the Universe. I hesitate to say anything uncharitable about Tripod because they, after all, have got hold of my blog. However, I can and will say that the chronic evil manifested by my Comments is testing me to my very limits.

Lovely AB Chao is too busy fixing Miss Doxie right now to help me. Miss Doxie's blog takes priority over my blog because she has so many things I don't -- readers, for example. Anna Beth is up to her ass in alligators, which leaves me rather high and dry. There are many problems with being as old as I am, and one of them is that none of your realspace friends know dick about blogging. Therefore the following cry for help:

If you, or someone you know, can fix me up with a better place to keep my blog -- I mean, migrate it, without losing my Tripod entries -- which will have Comments which are not evil but which is still simple enough to be used for blogging by a total idiot, viz me, and where I can keep my domain name, please send that person my way. I would offer some sort of compensation for their services, possibly consisting in whole or in part of services of my own. And just for the record, you know: That doesn't include oral. Sorry.

My Comments thingy, however, is not sorry. Not sorry at all.

Primary Sex Characteristic.
Mood:  flirty
Topic: Rants
There are certain likes and dislikes that seem completely tied to gender. For example, you will not see a man drinking a white wine spritzer -- not unless he has an extensive collection of Streisand and Garland CDs at home. You will not, as a rule, see a woman whose most fervent ambition is to learn to burp the alphabet.

There are exceptions to these generalizations, of course, but they are few. I recently asked some women friends -- girls with sassy senses of humor, too -- if they liked the Three Stooges. You know, to see if the chicks hate the Stooges rule holds true even with a bunch of girls who appreciate a good dick joke. I was surprised to learn that most of them stayed true to their gender. Almost without exception, they hated the Stooges. Especially Curly, the Stooge who (surprise!) guys love the most.

But I think I may have found the real touchstone, the defining preference. Because my husband and sons are right now lined up on the couch riveted to Big Trouble in Little China (1986). Good Christ, I hate that fucking movie. And every guy I have ever been close to, regardless of background, education or income, has loved it. My husband, the Mensa guy -- the guy with not one but two postgraduate degrees, the guy sworn to uphold the United States Constitution, he of the Beverly Hills High School varsity water polo team, my beloved husband -- is right now sitting on the sofa howling over things getting blown up and sniggering over the Asian actress whose name is pronounced Suzie Pie.

I think I have chanced upon something which is truly universal. And I think I speak for women everywhere when I say that the only thing stopping me from turning off the TV is the intensity of the howls of protest which will surely follow.

Depressing, But Not!
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Rants
When I was in my thirties, I had a shtick I used when I had some enormous humiliating zit on my face, and it went like this: Yeah, I always thought I would stop breaking out when I got out of my teens. Then I thought it would stop for sure when I got out of my twenties. But now here I am in my thirties, and I still get the fucking things. Totally unfair. I mean, zits AND wrinkles?!

It usually brought a smile, although it didn't do a goddamned thing about the fact that I had a protuberance on my chin that looked like an extra nose. A big, red extra nose.

This morning I realized those days are gone. Despite the hormonal cacophony that accompanies pregnancy and nursing, I haven't had a zit in I can't remember how long. I can slather my entire face with moisturizer and not have to fuck around with stuff like the T-zone, because now everything is dry. Shit, I don't even use soap; I use some Crap in a Tube by Philosophy which has annoying cosmic debris printed on the package, but which does give my skin an endearing baby-ass smoothness.

So, you know, depressing. Because I'm so old I don't even have zits. I just have wrinkles.

But, you know, not! Because HA! I don't have zits.

Devil Winds.
Mood:  on fire
Topic: Rants
The Santa Ana winds are blowing, dammit. If you want to feel close to me, turn your hair dryer up to HIGH and HOT and stick your face in it. That is the weather at my house today. It is ninety-nine fucking degrees and windy as hell. And you know what usually happens next? Some asshole tosses a cigarette, and Laguna Beach burns down.

In Southern California, this is what passes for football weather.

Make My Day.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Rants
Julia and I went to Target today. My little angel was decked out in a grey striped sleep-and-playsuit, a hand-me-down from Matt, and has been in a testy mood of late. Call it colic or what you will, but the bottom line is that she must be in her mom's arms at all times, or she screams as though she were being boiled in oil. Makes me feel needed. Thanks, kid. And so it was that I sashayed up to the register, pushing the cart with one hand and cradling my darling girl with the other.

The cashier might have been Erika's age, or perhaps younger than that. And as I began unloading my cart, she chirped, Awwwww. Is that your grandson?

Nothing makes your afternoon quite like the news that some Stridex princess thinks you're a crone and your daughter is a she-male.

Goodbye Dr. House.
Mood:  surprised
Topic: Rants
This has got to be the year for health care providers up and fucking deserting me, because I got the word last week that our beloved family doctor, David House, is going over to Kaiser, that bastard, where we cannot follow him. Now, in this day of HMOs, personal relationships with one's doctor are largely a thing of the past; most people change doctors as easily and unemotionally as they change underwear, and probably have closer personal relationships with the guy who bags their groceries than they do with the guy who instructs them to turn their heads and cough. But Dr. House has been a constant in our family for over 15 years.

He's about my age, I think, and we sort of grew up together. It was sometime in the '80s when we met him; he diagnosed Erika's asthma when she was about Sam's age, and we liked him -- a young affable guy who didn't look quite old enough to be a doctor, but endearingly endowed with both heart and humor. We followed him to his various postings around Orange County, and as the years went by, he became the family doctor in a more global sense; as of today, he is the primary care guy for all four of my children, my husband, my two ex-husbands, my sister, her entire family, and God only knows who else. Plus, you know, he's probably looked up my see-you-next-Tuesday more times than my husband has.

For Dr. House's sake we have all been journeying to a Godforsaken neighborhood in Santa Ana where his office is located, but you know, he's worth it. (Plus there's a fantastic British pub a few doors down.) He's seen me through three marriages; three miscarriages; the chronic migraines, insomnia and Paxil that were the hallmarks of my marriage to Anthony; the insertion of my IUD; its removal when Ben and I decided to have children; and all the events and milestones of my life and my family's for over 15 years. He's been a friend and a confidante and a supporter, a constant in my life as almost no one else has been -- he's certainly lasted longer than any of my marriages to date! Plus, you know, he's kind of a hottie. There was a time in my life many years ago, long before Ben swept all other males off my menu, when I totally would have had at him. And he probably knew it, but was good enough and smart enough to pretend not to notice. That's the sort of guy he is.

And now, after all this time, he's leaving us, all of us -- that bastard! I know his Hippocratic Oath forbids him from sleeping with patients, but shouldn't it also forbid him from deserting us? So, you know, I'm heartbroken, but I wish him well -- because if he's really a friend, as he has been, I owe him that much. And our new doctor, Dr. Galluccio, has Dr. House's recommendation and blessing. So that's a comfort. But good Christ, I'm going to miss that guy.

Here's to you, David House. Love you to pieces, you patient-abandoning son of a bitch. You're a rare one.

The Nicky Situation.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Rants
I have a problematic relationship with my dog.

You may recall that Nicky joined our family a couple of months ago during a fit of insanity on my part, at a time when I was eight hundred months pregnant and the last thing on earth we needed was a new dog in the house -- much less an undisciplined rescue job. All male miniature schnauzers are born with a heaping tablespoonful of Crazy -- it's their birthright. Add to that a questionable family life and sketchy obedience and potty training, and you have quite a little hellion on your hands.

But I'm a fool for mini schnauzers, and I have to admit that Nicky has his endearing qualities. The potty training issues we have largely overcome with walks through the neighborhood so that Nicky will have lots of opportunity to scent mark -- because for Nicky, peeing and pooping aren't just bodily functions, they're political statements, urgent messages to the world. The neuter surgery has also helped this along. He's calmed a lot of his snappish tendencies and now looks on with happy bemusement as Sam and Matt rampage through the house -- he even puts up with a touch of good-natured abuse.

But his barking is a problem. I mentioned before that Nicky had been "debarked" before we met him -- and after a couple of months with him in my household, I can certainly see why they did it. Most dogs bark at things: people passing by, noises, sirens, other dogs. Nicky just barks. I have seen him stand and bark at a shelving unit for five solid minutes. He barks at chairs, specks of dust, and indeterminate points in midair. Furthermore, he does it tirelessly; while the "debark" thing means that the volume of his barking is turned way down, the barking itself is still audible and never stops. Therefore, apart from the usual ear-scratching and so on, most of my interactions with him consist of some form of shut UP, Nicky, punctuated by occasional obscene embellishments (Nicky, would you PLEASE shut the fuck UP) or speculations of an improbable nature (Nicky, let's see how you bark with MY FOOT UP YOUR ASS).

This can't be a healthy relationship. I also spend a lot of time preventing him from eating the children. He has a habit of licking Julia's feet, which makes me nervous because Julia always smells like milk, and you know, MILK Bones. So I push him away. And then he starts nosing around at Matt, and Matt says Nicky is trying to EAT me! and gets freaked out. So when I'm not yelling at Nicky to stop barking, I spend a lot of time peeling him off the kids.

Furthermore, he throws up. And he always does it right behind my chair while I'm nursing Julia, so here's how that goes: Nicky wolfs down a gigantic meal and then begins barfing it up all over the little rug. I know this because he starts making that noise like a washing machine, so I start yelling at him to stop throwing up. And then after he throws up, he starts EATING IT, and Ben comes in and starts coaching and encouraging him to eat it, because then Ben does not have so much to clean up, but the entire thing is just too repulsive for me to handle, so I'm howling at him to stop. And meanwhile Julia is nursing and the boys are yelling and I am howling and Nicky is barfing and probably also barking, and do you see where this is just completely freaking insane?

Hello. This is our house. Welcome to Crazy.

So, right now, Nicky is asleep at my feet and the baby is asleep in my lap. Things are peaceful. But the rest of the time? Crazy, and I feel bad that my entire relationship with my dog consists mostly of me yelling at him to stop barking, yelling at him to stop puking, and yelling at him not to eat the children. I feel like I should be spending more, I don't know, quality time with him. But then again, I hardly spend time with my husband. In my constantly changing landscape of priorities, Nicky is inevitably going to end up somewhere in the background.

I hope he's a happier dog than he was before he came to us. I guess that's about the best I can do. Maybe our chaotic household is the logical place for an insane barking dog. Besides, we've got to have someone to blame when we fart.

Stockpiling.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Rants


This Hurricane Katrina shit is seriously freaking me out. Life has a layer of unreality painted over it. Suddenly my husband's paranoia doesn't seem so paranoid; I realize that in the event of a really catastrophic earthquake, we could easily be in the same situation. There really isn't as much distance between here and there as we like to think. That is something this crisis is bringing home to everyone: It could have been us.

There are certain things you can see coming. It's easy to look at New Orleans and say that what's happening now wasn't a question of whether, it was a question of when. That's a city situated between the Mississippi River and Lake Pontchartrain, below sea level, in an area prone to hurricane strikes. Maybe the only remarkable thing is that it's taken this long to happen. Similarly, the geological fault systems running through California are well-mapped, active and extensive. No one wants to think about it beforehand, but some folks on the Gulf Coast are thinking about it plenty right about now. I'm thinking about it too.

The Crumpacker household is actually pretty prepared, as compared to most people, for emergencies. We have some food and water stockpiles, water filtering equipment, radiation pills, camping equipment, a couple of firearms, stuff like that. But you bet your sweet ass we're going to be taking a serious look at our preparedness and patching the holes. Because it could have been us. It could so easily have been us. And next time, maybe it will be us.

I went to Target at eight o'clock this morning to lay in some supplies. Not disaster preparedness supplies; just stuff. It was eerie walking around in there, the store nearly deserted at that hour, all the quiet empty aisles full of food and water and camping equipment. Everything orderly and under control. And somehow that seemed very strange. So was my shopping list. I purchased the following items:

- Three ten-packs of plastic child-sized clothes hangers
- Seven packages of Senseo coffee pods
- Six two-packs of Mam Crystal pacifiers
- Two twelve-packs of Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper
- One Ren & Stimpy complete first and second season (Kricfalusi episodes) on DVD
- One Teen Titans T-shirt in boys' size extra small

The Target clerks are probably calling the authorities even as we speak. I mean, what could anyone want with so much caffeine and so many pacifiers? If the end of the world comes this Labor Day weekend, Matt's oral fixation and my caffeine jones, at least, will be covered.

Hurricane Katrina Interlude.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Rants
Send lawyers, guns and money.
The shit has hit the fan.

I Don't Like Mondays.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Rants
First of all: We didn't get enough sleep. Ben didn't, and I didn't. In fact, he hardly slept all night; I could tell this because every time I got up to pee again, or rolled over to shift my pregnant bulk from my left side to my right side, or to extract Woody from my armpit or a pacifier from my butt crack, there was Ben, lying awake channel surfing. He'd set his alarm for 5:40 a.m.; he had a plane to catch this morning to San Jose.

When my alarm rang at 5:42 a.m., he spoke up: I don't have to get up for another hour.

What do you mean? I asked.

I rechecked my flight schedule, he said. About an hour ago. He rolled back over, and I left him alone. If he got three hours of sleep last night, I'm surprised. That's my husband and me: Two insomniacs who passed in the night.

I took the boys to day care and went to work, arriving at 7:45 a.m. Set about my day, when at 8:15 the cellphone rang. Day care lady calling. What's this? The boys had fevers last week.

Sam is crawling with head lice, she reported. Matt won't cooperate and let us see if he has them too, but chances are he does. Come get them.

I went over there. They caught them at day care; they had to. Lice are common in school and day care settings because they are passed by children to other children. My kids don't see other kids outside of day care; they aren't in school yet, we don't have friends with kids, and their youngest cousin is in junior high school. Unfortunately, the day care lady had other opinions.

We've checked the other children and no one else has them. Your kids brought these lice here, and now I'm going to have to spray and sanitize the whole place and call all the other parents. She rejected my suggestions that one of the new kids who just started there in the last few weeks had brought them in, and also suggested that it was extremely rude of me to maintain my kids had caught lice at her house, not infested it.

Well. This is a woman I've known for 21 years. She's practically family. To my everlasting gratitude, I didn't burst into tears until I was buckling the boys into the minivan. And then I found it hard to stop. I bawled and sniveled for a good 45 minutes, all the way back home, where I started the lice treatment. Sam was cooperative. Matt, as is his wont, screamed and protested.

Nicky snapped at Sam when Sam got too close to his doggie bed. Sam's feelings were hurt. I was horrified.

During all this, the phone rang. Day care lady calling. I've had to send five more kids home with lice, she said. We've identified who brought it; apparently they picked it up camping. Everyone's being treated. Ah, vindication. A bit late, but I'll take it.

During the conversation, Nicky snapped at Matt when Matt got too close to his doggie bed. Matt was terrified and started crying. It's becoming clear that the dog was never taught any manners and will be a rehabilitation project. One for which I have the time, strength and patience? God, I don't know. He certainly is cute, but I have, er, a lot on my plate.

I'm back at the office. My oldest is home with the boys for the rest of the day. Ben, in San Jose, has been kept apprised of the surprises the day has yielded so far. What fresh hell is this? he must be thinking. I trust -- I hope -- that he will come safely home to the bosom of his family this evening, instead of (as must sound tempting right about now) immediately looking for a nice quiet bachelor apartment somewhere.

I don't like Mondays. Julia? Thanks for not being born last week. I would have hated for today's chaos to have been one of your first days on earth. Life is hard enough without snappish dogs and head lice to herald your debut.

Heat Wave.
Mood:  on fire
Topic: Rants
Southern California is having a heat wave. Many people assume the climate here is generally hot, but that's not really true; coastal Orange County has what you'd more properly call a Mediterranean climate, with mild rainy winters and mild summers, too. Especially in the beach communities, where we live, it often doesn't get above the 70s and there is generally a sea breeze. (Inland is another story, and that's why we don't live there.)

This week, though? It is beastly. Humid, thanks to the local "monsoon" effect and the remnants of Hurricane Emily passing to the south. And stupidly hot. Newport Beach hit the 90s yesterday. And my poor sons are battling high fevers.

I'm not mad at the mother who sent her 10-month-old to day care with the virus that infected all the other kids this week. Well, that's not exactly true; I cursed her as recently as 1 a.m. today while waddling to the kitchen for children's Motrin. But these things happen. And probably the only thing worse than being nine months pregnant in 90-degree heat and high humidity is having a fever of 103 in the same conditions. My sons are being typically sweet and upbeat despite their obvious discomfort. I really feel for them.

Once again, my friends on the Eastern Seaboard are turning up their noses; I can see them from here. Feh, they are saying. Welcome to my world. We put up with that every summer. You used to live out this way. Deal with it. To which I say For living in this plastic paradise, this land of BMWs and Botox, I deserve a Mediterranean climate, if only as compensation for the wear and tear of having to deal with people from Southern California on a daily basis.

Maybe so. But as Clint Eastwood said, Deserve's got nothing to do with it. At least this week it doesn't. Meanwhile, I look forward to cooler weather, healthy sons, and a new baby. Not necessarily in that order.

The Waiting Is The Hardest Part.
Mood:  on fire
Topic: Rants
So I put in my application to Schnauzer Rescue yesterday and am now anxiously awaiting a response. There are other applications on file, but we've been promised we will be considered. So now there is nothing for it but to wonder whether little Annie will be coming home with us.

I hope so. Then again, I hope not, because my God, what are we thinking? What will be will be. And whatever will be, I hope we find out soon, because I am not patient so much. In fact, I am not patient whatsoever.

Last night Sam asked if Santa ever brings puppies. I want to be Santa.

Taking Control.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Rants
You want to know the worst thing about being the only female in a houseful of males? Well, the gaseous emissions, true. But also, just try getting your hands on the remote control.

Ben, in particular, is proprietary about the remote. At nights we sleep with the bedroom TV on all night, with the reminders he has set popping up periodically to remind him that some black-and-white war flick from the '40s is coming on at 3 a.m. He just can't control himself, you see. A chronic insomniac, he can't seem to get it through his head that if he would just roll over and close his eyes instead of compulsively flicking through all 400 channels, perhaps he'd be able to sleep at nights. When he does fall asleep, it's with the remote control gripped in his left hand, and if I awaken in the night and take the remote, he will half-wake, grabbing for it and panicking a bit to not find it there. You'd be less upset if you woke up and found your dick missing, I told him once. I wasn't really kidding.

It truly pains Ben when I've got hold of the remote. This morning he had an early court appearance so was up when I was, flicking through channels and generally getting underfoot. Which woke up the kids, so I picked up the remote to tune in an on-demand Blue's Clues episode. Ben, on his way into the shower, paused in the doorway. Hit play, he instructed me. And turn the volume down. Keep it at level 2. I turned to him and said Will you quit freaking supervising me and get in the shower already? You see? He just can't stand it.

What is it about men and the remote control? His sons are already picking up on it; Matt periodically picks up the various remotes, one after another, and tries them out on various appliances in the room, and on me, seeing if he can turn me off. It will be nice to have another female in the house. Let the three boys fight each other for the remote.

The World As We Know It.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Rants
This is day number 227. You're 32 weeks pregnant . . . There are 53 days until your due date! (18.9% to go)

Why on earth do I keep looking at that pregnancy calendar thingy every day? I know only too well how long I've got left, how soon the changes are coming. Soon we will meet our new baby, but there's a part of me that wants to put on the brakes and slow things down. Are we really ready for this?

Every day, in every aspect of caring for the kids, the thought lurks around every corner: Soon there will be three. As in more of them than there are of us. Folding laundry, writing the day care check every Friday, trundling the boys out to the car in the morning: All those things, very soon now, are going to increase by one child.

I'm tired. So tired. A lot of this is due to the 5:42 a.m. alarm (I always set my alarm for an "odd" time; keeping things interesting, you know) and the sheer physics of dragging around this enormous belly, I know all that, but do I have energy enough for three little ones? Arms enough to hold them all? Heart enough to love them all? I do. I know I do. But some days I feel daunted, and unsure that I am up to the task.

Matt, in particular, tears at my heart. He is the baby; he has been the baby for two and a half years. At nights we cuddle to sleep and I feel his warm little hands grasping my neck and my hair as he drifts off, murmuring in my ear about warm sleepy Matt things. Soon there will be a new baby, needing a world of warmth and cuddles and comforts of her own. Is there enough Mommy to go around?

I felt these things late in my pregnancy with Matt, but this time it's stronger. Have you ever had that feeling of anticipatory nostalgia -- already missing days that aren't quite gone yet? Our lives are about to change forever, and Julia will make our days immeasurably richer, as babies do. Soon we won't be able to remember what life was like without her. But for now, I savor the present.