Adventures in Potty Training, or, sometimes the two year-old is smarter than me.

So, potty-training isn't going very well.

And it's all my fault.  Seriously, it is.  I suck at it.
I am not firm.  I am not direct.  I am not adamant.  I am not vigilant.

I did make a potty chart with the promise of stickers.

It worked once, mainly because I caught Sena at the tell-tale moment of her grunting and crouching in the corner.

"Do you have to go poop, Sena?"

Sena (grunting and pointing accusingly at me): No, Momma!  Go away!

How dare I disturb her when she's taking a dump!
Of course, nobody likes that!

"Well, I'm going to go to the potty."  So there, I thought.

I walked into the bathroom.

Sena, grunting and crouched over, actually followed me.

And she used the potty.

We took a picture!  And make a short celebratory video!  She got a sticker!  And a cookie!

That was in February, and she hasn't done it since.

Looking back, perhaps our enthusiasm freaked her out.

She has absolutely NO interest in using the potty.

And I haven't really pushed her.  I mean, eventually she'll be potty trained, right?  I mean, you don't see grown adults walking around in diapers, right?  Unless they are those freaks with the diaper fetish.  (Yes, they exist).

I'm sure my mom is appalled.  Apparently, a few months after we were born we all knew how to use the potty.  We also made our beds, played nicely, never threw tantrums in the grocery store, unloaded the dishwasher, and knew how to make a dirty martini.

Kids these days.  Pathetic.

So the other day we are at the park and I had to go to the bathroom.

"Sena, I have to go to the potty.  Come with me."

"Otay, Mommy.  Hold my hand."

We walk up to the park bathroom.  But it was locked.

"Oh crap!  I have to pee."

"Crap, Mommy!"

"No, Mommy has to go potty."

Then Sena gave me a look.  A look that said, "Well, if you had on a DIAPER like me, you wouldn't have this problem, now would you?"

At that moment I really did wish I was wearing a diaper.

It was a long and difficult walk home.

Safety First

So because the weather here has been insanely warm (I have lilac buds coming out already!) Sena and I have been spending a lot of time outside.  And a lot of time at the playground, which is only about a half mile from our house.

A few years ago the playground was completely renovated and they put in all these great jungle gyms and swings and slides and sculptures that look like Danish modern art but are really things for the kids to play on.  Everything is brightly colored in yellow, red, blue and green.  There is a rubberized path through the sand, no sharp corners, all the swing chains coated in rubber.

In short, it's really really safe.

And it's totally different from the playgrounds I remember.

I remember rusty swings, rusty monkey bars, rusty Merry-go-rounds (my God, those things were dangerous!)  It was less like a Merry-go-round and more like a Puke-o-wheel.  I remember hooking my legs around the bars and letting my head hang over the side as we spun like dervishes.  If you were a total bad-ass you could impress the other kids by waiting until it was going as fast as possible and then run alongside and jump on.

I imagine it is exactly like hopping onto a moving train, because if you missed and fell underneath you were dead meat.  That was the Merry-go-round -- kid practice to becoming an expert train-hopping hobo.

I wonder why Merry-go-rounds no longer exist?

The other thing I haven't seen in years is a Teeter-Totter, or as we called it, The Board-of-Pain.

Our Teeter-Totters were wood, so you had to be careful not to get a sliver stuck in your butt, and because I was a total beanpole as a kid, I always got stuck up high and my brother or whomever I was Teeter-tottering with would sit there and watch me with an evil smile as I pleaded and whined and threatened to get let down.

Then they would.  By jumping off it.  Then I would come crashing down to the ground.  If you were lucky you could time it and catch yourself with minimal pain.

If you were lucky.

So I was thinking this as I watched Sena finally get up the gumption to go down the big, slow-moving, plastic slide by herself. (We had metal slides that turned to lava in the summer sun and seared the skin off the back of our thighs.)

She jumped off the edge of the slide and yelled, "I did it!"

I was so proud.

Then she tripped on the safe rubberized walkway climbing out of the sand and fell on her face.

I picked her up and dusted her off.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm otay, Mommy."

About five minutes later I tripped on the rubber walk and almost fell on my face.

I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that's called irony.

Spring in the City

Even though we still have a few inches of snow on the ground, I know spring started this morning.

No, I didn't see a robin.

Or a crocus.

I saw the surest sign of spring.  A crazy bum on the sidewalk, talking to himself and lurching around.

Yes, they are out of hibernation, and, like a grizzly bear, highly unpredictable and easily agitated.

So I'm walking the mile in to work.  I park on the residential street in Minneapolis and walk about a mile because:

1. There is no free parking around the U.
2. I refuse to pay to park to go to work.

I mean, it's bad enough to have to GO to work.
I'm not going to PAY money to do it.

So I walk about 20 minutes and I like it.

Except when you have run-ins with the crazy bums, who like to hang out in this particular area of Minneapolis, very close to downtown.

Me (looking ahead and seeing the tell-tale aimless shuffle of crazy bum): Oh goody....

I make extra noise as I walk in his direction, lest I startle him.  It's like when you're hiking in the wilderness and you wear bells, to let the bears know you're coming.  I briefly wonder if they make crazy-bum bells.  I bet they sound like tiny police car sirens.

I cough and stamp my feet louder as I approach.  Crazy bum man is lurching in both directions, taking up most of the sidewalk.  Suddenly, he stops and turns, seeing me for the first time.

I smile, careful not to look directly at him.  He might get spooked.

Crazy Bum: "Hey!  Are you following me?"

Me (laughing as I pass by): "No."

Crazy Bum (laughing): "Just kidding!"

Me: "Okay."

Crazy Bum (still laughing):  Herggaboodala... mrrrff...booga...

I pick up the pace slightly.  Even though he was wearing a big hoodie, I'm pretty sure he had a tin foil hat on underneath it.

Staycations suck

So we are grinding our way through January, and even though we've had a crazy warm winter so far, it is still winter in Minnesota, and therefore way too long.

Unfortunately there is no trip to Mexico or the Caribbean this year.

So instead you can look at this picture I took years ago.  I found it yesterday when going through some photos.

Good Lord!  I'm artistic!

If you stare at it long enough you will start to think you're there.

It helps if sit in a steam-filled bathroom in your swimsuit, then drink about five or six rum daiquiris, then fall over onto the tile floor (use your beach towel for cushioning) and then stare into the ceiling lights until you can actually hear the sound of waves crashing.  Either that or someone else just flushed the toilet.

See?  It's EXACTLY like a Mexican vacation.

Without the diarrhea.

How To Be An Idiot - condensed version

It's only four days into the new year and I think I just broke (or horribly disabled) the paper shredder in the office where I work.

It's a humongous, industrial strength paper shredder.

It probably costs $10,000 dollars or something.  Maybe a million, I don't know.

Usually I just recycle stuff, but I had a bunch of personal things like bank statements and crap so I got the bright idea I would bring it all to work and shred it in the huge paper shredder.

I was so excited I started shoving in papers.
Then more.
Then I shoved a whole fat stack.
It went almost the whole way.
Then it made a noise like someone was squeezing a mouse.
Then it stopped and tried to reverse.
More mouse squeezing noises.
I tried to shove it through.
Didn't work.
I tried to pull it out.
Didn't work.
I started hitting buttons.
A smell of burnt paper puffed out.
I looked around.
It was early in the morning so there weren't any witnesses.
I said, "Goddamn it, muthafucka!  Shred!"

It didn't work.

The red light kept blinking.  I hit more buttons, but the squeal changed to a dying gurgle.

The light went off.

I killed the paper shredder.

So then I did what any intelligent person would do.

I ran away.

2012 is starting out to be awesome!

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

Never, never, never, never give up.
-Winston Churchill

If I learned anything in 2011, it was this.

I wish you all a great 2012.  Only three hundred some odd days until the apocalypse.

Better go make them count.


ESPN: The Finish Line 2 - Short Feature from Evolve Digital Cinema / IMG on Vimeo.

Write. Revise. Repeat.

I just received my editorial notes from my agent, so I will probably not be blogging too much until they are finished, which will probably take a few weeks to a month.  Some of the notes are easy fixes, but some are questions that need to be explained.  I have some answers, but there are also insightful questions I have no answers for, except for something intelligent like, "Ummmm.... hmmm... oh yeah, maybe I should figure that out."

When I write I sometimes have no idea what I'm doing.  This is fine for rough drafts.

It's fine if the reader isn't quite sure what's happening.  They will read to find out.  And it's fine if the main character isn't sure either because somewhere within the story they will figure it out, too.

But the author needs to know what's going on. From the beginning to the end.

So I need to figure out what's going on.  Story of my life.  No problem.

In the meantime, quick! Lookey here!  Pictures of a cute little 25 month-old.  She is talking up a storm these days, complete sentences and everything.  Why, just the other day she smiled and said, "Shit!"
I said, "No, Sena.  Don't say that.  That's bad."

She smiles bigger.  "Bad shit!"

Can't argue with that.

A Long and Winding Road

Approximately ten years ago I got a weird idea in my head.

I wanted to run a marathon.

I wanted to see if I could do it.

I always ran, but never long distances.  I thought it was some kind of boring torture for masochists.

But I started with a mile, then three, then five.  I started to like it - the solitude, the repetition, the stress relief, the calm that comes from working so physically hard that you have no room left for anxiety or fear or disappointment.

I would think a lot of random thoughts on those runs, training for that race.

The one I kept coming back to was this:
I want to write a novel.

So I did.  I approached it the same way as running a marathon.  A few yards, a few miles at a time, but in this case they were sentences and paragraphs and chapters.

I ran my first marathon in 2000.  It was horrible.

I wrote my first book, a three hundred page novel, in 2001.  It was horrible, too.

But I finished it.

And then I decided to keep going.

I even decided to go back and take writing classes.  I would take a class or two each semester, practicing and getting better, learning how to give and take critiques.

It's hard to believe it took a decade to get to where I wanted, but in some ways, I think it needed to happen the way it did.  For the first time in my life, I had to work really hard at something I wanted.  It wasn't just going to fall into my lap.

As a kid, I never had to work particularly hard in school to get good grades or kill myself to get on the varsity team.  Usually I would quit if I thought something was too hard or I wouldn't even try if I couldn't be sure I would succeed on the first try.

Not this time.  I really learned what rejection and failure felt like.  It sucks.

But then I got over it.

I promised myself I wouldn't quit until I got there.

They say, at least they do in Apocalypse Now, that victory smells like napalm in the morning.

I don't know about that.  I don't necessarily consider this a victory, but more of a vindication of sorts.

Vindication smells even better.  And it tastes like champagne.

So I would like to introduce my new agent, someone who apparently gets my sense of humor, God help her.

Her name is Hannah Bowman, and she is a literary agent for Liza Dawson Associates in New York.

I will write more about the book I wrote and the query letter that got her attention in a later post.

When the student is ready the teacher will appear

Last Wednesday everything changed.  As many of you who read this blog know, I have spent the past few years writing a novel with the hopes of finding a literary agent to represent me.

In the past year, I've sent out many, many query letters.

And received many, many rejections.  Some helpful, some not so much.

So I went back and revised.  And revised.  And rewrote.

Then rewrote some more.

I kept trying.

I kept getting rejected.

I got drunk and cried.

I got drunk and cursed the universe and felt sorry for myself.

Then I rewrote it again.

A few weeks ago I finished the last rewrite.  I typed the last line.  I sat there and looked at it.  I smiled.  I thought, "This is good.  This has potential.  It feels right."

Then I panicked and thought, "If no one likes this, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do."

Then I started sending out queries again.

On Monday I got a request to send 50 pages.  I did.

On Wednesday I got a request to send the full.  I did.

Wednesday afternoon I got an email with a request for a phone conversation for Friday.  I almost puked on my keyboard.

I couldn't sleep those nights.

On Friday I took the call and was offered representation, and was given a week to get back to other agents who requested my full.

So by this Friday I will have an announcement, an announcement that I have been waiting years to make.

This student is ready for the next chapter.

The post in which I am verbally burned by an eight year-old.

I am outside, walking around watering flowers, dressed like I usually am when working in the yard, which I like to call, "mentally disturbed sporty hobo chic".

The neighbor girl Lily runs into the yard.

Lily: Can Sena play?

Me: She's still sleeping, but she should be up from her nap soon.

Lily: Why are you wearing socks with your sandals?

Me: Well, I had on my tennis shoes.  Then I took them off.  Then I put my sandals on because I didn't want to walk around in my socks.

I don't say I was too lazy to bend over to stuff my running shoes back on.  The way I am dressed sort of implies "laziness".

Lily:  That's weird.

Me: Socks with sandals?

Lily: Yeah.

Me: Well, some people wear socks with sandals.

Lily: Who?

Me: They're called Europeans.

Lily: We call them something different here.

Me: What?

Lily: Dorks.

Oktoberfest

Oktoberfest in La Crosse, Wisconsin is almost exactly like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, except instead of boobies and beads there is a lot more beer, bratwurst and Leiderhosen.

And instead of French culture there is German.

And dead squirrels.

And because there wasn't any cows around to tip over, they use cars instead.

At least they didn't light them on fire this time.

Oh well, there's always next year.

I'm sure the Germans with their sturm und drang and zeitgeist and schadenfreude would be able to come up with a great word for dead squirrel tossing.

I'm bringing sexy back.

So with all this stuff about sexting and whatnot, I decided to give it a try.  With my husband.

We've been married a long time.

A long time.

But there is a problem.

I don't text.

So I sent my husband an email instead, and in the subject line I wrote: SEXY SEX

Me: Hey, can you get the number of that roof guy and see if he can come out sometime for an estimate.

Matt emails back.

Matt: Yeah, that is not a sexy email.

Me: I know, but I figured if I wrote "roof" in the subject line you would delete it.
How smart am I, mofo?

Matt:  You can't outsmart me!

Me: It looks like I just did.

Matt: Your mean.

Me: It's you're, not your.

Matt: I don't think you understand sexting.

Me: I don't think you understand grammar.

A little while later.

Me: Can you pick up some ~~~millllk~~~ on your way home?

Matt:  What's ~~~~~?

Me: It's how I say milk very sexily.

Matt: I give up.


On a side note, I only ever received one obscene phone call in my life.  And it wasn't even obscene.  And I didn't realize what was going on until after it happened.  I was in high school and even more stupid than I am now.

Scene: My parent's house in 1990.  Near dinnertime.  I'm in the kitchen and my mom is sitting at the table when the phone rings.

I answer.

Me: Hello?

Caller: Hi!

Me: Hi.

Caller: How are you?

Me (thinking it's one of the neighbor adults or a friend of my dad's or something): Fine.

There is silence for a moment.

Me: Did you want to talk to someone?

Caller: Yes!

Me (in my snotty fifteen year old voice): Okaaaaayyyyy?

Caller: What are you wearing?

Me: Clothes.

There is silence. I still haven't figured it out yet.

Me: Well???

Silence.

Me: I think you have the wrong number.

*click*

As I hang up the phone, I realize what just happened.

Me: Oh my God!

Mom: What?

Me: I just got an obscene phone call!

Mom (horrified): What did he say?

Me: He asked what I was wearing.  I said, "Clothes."

Mom: What else did he say?

Me: Nothing.

My mom starts laughing.

I hang out by the phone, half hoping he'll call back.

He never does.

The post in which I describe hitting a bicyclist with my car, which turns out to not be a comedy or a tragedy but a gigantic pain in the ass

I don't know how to write this except to do it in screenplay format.  And my screen play format sucks because I don't really know screen play format.  Bear with me.

Scene: 5pm, North Minneapolis (not the bad part).

I pick up Sena from Grandma's house and begin the process of driving to I-94 to go back to the south side of the city.

We proceed east on Dowling Avenue (through the bad part).  I am driving the speed limit and as I approach the intersection of Fremont Avenue, which has stoplights, I see something I normally see.

Teenagers dinking around on their bicycles.

Backstory:  At this corner is a little quicky mart where a lot of kids "hang out", so this intersection is always hopping.

I see the two boys ahead of me, swerving and cruising around on their bikes.  They are taking up most of the right lane.

I approach Fremont.  The light is still green, but the "don't walk" sign is flashing.

I get closer.  The light is still green.  I keep the corner of my eye on the boys, who are annoyingly close to my lane.

I think, "Dumbshit kids.  What are you doing?"

They apparently don't know either because at the last second the kid makes a wide curve, turning DIRECTLY into the path of my car.  I am fifty feet away from the intersection and the light is still green.  Somewhere in the deep dark part of my mind I saw this coming.  My foot is already twitching off the gas pedal.  Here it comes.

I don't remember what I said.  Or if I said anything.  I think I made a noise, but all I remember hearing is the absolute burning squeal of the tires on blacktop and then one millisecond later, a thud, crunk, and bash of metal being crumpled.

The kid disappears from my passenger side window.  He is down.

I put the car in park, terrified he is under my wheel.  But I don't move.  I don't want to move the car and make it worse.

Sena hasn't made a peep.

All of a sudden I see the kid pop back up, glazed unseeing eyes, a look on his face like he smelled something bad.

I put the car in park and rummage around in my bag for my phone.  Then I get out.

Me:  Are you alright?

Kid: Huh?

Me: Are you hurt?

He doesn't answer, but starts to walk away.

Me (pointing to the curb): Sit down.

He goes and sits on the curb.  I think he might be in shock.

Some idiot screams from a passing car:  Get their insurance!

Me (muttering):  Asshole.  Do you think I was going to drive off?

Then I realize that in the neighborhood I am in, people do drive off.

I see the front tire of the bike under the front wheel.  It is bent to shit.

A woman comes up next to me with a phone:  Are you calling?

Me (dialing 911): Yes.

Woman: Okay.  I saw it all.  I was coming the other way.

I call 911 and someone says a car is about a block away.  Two squads show up in less than two minutes.

I go back to the car to check on Sena.  She is staring at me with big eyes, but doesn't say anything.

Me: You okay, punkin?

Sena:  Mmmmraaaah.

I sit in the car and a cop comes up.  I roll down the window.

Cop:  Hi.  Are you okay?  Is the baby okay?

Me: Yes, we're fine.

Cop (looking around):  Well, I can guess what happened.  Cut right in front of you, huh?

Me: Yes.

Cop: Yep, see it all the time.  Had the green light?

Me: Yes.

Cop:  And not even close to the intersection.

Me: Nope.

We talk more and basically it is obvious that I didn't do anything wrong, but that the other stories he hears will probably be different.  After all, what kid is going to admit he was doing something that colossally stupid?  He has me back up off the bike (a nice Trek by the way) and pull over to the side to free up the traffic.

He takes my insurance and information and so do the medics who come to look at the boy.  He appears to be fine, scrape on his leg but nothing broken.  I am relieved.

Cop:  Call your insurance.  Here's the case number.  They'll want to know.  In case they sue.

Me: Sue?

Cop:  Yep.  That's what a lot of people do.

Me: Christ.

Cop: Yep.

Me: Do you know Sergeant _____?

Cop:  I know Officer _______.

Me: Yeah, that's what I meant.  I think he works this precinct.

For some reason whenever I think of titles, sergeant comes to mind, not lieutenant or major or captain.  I think I read too many Beetle Bailey cartoons as a kid.

Cop:  Yeah, I know _____.  We trained together.

Me: He's my cousin.

Cop:  Really? I have to tell him later.  I think he's working tonight.

After about twenty minutes I'm free to go.  I pull away.

Sena (looking at the crowd by the sidewalk and waving): Bye-bye! Bye-bye!  Bye-bye!

Bye-bye, indeed.

We get home.  I leave a message for Joe, my insurance agent.

Then I feed Sena dinner and think completely divergent thoughts:

I am relieved.
I am annoyed.
I am pissed.
I am grateful.
I am happy to be here.

Good Advice

How to check a baby's diaper, wear a hat, iron a shirt, avoid falling bovines, prevent wheelchair owners from careening into alligator ponds, and the best evacuation advice I have ever read.

Have a good Monday, and you can thank me later for saving your life when that Holstein falls off a cliff and narrowly misses your Subaru Outback.

Playground Jungle

Scene: Playground at Hiawatha park near our house

I'm pushing Sena on the baby swings, and a little girl (Susie) comes running up.

Susie: Hi!

Me: Hi.

Sena: ???
(she doesn't talk to strangers, but stares instead)

Susie: I love to swing!

Me: Yes, it's fun.

Susie (swinging & swinging): Baby, baby, baby, ohhhhhh!

Me: Is that Justin Bieber?

Susie: Bieber, Bieber, Bieber!  I love Justin Bieber!

Me: Really?

Susie: I also like Usher.

Me:????

Susie: See that dinosaur? (points to the Loch Ness monster, Minnie, who is floating in Lake Hiawatha)

Me: Yes?

Susie: That's MY dinosaur!

Me: Okay.

Susie (points to Sena): Is that your baby?

Me: Yes.

Susie: How old is she?

Me: In a few months she'll be two.

Susie: So she's one.

Me: Yes.

Susie: I'm three.

Me: Three's a good number.

Susie: How old are you?

Me: Thirty-five.

Susie: ??????

Me: That's three and five put together.

Susie: ?????

Me: It's old.

Susie nods at me as if I'm trying to explain String Theory and she understands what I'm saying.

Susie: I'm going to go on the teeter-totter now.  Bye!

Sena: ?????

Me (looking at Sena): Well, you still think I'm cool.  For now.

End Scene


Also, here is a video of a baby monkey riding on the back of a pig.  Yes, you're welcome.

Persuasion 101

Me:  Do want to watch this movie?

Matt: Which one?

Me:  Black Swan.  It's supposed to be really good.

Matt:  That sounds familiar.  What's it about?

Me:  It's about ballet.

Matt: Huh?

Me:  It's a psychological thriller done by Darren Aronofsky.

Matt:  Who?

Me: He did that movie Pi and some other weird stuff.

Matt:  Nah.

Me:  Apparently, it has a really smoking hot lesbian sex scene.

Matt: What?

Me: With Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis.

Matt: Really?

Me:  Yeah, do you want to watch it?

Matt: Okay!


Lesson: If you want a man to do something he doesn't want to do, just say something like, "hot lesbian sex scene".  It works, but not for everything.  Like if you want him to go with you to church.  It doesn't work for that.  Unless you go to one of them freaky ass churches.

Sometimes these blog posts write themselves

Not 10 minutes after telling my brain that I hated it for the annoying and weird mental streams that run through my head on a daily basis that I received a little postcard in my office mailbox.

Here's what it said:

VOLUNTEERS NEEDED FOR BRAIN IMAGING STUDY


 (X-ray picture of head)


UNIVERSITY OF MN MEDICAL SCHOOL
DEPARTMENT OF PSYCHIATRY


blah, blah, blah something about being healthy and 16 - 60
you may be eligible for a MRI study
a stipend is offered

A stipend?  MRI?  Brain imaging?

kickass.

I haven't had an MRI since I was seventeen and knocked myself out skiing at Mt. LaCrosse (true story but I don't remember most of it)  Just the part about the ground coming up to my face REALLY fast and then....uh...  not much.  I woke up in the ambulance and thought two things.

Wow, look at all this shit in here!  Is this a spaceship?

Then:

Oh shit!  My parents are going to get a bill for this ride!

I was wrong on the first thought.
Right on the second.

My friend later told me that I was sort of arguing with ski patrol about going in an ambulance, not because I didn't want to go into the ambulance, but that my parents were going to be pissed about how much it frickin' costs to take an ambulance ride to the hospital that was a few miles away.  But then I passed out again and couldn't win my argument. Damn brain injuries!

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, MRIs.  Since I don't remember my last one, I thought it would be cool to have another.  Maybe they'll give me a souvenir photo!  Maybe they'll take one look at the scan and lock me in the rubber room.

So of course I call the number on the card.

Unfortunately I get a voice mail with information on the study.

"Hi, you've reached the White Matter clinic...blah, blah..."

ME: White Matter?  Awesome band name.

"blah, blah, $100 stipend.. blah, blah"

ME: 100 dollars?  Sweet.  I can buy some more wine at Surdyk's wine sale.

"blah, blah, bloo, interview, scan, cognitive memory test, three visits on campus...blah, blee, bloo, blah."

"please leave your name and number and blah, blah."

I leave a message and concentrate on sounding as normal and non-crazy as possible.

Stay tuned....

My brain is not on drugs. Unfortunately.

Random thoughts that enter my brain.

I'm at work, busy, busy, typing and working and stuff.

My Brain:  Heh, heh, remember that scene in Animal House?  Where John Belushi is looking through the window and spying on the sorority girls?  Then he falls backward from the ladder onto the lawn?

I start laughing.  Out loud.

Co-worker:  What's so funny?

Me: Uhh...nothing.

My Brain:  Thank you, sir!  May I have another?  That boy is a P - I - G, pig!  Your name is Flounder.  Why Flouder?  Why not?  Double secret probation.  Fat, lazy and stupid is no way to go through life.

Me:  Shut up, stupid brain!  I'm trying to work!  Why must you insist on a running commentary of classic one liners from one of the greatest movies ever made?

My Brain:  Fuck you, Jobu!  I do it myself!  Willie Mays Hays.  You may run like Mays, but you hit like shit!

Me:  Oh, NOW your going to quote Major League?  What is wrong with you?

My Brain:  Hats for bats.  Hats keep bats warm.  Gracias.

Me: Sometimes I hate you.

I guess I should quit bitching about all the potholes....

I didn't want to go to work this morning.

Sena has a cold, which now means I have a cold, so technically I could have called in sick.

I was feeling all sorry for myself.  Didn't have time to eat breakfast.  Running late because I couldn't figure out what to wear to work.  And it doesn't matter what I wear to work.  I could wear a garbage bag and a pair of Hammer pants and nobody would notice.  Well, they might notice, but they probably wouldn't say anything, and even if they did, they might say something like, "Your pants are interesting; very shiny, but they look nice and comfy, huh?  Hmmm, is that a Glad bag or Hefty?  I tend to buy the plain store brand...those Hefty's are pretty pricey, dont'cha know?"

I work with library people.  In Minnesota.

Anyway, I get to work and realize I have to send my supervisor a list of goals and accomplishments for my upcoming review.

I write down a bunch of crap about being more of a team player.  I think.

What I really want to write?

My goal for the upcoming year is not to voodoo your ass when you annoy me.  Which is, like, every day.

But I don't mess with voodoo.  That shit is for real.  FOR REAL!

I did have a voodoo doll.  From New Orleans.  I gave it to my sister-in-law when she was getting married and said, "Here!  Use this to keep Peter in line!"

I think she thought I was joking.

I wasn't.

I was actually scared to keep it.  I think Matt was scared too.


Anyway, after I think I'm having a crappy morning, I check the news and see this headline.

Star Sucked up in extraordinary flash

At first I was thinking something horrible happened to Star Jones, like maybe she got flushed down some huge whirlpool or toilet.

But no, it's way cooler than that.

Reading it gave me goosebumps.  Then when I tried to understand how far 6 trillion miles is (one light year, duh!), I got a brain freeze.


It kind of makes all the petty day-to-day stuff seem pretty insignificant.


Except for voodoo.  That shit's for real!

And then my morning got better.  Someone made scones and left them in the breakroom.

I think the Universe sent me a sign.

Space is cool.

Open House

We put our house on the market a week and a half ago.  In the worst seller's market in a thousand years.

So far, we've had about five showings.

Yesterday, we had two.

Which is annoying.  It meant I had to make the bed, pick up cat hair and Legos, put away clothes and wash the dishes.

I do that anyway, but I resent having to do it.  You understand?  Good.

So the second showing was from 6-7pm, so around 5:45 Matt and I grab Sena and head out for a long walk.  We stop at the playground and fart around.

We get back to the house at 6:40, but we can't tell if anyone's been there.  Usually, they leave a card on the table but not always.  We go back inside; usually I can tell if someone's been in the house - a light is off or on or something looks different.

Well, I was starving so I proceed to make a turkey, spinach, cranberry tortilla wrap with avocado hummus (Awesome!  Thank you, Holy Land.)  I'm sitting there eating and I tell Matt that Sena needs a bath.  Her pants and shirt are filthy (because we do not have a sandbox I let her sit in the garden bed that afternoon and dig in the dirt with her little plastic shovel and bucket, which she did for a half a hour, happily scooping dirt into her pail and getting plenty on her body).  Her hair is disgusting and her face is covered with a combination of drool, sunblock, dirt, yogurt and tomato sauce so that it forms an orange crusty paste.

Suddenly, I hear voices.

I look out the window.  A strange car is parked in front of our house.

I get up and go to the window.  Strange people are on the front step.

I run back, still holding my tortilla in my fist.

"Someone's here!  Shit!  Run!"

I feel like I'm twelve and trying to hide from my dad after he busted me and my best friend having a party at her parent's house when they were out of town.

Sheer panic.

Matt throws me Sena and I head out the side door, thinking he'll clean up the kitchen.  There's a bunch of food out -lunch meat, bag of spinach, cup of milk,a plate of toast and peanut butter that I was making for Sena.  The cupboard doors are open.  Dirty knives and forks and crumbs all over.

Matt forgets to do this.  He runs behind me as if we are fleeing Nazis and even forgets to close the door behind us.

We run over to the neighbor's yard and hide by the swing set.

"What the hell?  What time is it?"

"6:55."

"Christ, why are they so late.  Jerks!"

They don't stay long.

They probably saw the kitchen and decided freaks live there.  The whole rest of the house was spotless - we might as well have put a flaming bag of dog poo in the middle of the floor.

We go back inside, half complaining and half laughing.

"It could be worse."

"Oh?"

"You could have been sitting on the toilet taking a poop when they walked in."

"Yeah."

"And you always leave the bathroom door open."

"That would have been awkward."