Daisy of Love & the Boy Who Lives Under the Bed

Jen and Mike bought a mansion and since movers and deliverers and realtors and buyers and sellers were all going to be swirling in and out of multiple homes this week, Mack and I opened Camp Kitty back up for business.

And this time, we had TWO guests.

Milo is older and more fraidy cat this time than he was on his last visit, but to be fair, it's only day 5 and he usually doesn't come full out until day 6. Also, every time he comes out, I sneeze and he freaks and there are setbacks. Also, every time he comes out, Daisy whoops on him and I laugh at him and there are more setbacks. So, this is the most we've seen of Mr. Handsome.
Daisy of Love, on the other hand, is like a kitty shadow. She is everywhere. She's on the potty with you, in the sink while you brush your teeth, on the edge of the tub while you bathe, on the counter while you make tacos.
She helps me with work, helps me wash dishes, helps me sweep. And most of all, she's helped me find things like candles and toy cars that had rolled under furniture and been forgotten.
Like all cats, she seems to have a special bond with Mack and appreciates his donkey-like carrying abilities. Normally she jumps onto his shoulder while he's at his computer studying, but once she leapt from the counter in the kitchen while he was at the stove. She tries to get me when I walk past the couch and I have the claw marks that prove I am no good for shoulder riding.
Like Milo, she seems to have a special thing for Mack's stinky gym bag. Maybe it's the aroma of cat pee judo gi that makes her feel at home???
Unlike Milo, she has had no problem whatsoever settling in and snuggling up to us. She spends chunks of the day on my computer chair with me, forcing me to sit hanging off the front of it so she can lay down on the back of it. Yes, I know who's boss.
At about 9 o'clock she and Milo get wet food, and then Daisy chases Milo into the bedroom and pounces all over him. There's snarling, followed by thumping noises, and all my good intentions to learn acid-base balance goes right out the window. It's like my own little Animal Planet performance, right at the foot of the bed.

Here they are doing another thing they do called Get the Tail of the Cat on the Seat and Bite the Legs of the Chair... Also Take Breaks to Clean Yourself.These are two of the funniest little cats I have ever met. So Jen, no, we will not be meeting you or Mike or your mom as planned because I am not going to be able to give these things back to you. Sorry. Go enjoy your appliance corral.

Birth Daze

It all starts with Leiah. Actually with Shahin, but since we don't really know when she was born, it's kind of hard to count.
Then it's mom and dad, just one day apart. Then Renee. Then Laila.
Then MEEEEE. (This year I'd like paper money that has actual value. Or you can just make a payment to my credit card to help me pay off Ghana.)
Then we squeeze Charles in there.
Then it's Shannon's turn. And Bubba's. And Tom's. Tom especially likes to go to the zoo for his, since there's no place better to spend a hot day in July than the zoo.
And then we wait until September revs it up again, with Ben, then Betsy, then Mack.

I almost died. Well, I could have. But really I just hurt my butt area.

I was riding my bike down High Street tonight around 8pm when a stupid fucking moron asshole decided she needed to turn right in order to hang out at the coffee shop with her boyfriend. Only problem was I was right there, and she turned into my bike.

Luckily the universe made all the seconds line up just right so that my fender snagged her fender and our respective vehicles did a little dance into the turn. I think I yelled, "Hey, hey, hey, what exactly is this all about?" Or something like that.

I also stood up on my right pedal to get my left leg out from between my bike and her car, and when I did my weight shifted and the bike seat kissed my hamstring... kissed like drunk dudes kiss on MTV. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have an interesting bruise to show off at Keeneland on Friday.

When you get hit by a car when riding your bike everything slows down the same way it does when you get hit by a car while driving your car. It was over in a matter of seconds, but even so it was enough to swirl emotion with adrenaline and fear, and when I got off my bike and looked at the car I yelled something classy and composed.

And when the girl rolled down her window, while my hands were shaking and my body was trying to figure out if it was broken, she said, "I didn't even see you. Are you okay?"

To which I replied, "You're gonna have to get away from me for a minute because right now, I want to bash your fucking face in."

Yeah, I lost it. I totally cussed and threatened that poor girl, who I now know via Facebook is a high schooler at Dunbar. And I feel terrible. Sort of.

A nice guy in a yellow car with curly brown hair saw the whole thing happen and pulled over to see if I was alright. I sort of cried, sort of breathed deeply, sort of managed to collect myself, sort of reassured him that I was okay, just freaked out. I knew I had to calm down if I was going to feel if I was hurt or not, but whoa, adrenaline is madness.

I finally was able to stop tears from exploding out of my face so I walked my bike over to the girl's car... she was nice enough to park as far away from me as possible... and the first thing I said was, "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was just freaked out and scared and mad, but I'm pretty sure everything is okay."

I then got her phone number, took pictures of her car, my bike and her, called her to make sure her number was legit, and reassured her that I really thought I was fine and that I was just being cautious.

I asked her passenger for his name and he actually started to cop an attitude with me, like he didn't have to give me his name. So I asked him if he had a problem, because you know, she just hit me with her car and I'm the one who should have the problem, and he said no. A longing to bash someone's face in (someone named Daniel Hannah) resurfaced.

At the time I didn't know she was a high school girl or I may have been nicer to her, but maybe not. She never got out of the car, and when I took a photo of her she started to pose and smile, like I was taking a snapshot for her Facebook profile.
Then, when I decided to fill out a police report more for the city's awareness and the hope that the more accidents reported, the more bike lanes will be installed and the more pressure they might put on drivers to pay attention, the police officer called her to verify my claim and she said I was riding on the sidewalk, which would make me at fault if it were true.

I wish I had punched her in the face all over again.

I admittedly ride on the sidewalk sometimes, especially when it's busy traffic or narrow roads, because... well, because I don't trust Lexington drivers. You have to go slower on sidewalks since they're narrow and bumpy, and I'm extra careful about driveways and pedestrians, but if I had an accident on a sidewalk, fine, I accept responsibility. It's better than being clipped by an SUV's rear view mirror at 45mph.

But this time I was absolutely on the street, on the right hand side of the street. I rode down the hill out of my driveway, got in the right lane and cruised on down the road until she hit me. A man out walking his beagle saw it, the man in the yellow car saw it... the girl who didn't see me riding my bike in the right lane was the girl who hit me and then said, "I didn't see you."

And who's the cop gonna believe? The girl who was hit by the car but still had the where-with-all to take photos and get contact info and names or Queen Oblivious?

Because I was so worried about how mean I'd been to her at first, I didn't get Yellow Car Guy's contact info as a witness... lesson learned: get witnesses' info FIRST!... but luckily I'm pretty sure I'm okay and my bike is okay so who's at fault isn't really an issue.

Except it was her fault.

What is an issue is, damn, I could have died because some girl didn't bother to pay attention. Please, when you see a cyclist or a pedestrian, give them some room, slow down a bit, and if you pass them and need to turn right, for the love of god look over your shoulder first.

As for me, I'm getting back on the sidewalk where it's safe.

The Magical Wonders of the Outside Experience

This winter was spent in the jungle of my living room, with doors closed to other areas of the house, curtains cloaking the gray outside, and a New Mexican-flavored down comforter on top of my body. Which is to say I did not leave and barely moved because I did not like leaving or moving and because I did not remember how the cold could be so cruel.

But now, amazing.

Springtime (fingers crossed it lasts until June) in Kentucky is like breathing air again after being dead for a while. I love that the non-Gism trees are just getting buds on them so that I can watch the exposed squirrels playing on the naked branches and see where the birds are making their nests. You can't see that in the summer because of all the leaves.
I love that one day there's nothing out by the front porch and the next we've got bright red tulips and fluffy pink hyacinths. It's like a little surprise party, thrown and decorated by Mother Nature.
I've wandered into no fewer than six trees trying to get a closer look at their blooms. I just love the contrast of the cold, dark bark against the delicate, bright blooms and the soft blue sky... And that I wear glasses or else I'd be really embarrassed that, yeah, I'm blind by stabbing myself in the eye with a tree branch that was still attached to a tree.
It's true that every day in California is like this time of year in Kentucky, but when you factor in the thrill of change, Kentucky is winning. At springtime anyway.

Return of the Vagina Trees

Look, this is going to be nastyish. You've been warned.

There's this tree that's planted all over Lexington's suburbia called Bradford Pear. It's one of the first to bloom every spring, which is why I think developers planted them all over suburbia, and when it blooms it sprouts these cute little white flowers.

When it blooms it also sprouts the aroma of unkempt vagina, half dried semen or sex in a dirty sock.

a bouquet of vagina

Perhaps you've been too struck by the beauty of this tree, too grateful for its trumpet of springtime to really evaluate its smell... but I haven't. There are 10 of them densely packed right outside my front door (which is, admittedly, not in suburbia) and when I open everything up to let the outside in, I get a little too intimate with the scent of backseat teenager sloppy sex.

And that is really hampering my springtime euphoria.

one of the 10 offenders outside my door

Sweet, sweet vegans

I got fat over the winter, so I'm trying to do more cooking type things and less eating convenient fast food type things. When I cook I eat way better (as in healthier and more delicious) than when I rely on outside sources to feed me, and thanks to a really good cookbook selection, I've been pretty productive the last few days.

Vegetarian rubens, enchiladas, stuffed pitas, curried cauliflower, pineapples and strawberries.

But these... these vegan banana split cupcakes with vegan buttercream frosting and vegan chocolate ganache and a strawberry on top... these aren't exactly what a fat person should be cooking. They are, however, what a fat person likes eating.

Meningitolioatitis Tetanellow Fever

Mack and I decided to go to Ghana this summer. It was a decision that went sort of like this:

Me: "Maybe we should go to Ghana."
Him: "Sure. They have judo there."
Me: "Let's go get a book about it at the library."

So we got the book, arranged for a volunteer assignment, bought plane tickets for as much as a small country in Africa costs, and then found out we needed yellow fever vaccines. We have insurance through school for the next few weeks, and we plan to capitalize on that BIG TIME since they recently refused to cover my birth control. I'll show you Aetna.

Our doctor coincidentally had grown up in Africa (her parents, who were also doctors, were missionaries), and all the vaccines that we had written off she scared us into getting.

It's a wonder how "I've had two friends die of ___" will change your mind about vaccines.

Mack ended up getting out of there with three shots, but I had to get five. FIVE.

Buuuutttt, before I got my shots, I heard Mack in the next room screaming out in pain and I flashed back to when I was a toddler and had to get an allergy test that involved repeated shots and my blood pressure went up to 135/84 (normally mine is 100/60) and I had to start pacing so I would not explode from anxiety.

By the time the nurse came in with my tray, I'd learned that Mack was screaming out in pain about something else because he is a weinie, but my nerves were shot and dread was pulsing through my veins. And there I sat, staring at a tray of syringes with sharp needles, really wondering if meningitis was all that bad.

I finally let go of my very first world problem by thinking of all the Africans I'd be meeting who'd probably really enjoy a free vaccine that would keep them from getting Hepatitis A. And we got on with what the English very appropriately call jabs.

In addition to meningitis and Hepatitis A, I got shots for polio, T-dap (which is tetanus and some other things you get when you're a baby) and yellow fever.

And now I have a little bit of every disease. Forgive me if I don't move for the next day or so. I'll be sleeping.

A Parade of Rants

Saturday was the St. Patrick's Day Parade. I love a parade, especially one where nearby vendors sell green beer, so I called Leiah to see if she and Ben wanted to come along.

And now I'm going to complain.

Parades are fun for adults, yes, but when they are centered around such things as leprechauns or other imaginary creatures, they are for kids. Which means, hey, you giant assholes, back up and let the kids you're making look at your gross butt get a spot in front of you.

Parades are for floats. Not your company's giant RV/movable billboard or your Mustang Club. If you don't care to decorate a float, then you should have to walk and hand out candy. We do not come to Main Street for a parade so that we can watch decorative traffic. If that was fun, rush hour wouldn't be annoying.

Parades are for candy. Candy is crucial to the value of any parade, and I don't care if it's that skull breaking hard gum. You need candy. And whoever the prick was who made it illegal to throw candy to people during parades should be stoned to death by candy. The argument against candy is for the safety of kids... but what about when they run in front of a fire truck to get that dropped Now & Later in the middle of the road. Seems safer just to toss the candy to the sidelines, doesn't it?

Politicians should only be allowed in parades if their floats are awesome. And everyone has matching t-shirts. Or if they provide some additional service... like a marker board to show people the latest score of the UK game. If they can't provide a service like that, they better be on a float that is extraordinary. And loaded down with candy.

Can we be done with beauty queens in parades already, especially the ones sponsored by groups that sound progressive, like the Metropolitan Women's Club? Either that or the beauty queens should have to perform their talent while riding on the back of the convertible. Then they can stay.

We need more marching bands in parades, so the next time you see a high schooler band nerd, show them some respect. The only marching bands in the St. Patty's parade were the ragtag group of hobby musicians known as the March Madness Marching Band and a school band from Wolfe County.

The horse shit and garbage on the street after a parade is okay for an hour. No, it's not delicious smelling, and no, it's not fun to step in, but it doesn't warrant a crew of street cleaning machines and an entourage of leaf blowers to rain down upon the parade route minutes after the last entry rolls by. At least let the parade watchers dissipate before bringing in the Overly Enthusiastic Pavement Washers of Impatience and Rudeness.

I ended up having a good time at the parade, mainly because someone finally broke out the Tootsie Rolls and we elbowed our way to the front of some unmoving people in lawn chairs and sat on the curb in front of them. Plus Leiah and Ben were there. And the green beer.

Something to make Shannon feel athletic.

Prepare to have your day brightened. And to feel confident about your coordination.

Forget Beyonce. I'd like to dance like this instead.

All the single babies, all the single babies...

El Capital

Mack got to have Spring Break last week, and since the winter has made us Hermits (yes, with a capital H), we decided to get out of town for a few days. He made a No South Rule, so Asheville, Atlanta, Knoxville and most other drivable places that direction were out, and I refused to go anywhere colder, so anything North was out.

Finally we settled on Washington, DC... lots of free stuff to do, pretty walkable city, plus the Obamas and my favorite Lincoln Memorial.
I've really liked visiting DC in the past. I went there once when I was 10... for a day-long field trip with my class... and again when I was 14... with the band for Clinton's inaugural parade. But I think something has happened in the last 20 years -- maybe cynicism has crept in or perhaps I've officially watched too much news or it could be a post-9/11 capital or some California conditioning.

During this visit, I kept feeling disgusted at all the middle aged white guys in suits with their ties sporting Windsor knots. It felt like everyone there had an agenda, a trust fund and a long Burberry coat. It was like everyone was a descendant of politics.

There's also an overwhelming sense that you're being watched. Which automatically makes you feel like a suspect. I get that we need security and monitoring, especially considering a dude pulled out a gun at the Pentagon while we were there and shot two cops before they killed him, but when that sense of big brother is so strong you feel like you'll get in trouble if you step off the sidewalk and Walk Through the Grass!! something is out of balance.

Even the security guy at Baja Fresh was undercover!

[Sort of Related Tangent: Since we got into town kind of late, the only place really open near the White House was Baja Fresh, so we went in to grab a taco. Some homeless guy, the only one we saw while in DC, was sleeping at one of the tables -- and by sleeping I mean passed out. We had just sat down to enjoy our roasted tomato salsa when suddenly Sleeping Beauty woke up, did that throat grumbly thing that precedes a loogey, turned his head our way, and let mucus fly. I almost died. I thought he'd spit on Mack and had a flash forward of hoochie mamas/hutcimata/something judo being thrown like crazy, but luckily, undercover security a few tables away intervened and told the man to leave. I like a good nut job, but I Do Not do snot.]

Mack, who has watched a whole lot more news than me, was convinced that the Washington Monument was a free mason lookout tower that secretly covered an escape rocket housing aliens who are directing activities on earth. Normally I'd think that was just imagination at work, but since everyone in DC is a robot, I'm not so sure.
To be fair, some of my evaluation of the DC may have been influenced by our visit to the International Spy Museum, which taught you to trust no one. It also taught me about microdots and picking locks and that the key to being a good spy is having lots of hollowed out things... like sticks, shoe heels, lipsticks, cigarettes and cigarette boxes.

We also learned a lot at the Smithsonian Natural History Museum -- namely that, and this is not directed to people whose babies I like but all the other people in the world, PEOPLE NEED TO STOP HAVING BABIES. It would have been nice to look at the Insect Zoo if not for the 1 to 6 ratio of adults to kids. And you know kids are like ants but without the discipline. And since when do strollers have to be the size of Cadillacs? It's really a matter of space, and all these babies with all their crap are taking up way too much space. Babies that I know can stay, but no more new babies and babies I don't know need to be anti-consumers. That means a $15 umbrella stroller, one sippy cup and one toy. Maybe some diapers too, but that is it.

Normally when I go places I enjoy myself even if all I do is walk around and take photos, but for whatever reason, DC was just not inspiring me. In fact, the only inspiration I could muster came from Sarah and her collection of photos of herself next to things. May I present Amber in Photos Next to Things:
Overall, my favorite place was probably Chinatown. We found an awesome Thai restaurant that had some amazing curry. Our lunch at the Smithsonian was $40 (admission was free though), but our dinner at this Thai place, with beers and an appetizer, was only $35. I also loved the archway that welcomed you to Chinatown and being able to watch the guys cook duck in the window.
Getting out of town was fun, and it would have been a lot more fun if we'd been able to get over to Baltimore to see Sarah, but I think I'm good on DC for another 20 years.

Oh Man.

We Tivo. Which is to say we don't watch commercials.

But the other day this one came on and before we could ba-doop, ba-doop, ba-doop past it, I was hooked. And now, I love Old Spice... and by Old Spice I mean this guy.

My grandpa used to use Old Spice when it was just an aftershave, and I remember pulling it down off his shelf in the bathroom to smell it. The scent was burned into my brain, right alongside the smell of Avon bubble bath, and I didn't discover its updated products until I got close enough to my former work spouse to recognize when he changed his deodorant. It went like this.

Me: "You smell different."

Him: "I'm trying a new deodorant."

Me: "No. Go back to the old one. What kind do you normally use anyway?"

Him: "Old Spice."

Me: "Mmmm. Like my grandpa."

Him: "Mine too."

Uppers and Downers

The past week has been an swirly blend of ups and downs. Like really high ups and really low downs.

First, I met Ruble for drinks and chit chat and ran into my good friend Beth. Mega upper.

Then I found out my darling Sarah's mom is in the hospital in the ICU and facing a battle with cancer. Mega downer.

Then I went out for sushi, sake, and redneck pool with my soulmate Heather for her birthday. Mega upper.
Then we found out Heather's sister had a run-in with the law that landed her a night in the slammer. Mega downer.

Then I saw Renee in her new glasses and she threw a snowball at me without being prompted, proving her inner rottenness is, in fact, awesome. Mega upper.
Then I found out Betsy is having some major struggles involving school, anxiety, life in general. Mega downer.

Then I took an anatomy test and freaking aced it like a test expert maniac. Mega upper.

Then I smacked my knee really, really hard on the corner of the coffee table, so hard it made me fall on the couch and cry. Mega downer.

Then I got an email that my picture from the No Nonsense contest was blasted over Times Square last month. Mega upper.
It's crazy how the goods have been soooo good and the bads have been soooo bad, only to balance everything out in such a way that reminds you life is so precious and special and worth it. Overall.

Playing Doctor... and Nurse

Since I'm in nursing school and Mack's in medical school, we are learning all sorts of ways to defy death. Most of them start with not eating meat and not getting fat. From there, we have discovered vitamins/supplements.

We started taking Resveratrol last summer after watching an episode of Oprah where Dr. Oz said it was magical. And then, when I took it and managed to maintain my weight without doing the usual fretting about how much I eat, I realized it really was magical. Resveratrol is the stuff in red wine that keeps your heart in good shape, but because we're not French and don't drink red wine every meal of our lives, we don't get enough Resveratrol through our diet. Instead, we pay the $32 for the bottle of 100 capsules and feel better about living to be 100+.

We also take a fish oil capsule -- the kind specifically labeled "no fish burps" because, really, fish burps? Ick.

Since Mack is in biochemistry this block, we've added some new pills to our regime... new pills that totaled $96 on our last trip to Good Foods... which is cheaper than our co-pays to the doctor if we get heart disease, right? Now we take 2 fish oil capsules, a Resveratrol, a B-complex that includes Folic Acid, a Niacin, and a Vitamin E (which we take every other day). I wanted to add a Vitamin D-3 because every woman I know over 45 swears by that pill, but...

Here comes the science...

Vitamin D is a fat soluble vitamin and with fat soluble vitamins (like Vitamin E) you can overdose on them. With water soluble vitamins, you just pee them out if you take too much... which is why my pee is neon yellow these days. So instead of taking a Vitamin D, we're just going to try to get 10 minutes of sunshine on our cheeks a day. Or buy one of those UV lights for our desks.

I've tried taking vitamins in the form of a multi-vitamin before, but I always got a gross feeling in my stomach from them. So then I started taking the gummy vitamins because they are delicious and way more mild, but they have hydrogenated fats in them. For whatever reason, this combination of pills isn't giving me a belly ache at all. In fact, there's really no side effect except the neon pee and the insanely ridiculous freaky flush that comes with the Niacin.

Yeah, about that. Have you ever scratched your neck and then someone looked at you like you've been attacked by a wild beast because of the red slashes across your skin? Well, with Niacin, it's sort of like that.

Apparently, this flush is necessary, and even though there's a flush-free version of Niacin, the ingredient that saves you from the flush actually causes you a problem down the road. I don't know the science, but let's just say the flush means it's working, and eventually you get used to it and it isn't as intense. I've only been taking it for three days, and it has gotten better but it's still so dramatic that I have to work my way up to taking it.

Which means I have to make sure I have 30 minutes of free time to have a hot flash that starts in my neck, loops around to my upper back and then takes over my entire face and chest... and an environment that won't provoke rage. Also, I shouldn't have to drive anywhere.

I'm making Niacin sound like way too much fun.

The thing is, though, it's sort of like that awful-then-amazing feeling you get when you sit in a steam room. Like you want to run out of there because you can't breathe and sweat is just pouring out of your body and oh my god you're about to die... and then when you step out, your skin feels brand new and you can feel your hair follicles and suddenly your brain works better.

And now I'm jonesing for my vitamins.

Me, lately.

I only leave the house to go to school. That is it. I don't take out the trash, the recycling, or the stuff for the compost bin.

Our house, which is old and drafty and has high ceilings, has gotten so cold we've closed all the doors and are spending most of the day in the living room under a down comforter. We have towels at the base of every door. And we've stopped doing dishes because being in the kitchen is like being in a garage.

It's too cold to walk up to the Y to exercise, so the only movement I do, beyond going to school, is occasional hula hooping. And, thanks to the Tivo, we also have some yoga that we can do if we move the coffee table out of the way.

Other than that, the snow, the winter, the weather has made me feel like this lady from Squidbillies.

Things that made me love Valentine's Day

Sleeping in until noon and having lots of vivid and lively dreams the entire time I was sleeping.

Waking up and realizing we have all the makings of a pancake breakfast.

Making pancakes without ruining the first three and getting really annoyed.

Drizzling warm maple syrup all over the unburnt pankcakes and the soysages.

A fancy coffee maker that makes coffee delicious every single time.

Waking up a really handsome husband and getting him to eat pancakes with me.

Learning that we have a fancy dinner at one of my favorite restaurants planned for the evening.

Going to said fancy dinner and eating some of the best goat cheese mashed potatoes of my life.

Trying to remember all the ways we've celebrated Valentine's Day.

Laughing about that time he made coconut shrimp, macaroni and cheese and margaritas.

Finishing off a bottle of delicious red wine with a decadent chocolate pot pie.

Coming home and basking in gratitude for having someone like Mack to share today with.

Well hi, Foot. It's me, Mouth. Good to see you again.

I was volunteering last night for a program the Lexington Art League is doing with Lexington Habitat for Humanity. I'm pretty sure both organizations LOVE me because I have been "that drunk dancing girl" at events both have hosted. (Remember that, Sarah? What a blast!)

Anyway, the thing last night was for kids of adults who are going to get homes. While the homeowners are learning about budgeting and home maintenance and stuff like that, the kids get to come and make art for a little while. There were probably a dozen kids in the class, maybe more, all different ages. It turns out that a lot of them are Congo refugees... and knowing that fact should have told me to keep my mouth shut. Tightly.

But I didn't. I just couldn't help it. They were just too cute and too fun and too charming, and I was all gaga for their long eyelashes and extraordinary names. And then it started.

I was sitting next to one little boy, 5 years old, old enough to have memories of what made his family flee Congo, and he was smiling and having a great time. So what do I say?

"Is this torture or what?"

Really, Amber?!! Torture!! What is wrong with you?!!

Even with a creepy wink tacked onto my delivery, even with the American-infused sarcasm mingling with the words, it was so... so... ugh. An ugh made worse by the silence that fell over the entire room at just the right moment to guarantee that everyone heard the word torture.

I wish I could say things got better from there and that I was able to use my mind/mouth filter more effectively as the night went on, but that'd be a lie.

I watched them draw planes and trucks and helicopters and stoplights and wondered how much their recent refugee relocation effort influenced their art and how much of it had more to do with their age and gender than their life experience. I thought about these things, silently in my head, but that internal reflection evaporated the minute I fell into the trap of interaction.

As the class was winding down, we packed up the art supplies and had to fill the last few minutes with an activity of some kind. The instructor suggested we have a staring contest, and I decided to add some enthusiasm and intensity to the event by providing commentary.

I'm pretty sure I said the word WAR about 29 times. And now, instead of art class, 13 young refugees need therapy for PTSD, sparked by a volunteer with a defective filtering mechanism.

Triple Threat

I have these cousins known as the Gullers who we got from the marriage of my mom and dad, so I've known them since I was about 8. Before we moved to Louisiana, I used to love to go to their fancy house to go swimming in their in-ground pool. Most of them were a lot older than I was, but the baby of the family, Angie, was a teenager then and she was always so nice and sisterly to us. I remember thinking the way she talked was a hoot... the details are blurry but I have a distinct memory involving Wisconsin.

Angie is, of course, grown up now, and she, like her sisters, has an adorable life that is much deserved because she, like the rest of her family, is as nice as a person can possibly be. After one family reunion in Louisville, Angie, her fiance Brendan, her brothers, our cousins Kelly and Shannon, our Aunt Carol and Shannon (my sister) and I went to the pub and discovered we were kindred spirits. Then we went to her wedding in St. Louis and had a blast secret dancing. Then we cheered her on when she got on the show While You Were Out to turn part of her house into an Irish bar for Brendan, who is also supremely adorable. And then she went on to have a couple of adorable little boys, Dylan and Drew, who are 3 and 2.
I guess when you're as good at adorability as Angie is, you may as well go for it. So she and Brendan decided to have one more baby...

Silly rabbits.

My dad's mom had twins, one of which is Angie's mom, so multiples run in the family. But Angie got triplets this time. Triplets! That's like genetic's dirty joke.

We got to see Angie over the summer when we went to our cousin Kevin's wedding, and I swear, she is the most adorable pregnant with triplets lady ever made.
But despite carrying three babies better than I would with one, Angie's baby quarters got cramped and Jack, Emma and Grace decided to relocate to roomier digs on Jan. 16, at just over 33 weeks.

Because they weighed all of 3 and 4 pounds when they were born, they've spent the last couple weeks in the hospital but should be going home soon.

And that's when the real fun will start.

I really cannot wrap my mind around how insane life with 5 under 5 is going to be. My family can barely potty train the toddlers we have... and we share them among 9 adults. Can you imagine? Changing diapers for three infants and one toddler and wiping the butt of the other one? Feeding two toddlers one thing and three infants another. And somehow still managing to bathe, feed yourself, go to the grocery store, answer the phone, not jump off the roof?

I don't know how Angie and Brendan are going to do it, but I know that they will and they'll do it with their beaming smiles across their faces because that's just the way they are. They were born with that ability to count their blessings before giving an ounce of attention to their struggles.

And three simultaneous blessings have got to be pretty impossible to ignore.

What Happened at School Today

Yeah, so, sorry for the little freak out the other day. Things are much better now. Much Better.

I didn't think it was so desperate of a message until my dad called me to make sure I wasn't suicidal. I assured him that I'd be homicidal before I'd be suicidal, not that he felt any more assured by that.

Anyway, on to other things, like my graphic design class where I'm the only girl and non-Jesus-proclaimer in the entire class.

Seriously.

One of the guy's emails contains godfearing and one of them is just biding his time until he can start Bible College. On the first day of class, I was the only one who didn't bring in a magazine featuring football or lacrosse or hunting on the cover.

I stick out a little bit.

For our second assignment we were supposed to bring in a photocopy of an object we like. I chose to photocopy a chicken foot I got in New Orleans when Liz, Amy & I visited there. I don't know what role a chicken foot plays in voodoo, but I know it does something because I bought it in a voodoo store. I actually got two of them... one that was red and gimpy looking and one that looks like it could be a creepy old human hand... because I thought they looked cool. For class, I brought in the creepy humanish one and a photocopy of it placed eerily on the bottom of the page, like it was reaching into the space and getting ready to steal your breath.

I thought it looked pretty cool. And when the teacher said she liked mine the best (Girl Power!), some of the guys threw their votes my way too. Until my teacher pointed out the voodoo connection.

You should have seen the fear pale the faces in that room.

I tried to break the silence by saying, "That's right boys. You better watch out." I should have known my photocopy was too dangerous, too big a threat to god to get a laugh.

The godfearing guy looked at me like I was a glass-eyed voodoo queen from a desperate back alley trying to steal his money and said, "It's alright. I've got Jesus on my side."

Dude. It's a photocopy. Of a chicken foot. That was voted Best in the Class.

One of those days

Today was alright.

And then it turned into a horrific pile of shit that you accidentally step on and your shoe comes flying out from underneath you and when you fall down you smack your head on the ground and when you come to your face is in the shit and there're little shit flecks all over your mouth but you're out of it from slipping on the shit so you lick your lips without thinking and then you're eating the shit that made you fall and that's all over your face and that makes you vomit but you haven't really felt like eating so the vomit is really acidic and biley and because you're still disoriented you're puking while on your back and it's projectile enough to splatter into your eye and make you go blind in a really burny way and when you finally try to stand up and scoot out of the shit-vomit pile of blind smelliness someone comes along and kicks you with all of their might right in the belly, the belly that just yakked bile in your eye, and you get your period.

I'm not really expecting tomorrow to be any better.

Pretty Much the Sexiest Thing I've Ever Seen

I know this will probably shock most of you, but, well, I can't dance. Especially when sober.

But, if I could dance, I would want to dance like this. And be Beyonce in general.

Four Solid Years

I just realized that today, like this actual day, marks the start of my fifth year of blogging.

Four years done, completely... 411 random ramblings about what I'm doing... hundreds of hours spent in this strange little life archive thing I've got going on.

That's a shocking degree of commitment to something created from a misunderstanding. I hope it's been as fun for you, all five of you, as it's been for me.

Things I Read in the Inheritance of Loss that Made My Brain Twitch a Little

Let me start this off by saying that The Inheritance of Loss is described as "sumptuously written." I've never heard a book, or anything else for that matter, described as sumptuous, but now I may add that as a criteria on certain lists I keep.

As one of the main characters, a judge, sets off from his native India to pursue higher education and elevate his class:

"The judge was accompanied by his father. At home, his mother was weeping because she had not estimated the imbalance between the finality of good-bye and the briefness of the last moment."

As the judge's granddaughter sits with the family cat, Mustafa:

"Then there was the cat, Mustafa, a sooty hirsute fellow demonstrating a perfection of containment no amount of love or science could penetrate. He was, at this moment, starting up like a lorry on Sai's lap, but his eyes looked blankly right in hers, warning her against mistaking this for intimacy."

As Biju, the judge's cook's son who is trying to make a go at it in America with the hopes of elevating his class, is delivering food on bike for a Chinese restaurant in the dead of winter:

"...he began to weep from the cold, and the weeping unpicked a deeper vein of grief -- such a terrible groan issued from between the whimpers that he was shocked his sadness had such depth."

As Sai, who has been studying under a male tutor named Gyan, confers with an older female ex-pat:

"'Time should move,' Noni had told her. 'Don't go in for a life where time does not pass, the way I did. That is the single biggest bit of advice I can give you.'"

As Biju reflects on the life of his nemesis, Mr. Shah, an Indian who was working toward the American Dream as the Indians at home saw it:

"Photos of the exterior (of the house Shah had bought) had been sent to all the relatives in Gujarat, a white care parked in front. A Lexus, that premier luxury vehicle. On top of it sat his wife looking self-satisfied. She had left India a meek bride, scrolled and spattered with henna, so much gold in her sari she set off every metal detector in the airport -- and now here she was -- white pantsuit, bobbed hair, vanity case, and capable of doing the macarena."

As Sai celebrates Christmas with her older ex-pat friends:

"For the occasion, the sisters had brought out their ornaments from England -- various things that looked as if they tasted of mints..."

As the judge consumates with his wife from an arranged marriage, who he's just caught powdering herself with his treasured American powder and puff:

"Ghoulishly sugared in sweet candy pigment, he clamped down on her, tussled her to the floor, and as more of that perfect rose complexion, blasted into a million motes, came filtering down, in a dense frustration of lust and fury -- penis uncoiling, mottled purple-black as if with rage, blundering, uncovering the chute he had heard rumor of -- he stuffed his way ungracefully into her."

As all the characters are affected by India's fight for liberation from England:

"For crimes that took place in the monstrous dealings between nations, for crimes that took place in those intimate spaces between two people without a witness, for these crimes the guilty would never pay. There was no religion and no government that would relieve the hell."

As Biju calls home to India from an American payphone to check on his father during the revolution, only to have the conversation stifled by a terrible connection:

"He could not talk to his father; there was nothing left between them but emergency sentences, clipped telegram lines shouted out as if in the midst of a war... He stood with his head still in the phone booth studded with bits of stiff chewing gum and the usual FuckShitCockDickPussyLoveWar, swatikas, and hearts shot with arrows mingling in a dense graffiti garden, too sugary too angry too perverse -- the sick sweet rotting mulch of the human heart."

As Sai searches for the object of her affection, Gyan, in his lower class neighborhood after he rejects her for no apparent reason:

"The churches were dark; the missionaries always left in dangerous times to enjoy chocolate chip cookies and increase funds at home, until it was peaceful enough to venture forth again, that they might launch attack, renewed and fortified, against a weakened and desperate populace."

That was then, this is now.

I think it's a boy.

Not wanting to give my lizard friend any gender predispositions since I don't really know what gender s/he is, I put some androgynous photographs of Brooke Shields and David Bowie up in his cage when he moved in. S/he has pretty much ignored them until tonight, when I gave what I now know to be a HIM a bath and cleaned out HIS tank.

He'd been a little gloomy seeming today, so to perk him up I fed him. Romaine lettuce and cantaloupe... by hand. He enjoyed those snacks much more than the giant crunchies of gross he'd been dodging in his tank for the last week. Then I figured I'd clean out his tank to get it ready to move to its new home with Robin & Joe, a couple of Mack's pals. Robin is desperately in love with some guinea pigs she has, and when she saw my Facebook post about getting Creep from Betsy, she immediately said how bad she wanted a lizard. I offered her Creep because, well, I never meant to have him for life and if someone is that excited about getting him, he'll probably be better off with them. To clean his tank, I had to put him somewhere, and what better holding room than the bathtub with some toasty water in it. Betsy used to let him swim every now and then and he seems to love it. In my experience, I think he uses the bath to drink the water he needs for survival.

Anyway, I get his house all clean and set up again. I get him out of the tub and warm him back up with the heating pad. And then I put him back in his tank and go on about my business.

Well, he didn't just pep up. He got downright frisky.

I kept hearing him trying to climb the wall, so I went into the living room to see what the hell was so exciting, and I found him like this.
That right, all up in Brooke's face, trying to make out with her. He was standing upright on two legs trying to look in her eyes, and when I said his name, he whipped his head around at me as if to say, "Cock block much?"

So I creep...

Betsy up and left Lexington, moving to Louisville in an attempt to make me and Leiah madly jealous. Also because she wanted to and transferred to a better college.

She's lived around the corner from me since the spring, and in that time I've made many late night jaunts over to her house to turn off the lights on her lizard cage or bring her pet some crickets. I've watched him grow from this little thing that fit into your hand into this giant monster descended from dinosaurs that isn't too scary since he has no teeth. He has the most complex eyes, like when they look at you they know your past and your future and can sense all the things you need to apologize for.
Since Mack and I had spent the past couple weeks enjoying life with a hamster in L.A., I told my dad we'd take Creep for a little while. Mack especially liked watching him eat crickets, and having a third party in the house takes the pressure of the two humans having to entertain each other all the time. Some people have babies for that reason, but Mack and I aren't insane.

So my dad brought him over... and his tank... and his Giant Box of Accessories... and thank god Leiah was here when he did. She handled the lizard and watched him play in the tub while I cleaned his tank (this thing poops freakishly big turds). Then she warmed him with the heating pad and put him in his new home. He's cool, but I just wasn't ready to touch him.

I dumped in some crickets, watched him run around like a crazy man catching them with his tongue, and promptly began falling for this strange little guy.
With Mack gone for the holidays, Creep's been my companion. He's given me something to take care of and feed and observe. He's been entertaining and silly. And he even let me hold him and show him off to Mack while we were video chatting.

(Creep LOVES to video chat! He kept cocking his head like he was listening and looking at the person, using technology to supplement his all-knowingness. I guess a computer screen may have been like giving acid to a baby for a lizard tho...)

I think we've found a permanent home for him -- not ours -- and I've gotta say, I'm gonna be sad to see him go. He's started to recognize my voice and look at me like, "Hey. You again." I squeak his name out in the morning and I swear he knows I'm talking to him. I'm going to miss watching him hunt his crickets and crunch his kibble and the way he lays on his rock and basks in his UV light like a proud lion.

I am not going to miss his big turds.

Potty Talk

It's toddler potty training time in our family! Which means that as an aunt, I have to assume responsibility if I'm the only adult around when a kid says they need to use the potty even if I have no idea about the potty routine!

For instance, there was that one time Ben went to go potty and said I had to hold it. I lifted up his shirt thinking it was in his way and thus qualified as the "it" that needed holding, but he whined that wasn't right. I asked again what he needed me to hold, he gave another whiny ambiguous answer, and we shared a very confusing moment in potty training history. I called his mom to ask what was up with holding Ben's boy part for him when he peed, and she was like, "Uhhh, we don't do that. Don't know where he got that. But thanks?"

Which is why I'm glad kids don't form lasting memories until they're 3.

Somewhat related but too cute to pass up, Ben got new big boy panties for Christmas and was so excited he put them on as soon as he opened the package... outside of his jammies. Don't they just look great with his new Buzz Lightyear shoes???Renee is also potty training, but since I'm a girl and know how to potty, there's less confusion with her. Except when it comes to her reading material.

When she told me she needed the green book, I said okay, got up and went and looked in the toys for a green book. Coming up blank, I brought her a different one about happy farm animals.

Turns out she wanted the copy of Crime & Punishment sitting on the back of the toilet.Figures. While Ben sat on the floor reading the farm animal book like a normal 3-year-old, Renee voluntarily skimmed some Dostoyevsky, like a normal Doctor of Russian Literature.These babies. Teaching me more than college ever tried to and making me feel completely unprepared and moronic.

Sugar. And Spice.

Renee is just that age. You know, where she is so cute and so terrible all at the same time. And her favorite words are RIGHT NOW!

Over Christmas, while Shannon was on Crazy Baking Lady Marathon 2009, Renee, who has a major sweet tooth, asked her mom for some caramel that had been made by boiling condensed milk for hours and hours and hours. Shannon, being the Nicest Mommy in the World, a title earned in part by her willingness to let Renee use a cookie cutter to make heart-shaped cheese pieces and in part by her ability to keep her composure when she is being screamed at by a 20-pound dictator, scooped some caramel from the lid to give to her baby girl.

Apparently, that's akin to stabbing a puppy in the eyes with a spoon.

Renee shrieked -- there's not even a word for what she did but we'll go with shrieked -- "NOT ON THE LID!!!" so furiously all you could do was bulge your eyes and laugh at her. Shannon calmly looked at her like she was a patient on the psych ward and said, "Okay, you have to have a timeout. You don't scream at Mommy."

When Renee starts to lose her shit on me, I push her down. Gently, but it's a push and she falls down. And she laughs and forgets that I took all of 6 seconds to open the M&Ms.

You'd think with all the treats she eats, she might be a little sweeter, but I think we're past the sweet baby stage. Last Christmas she was so melty for love that when you'd give her kisses she'd smoosh into you like creamy chocolate. It was wonderful. This Christmas kisses are old news and now she wants candy dammit. And sugar bombs.

Luckily Santa provided her with the sugar, and Christmas morning went off without too much of a hitch since Renee was sufficiently medicated. For every present she opened, I'm pretty sure she had a piece of candy in her mouth.

The gold coins that Jewish kids get because, well, Walgreens had them.

A Christmas tree sucker that lights up.

Reese's peanut butter holiday character... unsure which because Renee never hesitates to bite off their heads.

Look at the yellow sucker eating/present opening multi-tasking!

It's basically the biggest elevator in the world.

Laila and I went to LA County Museum of Art yesterday while Mack listened to boring med school lectures. I've visited this museum a handful of times, enough that I'm starting to feel like I've run into an old friend when I see that piece of the man and the woman from Picasso's blue period, but they've added a building full of contemporary art since I left LA and I was dying to see the art inside.

We rode this giant escalator up to the third floor and went inside to an enormous room full of work by Jeff Koons and Andy Warhol. Then we walked through a lifetime of work by Joseph Beuys, a member of Hitler's Youth who ultimately became a revolutionary art professor and environmentalist. And then we took in an entire floor full of self-portraits from a private collection.

After a couple hours, we were getting tired, so we pushed the elevator button to head back up to the third floor to exit. One of the gallery attendants asked us if we preferred to use the new elevator, and after stepping back a few feet, we realized that the giant glass wall next to us was actually an elevator door.

"It's the biggest elevator in the world," she said.

"Yes, please," we replied, turning our noses up at the piddly little familiar elevator we were standing in front of.

The wall parted and we scooted into an elevator as big as an elementary school stage. We had the entire place to ourselves, so we made some impromptu sort-of-self-portraits to commemorate the day we experienced the biggest elevator the world has ever known.And just to prove how big it is, here's a shot from floor to ceiling, with Laila for scale.