I posted a blog at Cheap Like Me about my busy work this weekend. Check it out if you want to know what I've been up to, including old-fashioned handicrafts and some electrical work. I promise it doesn't mention toilet paper.

http://cheaplikeme.wordpress.com/2007/11/05/my-weekend-of-money-saving-accomplishments-including-a-dish-decision/

Oh, and I exercised! Well, besides yoga.

You know when you really love a band, or a musician, and you think they're so awesome and amazing that you memorize all their songs and tell everyone about them and can't get enough and sing their work in your sleep?

And then they release their whatever, third, fourth, fifth album, and it's doing something totally different and it is so awful that you're embarrassed you ever heard of them, let alone praised them to heaven?

Yeah. I hate that. (Although sometimes I can forgive them enough to still love the old stuff.)

Seriously, Jens. We love your music. You're so rockin', or as rockin' as one can be with a sweet voice like Martin Gore, a harp and violin involved in so many songs, and your tender Swedish heart (not to mention your "frizzy straws").

You are the only rock star I've yet imagined coming over to my house for dinner, because I can imagine that we would have an interesting conversation. I mean, I've had opportunities to enter contests to meet people like Robert Smith, and I've always wondered ... why? What the hell would I say to Robert Smith? "I really like your music. I mean I'm a fan. Um ... Your hair is tall. And I know my friend Ivy tells people that I had your poster in my dorm room and it was labeled with my Spanish vocabulary word gordo, which is technically ... uh ... true, but it was probably just the picture and the angle, not my true feeling about the essence of you ..." Yeah, not a pretty backstage visit.

Jens, you are different. No one can beat you for songs that pluck the heartstrings, make me laugh out loud, bleak and joyful at the same time. And your record label is based in Bloomington, Indiana, where my brother-in-law and his wife live. I have this image that they could stroll into Secretly Canadian and you would be sitting in the lobby, strumming your guitar and writing in your diary. I'll tell them to tell you hi.


For the rest of you eavesdropping on my private conversation here, really, just go out and buy "Night Falls Over Kortedala" immediately. I mean, have you heard "A Postcard to Nina"? Or "I'm Leaving You Because I Don't Love You"? Get it.

Why so silent, Jens?

Hello, ladies and gentlemen. It's been months, so I figure you need a new blog, and today is the lucky day.

So. We all know by now that when I was a youth, I identified myself by the music I listened to. I turned 15 in 1987, so this self-expression involved asymmetrical haircuts, leggings and pegged Levi's, a variety of Doc Martens footwear, the "crotch pants" previously mentioned in this blog, and creepers.



It involved a lot of listening to music on headphones. It involved weekends whose recreation centered on taking a 45-minute bus ride from the suburbs into downtown Denver to go to my favorite record store, where I spent basically every penny I ever earned and at least one of the clerks (a cute older [i.e., about 20] guy missing a front tooth) pulled things aside just for me sometimes.



It involved hours one weekend using a magnifying glass and my German-English dictionary to translate into English the lyrics of that year's Einsturzende Neubauten album, "Fuenf auf der nach oben offenen Richterskala." The lyrics were printed inside the cassette sleeve in descending font size. They got very small. And no, I can't remember what the title translates as -- beyond five on the something-or-other Richter scale -- but I guess you can Google it.



I could maybe have been friends with someone who didn't share my taste in music, if they won me over with other factors. No way could I have dated someone who didn't at least share great sympathies in music with me. I had a seven-year penpal friendship with Anne in Scotland, built on a sound foundation on our shared fanaticism about The Smiths.



But there's a catch to identifying with music to such an extent. It's called "adulthood." As an adult, I still can connect with a new friend over a song. Sometimes I assume people don't share my taste, when it turns out they do -- or I assume they do share my taste, and then they enthusiastically bust out their Kansas collection. But rarely is music the bond-maker it was when I was young.

Nevertheless, when things are dark, music can send me cathartically deeper and music can pull me out. My memories are tied to music; every piece of my heart is set to a song.

Today has been, not dark, but a light gray. I'm tired and overwhelmed. I put on my computer's music player to set me up with something, and it pulled me back to my musical life ca. 1993.

"Happiness" and "Baby Let Me Follow You Down" by Bob Dylan. "Rude Girls" by the Bodysnatchers (just yesterday, I was thinking of my first car, a baby-blue 1972 Volvo with my Rude Girl sticker on the back). "Crosseyed and Painless" by the Talking Heads. "International Jet Set" by the Specials. "KC Blues" by Charlie Parker.

And "Sometimes (Lester Piggott)" by James. This is one of my favorite songs ever, by one of the bands I've loved most.



There's a better version on YouTube ("live on The Beat" if you want to check it out instead), but it's not embeddable.

And if you want to get a greater sense of the joy that was James, check out this other video of a live version of "Sit Down." I'll confess that on this day, looking back at this time, the end of this video brought me to tears. It's incredible.



At about this same time, I saw James play at the Ogden Theater in Denver. It was thrilling to know that while James played huge arenas in England (like the one in the video above), I was standing a few feet from the stage, in a room with just a few hundred people, seeing the same amazing energy.

And part of the fun of the Internet is being able to switch instantly from 1993 to 2006. Apparently, last year a TV network in the UK created "Manchester Passion." It's the Passion play -- the story of Jesus' last hours before his crucifixion -- set in Manchester, to the Manchester pop songs of the 1980s. I know, it sounds horrible. But before ye cast the first stone, check out this video of Tim Booth (lead singer from James) as Judas, singing "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" in the show.



Anyone know a good source for bootleg DVDs in England? Or maybe a one-way ticket to the UK . . . anywhere where TV puts on such a good show is all right with me.

Geez, at this rate, when you seek me out in thirty years, I'll be taking a special post-retirement "Manchester Rocks!" tour of England, wearing orthopedic footwear and bifocals. Well, let's make the best of it. After all, I believe Doc Martens do qualify as orthopedic . . . .

I'm bursting with literary excitement today. That's right, pages are flying.

1. I'm reading three books. Does everyone do this? On the nonfiction side, There Is No Me Without You by Melissa Fay Greene, which deals with the Ethiopian orphan situation. I read part of this a while back when others wanted it, too, and I had to return it to the library halfway through. In the fiction corner, The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse by Louise Erdrich. If/when I finish it (no, I will) I'll do a special Erdrich blog. And on the practical side, I'm reading It's All Too Much by ... er ... Mr. Somebody (Paul?) Watson. It's about decluttering. Decluttering is my part-time job. You would not believe how much clutter three packrats can accumulate in one house. But I'm reformed now. I take a few bags to Goodwill every month or so. If only I could wrench the unused toys from Lydia's room ...

2. Related to the end of 1, I have finally unearthed the boxes of article drafts, rejection letters, story ideas, stories and partially written novels that my grandmother wrote during her own literary career, mostly during the 1960s and 1970s. I'm sorting through the boxes, keeping the exciting parts and, sad to say (although I hope someone will toss my junk when I die!) recycling the dull bits.

Her work falls into several categories:
a. Memoir/personal essay.
b. Christian stories for young people.
c. "True Confessions" (I feel her, she was trying to hit the big money! Go Grandma!)
d. Cautionary tales, including articles about the dangers of drinking, eating castor beans and huffing glue -- with photographs featuring my father and uncles as youngsters, pretending to do the dangerous things! Classic!

In addition, she had pages of notes planning her attack on the writing world. She would write one hour a day (or two). She would finish the manuscript by her birthday (she did finish several).

One note was truly heartbreaking for me. She wrote that she had on her table a memoir, given to her by friends, that touched on information similar to her work. She thought her work was better, and mentioned it to a relative that we share. The relative was flipping through the published memoir and, according to my grandmother's note (and fully in accordance with how intimately I know this relative ... OK, she's my mother!) she said, "Well, one is published. The other is not. That tells you which one is good."

Writers, doesn't this just pierce your heart? That's the core of it, isn't it? And my grandmother had a perfect writerly response: "Well, I'd better get my work really good and get it published so I can show her!"

I'm sad that she never did get her novels published. I look forward to reading them anyway. I wanted to reach back in time and give my grandmother a hug. Luckily, her note said she was playing with me at the time (I was almost 3) so I probably did give her a hug back then.

3. Today's Rocky Mountain News announced the book selection for this year's One Book, One Denver. And the winner is ... Nick Arvin! You've met him here before. His book, Articles of War, is the first Colorado book to be chosen for the event, in which everyone in Denver is encouraged to read the same book and participate in community discussions and events. The article mentions low turnout last year for The Milagro Beanfield War -- I'll confess I didn't read it. But that's because I'd read it about four times before, and I suspect the same is true for plenty of Denver literary types. Go Nick! Now I can walk around looking important while I read my autographed copy. I know, I'm extremely special.

4. And finally, the Rock! No, not the wrestler. I only put that in the headline to lure all those wrestling fans to my blog. (He IS a wrestler, right? The only wrestler I'm actually familiar with is Hulk Hogan from "Hogan Knows Best.") I mean my friend, writer J. Chris Rock, who has another story online for your reading enjoyment. (Man, would this be a great place for a Photoshopped image of Chris's head on the Rock's body? My lack of software spares you this joy.)

I meant to read this story a long time ago, but I just read it now. And you're going to like it. It's excellent.

Carry on.

It started on August 30.

I went to a Thursday yoga class, and I left early, almost in tears, because my muscles were so stiff I couldn't do anything.

Did I let that stop me? No way! I spent the Labor Day weekend having a yard sale and canning 45 pounds of grapes.

And then I paid.

Tuesday, I had a stomach bug. (This is especially bad timing as I am working on a project writing about candy, and I'm supposed to be sampling it.)



Wednesday, more of the same. This was my actual birthday. I think my birthday dinner consisted of half a package of Annie's mac and cheese. Bonus: Thanks to sickness-induced weight loss, I turned 35 weighing the same as I weighed when I was 16! Go vanity!



Thursday, phew! Feeling better. All I had was a nasty sinus cold and some extreme tiredness. We made it out to dinner for sushi. I was too tired to drive safely. But it's all worth it to watch Lydia chow down on the octopus sushi.



First, she takes a bite. Then, she pulls the slice of octopus out of her mouth. Then she shows us the suckers on the octopus and announces that it's part of the tentacle. Then she bites the octopus slice in half, pulllllling it long with her teeth. Then she smiles at the people at the next table. And finally she eats the rest.

Friday, more cold.

Then Saturday, I ran a couple of errands and then realized I was getting really feverish. Followed by body aches. Ohh, really bad ones. And exhaustion! That's right ... I believe I can proudly say that I am one of the first people in Colorado to have this year's flu!



The flu lasted all weekend. Pop quiz:

1. What was I going to do for my birthday? (answer: Go to my sister's cabin in the mountains.)

2. Have I been to the mountains this year? (answer: No.)

3. Has every vacation plan this year been jettisoned by unforeseen events? (answer: Yes)

4. Did we go? (answer: No.)

Between the rising fever, the tight chest and the fear of spreading flu germs all over the cabin, we stayed home. That sucked. I managed not to cry. Lydia only cried hard for 10 minutes. We made s'mores on the fire pit outside to assuage her sorrow.



But don't worry, the fun isn't over. Today I dropped Lydia off at school and headed straight to Wal-Mart to visit the SmartCare Family Medical Center where Linda, the friendly nurse practitioner, confirmed my suspicion that I also have strep.



All in all, this week has turned my normally drug-free self into a maelstrom of pharmaceuticals and homeopathic remedies, including:

1. Ibuprofen
2. Tylenol (extra-strength)
3. Tylenol P.M.
4. Pepto-Bismol
5. Advil Cold & Sinus
6. Oscillococcinum
7. Gypsy Cold Care tea
8. Throat Coat tea
9. Belladonna tablets
10. Echinacea
11. And now Keflex antibiotics.

If I'm very, very lucky, I'll get a yeast infection from taking the antibiotics! Cross your fingers, everyone!

And let this be a lesson to us all: When you are in your, uh, mid-thirties and up, I suggest you not spend a month working 50% more hours while eating far too many nachos, or you will pay. Unless I'm being made an example of.

OK, I feel kind of silly doing this, so I'd better hurry up and do it tonight while I'm in the youthful 25-34 demographic. And after all, I was tagged! I feel so popular!

Here are the rules. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits or embarrassing things about themselves. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.

8 Random Facts / Habits About Me:

1. I like to follow the rules. Thus it would be painful for me to *not* follow the rules by skipping writing this blog. Sometimes I can't even tell how I feel about following the rules. I probably like writing this blog, because I love to over-divulge whenever possible. But I don't like to like following the rules, so I wish I were rebelling right now.

2. I love my daughter, I have a hard time being a mother sometimes, I always wanted children, and I still haven't completely tied up the part of my heart that wants more children. I'm indecisive complex like that. Jury still out on whether more kids will come to pass and, if so, whence they'll come.

3. When I obsess about something, I do it professionally. I cannot rest until it is finished. I dream about it. I talk about it constantly. Now that the Internet exists, I Google it interminably. I cannot let it go, and a little bit of my heart always is devoted to that thing. This has applied to The Cure, Little Debbie Nutty Bars, Camel Lights, my 1972 Volvo, organic gardening, making my own crazy quilt, going on road trips to New Mexico, and the head massage I got from the specially assigned shampooer at a hair salon in Soho. Latest additions: My other blog, spinning wool, and living on a farm one day (this one is recurring).

4. When I was a junior in high school, my wardrobe consisted primarily of creepers and Doc Martens, black knit pants pegged in at the ankle, a wide variety of black (or in a pinch, burgundy) T-shirts, and (a) my father's old cardigan sweaters or (b) thrift-store sweaters that looked like my father's old cardigan sweaters. I had an asymmetrical haircut and spent my weekends at Paris on the Platte or at various new-wave teen clubs, looking cool, smoking clove cigarettes and not ever being asked out by boys.

5. For many years, I said the year I was 15 was the hardest of my life. I was extremely depressed. I almost tried to kill myself one afternoon, but I was so scared that I fainted and spilled the huge bottle of pills all over the floor. I got brave enough to tell my mother, and she took me only to a crazy therapist whom I couldn't understand, and I quit after two sessions. We moved during the summer, and I spent three months teaching myself a year's worth of high school German and memorizing the conjugations of all 200-some irregular verbs. I wound up better. The years I was 33-34 were worse, because this time I had grown-up responsibilities on top of the dread. I'm better again.

6. My natural inclination is to turn just about anything into a reason to berate myself. This is part personality, part astrology (I'm a three-planet Virgo with Scorpio rising), part upbringing (I just saw a survey on "schemas" -- mine were Unrelenting Standards, Emotional Deprivation and Subjugation). Fortunately, I'm finally working through some of this and loosing its bonds. I'd love to talk about this more, but I know you are thinking how self-centered I am I'm really busy. If this is incoherent, please blame it on the fact that I have a fever. I think the fever is God's little way of telling me I ought to sit down and relax for a while tomorrow (it's my birthday). Or else He is just plain mean.

7. I never forget anybody, although as I'm getting older I sometimes forget people's names right when I'm introduced to them (they say the short-term memory goes first, right?). The not-forgetting is both blessing and curse. I hang onto people in my mind and heart much longer than they hang on to me, I think. That's why, for no good reason, I'm awfully curious about what happened to my high school boyfriend, Eric Shea. Thanks for giving me a new outlook on life by letting me know you were into me, Eric! Too bad you were such a jerk in the end! If you know him, update me. He has a Calvin & Hobbs tattoo on his bicep … uh huh. (It didn't go that great with his Mohawk, IMHO.)

8. My favorite drink is a Maker's Mark neat. This causes bartenders all kinds of consternation -- I think because I'm a lady. Thus, this drink solves the needs of my taste buds and the inner super-tough chick that lurks beneath my prissy-Virgo, worked-in-PR, newly-turned-soccer-mom exterior. My favorite response to my ordering my favorite drink was when the waiter at Goosetown Tavern brought me an (unordered) glass of water with the bourbon "because that drink seems awfully dry." Thanks, man -- you have given me an endless number of jokes about the non-liquid quality of something that is, by its very definition, a beverage, which must needs be … liquid. Wow, that blows my mind.


I tag..

Adela
Soo J. Kim
Julia
Aeski
Lance
Epstein Barbie (where the heck have you been?)
J Chris Rock (and make it funny, dammit!)
And Claire (let's take it Canadian!)


Merci.

Wow. This has been a week. Owen Wilson tried to kill himself, Hillly Kristal's dead and Hulk Hogan's son was hospitalized after a car-racing accident (Anyone watch "Hogan Knows Best"? Anyone?).

I got a new toy. Check out the full story on my other blog.



I also got a new CD this week. Haven't heard it since I packed away the cassette.



Oh, what fun.

And I listened to a download of the Of Montreal album, "Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?" I still have been too distracted to really absorb it. But I will confess to a special liking for the lyrics to "Life is a Grotesque Animal," which include such gems as:

"I fell in love with the first cute girl I met who could appreciate Georges Bataille"

"I need you here and not here too" (a refrain of sorts)

"somehow you've red rovered / the Gestapo circling my heart"

and

"Sometimes I wonder if you're mythologizing me like I do you."

It's such a paean to college-age love. Good gracious. Along with aughts-era yelping.

On the bookshelf, quite some time ago I finished reading Middlesex. Not solely because it was an Oprah's book club pick -- although I was reminded of it when I watched the Oprah episode featuring Cormac McCarthy, in which she announced the selection. Anyway, it's really good. That's all I have in me for a review.



And finally, today when I drove home, I pulled into my driveway behind a woman who was walking her golden retriever down the street. The dog was sashaying through our newly planted xeric garden (where the baby plants are about 4" tall, and where Mark just installed pavers to widen the sidewalk by a foot or so).

When I got out of the car, she was standing on the sidewalk while her dog peed on our bush (he had moved to the grass).

I really don't care about dogs walking across our grass or even peeing. But I thought letting him mosey through the garden was a bit much. I hate confrontations, but ...

... wait, that wasn't clear enough.

I hate confrontations.

But I have a strong sense of justice.

So, in a super friendly voice, I called out (they were still standing there), "Hi -- I don't know if you walk here often, but we just planted that garden bed, so if you could keep him out of there, that would be great!"

We had a little exchange. She got really defensive. First, she said, "Yes, I know. I corrected him." (Well, she didn't - I do have eyes, as well as a dog and experience in these matters, and the leash stayed slack the whole time.)

Then she told me she can't really manage him because she has a broken arm. In which hand she was holding the leash. And "he's in training."

I refrained from telling her that perhaps she should carry her coffee with her broken arm, and use her good hand to guide her allegedly uncontrollable, in-training, 100-pound dog.

The woman's voice was getting higher and higher with each remark.

What is with our world that hardly anyone can have an exchange such as this -- a perfectly nice, civil exchange -- without people getting defensive, freaking out, being entitled to their dog's right to walk through other people's gardens, or rather, being entitled to their excuses why their dogs might or might not really have actually walked through the garden at all? Can people still smile and say, "Oops, sorry! Won't happen again"?

I hate confrontations so much -- for these very reasons -- that my adrenaline got going, and I wound up shutting off her defensive remarks by saying "We have a dog, too -- I understand" and going in the house while she was still standing in my yard argumentatively explaining herself.

Just don't step on the baby plants for a couple weeks. That's all I ask.

And with that -- six blog entries in one -- I take your leave, ladies and gentlemen.

A week or so ago, I was at the Starbucks that stands practically alone off the side of I-25 where it meets the road to Longmont. It's not exactly my hangout, but it's where we meet my mother-in-law to trade my daughter back and forth when she goes to hang with Grandma.

I remembered that Ivy had told me the White Stripes' new album, "Icky Thump," was available at Starbucks, and I decided that given their huge marketing push, nothing was more appropriate than to roll with it and buy the damn thing there.



In the car, ready for the long drive back to Denver, we popped in the CD for an eager listen. Remember, I've been an avid White Stripes fan for, er, several years and own all their previous albums (although, full confession, I just bought "De Stijl" a few weeks ago and haven't given it a full analysis). I've been known to utter the words "Jack White" (the singer/songwriter/mad dictator of the White Stripes) and "genius" in the same sentence. I went out on a school night to see them play Red Rocks a couple of years ago.

Geez, I hate it when musicians make me embarrassed to have boosted them so heavily in the past. (Yes, Liz Phair, I am talking to you.)

Listening to the first tracks of this album, I pictured a television movie preview. You know the kind, where you see dramatic visuals with excerpts from reviewers' quotes superimposed over the images.



The Icky Thump preview would include images of Jack White and Meg White in various tricolored costumes, with vivid text over the top:

"awkward"

"horrifying!"

"embarrassing … and weird"

Let me add that I appreciate the album's nod to how hot redheaded women are, I am all for a band doing new things, and I am willing to concede that I may just be an old fan (not to mention old fogey) too jaded, too stuck in a rutt (oops - that was a Freudian slip based on the Ratt-like musical stylings of Track 1) to allow them their full artistic license.

But eww.

I'd like to give a special "eww" shout-out to "Conquest," which sounds like a cross between my elementary-school-music performance of "Don Gato" and a super bad (as opposed to superbad) take on the awesomeness that is DeVotchKa. In fact, given that mariachi music, while it appears sporadically in pop culture, is not really a phenomenon sweeping the nation, I was forced to wonder whether Mr. White caught DeVotchKa's performance at Bonnaroo 2006. I can picture him standing in the wings, admiring Nick Urata's svelte figure in his bolero jacket, gnashing his teeth, cursing the genes that gave him a tendency to Midwestern, uh, sturdiness that looks less good in tight pants than the physique granted by Senor Urata's presumably Mediterranean heritage, and then muttering under his breath, "I'll do those gypsy mariachi dudes from Denver one better. I'll show them. Nyah ha ha …."

Unfortunately, "Conquest" is the result.



The thing is, White is a co-opter. He's a brilliant mimic. (Usually.) This album has some nice chunks of faux-Dylan that go over better than "Red Rain" from the last record. He's channeled Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and more bluesmen than you can shake a stick at. But a histrionic Marty Robbins imitation, flibbertigibbet bagpipes and hair metal do not (is there a stronger way to say that?) do not make an album appealing.

It's not to say these songs are so very awful on their own. They sound like one-offs that might even be exhilarating if they were busted out in the middle of a live show of otherwise expected ditties.

Perhaps that's how they, in fact, originated. Or my other theory: That White either used to be or now is on drugs, and his status has changed, precipitating a new musical leaf.

Either way, they're not, you know, bad … just unpleasant to listen to. Say about 2 minutes into "Conquest" (I'm using this song as a whipping boy), when Mark and I burst out in unison with a horrified "Oh my God!" (I think it was when the piccolos come in. You heard me. Piccolos.)

The thing is, I want art. I have little patience for novelty, not when it's on an album that I paid good money for (after enduring dozens of promotional e-mails, no less!) and want to listen to more than once. I wouldn't have even braved a repeat listen to this album except that we got sidetracked talking and the car's CD player looped back to the beginning.

Icky Thump grows more tolerable on multiple listens, once one is inured to the first seven tracks. Tracks 8 through 13 (and to some extent track 3) sound like White Stripes songs. But I think this album pushed me over my Stripes tipping point, alas.

I do, however, have new understanding of why the band and its management were so hysterical about early releases and so worried about leaks and slips. Perhaps they feared that if this record got out, they'd sell nothing at all after fans heard their take on metal, Scottish ballads and Mexican music. But what do we expect when the very title is "their own take" on an expression from a language that has its own history -- a mimic of itself.

I know that some of you will disagree with me, so have at it. Is it just me?

Meanwhile, if you want to experience "Conquest," here you go. I found this on a quick search and it includes a visual homage to the candystripe duo.

He looked right perky last night, but he didn't make it.



I suggested Burial at Sea, but that made Lydia cry, so we did Burial in Yard, with Stone to Prevent Cats and Dogs from Digging Up Fishy Corpse.

On a related note, I spoke to Black Plague's parents/owners/human companions last night, and they said, "He got a mouse today."

I said, "He also got a bird today."

They agree that baby birds aren't good, but said that once they had to take a squirrel out of his mouth.

So, he's quite the hunter. Apparently, they do put bells on his collar, but he loses the bells. They added a new collar with a bell, and he came home without it. I think he has a jailbait girlfriend who works the bells and collars off with a metal nail file.

I have to say that Black Plague (I think his real name is Jackson or something) is the pinnacle of what a cat ought to be. Handsome and talented. And arrogant. The whole time we discussed him, he was lying on a chaise lounge like he ruled the world, relaxing and being petted, thinking in alternate thought bubbles, "who, moi?" and "That's right, suckas, you turn around and I'll eat YOU."

We all do what we do. Black Plague hunts. Sunshine swims upside down and dies. And me? I'd better get back to work.

That sounds like code for something very naughty, doesn't it?

But I mean it literally.

We thought Sunshine was gone. He lives in a bowl with water plants on our front porch. The idea being that he'll eat the nasty mosquito eggs. But for the past few days, we haven't seen him.

Not so unusual. He's a very timid goldfish. So we didn't worry. Then we did. I figured he'd been devoured by the marauding black cat that "lives" three doors down but uses our yard to:
(a) poop.
(b) vomit.
(c) argue with the other neighbor's cat late at night (actually, this seems to have stopped since I threw a glass of water [the water, not the glass -- Lydia was very concerned about this] at the black cat [and hit it!] at 11 p.m. the other night.
(d) tease our dog.
(e) terrorize and, in at least one case, eat the baby finches that were trying to grow up in our neighbor's juniper tree.

You get the idea. I figured the Black Plague had snatched Sunshine.

But today, there was sunshine, swimming at the top of the bowl ... upside down.

A few clicks on Google and fish constipation is the diagnosis. He looks pretty miserable.



Actually, he looks a lot better in that picture than in real life. That's him in his hospital room - a Ziploc bag full of water in a pot so it doesn't tip over and spill. Then I used the turkey baster to suck out some water, because there was too much. Then I followed the instructions on the Web site I found and cooked some frozen peas and squished them out of their skins - that's the green stuff on the bottom.

Sunshine has been alternately lying upside down panting and then swimming down to try to grab the peas (difficult when you are swimming upside down and your mouth is on the bottom, er, top). I think he got some.

Now I'm waiting for a big fish-poop-fest and he'll feel better. I hope.

As for the white spots on his side? They might be something called, appropriately, Ick. They might be a fungus. Or they might just mean our Sunshine is a big boy who could breed (which would confirm his maleness - not that we haven't thought he's pretty masculine all along. Even if he is a wuss.).

The weird thing is that of course, when he's just lying there upside down, he looks dead. So one could easily, mistakenly flush him. Right now, he's just resting.

Wish him luck. Send flowers. Or castor oil.

Hey, everyone, it's Random Acts of Kindness and Compassion Day! Not officially, okay, but it's been declared so by this blogger, and I think it's a good idea.

Please jump on board and let me know what you do. And I don't want to hear any kind of crap like "I didn't beat the bejeezus out of the person who cut me off in front of them." Soo and Ivy, I'm talking to you.

Try to think of something nice.

I know it's hard.

I for one have been so busy and so overwhelmed that I've barely had a minute to think. And worse, I haven't yet had a chance to finish reading the new Harry Potter, so I'm at risk for spoilers every minute of every day.

We did, however, obtain a CD of "The Head on the Door," the first Cure album I ever bought.



We put it on last night after dinner, and it inspired Lydia to produce a lengthy interpretive dance extravaganza. We also made up an innovative dance move that involved jazzy arm-crossing and a swiftly repeated action in which she turned backwards and did a backbend/dip over my bent knee. Having a dance partner who is not yet four feet tall gives you a lot of options.

OK. Kindness, people. And let's not say "not making fun of Robert Smith for being chubby."

For those of you who are writers or editors, Salon.com today published a terrific article about editors.

I was especially excited to read it because this week I began working with a new client, editing for a public relations firm for several hours every week. It's actually funny, because it's the firm where I started my career 15 years ago. And it's at that firm that an emphasis on quality was drilled into my head -- an emphasis that dovetailed nicely with my own urge to edit.

It's going to be a fun new job. Meanwhile, though, I'm so busy my head is spinning -- which means I'll probably continue not to be around here much.

I used to hear parents say "I can't wait till summer ends!" I would smile and think, uh huh, OK, whatever.

Now I get it. Summer is an ordeal. Don't get me wrong, it's fun. But the planning for our six-year-old is so much work.

It started in March. Like many moms, I organized summer in March with a spreadsheet and lists to keep track of what "camps" (read: weeklong babysitting experiences) I had applied to, how much they cost, what weeks they were offered, and whether we had been accepted (yes, Virginia, there IS a waitlist to get into the camps at the Denver Zoo).

Now, I have a special budget going to save money to pay the extra costs of keeping Lydia occupied so Mommy and Daddy can work during the summer.

And of course, in March, when I had to plan this so that we would have it covered, I had no way to know what my summer workload would look like or what Mark's schedule would be. This month has been brutal -- time off that we couldn't go away because of grad school obligations, part-time camps and lots of work. This translates into TV time, books on tape, and lots of "Mommy will just be another minute [read: 45 minutes] sending this one e-mail [read: finishing up six slightly overdue projects]."

The result is no peace, no sleep, and perpetual motion.

Why do I do this? Because I remember my summer childhoods:

a. In the basement of the babysitter who would yell, "Why are you upstairs? I told you kids to stay in the basement. Fine, go outside, but don't let me hear you."

b. At a relative's house (yes! a relative!) who occupied my time by:
1. Paying me 25 cents to pick up all the dog poop in their huge yard.
2. Generously giving me a sun hat to wear while I stood on a stepstool to hang my 250-pound uncle's wet denim coveralls on the clothesline.
3. Literally locking me and my sister on her back porch to eat PB&J while they ate steak for lunch inside the kitchen (now that I think of it, I was never much of a steak eater -- it was the locked door I objected to).
4. Leaving me to watch my sister and her own two kids while she went to hang out with her neighbor.
Note that my mother was paying her to take care of us.

c. At a babysitter who lived across the street from us and:
1. Fought a lot with her husband in front of us.
2. Stole my cat (well, we moved into the 'hood and our cat ran away, and then an identical cat turned up at the babysitter's, but she swore it wasn't mine. Mitzy, I knew it was you!).
3. Brace yourselves! Gave us some kind of yucky juice for lunch. My friend Tim "T-Bones" said he didn't like it and it made him sick. She said, "Nonsense. Drink it!!" He tried and threw up a little into his glass. She forced him to drink it with the throw-up in there. Ewwwwwwww!

No wonder I'm paranoid about babysitters. And I'm paying for it ... in blood.

Meanwhile, speaking of good parenting, I enjoyed this little exchange seen today on Overheard in New York:

Father: They're really promoting Paul McCartney at Starbucks.
Tween son: One of my friends said it sucks that John Lennon was shot instead of Paul McCartney. I felt bad when he said it.
Father: That's a horrible thing to say... But your friend was right.

In case you miss it on my other blog.

Dear Sierra Club membership services department:

Today I opened my mailbox and, as usual, found a stack of fat junk mail envelopes (including three from American Express) and two catalogs. As part of my work doing little steps to improve my environmental footprint, I'm calling all the senders and asking to be removed from lists. (Apparently, being "opted out" of junk mail and credit solicitations is not enough.)

And I had an envelope from you. I opened it and actually thought, "Maybe I ought to join!" I thought the giveaway backpack was a neat item. Then, as more and more objects continued to fall out of the envelope, I began to lose all interest in the Sierra Club.

I don't know too much about you - by reputation only. But I was taken aback, then alarmed, when I realized that an environmental organization asking me to join to protect the trees (do you see the irony here?) sent me an envelope as fat as that from American Express, containing the following items:

* One color flier with a picture of sequoias and a fake handwritten note on the back.
* One return envelope.
* One small plastic Sierra Club sticker.
* One four-color glossy paper with information about membership benefits.
* One thick legal-size paper with petitions, membership forms and card.
* One letter - not half a page, not one page, but TWO full pages.
* One small paper asking me to respond immediately.
* One small yellow paper saying you are America's most effective environmental organization.

Oh my gosh! I'm STILL not done!

* One very unusual size paper, four-color printed in full bleed, with information about the Giant Sequoia.
* And my least favorite item, the two plastic-coated sticky 12-month calendars that I may put on my computer keyboard.

This is a HUGE mound of stuff to throw into my recycling bin. It's almost as much paper as the Wednesday ad circulars from my newspaper. Further, I spent all of June keeping track of how many plastic bags I did not accept when doing my regular shopping (56) and bemoaning how much other plastic is in my life. I have to say, I never thought I'd be getting more plastic, unrequested, from the Sierra Club! (By the way, I use a laptop, and the calendar stickers wouldn't even fit -- and I rarely need a calendar, anyway.)

Also, because I have worked in public relations and publications for years, I couldn't help but notice that every single item in your mailing was a different size. Many were on unusual sizes of paper. From my experience, those choices drive up the cost of printing and production exponentially. And, with all those different-sized items in a single envelope, I suspect your mailings must be hand-stuffed. I hope you use a U.S. mailing house with fairly compensated workers, and I wonder why you don't send a persuasive one-sheet letter and dedicate the cost savings to more earth-friendly marketing options.

I agree that activism can have a greater effect than just limiting our individual garbage. But ideally, I think we should do both. Therefore, I am not convinced that the Sierra Club is the best use for my contributions.

I plan to post this letter on my blog to see if my readers think I'm off base -- or possibly one or two of them would like a non-recyclable plastic keyboard calendar.

Sincerely,

Susanna


So ... any takers? I would be happy to send you a Sierra Club sticker or a calendar, whose instructions read, "Affix this calendar strip on your PC keyboard, your desk or anywhere else you need a calendar. Every time you see it, you will be reminded of the important contribution you are making to protect America's wildlands."