And It's Late In the Evening

I don't want to brag or anything, but I have insomnia.

Of course, we all have insomnia. It's a world of wonder and a world of fear and stress and short-term job contracts and sexting and bee colony die-off. No right-thinking adult should shut their eyes somewhere around 11 and not open them again until eight or so hours later. So when I say I have insomnia, what I'm flaunting is the sheer cussedness of my insomnia. When Daughter was a baby, she ate at 3:30 a.m. We could do what we liked during the day, she was game and up for new experiences, each day was a special snowflake, but I knew one thing; at 3:30 in the morning, I'd find myself halfway down the hall, having sleptwalked towards the sound of low-blood sugar.

And then at her six-month checkup, the doctor asked after her sleep schedule. I mentioned our standing date. "She can sleep through the night," he said, wiggling her toes in an affectionate yet professional manner, "Now, it's just habit. Tonight, don't nurse her, just give her water. She'll sleep through the night in a week."

And so she did.

[Well, until she turned 11 months old and molars became The Boss of All of Us, but that's another story.]

Within two nights, she was asleep at 3:30. I, however, was not. As if one of the world's atomic clocks was installed in my head, at precisely 3:30 every morning my eyes would snap open and I would contemplate the relentless dark which is 3:30 in the morning. In that darkness, my brain would inform me of every single thing I had ever done wrong, every stupid thing I ever said, every baffling financial decision I made. Well, it wasn't always about me; sometimes I wept for the dolphins. For the first few weeks, I would attempt to go right back to sleep, because I was foolish and thought I had some say in what my body did. What my brain was going to do was stay up for about an hour, maybe ninety minutes, itemizing my failings and then allow me to fall asleep as the sky started to lighten. That Daughter was going to wake up an hour later was immaterial to my brain.We had a job to do, my brain and I, and my selfish desire for a REM cycle wasn't going to keep my brain from making sure I know it was very disappointed with me. Reading never worked, as there is no book which mutes internal decades-long lists of failings. Experimentation taught me to get up and watch sitcoms, as the rampant dolphin-concerns were muffled by Blanche, Rose, Dorothy and Sophia. I tried melatonin, camomile tea, even prescription medication before bed; they acted upon 3:30 in the morning as a mosquito acts upon a herd of wildebeest.

Flash forward a decade. 3:30 in the morning and I weren't always hanging out, but I was still seeing a great deal more of her than I liked. One extra cup of green tea? 3:30. Political unrest? 3:30. Holidays coming up? Hi, 3:30; let me at least get some wrapping paper and make use of this time. A doctor told me it has something to do with the adrenals; you know how you feel droopy right around 3:30 or 4:00, go looking for something carbish to keep you awake? That is this feeling's more tractable twin, because a carb will wake you long enough to hold you through the trough, but it you take something to sleep at 3:30 in the morning that means at 7 in the morning, it's going to be 2:00 in the morning in your head and you'll be basically a houseplant, only mean.

Thankfully, I worked from home, so at the very least I wasn't driving at 8 in the morning, which is why I am not dead. Also, we had Roku, which meant I could get caught up on sitcoms in the hour and a half I was up every night; if it's formulaic, twenty-two minutes long and has a laugh-track, I've probably seen it in the last two years. I periodically have to remind myself the people on "How I Met Your Mother" aren't my friends and don't need to be on the Christmas card list. I grew sort of maschochistically fond of 3:30 in the morning. It certainly isn't cute and there's some pretty damning evidence that entrenched insomnia will shorten your life, but I knew who I was; the one who was awake at 3:30 in the morning.

And then, four months ago, I slept through the night. First for one week, and then two, and then a month. Stressful things happened and my brain shouted at me a lot, but I saw nothing of 3:30 in the morning, or 3:40 in the morning, or the underappreciated 4:10 in the morning. I fear even mentioning it, but it appears we are done with 3:30 in the morning for the moment.

I am, however, getting up at 5:20 in the morning; 5:20 is the new 3:30. Sometimes I go back to sleep at 6:30, when my alarm clock goes off at 7:15, which seems a little sadistic on the part of my brain and it's still disrupted sleep, not-enough sleep. And yet, I'm positively giddy about this new development. Why? First, daylight. If it's almost light outside, it's not a night of sleep brutally rent; it's just Tuesday, earlier than usual.

Second, there's Steve and Edie. The rescue-group I work with has a pair of Jack Russell terriers who were found literally dashing across the freeway. Obviously, they are very lucky and they also happen to be very nice. What they are also is very Jack Russell terrier and that's more dog than any morning volunteer wants to encounter, let alone two jumping higher than your head when you're trying to spoon out breakfast for forty animals. A request went out; could someone walk them in the mornings so they would stop molesting the morning crew? I could do that. In fact, I could go and get them and take them for a long hike before the sun was fully in the sky. By the time I get them back, all three of us are sweaty and smell a little less than flowerlike, but we're happy. It's not dark outside, it's light. I can start my day. And when the voice in my head whispers meanly "You haven't done nearly enough," I can snap back "No, I haven't, but right now I'm walking two maniacs who are thrilled to know me and that's enough. So shove off."

I Have Heard Among this Clan/ You Are Called the Forgotten Man

Fun fact; for the first time, in 2012 more people are now reading content on Smart phones or tablets than laptops or computers. I could have told them that, if for no other reason than I didn't make eye-contact with anyone in 2012. Honestly, I was blown off by infants who were checking to see what their buddies back in NICU were up to on Facebook. I could have also told them that writing long-form has felt increasingly less meaningful and God knows I can't be bothered to do things that aren't meaningful.

(Now if you will excuse me, I have to go stare at pictures of captioned cats.)

Also, I'm on my phone more often than I'm on my computer and it's less than completely enchanting to write a 1000 word blog on a phone. Even as I write these, I'm aware that I'm redefining the measurement for "Painfully clueless middle-class life of leisure complaints," but so be it. I'm a horrible creature of privilege and the only consolation you should take is that one of my cats, the dumb one, has taken to facing the wrong way when she uses the litter-box and I'm going through a bottle of Chlorox spray a week on the laundry-room floor. My privilege only extends so far.

"What's your point exactly, Quinn?" My point is this. I'm activating an account on Tumblr (quinncummings.tumblr.com), which will be where the shorter thoughts go. The longer thoughts will go here. The book reviews and anything which requires audio will go on Keek, under Quinncy. The kid's book reviews of soon-to-to-be-published middle-schools books will go on Pinterest, under Quinn Cummings. The random thoughts which go through my head and my need to make fun of Huffington Post can be found on Twitter (@quinncy). You can find me on Facebook, but I stand by my original statements that I hate Facebook worse than poison wrapped around okra in a light beet-sauce.  In sum, it's 2013 and you're going to have to work hard NOT to find me. You're going to find yourself thinking things like "Oh God, her? Again?"

Yes.

Again.

Waiting patiently for the cerebral chip implantation.

Don't Be Stupid, Be a Smarty

Consort explaining funding round he's managing:

"The concern, of course, is that we not be oversubscribed."

Having on some level never left the entertainment industry, where popularity is king, I say in confusion "But...isn't it better to be over than undersubscribed?" Consort remembers who he's talking to and briskly rejoins, "If we're oversubscribed, that makes me Max Bialystock."


"OH. We don't want that."

I hope you will all buy my upcoming book on finance, TRY NOT TO BE ANY CHARACTER ZERO MOSTEL PORTRAYED..

Studying About that Good Old Way

And how goes Awkward Social Interactions in Daughter's Chinese Workbook?

Well, let's take a look...



FATHER: What are you going to study in college?

DAUGHTER: I am going to study history. I like studying history and will like majoring in it.

FATHER: You are not capable of being good at studying history. You will not make money. You should study computer science. You will make money if you study computer science.

Shelter Me

A favor:

Daughter is doing a project for her Statistics class and has decided on tracking rates of FIV infection in cats in shelters throughout the United States. If you work at a shelter or know someone who does, could you get in touch with me? This is anonymous, we're not finger-pointing, she'd just love to create as thorough a project as possible.

Thank you!

Radio Silence

I know.

I know.

I'm a wastrel.

A slacker.

A NON-WRITER.

Well, sure, I've been writing on Twitter (@quinncy) and you can find me on Facebook and I'm putting up reviews of books I've loved on Keek (thank you, Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena!) and the kid is putting up book reviews on Pinterest (thank you, Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena, because, honestly, you're keeping us out of debtor's prison!) and I'm doing some actual writing but no, I've not been around here lately.

What can I tell you that's new? Well, I just realized the dog is no longer young. I mean, I understood that on an intellectual level, what with him having come to us as an adult almost five years ago and my having recently said things like "Has anyone seen the dog's antacid pills?" and all, but he's been keeping his age a closely guarded secret by being a buff-colored dog. Buff-colored dogs live what well-bred Southern women know; blonde hair hides the grey. He's one St. John's knit suit away from chairing a fundraising brunch. But I did realize this weekend that he's less cream and more platinum these days. This, of course, does not stop him at the dog park. The dog has three gears at the dog park:

1. Bully smaller dogs until they cry,
2. Attempt to have sex with dogs who are twice his size,
3. Run after any dog who appears to be joyful and bark at them to shame them.

He's like a reality show host with stinky feet.

Consort is well and sends his regards. Actually, I have no idea how he feels because he's in the middle of three separate huge projects, all of which have hard deadlines within three days of one another and I haven't exchanged an intelligible word with him in days. Could one of them have started back in January when he drifted around the house as lonely as a cloud? Could one be due in, say, the third week of June? No, Quinn, they are malevolent conjoined triplets and if you keep asking stupid questions like that, Consort will explain these projects again to you until you understand them or cry like a Pekinese being bullied by the dog. One horrible night, I came into the office and found no fewer than three computer screens glowing.

And they were all Excel.

AND THEY WERE IN THE HOUSE!!!!

He seems happy, in a "Distracted and swearing softly" way. Daughter and I wave to him tentatively yet supportively every morning and when he works at home I encourage him to stand every half day or so to hold off deep-vein thrombosis.

The cats are exactly as they always are except that Squeakers, if possible, has grown more oppressively enamored of me. Once, a long time ago, she slept at my feet.

(Actually, once she slept outside the bedroom so Consort could breathe, but let's not dwell on that.)

Then, she slept next to me.

Then, under the covers.

As of last week, Squea sleeps next to me, under the covers, with her paws encircling my neck. I frequently awaken not to the shrill sound of my alarm but to a raspy tongue and a devoted expression no more than an inch from my eyeball. Consort swears I'm the love of his life and I'm pretty certain he doesn't like me like that. I will predict this one is never going away to college.

In related news, Consort and I take a great deal of Benadryl.

The kid is well. Chinese continues apace; I'm thrilled to say that after seven months in the class, she finally knows a few colors. She also knows a great many more ways to communicate to someone in Chinese that they are never going to make something of themselves:

Man: Will you go to dinner with me tonight?

Woman: Why?

Man: It is my birthday today.

Woman: I do not know you. Go away.

Thanks to class, the woman can now add that she hates his blue shirt, too.

This last Easter was shaping up to be problematic because the kid is indifferent to chocolate but loves anything sticky, but we thought sticky was out of the question since she had braces on. A week before Easter, the braces suddenly were removed and I flew around like a maniac buying ever so much sticky to atone for the Easter basket of last year, the month after she got braces, which had such deflating things as socks. They were cute socks, she's still wearing them, but they weren't sticky candy and I had atoning to do. This year's basket was a nauseating display of any item I could find which might possibly pull out a filling and to keep her from eating all the candy, I let her binge for a day and then hid it. Which means, of course, I knew where it was and it turns out that a) I also love sticky and b) there is no frustration the modern age can throw at me I can't alleviate with sticky candy. It's possible we were hiding the candy from the wrong person. I've already had to replace several items in the basket. On the plus side of the "I have no willpower" ledger, it's financially satisfying to buy Easter candy two weeks after Easter.

On the wildlife front, It's springtime so the skunks are shuffling sullenly through our front yard with their tiny adorable offspring. We live in Los Angeles, so there's been a plethora of indoor-outdoor cats disposed of by coyotes in my neighborhood; I know I've mentioned this before, but if you live in LA, bring your cats indoors. I'm respectful of the coyotes, mean them no harm, this was their house first, but that doesn't mean we need to keep  buying them take-out.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's nearly one o'clock; it's time to turn Consort towards the sunlight.

Are You With Me So Far

"I need to get a pill-cutter to split the dog's antacid pills in half." And with that statement, I've inched one step closer to being That Lady With All the Pets and the Sequinned Holiday Sweatshirts.

Why Does She Run From Me?

I wish there was a socially-acceptable way to say "You seem lovely, person I've been talking to, but contrary to public perception I'm incredibly introverted and this conversation, fascinating as it has been, is exhausting me. May I power down in a back room for an hour or so, ideally while hanging out with a friendly domesticated animal, and come back to you afterwards without social censure?"




I'm sure the Germans have a word for that.

But I at Least Gotta Try

I'm working on a project.

Can't say what.

Might come to nothing.

Might come to something.

But for the moment, I have to move forward in information-gathering mode. I've spoken at a few events now, and for the most part they've been excellent adventures; I'm kicking myself that someone didn't film Laurie Notaro, Jen Lancaster and my panel in Tucson, because that was, with all modestly, a hilarious hour. But I need to do more public speaking.

This is where you come in.

Have a book club? I'll speak to them.

Have a fundraiser for a school? I'll speak to them.

Have a 12-step meeting and lack someone to step up tonight? I can't say I'll be the most compelling story about bottoming out, but I'll be there.

How much will it cost you? If you live within a hundred miles of Los Angeles, nothing. If you live outside of the hundred mile radius, you'll pay to get me there and back but the actual talking? Free. I'll talk about being a math-phobic homeschooler, or a former child actor, a rescuer of animals or a topic to be named later. If getting there requires real travel, I'll restrain myself from talking about my feelings about planes. Right now, I need the experiences, and maybe you can use me.

If this interests you, I'm at quinn@quinncummings.com.

Or Get Past the Covers of Your Books Profound

I was online, looking at other people's pets, as I am wont to do. Daughter apparated in the doorway and said "Kai Square*?" in a questioning tone.

Assuming this was a member of One Direction, I said "Yes...?" in what I hoped was a supportive way.

"Kai Square, " she began, "is used for measuring significance of samples or observations, a way to determine if samples are dependent, or a step in calucating p-score."

We stared at one another.

After a few seconds, she said "Right?"

I sighed and said, "Oh honey, I have no idea. That's your other parent. I drive you places."

She said, "Right. Go back  to the pit bulls, Mom" in what I am choosing to believe was a kindly tone. She bounded into the kitchen and Kai Squared at Consort, who listened politely and suggested she go check her work. Daughter went back to her room. Consort poked his head in the office.

"Thanks" he said dryly.

"Hey, you're the smart one."

"Uh-huh," he said, "Well, the smart one is about to try to find his Statistics textbooks in the garage, so maybe you could show her some pictures of puppies while I learn this again."


*I have come to learn this is chi-square. This hardly affects me at all.

Being Alive

I love my life.

It's better than anything I could have dreamt up.

But I wouldn't be completely averse to outsourcing much of it right now.

And the Ones that Mother Gives You Don't Do Anything at All

I looked in the dog's food bin and swore softly. Consort looked up.

"Problem?"

"It's just that we're out of the pill-pockets the dog likes."

We have reached the stage beyond domestication; domination.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy the desirable kind of pill-pockets.

So You'd Better Treat Her Right

I was away at the Tucson Festival of Books this past weekend, having what can only be described as a high old time. Consort and the kid stayed at home, because the kid's life continued at its usual relentless pace: my logistical instructions to Consort ran three pages; the different sports and activity-bags took up half the laundry room.

You know, just another weekend in the life of a 21st-century American child.

The night I arrived, I received the following text:

All of today's appointments have been met. Am currently sitting in the car waiting for #4 to be done so we can go home and rest to be ready for everything tomorrow. HOW DO YOU DO THIS AND ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING ELSE???

I don't want to admit how often I reread that in delight; I will say that it's possible I will cross-stitch that on a pillow, for comfort later.

Have You Been an Alumnus of Heaven and Hell

Consort said plaintively, "Before we die, can we please have one entire year without a single pet?"

I was going to argue that animals bring joy and peace to our lives but needed to rush to the store to get the jumbo pack of Swiffers and Oxyclean to remove the smell of pet-vomit from the couch.

For Maybe By Being an A Student, Baby

Consort and kid were working on Stats last night; I decided to participate. "What's with the E?" I asked. "What E?" "The fancy capital E with the extra bits." I am now to understand that 1) That fancy E is summation, 2) I am not to touch the white board and 3) I am encouraged to find other, simpler things to do.

Tis a Gift to Be Free

If you haven't found and watched "A Place at the Table," find it and watch it. If you've seen it, agitate a loved one to watch it. Is it realistic to talk about fundamental change regarding food policy in the US during the sequestration? I'll let the writer/producer sum it up:


"We are at a moment of sequestration, a moment where people are thinking in terms of austerity, but the truth is if you're worried about budgets, then you really want to see this problem fixed. Because we are spending many, many multiples of what it would cost to fix this problem on the cost of NOT fixing it."


http://www.takepart.com/place-at-the-table

Three Can Be as Bad as One

I just opined, via Twitter, that you can have two of any kind of pet of your choice without censure, but at three of one kind of animal you are now a "(Pet of choice) person."*

Someone Tweeted back that no, three is when they wonder about you; four is when you're "(Pet of choice) person." I am willing to admit when I'm wrong, but I think we need more than two people weighing in on this. How many of one particular type of animal makes a person...that kind of person?


*This rule doesn't apply to tarantulas. I understand from tarantula owners that they're very sweet, but let's stipulate than even a single tarantula in a cage makes you "Bob, that guy with all the tarantulas."

On the Cover of a Magazine

For months, the VOGUE magazines were published, I would page through them and I would grieve. Sure, there were stupid handbags, unappealing hairstyles and the occasional person described as something like an "Art Consultant" standing in her apartment wearing a Balenciage trenchcoat and holding a rasher of bacon, but VOGUE wasn't giving me the stupid the way it has in the past. Had Anna Wintour grown tired of mixing the surreal, the inexplicable, the unnattractive and the pink mascara? Were we fated to never stare at VOGUE as a community again?

And then the Beyoncé issue arrived, and I understood what I had feared was a fading vigor was merely Anna replenishing her insane vision. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, VOGUE roars back, stronger and less interested in being attractive than ever.

I know what your first question is: Quinn, are we still wearing big stupid hats? Well, sure. A Big Stupid Hat is a classic, like a navy blue blazer or tattooing your earlobes. But the more fashion-forward are wearing their Big Stupid Hats with uncovered lampshades:

The haunted look is extra.

Speaking of a haunted look, try not to stare at this model directly, as I believe her glance kills within 72 hours.

So, besides a skirt which can double as a light fixture,

what else is new?
I think we're all excited to learn what is the hottest hairstyle for spring and summer: The Lady Combover.

On an unrelated note, I think Miuccia Prada won't rest until she's convinced someone somewhere to spend a thousand dollars for a pair of shoes which look like sandals with socks. This is the third seaon she has shown this. It's possible she's trying to win a bet.

If you're feeling more follicularly whimsical, you can always go with the Stooge:

Or, the Starter Stooge:

The rule is simple; if you don't resemble a middle-aged man from the middle of the last century, you're so willfully weird looking that we might have to come after you with pitchforks and torches.

There's a motif this month, and it's "Women who cannot remember to dress from the waist up and have just learned this."

"I knew I felt breezier than usual!"

"Sweetheart, did you do the checklist like we talked about before we left the house?"

"Oh crap, let the red gloves, the sword and the tiger keep them from noticing I forgot to put on a shirt and had to cut off half of a mortuary curtain."

It's nice to see that even when everyone else is racing forward at breakneck speed in the fashion world, Versace is still designing for an underserved demographic; the third wives of Russian oligarchs.

Just before writing a cringingly large check to VOGUE for a full-page ad buy, an ad executive thought, "Overexposed film, unkempt dirty hair, contour blushing from the 80s, a wrinkled dress and the shoes (the product we're trying to sell) lost in the rocks. Someone's getting a bonus!"

Ad executive, we here at VOGUE approve of self-delusion (See: Muiccia and her love affair with socks and sandals), but we are sorry to say that you did unattractive in the wrong way. If you look outside your window, you will see the editors with torches racing up Madison Avenue.

This woman looks magnificent in this dress.

She is the only person on the planet who does. Everyone else will resemble a toilet brush. And what's with the scorching look from tuxedo guy? That isn't love or passion, that's "My eyes also work as lasers." You know who he should marry?

It's nice to think of them sharing creepy expressions for the centuries to come.

Last year at a fur farm, a mink gazed upwards and prayed "Please let me be killed, skinned, dyed bright blue, turned into Cookie Monster's shower shoes and then end up at Loehman's for 90% off, because not a single sober person would willingly wear these."

You're welcome, little mink.

Anyone want to guess what the woman below is selling?

Anyone?





Anyone?





That's right...










shoes.



It's nice that VOGUE provides someone for the Russian oligarch's third wives to declare "A little tacky."



But what if you have to go to the Golden Globes days after having ACL surgery? Tom Ford has you covered.

But, unsnarkily, I would unblinkingly sell my soul to anyone who could get my hair to do that.

"You rang?"

Mother Cannot Guide You Now You're On Your Own

Okay, reader-participation time:

Was there one specific moment when you realized "I'm not a kid any more?" Was there a moment when you knew you were irrevocably an adult? Were they the same moment?

When You are Stealing That Extra Bow

Daughter asked, "May I have some honey for my cereal, please?"

I asked carefully, "Some what?"

She sighed. She knew what the price was.

She then said "Honey..." exactly like Mr. Upson in the Roz Russell version of 'Auntie Mame."

I handed her the bear, because I am a very cheap but a very specific date.

Then You Go Downtown

I've been an unapologetic fan of "Downton Abbey," but after the last two seasons, I've come to the conclusion that certain shows are like certain men I dated when I was young; I'll put up with all sorts of stupidity as long as I'm looking at something pretty.

Cannot WAIT for Season 4.

Goin' To the Chapel

(Shots of a glamorous house in the Hollywood Hills: the hot tub, the million-dollar view, the large neon abstract art piece in the living room.)



VOICE-OVER: Twelve contestants, sharing a house, but only one of them can get the job. It’s about to get real up in here...



(Shot of marble floor. A pair of red shoes walk into frame.)



V.O: Infallibly real.



(Credits: THE VATICAN’S NEXT GREAT POPE)



V.O: Coming to the CW in March.

Only Whatever You Put in Its Head

While chatting with some parents of Daughter's friends, we came to the conclusion that we have, at most, another five years of active parenting ahead of us. If you define "Active" as "They're still listening," maybe some of us have already entered the inactive file. But the fact remains, the part where our children are at least obliged to pretend to listen is winding down and many of us feel as if parenting is the Encyclopedia Brittanica and we've barely walked them through the "Aardvark-Abacus" section. I'm not even talking the  Perhaps it's best to wait until you're old enough to rent a car before you have a child kind of advice; I'm going to assume that most children I know are aware of how their parents feel about the large issues, even if they never end up following that advice. I'm talking the extraneous bits of hard-won information people accrue and would love to see someone they care about learn without having to take the hard way to get it.

So, readers, here's where you come in. I'm going to write down the two gobbets of wisdom I wish I could pass on to teenagers. If there's something you wish the younger version of you had known, bring it in.

1. Never, never once, tell your dear friend what you think of her ex. Even if she broke up with him and promptly rented a billboard enumerating his failures, even if you've been biting your tongue for years about what an epic ass he is, not even if his name is shorthand in three counties for "Has herpes," you say nothing. Hug your friend, take her out for carbs, look sympathetic and never have whatever number drink it is for you that loosens your tongue and makes you tell her about the day he hit on your while she was in the ICU. Because the instant, THE INSTANT, you breathe in and say "Well, since we're talking about Todd..." you are assuring they will get back together and she will never speak to you again.

If you're looking to get rid of her for some reason, however, have the evening of your life.

2. If an extended story-warranty on an appliance sounds like a good idea, set the money on fire instead. At least you'll get some warmth.

Now, you?

No Language in Our Lungs

Update from my daughter's Chinese class:

She now knows the word for "Electric box."

She still has no idea how you would say "Blue."

I'm beginning to suspect colors have been declared capitalistic.

You Love To See Me Crying

"Stop whining, you already ate. You just forgot. Go stare at the wall or something."

The cats cannot believe I'm not up on charges.

Things Look Swell, Things Look Great

"So, Quinn," you say to me, perhaps with some affection but more than a touch of justifiable impatience, "Are you ever going to blog again?"

I know, I know. But I have a good excuse. Two actually:

1. The paperback version of THE YEAR OF LEARNING DANGEROUSLY is coming out the first week of August, and I'm working on a new update for that. This would be going better had I not whimsically decided that NOW would be a good time to get a Spasmic Coughing Thing ™, which causes my sleep to come in bouillon-sized cubes, which slows the process of coherent thought down a touch.

2. The second is a biggish thing I'm working on that's kind of new terrain for me. If I stop this blessed Spasmic Coughing Thing ™, I hope to have it ready to unveil to you all in the next three weeks.

So bear with me, find me on Twitter as Quinncy - because 140 characters is about as long a thought as I can retain right now - and know that you're all in my heart.

Also, possibly in my lungs.

I Won't Grow Up, I Will Never Even Try

Planning tomorrow's schedule, I realized I needed to cancel Daughter's Friday math tutoring. I stopped what I was doing, found the tutor's number, called her and cancelled. I then basked for at least two minutes in a completely unwarranted sense of accomplishment.

"Look at me, remembering to cancel an appointment! Putting together how she'd be out until at least 5:30, thereby rendering a 5:30 tutoring session unworkable, and cancelling with more than 24 hours notice! Guess the grown-ups are in charge now!"

Bask, bask, bask. Inner Cabbage Patch dance. Willful ignoring that I just ate some leftover Halloween (possibly 2011) Smarties I found in a drawer. Because there's nothing more adult than denial.

No Pill's Gonna Cure My Ill

Things I just realized:

1. The bottle of hand soap I bought-- which I was led to understand would smell like "Winter Cherries," whatever those are -- smells exactly like Robitussin. EXACTLY.

2. This is a very, very big bottle. I'm going to be reminding people of a persistent cough until May, at the very earliest.

Don't Fear the Reaper

Somehow a conversation with the kid about the efficacy of medical testing became a conversation about ALS. I did several minutes on the horrors of that disease, touched briefly on how Lou Gehrig may not, in fact, have had what we now refer to as Lou Gehrig's disease, and ended the dialogue talking about brain trauma in athletes and the rates of dementia among football players. I then played back the depths I had plumbed and apologized to my daughter for being a freak.

Daughter looked thoughtful and said, "You're a freak, but you're our freak."

So we now have my epitath covered.

I Had A Dream, A Dream About You, Baby

The kid and I were at the mall, doing what one does after the holidays; using up gift cards and store credits before the cats eat them. A woman walked past us, smiled. I smiled vaguely back, assuming I knew her from someplace. She stopped, turned, pointed to Daughter and said "Is she your daughter?"

I frowned and said "Depends." Whatever the opposite of outgoing is, I am its queen if a stranger is interested in my child.

"Well," she continued, smiling warmly at me, "I'm a scout for Disney television and they are having an audition..."

This has happened to us before. I'm not saying the child is exceptionally beautiful or unbearably charismatic. I think she's rather nice but the scout wasn't responding to her dry wit or her interest in science. What the scout noticed was that Daughter is a carbon-based life form under the age of 13 in a city looking to constantly keep the machinery of tween television oiled with new bodies. If they ask a thousand children to come to an open audition, a few hundred might come and in there might be a single child who can read a line. It's worth their time so they keep sending scouts out.

"...come read?"

The woman waited. I realized she had kept talking while my mind drifted. Luckily, I knew my line.

"Thank you, but no."

We all smiled at one another and the scout walked off towards a mother with twins.

I loved acting; specifically, no one loved the bit between "Action" and "Cut" better than I did. If that was all acting was, I'd still be in it. I'd be unemployed, but I'd be in the game. But even if you're lucky, that part is no more than about 10% of your career. The other 90% -- the uncertainty, the powerlessness, the unhealthy fixation on weight and appearance -- erodes even the most resilient adult and I wasn't walking around the mall with an adult. My mother, my parents, had the character to have kept me sane and whole even with this nutjob hobby I had, but I wasn't prepared to gamble that I could do as well for the kid. Lucky for us, Daughter has friends who are actors and knows that acting mostly means you aren't available to have fun in the afternoons and that even if you could talk your mother in to it, you can't have a blue streak in your hair. In sum, acting is unenviable.

I couldn't agree with her more.

Working Class Hero

Today I have decreed to be Get the House Cleaned Up After the Holidays Day. Daughter has booked in Aimless Drifting and Starting But Not Finishing Projects for today. It would appear we are at cross purposes, emphasis on the cross. Being as she's winding up our annual holiday cold and will be starting Chinese and other complicated bits on Monday, I'm actually fine with her having a relatively quiet day, and have no interest in her helping me tear down the holiday set, as I work faster when I don't have to discuss the terrible brevity of the holidays and the general stench which is January. But that doesn't mean I want a puzzle dumped on the floor, where I have just swept up pine needles.

So a few minutes ago, I said to my excellent child "Listen to me very carefully. I am cleaning this house. If I see you -- if you cross my path -- I'm going to assume you're getting my attention because you long to organize the Christmas lights."

She blanched slightly.

"If you stay in your bedroom creating chaos, I will assume you have no interest in cleaning."

I'd speculate about her expression at that point but she was gone. I could already hear a box of something being dumped on the floor of her bedroom.

What Are You Doing New Year's Eve

So, a month has passed! Of the thirty days I hoped I'd write, I wrote 28, which is an annoying near-miss but not as annoying as it would have been if I had written 29 blogs. I came up with a name for these short blips from my life; Quinnstagrams. I'm disproportionately pleased with having thought this up.

But now it's not just the end of a writing experiment, but the end of the year. Wasn't an uneventful year; in fact, I'd say it was downright lively. We had the trip, and the other trip, Daughter streaked further away from any math I understand and Consort was clever about things which I can't actually explain. And then there was the book, and the Atlantic exerpt, the Wall Street Journal story, the Huffington Post, the TIME magazine story...

(In case you ever wondered who the hardest-working marketing person in publishing is, it's Melissa Broder.)

Good things happened.

Of course, there were also people who hated me, and hate my book, and think I wake up a half hour early every day just to bask in what a terrible parent I am. That happened, too.

And, in the end, another book is born and is off leading whatever sort of life it's going to lead, Daughter continues to blaze away learning more and more baffling things, and Melissa Broder goes on excelling at book-marketing. Consort will continue to improve businesses and occasionally fix the dryer (whoever wrote in suggesting the dryer would fail again, HOW DID YOU KNOW?). And me? Well, I'm back to where I started; figuring out what I do next, what I write next. Turns out that having written doesn't seem to lubricate the process for me; I'm cellularly certain I won't think of a book to write, and knowing I've transcended this feeling twice before makes not a whit of difference. I'm not intrinsically wired for any kind of faith and have all the courage of a guinea pig at a German Shepherd family reunion; my default path is "Don't screw things up." But I've tried that road too often in my life, and I know  "Don't screw things up" quickly becomes "Don't do anything at all."

I had a pretty good idea of what 2012 would look like and while it was far better than I could have hoped, it was still the 2012 I had penciled in. Next year? No idea. If I want another adventure, I'm going to have to think it up and play it out; no one else can do this for me. This is galvanizing and terrifying and, candidly, I'd probably skip it were it not for one person; the kid. Every day that I wander around this house I'm showing her what it means to be an adult of the female persuasion. I need to show her that being an adult doesn't mean not risking, or learning something new. I don't want her to be the kind of person who measures out her curiosity with an eye-dropper and decides there's some age where she's locked in to her life and the rest of her life will be calcification and contraction. I want her to be cheerful, resilient, and adaptable; it behooves me to try for those characteristics as well.

Whatever your holiday was, I hope it was glorious (If you're Eastern or Greek Orthodox, I hope it will be glorious).  And for everyone, may the the upcoming year be sprinkled with familiar and unfamiliar delights and that we all find some moxie and grit just when we need it.

Machine Head

It's been a long day, and not just for me. Consort has been doing some computer version of a colonoscopy on this computer and they are both a little worse for the wear. Also, last night Consort fixed the dryer. The household objects are celebrating the season the way they always do; by grumbling and emitting a worrisome burnt-plastic odor. I'm in my usual state when he does household-ish things very ably; 51% impressed we didn't have to hire anyone and 49% concerned there might be a quiz about all those technical bits he droned on about.

I'm not entirely certain but I think he said the dryer needed a new defibrillator. Possibly the dryer's depilatory has died. Now that I think of it, it might have been the dictator.

But at least he caught and removed a couple of nasty polyps in the RAM before they came to anything.

And He Keeps Them Pearly White

A brief public-service announcement:

If you live in Los Angeles, please think about making your indoor-outdoor cats indoors only. I've heard no fewer than eleven stories of cats being killed in their front yards in the last month, in houses from Pacific Palisades to Pasadena.

[Actually, I heard of a coyote trying to grab a morbidly obsese chihuahua as well, but couldn't lift him over the fence. I can't decide whether that's a "Protect your pets" story, a "Don't let your dog get nearly immobile from fat" story or a "On second thought, a chihuahua shaped like a planet might die from a heart attack but at least won't be hauled over the picket fence" story. So I'm leaving it out.]

The coyotes were here first, and they are getting braver with each passing year. I've seen them running down the sidewalk in Hancock Park, a neighborhood locals know is nowhere near uninhabited parkland. They're eating our trash as snacks; let's not make their job easier by leaving their entree waiting.

Yeah, I'm the Taxman

Ryan Murphy and his husband David just announced the birth of their son.

In case you don't know who Ryan Murphy is, he's the producer of a little show called "Glee." He also produces "American Horror Story" and in the past has produced other shows which have run a very long time. This man has an annual salary which would make the government of  the Ukraine look on in envy.

He also produces a show called "The New Normal," about a television producer named Brian and his partner David who are, at this time, expecting their first child, a boy. The house on the show is apparently based on Ryan and David's actual house.

(I don't stalk them. I really don't. I read that in a checkout line and was filled with a Ukraineish envy that some people live like fancy people on television live.)

This leads to the boring-yet-persistent question rattling around my head which readers who are also CPAs can answer:

Can he just write off everything as a business expense? I'm not talking the lunches; everyone in LA claims all meals are business expenses. I mean could he try to argue that "These aren't RYAN cashmere socks, they are BRIAN cashmere socks" and "These olives I bought at Trader Joe's are going to be worked into a story about how Brian hates olives and the toilet paper is for the guest bathroom whose television doppleganger will figure prominently in a story arc"?

Not that I think he buys his own toilet paper.

Not that I think about rich people's bathroom habits.

I honestly don't.

But I must admit I'm now thinking about how insanely nice his towels must be.

This is why I can't have nice things like celebrity gossip. I fixate on the wrong part.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

This upcoming year, may everyone be as happy as a cat in a box.

Wrapper's Delight

You'd think after all these years, my present-wrapping skills would have progressed. But no; once again, I'm going to have to imply I was in dual wrist-casts until Christmas Eve.

I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It

The Christmas party had a dessert table; ergo, I was next to it. The host brought over a friend of hers to meet me. He'd seen "The Goodbye Girl" recently and had just Googled me to make sure I wasn't dead.
Well, he said "To see what you were up to," but I think we all know what that means.

We briefly covered how I wasn't dead, wasn't acting, wrote a bit, and then moved on to how I knew the host couple. I said, "Their son and my daughter have been friends since they were three" and then lunged purposefully at some shortbread.

"Oh!" he said, pleased, "Is she around?"

"No," I said, crunching, "she's coming later with my partner."

He smiled and asked, "Is she your biological daughter?"

Being as I was busy finding a dried cranberry which had jetted from my cookie into my sleeve, I nodded yes without thinking much about what he said. Then, it played back in my head. My biological daughter? Was he an adoption lawyer or just gunning for Weirdest question ever asked a former child actress? Then I played back what I had said and realized Oh, I'm a lesbian.

This is not the first time I've been a lesbian; I favor flat shoes and have sporty wardrobe leanings. But, ironically enough, it took finding the love of my life-- but not marry him-- to finally secure me a position on the Sapphic softball time, because of one word:

Partner.

There are a few reasons to get married and I approve vigorously of all of them. If your religion calls you to that ritual, know that I'll be there in proper clothing, actual heels and a tissue for dabbing my eyes when I cry. If you marry because you are unapologetic romantic and proclaiming your love in front of your friends makes you happy, I'll bring two tissues. If you are getting married for tax or insurance reasons, I might even give you a high five, such is my joy in saving money. But here's a reason very few people mention; it's nice to have a title. Everyone understands what the words husband and wife mean. They may not want one-- they may be writing a check every month to one of those they used to have-- but there is no thought involved in deciphering these people's relationship to one another. The world understands these people have entered into a sort of a contract and might have gotten a breadmaker out of it. But if you are, say, us and you've had years and years together, and a child, and have seen one of the people through two books and the other through graduate school and you've collectively had pets but not a marriage, what are you? I refuse to invoke the word "Boyfriend," not the least because Consort, while lively and opinionated, is not a boy and to call him one would imply I don't understand what the word means. I won't call him my "Sweetheart" because I am not a Lladro figurine and I won't call him my "Lover" because I am neither Brazilian nor a Real Housewife. Obviously I'm fond of the word "Consort," but it only works on the page; I use it in person and anyone who understands what a Consort is thinks I'm delusional and anyone who doesn't thinks he has a weird first name.

This leaves me with "Partner," which I actually like. It creates a picture very much like our lives, where we work together, filling in for the other's weaknesses, protecting each other during ordeals, building something worthwhile together.

Of course, it's also the thing many lady-loving ladies call their better-halves as well.

I thought about clarifying this, but couldn't think of a graceful way to say "You do understand my partner is an outie and not an innie, right?" Even correcting his misperception that  I was gay seemed overly political, being as I had just met this man's husband. I chose to do what I usually do around dessert bars, which is eat something. I smiled politely and wished Consort would get there soon, because if I knew anything about my partner, he was really going to like this story.

Mama's Little Baby Loves Short'nin Bread

I'm an indifferent cook. I can pull together a few things, but ultimately the grinding reality of three meals a day, seven days a week, month after month after month after month, makes me want to lie down and call the Thai place. Intermittently, this bothers me and I rouse myself for up to a week at a time before sliding back into the entropy of veggie burritos. In between my sparks of conscience, this failing on my part periodically bothers the child. Recently, for several days in a row, she brandished recipes at me. I'm not completely without wit. Eyes squinted, I said "You want me to cook like Aunt Laura, don't you?"

(The kid's aunt is one of those graceful people whose family eats well all the time and she's such a wretch that she doesn't even brag about it.)

"Well..." she hedged, and then nimbly turned the subject back to the card in her hand.
"Look! Only four ingredients!"

"You're right," I said, glancing over the recipe, "In fact, you could make this yourself. You're old enough. I'd be there to assist, but you could start making a dinner a week."

Daughter looked at me, at the recipe, at the stove.

"See," she said, after a beat, "I like thinking about cooking more than I actually like cooking."

I grabbed her and hugged her close. I started to speak, and cleared my throat.

"I know, baby. I know. Let me show you where the Thai restaurant card is."

Now I Don't Claim To Be an A Student

A teenage girl said to me this week, "I kind of wish it was still the 90s, when it was cool to do badly in high school. Back then, I'd have gotten into Columbia."

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Slacker Nostalgia.

Let's Give Them Something to Talk About

Two actual sentences the kid had to translate for her Chinese final:

Your dog is good looking.

I do not need a doctor; I need a lawyer.

If anyone is ever required to conduct Sino-American diplomacy based solely on awkward first sentences, I believe you'll know where to find her.

Low Hangin' Fruit

Once again, it is December. Once again, it is fruitcake-mocking season.

We fruitcake eaters, we band of rum-soaked brothers, would like you to know a few things:

1. If there are brightly colored fruits in there more suited to decorating the top of a child's Shirley Temple, it's a terrible fruitcake. Please do not blame the entire extended clan of liquor-soaked cake for that line. Do you malign William Faulkner and Eudora Welty because you've heard Honey Boo-Boo's mother mumble something? Would you never eat a ganache because a Twinkie turns your stomach? Do you refuse to watch "30 Rock" because of Stephen Baldwin?

2. I have actually heard people say "My aunt brought a fruitcake she got at the gas station." Well, yes, now that you mention it, you can buy things pretending to be fruitcakes in some weird places, and it's reasonable to speculate that faux-fruitcakes are often sold in places which sell medical supplies because the worst of them make excellent hemorrhoid cushions, but let us not judge where something ends up against its will.

3. Fruitcake has cultural legs. The original idea for the cake has existed in some form or another since Roman times. There is no continent save Anarctica which doesn't have some version of it. You know why? It's fruit soaked in alcohol baked into a cake. It's like a food-maze where every exit leads to sugar. You can eat a thumbnail-sized portion with a strong cup of black coffee or tea and coast on that artificial sense of well-being through four malls.
Say what you will, fruitcake-haters, but my people and I will have the last laugh.

And it will be 80 proof.

And the Southern Girls With the Way They Talk

Like many, I enjoy the SNL skit "The Californians." As a native, I appreciate how they get our need to enumerate our freeways, our habit of mouthbreathing during moments of stress, that our lower-rent rehabs are in Palmdale. That's the kind of detail we natives respect.

I did, however, watch it with a certain remove. I don't sound like that. Not for me the uptick at the end of every sentence, the verbal rise which can make saying your own name sound like an identity crisis.

"Hi, I'm...Quinn?"

No, I have overcompensated for that so fully that I have been accused of being the vocal model for Siri. I am woman, hear me drone. Most people assume I'm from the Upper West Side of New York; I'm fine with that. I love my city, but not for me the Los Angeles drawl.

And yet, tonight I heard myself say "I'm going to take out the trash," and thought When did the word 'trash' develop three extra A's in the middle? Without so much as a "Like, can I come back?" Los Angeles lunged back into my mouth and caused me to sound as if my plans for the rest of the year involve getting high and evening out my spray tan.

You know what I say to this?

Ermawgawd.

If He Hears, He'll Knock All Day

In the event I am ever unable to find my cats -- even after shaking the dry food and even after opening a can of tuna -- I will not worry, because I will have one final failsafe method to find them.

I will go into my bathroom, I will shut the door and I will remove some vital elements of my clothing. Within ninety seconds, there will be twenty pounds of two cats slamming (SLAM) themselves (SLAM) against (SLAM) the (SLAM) door (SLAMSLAMSLAMSLAM). This will also involve crying; not all of it will be from me. Within seconds, the door will slam open and the missing felines will barrel in, looking at me reproachfully for having entered the Sanctum without their approval. If history is any indication, they will then look at my undressed parts in a vaguely nauseated way and start speed-punching the toilet paper.

If I go to the bathroom and am left alone, I will be able to safely declare them dead.

Gotta Serve Somebody

The kid views a gingerbread house as a cunning serving-tray for candy.

Walk This Way

I dithered for a while about whether to write what's hurting all of us so much right now, what deserves our prayers and attention, or to instead recognize that our hearts can be broken as a people, as parents, but we might want to think about something less awful for a few minutes.

Let me introduce you to Raoul, my walking buddy. Raoul was brought into the rescue group where I volunteer; we were told he was a Chihuahua. This made sense, as he was short, brown and opinionated in the way I associate with a Chihuahua. Then, he grew. Rather, his torso remained the same, but his legs doubled, then doubled in length again. He was Chihuahua on his mother's side, and on his father's side? Atat. With this extra legness came more energy and stamina than you would find in a platoon of caffeinated Marines. To volunteer meant all the usual challenges of working with multiple animals (smells, cats carrying on about low-blood sugar, more smells), plus Raoul repeatedly jumping four to six feet in the air next to them, screaming for attention. That doesn't make people want to volunteer. I can't always work with scores of cats, what with being weakly dependent on respiration, but I could take him for long walks.

I said, "May I take Raoul for long walks?"

As it happens, I could take Raoul for long walks. It's possible the dog and I were pushed out the door before I finished the sentence.

Raoul and I are well-matched for walking. Our dog likes about a two-mile walk, at most, preferably with his fiancee Qloe the Pug (Yes, Qloe: my friends' nine year-old daughter named the dog), because neither of them want to do anything more than amble for a bit before snoring. I enjoy those walks, but for cardiovascular integrity, give me a spindly brown maniac in a harness collar. This is not to say the walks are without care; Raoul has...issues. First, Raoul and I have a favorite walk about a ten minute drive from where he boards. Either in the ten minutes getting there or back, Raoul vomits. Every. Single. Time. We've tried not feeding him, we've tried taking him for a preliminary walk before getting him the car; all for naught. I crate him and then tie down the crate; these provide the dual benefits of possibly exposing him to less motion and, once any motion at all bothers him, corraling the vomit. Looking back, I had some high-spirited friends in my 20's who could have used a crate on certain Friday nights.

Then we arrive at our walk, and Raoul is delighted. JOYFUL. ECSTATIC! We do the first mile on his steam alone, my flapping behind him like those blow-up figures at car lots. That is, of course, unless we meet a very attractive female dog. Oddly enough, according to Raoul, we've never met an unattractive female dog. They are, to a bitch, unbelievably desirable and would be offended if Raoul didn't honor their appeal by trying to have sex with them. It's nice when he tries to make sweet, sweet love to a Rhodesian Ridgeback, kind of like watching a spider climb the Chrysler Building. I unhinge him from the future Mrs. Raoul and we dash off in pursuit of another worthy Eve to his overheated Adam. He's been fixed for months; let's stop to consider how many canine decathletes we've saved the world.

In those  moments when it's not sexy around here, it's sometimes very angry. Raoul has two bête noires. The first - bicycles - is obnoxious but acceptable. There is something about the sound of a bicycle which inflames Raoul's very marrow; that they continue to bike past him, fleeing his canine opera of rage, only confirms to his that they know what they did. We're working on that by feeding him treats as the bicycle goes by. After all, it's pretty easy to know when a bicycle is coming. Start the snacks ahead of time and, with any luck, by the time I'm sneaking the kid's Valentine's candy, Raoul will be indifferent to bicycles.

The second quirk makes vomiting in the car only the second-most obnoxious thing he does. Raoul hates Hispanic men. Show him someone who strongly resembles a figure in Mayan artwork and Raoul loses his mind. This is troublesome on a number of levels:

1. Unlike bicycles, people don't always make noise as they come towards you. Sometimes my first clue that there's a blameless Hispanic man who just turned the corner towards us is Raoul screaming. It's hard to get his attention once he's settled in to screaming.

2. The city is awash in men who look like Mayan figures. I also live in the neighborhood where many of the Mayan-appearing people live, which I had never really thought about until Raoul brought to my attention.

3. I am a suburban-looking white woman, attached to a dog who is about to have an embolism over his loathing of a man who has done nothing more interesting than have olive skin and a strong bone structure. No matter how many times I look horrified, smile apologetically and force Raoul to sit, I cannot help but think all of the east side of LA thinks of me as "That white lady who trained her dog to kill Mexican people."

And yet, I still walk him. Why? I'm not sure; I don't actually like him very much. But I know the more he gets walked, the more likely he is to become less peculiar and become winning enough to be adopted. It's nice to have someone temporarily in my life who thinks a seven-mile hike sounds swell. And he needs me, but in a manageable way where I can't disappoint him. And on a day like today, when I feel so helpless and frightened, there is something very cheering about grabbing the crate, putting in the vomit towel, and making something's life a little better.

CODA: People have asked to see Raoul. Here he is. We tried getting a picture with legs in it, but then a bicycle being ridden by a Hispanic man went past.

Giddyup, Giddyup, Giddyup, Let's Go

It's not really a holiday season until I've screamed "WAIT! We only have two bottles of wine in the car; what about the third party? And this isn't the tin of cookies to donate to the fundraiser, this is the tin with the extra Christmas lights! AND WHERE IS THE DENTAL-THEMED SECRET SANTA PRESENT!!!"

This is why every January 3rd, Consort sings his traditional anthem, You Know, You're a Lot More Fun When You're Not a Holiday-Checklist Maniac.

On and On, On and On, On and On

Daughter finished her work and grabbed "The Hunger Games."

"That's good," I said dryly, "Because something might have changed in the story since you reread it last night."

I then noticed the book in my hand. A book about the British royal family. Pardon me; another book about the British royal family. Unless the writer has discovered a previously dozing Plantagenet, I was going to know every single detail, every paramour, every red-hot poker stuck up the anus of a royal favorite in that book. I was one to talk.

I also realized that the longer I teased her about people named Katniss and Peeta, the longer I'd be kept from people named Ethelred and and the armies of Georges, Williams and Edwards.

Which is to say, we headed towards our respective rooms to read what we already knew we loved.

The Cleanest I've Been

There are just the three of us in the house, as far as clothes-wearers go. The cats do not wear clothing, no matter how many times Daughter tries to convince herself otherwise. The dog gets his stuff dry-cleaned.

And yet, I feel as if I'm not completely done with laundry. Never caught up. I can't even dream of being ahead of the laundry. I know this has something to do with air-drying most of our clothes, but it's still getting a Sissifean quality, which baffles me because we're such a very small family, at least one of whom can go to work in pajamas.

(That's me. The kid dresses for school.)

 SO, I have to ask those of you with big families; do you just never stop doing laundry? Do you inform loved ones they can make everything last 2-3 days, if for no other reason than the water-heater has begun to sob? Or do you make all the most socially-confident children wear paper underwear?

Sorry I Cannot Hear You I'm Kinda Busy

What is it about the sight of me on the phone and the sound of me saying "I'm going to talk to Stacey now, who I have not talked to in six months. Everyone please leave me alone" which makes every carbon-based life form in this house have a question which only I can answer, and only in the form of an essay, an intepretive dance and a quick trip to the store?