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.
