Where you been hiding?

Right here!

trauma

Okay, so I've been trying to post for a week now, but I'm babysitting my nieces (4 yrs and 9-months) at my sister's house in BF, South Carolina, and every time I sit down to write, somebody poops.

I'm unbelievably tired, inhumanly tired, catastrophically tired. I haven't brushed my hair in days, I had, er, effluvia, from several sources on my pajamas the other day and didn't even realize it until nearly 12:00 (and I was still wearing them), and I may have cracked a Miller Lite this morning by 8 am. But the good news is that both of them are still alive!

However, I may not be. It just isn't possible to look this bad and not be dead.

Let me tell you, my ovaries are withering, people. WITHERING! My parents came up to visit me today for a Father's Day Picnic, which really meant, "Help me! I can't concentrate on other people's needs for this many hours per day without losing my shit! Oh, and bring food." And like kind and giving parents, they came. I told them that I hope they enjoyed playing with the only grandchildren they are likely to have, so there.

It really has been fun apart from the exhaustion bit. I've gotten to go on a slip-n-slide, which was a whole new experience now that I have hit 30 and have flying squirrel arms to give me a little added lift. Beanie and I made the World's Messiest Cupcakes and a King Granddaddy crown for her Granddaddy. And we've played with glue and dinosaurs and play dough and had a tea party with Real Tea (decaf, do you think I'm insane?). And oh sweet blissful cracker sandwich, I've gotten to watch The Sound of Music, which I not so secretly love...like when Mother Superior sings Climb Every Mountain, I get all goosebumpy and want to go climb an Alp and spin around with cute gamine hair and make out with the hot Captain like a banshee. Ahhh...that Maria is a minx.

But I confess I find the nightly "How many more bites do I have to eat?" mindnumbingly tedious, partially because it used to irritate me so much to hear my parents nag me to sit up and use a fork and eat your spinach, dammitohell! And saying it myself is like scratching my own nails down the chalkboard. And the whining...oh my god, I just can't stand that tone. She could be begging me for another spoonful of spinach and offering me a million dollars and I would still give her a time out. And the baby, as scrumptiously cute as she is, and named after me besides...she is going to give me the vapors. Every time I turn my back, she has jammed something down her throat to choke on. I vaccuum the playroom every day, yet her sister, who can sack a room more efficiently than any Hun or Visigoth, is immediately in there tossing beads and leaves and sequins and feathers and those goddamned Dora stickers (curse you, Dora! I hope Shackleton cuts your head off!) and play dough and everything else on the floor. It's like the husband in that Julia Roberts movie that drags her around the house beating her for not lining up the tinned fruit properly. That's me, with Baby, the cleaning nazi.

Oh, and let's not forget the Code Brown last night. Any of you with children...you know what I'm talking about. Don't you. Mmmhmmm...you're laughing.

A Code Brown is when the cute little pink monkey you've been allowing to crawl around noodie patootie after her bath suddenly poops all over the place and then crawls about it in it. I was so tempted to take her outside and hose her off...I mean, hell, she ain't mine. I didn't incubate her. But I didn't. So see, I really should be up for the Best Aunt of the Year Award. It's mine and I demand a trophy. And maybe a fabulous new car, because that was a LOT of poop.

God, I love puppies.

Overheard on a backroad in Appalachia

Kelly: Oh my God, my emergency break is on. Where are we going? Where’s the B&B?

Erin: This way feels right. Go straight. I feel like we should go straight.

Jemima (piping up from the back seat): Feel? FEEL? THAT WAY GOES TO TENNESSEE! Sweet fancy Jesus. TURN LEFT! LEFT!

Kelly: You are the idiot savant of navigation

Jemima: I don’t know what that means. What’s an idiot savant?

Erin: It’s like in Rainman, the guy who was all good with cards.

Kelly: You know, Dustin Hoffman's character?

Jemima: Wait, are you saying I'm autistic with weird underwear issues and shop at KMart?

****

This weekend goes down in history as the longest I’ve ever been without water. I’ve subsisted entirely on a “diet” of beer, wine, champagne and Lick-m-Aid.

Erin, Kelly and I spent the weekend in an adorable little B&B cottage in Asheville as part of Aleigh’s destination wedding. I must say, it’s a good thing Kelly doesn’t drink, because the rehearsal dinner and ceremony both required a compass and a clear view of the North Star. There was a lot of pointing and shouting and wild gesticulation. And I think if Simons ever dies, I will move to Massachusetts and marry Erin.

She almost got me kicked out of the rehearsal dinner, because during the early speeches, Aleigh gave Kelly this lovely little perfume atomizer that looked a lot like a vibrator, which Erin noted...unfortunately, right during one of those quiet lulls in conversation when everyone hears you. So I got the snorts, which gave her the snorts, which sent us off into helpless peals of laughter, the kind where you don't make any noise, but shake and cry and snort and have this hideous rictus grin for about 15 minutes and you can't breathe. And it was during the goddamn blessing, and I was trying so hard not to snort, but then I'd hear Erin hissing away next to me and then that would set me off again. God, it was terrible.

Kelly kept threatening to separate us. And then we all went outside for a smoke (no, I haven’t really started again), and the old bag named Tex on my left thought we were on drugs, and said all snotty when we got back to the table, "You were gone a long time. I hope that was just a cigarette break and nothing else," and Erin rounded on her like a rattlesnake and said, "No, we were shooting heroin! That okay with you?" And that just set me off again. Yea gods.

Erin maintains that Tex was inappropriate first, but then I said “Hi, Pot, this is Kettle calling, just to say ‘vibrator’ and then ‘Amen.’” Sinner.

At the wedding, which was on a farm with goats and ponies and bunnies and llamas (I do love a llama), Aleigh looked beautiful and totally herself in a gorgeous short dress with a blue obi. And considering she went through about 12 trial dresses, this one was all the more lovely for being hard to find.
Her shoes were fab too.
I mean, look how cute Aleigh and Ian are.
Excellent food, great wine. And Kelly got to sharpen her fingernails on the groom’s uptight brother, who kept popping out from behind the outhouse with a video camera to demand an interview, which was not appreciated. (I mean, who can be expected to come up with the meaning of love and marriage all impromptu like that? I guess he has to creep up on people, because otherwise everyone would see him coming and scamper off, like a slow motion game of chase. But maybe that mentality should be a clue that making a video like that is a BAD IDEA?) Anyway, he lunged at Kelly, who does not like the paparazzi, and asked her for some words of advice for the married couple, and without missing a beat she said, “I know a great divorce lawyer, and I’ve got him in speed dial, Aleigh, so call me anytime, day or night.” I think I yipped a little and my eyes bugged…like a Pekinese. So did the uptight brothers’.

And then Aleigh came mincing over in her adorable shoes and Kelly said, "Did you come over here for a cigarette?" And Aleigh said, "Of course not." And then we all went behind the outhouse and smoked, even the bridesmaids.
After the band started playing Old MacDonald for the children, Kelly and Erin and I went back to our beautiful little cottage and stayed up till about 3 a.m. drinking Miller Lite and smoking and dishing about rabbits and boys and the illegitimate offspring of various relations. God, it was totally fab.

Bitch and Bitch Some More

So Simons was sick all last week and during the holiday (lifts his hand feebly from the couch to take his soup. And his medicine. And his gingerale. And his fizzy tablets. And his heated neck pillow. And his special popsicles.) and this week has a friend in town who is hunting for jobs...although I personally would be skeptical about giving a job to someone who is too stupid to wash his own dishes.

And I tell you, I have about had it with cooking and cleaning and caring about other people's needs. Fortunately, drum roll please, I am staying with two other girls (women?) at a B&B cottage in Asheville this weekend, yes, for a Aloysius' fabulous wedding, and it's going to be AWESOME! Three whole days of girlish squealing and wine drinking and frolicking and dishing about work and men and other things that suck. And crying over how beautiful and sweet Aleigh looks in her tenth wedding dress. I can't get on a plane fast enough.

LALALALALALALALA!!!!! (I'm bouncing up and down on my yoga ball)

Now, I know full well that I have a lovely husband, and that probably half of the coddling was my own doing, but REALLY, I need just a small break.

I'm goin

TO BLOGHER 2007!

WHOOOO HOOOO!
Chicago, here I come!!!

Just roll over and die already

Has anyone ever had the unfortunate situation of telling a client to push off and then having them refuse to push? Seriously, I’m at a loss.
I told these people April 17 that I was giving them my notice, citing several instances of being grossly taken advantage of. For instance, they asked me to work over Christmas with no warning. They ask me edit their entire magazine the Friday before it goes to print, which means that regardless of whether I have guests in town or a kidney transplant, etc, I have to drop everything to get it done. And the evil NY whore calls me at ungodly hours to explain Outlook to her when I own A MAC! I do not lie... she phones at 6 am to accuse me of sending my emails to her junk folder DELIBERATELY! Gah!

Anyway, this is just a partial list, but anyone who has been over in the mornings can attest to the fact that this job is a real pill.

So, after the April 17 debacle (in which evil NY whore was so incredibly late, my poor temporarily immobile mother had to take a cab from the airport after I promised to come fetch her), the publisher called and apologized and tried to smooth things over, but I told him I’d stay on only until they found a replacement, whom I would be happy to train.

It is now May 29. I’m beginning to perceive that the advantage taking continues. I begin to doubt that they are really looking. The publisher called me yesterday to make sure I was going to work this week, and when I reminded him that I’m leaving town for Al’s wedding (which I told him about in March), he had the nerve to inquire whether I was sure I couldn’t do it while I was gone. And THEN he asked me, "Well, are you actually in the wedding?" KILL!

This is a freelance position, so where do they get off with this constant crappy behavior? The loss of the regular paycheck is going to be tough, but I’m more than ready to quit the daily harangue and lateness and Christ-bitten hours of six am to noon. Oh, you think that sounds easy, do you? You try getting up in the cold and fog and being interested in the pharmaceutical business day in and day out for an embittered evil old hag whose very existence is a thorn in your side.

Anyway, I feel like this crappy freelance job is keeping me from needing to do smarter work. I don’t HAVE to go out and pitch good writing, because I can make do with boring writing and pay the rent. I’m sick of making do. I’m thirty and I’ve DONE NOTHING WITH MY LIFE!

Post whereby I admit something shameful

So my ex got married this past weekend.

Now I don’t mind this in theory. I dumped him, remember? He’s a nice guy, and I wish him well and all that, but I wouldn’t want him back. I’ve married the perfect husband, love our life, and we are always out doing fun and exciting things together…laughing toothily and tossing our fabulous hair.

So, in this brilliant concept called "theory," magnanimity is easy. But in practice, my rosy graciousness pales a shade or two when I think that The Ex is somewhere fancy on his honeymoon with someone who ultimately ranked higher than me on his personal awesomeness scale. And that chafes just a little.

I confess, when his cousin sent me an email with the ex’s new wife’s name, I did indeed look up the engagement announcement (which creepily enough looks almost exactly like a picture of me and the ex at a ballet gala about six years ago, only she’s blonde), and she looks…nice. I would probably like her (shyah, as IF!). She has a cool name. And he looks happy, which somehow bothers me not at all. So that's not what is needling me, although I confess I liked it better when he was rebounding with the tattooed ne’er-do-well his whole family christened, “Trasha.”

I’m not crying and wringing my hands or anything. It’s just a vague grumpiness and a masochistic desire to google their names to see if any wedding photos have been posted yet. So the question is: to stalk or not to stalk?

WHY, you ask? Why in the hell would I want to see their first dance and cake feeding and moony wedding glowiness, etc? Maybe it’s just because I know my wedding was better.

Well, no. I mean, mine probably was better, but I’m not that pompous. That’s not the reason.

Maybe the issue that's feeding my masochism is realizing that it doesn’t matter one bit whether I wish him well or not. My opinion no longer matters to him. My graciousness has no affect. I could just as well be rending my hair and frothing at the mouth for all the universe cares. Hmmm...no, actually that feels a little hollow too.

I bet I know. It’s a small and stupid touch of buyer’s remorse. I do it all the time at restaurants—order the filet and wish I’d gotten the fish. Not that Simons is a filet. And if he were, he’d be a Kobe beefcake branded with my name on it: "Destined to be Jemima's. Hands off, bitches!" But if I bought a ticket to Paris, I’d suddenly start whining about Venice. You know? It’s just the thought of something that is never going to happen now because you made a choice. It’s better that it doesn’t (picture here bombs going off in Venice, during a cholera epidemic with those flying monkeys from Oz), but I like to wallow in the odd spot of melancholy, and here is an excellent opportunity.

I think maybe I shouldn’t look at the wedding photos. What do you guys think?

Bare to Breakers

WARNING: Mentions and images of nudity to follow...

There are so many, many reasons why I am glad I live in San Francisco. The first one is that this fellow is not my dad.
Look closely at the man with the backpack and the yellow hat.

That’s right. He has no pants.

He is not an attractive man. He is not a fit man. It wasn’t even that chilly a morning, but I saw him from the front, and he was not even a well-endowed man. But, by God, he is proud to be a Naked American.

This weekend was the annual Bay to Breakers race here in Freak City, USA, where some people race, some people suit up as Superman and other people man out in their birthday suits. We saw people dressed as storm troopers, centurians, hookers (at least I think they were in costume), the little crazy fellow from Twelve Galaxies, superheros, and the crazy people dressed as salmon who run upstream against the current, spawning, so to speak.
But there were a lot of folks getting sunburn on their wobbly bits. Oooh! Painful!
I was discussing this phenomena with my sister and she brought up some interesting...er, points. First, if you were a man, wouldn’t you be embarrassed if the day was cold and rainy, and things were…small? Or WORSE, what if you took a fancy to the naked female jogger bobbing along beside you, and things started to “happen?”
Well, Dear Sister, I can assure you now, since I have seen and taken note. There is nothing attractive about these people. Sweaty naked people in athletic socks…NOT HOT!

You’ve gotta love The Crazy.