"I have doctors who return my phone calls, and lawyers who return my phone calls. My son is a prick, and even he returns my phone calls.

So you might want to consider giving me a break."

Okay. I call him. "What's cooking?" I ask.
"Well, I'm getting my car lubed, and the sky is clear, and it's a beautiful day here in the San Fernando Valley. What's happening with you?"
"I'm sick. Can I go now?"

Okay. I didn't say that. But I thought it.

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. . . on The Curse of Short Men.

It applies to women, too. Though I get more heightism from other women than I do from men. There is this weird dynamic in which tall women feel entitled to "look down" on shorter women (figuratively, as well as literally), and treat them as if they were children.

Men, on the other hand, pretend to take short chicks seriously on an intellectual level; presumably, this is because this gives them a safe vantage point from which to stare at one's boobs.

Of course, there are the men who decide that a short chick with a figure right out of the 1930s is probably not much of a thinker. These people make me giggle, and provide great fodder for character studies.

Watch out for novelists with Napoleon complexes, okay?

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But what's with all the search engine shit? And why are people looking for "Grinch sweater"? Where the fuck, BTW, did they find it on my blog?

Good to know people are out there looking for Jan Libourel; the man should really have his own site, BTW.

The last time I saw Jan, it was at a memorial service for the great Dave Arnold, gunwriter and true gentleman of a type they simply don't make any more.

Jan was trying to bait the rest of us, as usual. He expressed his "admiration" for Osama bin Laden. "All that fortune," he sighed. "Such a wealthy family. He could have spent it all on wine, women, and song, but instead he chose to take on the world's one remaining superpower."

I used to rise to these things, years ago—before I got old and tired and jaded.

"Yes," I agreed. "Osama has tremendous self-discipline. He's quite a man."

True, of course.

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It must be time for Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

The message: we are, in fact, our brothers' keepers. At least, to some degree. Or, as someone once observed of Mrs. Dalloway:

. . . She was one of the most thoroughgoing sceptics he had ever met, and possibly (this was a theory he used to make up to
account for her, so transparent in some ways, so inscrutable in
others), possibly she said to herself, As we are a doomed race,
chained to a sinking ship (her favourite reading as a girl was
Huxley and Tyndall, and they were fond of these nautical
metaphors), as the whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate,
do our part; mitigate the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners
(Huxley again); decorate the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions;
be as decent as we possibly can. Those ruffians, the Gods, shan't
have it all their own way,—her notion being that the Gods, who
never lost a chance of hurting, thwarting and spoiling human lives
were seriously put out if, all the same, you behaved like a lady.

Or, for that matter, a gentleman. Steve Martin is brilliant in this movie. Go see it soon; it's time, and it still counts as Thanksgiving viewing if you see it before the end of November. (In my family, it would count if you watched it before March, but we tend to run late on these matters. We also take our Christimas decorations down by July 4th, whether we need to or not.)

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MapQuest is beta-ing some lame new dysfunctional site. Google Maps keeps locking up on me ("did you mean that address in California?" "Well, didja?"). And Yahoo won't work at all—presumably because it won't give me directions until I log in. Very creepy.

I might have to resort to looking at one of those large dead-tree things.

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Helping her get the place ready for a houseguest—who happens to be my brother. And, you know: when the Sultan of Software comes to town, everything has to be just so.

Here, late at night, I can clean things with some impunity; that's probably why I elected to spend the night. But when my mother is around, the rules of engagement are different. It is paramount that she interrupt me every few minutes with some of the following types of concerns:

• "No! Don't put those piles of paper together. I had them sorted!"

• "Oh! Instead of dusting, would you fold laundry?"

• "No!" (This one's directed at the dog, but I swing around, wondering what I'm doing wrong.)

• "The way I usually do that is, I . . ."

• "You're not throwing that away, are you?"

Of course not. When you have a house that's cluttered up to the rafters, and you're trying to transform it into a livable environment, the last thing you want to do is throw anything away. Particularly when it's a partially used paper towel, or the plastic lid from a carton of cottage cheese.

Mandy decided I was probably playing some kind of fun game, and got in my way a lot until I lost my shit and yelled at her, warning her to not jump on me while I was doing housework. That subdued her for a while.

Meanwhile, I have obligations creeping up on me from my volunteer life. But for the next day or so, I'll want to focus on Matricide Avoidance.

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Iowahawk's got a new post up (car-related, rather than satiric or political).

I should have something like this. Perhaps not, though: I've noticed that small people tend to like big cars, and big people tend to like small cars.

Is that because some people consider their rides a type of avatar? If so, this gives the driver a chance to "try on" a new body type—metaphorically.

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In some cases, it can delay brain development by several decades. At least, that's what I hear.

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Master playlists. I do not like it when my iPod plays "Boogie Fever," and then follows it up with "Box of Rain."

And of course the scrolling system on the Nano is posessed by the devil.

I'm sure that whatever my forebears listened to on the farms in Nebraska was more user-friendly. This undoubtedly made it more fun to use outhouses in the middle of the night in the dead of winter.

In point of fact, life really has me down right now. I may go smoke a cigar to calm my nerves.

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Well, let's see.

I went to the mail drop. Then I went to the bank. Then I filled the car with gasoline (a full tank, mind you—not $5 or $7 or $10 in quarters).

Then I stopped by the jewelers and got a ring.

I priced a few digital cameras. Then I paid a bill.

Then I picked up a bottle of Junipero gin and a couple of Brazilian cigars.

Nope. Can't figure it out at all. Everything's normal; but isn't it a beautiful day? Blue skies (blueish-gray—whatever). Deer running around. The best peanut butter sandwich I've had in a good long time, washed down with 2% milk, and followed by a fish-oil capsule and a multivitamin.

Life is good. Really freakin' good.

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1 ah, payday! Bravo!

Posted by: caltechgirl at November 02, 2007 12:44 PM (/vgMZ)

2 I had almost lost faith.

Posted by: Attila Girl at November 02, 2007 11:47 PM (aywD+)

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What on earth are a few little bruises between friends?

The person, of course, is Mandy's main human—Rose. I'm merely a backup human who walks her on occasion.

And, no: I haven't figured out how to P-shop out the demonic green eyes. Partly because I don't have Photoshop, and I haven't mastered iPhoto yet.

What? Me? A technophobe? Surely you jest . . .

Posted by: Attila Girl at 12:33 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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a) shooting smack;

b) playing volleyball;

c) transferring her normal "clumsy girl" bruises, very painstakingly, from her shins to her arms;

d) kicking ass in a jujitsu tournament.

Please advise; short-term memory is the first thing to go.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 06:49 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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1 F) Biting her fingernails. -B

Posted by: Bob at October 29, 2007 07:31 PM (k94s3)

2 The safe answer is (d). I'll go with that. Bob, those are the nails of a professional editor. Closely trimmed, but no evidence of biting. Middle finger primed and ready.

Posted by: Darrell at October 29, 2007 08:04 PM (sJ3qn)

3 Ah! You understand the publishing industry! Actually, I solved the mystery: it was Mandy, getting rowdy and nipping at me/jostling against me when I crashed at my mom's place last week. I was reminded when I dropped by today to take a nap there, and remembered that she likes to get rowdy when her humans are tired (their resistance is lower, then, and she can pretend not to hear the "n-word" as she digs around on my mom's bed or on my favorite couch). Fortunately, my mother was awake, and led the girl away whenever she came over to bother me. I swear: if she weren't so cute, I'd make her into doggie stew.

Posted by: Attila Girl at October 31, 2007 12:04 AM (aywD+)

4 Well I've been on the receiving end of a lot of those middle fingers. If I considered them sexual encounters (and as a man/nerd/geek you know I do), I have as many notches as Wilt Chamberlain or Julio Iglesias. Ah, good times! In my defense, with the type of writing I do there is often no room for creative license--certain technical jargon has to appear the same way always. Some creative types can't seem to grasp that concept. No, "undiscovered recoverable resources" can't be restated as "undiscoverable resources." Really. Ever. Never. Unless it's in the suicide note for my career. And let's not even start with the chemical names/reactions, etc. No room for word play there, either. Except in private, off-the-record, of course. There we laugh and laugh and laugh for hours at our cleverness. It's the most effective form of birth control, by the way. But you've already guessed that.

Posted by: Darrell at October 31, 2007 12:02 PM (8xVaL)

5 Well I've been on the receiving end of a lot of those middle fingers. If I considered them sexual encounters (and as a man/nerd/geek you know I do), I have as many notches as Wilt Chamberlain or Julio Iglesias. Ah, good times! Yes--but a lot of 'em came from driving around in Chicago, right? In my defense, with the type of writing I do there is often no room for creative license--certain technical jargon has to appear the same way always. Some creative types can't seem to grasp that concept. No, "undiscovered recoverable resources" can't be restated as "undiscoverable resources." Really. Ever. Never. Unless it's in the suicide note for my career. I cannot see how someone could have inserted the word "undiscoverable" in there; it certainly changes the meaning. When I was editing psychology papers for publication in an academic journal, I used to cover them with little sticky notes that contained arch little remarks about scientists' writing styles. But I did try to be restrained . . . I tried. And let's not even start with the chemical names/reactions, etc. No room for word play there, either. Except in private, off-the-record, of course. There we laugh and laugh and laugh for hours at our cleverness. It's the most effective form of birth control, by the way. But you've already guessed that. Yeah, well--I once did a newsletter for my dad that had a lot of chemical names in it. Pretty dry stuff. But it was work! You just need some engineer groupies--hot ladies who read your papers and then throw their underwear at you. How difficult can that be? Think of all the idiot rock and rollers who manage it just fine!

Posted by: Attila Girl at October 31, 2007 03:49 PM (aywD+)

6 Yeah. One day we can compete with idiot rock-and-rollers. I believe. But I think it's best that the Japanese keep working on those robots. . .

Posted by: Darrell at October 31, 2007 07:59 PM (rilDu)

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Eeyore Man made a joke about cannibalism today. He's Jewish, so I remarked that I hadn't ever heard before that "the long pig" was kosher. No one got it except Desert Girl, who teaches English in Parts East.

As I slid my eyes over to her she smiled. "Extra credit," she told me quietly as the conversation moved along.

That's all I've ever really asked for, you know.

Well, that + sex/drugs/rock 'n' roll.

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I thought it was funny.

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Three weeks for the public utility, and two weeks for the bimonthly magazine.

And now I need to sleep for about five years, go to a Halloween party, do some housework, and catch up on my staff job.

Then I get to scrounge for clients again.

I know I sound tired, and I am. That is not, however, the whole story: when I'm working it reminds me how fucking good I am at what I do, and that fact really keeps the depressions at bay. If I were to learn how to sell my editing and production abilities on that basis (or, for crying out loud, my fiction), it would indeed be a grand thing.

But in the meantime, sleep sounds good.

Over at Hog Beatty's, a few of his friends and neighbors met for drinks in the eveing. This was cool, and I had a little gin, nibbling my way through the appetizers brought over by one of the people in his housing complex. When someone offered me a good cigar, I accepted. Count Linguist and I shared a smoke there on the back deck in Santa Monica, and my jaw finally unclenched after over a month as I listened to people speaking Arabic and Russian and Ukranian&none of which, of course, I understand. It was all so fucking good.

I don't smoke enough; can't we do a PSA about the need for more cigars in the 21 Century?

I'd like to teach the world cigars,
and perfect harmony . . .

Of course, if they don't start smoking, that's more for me. And nothing else quite does it: even booze. (Though, you know: the best booze comes pretty darned close.)

Happy Halloween. Make friends with the local spiders; they are your friends, despite what J.K. Rowling would have you believe.

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I worked at Job A today, and dropped by Job B with a lick and a promise. (Get your minds out of the gutter, please.)

The idea tonight was to crash here on the Westside at the mom's place, and go to bed early so I could catch up on sleep. And yet after a nice dinner my mother and I had to squabble gently about something-or-other. And now it is nearly one in the morning. See, Mom? We could have watched Boston Legal after all, with no harm done. But then—that's why God made DVDs. Helen Gurley Brown informs me helpfully that I can have everything, which sounds somewhat correct.

Honestly, though: this week in particular—with fires raging in huge swatchs of the Southwest—it's hard to complain, though I'm lying on the couch we suspect of being infested with mice, thankful for Mandy's presence at the foot of the "bed." Because I'm not here every night, I get preferential treatment from the local APBT.

Which is cool, other than the issues of (1) how long does it take this stupid dog to settle down, and (2) why is she sleeping exactly where I had wanted to put my feet?

Rule Number One in relating to terriers, whether it's the medium-large one that lives with my mom, or the teacup-size one that hangs out at work: the dog does not move. The humans move around the dog.

That's just how it is. I'm thinking of sleeping with my legs up the back of the couch, counting desperately on the slipcover to protect me from any mammals with whom I don't have any real rapport. (Rodents: you know who you are.)

Oh, Mandy—how you came and you took without giving.
But you killed a nice mouse,
Oh, Mandy—
How you toss my laptop in the fireplace
At my mom's house
And my tech's barely living,
Oh, Mandy.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 12:10 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Although I'd like to think my hips aren't quite that big.

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Actually, I'm working for my favoritest manager in my favoritest department for my favoritest client.

The job parameters:

• Figure out what to do;
• Figure out how to do it;
• Go do it;
• Figure out when you'll need to be in the office to get it done, and be there then;
• Don't bother me too much;
• Don't make a bunch of expensive mistakes.

So I do that, and then I send him a bill at the end of the print cycle. It's like I've died and gone to vocational heaven.

Finally.

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The work that one does for $45 an hour, or the work that one does for $15 an hour?

Sometimes it's actually the latter: and yet, those micro-mini checks don't land with the good, solid thwumps! that distinguish the former.

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A: Good news! The estrogen fairy has come. That means I'll be out of the man-hating business for the next 7-10 days.

B: Excellent. That takes attention away from really good things, like gin-appreciation.

A: Or, more to the point—vodka.

B: Lush. How are things going at the church?

A: Really well. Are you guys still saying the rosary?

B: Yes.

A: Cool. I'm thinking of becoming a nun.

B: I'm not sure . . . you might want to think that over just a little bit.

A: No, it's okay. Now that I'm older, I'm really good at going without sex. I can manage a whole ten days at a time these days.

B: Look. You've got the wrong time frame. The horizon has to be a bit further out than that, if you're thinking of joining an order.

A: Right. Good thinking. Well, I'll mull it over a bit longer.

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