November 05, 2008

I'm Still a Woman with a Mission.

Or two. Or three.

Before I leave the Las Vegas area, I need to:

1) get up early enough to say "goodbye" to my amazing and wonderful blogger-host out here, and

2) play that extra $5 Sejanus sent me, earmarked for what is now referred to as "gaming."

3) Arrive in L.A. before my husband (another lark) goes to bed, if possible.


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October 28, 2008

Hello From Whiskey Pete's.

I got a late start, which was made later by traffic, and later still when it took me an hour and a half to vote in Downey. The line was long, like the line to a Disneyland ride.

That would have been good in a lot of places, but in L.A. County it probably just meant that a lot of people were excited about the election for . . . well, the wrong reasons.

So in order not the keep the blogger who will be putting up with me this week waiting up all night (this is a person with a real job), I decided to stop here for the night in lovely Primm—sort of The Gateway to Nevadan Decadence. There are three hotels/casinos here, and all of 'em are apparently owned by the same company. I'm not sure I understand what the point of that is, but it seemed like a good place to stop because 1) I had to put gas in the car anyway, and 2) rooms here go for $29 (though internet access costs more).

I tried to get a room at Buffalo Bill's, but apparently that is the casino this town reserves for high rollers; they do not take "walk ins."

"Okay," I asked the guy. "Which of the other two is cheaper?—or should I go on down the road to Jean?"

He ignored the second question, which implies to me that Jean and it's one, count 'em, one casino is not owned by the Primm people.

If it were up to me, the town of Jean would change its name to Proper. But I'm rarely consulted about these things.

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October 14, 2008

"You Knew."

"I knew you were vaguely interested in him; I didn't know you were helplessly in love with him. I thought you were his gal-pal, with an eye toward the future. Given the risk to you personally, do you think I would have encouraged you to hang out with him if I had known you were in love?"

What am I—the Dr. Mengele of human relationships?

There is a difference between

It's drizzling.

and

Hurricane Katrina is about to make landfall.

One can argue that it is simply a difference in degree, but I would argue that at that point it is a difference in kind.

Yeah, yeah. Maybe I should have guessed. But here is a question for you: what happened to your vaunted love for me? Was it simply a way of getting closer to him? Weren't you simply using me, all along?

This is a guy who made your name into a swear-word in the 1980s. He had grammatical rules put together for how to slander you. All in a spirit of "fun."

No. I never would have guessed. You would have had to tell me.

E.B. once alluded to having "betrayed" me, years after our last triangle together: the one that changed both of our lives for good, and forever.

"My, my," I remarked, rather mildly—hiding, I think, my shock—"what a big word."

And by that I meant that what happened in 1990 was utterly excruciating to me. But 100% necessary. And I paid for it in human relationships for a couple of decades; I'm still paying, actually.

But I don't begrudge them their happiness, and I wouldn't take a moment of it back.

Life hurts. Remember Mrs. Dalloway?

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.

—Virginia Woolf

I could send you some couch-pillows, if that would help.

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October 12, 2008

I Could Get Something Done Around the House.

Or, perhaps, take a walk.

To do either of those things, though, I'd have to get dressed. Which means taking a shower. And that sounds like an overwhelming endeavor.

I hate shaving in the shower.

And the bathtub doesn't work, and we can't afford to fix it.

And my car doesn't work, and we can't afford to fix it.

And the sun is too bright, but we can't afford window treatments. And I could work something up with kraft paper and rice paper, but I'm too short. And we can't afford a higher stepstool than the one we've got.

The estrogen had better get here soon, or I may just go back to bed for the rest of the week.

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Still Have the Blue-Dog Blues

I knew my mother was considering "re-homing" her dog—my beloved Mandy—because she (the woman) is 72 and may not be able to keep up with her.

What I did not realize until a few days ago is that because of breed prejudice, my mom doesn't consider her adoptable, and is considering putting her down.

I think the dog could use a little training, but the thought of losing her that way breaks my heart.


I'll obviously be making some phone calls this week, to see if I can find an enlightened shelter in Southern California; it's time to snap out of this. I may not be able to "keep" the dog, but I won't see her killed if I can help it.

Naturally, I live in a condominium that limits the size of pets. And my husband does not like Mandy; he refers to her as "that thing."

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September 17, 2008

On Strike Against Poor Energy Policies!

Actually, I'm off playing "junior archeologist" today; my husband voiced that abusive term, "2007 tax forms" (yes; we filed an extension).

"If you really wanted me to be able to lay my hands on stuff like that within forty-eight hours," I told him, "you wouldn't have suggested that we move."

So then I got a Look. That look.

"Okay! Okay."

Posting will be light until (1) the accountants at my three main clients from last year fax duplicate forms over; (2) scrabbling through boxes of papers, I finally become completely incapacitated from an allergic reaction to the dust; or (3) my spouse becomes thoroughly fed up, and shoots me.

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September 04, 2008

Reader-Participation Time!

I'm almost out of multiple vitamins. Please advise. Should I:

1) Just get more vitamins geared toward premenopausal chicks, with the extra iron and calcium?

2) Look into Bausch & Lomb supplements, since my eyesight is my biggest asset? (I am, after all, a proofreader.)

3) Try to get more of my nutrients from actual food, instead of living on breakfast cereal, canned soup and Luna Bars when I get too busy?

Or:

4) Stop taking vitamins. Americans have the most expensive urine in the world, and I'm unlikely to out-live my grandmother, in any event. (At 95, she's the Energizer Bunny of Shell Beach.)

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August 16, 2008

So. How's Everyone Out There in Blogland?

Thought I'd check in.

Let me know how it's going.

I called my mother to check on the dog, who was sleeping peacefully—always a good thing at 3:00 a.m.

I called the people who talk about bad things. I said I was angry. The lady at the other end of line said I sounded more "hurt."

It's 4:00 a.m. right now. I'm just drinking fruit juice until such time as my body decides it can do something sleeplike. I'm hoping that's sooner, rather than later.

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July 25, 2008

Light Blogging From San Diego.

I'm having plenty of adventures over here. I lost my cheap video camera, but kept checking back at the lost and found (where they thought I was crazy for expecting to get it back), and praying to St. Anthony.

Yesterday evening I received a call from the woman at the lost and found, who had finally consented to accept my business card, with my cell phone number on it. Sure enough, someone had turned the camera in.

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July 01, 2008

Slow, Slow Blogging Today.

For, lo—freelance obligations call, and the house is now so filthy that the entire building is about to be condemned. (Which I think would be a great achievement considering the fact that we've only lived here for a month—the husband, however, doesn't agree with me about what an honor it would be to manage that.)

But I shall be so scintillating upon my return that you won't even recognize me.

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May 25, 2008

Hi. I Am the Ambassador from Planet Male.

Why is it that even now, men try to tell me about The Male Perspective on life, sex, women, and . . . yes, even equilateral triangles? And I'm not even talking about ex-boyfriends, here. Each guy thinks he can speak for his entire sex.

Um. First of all, I have a brother. Also, I have nephews, and young cousins. And a couple of cousins from my own generation. I have lots of male friends and colleagues from all walks of life, though they do trend a bit intellectual. From there they go either artistic or technical/math oriented. Sometimes both.

And, you know: I wasn't 100% a virgin when I married. I know men, and there is no "male viewpoint" on just about anything. There are a couple of trends (such as the fact that lots of men want to have sex with women, and a superior ability to detach emotionally from many situations that do not involve teenage daughters). But there aren't any universals.

So can we stop with the amateur sociology, here?

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May 10, 2008

I Just Looked Out the Window

. . . to see a faint yellow-orange glow that surely comes from the ambient lights over the town. Of course they wouldn't appear white at this range. And I know stark white lights went out of fashion in the late 70s/early 80s: I distinctly remember looking out at the view over the Whittier Hills from my grandparents' deck when the transition was almost complete—but you could still see some white lights mixed in with the off-yellow ones, all the way out to Catalina Island.

When the air is dirtier it hides Catalina, but it changes the light; that's why sunsets are prettiest on smoggy days. The contrast with my laptop screen makes good, virtuous city lights appear even more yellow, natch.

But I'm jittery; I just Google-Newsed "fire" to make sure Pasadena wasn't in flames all over again.

Once when A the H was in Cambodia I awoke in the big bed to the smell of smoke, and a faint bit of light over the hill. I threw on shoes and a T-shirt—a tight one, it turned out—and set out on the road. I felt that with my husband out of town I needed to be especially careful about protecting the homestead. Sure enough, one of the sheriff's deputies had blocked the road around the corner near the girl's school, and I had a brief conversation with him. Rather, I talked to him, and he talked to my chest, explaining to my breasts that there was a tiny brush fire on the slope below, but it was already contained, and the fire department was simply continuing to check that no embers remained that might spark and create problems later. He told my breasts that the neighborhood was surely safe, but if the fire re-sparked, they would certainly go door-to-door and wake everyone up to evacuate the area. It was okay for my breasts to go back to sleep.

I inferred from that that it was safe for the rest of me to sleep as well.

Back home, snuggled under a very light blanket—with the window still open, to awaken me if the smoke got worse or the fire went on the move—I dreamed about orange light, smoky air, and my husband far away in steamy Southeast Asia. I remember thinking that wasn't the most practical place for him, at that moment.

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April 11, 2008

Naturally, I Think the Real Subtext in the Absolut Ads

. . . was something to the effect of "buy our booze."

Of course, my intake of vodka tends to trend toward Skyy, since I'm much more into whiskey and gin than I am any vodka-based drink. The only time I can be relied upon to consume vodka is my "air-travel Bloody Mary." For this, they always use Skyy.

Of course, I'm really into it for the vitamins and antioxidants.

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April 01, 2008

I Bought the Book.

I know, I know: I was going to wait to emerge from escrow before tackling the Jonah Goldberg book, but I really had high hopes that we wouldn't have any showings today, now that the offers are coming in on the house.

I figured the time for the buyers to look at the property was over with, and people were going to be writing up their bids today.

No.

I had arisen early to call in to Fausta's podcast; then I read a while, and went back to bed to catch up on sleep. I was just starting to drift off when my husband awakened me. "The carnival's starting again," he told me.

"More offers?" I mumbled. "How much?"

"No. More showings. We have to be out of here in an hour."

"More showings? What haven't they seen around here? Anyway, yesterday was the deadline: they aren't supposed to be looking. They are supposed to be writing up their offers!"

"Yeah, I know. But bids are likely to go up from here."

"I don't supposed they can just walk around me while I sleep, can they?" I enquired. "I mean, what if I try not to snore?"

I poked my head out of the covers. He was just looking at me, as if he thought $50,000-$100,000 was a bit much to pay for a nap, no matter how much I wanted it.

"Fine, fine," I snapped. "I'll see if I can get the dishes done. Or at least stack them neatly. Tell them to come on down. Bring their friends. Have a party! I don't mind! It isn't like I live here, or anything!"

I started to make the bed and turn on the lights.

Behind that noontime tour, of course, there were two other groups there today to take "one last peek" at the house and the grounds. So we will have at least two offers waiting for us tomorrow morning at the office—maybe three.

I got the book, and a couple of servings of "Rice Crispy Treats" here at Camp Lefty. I told the nice barista that if I attempted to buy any more delectable carbs, he should call the police. Or my husband. Or my real estate agent.

At least my hair is closer to clean today; I did manage a short shower back at the homestead before the house turned into a freakin' Mercedes dealership again earlier today.

I should be grateful, of course. The term for this is "bidding war," and it's tough to pull off in what is supposed to be a buyer's market. All I know is that I'm still certain the minute we sign the escrow papers the value of the property will spike, and we'll be unable to close on any of the condos we want to buy.

Next thing you know, I'll be homeless for real, rather than just playing a homeless person here at Camp Lefty.

Did I mention the fact that I'm not good at this kind of thing? Everything I ever let go of, as they say, had scratchmarks all over it. This house, more than anything.

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March 25, 2008

Oh, Mandy.

I'm hiding out here at my mother's place for a while during the agents' caravan; we'll be going to get her car fixed in the valley in a half hour or so.

My Mandy is here. There is some talk of my mom getting rid of the dog, since Mandy's so spirited—and my mother isn't getting any younger. If she does, I hope Mom takes her to Pit Bull Hall and "trades her in" for an older, more sedate dog she can keep up with.

But it would make me sad.

I haven't been around much to help, though, lately, and I cannot complain about it.

I can't take her, because my husband doesn't want a dog at all—much less a rambunctious, large-ish one.

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March 24, 2008

A Special Kind of Exhausted.

It's been a day; I've been online intermittantly, but in between I've been washing windows and mopping the balconies.

I still have miles of clutter to work through; I also have to finish cleaning the downstairs bathroom.


I haven't slept much the past two nights; I spent part of the evening with my mother yesterday evening—and am now thoroughly apprised of all the mistakes I could be making, and what I might be doing wrong, and at least a few things I am doing wrong. When my husband got home yesterday from his run, the mom and Mandy were already here. I followed him into the bedroom and announced that I was definitely having a martini with dinner.

"She's only been here for 45 minutes," he told me.

"She's in rare form," I replied.


The "for sale" sign went up at 9:00 a.m. this morning. At 10:00 a.m. some pushy agent tried to talk his way into the house a day early, because he had a client with him. (As if he hadn't brought her with him on purpose; what'd she do?—materialize suddenly in his car?) I said "no."

The real estate agents' caravan is tomorrow; we have to be finished, and out of here by 9:20 or so. Which means that after I knock off today, I have just over two hours' of daylight in which to finish the windows. And anything else that needs to be done.


Oh, and—my body informs me that I have PMS. So if there were any chance of getting through this week without either crying or screaming at someone, it went out with the estrogen supply.

I'll be here, cleaning my .357 with a grim smile and guzzling red wine. Come on by.

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March 23, 2008

It's Got Everything . . .

The smile, the allusion both to my European and my Native American roots. My big, fat, wide, white face.

Now I truly know what it means to be a narcissist . . . I could just stare at it for hours:

PikesPeak Joy.jpg

Thanks, Darrell. I assume you got the face from that lunch with Desert Cat and Daisy Cat last winter?

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March 19, 2008

I Didn't Realize

. . . that those things had uses beyond disposing of dead bodies. I feel so . . . innocent and naive.

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March 15, 2008

Okay. I Don't Get It.

The new MacBook has two gigs of memory. Never mind that I remember when a single meg was a big deal—and for disk space, not memory. What I want to know is why the new machine is slower than my husband's PowerBook, with its own two gigs of RAM. It even underperforms my own old PB, with its 512 megs or whatever (that is, when the thing wasn't crashing every five minutes; but it could bring up Gmail consistently, and it didn't get upset when I had more than two windows open).

My great-great-grandfather, bringing people along the Oregon Trail to the West Coast, used to counsel them that laptops were never s reliable as desktop machines, and that they were hard on one's posture. He said that the handiness of being able to call up the Internet while at the reins of the covered wagon was far offset by having to do extra T'ai Chi to bring one's spine back into alignment.

Right again, old man.

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February 23, 2008

Uh-Oh. Still Losing Weight.

But I am above 110. I don't have to worry until I dip below that, right?

I'm at 113.5 tonight. That was normal when I was 25; these days, it feels like low tide.

And there is, of course, the argument that the causality arrows go in the other direction: that I'm depressed because my blood sugar is chronically low, and that if I only ate more, I'd feel better.

I still think the solution is to start smoking: that way, I could create a little gap in between when the caffeine ends and the alcohol begins. It would be, you know: wholesome.

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