And I can hear the couple at the next table talking. They are talking low, but my hearing is good.

"When you do that," he says, "I feel ike it's a giant 'fuck you.'"

"We've got to work on our communication," she replies. "I didn't mean it as a big 'fuck you' at all. Just a little one."

I hope they work it out: it's more art than science, no?

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It's a long story, involving some blogging business, a respectable amount of housework that probably should have been put off a few more days, an interesting twist in my mother's condition, a lesson on QuickBooks for my Tuesday night job that went on until 10:45, late-night shopping for two households (separately, but in the same two-hour span, and on two different sides of town), and juggling clients.

But I've been up for 22 hours at this point, and that will probably do for now. Unless, you know—I'm about to see the face of G-d.

(Never fear, Jer—I'll still meet my deadlines. What a nasty business, though, when clients read one's blog.

Hm. Of course, it could be worse. Though not by much. Hi, Dad.)

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They get to see penises?

h/t: Professor Purkinje

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What if you were mildly allergic to your own sweat, and it was over 95 degrees in the shade outside?

That would be annoying, no?

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Darrell—my very favoritest stalker—send me his final birthday shipment. It contained a lovely gin pen that LIGHTS UP! And a mini-martini shaker, and a few bottle openers (though these actually featured vodka and rum brands on them).

All in all, quite a lovely birthday haul. I wore the big scary wraparound Tanqueray shades to work today: it turns out that although the Terminator look doesn't do too much for me, these were very useful sunglasses.

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Now, as a former hard-core liberal, I find this rather difficult to accept.

After all, didn't Linda Ronstadt's Livin' in the USA persuade us that Governor Moonbean was, um, sort of—part of—the zeitgeist? I mean, I didn't really go to high school, but I remember them both being discussed in rather hallowed tones in the coffee shop across the street, and "Blue Bayou" getting rather heavy play on the jukebox, along with the Bowie version of "Knock on Wood, and "Fight the Power," by the Isley Brothers.

How about we lay it on the line: no urban denizen has the right to tell us what the capabilities of our fireplaces ought to be—particularly here in California, wherein we are subject to rather extreme seismic activity, and may want to stay warm when a Big One—or even a medium-size one—hits?

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It used to be that if I were late in making a grilled meal, we might resort to dining by candlelight, or end up dodging moths and various insects—some of them larger than I am.

But I was late with dinner a week ago, when my mom was over to enjoy grilled kabobs, and we lingered well into the dusk. As a matter of fact, A the H turned on the patio lights (all of them white—he hadn't gotten around to switching them to yelllow/bug-rsistant) for the summer.

We were kind of wondering why everything was going so swimmingly, and then I remembered (or maybe my husband did) that over the past two years we've been acquiring a lot of bats. Even the painting of the exterior didn't really unseat them: they merely went away, and then came back.

Bats are much better than lizards, for a whole bunch of reason, including (1) the fact that lizards don't fly. They just don't. They sort of whirl around on the pavement, suddenly, as if trying to induce cardiac arrest in human beings, but to no good avail, and (2) bats are great. Sure: they do sort of fly by at dusk, in a manner vaguely reminiscent of mice with wings. But they aren't startling in the way that lizards are, and they make balcony dining about a gaziliion times more pleasant.

So: Lizard are inept. Bats rawk. And owls positively rule, but that's a story for another day.

By the way, Baby—whose idea was this Green Acres lifestyle, anyway? It must have been yours: "Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue."

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. . . on the eve of Independence Day. Especially when part of the deal is an involuntary suspension for 30 days.

And since we're a nonprofit corporation directly linked to a 12-step group, the people I had there as witnesses saw it more as an intervention than an HR issue. But that was part of the point, too: it was a good cop, bad cop routine.

I was the bad cop.

I do not like being the bad cop. On the way home I wished that I could cry; I was sure I would feel better if I could only do that. But my eyes were dry, and there was no release to be found.

On the other hand, every advisor I had—personal, spiritual, and business-related—told me I was doing the right thing.

"Wow," one person remarked as we left the interview. "That was a tough intervention. I could really use a drink."

"Yeah, me too," I told her. I'm having it now.

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My boobs ache, so I figure I'm in for a week or so of being super-bitchy, followed by a week of being super-inconvenienced. Until some week or months in the future, when it happens all over again.

Faster, please.

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