So, what does this look like to you.



Because to me it looks like, over the course of several weeks, my dog, Peewee, has burned the word oui into the grass outside our condo. Peewee peed a "oui." Or, in other words: Pee? Oui!

I'll be sure to let you know when I find the Virgin Mary burned into my french toast.

I just threw out the unused portion of a sample pack of Celebrex. I'd seen the stuff advertised on TV but I guess I thought it was allergy medicine, so when I had some tight back muscles a couple of weeks ago and was laying on the floor with a tennis ball wedged into my spine (which gave me the heavenly sensation of having someone's fist pushed directly into the muscle knot using somewhere in the neighborhood of exactly the right amount of pressure to make tears spring from my eyes), I was surprised when Jack showed up with a fancy prescription NSAID. He got it off a friend who wouldn't be caught dead without a full pharmacy at his fingertips. I would say that this friend's family doctor must be a real pushover, but after my experience of going to the walk-in clinic, asking for a drug that I may not have necessarily needed, and then getting it, I have come to realize that for years I've been mistakenly operating by the notion that doctors aren't allowed to just wing it. Or put another way, it was news to me that some doctors will hand out whatever a reasonably intelligent-looking patient asks for. When I was a student in the U.K. way back before the Morrissey-Marr alliance was severed, I went through a fairly severe emotional crisis at one point and the only place I could think of to go for help was the student clinic. There I described my plight to a surly bitch in a white lab coat who wanted to know why I'd been so stupid as to waste her time with a non-physical complaint. Disgusted by the tears wetting her floor, she grudgingly handed me a tissue and then handed me off to a younger and more sympathetic colleague. When I screwed up the courage to ask doctor #2 for something to help me calm down and sleep, shook her head and kindly told me that this wasn't America, doctors didn't just hand out sleeping pills willy nilly in that green and sceptered land. Apparently the British fall asleep merely by pulling up their bootstraps and going down the pub for a pint or seven. That's what I did, anyway.

So anyway, it was a couple of weeks ago, my back was sore, I took the Celebrex, I had sex with my husband, and then I made some eggs for lunch. It didn't take long for me to start feeling sort of ill, but I didn't connect the queasiness to the medication right away. I was sad to realize that it had finally come to this: sex makes me sick. No, actually I wondered if maybe the eggs had been off. I dizzily took to my bed for the next fourteen hours, interrupted only for a couple of late night barfing expeditions to the land of cool tile and regrettably unscrubbed porcelain.

It turned out that the sore back muscles were a precursor to a mild viral infection that left me with a dry cough for the next few days, and despite the fact that I know, I know, I know to avoid extra-strength everything, I was too lazy to go up to my acupuncturist for a bottle of Wise Judge (you can laugh, but that shit works) to loosen the grip of my cough, so I started swigging NyQuil at bedtime instead. Seriously, I just came out of the NyQuil coma to write this.

Jackson's birthday party went pretty well. We took four seven-year-old boys to the 11:00 a.m. showing of Wall-E in Ventura. Two parents, four kids, military precision.

Me: "Four kids' popcorns, please."

Little boy #1: "I don't like popcorn."

Me: "Here's your popcorn."

Little boy #2: "Can I just get some candy instead?"

Me: [steely gaze]

Little boy #2: "Popcorn is fine."

And I wondered why none of them wanted to sit next to me. Jack, of course, is the king of making little boys think he's funny while at the same time making sure they're just scared enough of him to behave. When we got back home for the swimming and cake portion of the afternoon, one kid started getting out of line and teasing Jackson -- why does the littlest kid always have the biggest mouth? -- sending Jackson flying into my chest and tearfully telling me the kid was ruining his day and he wanted to send him home. I tried a few different lines of reasoning: "No one can make you feel inferior without your permission" was a little too subtle, I guess; I considered saying, "It's your party and you can cry if you want to but why not make him cry instead?" but thought the better of it. I think Jack laying it flat out and saying "If he doesn't knock it off we'll call his mom and tell her to come pick him up" really did the trick. And then looking the kid in the eye and telling him to chill his shit the fuck out.

Now if we could get that look of Jack's to make Peewee quit quietly chewing up beloved toys, shoes, pillows, and underpants, maybe Jackson would quit asking if we could sell him on eBay.

One day last week we were killing some time in the children's section at Borders, me and Jackson. Jackson has enough books to choke a television executive, thanks to an incredibly generous sales rep friend at HarperCollins, so we veered away from the stacks to check out a rack of Beanie Babies. I got sort of attached to a little beaver in a satin top hat and bow tie, and when I read his tag I was excited to learn that it was actually Punxsutawny Phil, the half-price groundhog whose selling window shuts pretty quickly every year on February 3. Jackson was trying to talk me into whatever, a stuffed fish or something, and this is where I admit that when we're in a toy-buying situation I will only loosen up the $5 rule when Jackson chooses a toy that I like. So, I won't buy him the $13 spy kit he's begging me for that I tell him is full of breakable, loseable little pieces that he'll be bored with after fifteen minutes, but I will buy him the $16 whirly light-up doohicky because I want to take it home and play with it myself. And since Phil was reduced to $2.99, well. We brought Phil out to the bench where Jack was waiting for us with a smoothie. I showed him Phil. "A stuffed rodent, fantastic," he said. "No, it's Punxsutawny Phil!" I said. "He was half price!" I waved Phil's little paw at Jack, who, predictably, once I reminded him of Phil's inspirational purpose, smirked. "They saw you coming," he said. However, not one to let cynicism spoil my groundhog joy, Jackson said, "When we get home, can we watch that movie where the guy lives the same day over and over again?"

I love being a parent most days, but extra much during a Groundhog Day/Ghostbusters II double feature in bed (with popcorn) on a Tuesday afternoon.


Phil says Hi!!

If you've read this blog once or forty-seven times, you might recall that occasionally I've engaged in battle with the insomnia. Well, now I think I've got it beaten, or beaten back, at least. Would you like to hear my cure? Results may vary, consult your doctor to find out if stuff you read on the Internet is right for you.

Right. So a couple of months ago we all got some sort of awful bug. I think Jack got it first, and it was bad. I knew it was bad because Jack can power through almost anything and this had him staggering. He immediately went to the urgent care walk-in place and demanded antibiotics. Naturally I was all, "La la la, if it's viral antibiotics won't work, you just have to let it run its course," to which Jack responded with a steely glare and retired to the bedroom to shiver and sweat all over the sheets. That's when I started sleeping on the couch.

We have an L-shaped couch, so Jackson joined me: I took the leg part of the L and he took the foot and we had sleepover parties for a week because Jackson soon came down with the plague, too, and when Jackson's sick I like to keep him with me so I can keep an eye on him. (Of course then, when he's well, he doesn't want to go back to sleeping in his own bed, but that's another story for another day.)

So Jackson was sick now, and Jack was actually getting worse, so he went back to the clinic and demanded better drugs. The doctor, no doubt intimidated by Jack's sweaty black look, gave him the next level of antibiotic, this stuff called Avalox. I remember the name still because it reminded me of that song "Avalon" that Natalie Cole did, when she did that album of duets with her dead dad, remember that? So every time Jack took his pill I'd sing, "So I think I'll travel on . . . to Av-a-lon!" But only in my head. Because I didn't want Jack to punch me.

Inevitably, just as Jack and Jackson were getting better, I got sick. Jack wasted no time in badgering me into going to the clinic and getting the Avalox. I didn't even have the strength to argue, I went in and sat down in the waiting room and nearly passed out. Then I farted. When I started sweating and moaning a nurse came and made me put on one of those masks you see on bicycle riders in China, so they don't have to breathe the exhaust fumes. Except this in this case the mask was meant to contain the horror that was emanating from me.

I laid down on the exam table and didn't even bother sitting up when the doctor came in. I asked him if he remembered Jack. He did. I told him that Jack said I should get the same drugs that he got, the Avalox. The doctor thought about that for a minute. He said, "Avalox is usually the second line of defense, we don't normally prescribe it first unless it's clear that pneumonia is present blah blah . . ." I looked at him with a sweaty, steely gaze. "Okay, I'll give it to you," he said, "because I don't want your husband to come in here and punch me."

The thing about extra-strength drugs and me is that I don't normally react very well to them. I'm honestly good with the weaker, lower-dose, first-line-of-defense drugs. But I'd been frightened into the Avalox, so by god, Avalox it was. The first night was fine, and I immediately began to feel better, but by the third night I was having a horrible time with that thing where the only thing I can think of to call it is Restless Leg Syndrome.

It was awful. I'd be just about asleep when I'd feel this overwhelming urge to stretch my legs out as far as I could and squeeze the muscles. I'd have to do this every minute or so. Fortunately, I remembered once researching some of the snake oil that was on the market to allegedly combat restless leg and I remembered that one thing that could genuinely help was calcium. So I got up and went to the kitchen and opened up a bottle of supplements I have where the ratio of calcium to magnesium is like 1:2, which is supped to be good for muscles and which I take after yoga. I also took a couple of expired potassiums for good measure. Then I went back to bed and slept like a drunk, exhausted baby.

I woke up feeling GREAT. The next night, more calcium/magnesium. Same thing, slept beautifully. Got through all the Avalox, kept taking the calcium/magnesium, kept sleeping better than ever. Felt good enough to start drinking again: stopped sleeping so well. Ah ha. Cut back to one glass of wine or less with dinner, then cal/mag at bedtime: slept perfectly.

So that's my insomnia cure: little or no alcohol before bed, 1,000 mgs of calcium, 2,000 mags of magnesium, a little lavender on the feet = achieve deeper, more prosperous sleep. (I should add: no caffeine after 1:00 p.m., that's my sort of arbitrary cut-off time. If you're going to be really strict about it, no chocolate either.) The added benefit of all this vigilance being that I'm also getting by on less sleep, like seven hours or so, I guess because I'm sleeping more deeply? Theoretically.

Be sure to join us next time on Fussy for Grandma Eden's cure for constipation and the joys of NyQuil!

I had uncharacteristically agreed to write a review of a sample of caulk I'd been sent and submit the review to the sponsor in order to earn a chance to win a $1,000 Visa gift card. Because hey! A thousand dollars? Yes, please. Unfortunately, I didn't like the product much. I assumed they'd only choose a positive review to win the money, but I decided to write the review anyway. I'd been neglecting my "Reading" page -- I'd started it to keep track of what I thought of the books I'd been reading, but lately I've been thinking I might get interested in updating it again if I expanded it to cover other weird stuff that crosses my path, including samples of caulk.

People are always asking me if they can send me stuff to write about on my web site and I get irritated and decline, so I'm thinking I'll take a few of them up on it, but they'll have to deal with what really happens when I do.

Somewhere down deep inside a grain of an atom buried deep in one of my less-vital organs -- my gallbladder, perhaps, or my heart -- I have buried the knowledge of the fact that when Jack and I moved in together I was the one who had to give up my vacuum cleaner, the one my mother bought me. Even though his was newer and better. As were his pots and pans. Better than the ones my mother had bought me.

His silverware, though! It was from a previous relationship and I found it kind of prissy, frankly, so I kept all my ugly, rusted sporks and put them in a red ceramic jar above the sink for those times we ran out of butter knives or whatever and just needed an extra utensil that wasn't a finger or the spoon I once used to clean out the litter box.

So when we moved into this place three years ago, Jack's mom gave us a housewarming gift of a whole bunch of money. Since we'd already replaced the dishes he bought with his ex, it was now the silverware's turn.

Since Jack had made pretty much every aesthetic decision during the renovation, he told me to pick the new silverware. Oh, joy. I chose this stuff, which astute readers will note is shown having been hastily jammed into a box in which it does not belong.



No, that's because

*DEEP BREATH*

that's because half the teaspoons disappeared into the mouth of hell itself, for all I know, and could not be replaced with the same pattern because Pottery Barn Is An Ass. So Jack, who loves fixing problems INSTANTLY and WITHOUT FUSS with his infinite online shopping wisdom, ordered a whole new set of flatware (with extra teaspoons!!) for $99 from Crate and Barrel.

"What are we going to do with the old silverware? We can't throw it out!" I wailed.

"We'll use it for camping," said Jack calmly.

"CAMPING?!"

"Fine, why don't you save it to use after the divorce."

"I will. I'm going to start a divorce hope chest."

I'm sure this sounds pretty goddamn shallow when the rest of the world is caving in on itself, but I really liked that silverware. It was the only thing I felt really reflected me in the entire goddamn house; it was weird and impossible to keep from getting tarnished and it was mismatched and heavy and fun. If you understood that silverware, you understood me. I had never even used three of the larger spoons. Look at that patina!



New flatware:



Functional, simple, clean, dishwasher safe. You can't tarnish this stuff with anything short of a blowtorch.

So I moped around for a week feeling as though my aesthetic was completely unwanted, and that thereby the very qualities that made me me were considered frivolous and unsound by the man I'm supposed to have married for love.

Yes, I briefly equated the replacement of my silverware with wholesale rejection of my self.

I suppose if I were younger and less resilient I'd be looking for a new place to live right now. Instead, I busted out the red enamel jar I had originally used to hold my superfluous sporks when we first met, thereby reusing the original solution for a new but similar problem:



Thus we have come full circle. So fuck that new silverware!

Except the teaspoons, those I like.