A Certain Point of View

When we went to Coco's Monday night, Daddy lit up. He'd never been to a Coco's before. I never remember the difference between a Coco's, a Denny's, or an IHOP.

"I worked for the Coco's! The restaurant is their last name, did you know that? They live in the really good part of Encino. I worked for 'em for about three months as their landscaper. They came to Kimura nursery looking for a Japanese gardener because they wanted a Japanese garden and a Japanese gardener, etc.

"It was a huge property. This was right before the Northridge earthquake time when I had lots of houses to do. Old man Coco used to say that I wasn't raking the leaves, but I was. Except that the leaves from the street were always blowing in, even as I was raking, and there was nothing I could do about it. Leaves do that, I told him. I wasn't going to cut every leave off the trees in the fall just because his lawn was getting littered. One day he started in on the leaves and I told him the same thing and he called me lazy. So I said I quit. He seemed to think that I was joking and he laughed and laughed. He got quiet when I started packing up. His wife was going to be really mad, I guess she really wanted the Japanese gardener. He wanted to know why I was quitting. I told him that I thought I was not lazy, that the leaves fall off trees in the fall and I didn't like him. So he asked me to refer him to someone else and I said no. He wanted to know why. I told him that all the people I refer to are my friends from a long time ago and I wanted to keep them my friends for more years.

"He stood in the driveway, with his hands on his hips and watched me drive away. (Probably thought I drove a shitty truck.) Fine figure of a man, he was. Stick straight. Tall. Boy, wasn't he mad.

"Hey, the food's not too bad! Guess he deserved the big house"

Mommy called me yesterday to discuss Odo. Odo has already settled into a routine with Daddy, napping with him in the mornings and keeping him company during the afternoons. They play together a lot, so Odo gets a lot of exercise in the little flat and Daddy isn't bored any more. Odo gets upset when voices are raised, so Mommy reported that Daddy doesn't yell during arguments anymore. Or lately, anyway.

Anyway, Mommy went into a rant, repeating everything I had told her: how it was terrible that by the age of two, Odo, who certainly didn't ask to be born, had been
declawed;
brutally abused (you can tell by his reactions to certain things, like rolled up newspapers and flattened hands: he scrunches his face up and readies for a blow);
learned to bite things, which doesn't happen unless a cat has to;
got abandoned to fend for himself;
almost starved to death until he met my father in law;
almost died of infection and blood loss when he lost the bloody fight with a predator and Todd rescued him with $350 we really didn't have;
lived in the garage (alone! in the garage!) during his convalescence;
got picked on by Doc and Wyatt during his entire tenure at our house.

When I brought Odo to my parents house, Odo had recently lost the tip of one ear and a big bloody bite wound on his neck was healing. My mother harped about the asymmetrical appearance of this otherwise show-quality medium haired cat. Could the veterinarian reattach his pretty ear? "I'm afraid not; I've looked everywhere and I've come to the unpleasant conclusion that Wyatt ate it," I replied. Ew.

"Well!" My mother fumed. "Such a good little cat, loves me, loves your papa. Such a handsome cat, otherwise. Such a smart cat, comes when he's called. Declawing him and abandoning him! Terrible! It's not his fault that he bites. He bit your father today, he deserved it, but he bit him hard enough to bleed a lot. Bit the stuffing right out of him, right through his shirt, once, too. We can never give away a cat like this. No one would want to care for a cat like this. We HAVE to keep him."

Guess so, Mommy. (This isn't like the telescope, which was Too Good For Us!) Guess so.

Monday, June 28 sucked. It was my third day working on a cash register at Kinko's, and it was a busy day. The General Manager was totally pleased with how well I was doing, but a lot of customers were annoyed how slow I was. I know I shouldn't, but I take that thing kind of personally. "Look, I'm working on it. Keep yer pants on." isn't a nice thing to say to a grouchy customer. (Humor usually helps. To a good humored customer, I have been known to say "Don't get a paper cut, I'll be right there.")

I had to take Daddy to a doctor's appointment on a workday, and I had to leave early, so they asked me to come in early, which is never fun. I was late, which was not fun. I was late to the doctor's appointment, which was stressful, and I was annoyed to discover the doctor was running 1.5 hours behind schedule. (This doctor, otherwise, spends a lot of time with us, and I really really like him, mind you. Daddy and I went out for pancakes while we waited.)

Later that evening, after having taken them to Coco's for their Prime Rib Special (and discovering they stopped it last Saturday), I went to pick up my parents' prescriptions at Sav-on Drugs. There was, of course, a long line. I was in my Kinko's outfit, khaki pants (Todd's castoffs), white shirt and big black boots, looking disheveled, and at this point, suffering a bad case of the short, fat and uglies.

I struck up a hilarious conversation with the man in front of me, a guy about 10 years my senior, who looked an awful lot like the Doctor on Star Trek Voyager (Robert Picardo). Handsome, or cute, depending on how you saw him, and very funny. To entertain himself and the others in line, he got his b.p. checked at the public monitor, cracking wise throughout, and I told him my Daddy's was much better than his, and Daddy was twice his age. He retorted that his ex-wife left a message on his answering machine that morning. I shot back that his Lakers hat, signaling poor alliances and big disappointments, probably didn't help much either. He got back in line, behind me, and I reminded him he was in front of me. He pretended I cut in line, and we had a mock argument about who was right and who had the right of way. The others in the line were chuckling and laughing at our antics and sparring. I begged for tips, claiming graduate student loans and pointing out the pathetic Kinko's attire. We really were pretty damn funny.

We chatted about the long line, the other people we'd met there, the fist fights that have occurred when cuts were indeed taken, and I told him about the time there were four mothers in line with toddlers and my Daddy (who can't stand for long these days) sat down on the floor and baby-sat them all while I stood in line - Daddy nor the babies could talk a whole lot of English, so they all sat around, saying "Hi!" to each other and holding hands and giggling - and one mother was so charmed she took a picture. He asked what I did. I told him. I told him about Delaware. He was a screen writer, originally from New Jersey, and we swapped East Coast stories. We had both been to Block Island, where he saw E. A. Poe's house. In grad school, I used to have burgers at a place in Newark DE where Poe got thrown out for being too drunk. (This also drew a laugh.) We chatted for about, oh, twenty minutes. He got called to get his meds. I got called to get my parents'.

Here's the kicker: As I walked out of the store, he hunted me down:

"Miss, miss? I hope I'm not bothering you, but I really enjoyed our conversation and I can't let it end. Would it be weird for you to meet me for dinner some time?" He stood close. He smelled nice, like he'd gone to the gym, worked out and taken a shower without a lot of smelly soap. And I looked up, and he really did look like the Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, terribly vulnerable, and really very hopeful. We really had sort of hit it off. He liked me. He thought I was okay. Cute, charming, maybe sexy, even. Date material. Do-able. I was a "Miss." Me! Whoa. I smiled widely, and looked down, and looked up, I think. I think I tucked my hair behind an ear.

"Wow. Wow! Gosh. I really can't..." I proffered my left hand. "I'm kind of married! You've gotta check a strange girl's left hand before you ask these kinds of questions."

"Beautiful ring. No, I didn't check. Well, uh, y'know, I gotta try." His face fell into disappointed lines.

"Well, yeah, and keep trying. Keep looking. You're a riot. You're a prize." I said, I hoped encouragingly. He backed up, and turned away. He looked over his shoulder. "Have a good night."

"Good night. Have a good life." As he turned the corner, I called after him, "Hey, you made my day. Possibly my year!" I heard him laugh down aisle seven.

I drove home singing "I feel pretty" and suddenly Monday felt pretty okey-day. 24 hours later, I still smile at odd and random moments and have this desperate need to see a rerun episode of Voyager. Is he still thinking of me? Probably not, (I firmly believe men like to forget their rejections) but it doesn't matter. If I could bottle this feeling of skyrocketing self esteem, I could make a million bucks.

Working at Kinko's is good therapy. And sort of ... fun. I work 32 hours a week, not too little, not too much. Pay isn't bad, the work is novel but not-too-challenging, the people are really sweet. (Except for the weekend manager, who was hung over this morning and is really grouchy the rest of the time. She has a boyfriend-who-has-kids who won't get a job, and just wrecked her car, the gossip goes.)

What does my job feel like, when I'm thinking about it? On the west coast, there is a fast food chain called Der Wienerschnitzel. They sell dogs, fries and sodas. Their mascot is a hotdog that runs screaming, chased by people. The funniest commercial is the black and white slo-mo version, shot by the beach, being chased by a skinny model, ala satire Calvin Klein. The one that reminds me of my current job is the one where he is in his living room, stretching, stre-e-e-etching...and then he steps out his front door, ties his shoes, coughs, and starts running - "AAAaaaaaaaaa!!!" so people can start chasing him. Because that's his job. Well, that's what my job feels like. It's, um, good exercise.

The people patterns are the most interesting. On Friday nights, it's Mexican day laborers who bring passport photos of their girlfriends that they want blown up to portrait or pinup size. Or old people who have fuzzy pictures of their grand kids they want color copies of. On Saturdays, it's church people and sports parents copying programs for Sunday's sermon or game. On Sundays, it's usually teachers and business people getting ready for Monday. Monday, it's just business people.

The most annoying people so far? You'd think it would be the ones who hector for discounts, or the ones who want to proselytize you, but no. (I had one woman use the color copier to make 100 black and white copies (at $0.89 each, vs. $0.09 each) and didn't want to pay $89.00 for it. Understandable, but the machines are really really clearly marked, and it's certainly not worth screaming at me over. She used our best paper, our best technology to make b/w copies, a waste, to be sure. But we can't be asked to absorb her mistake, and our discount was not good enough for her. Apologetic and whiny is more effective and more pleasant than apoplectic (if less interesting). But being unwilling to recognize your own error and refusing to take responsibility for your own actions "That is outRAGEous! What is the number for Kinko's Corporate?!")

But no, the MOST annoying people so far are the people that come in on Monday and ask for help. Then they praise your work ethic or your brilliant copying skills (!)and say "What is someone as smart as you doing in a place like this? Have I got a business proposition for you..." and proceed to give you their business card and won't leave you alone until you give them a phone number or email address for them to contact you at a later date. So far, I've gotten propositions for a fruit juice franchise and a life insurance company. I have begun checking my cell phone caller ID. Sigh.

I'm watching the Womens' Olympic Trials on TV. They are not women, for one thing. They're wee little girls! But those are certainly trials, if not downright ordeals. There is something really scary about 14 year old girls with six packs. There's something downright freaky about a 15 year old Chinese girl with six packs and lats! I'm sure that statement is sexist, racist, whatever. I don't care. You can't tell me that that's normal. You can't tell me that training for 5,6,8 years for 3 minutes is okay.

(I feel bad enough for race horses, but at least they retire at 3 years of age to have lots of sex and green, green grass.)

On June 20, a phone call was received letting me know that Odo bit both my parents, about six hours apart, for no apparent reason.

Daddy was asleep on the sofa. Odo bit his finger, hard enough to bleed. Mommy came home from work. Odo came running, and when she petted him, he reached up and nipped her.

I told you so, I told you so, I told you so.

The most satisfying part of this, aside from them having already agreed to keep him, is that they don't think I mishandled my cat anymore. Anyway, they still want the canned food and the toys. He really does have the most winning face.

I called Daddy and told him that I'd pick Odo up on Saturday. Daddy sounded sad. "You don't want to keep him, do you?" "Well, your mother has gotten attached to him." They proceeded to trade the phone off, telling me stories about how cute Odo is, how sweet that he doesn't beg from the table, that he answers when you call his name, how I must not be handling him right because he doesn't bite at all. I asked about his spinal tap, has it healed? "What? Oh, yeah." God bless Odo, the little furry therapist.

Well, if you want to keep him, Todd will miss him, but I'm sure we can make the sacrifice, Daddy. (Sucker!) Happy Father's Day, Daddy. Mommy knew all along that they were stuck with him, but she likes him, too. Odo really does have a winning face.

He used to sleep at my feet, but feeling loved, Odo has begun to sleep between my parents, in the middle of their bed, at easy reach of my Daddy's petting hands. Mommy wants me to buy him canned food, for use as treats. And maybe a brush. And more toys. Hurry.

My Daddy's spinal tap was on scheduled for the early morning of June 16, and was a cause of great fear and concern with him and my Mom. Worse yet, Todd had been invited by his parents to go with them to Las Vegas to celebrate the end of his school year and we were supposed to leave that day. We decided I'd stay the night before at my parents, and rip home and drive out to Vegas after the procedure was safely over.

I asked my Daddy to take care of Odo, who would otherwise be alone in the house with Doc and Wyatt, who would pick on him for three whole days. Can you take care of him for a week? Daddy agreed to look after him for a week. Mommy was not happy (she knew where this was headed) but she agreed.

For the next several days, we talked about the history of the cat, how Odo was found injured, abandoned, declawed. How he has a bad habit of biting. Biting when he's happy, biting when he's mad. What a funny cat he can be, charming and playful. It was nice not to have to talk about the procedure at all.

Late Tuesday night, I came over with a suitcase packed for the next four days, and a cat. (I broke up one final fight between Odo and Wyatt, and had a really good four-hole bite mark on my wrist to show off, too.) Odo, usually so gregarious, hid under the sofa. When my parents went to bed, Odo, usually so sober and aloof, insisted on being cuddled and petted. Hourly. All night. For the first and last night ever, Odo finally fell asleep on my chest, his paws firmly wrapped around my neck. Poor thing, he was so brave when he came to our house.

Wednesday morning, the procedure went well, and quickly. Daddy came home sore. But not that sore, because he began crawling around on all fours looking for Odo. I brought take-out and Odo couldn't resist the smell. Odo crawled out from the sofa and began to accept tidbits from Daddy. He began to purr and flirt. I snuck out while they were playing with the fishing pole toy.

My high school art teacher died not six months after he retired. He bitched and bitched to me, when I was in high school, about how rotten and ungrateful all his students were, (including me, when I disagreed with him about an assignment) but he lived for the good ones (including me). One day, poking nosily through our stuff, he was looking over my friend's biography of somebody for a history class, and his eyes widened as he found the portrait she had drawn of her subject, from a photograph. He looked at her, got close up to her, "This is fabulous! Have you thought about training in art?" Gerry took us seriously. Which made us take ourselves seriously. He loved finding talent, finding minds. He lived for his Fifth Period AP Art History class, and for the one or two kids in one of two of his art classes. If it wasn't for Gerry, I'm sure I wouldn't be quite where I am now. Even if some of his kids didn't pursue art, exactly, all of us still carry that bit of self-confidence, that if Gerry took us seriously, then we deserved to be taken seriously. And there is something really special, exclusive, really, to know the difference between a Manet, a Monet, and a Degas; the Mannerists versus the Fauvists, the Cubists versus the Pointillists.

Presidents are supposed to die young, I suppose from all that stress, but Ronald Reagan hung on for 20 years after he retired.

What does that say about dedication, exactly? Who do YOU think I think the world will miss more, even if they don't know it?

He was a nice man. I met him once, and he was so delighted to meet me, well, I couldn't help but love him back. So I can understand the public outpouring of grief at his passing, even though he shafted everybody but the very very poor and the hideously rich during his Presidency. Still, I can't seem to help thinking that his death after a decade of Alzheimer's is really a release and he actually died a long time ago. And I wasn't even stuck on the 405, behind his motorcade, to color my opinion on this, mind you.

He's been dead damn near a month, and we're in a war on top of that. All these flags at half-mast are really freaking me out. There are so many things to mourn. Up, up, all ready, or just make the decision to leave them at half-mast for the duration of the war/police action/Bush presidency for all the boys we are losing daily.

1. So far, my favorite thing to do at the copyshop is to check the paper supplies of all the machines and load paper into the ones that are running low. On a busy shift, six machines can go through ten reams or more, and nothing gets a customer excited faster than an empty Xerox machine in the middle of their copying. I've never worked in a stable, but I imagine this is what feeding hogs is like.

2. The second favorite thing I like to do is to dust. Nobody else dusts, and the place is really filthy. A lot of the younger girls think I'm slightly crazy, but that's ok. It must be the conservator coming out in me to see clean plastic surfaces, because I'm a lousy housekeeper. I wish we had a Swiffer Duster. Well, actually, I'm lying. Judy, a retired school teacher, she dusts. She complains the other girls don't work as hard, and she likes that I "take the initiative." She has taken me under her wing, and as a former second-grade teacher, she's very good at showing me the ropes, how to work the machines, how to do certain operations. She's very good with the older patrons, not so good with the easily irritated younger clients, but I'm fond of her. I like that she doesn't laugh because I'm fascinated that the vacuum cleaner has a really strong magnet around the suction part to pick up the staples and paperclips.

3. The people that come in are really interesting. The ex-con with a handful of quarters who needs copies of his parole papers (he was a little scary). The whole lot of teachers who come in on Sunday to prepare for Monday. Daughters who come in to Xerox funeral programs for their mothers and cry while they're folding them at the counter. Mothers who Xerox Little League cards for their kids' teams. The really hairy man who needed a bath who wanted to copy car registration papers, including a color copy of the DMV sticker, which I realized later is illegal (now, he was really scary). The inevitable guy who, as I helped him, asked me "Where ya from?" and got annoyed when I answered "Santa Monica," and the Chinese girl, ten feet away, who laughed. The regulars who come in every day, and are beginning to remember my name just after four days.

So I got the job at Kinko's. Everybody there has been really very nice; Brenda, who just got her own cubicle, emptied her locker and peeled off her sticker so I could stick my purse in there and lock it. Even the customers have been very kind. If you smile really big and say it's only your first/second/third day, most everybody is really sweet. Particularly in Monrovia, which isn't exactly the business capital of the world. I've only had five really unhappy customers, and they were unhappy before they met ME. After my third day, in a surge of confidence and a need to reward myself for a pretty damn good day, I bought a new pair of on-sale black Skechers that were so chunky and clunky they had to be comfortable...I was wrong.

At this time, I can't bend over.

Funny how aching feet will affect the ability to type.

Every once in a while, you meet someone who isn't living on the same planet as you. Always an interesting experience.

In Las Vegas, I worked at McCarran Airport, at the Cannon Aviation Museum. The Museum was a funny place, because most people who visited didn't come there to Visit The Museum, they were there because they were between flights, or they were stranded, or they were killing time. When people wanted to ask you questions, most of the time it was "Where's the bathroom?" or "Where is 'D' gate?" This one guy, around October of 1999, came up and wanted to know why so many gift shops in town sold little green rubber aliens and UFO junk. Was Roswell nearby? I explained that Roswell was in New Mexico, and that Nevada was famous for Area 51. The traveller excitedly asked lots of questions about Roswell, Area 51, "Ever been there?" the southwest affinity for UFOs (?), and expressed regret he would never see Area 51, or Roswell, for that matter. He had just interviewed for a job in town and didn't think he did well, and didn't do all the things he planned to do. "Aw, Area 51 isn't going anywhere," I replied. "I never thought I'd come back to Vegas, and now I live here. You'll be back." (By this time, I wanted him to get on his plane; I wanted to get back to work.) His expression of deference and respect toward me, Ms. Museum Worker, my expertise on UFOs, the local area, disappeared. "I'm not coming back. Don't you know? Y2K Is Coming." And he looked at me with something like compassion, as if I was really stupid, or he was breaking me some terrible news. "Oh, that's right." I tried to adopt an expression both neutral and understanding, like we were talking about the approaching storm, not the end of the world. Every January since, I still wonder about him. Has he managed to finally pay off his credit cards that he never intended to pay? Did he eat all those canned goods, or did he finally donate them to a food bank? Have his friends stopped kidding him, or are his friends like that too? Or worse yet, has he even come out of his bunker yet?

I met another one today, making an appointment for my Daddy to see a hematologist. Kimberly the appointment secretary wanted to know a lot of stuff in advance, social security numbers, date of birth, so she could pull old hospital records independently in preparation for our first visit. That was ok by me. After all that, we set the appointment for 3:30, but then she told me to come an hour early, to fill out paperwork and medical history. Wow. At that point, I wished aloud that we could just all make out a universal medical history form and stick it on a disk for all the doctors just to ask for. Kimberly chuckled sympathetically but still wanted me there an hour early. I supposed aloud that a computer disk could be lost or stolen so I kidded we could microchip my Dad's ear (like a pet cat or dog, or a radio tagged bear) so we could just scan his barcode and all that medical history stuff could be generated pronto, rather than having to cough it all up, over and over, with each new doctor we visit. My Daddy might look good with an earring. The voice of Kimberly the appointment secretary got verrry quiet. "That would be a bad idea. I mean, it's bad enough that the government puts tracers in our tens and twenties - I still don't like the idea that just anybody in the government can scan me walking down the street and know how much cash I'm carrying**," she said sternly. Whoa. How much September 11 Kool-Aid have you been drinking?

The thing about running into people like Y2K Guy and Kimberly the Appointment Secretary is, they sound so normal, and they talk to you like they think you're on their planet. You know, like, it's a totally well known fact in their world that the sky is blue, the grass is green, malls are for shopping in, babies are cute, and the government is tracking us via our currency, duh. It is always comforting to know there are people dumber, weirder, crazier than you. And that they're not always Star Wars fans, or Harry Potter movie goers, either.

Meanwhile, I am SO excited about the impending marriage of Princess Diana and JFK Jr., aren't you? They've suffered so much, failed marriages, difficult relationships, sloppy divorces, messy deaths, and People Magazine says resurrections are hard on the joints... With dead people walking around, the Apocalypse must be near, but in the meantime, they deserve every happiness, and all the privacy the media can muster. But think of the public service their union serves us, if they decided to give interviews and photo ops. I hope they do. I mean, amidst all this war and terrorism, we could use some good gossip and fashion: how they met, what they were wearing, how Uncle Teddy talked the Bessette girls to changing their identities and moving to South America, etc. And can you imagine if they had children?! Truly, a feeling of unity between America and Britain would deepen such that Bush and Blair could not possibly promulgate, no matter how great a war they started together. (I've heard that the Queen is really rather taken with John John, over Charles' protestations, and despite the fact that he's still quite damp and ashy. Harry, always the kidder, refers to John as Ernie - get it? Urn-y? Ha.)





**Hold up a New Twenty dollar bill to the light. See the nylon strip embedded in the paper that says twentytwentytwentytwenty? Some conspiracy theorists and libertarians believe that those are there not as an anti-counterfeiting measure, but that those strips are somehow magnetized or coded to give off a signal so Men In Black or George Dubya Bush can see at a glance (with a special radar machine) how much currency you're carrying. Exactly what earthly good does that accomplish? And if such technology exists, why aren't blackmarket twenty-dollar-bill-finders being sold on the Internet for beach combers and police looking for bankrobbers?

I might have to give blood to my Dad because he's three quarts low. I don't know what his blood type is yet, but I got myself blood-typed.

Just in case I forget, I am

ABO blood group: A,
RH type (D): positive (1)

Lists almost always make me feel better.

The State of My House. And don't tell me to go clean it up. I've been trying to do that for months. I've been trying to find 'homes' for everything, but it's easier to do that with somebody else's house than your own, have you noticed? (I've made a list of all the rooms and what bothers me about each one, but THAT list is really dreary.) "I recognized your stench when I was brought on board."

My Incredible Business Success. In fairly short order, I've got my first three clients! I'm thrilled! I'd like to actually get to work, and even begin hustling up more work. Except (and this is related to the State of the House) I have no place to work. Todd is Being Supportive by wanting to have the studio room inspected for mold and tear out the icky rug there and replace it with Pergo before I set up my studio For Real. Deadlines are September, but this waiting makes me twitchy. Meanwhile, the $16,000 debt continues to fester in my overworked little brain and I feel bad for buying a Rolodex and a business card holder. "Bring 'em on! I prefer a straight fight to all this sneaking around!"

My Amazing New Job I really have always liked Kinko's, their flexible working hours, even the uniforms they have to wear, and I'm jazzed they want to hire me. But my background check and drug test haven't come back yet, and so here I am, in my pajamas, still. Meanwhile, the $16,000 debt continues to NOT accrue interest because Todd skillfully stuck it in a sexy new Visa, but it bothers me anyway. "If it's money you love, then that's what you'll receive."

Five cats They all have their various health and behavioral problems. Doc and Wyatt are spraying and hate taking medications to mellow them out. Wyatt tore a hole in Odo's neck and notch in his ear and Odo hates first aid. Jessie hates her medication, period. Little Black Kitty has gotten so chubby she can't quite reach the base of her tail to groom herself and requires daily brushing, which she doesn't seem to like (which is unusual for a cat) and bites you to let you know. "Will someone get this walking carpet out of my way?"

My Daddy's Mysterious Anemia. Why is he so weak? Enough said. "It's not my fault!"

My Interesting Health. I've been feeling a strange need for salt and my psychiatrist had my blood tested. I am low in CO2. I didn't know you could be low in CO2. I have to take baking soda morning and night (which I found repulsive!) but this seems to be working. I'm feeling sharper! I recently bought a whole pile of empty gelatin caps at Whole Foods Market and filled them with baking soda ("Oooh!," said Todd, "A little drug lab!") as I watched a whole season of Gilmore Girls on DVD. "What kind of stuff are you trying to push on us?"

Our Parents Have the Gall To Ask Why We Don't Have Children and Why We Don't Invite Them Over So Much Anymore "Nervous little thing, aren't you?"

Let's see. Kinko's, my Dad's health and my ovaries are out of my control. The business, the house, the cats, the stuff I can't get away from that really make me nuts, is dependent on my interesting health, isn't it. I'm not going to be fully functioning until the whole drug/baking soda thing really kicks in, and then I should be able to finish everything inside of two weeks. Should I take a nap? Take a walk, yeah, that's it. Hot now. Hungry, too. Maybe later.

I was having a really pretty good day yesterday, woke up early, got some actual work done, ran a bunch of errands, saw my shrink, looked after my dad, paid some bills, saw my friend, even. And then I was getting ready to go to bed and realized I'd been wearing my underwear inside out all day. I went to the bathroom several times and never noticed the seams all stuck out and the tag on the wrong side. And I thought back to slinging them on that morning, and I'm like, "I was lucid this morning, when did THAT happen?"

It had been a pretty positive day, all things considered, but suddenly it became a crappy day.

Does that ever happen to you?

I invented yet another stupid Internet game.

It's one only I would like to play; I don't think anyone else but me can play it. Like most games I invent, there is no point and nobody wins.

It started in graduate school when I noticed that my stress level could be indicated by the byte levels in my email inbox. So when pictures and reports were emailed to me, papers must be due, and my inbox would be at 80-90% capacity, Yahoo would be sending me redlettered warning notices, and I would be hysterical. When things were calmer, inbox capacity would be at 15-20%, but could tip with one good joke email. Grad school was so stressed out that even funny email and long update emails became work to respond to. And yet, when emails from people I loved didn't come, I'd be slightly suicidal. A conundrum.

So, it became my thing to clear out my inbox as much as possible. The best I could get all during graduate school was 20%. A lot of references were emailed to us, so why print them out? I'll do that...eventually...I will, I will... Almost 18 months later, I finally got it down to 8% today. I knew I had to stop when I began deleting favorite emails just because I wanted to see if I could get it down to 7%... I'm just never happy. I would have been thrilled to get down to single digit percenages (Wow! 9%!?) in graduate school.

Of course, I just started a 'professiona' email account, and THAT has about 10%, but that's ok. So I'm still at 20%, but in smaller more digestible bits. (Is this what they mean about faking the books and cooking books? Is this how Enron fell to Earth?)

This week was a busy week.

I went to Las Vegas and worked my first Clinic in months. I hustled up two clients! A private collector with a big ole busted 18th stoneware pickle pot to be fixed by September. A disaster management workshop for the Nevada Museums Association in October. The man who collected pickle pots looked at my resume, listened to me babble, and gave me a check "to start" for $400 without batting an eye. A total of about $1500 profit, by October! I also wrote a nice letter to the embryonic Hispanic Museum of Nevada, who brought a huge number of objects to the Clinic, (boy, do they need ME) but I haven't heard back. I haven't unpacked my carful of tools, books and art and artifacts. Todd is annoyed with me.

I applied for and I think I got a job at Kinko's Copies. I'm waiting for the results of my background check and drug test, which, in this day and age, and with my luck, is always iffy. I am hopeful, though, because the hours would be flexible, and it would be therapeutic and just plain good for me to have regular hours. Fedex just bought out Kinko's, and I look good in purple.

I got my blood tested because my period has been extra heavy, I've been craving lots of salt and I've been extra loopy. My blood is low on CO2. So I've got to take a teaspoon of baking soda, morning and night. I didn't know I could be low on carbon dioxide. The cure is almost as disgusting as the disease, (a teaspoon of baking soda is revolting if you're not puking!) but I find myself sharper already. Sigh. I must find some empty gelatin capsules at a health food store or something.

My OB-GYN says I look good-to-go, my temperatures look good, and to come back in two weeks for my next ultra sound and we'll see what I look like when I'm ovulating. Oh, dear.

I went on a hike with long-lost friend Rose for Memorial day, longer than expected, and I am stiff and tired. (We let Todd pick the 'easy' hike, always a bad idea.) I fell some five feet down a sandy ravine and twisted my ankle, no big deal, but I'm all scraped up. We had her and her kids over for pizza later, great fun, but I'm fried like an egg. I am far too old for this sort of thing.

Today, my friend John came over to look at the flooring at the studio. Neither Todd nor I were awake. Oops. Good thing John is mellow. He thought he could do it pretty cheap, and I was pleased to see him. We hafta pick flooring, which he left to us. Things are moving. I am excited about that, I guess. More debt.

Am I happy? I'm not sure. Mostly, I'm tired. I am hopeful. Like a galaxy spinning into form, a life is sort of taking shape, and I am a little scared.