in which dave decodes the human genome and i try to sound more yoda-like

[looking at a graph of a species tree via Yahoo IM]

dave: it's a species tree
me: of what?
dave: the names with numbers are jargon, but the others are taxonomic groupings...
dave: the distances represent what we call the evolutionary rate
me: but for what species?
dave: hang on, i'll remake it with the species names in place of the jargon
me: oh, yay
me: that i will like
me: or un-yoda like, i will like that
me: like that i will

I totally did the Yoda voice.

flinging tiny little pieces of plastic phone-face across the room

I may have dropped my phone. Or stepped on it. Or both. It may have a spiderweb of cracks on its face now and not always turn on and not always ring, when, say, someone calls me. I may have started to pick at the broken face, flinging tiny little pieces of plastic phone-face across the room.

But it's okay. I have insurance. Yes, of course I buy the insurance. Whenever, anyone, in any circumstance says, "and would you like the extra insurance?" I say, "well, duh."

I always buy the insurance. Always.

So, I'm covered, right? Yeah, no.

Apparently, in December of last year, after my 3rd (or 4th) replacement phone was shipped, they chucked me off the plan.

Me: But, I have insurance. I've always had the insurance. Since, like, 1992 or something.

Them: Let me put you on hold one moment to verify your effective date.

Me: Wait! I didn't mean 1992 literally!

[hold]

Them: Your effective date was May 2006.

Me: Right, I didn't mean 1992 literally.

Them: And since then, you've had *ahem* four replacement phones.

Me: Right, that's the great thing about having the insurance.

Them: We have no more phones for you.

Me: Right, that's what I thought.

a noise that sounded like "goi, goi goi, goi, goi"

My Smartass Brother's daughter, Pierced Niece? She was trouble from the get go.

She cried, just all the time. Not a sweet little "eh, eh, eh" but an unrelenting wail that made me want to cry with her. For what seemed like hours and days. She liked George Harrison's Got My Mind Set On You and George Michael's Faith and George Strait's Amarillo By Morning. But also often cried through them.

When she sucked on her pacifier, she made a noise that sounded like "goi, goi goi, goi, goi". She sat on my lap at bedtime, in her red footsie pajamas, while I read Pat the Bunny. She'd push up her sleeve, lift her arm over her head and have me tickle the inside of her arm until she fell asleep there, where I would keep her, for at least a little while.

She threw terrible fits. Fits that stopped clocks and scared dogs. She sat on the floor most mornings before kindergarten and had fights with her socks. In a tiny little determined voice, full of anger and tears, she'd mutter as she twisted her socks, took them off, put them back on, moved the seam under her toes, moved the seam back on top of her toes, turned them inside out, rolled them down and pulled them up.

"I hate these stupid socks. I don't need to wear...stupid, dumb...socks...make me just wanna.... I'm not wearing these dumb.... I hate these stupid socks."

And when her daddy put her in timeout, she followed him down the stairs, seething, saying, "I'm coming right down those stairs after you, Daddy." And she did. Right. Down. Those. Stairs. After. Him.

Now? She's still pretty particular about her socks. She's impatient and terribly stubborn. She's loyal like no one else. She doesn't do well with change. Emo? Yeah. Drama? Uh-huh. She can pull off a beautiful black cocktail dress with white polka dots and red patent leather shoes or snowboard pants, a Roxy hoodie and a black studded leather belt with equal aplomb. She dislikes the freckles on her knees. She confident and self-conscious. She likes being a redhead, even though she doesn't like her red hair. She takes her little brother shopping for clothes, so he doesn't look like a dork, and she brings her grandma bagels from Einstein Brothers.

She isn't my child, but I love her like she is. She isn't my sister, but I need her like she is. She isn't my girlfriend, but I rely on her like she is. There is a place in my heart the exact size and shape of her. No one else fits there.

Today is her birthday. Jessica Rose is biting her toes.

i'm ending up dead and naked at the end of this email string

[via email]

Me: I need your SSN to put you on as the beneficiary on a life insurance policy.
Smart Sister: I don't want your money. Just your children.
Me: You get both, and I’m not giving you the money for YOU. I’m giving you the money for my children. They’re expensive.
Smart Sister: Not if I install bunk beds in a closet that locks from the outside and slide food through a slot a few times per day. Imagine the shopping I can do with all of your lovely death benefits! Hurray!
Me: You might be getting the wrong idea. It’s about as much as two What Not to Wear makeover shopping budgets.
Smart Sister: Works for me as long as I don't have to share. How much did it cost to cremate [golden retriever] Jasper? Is that good for you?
Me: That’s good for me, but I might’ve paid for Jasper, so you still owe me. Yes, cremate me, no embalming, and make sure I’m naked when I go in, that way you get ALL my clothes.
Smart Sister: Even the rhinestone pirate sandals. No, I am not researching quick death at the same time I email you.
Me: Yeah, you get all of it, even the pirate sandals. Somehow I’m ending up dead and naked in this email string. And giving you money. Frick, how’d that happen?
Smart Sister: There is a reason that I’m the Smart Sister, sister.

why has my good ponytail karma slipped away?

Remember the early dividend paid on my benevolent spirit? The perfect ponytail day, which I attributed to my good works? Canvas shopping bags, not eating meat, giving money to the poor, etc.

Well, apparently, not so much, anymore. Because this was yesterday's ponytail.

So, the question now is why. Why has my good ponytail karma slipped away? Was it:

1. Being the Queen Bitch Commander when my former spouse was here doing my laundry, paying my bills, replacing the brakes on my car, fixing the swing in my back yard and generally doing whatever was humanly possible to be kind, respectful and helpful? No. That can't be it.

2. Exploiting the homeless guy with the rat on his shoulder for a moment's entertainment, by driving back by him once we'd picked up the Adolescent Boy? Nah, come on.

3. Outing Stu to the world as a former (former, right?) Dungeons and Dragons player? No, the truth shall set you free from bad ponytails.

Whatever it was, I'm going to find some homeless people to give cash to, I'm going to dig through my trash in case any recyclables were misplaced and I'm going to go buy coffee at some independent coffee house rather than Starbuck's.

Because, frick! Good ponytails matter.

and because it's not 1988

Last night when I logged into Netflix, I mistyped my password. Well, actually, I had no idea what my password was, so I just started trying likely candidates: naderforpresident, iheartkalpenn, frick, etc. But then I noticed it said:

Your Netflix password is between 5 and 60 characters.

60!? Who needs a SIXTY character Netflix password?

I changed mine to: nowstuwontbeabletohackintomyaccountandputanycrappymoviesinmyqueue

And? Recently, I forgot my Pizza Hut password, and when I clicked on Forgot Your Password?, had to supply them with, and I'm not kidding, my date of birth, street address, phone number, email address, mother's maiden name, name of my best childhood friend (Hi, Ryan!) (Puh, like he's reading this, right?) (He's probably busy buffing fingerprints off of the Millennium Falcon)...AND the name of the town where I was born, and then? They wanted to see my ID when they brought the pizza. And no, it wasn't because I paid with a credit card. I paid cash. All. Dimes.

Can you just see these Pizza Hut guys? You know this info goes directly to the Pizza Hut down the street staffed by four teenage nerds, who, if this were 1988, would all go over to the Assistant Manager's house after closing to play Dungeons and Dragons (sorry, Stu) and wouldn't even change out of their Pizza Hut shirts before they played.

But now? Since they have all my digits and codes and stuff? And because it's not 1988, I bet they're hacking into my Netflix account instead.

The world revolves around me who?

in the general direction of the probable republican

[In the car on the way to pick up the Adolescent Boy from school.]

The Kindergartener: Hey, Mama, look at that guy.
Me: Yeah, I see him.
The Girl: He's got no shirt.
The Kindergartener: And somethin' on his head.
Me: That's a turban.

[I put the window down and hand the guy $3]

Me [in the general direction of the probable republican, in the next lane, giving me dirty looks]: Oh, fuck you, I can if I want.

The Girl: *SCREAMS*
Me: WHAT?!?
The Girl: A RAT A RAT A RAT!!
Me [calmly putting the window up]: What?
The Girl: HEHADARATONHISSHOULDER! LIKEAPIRATEANDAPARROT!!
The Kindergartener: MAMA! GOBACK GOBACK GOBACK!!
The Girl: Maybe it was a hamster.

The Kindergartener: Mama, why'd you pay that guy?
Me: Because he's probably homeless, he doesn't have any money.
The Kindergartener: Then where'd he get tattooed?
Me: I guess when he had money. Now he doesn't have money.
The Kindergartener: But why'd you pay him?
Me: Because he needed help, and if I needed help, I hope someone would help me.
The Kindergartener: But you're broke, too.
Me: Well...yeah, but not as broke. And broke is a little different than poor.

The Kindergartener: How do you get homeless?

[Uh-oh. He's asked this in a way that could be translated to: "How close are we to being homeless, getting tattoos and walking around in turbans with pet rats on our shoulders?"]

What I almost say: Well, depends on the lotto numbers tomorrow.

What I actually say: People are homeless for different reasons. Some people get sick and can't work. Or they get fired for some reason. Or they have some kind of mental illness or something like that. Maybe they're addicted to drugs. Or maybe something else.
The Girl: Or maybe they didn't have money to pay for the U-Haul to move all their stuff to a new house.
Me: Well, and most homeless people don't have families who could help them. We're lucky. If we had to we could move in with Papa and Grandma. Or Aunt Smart Sister. We have a really good family.
The Kindergartener: I'm pretty sure Papa wouldn't let us. But Grandma would, so it's okay.
Me: Yep

[Adolescent Boy enters the car.]

The Girl and The Kindergartener and Me [simultaneously]: WESAWAHOMELESSGUYWITHARATONHISSHOULDER! LIKEAPIRATEWITHAPARROT!

The Adolescent Boy: "?"

And then we drove back by to verify that it really was a rat.

It was. It was a pet rat.

And I know, it was wrong to drive back by him. I gave him another $2 though.

stupid latin, throwing in extra e's

Man, I knew there would be some dumb spelling error in that post below if I made fun of My Smartass Brother's misspelling of Barack's name. Damn it. At least I didn't misspell "misspell".

Or did I?

Aenid [sic] should be Aeneid. Stupid Latin, throwing in extra e's.

Frick. And yes, it was Smart Sister who pointed it out. The only reason My Smart-Ass Nephew didn't point it out is that he dislikes my blog. And refuses to read it. Ever.

Whatever. That's cool. Whatever.

both of our names end in ACK

Cast of Characters:

Smart Sister's Brit Husband is British, but has lately become enthralled with American politics. He even thought (maybe is still thinking) about becoming a US citizen [insert collective *gasp* from all of Great Britain].

My Smartass Brother is a smartass. Heh. That's how I came up with the clever moniker. His actual first name is Jack (which is also the first name of three other members of my immediate family. Appalachia who?)

My Smart-Ass Nephew is 21 and very much the same as My Smartass Brother, but in a much smarter way, and is actually Smart Sister's son, not My Smartass Brother's son. Picture college student who spends a lot of his time reading things like The Aenid (for fun, not for school) and listening to Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin.

So Smart Sister's Brit Husband sent the following email out to his very proper British family, me, My Smartass Brother and My Smart-Ass Nephew. And really, anything that puts his proper British family in contact in any way with my family? Even tangentially? Sort of a mistake. We delight in our impropriety.

From: Smart Sister's Brit Husband
Date: Mon, Apr 21, 2008 at 3:57 PM
RE: Me and Barack

What do Barack and I have in common? More than you might imagine.

1. we were both born in August 1961 (I'm two weeks older than Barack)
2. we each have a parent born in Kenya.
3. we went to junior high school in Indonesia.
4. we both were separated from our families at age 14 for better education.
5. we have two children, one of whom is age 9.

Hmmmm......

Hmmm, indeed.

So My Smartass Brother writes back:

From: My Smartass Brother
Date: Mon, Apr 21, 2008 at 4:02 PM
RE: Me and Barack

I would vote for you for Queen of England! How about a spot of tea?

And then replies again 20 minutes later:

From: My Smartass Brother
Date: Mon, Apr 21, 2008 at 4:29 PM
RE: Me and Barack

Do you know what Barrack [sic] [oh, putting that sic in was mean, I know, but still, I'm leaving it] and I have in common? More than you might imagine.

1. Both of our names end in ACK
2. We were both born
3. We each have a parent that was born (my mother, my father was just here all along)
4. We both went to JR. high school I am sure the educational similarity stops there.
5. We were both separated from our families at age 14 (him for education, me cause I ran away)
6. We have two children, but……my wife has three including me.
7. Last but not least, did I mention that both our names end in ACK?

You need to get a job or a life or something, how much time did it take you to research this wealth of commonality you have found about yourself and Barrack? [yep, still misspelled, and yep, still pointing it out, hehe]

And then I realized he was replying all (like, including the British!), so I responded (only to the Americans):

From: katydidnot
Date: Mon, Apr 21, 2008 at 4:29 PM
RE: Me and Barack

jack! stop replying all! the british people reading this are basing their opinions of americans partially on this.

And then, weighing in, in a way that only he can, My Smart-Ass Nephew:

From: My Smart-Ass Nephew
Date: Tue, Apr 22, 2008 at 9:29 AM
RE: Me and Barack

sick burn

I can only hope he referred to my sick burn in pointing out that My Smartass Brother had replied all. However, My Smart-Ass Nephew is a little smarter than all of us, so I can never be totally sure.

PS-Yes, I totally had to Google Barack to verify the misspelling. Awesome.

because mrs. g is funnier than me

Oprah, bah. Go see why.

i have tmj and dumbledore is gay

Jenn tagged me for a book meme, and, um...
I have some books. And cowboy boots.

Three books I keep meaning to read

Yep, totally going to hell.

Everyone at work is all, "Drucker this and Drucker that".
Drucker, bah.

Two books that changed my life

First chapter book I read to all three of the Little People.

This one made me decide to try write fiction.

One that I haven't stopped talking about since I read it.

Everyone at work is all,
"she's all 'Uppgaard this and Uppgaaurd that', TMJ, bah."

(And also? This is one of the nicest gifts I've ever gotten. Yes way.)

And my choice for Best. Books. Ever.

Even more now that Jo says Dumbledore was gay. Yeah-huh.

captain annoying. all. day. long.

[Overheard between Captain Annoying and the Kindergartener]

Captain Annoying: Where are you going?
The Kindergartener: The Earth fair.
Captain Annoying: Oh. I'm going to the beach. And Sea World. And Toys R Us. And then probably we're going to buy some stuff. Like a Wii.
The Kindergartener: You are?
Captain Annoying: Yeah, we pretty much always do. We're going to In and Out Burger for lunch, too.
The Kindergartener: My mom packed us lunches. Stuff from home.

Captain Annoying: What's an Earth fair?
The Kindergartener: You learn about recycling and light bulbs and stuff.
Captain Annoying: Recycling?
The Kindergartener: And light bulbs.

Captain Annoying: Huh. I'll probably surf today. Before we buy a Wii. I hope I don't see a shark like last time.
The Kindergartener: We get to take a shuttle bus. From the parking lot.
Captain Annoying: Oh.
The Kidergartener [despondent at this point]: Yeah.

And yet, somehow, Captain Annoying was willing to forego the beach and Sea World and Toys R Us and In and Out Burger and a Wii when I invited him to join us at Earth Day at Balboa Park.

Yes, I did so. Captain Annoying. All. Day. Long.

And then my head exploded. The end.

i call it the I Will Be Just Fine Plan

My former spouse arrived last Thursday afternoon. I thought I would be very hip and agreeable, and I thought I was well and okay. So I told him he could stay with us. Because I thought, or I thought I thought, that it would make the visit easier for my kids, less stressful for him and therefore, better for everyone. Er...almost everyone. I may have forgotten one person.

Me. Duh.

On Thursday, he arrived, and thus began the Great Eight Day Freak Out.

First, I ran away to San Francisco, a little adventure I could scarcely afford. But still, it was probably (unintentionally) the smartest thing I did all week.

When I returned, on Monday afternoon, my plan was to have it all be Just Fine.

No, that's all, that was the whole plan. I call it the I Will Be Just Fine Plan. I was going to go home, make nice, and be a modern, congenial ex-wife. Yeah, no.

On Monday afternoon, after being gone all weekend, I walked into my house and was punched, metaphorically, in the stomach. My house smelled like him. His shoes were by my front door. He'd done laundry and cleaned my garage and fixed the brakes on my car. He went to the Girl and Kindergartener's child care place and paid my bill. He picked up and paid for their allergy medicine.

And it just felt like a sucker punch. Every time he was polite or kind, I wanted to tell him to fuck off. Actually, I might have...actually. Every time he asked if he could help with something, do something, pay for something, I wanted to kick him in the shin. All of this niceness. This niceness that was a little too little and lot too late, just made me want to hurt him. I don't mean hurt him emotionally, like pay him back for the pain he'd caused, I wanted to injure him.

I suddenly saw that I was exactly that same woman, from before. The woman who'd lived with someone for more than a decade whose rage and dysphoria had permanently infected her being. I wasn't better. I was the same. In that moment, I lost, for a while at least, everything, again.

And so I ran again. I told my kids I had to go somewhere. And I went, and I was able to be okay again for a few hours. And then I wasn't. And I panicked.

I have panic disorder. Where I can't focus, can't function, can't breathe sometimes. This thing where I panic and sweat and try to flee and hyperventilate and pass out, or just stop breathing completely. This thing where my emotions are out of proportion to the situation at hand.

I had one on Monday night which included driving around rather blindly, by myself, for hours (ish), and I had another on Tuesday night. Where I scrubbed every surface in my house, vacuumed, washed all of my blankets and basically tried, in any way I could think of, to exorcise his being from mine. Which might've seemed rational, if he'd gone home, but he hadn't left and there were still two days to go.

There's so much more to write. So much more in my head. But I'm exhausted. So that’s it.

And I was going to end this post there, two hours ago.

However.

As there so often seems to be with me, there's just one more thing. I'd made it through the week. We all went out to dinner tonight, before he left, I was civil and accordant. I said goodbye and comforted my children when he drove away. And then we went home, and I settled in with them to read to them, Tex. And he called. And his truck broke down. And he's here, for at least one more night, and one more day.

And I Will Be Just Fine, thanks.

generation gap disgruntlement i guess

katydidnot: LOLs throw me
dave: i do LOLs if the other person does
dave: i'm adaptable
katydidnot: you don't really LOL, do you?
dave: no, of course i don't. well sometimes i do laugh, yes, but i usually don't convert that into an acronym
dave: or even mention it
katydidnot: good
dave: see that's why i adapt, those who don't use LOL are somehow offended by its usage
dave: i don't know why, generation gap disgruntlement i guess
katydidnot: yeah, i know, so i'm a terrible person
dave: but, that said, it’s a really simplistic form of speech
katydidnot: people who do use LOL are disgruntled by people who choose not to, as well
katydidnot: see jane run
katydidnot: run jane run
dave: heh
dave: i just laughed
katydidnot: LOL
katydidnot: ugh
katydidnot: barf
katydidnot: see, i cannot adapt
katydidnot: it's nice that you adapt to the LOL, i cannot bring myself to LOL
katydidnot: what bothers me most about LOL is when it's used as an announcement that "i've just been funny" rather than "you were just funny and made me laugh"
katydidnot: it's like when people say "literally" when they mean the opposite, figuratively
dave: it reads that way, yeah, when it's used
katydidnot: or when they describe coincidence as irony
dave: so what though? non-literal expressions are part of colloquial speech
dave: i'll start pointing them out when you use them, if you want

He's nice, huh?

And yes, he really said "non-literal expressions are part of colloquial speech" on Yahoo IM. I know, right?

mince up some dried seahorse

Before China Town, I went to SF MoMA, and I wanted to live there forever and ever (with Paolo). But I forgot my camera.

After MoMA, Paolo and I jumped on the cable car to China Town. Where we walked up every street, down every street and across every street, while I tried not to breathe much, because, hello? Seafood. Blech.

There was one place that had some things in glass jars. And these things? They looked like dried seahorses and squids and heads of fish that don't really look like fish. And that was gross, so Paolo bought me a bottle of water and put his arm around me so all I would have to smell was his cologne.

I did not eat Dim Sum. I do not like them in a house. I do not like them with a mouse. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them anywhere! I don't know exactly what Dim Sum is, but I was really afraid they'd mince up some dried seahorse and add it in. So...nuh-uh. Please understand that half the reason I became a vegetarian was so that I wouldn't have to try to explain or defend my stance on seafood. Which is that is shouldn't be allowed to be food.

Yes, even shrimp. Yes, even ahi. Yes, crab, too. And lobster. Get over it, I don't like it. Here. Or. There.





I saw this sign in a window in China Town.

You sort of want to call the number too, don't you?

Because, what is this?


















And this place I love, and want to live there. Isn't it great? Can't you see the beginning of some confusing Matt Damon movie starting right here?

Paolo wasn't into it though, he wants to go back to Naples.











And then after walking sixteen gabillion miles (squared) we saw Lombard Street in the distance, and walked to the very, frick, top. See that phallic tower surrounded by greenery? At the very top? There in the distance?

Paolo and I walked from there to here. After walking sixteen gabillion miles (squared) in China Town.






And then Paolo saw i l l e d r a r i h G in the distance, and decided to walk waaaayyy over there. And then Paolo? He wanted more crepes (and whipped cream, of course), so we walked to Pier 39 and ate peach crepes.


And then? Dinner in Napa.

Yes way.









All of that was true. All true? Pretty all true. Napa was true.

Yes way.

insert title here

I have no time to blog people, so instead, you get the outline, the skeleton of the post.

Insert intro text here about how much "I YSF" and charming cable cars and how whenever I saw two people of the same gender together, I wondered if they were a gay couple, and how I could become their favorite straight girlfriend.


















Insert text here about how I took this photo out the windshield, because I thought maybe there's not really a good spot to pull over.

Because, what? I'm the first person in the world to want a photo of the Golden Gate Bridge.













Why, yes. There is a place to stop and take photos.























Insert text here about how Paolo fell in love with me, how he proposed right there on the cable car, how he bought me a huge-ish diamond at Fisherman's Wharf and how we lived happily ever after in his Naples mansion.

Not about how I surreptitiously tried to take photos of him without him noticing and then when he grabbed me as I almost fell off the cable car, how I meant to say thank you but instead said "marry me."

















Insert witty anecdote about taking this photo of my ass on the cable car when I was trying to take the covert photos of my new husband Paolo.

Insert text about the raspberry crepe. And the whipped cream. And the lemon crepe. And that whipped cream. And the fruit and Grand Marnier crepe. And the whipped cream.

i might have

I might have run away from home.



I might have found a four-star hotel for a Super 8 price.

I might not have been able to find even one pillow amongst the pillow forest that was to my liking.







So I might've still not slept. But I also might not care. Because, hello? I might be in San Francisco for the whole weekend. Like, totally alone.

Yes way.

To do today: Starbuck's, Golden Gate Bridge, Bay Bridge, China Town, SFMoMA, Golden Gate Park, Japanese Tea Garden, The Conservatory, Grace Cathedral, Fisherman's Wharf, St. Mary's Cathedral, the Civic Center.

Yes way.





Note to self: stoplights in San Francisco are lower than they are in San Diego.
Note to other SF motorists: oops! sorry!
Note to Dollar Rent A Car: duh, of course I want the additional insurance.

12 hours making or buying coffee

I haven't slept this week. Except every single day from about 3:20-4:15 in the afternoon, which as you can imagine is some quality sleep. Blogging is draining my energy and will to live (not really). (But, sort of). Not that I've blogged at all this week, but still.

I have spent 14.5 hours in meetings since Monday, 2 hours on conference calls, 11 hours at social/work gatherings, and only 2 hours on Dr. Phil (and ohmygod I'm watching right now and someone has the same couch as me).

I've spent 12 hours making or buying coffee and toasting Pop-Tarts.

I've spent about 3 hours color-coding and updating tasks in Outlook, about 6 hours navigating my new database, which is leaving my old database feeling neglected and overlooked. I spent 2 entire hours writing a TQM process for donor acknowledgements, which totally sucks and is like re-copying the ingredients in peanut butter.

I haven't eaten any scrambled eggs, which is without a doubt one of my favorite activities. And I swear to God I just found raspberry preserves in my hair.

mexican churros... ginger-pecan biscotti.... that's the same, right?

We gathered for a bloggy, bossy fiesta. We laughed over our family and friends who don't *get* the blog thing and their sweet attempts at blog interventions. We decried those who eschew online friendship. We swapped URLs the way some might swap recipes and we may have taken some photos.

So, Cheaters...guess before you click. Go ahead...guess.

One wore brown leather, wedge heel, gold-buckle sandals and brought the. best. chocolate. cake. ever.

(And the veggie fajitas. And the chicken fajitas. And the tortillas. And the tortilla warmer. And the cheese enchiladas. And the margarita glasses. And a camera.)

One wore black patent leather, red-soled, peep-toe, five-inch heels (yeah huh) and was supposed to bring churros. However. She forgot the churros, and instead brought a very, very large container of ginger-pecan biscotti off of the shelf of her husband's coffee shop. And her camera.

Mexican churros... ginger-pecan biscotti.... That's the same, right?

One wore camouflage flip-flops with rhinestone skulls (yeah huh) and brought...um...nothing. Except her camera.

One wore red satin ballet flats with an Asian design and brought margaritas, freshly cut lime wedges and margarita salt. And her camera.

One wore knee-high boots in fuchsia from Bloomingdale's and brought a big pot of beans. And her camera.

And one wore strappy, pewter-colored Skechers that made her feet hot and brought us all together.

Were you close?

channeling bossy

While I was neglecting my Bossy is Coming To Do List to do a facial? Bossy was ignoring her Going to Kate's House To Do List to...guess what? Forget it, you'll never guess. I'm just going to tell you. Bossy was doing! a! facial!

Yes way.

Would it be weird to buy her a wrist corsage?

bossy prep day 2: i have a piece of pop tart stuck under my =+ key

I have this genius friend who is just finishing his Ph.D. in asdlrief bmerier naesdfnwei umLekrjjwo. And remember that looongg list of things to do before Bossy arrives on Monday?

Here's what I did to that end today (via Yahoo Messenger):

dave: some people can't understand me because they can't think abstractly
katydidnot: well, and you're sort of a scary genius too
dave: and as soon as i realize that about the other person, i start fucking with them because they don't know it or aren't sure
katydidnot: yes, sometimes i get the feeling you're just fucking with me, but i'm never totally sure
dave: well, not all the time. but when i feel like it
katydidnot: yeah
dave: i'm only fucking with you when you start acting up
katydidnot: acting up? oh good grief
dave: that's right charlie brown
katydidnot: and you would be schroeder, slumped over your piano
dave: schroder was the piano player. ok
katydidnot: schoeder, with an i
katydidnot: e
dave: yeah, my fingers didn't strike the 'e' hard enough
dave: i have to be careful with my wrists

[here I should've made some crack about him being dainty like a flower]

katydidnot: i have a piece of pop tart stuck under my =+ key
dave: i screwed them up by playing too much piano
katydidnot: carpal tunnel?
dave: pop tart. yuck
dave: yeah, carpal tunnel
dave: do you put ketchup on it?
katydidnot: i used to hate them, but jo got me hooked, but i've been pop tart free for about three days
katydidnot: yeah, i've heard ketchup can help carpel tunnel
dave: ketchup might help the pop tarts, or a really offensive mustard
katydidnot: i have no way to respond to that
dave: it's a good place to move on in the conversation then

dave: i should go for a bit. i have to move 200 pounds of topsoil into my apartment, and then i'm going to starbucks
katydidnot: um...top soil?
dave: yeah. in 40 pound bags
katydidnot: right, because when i said "um...top soil?" i meant "what size bags?" not "why the hell are you moving 200 pounds of top soil into your apartment?"
dave: i've decided to fashion my own shoulder rehab program, it involves bags of topsoil
katydidnot: oh
dave: oh, that was hilarious
katydidnot: i know, i'm funny
katydidnot: can i blog this?
dave: yeah

And then there was some blissful hiking.

Bossy list who?

bossy prep day 1

I started to panic last night about Bossy's imminent arrival at my house. My! House! People!

So I made a list, which I never do. (And now I know why.)

Here's my list:

1. Clean house
2. Vacuum
3. Wash Buy towels
4. Change sheets in the Bossy Bedroom
5. Take down stalker-y Bossy photos
6. Get clean laundry off kitchen table
7. Get dirty laundry off kitchen table (only kidding) (sort of)
8. Buy toilet paper
9. Throw away dead daffodils
10. Buy new loga yants (if you don't know what that means, you don't qualify to read Bossy posts)
11. Empty dishwasher
12. Put up outdoor umbrella lights

And here's what I actually did to prepare:

What? Pores are important.

let's go get your bike

I read yesterday's post to the Girl today. She thought it was funny and was pretty pleased to have her management style featured so prominently.

But when I read Stu's comment to her?

A sign in sheet for his own room. Classic. It would be like borrowing your friend's car then charging to drive him around.

-Stu

She squinted up her eyes for a minute and finally said, "Ooohh, yeah. It would be like a taxi and he'd pay to go to the store."

And then, to the Kindergartener, "Let's go get your bike."

Yes way.

the Girl finally has a staff

A couple of weeks ago, I moved the Girl out of her room and into the Kindergartener's room. My mom was here for ten blissful days, Bossy is visiting next week (next! week! people!), Mostly Un-Pierced Niece will be here in May and then, this summer, Brenda Poppins is coming to live with us. So I really needed a guest room, and I rather unceremoniously moved her out of her room and set her up in the Kindergartener's room until further notice.

Frankly, I wasn't sure how this would go over. I had visions of the two of them irritating each other to no end, fighting over space, drawing lines down the middle of the room, and worst case, the Girl moving the Kindergartener out of the room completely and making him sleep in the hallway because of his teeth grinding. (Actually, I wouldn't blame her, it is the worst sound on Earth, imagine fingernails on chalkboards while listening to Charo vomit. It's worse than that.)



What, now? Oh. Right, sharing a room.

Turns out...they're both quite delighted by the room-sharing. They seem to have reached an agreement, whereby the Girl finally has a Staff. She gets to boss the Kindergartener around now, in a more official capacity. The Kindergartener, you may be surprised to find out, is always quite willing to bend to the will of his sister Regional Manager.

The Girl Regional Manager has affected several organizational changes and revamped the institutional policies, with modifications being codified hourly.



The Kindergartener Staff must now sign in when entering or leaving his room regional headquarters, with first and last name and time in and out. And apparently the Girl Regional Manager has implemented a total no-grinding policy, because the Kindergartener Staff hasn't ground his teeth since the move merger.

critical information for your tax rebate

From Market Place on NPR, yesterday.

The IRS is Making Sure Your Tax Rebate Gets Spent

Most taxpayers will get anywhere from $600 to $1,200 from Uncle Sam as part
of the federal plan to stimulate the economy. But many taxpayers will use the
money to pay down debts instead. So, as Rico Gagliano reports, the IRS isn't
taking any chances.

Click on the orange Listen Now button under the headline for critical information for your tax rebate.

And also? I'm officially adding Market Place host Kai Ryssdal to my Secret Boyfriend List, his voice makes me swoon. He could just whisper Ben Bernanke in my ear and I'd have an orgasm.

And also also? This was from yesterday.