The Corkscrew at Cedar Point

He's a Geek, but he's MY Geek!

My husband sent me an e-mail this morning, asking me to print out the following commands for our dogsitter:
 

C:\> Oatmeal /?

Causes dog to pay attention and perform one or more optional tasks

OATMEAL  [/Sit /Down /Stay /Come_Here /Leave_It /Drop_It
/Take It /Shake /Off /Up /Heel /Okay
/Go] [Correct Praise]

/Sit               Dog will sit
/Down           Dog will lie down
/Stay         Dog will stay frozen like when you played freeze tag as a kid. Often  preceded by /Sit or /Down option.
/Come_Here   Dog will come running in front of you from distances up to 50 ft.Must be facing dog when used.
/Leave_It       Dog will leave alone whatever it would usually act upon during normal circumstances.(food, dogs, people, etc.)
/Drop_It                Dog will open jaw and project saliva-covered object
/Take It                 Used in conjunction with /Leave It if you want dog to have object
/Shake                   Dog presents right paw for handshake. Often used after /Sit
/Up                         Used to get dog to elevate up to your chest/waist.
/Off                         Used to remove dog from chest/waist.  Sometimes necessary to grab front paws and place them on floor while saying command
/Heel                      Dog will stay near left leg when walking.  If you just want her to come to you, use /Come_Here option instead
/Okay                    Releases dog from stay
/Go          Dog will go where you are pointing

Praise                    If command is successful give dog affection.
Correction            If command is unsuccessful immediately correct dog
                              by popping leash or briefly shaking scruff of neck.
                              Rerun command immediately.

 

Known Bugs:

Bug No.     100054 

Description          Dog distributes contents of trashcan onto floor     

Status   Adding fix into \Leave It for Service Pack 1

100102             

Dog drinks from toilet                                        

No fix yet. Workaround is to always flush and close toilet.

100242             

Dog pulls leash doesn't respond to \Heel             

Using special hardware to implement fix in SP1

100324             

Dog cannot catch anything bigger than popcorn   

No fix. Awaiting end of awkward phase.  

 
100004             

Dog sniffs other dogs' butts.                               

Won't fix -By Design

100023             

Dog gets caught in loop chasing tail.                  

Won't fix, By Design

100002             

Dog locks up, does not respond to commands    

No Fix. Workaround: Reboot dog by alpha'ing it.

 

If you think this is bad, you should see the one he's written for the kid!

 

Hot Dog!

 

Mr. Na and I ran our first 5k this morning in honor of our six months home together.  I'll admit, pushing 40 pounds in front of me was not as fun as running solo; but just as I was running out of steam and dreading the final hill, a woman on the sidewalk yelled, "you're so cool!" 

smile!

The little guy made a few runners chuckle as he raised his arms in the air and said "go! go! go!"  Despite my lag in time, I like my new little running buddy! 

I'm Going to Hell

Before I insult half of my readership (that's my husband and maybe two more of you), I want to apologize.  I don't mean any disrespect with what you're about to read.  That said, if you're too sensitive or you're suffering from PMS this week, read on at your own risk or skip this post entirely.
 
I have to go to the midwest next week to introduce our son to my inlaws.  I hate the midwest.  I was born on a coast and I grew up on another (better) coast and I think the midwest is just this vast waste of space sandwiched between coastlines.  And don't ask me, either, why the fuck we're going in August--of all months.  I guess I just wanted to experience hell at full furnace.

My only saving grace is that I'm meeting one of my dearest friends who moved from LA back to the midwest (poor dear) and we're going to Cedar Point for a day.  I've never been to Cedar Point but I'm crazy about amusement parks.  Love 'em.  Granted, I get to stand in line for three hours for each ride with fellow fudgies in 80% humidity; but isn't that just the part of the fun? 

So now I'm entreating you to make this entry interactive.  If you've been to Cedar Point recently, post me a comment and let me know which rides to avoid and which ones are worth the wait. 

I'll be reporting from hell regularly...and will even throw in a few audio blogs for your listening pleasure.    
 

My Boy Wants to Potty All the Time...

(Quick!  How many of you read the title and remembered Eddie Murphy's one hit wonder "Party All The Time"?  If you did, I'm sending you this CD because you, my friend, were undoubtedly a part of the Elite Eighties).
 
And now a word from our sponsor:
 
I'm not one who enjoys shamelessly plugging products (oh wait, wasn't I in advertising? ) but Daily Candy has promoted the coolest kiddie product to date:  Zeets.
 
Zeets are disposable cardboard seat covers for public bathrooms and if you have a toddler, they're the absolute shit. 
 
I can't tell you how frigging disgusting it is when I have to take my little one to a public toilet.  He's in the throes of potty training and while I'd rather just have him let it fly in his die-dee, I can't because he's literally this close to being fully potty trained.  So I cringe whenever we're out in public (which is every single day, for hours on end) and he proudly says "poo poo?" It's uncanny, too--just when I'm ready to bite into a sandwich or eat a salad, he's gotta go, which for me has become a new appetite suppressant. 
 
I think I would die if I had the ability to see all microscopic bacteria and if I did, I most certainly wouldn't use public restrooms.  As it is, my skin begins to crawl just opening a stall door, let alone, God forbid, I see someone else's waste either in the toilet or on the seat. 
 
It never fails either--from out of nowhere my kid sprouts tentacles like an octopus whenever we go to the bathroom and he touches everything in sight.  What's worse is that his tukus is so small, he'd most definitely fall in if I didn't hold his hands when I put him on the seat.  So we both are ready for full-body delousing by the time he's done.
 
So thank God someone came along and finally made life a little easier for us germaphobes.  Prior to discovering Zeets, I was seriously contemplating on keeping the kid in diapers until he turned 20.
 
Word of advice:  Zeets is only available online through two different e-tailers: Breast Feeding Express  or Potty Training Solutions.  BFE is a huge rip off because they charge $5.00 for each package you buy for shipping, which is ridiculous.  So unless you live in one of the eight measly states that carry this product, ordering through Potty Training Solutions is the way to go.  But beware--they'll be on backorder for God only knows how long. 

Procrastination or...

It's Sunday night.
Hubby's out for coffee...
Baby's asleep in bed...
The night is still young.
 
Do I:
a) work on my manuscript?
or
b) watch Bands Reunited: Frankie Goes to Hollywood?
 
See what sucks here is that I chose "b" even though this fucking episode's been on the TiVo for over a month!  And the kicker?  I'm barely even watching it.  I'm Blogging instead!
 
Yes my friends, this is the story of my life.  I have oodles of free time this evening and how do I choose to spend it? On the fucking couch, sharing popcorn with the dog...watching Frankie Goes to Hollywood.
 
Oh shit, now it's over...do I:
a) work on my manuscript?
b) watch tonight's Six Feet Under?
or my newest guilty pleasure...reruns of
c) My So-Called Life? (gasp, Juliana Hatfield was in the last episode as an angel...how fitting!)
 
Well, looks like Six Feet Under is the choice.  Sigh!  Maybe tomorrow? :-)
 
 

It's Good to Be Da King

Well, all in all, today was a good day to be a criminal.
 
Martha Stewart received a five month sentence; Robert Blake's murder trial has been postponed; and Slobodan Milosevic's war crimes trial has been delayed because poor Sloby's blood pressure's too high.
 
But on the plus side, the Bush twins have hit the campaign trail.  Check your local papers to find out when they'll be visiting a local bar near you.  If you're lucky, one of 'em might french kiss ya!
 
 

Think Before You Speak

A friend of mine sent me a link of some very funny responses to people who ask stupid questions about adoption.

I never really cared too much about the Fourth of July since the Bicentennial celebration in 1976 when I was 8. And even then I had Schoolhouse Rock to thank, along with the fact that I grew up on a street in NJ where the Baylor Massacre took place.

But this Fourth of July was slightly more special than previous years because my son became an American citizen this year and got to watch fireworks for the first time. Of course, he didn't understand any of it--and won't for a few more years--but the idea of bringing him here to this country to live fills my heart with hope that he has a much better chance of leading a happy, healthy life than if he remained in an orphange in a coal mining city in southeastern Ukraine.

Now I'm not trying to be all self-righteous or anything--branding myself a saint for saving this poor little guy from destitution. I'll firmly admit that I adopted because I wanted a child, first and foremost.

However, I do think that the greatest part about my son being an American is that he has the freedom to choose. Since he was born in Ukraine, he will have dual citizenship until he turns 18. At that time, he can either renounce his Ukrainian citizenship, or he can decide to live in Ukraine and go into the army--a choice I'll wholeheartedly respect whichever he decides.

I often wonder, though, what the world will be like in 16 years. Maybe by then, this country won't be such a great place to live and Ukraine will have become an economic dynamo worthy of inhabiting. Maybe by then, all males by their 18th birthday will have to enter into the U.S. Army as is now the case with many other countries. Maybe by then, many of the rights we enjoy as Americans will be stripped away. Of course that would mean the collapse of our Democracy--something that just can't happen...

I shudder to think.

I was at the mall today with my son--a task that can either prove to be daunting or one that can be lots of fun depending on his mood. I've always had the biggest beef about improper use of apostrophes, but as we walked by various stores, my gripe turned from mild irritation to full-on exasperation.

Has our society become so lazy that we've recklessly abandoned one of the most basic tools in English?

I'll admit I was not thrilled of my grammar class in seventh grade--the year we dissected sentences and were immersed in punctuation. After all, I had Sister Elizabeth as my English teacher. She was pushing 85 at least and she was one hairy broad. She never shaved her legs and her hairs were so black and coarse up against her pantyhose they looked like morning glory vines without the pretty flowers.

I could remember struggling with present- and past-perfect tenses and dangling participles, but never considered apostrophes a challenge. I was no brainiac either--so I could never understand why apostrophe usage is so difficult to master.

When I began volunteer work as a "community moderator" for iVillage I noticed people posting on message boards were not always mindful of their errors. At first, I let is slide; but then it began to bother me to the point where I wondered if half of these people slept their way through college (if, in fact, they really did attend college). Little things like using "advise" when they meant "advice" or the ever-present misuse of the apostrophe, in cases like "CD's" or "son's" (as it related to the plural sense).

Having worked in advertising and PR for many years, I guess it's the proofreader in me. As an account person (read: shit rolls downhill) I was always responsible if there were any typos in any published material. But it's deplorable to see typos generated by major corportations such as retailers because they're perpetuating the sort of laziness, backasswardness that drives me utterly insane.

Some of the irksome typos I've encountered:

At the gym: Sport's Bars
At JC Penney (also Shoe.com): Boy's Shoes

Hey and how apropos! Here's a sweet, little spam e-mail I received from the Reverend Morgan(revmorgan@outgun.com)
"A few year's ago I was in Liberia where I had established a little congregation where I preached regularly, but the civil war escalated and the church was converted to a hospital of sought. On one faithfull day three Liberian Soldiers,whom l later learnth were special aids to the Liberian former President (Late Samuel Doe) came to me and left one trunk box containing money with me and swore to come back for it. But you guessed it, they never did because,they were among those who were captured and killed by one of the Liberian Rebels then,Charles Taylor,who later became the president,but now in Political Asylum in Nigeria. After this incident,l was left with the box containing about $10 Million Dollars(TEN Million United States Dollars) Because of the risk of keeping the said box on my pocession due to the in-security in my temporary Church/Hospital,l decided to deposite the aid box with a security Finance Firm,which has it's branches in many parts of Europe,Asia,America and Africa. O ver years after this urgly incident,l had tried all l could to locate either the address of the slain Soldiers or any members of their immediate families,but all to no avail..."Morgan(revmorgan@outgun.com)


Gee, you think I oughta send him some money?

I also believe that with the advent of the Internet, many people have slacked off in terms of spelling and proper use of grammar. Do a Google Search of an inaccurate use of apostrophes (like boy's shoes) and you'll be surprised how many retailers come up. At least Google's team is smart enough to ask me if I meant "advice" when I type "I need advise"; but there still several entries with the incorrect word exists.

I have cousins in Germany who are my age and we used to visit them every couple of years. While in Germany, it never ceased to amaze me how perfect my cousins and their friends spoke English--in fact, their speaking my native tongue almost had a lyrical quality to it. It made English sound--pretty. Sad thing is, I know many people who use English as a second language, and have respect for our difficult grammar rules (albeit they are not nearly as difficult as other languages...at least in English one does not have to conjugate based on the subject's gender).

So where am I going with this? Can I single-handedly change the American Way of Life by writing some sort of a bill to stop Internet typographical errors? (Hey, if Tim Eyman can write pathetic bills and get them passed, why can't I?) No, sadly not. You can bet, though, that I'm going to be a hardass on my son when he hits seventh grade. By the time he does, however, I believe our entire grammar system will be torn to pieces and soon no one will know the difference between "loose" and "lose."

I've been feeling nostalgic lately. This happens whenever my life is in an upswing, though I can't figure out why--when my natural tendency is to glorify the past, which is anything but glorifiable (Yeah, I just made that up). But lately I've had this urge to get in touch with my Ex. I'm not going to--simply because I'm a believer in letting sleeping dogs lie; but I've been having dreams about him and they've left me wondering what he's been up to.

It's been five years since we last saw each other. He surprised me one day by calling my office to tell me he was in town. We had dinner the following evening and swapped stories: we were both getting married within the year; we had both come to the conclusion that we should never have gotten married to each other; we were both doing very well in our careers; and we both considered one another very dear, lifelong "friends," though we'd used that term loosely since we both decided that our friendship would never be one where we'd invite eachother's families over for a barbeque.
And that was that. The very last time I "talked" to him was in e-mail on September 11. Since he lived in D.C. and commuted to Los Angeles frequently, I was worried about him, but thankfully, all was well. Since then, I have not been back to D.C. and, as far as I know, he has not been back to Seattle.

It's strange for me to think of our lives in segments...especially when there are certain people who remain close to us in every stage. But when my dog (our dog) died last year, he was the last "link" to my former spouse and so in essence, his death sort of ended that chapter of my life. And not to be overly dramatic or anything, but I had to put my dog to sleep on February 27--which would have been our tenth wedding anniversary.

I just can't help but think about how life would have been had we stayed together. Would we have stayed together? It's highly doubtful. We grew apart--and thankfully it was pretty early in life, when we were both still in our twenties. I have no regrets of having met him, or falling in love with him, or even marrying the guy. In fact, I truly believe the crap we went through has helped make me the person I am today, which is both good and bad.

It's good because I met him at a time in my life where I could have just continued down the same, fucked-up path as the rest of my family. I was well on the way to suckville--by junior year of high school I had cut so many classes that I had a 1.8 GPA and had to retake American History in summer school. I had no plans for college--and when we broke up and I had wallowed in my self-pity long enough, I began to turn my life around. I didn't do it for me, though; in fact, I had very low self-esteem and I figured if I could get serious with school and my future, I'd have a better chance at winning his heart again. Pretty pathetic, huh? Well it worked. And we were "together" again by my senior year in high school--although we lived on separate coasts since he was in college in D.C. We got married right after I finished college and I never really took the opportunity to congratulate myself for a job well done, including the 6 out of 8 semesters on the Dean's List.

It took me a long time to realize I had achieved many things in my life to impress other people--rather than doing them for myself. And that's why it never would have worked out for us. There was no "us". There was only him and me for him. But that's the beauty of hindsight.

Anyway, thinking about all of this helps me keep the past in perspective. I won't be getting drunk anytime too soon and start dialing his home--or work.

Only 200 more days left of the Bush Administration.

He's been parking in front of my house every day now for two years. The Ford Explorer is this ugly beigy/yellow and his driver's side door is rumpled--like it was hit by a dozen shopping carts or he smacked a pole when he opened a door. I guess he doesn't care too much about it, though. Either that or the repair will cost as much as the car and it's just not worth it. Strike one.

I'll call him "Mark" since I know absolutely nothing about this guy, except that he teaches at the middle school; and yet I've been creating this whole world around him for quite some time.

Mark looks like like a pear-shaped Starsky. He's got the same mediterranean-looking features: hawkish nose, football-shaped brown eyes, and tight curly hair that he keeps short. Most of it's brown--except for this patch of yellowy/white that matches the color of his car, which looms just above his dark, furry eyebrows. He wears khakis every single day. Strike two.

He arrives in front of my house at approximately 7:09 every morning. I know this because I'm in the kitchen at that time--patiently waiting for him to get out of his car and walk to school so I can let my dog out to pee. Otherwise, if I let her out while he's still at his car, she comes up to greet him. She did once before and it garnered a rather cold response from Mark. Not a dog lover. Strike three.

Mark is always on his cell phone and I often wonder who in the world he's talking to at 7:09 a.m. Could it be he's waking up his teenage daughter so she's not late for school? Perhaps it's his mistress--someone he ought not be talking to during "regular" hours. I've been going back and forth between these two choices and today I'm going with the mistress. It just seems so much more intriguing, don't you think?

What bugs me most about Mark is that he parks in front of my house every day like it's his own reserved spot. Doesn't matter if our car is next to it or if he's over the 30 foot rule (you can't park 30 feet in front of a stop sign in Seattle). Sometimes if someone leaves either spaces in front of the house in the morning, Mark will move his car to "his spot" at lunchtime--while he's talking on his cell phone.

Mark teaches biology--no wait--it has to be junior high school stuff--ok, he teaches some sort of science. like earth science...yeah, that's it...because he had a "Think Locally, Act Globally" bumper sticker on the back of his Explorer. It's gone now. His wife must've gotten it for him as a gag gift one year for Father's Day...and in order to impress Cyndi (his mistress), he had to peel it off because...well, it's just not cool anymore.

Cyndi is 22. She's a geology major at UW. They met at the Wallingford Tully's--Mark's lunch spot, where he'd eat a packaged tuna salad sandwich on ciabatta bread from "Mostly Muffins" everyday. Cyndi was instantly drawn to Mark's little white patch of hair on his head and soon, she would hide the last tuna salad sandwich for Mark so that no one else would snap it up first. Mark didn't notice Cyndi at first--but when she pulled the hidden sandwich out of the small fridge behind the counter, he smiled and said "thanks" and put an extra quarter in the tip jar. He sat down to eat it with the Naked Juice he bought every day and watched as Cyndi helped customers. She was perpetually tan from the salon down the street and she wore a tiny stud in her nose. He baby blue shirt was short enough so he could see her brown, lean waist peeking out from umnderneath the brown standard-issue apron. After she took change from the last cutomer in line, she looked over and caught Mark staring at her. She smiled and wiping her hands on her apron, came around the counter.

"How's the sandwich?" she asked.

"Fine, thanks," Mark replied. He was a little caught off guard by the way she came over and sat down across from him.

"I'm Cyndi," she said, extending her right hand.

"Mark," he said, hoping he didn't have slivers of red onions stuck between his teeth.

They chit-chatted about the weather and when she asked what he did for a living she exclaimed, "Oh no way! I'm a geology major!"

That was how their relationship started. They've been meeting secretly at the Bridge Way Motel for a little over a month now. She brings the tuna sandwiches with her.

Today's the last day of school. Mark is wearing his khakis as usual, but something seems a little different about him. His hair is a little tousled on top; and instead of wearing a button-down shirt, he's wearing a black and blue-striped henley. I can see a black necklace hugging his collar. He's walking with a spring in his step and I was even tempted to let the dog out this morning to see if he'd pet her.

Who knows--maybe Mark will trade in the Explorer for something sportier. Cyndi wants him to get an Acura TSX, but Mark thinks that's a little too young for him. He'd love to get a Solara convertible, but could never afford one on his teacher's salary. Maybe a Bug.

Notes to self...an interior dialogue while running...

Warm-up: 10 min/mile, first minute
Oh God this is killing me...I haven't run in a few weeks. Ugh. Oh, I'm such a slow poke.

Just keep going. Look outside the window at the canal below. Keep breathing...

(Listening to Dee-lite's "Power of Love" on MP3 player)
Hey, this is a great song. Always reminds me of my last spring break in school when I went to Havasu with Janey. God I hated Janey. What a bitch. I only liked her because she had access to a condo in Havasu.

You're so incredibly two-faced!

I am not. She was such a bitch...and I only fully realized it in Havasu.

I wonder what she's up to now?

Last I heard she was some sort of manager at Sunset Studios...

Why is it the first mile is always the hardest?

Cos you haven't run in over a week, lazy-ass!

Don't call me lazy-ass! I have a toddler to chase down every day.

Yeah and you could be using the baby jogger, too, ya know.

I didn't come here to have a guilt-ridden conversation with myself, I came here to have a good run.

It's nice outside. Why didn't you run outside instead?

I dunno. Creature of habit I guess.

Oh come on and admit it. You're hoping to run into Dave Matthews again.

Yeah but that's not why I'm running on the treadmill.

Uh-huh. Last time he got on the treadmill next to you you ran a perfect 8 minute mile. So what do you call that?

Motivation. Besides, it's a moot point. He's probably gone off on tour by now. I haven't seen him here in awhile.

There goes your motivation

Nu-uh...
(increases speed to 9:13/mile)
There. That feels great.

You still run like a slow poke

Snuffing the Rooster

About seven years ago, Boston Market closed its doors in our neighborhood and much to our extreme disappointment, the empty building sits on the Ave, slathered in graffiti, with its ever-recognizable brown/white/red Boston Market awning still affixed.

Months after the closure, Payday Loans took the space next door and then a brand-new little shack was built on the northeast corner of the parking lot which soon became "Rooster Espresso".

My husband was furious at the sight of the Rooster...of course, though, not mad enough to take any kind of stand at the Chamber of Commerce when the Rooster's zoning permit was up for approval; but angry at the gaudiness of it all...an espresso stand? It was just what our already caffeine-addicted community needed, what with Starbucks, Seattles Best Coffee and Tully's all only within a two minute walk of the Rooster.

I sided with him at first, given that the name "Rooster" immediately conjured up David Sedaris' redneck kid brother and never thought once about stopping at the Rooster for a quick cupa. I firmly admit I'm a chain freak--always have been. So I was always quite comfortable with my Starbucks fix anyway.

We are both coffee addicts, though we hate to say so. The smell alone has a pheromone-like attraction and it's one of the first things I reach for in the morning.

When we were both self-employed, our daily routine was to walk down to one of our local coffee places (non-chain...and quite possibly the best in our town) for our morning fix. A year later, we discovered that both of us working from home was deadly: first off, we BOTH paid 30% self-employment tax and secondly, over a year's time, our morning fix cost us a whopping $1,500...not to mention our morning fix was giving us midday angst and soon we would have wound up homeless, jobless AND spouseless if we didn't do anything about it.

So we invested in an espresso machine at home...and now, the morning routine is to lie in bed and listen for the other person to finish pulling a shot in the kitchen. We can't wait until our son is old enough for barista training.

Being a mom to a toddler, I've tried almost everything except pure uppers to keep up with my son's energy levels; but by midday, I'm wiped out...feeling like I've done battle with twelve angry elves. Oftentimes, when I know I won't make it through the morning without a second latte, I stop somewhere en-route to the playground or community center so I can get another refueling. It isn't easy, though, to walk into a coffee place with a toddler in tow. Everything sweet-related is strategically-placed at tot-level and so the battle for "GIMMIE" begins the moment we set foot in the store. So naturally when another mom recommended coffee drive-thrus to me, I was all for it.

I racked my brain this morning as I pulled out of my driveway, wondering where the nearest drive thru espresso stand would be...and then it dawned on me...The Rooster!

And you know? It wasn't half bad. I mean sure, paying three bucks for a latte still stings--especially when I could easily pull another double shot at home. But there's something about holding a papercup with a plastic lid that's as comforting as the oral fixation that goes along with smoking, in addition to the social aspect of going and "getting coffee"--even if it's handed to you while you're still in your car.

We often wondered why the Rooster continued to stay in business after so many years and now I know why...it may not be the best coffee in town; nor maybe not the first choice among pedestrians. But to exhausted women who drive multi-passenger vehicles with small children among the multi-passengers, long live the Rooster.

One of the hardest things a writer faces is rejection.

One would think that after fifteen years of getting up in front of clients to present the "next best ad campaign" only to have it shot down because the client hated the color yellow on the storyboard (totally irrelevant), or he thinks you want to shoot on location in Bora Bora for vacation I'd have built up some sort of scar tissue or something that prevents me from taking rejection so personally.

I'm afraid that's not the case. Sure I can go back to the drawingboard and rewrite a piece based on the editor's feedback...Sure I can take pride in the fact that the piece in question was actually accepted elsewhere...

But it still sucks.

I know I'm not alone in the writing world where once a piece gets rejected, the writer tends to examine his or her strengths and weaknesses. As the thoughts swirl in my head (should I just hang it up? Should I continue to keep plowing away, comforted by the fact that everyone gets material rejected?) I'll just sit here, drink my lavender tea and kvetch about it until I've mustered enough courage to jump in with both feet and resume playing the game.

Writing a novel is so much easier than writing nonfiction pieces or short stories. It's like being in a womb for nine months because it's warm and comfortable and it's just "you"...no one else around to bother you or tell you what to do or tell you what you should be doing different; and the best part? So long as you haven't promised the book to anyone or are under contract, you can take as long as you like to finish the book...whereas, once you finish the shorter piece, you feel compelled to send it out for submission; or maybe you've written the piece under a prearranged agreement. In that case, feedback is inevitable...and it's either good or it's bad.

But I suppose if I never sent out my pieces for submission, I'd never know my potential or my limitations. So I think I'd rather run the risk of getting rejected than to live my life never trying.

"There is no failure except in no longer trying."

~Elbert Hubbard~

A few weeks ago, I saw The Mayor of the Sunset Strip -- a movie about longtime LA radio personality Rodney Bingenheimer. The film was produced by Chris Carter, formerly of Dramarama--one of the many bands who garnered tremendous exposure nationally with the help of Rodney.

The documentary transported me back in time, not only because Rodney was such a large part of the LA-culture during my teens, but also because he and I share a similar silly fondness over celebrities, though he's lapped me thousands of times over in terms of who he's met. And though I'd known about his star-connections, his "English-Disco" and his bit part as Davy Jones' double in the Monkees' "Prince and the Pauper" episode, I learned quite a bit more about him from the film.

When Rodney was a teen, he began his life in Hollywood when his mom drove him from northern California to Connie Stevens' house. Being a celebrity-buff herself, she told him to knock on the door to get an autograph, and then she took off, leaving him on Connie Stevens' doorstep with nothing but a suitcase. So he walked to the Sunset Strip and hasn't left since.

Rodney is neither handsome nor particularly talented; but when he was younger, he had a cute puppy dog-like quality that made him a chick magnet. Pretty soon, women like Pamela Des Barres and Cher were looking after him like a little brother. And because he always had a flock of beautiful young women tending to him, he was always accepted by rock 'n rollers.

I met Rodney for the first time in 1987 at an aftershow party for Duran Duran at the Lhasa Club. He was about a half foot shorter than me and his handshake was very timid; yet I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Susannah Hoffs fawning over him; or Nick Rhodes paying homage. It just seemed so strange to see such a little guy have such an enormous presence.

Yet that's how it was whenever I saw him. We traveled in similar circles for a brief time in history since I interned at Capitol Records and became friends with some of the KROQ jocks, including my former boyfriend, (Dr.) Drew. At the last "Loveline" show in the old studio in Pasadena, Rodney milled around with his "good friend" (everyone is Rodney's "good friend") Eve Plumb and I could see why the two hit it off so well...they were clearly recognizable but not someone you were really clamoring to meet.

Part of me is a little envious...because in a way this little guy represents the little star-struck girl in me, only he gets to hang out with all of the pretty people I'd wanna hang out with too! But the movie also made me feel incredibly sad because they'd show rooms full of celebrities who just kinda smiled and patted Rodney on the head like he was the tolken pet of the party. And at the end of the day, no matter how many people he knew, he was still incredibly lonely; and that is why dubbing Rodney Mayor of the Sunset Strip is apropos.

Every year around my birthday, my body reminds me of my mortality. Some years it's a few more gray hairs or a few more lines around my eyes and mouth; but this year, I received the mother of all aging symptoms: a late period.

You have to understand, this never happened to me before in my life...well, once, when I was pregnant; but any other time, my menstrual cycles have been 28 days--almost to the hour. Synthetic hormones couldn't even suppress ol' Aunt Flo regardless how much progesterone I shot through my veins every month. Sure I felt like a Foster Farms chicken but by god I never missed a period.

I have reason to believe I threw myself into early peri-menopause because I forced my body to ovulate through the use of synthetic hormones...and not to produce just one egg a month either, mind you...I really WAS a Foster Farms chicken producing nearly 20 mature eggs with each fertility treatment I suffered through. We women are born with as many eggs as we will produce in our lifetime. I'm sure my reserve is nearly tapped dry by now.

Last year, I began to suffer through a series of premenopausal symptoms: the hot flashes; the heavier periods; the heightened PMS; the sleepless nights; you name it. Clinically, this is what happens to most women who hit their mid-30s and it could last anywhere from 6-15 years until full-blown menopause sinks in.

So my doctor suggested I go back on the pill to regulate my cycles and ease these symptoms, though what she neglected to recall was the initial reason I went off the pill five years ago. I had the most intense migraines which basically put me at risk of stroke--and given my family's wonderful medical history (read: sister dead at 40 of a heart attack), I decided to seek a second opinion from a naturopath.

Of course the minute I told the naturopath my peri-menopause diagnoses, she replied, "That's bullshit, you're too young to be going through that." She prescribed me four types of vitamins along with a tablespoon of ground flax seed every morning to get rid of the symptoms.

The results? I no longer have hot flashes, thank God, and I can sleep through the night. My periods are still pretty heavy, though...which totally grosses me out beyond belief and they also hurt like hell (which has always been the case), so I'm hoping that too will diminish over time.

During those first few days of my cycle, I often wonder why I put myself through this ordeal. Why not use another form of birth control to regulate my cycles? Why not opt for a hysterectomy? It's simple, really. To me, these are not options. My husband and I have a 1% chance of getting pregnant over the course of my reproductive years. Why ruin that chance? Given that we just adopted our first child in January, we're not actively trying to have a child---but when a couple is as infertile as we are, you're always actively trying to have a child. It's kinda like being addicted to the lottery and buying a ticket once a week for the rest of your life. You may never win the lottery, but your chances are still good so long as you keep playing.

So you can imagine my bewilderment when, after day 30 hit, my "monthly bill" never came. I spent most of that day wondering if I should run out and buy an EPT or call my naturopath and ask her what in the hell was wrong. It was the same type of rollercoaster ride I put myself on four years ago and jumped off of, vowing never to return after spending close to $30,000, putting on 40 pounds and having a miscarriage. Lucky for me, though, this ride was a short one...and as the evening wore on, the cramping started and I was back to day one.

Incidentally, that same week I had just a shred of hope...and an equal shred of disappointment, I learned of two dear friends who got pregnant. Two years ago, the news would have crushed me. Now I'm hoping to host their showers.
I'll be ok if I never give birth to a child and I realize this every time I look at my son (I know my husband and I can't do any better than that!!) But kidding aside, I resolved my infertility issues two years ago when I actively called it quits. We could have kept trying...and probably could have succeeded finally (my gosh look at Courtney Cox, who I believe has done something like 6-7 IVF cycles) or...since the problem doesn't lie with me but with my life partner, I could have decided that carrying a child for nine months was much more important than staying married to him.

In the meantime, I'm doing everything I can to defy the aging process...or at least try and reverse some of the damage I've done.

My laptop fell victim to spyware. Not just any ordinary spyware either -- this was ADWARE, which I find doubly insulting given my former (or dormant) occupation.

I have no idea how it found its way onto my laptop--but it morphed itself as my home page and took over my browser. I couldn't stop it either and by the end of the week last week, I had no choice but to wipe my laptop and start over again.

It could have been worse but I did manage to lose a few things---items that I overlooked and didn't move onto our network server before doing a system wipedown. Sadly I lost pictures of Peter's first easter egg hunt; but thank god my writing files remain intact.

Having your laptop hit with spyware is a little like date rape. You willingly go with a trusted source and then you get screwed against your will. I have no idea what site I visited that offered spyware to do a drive-by attack, but I can only guess it was something attached to an RSS Reader program (the last thing I downloaded).

To further the date rape analogy, I feel somewhat violated. I mean I have no idea what this fucking program "saw" on my hard drive. Does it have my passwords? Can it see our mortgage account online? I guess only time will tell but I'm not ready to put myself into a witness protection program and stop using online billing as a way of life. It IS my way of life, which is pathetic but true. I've done everything online except meet a mate; and if I hadn't met my husband the "old fashioned" way, I probably would have found one the way everyone else does these days.

So folks BEWARE of SPYWARE. I can't put it much plainer than that. Like a parasite it will find its way in your system and make your laptop very sick. First my browser died; then Outlook; then Power Point (POWER POINT?) Things went so far south, my systems admin took my administrative priviledges away from me. Not to worry though! I still have my PC to download porn! ;-)

So I've been trying to figure out why I haven't been able to touch my manuscript when suddenly this dawned on me:

How can I write about something so sad, painful and horrifying when I am filled with low-awaited joy and contentment?

Several years ago, I read an essay written by an artist who specialized in capturing very dark moments in life through photography. She was bipolar and she believed that once she went on medication to control her illness, she was unable to continue with her work. She became frustrated and ultimately stopped taking the medication so she could feel her emotions once again and resume her photography.

While I'm not anywhere near the point of abandoning my beloved manuscript, I do believe that a lot of the pain I had experienced over the last four years helped me to write about something so horrifying as the Holocaust. I'm not a self-proclaimed "tortured artist" by any means; but studying the Holocaust all of these years has opened my eyes and heart to human suffering and any of the struggles I went through personally has helped me write from a suffering person's point-of-view with more feeling than I might have had without having had these experiences. Though the suffering is incomparable, I believe we all have pain thresholds and that the way in which we cope with bad experiences throughout life directly correlates to how much pain we feel as individuals.

For once in my life I feel so fulfilled and it's very hard to want to go back to something as haunting as a little boy eating maggots in a ghetto to survive.

I'm so close to finishing this draft. Maybe there is a part of me, too, that isn't ready to complete it. Maybe for now I'll just enjoy the sunshine. I just pray it doesn't take another string of bad experiences to get me to finish the book!