In the April issue of Jane magazine, there's an article on the rising popularity of female mutilation here in the United States.

My first reaction, having nearly fallen off the elliptical trainer, was what the fuck???

But it's true, you see---there are willing participants here in this great nation of ours who are willing to cut off their labias minora and majora and clitoris. One woman was quoted as saying that her decision was based on her desire to please her partner without her own lusty inhibitions getting in the way.

My second reaction to this, as I righted myself again on the elliptical trainer was what the fuck???

I'm fondly attached to my own genitalia so I'm not sure exactly why this new fad is sweeping the nation. Is it that we're just so fucking bored with ourselves that we have to resort to mutilation as a new form of stimulation? I'll stick to my old fashioned ways, thank you.

The Monsters are Coming! The Monsters are Coming!

I've enjoyed reading Stephen King's column in Entertainment Weekly. Not that I'm a huge fan or anything but the last two columns I've read were thought-provoking; one of those "jump off the elliptical trainer and think 'gee, I ought to write something in my blog in response" kinda thing. So here I am.

In the first column King lashes out at the ratings system and Jack Valenti--and how he basically brings every movie maker to his/her knees. Jack had put the whole thing into place after being shocked by the word "screw" and the phrase "Hump the Hostess" in the 1966 release "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" And while I don't remember the "M" ratings first issued for films recommended for "Mature Audiences" (all audiences allowed but there is mature content), I do remember the "GP" rating which eventually changed to "PG".

I'm not going to take sides here over the whole ratings system--my intent here is to lament over the absence of honest to goodness scary movies. How did I get here from there? Simple. King used the modern-day "Dawn of the Dead" as an example of a misrated "R" movie.

I have not yet seen the new Dawn of the Dead and chances are, I probably won't until it's on HBO in the next 6-9 months. And even then, I'll have to watch it alone because Chris absolutely hates scary movies. But I'm not chomping at the bit to see it anyway since I think it'll be a lame re-make. I was eleven years-old when my mom took me to see the first one and it was the first time I saw someone (or something) dive his hands into a living person's stomach, ripping apart his flesh like a pan of lasagne and serving up his entrails to the rest of the zombie clan. Watching that, I thought I had reached the scary saturation point in that there was nothing left in the world that could scare the shit out of me. Turns out I was wrong because there was still the Halloween and Friday the 13th movies and the first "Nightmare on Elmstreet" film; but pretty much after that, nothing else scared me anymore and I am convinced that after all of those films, no one could really make a scary movie anymore.

Sure, ok, I thought "The Ring" was kinda scary; but when I was younger, it seemed like a new scary movie was released once a week. And not just gratuitously-violent, gore-filled movies like "Dawn" either; I mean movies that made me cover my eyes with my hands, only to peek through the fingers. The movies that make you sleep with the light on for a week afterwards. Take "The Exorcist" for example. Now that's a pretty frickin scary movie. I had the opportunity to see that film on the big screen again a few years ago when they released the Director's Cut and I'll tell ya, I was just as scared then as I was the first time I saw it; and the new footage where Linda Blair does the spider crawl down the stairs made me even MORE afraid. Or how about the Omen movies? What's so damn scary about these types of horror films is that they're playing with our primal fears of the unknown. Is there a devil named Satan? What does he look like?

When I was younger, scary stuff was even on TV all the time. By the time I was old enough to remember things, "Rosemary's Baby" aired on ABC and "Night of the Living Dead" appeared once a year during prime time; but beyond just movies, there were also shows based on the supernatural. How about the "Night Stalker" or "Night Gallery"? Even the first Rankin and Bass TV special (the folks who brought us Santa Claus is Comin to Town and Year Without a Santa Claus) was a full-length feature called "Mad, Mad Monster Party." The storyline begins with an evil scientist (the voice of the late, great Boris Karloff) who decides to go into retirement and throw one last bash to name an heir; he invites the Mummy, the Werewolf, Thing (a sea creature), Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde; Frankenstein and his mate (the voice of Phyllis Diller) and one normal family-member--his nephew Felix Flanken--who is a bumbling idiot, allergic to everything. Now granted--this wasn't a "scary" movie--but the theme was MONSTERS.

MONSTERS were everywhere including (I was convinced) my backyard where, only a few hundred yards away, there was an old cemetery of the town's founding families dating back to the 1700s. Any time we had a thunderstorm, I heard voices in my head: "they're coming for you Margaret..."

It didn't help either that my brother and sister used my monsteria against me, either. Being the youngest of two huge partiers, I was subjected to heavy threats of "if you tell mom and dad we'll have the boogey man come to get you." Once my brother even fooled me to thinking that my sister had been taken by witches in the woods. He took me outside in the black of night and carried me on his shoulders deep into the woods where I watched shadows play among the trees. It's no wonder I was truly scared and mesmerized by the Blair Witch Project. Call it what you will--but I thought that was a great movie and certainly not for the production value, but for the fact that it conjured up an old childhood fear that had been locked away for many years.

So why, after all those years of horror movies, did the monsters go away? Maybe it was because instead of being afraid of the supernatural, we needed to be afraid of our living enemies. Let's face it---just when the Halloween/Friday the 13th movies died down (pardon the pun) a rash of nuclear war/end of the world movies hit both big and small screen like "The Morning After" and "War Games" and stupid patriotic movies like Rocky 4 (not that all movies in the mid-80s were bad...thank you John Hughes). Then, once the cold war was over, we retreated like good civillians and scary movies became a dying breed--only to have the occasional "gotcha" like "The Blair Witch Project" and so on.

I don't think there will ever be another resurgence of scary movies and I think it's a shame. There are some great ones that are just begging for airtime on cable. I miss TNT's "Monstervision" or their old "100% Weird" series that showed some great cult classics much like the ancient "Chiller Theatre" or "Creature Feature" did back in the 70s (we must never forget "Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things" or "Let's Scare Jessica to Death").

Oh well...maybe for now my monsteria should be focused on the real terror: our current administration.

This entry was written in honor of my witch-sister Teresa who would have turned 41 today.

I've been to see quite a few concerts in my lifetime. I've seen everyone from The Smiths to OMD to Van Halen (twice), Journey--heck, even Bruce Springsteen...

But now I'm taking my son to see the Wiggles in concert in April.

For those of you who don't know who the Wiggles are---be grateful. The Wiggles are a band of four GROWN men from Australia who prance around and sing songs like "Fruit Salad (yummy yummy)" and "Crunchy, Munchy Honeycakes". And the scary---I mean REALLY scary part to all of this? The songs are so catchy, I find myself humming them throughout the day.

It all started when my friend Krissy sent me a Wiggles CD: "Top of the Tots." Her twin daughters are a few weeks younger than Peter and she told me they LOVED the Wiggles. So, I put it on---and it was as if the boy had heard them before. He stood up and immediately began to wiggle to "Dorothy the Dinosaur" and the other 47 songs on the CD. I think if I had the ability to play the CD backwards, it would have provided instruction for Peter to wiggle or something because he got the hang of it so quickly.

Before long, Peter was patting his tummy to "Fruit Salad (Yummy, Yummy) and playing along to "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes". Now we watch the Wiggles every day on the Disney Channel--which is sorta like The Monkees meets the New Zoo Revue: where they pretend to play musical instruments and cut in some live footage of their concerts and their songs' characters like Dorothy the Dinosaur and Captain Feathersword grace the screen.

Each Wiggle wears a different primary color shirt with a Wiggles logo on the front right. Their costumes aren't very different from a regulation Star Trek uniform in that they also wear black pants and black boots.

The four Wiggles are: Greg, Jeff, Murray and Anthony--with each having their own wacky personality. There's Greg--the lead singer who loves doing magic tricks. He wears a yellow shirt; Anthony loves to eat and has his own little "art workshop". His shirt is blue; There's Murray who plays guitar and wears the red shirt; and finally, there's Jeff--the token Asian who wears a purple shirt and likes to take naps.

At first, the sceptic in me said that they were a bunch of pretty boy, phoney musicians (like the Monkees); but when I went to their official website: http://www.thewiggles.com/
I learned I was quite wrong. Turns out these guys weren't some pre-fabbed boy band put together by some middle age A&R freak after all. In fact, they quickly earned my respect when I realized that they became the Wiggles TWELVE years ago BY CHOICE after going through Child Development courses in college. And what's more, they actually play their own instruments and write their own songs.

I was even more intrigued when I found out that they had sold out 12 shows at Madison Square Garden. Shit, I don't even think the Stones ever did that!


Funny thing is, since they're relatively good looking, Chris and I were laughing about the Wiggles probably having some groupies (aka single moms who go to the show in the hope of getting some Romp Bam Ba Stomp of their own). It'll be fun to see what sort of crowd (and I don't mean toddlers) this group draws.

Anyway, so yeah---the concert's in two weeks. I'm a mom--what can I say?

This is how constructive my writing time has been:


Great, so I'm going to edit my "Jazz Dog" piece to send out today.

Hmm, this coffee's not so great today. What'd I do wrong?

Ok, so this should be easy. I'll just go through and edit this and...

Y'know, I haven't had breakfast yet. Should I have oatmeal or will Chris make eggs?

Uh-oh, I can hear Peter awake in his crib. Should I go get him or wait for Chris to get out of the shower?

It's "his" day to take care of him--and he's 16 minutes late. So now what? Can't I catch a frigging break? It's not my fault he shut off his alarm clock.

Great, now I feel guilty that I'm in the next room and I'm not going in and playing with him.

He'll probably wind up resenting me later in life for ignoring him. He'll tell me I was no better than the people in the orphanage who left him in his crib to stew in his own full diaper.

...so much for writing this morning!

Well, Chris just came up to me and asked if I wanted to go to Blue Star for breakfast. That settles that!

In Memory of Aspen--The Jazz Dog

Miles Davis with Aspen, the Jazz Dog


Today's the one year anniversary of Aspen's death. I'm sad of course--but I look back at the 14 wonderful years I had with that dog and I can think of nothing but great memories.

I found Aspen when I was 20--youthful and stupid. My boyfriend of five years (five off and on years) and I moved in together in June of that year to a one bedroom duplex in Glendale. We went Christmas shopping that December at the all-new Century City Shopping Center and found ourselves at the pet store "Chien et Chat"--not looking for anything at all, really. Just browsing.

Aspen was out of his kennel, hobbling around the floor like a little toddler. He was only two months old. I had never seen such a beautiful little dog: all white with pink, perky ears, big brown eyes and a black nose. Another woman was fawning over him and I immediately chimed in with the "awwwww"'s.

My boyfriend and I looked at eachother and instantly honed in on what the other was thinking. We wanted to take him home...but the price tag on his kennel read "$325.00" and we were living in an apartment that didn't allow pets. We hung our heads and left the store.

"You know, it would be nice to get a dog," I said. "And he's so adorable! Let's do it. Let's get him for Christmas!"

He steered me to the nearest bench, outside of Crate and Barrel.

"What about the apartment?"

"Screw it. We can hide him. No one needs to know."

Moments later, we found ourselves walking back in, going up to the register, pointing to the American Eskimo, and each plunking down a credit card. Despite our unity, we were still fiercely independent of one another--a surefire sign our future marriage, four years later, would self-destruct.

I wanted to name him "Aspen" for his snow-white, downy-soft fur but my boyfriend had other ideas. Given that he was into goth, looked like Robert Smith and enjoyed listening to Skinny Puppy, we agreed on naming him "Lord Aspen Henry." But it was only a matter of days before "Aspen" became simply "Aspen".

Of course we were kicked out of that apartment four months later. Aspen found his bark and never stopped after that. But the move was good for us and we went to Brentwood where we would stay for four years.

Aspen was the center of our universe. Our "son". Sure he'd shred everything in sight, including toilet paper, snotty tissues and my panties, but we blamed ourselves. We never really trained him.

We knew it was love when he jumped on our butcher block kitchen table and scratched the shit out of it because we had left the house. I still have the table and today, those marks mean even more to me than the table itself.

We knew it was hatred when he took the Soft Cell "Singles" CD off the bookshelf and proceeded to "sled" with it on the hardwood floor. He always had a knack for telling us what he liked and disliked. Soft Cell was a definite dislike.

But despite how much stuff Aspen destroyed, he was fiercely loyal. I loved his personality, even though he often enjoyed humping my friends' legs and would stand up on his hind paws to do "the wave" for a cookie constantly. Regardless of how untrained he was, he was still my "puppy dog." He loved me...even if it was because he liked to lick the scented lotion off my legs.

One college graduation, one wedding, two moves and six years later, we found ourselves on Route 40 heading east, and moving to Washington DC where husband would finish his graduate program in Public Administration. Aspen took well to the long drive and I always bragged about how this little doggie whizzed in a total of 21 states in his lifetime.

We loved Aspen equally and when I lowered the boom in June of 1995 and called it quits, after two and a half years of marriage, 12 years together as a couple and seven years of sharing our dog, my husband gave me the greatest gift of all: permission to have Aspen all to myself. I know it hurt him very much to let him go (in hindsight I know it hurt him to give Aspen up more than me). And Aspen and I became a duo--where we remained in DC until December 1996 when we found ourselves once again on the road--this time heading west on Interstate 90.

I think Aspen enjoyed living in Seattle and loved my exclusive attention; and when he first met his future "Dad" it seemed like an ABC Afterschool Special (you're not my dad!) at first. But the new dad set him straight, and even though Aspen was already 9 when we met, he was learning new things thanks to the new dad's patience and understanding.

It was tough, at first, moving into a house with a new puppy. But Oatmeal had nothing but love to give. The only time they got into a huge fight was when Oatie took Aspen's beloved bone away. Dad intervened. Fur flew. Aspen lost the battle. I would say that was the day Aspen realized he wasn't the Alpha any longer.

He took his retirement well and grew to respect his dad and the pack order in the house. And Aspen lived out his years happily--with a little sister to keep him company, and the opportunity to go to the Cannon Beach once a year where he could fight the waves of the Pacific Ocean. He loved when dad played Miles Davis on the stereo and that was one thing they both had in common: love for jazz. In fact, Aspen became inspiration for the "Jazz Dog" -- a website for jazz enthusiasts. We swore that Aspen licked his paws to the spang-a-lang beats until he became deaf in 2002. Then, we had hoped he heard nothing but jazz in his head.
(see: http://www.geocities.com/jivewirefwd/)

On our first wedding anniversary, September 11, 2000, we learned that Aspen had kidney failure. I remember spending almost the entire car ride down to Cannon Beach--all five hours--bawling. I knew the end was near.

The end, however, wasn't as close as we feared. With the help of a competent, loving veterinarian, Aspen stuck around for two and a half more years with a comfortable, happy quality of life.

February 27. I began to loathe that date after my first husband and I broke up. It was our wedding anniversary. And February 27, 2003 would have been our tenth.

I came back from my workout at the gym when I saw my husband standing in the kitchen, very pale and sad.

"What is it?" I asked, frightened.

"It's Aspen. He's not moving off of his bed."

We had seen this coming. Over the last few days, Aspen refused to eat. I literally tried spoon feeding him, but to no avail. He stopped drinking water, too...and as I walked over to his bed in the hallway, I could see that his soul was already leaving him.

Kidney failure is an ugly disease. When the kidneys stop functioning properly, the waste produced in the body remains in the blood stream. Aspen's body was poisoned. His brain was fried. I could see it in his eyes. He lost the will to live.

I sat on the floor and began to cry, rocking him in my lap. My husband and I had been trying to have a baby together for the last three years and now I was losing mine.

The vet told us we could do a doggie dialysis; but chances were, it wouldn't work. If anything, it would only slow down the inevitable. I hugged Aspen with all my might, not wanting to let go, but realizing it was the decent thing to do. I buried my face in his fur for as long as I could. I kept thinking about how I needed to remember that feeling--his softness--and how comforted I was by it.

I carried him to the Durango and held him. We stopped at the little park a block away from the house...taking him out of the car for one last "hurrah". But all he did was stare off into the grass.

Tears spilled from my eyes as we checked in with the receptionist at the vet. She led us to a room with a pillow on the floor, wrapped in a towel. I laid him down and couldn't stop crying.

"Do you want to stay with him after Dr. Spencer gives him the shot?"

"No," I said. "I can't."

"Would you like his body or would you like him cremated."

"Cremated," I said, wishing this woman would go away.

"Would you like his ashes?" she asked.

I looked up at her an instantly shook my head. As she left, I continued to rock on the floor, holding Aspen and bargaining with God. If he could let Aspen live forever, I'd never ask again for a child.

I got up and left Aspen on the floor, who rose to his paws and walked around dazed. I knew it was time to leave.

Aspen sensed it, too. He looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes and said "goodbye" to me in his own quiet way. It was so hard to leave and for a moment, he almost looked like he was better. Like he was going to do "the wave" for a cookie.

I closed the door and ran out of the Vet's office. This was the first death I had experienced of someone close to me since I was 18. Then, it was my Grandmother. Now, it was my best friend.

At that moment I believed I would never get over losing Aspen. But it's a year now and so much has changed. Sure, I have moments of tears and I so often wish I could just bury my face in his fur; but I have a son now--a real son--and my life continues. I firmly believe, too, that if I didn't have Oatie in my life, my grieving would have been a lot harder. They say dogs are wonderful stress reducers. It's true.

Prior to our meeting, Aspen's name was "Winston." In his honor, that's what we'll name the next dog.

Back in November, Aspen "sent" me an e-mail from "heaven." This is what the jazz dog wrote:

Dear Mom,

Sorry it took me so long to write you. I was on tour
with Miles Davis and Milt Jackson (see attached photo)
and neither of those guys have an internet connection,
so I'm behind on my mail. (Miles says "Peopoh wanna
mail me they can licka goddamn stamp!") Plus I type
slow. (While my breath and kidneys are much better
now, I still don't have thumbs.) I am able to purse
my lips now though, so sometimes when Art Farmer
passes out, I play his flugelhorn.

How are you? How is your book coming? I miss you. I
tried to find your lotion at the store but they only
carry this crap called "Heaven Scent" which smells
like marshmallows and tastes like paint...

How is everyone else? Did Oatmeal ever get to be on a
game show? I know that was her big dream.

Is that annoying squirrel-friend of Oatie's still
crashing on the couch? (that reminds me, Please tell
Baby, sorry about the ear...)

So I was shredding God's trash the other day, and came
across a build slot requisition for a "Putinov".
Would you know anything about that?

BTW: Tell Dad Hi, I miss him too. Oh and that it turns
out that Chet Baker isn't misunderstood, he's just an
asshole.

Bye for now, Take care Mom. Everything will be just
fine.

I love you,
-PD.

10 fashion moments only a 40-year-old can get right:
From Anna Johnson is the author of Three Black Skirts: All You Need to Survive

1. Wearing Yves Saint Laurent's Opium to breakfast

2. Stealing her husband's shirts, ties or even his pants if she needs to

3. Teaming a Chanel jacket with jeans

4. Tying a Hermés scarf around the handle of her handbag

5. A real-deal, full-length ballgown

6. Diamonds at brunch and a seriously fake cocktail ring

7. Camellias on a lapel

8. A dress shirt and a black-leather pencil skirt

9. A classic Chanel handbag

10. Red lipstick with red high heels

My favorite quote in the article: "'Mom' clothes are supposed to be sporty and spill-proof but who said you can’t cook a casserole with a pinch of cleavage?"

I laugh as I type this wearing a very small "Drive-In Theatre" t-shirt sans bra. And the funny thing is, I used to laugh at this picture I have of my mother with my sister and me. I am about 3 or 4; Teresa is about 8 or 9 and Mom is about 34 and she's wearing a pair of purple velvet hotpants with white Go Go boots and a body suit with a plunging neckline that would make Christina Aguilera blush. And the picture was only taken in our livingroom! Fact is, Mom knew what she was doing...she was preserving her youth. And she looked a hell of a lot better at 34 then she did at 20--when she first came to the U.S. and she wore full skirts with crinolins and flats. I used to spend endless afternoons with her shopping at the Wild Pair for the perfect purple macrame sandals with cork stilleto heels. And for even more drama, Mom WORE those heels while we climbed the cobblestoned streets of Heidleburg in 1981.

As I stare down the inevitible path of middle youth, I realize I am not very different from my mom. Sure, things have changed and you won't see me wearing cork stilletos, but I do appreciate looking good which promotes feeling good.

And I won't stop wearing my Paul Frank collection. Julius Rocks.

Hillary sent me a link today for an upcoming 5k and I wanted to post it here in case anyone else was thinking of joining us this Sunday:

Check out this 5K- at Greenlake on Sunday Feb. 22nd. Cheap ($15-$20)
and worth a good cause!! Don't let hte BUSH administration take away our
rights! register at www.wanaral.org !

RUN FOR YOUR RIGHTS!
Pro-Choice 5K Walk/Run
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Green Lake Foot Path
Meet Up Location: The Bath House Theater
10:00 am - Sign in and Late Registration
- Turn in Pledges
- Check in with Registration volunteers
- T-Shirt Pick-Up
- Pre Walk/Run Rally

11:00 am - Walk/Run Begins
Why Participate

On April 25, millions of pro-choice Americans will take part in one of
the most significant demonstrations in history. We will speak out with one
voice to show that we will save freedom of choice the same way it was won:
one person, one city and one state at a time.

Here in Washington State, NARAL Pro-Choice Washington , Planned
Parenthood of Western Washington and many other pro-choice organizations are
working together to make the Washington state delegation to the March a
success. Weare working to inspire activists, motivate members and raise money for
travel stipends. Your participation in "Run for Your Rights" helps us
accomplish these goals!

Of course I haven't participated in a running race since...well...read my August 29 entry and you'll get the ugly story about that race!!! But hey...even if I run like a tortoise, I'll still be defending Pro-Choice.

I can remember back in eighth grade (Catholic School) when we were ushered in to the gym for some sort of assembly in the middle of the day. It was the entire seventh and eighth grade class and what it boiled down to was our dear, sweet Principal, Sister Alice (the biggest, hairiest beast in the world...I hope she's rotting in hell right now) made us promise to God (and her) that we would never consider abortion. We were lectured about how horrible abortion was and that it should never be considered a choice. It's no wonder why I've wanted to convert to Judaism ever since. This was the same wench who---in that same year---dragged me out of the Girls' bathroom by my Peter Pan collar the split second after I realized I had just started menstruating. She did it because during yet another student body assembly (this time all grades), she warned us not to go back to the restrooms or wander out of the gym during the "Interactive" portion of the event. Well...I turned to my friend Tracy and asked her to come with me...and so off we went to the Girls' bathroom...innocently enough...and completely forgetting Sister Alice's warning. I had just announced the news to Tracy when the door blew open and Sister Alice banged on our stall doors shouting at us to get out.

We were dragged out of the bathroom, which was located at the back of the gym and to me it seemed like all 260 pairs of eyes were staring at me, knowing full well what had just happened. I was mortified. Of course, when Sister Alice found out why I had gone to the bathroom, a playful, Grinch-like smirk spread across her face...not only was I a sinner for breaking the rules, I was now cursed with Menses...a curse that I'd have for the next 22 years, ironically, without the ability to conceive a child.

Regardless of how hard it's been for me to have a child, I still think a woman should have a right to choose and no one should have it taken from them.

I'm so tired of this fucking moral and religious agenda from our Government and I really hope our new Administration in 2005 puts an end to it.

I'm not going to beat myself up too much...but I've been home for over three weeks and haven't written a frigging thing. It's starting to eat at me and I'm turning into a royal bitch right now. Writing to me is like fixing, I guess...though I dunno, I've never been a junkie. I have been a smoker, so I'll say writing is like smoking. I crave writing. If I don't write in awhile, I start getting really cranky. And today was no exception. I MEANT to sit down and work on my manuscript but I have this little problem see...I am easily distracted. Today's distraction was iTunes. I downloaded the iTunes Software onto my laptop and for some odd reason, it couldn't see my Internet connection. So I tried my PC downstairs and Voila! I had a connection. So I bought three songs: Hey Ya! By Outkast; Crazy in Love by Beyonce; and some other song...I can't remember. But it was one of those purchases driven by having watched the Grammys...I typically don't like "pop"---but these songs are catchy enough to load on to my MP3 Player for running.

Well...so after I paid the $3.00 for the three songs, I went back upstairs to try and listen to them on my laptop (shared network). No such luck. Then, I went back downstairs with my USB cables and my PhatBox and my Nike Player and tried to download the songs from the PC. Guess what? The only way one can "enjoy" these songs is by either a) listening to them on the PC or b) burning a CD! ACK!

So I learned something new about me...well, maybe not "new" but I rediscovered it...I have entirely way too much technology at my fingertips and I don't know the first thing about it. Oh and something else, too...I'm easily distracted...and speaking of, it's time to wake Peter up from his nap...

Whoa! So it took me, what, four months to the very day to blog again? What is that all about? It's not like I've been busy or anything. Well, just a tiny bit busy.

Today is a good day. I just re-read my last post and remembered how sad I was then. Things are good now. I'm hoping the trend lasts.

We only came back from Prague and London less than two weeks ago and already we're on the go again. Yes that's right...we got the good news that we're going to Ukraine next week. Next Wednesday. Holy shit.

We'll be gone for an entire month and the goal is to come back completely transformed as parents. That's the goal at least. If the "happy vibes" trend continues, it'll happen. But that's so fucking hard to predict right now. So, instead of predicting I'll just say what we're hoping for....we hope to go to Kiev, go to the adoption center, find a child we want, go to that child's orphanage, get the child examined by two doctors, decide whether or not we want to adopt that child and then go to court and adopt him. That's if everything goes smoothly. First off...we could get to Kiev and we'll be told "sorry but we don't have any healthy kids under the age of 8..." Will we come home with an 8 year old? Who the hell knows...but I do know one thing...you get an 8 year-old that's been institutionalized all of his/her life and there's a lot of work that needs to be done. A lot of repairation...and that's if the child can feel like he or she can trust anyone ever.

Secondly, we could go to Kiev and find toddlers but they are physically or mentally handicapped. Perhaps they suffer from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome or Fetal Alcohol Effect. Maybe they have a club foot...maybe they have a cleft palate. The question is...what are WE capable of accepting as parents? What can WE handle? That's a tough question given that I'm not even a parent yet...

So yeah I'm a little freaked. I have a lot to think about and a lot to talk about with C. I'll admit, we have visions of a perfect little puttie---but I'm not apologetic about it. I've been infertile for four years and haven't had any kids yet...I don't understand why I can't have a fantasy of a Gerber baby like everyone else. But our decision is going to be based on three-parts medical and one-part gut instinct. We may find a child over there we fall absolutely in love with and maybe he is handicapped...as long as he is reasonably healthy and has a long life expectancy...

Sometimes I wonder what I'm getting myself into!

I have to say that I wasted two years of my life in therapy...when all I needed to do was get my hormonal cycle back in balance. Since I've been seeing a naturopath, I feel much less anxious and much more at peace. Sure I'm stressed about this trip---but months ago, I would have been a walking zombie, freaking out every minute. Now I feel I'm on a more even keel and hey...I didn't need any drugs! No antidepressants, no psychological bullshit...it's amazing how much the body affects the mind. Here my medical doctor is telling me I'm entering menopause and then my naturopath is telling me not to believe that for a second. I'd like to believe she's right.

So this trip...will be a trip. Going to a strange country where no one smiles...and bribery is a form of doing business. A place where I can hardly speak the language (I do know some Russian...though the equivalent of a three year old); a place that is bitter fucking cold in January; to meet people I've only "met" online...If you would have asked me six or seven years ago if I'd ever go to Ukraine to adopt a baby...I'd be like "you're high"! But hey...it's an adventure and if it all goes well...it's something I can't wait to share with my kids. I want them to have access to their culture; I want them to want to meet their birthparents when they're old enough; I want them to enjoy life the way we enjoy it.

I'm buried in paper journals.

That's right. The minute you announce to the world you are a writer -- you are immediately given journals of various shapes and sizes -- you know, to...write.

I shouldn't complain. I think it's a nice gesture. But my handwriting sucks. I'm 35 and instead of it improving with age, it's gone from ok to horrific. I blame it on the use of computers. I blame it on using keyboards. I never took a typing class but I can type 90 words per minute and know the keyboard by heart.

So if I have so many paper journals, why am I here? Well, again, as stated above, I'm a typist...in addition to a writer. It's easier for me to type. Sounds awful, I know -- especially to some hardcore writers who think computers are evil. To me, they're not evil -- they're useful.

I've really hit a slump in terms of my writing -- or should I say, my confidence in myself to bang something out. Ever since my sister died three weeks ago, I stopped writing my novel. I tried writing a little article about dog agility for a magazine -- but it didn't come out right. The words just weren't coming. Maybe not the words -- maybe, moreso, the thoughts behind the words. The organization. The flow, if you will.

No, instead I've been in a state of paralysis. I learned that in my English classes in college. There were writers who defined paralysis. Who were they? I can't remember -- though I bet if I phoned Barbara and asked her, she'd name all of them in 10 seconds or less. Me -- I just studied before the tests. That stuff didn't sink in far enough. Though I do remember that James Joyce coined the term "epiphany." I just can't remember who the hell wrote essays on paralysis. I think we spent, like half a semester on that too. I'm ashamed...but not that much. Hey, it was over ten years ago.

So here I am -- not ready to expound on the origins of literary paralysis -- but instead to explain my very own. As I said, my sister died. Unexpectedly and suddenly. Lots of stuff happened this past year -- but I think that was the clincher. It definitely runs neck and neck with the problems we are experiencing in our quest to adopt a baby in Ukraine.

I've been sloth. All week. I originally thought it was because I ran too hard for the race last weekend. There I was -- running the perfect 8 minute mile...when all of a sudden, I was wracked with cramps. Luckily there was a bathroom within reach and so I spent five minutes on the toilet in a public bathroom, doubled-over in pain. If the cramps weren't going to kill me, the bacteria from sitting on the toilet surely would. And I watched my watch advance from 18 minutes to 23 minutes and counting...and I went from my perfect 8 minute mile to a 10:30 minute mile...how bad did I suck? I came in 158 out of something ridiculous like 200.

No -- my laziness isn't just from that pitiful race. It was a combination of things. I began freelancing in the mornings, making my ritual of going to the gym at noon disappear. I'm wondering what I'm going to do when Dave gets back from his tour. How am I gonna workout with my rock star gym buddy when I'm stuck behind the desk making media calls?

It's because my ability to have a child is in someone else's control right now, preventing me from going to Ukraine and choosing my child.

It's because my husband got sick this summer and then threw himself in to his work -- which is why I'm sitting on the couch right now, right next to him, typing this stupid entry whilst he works on his laptop. Such a cute couple.

No, it's not just one thing -- it's a combination of many...and I'm stuck wondering when I'll get out of this rut I'm in. It better happen soon or my body is going to go from a size 4 back to a size 14 soon enough. (I forgot to mention, too, that ice cream has become my new perfect food).

And so, here I sit and type. Contemplative over my next move. Will I turn on the tv or suggest we go to see "American Splendor"? Shall I log off and grab the ice cream or try my hand at "Pop and Drop" -- my new highly addictive computer game? That's just it, see -- in my weeklong disability, I've not been able to make a friggin decision to save my life. That's how paralysis works.

~M