interlopers.

It's a little embarrassing when the cable guy shows up unannounced (it was a follow-up to yesterday's scheduled appointment, not a set-up for some weird pregnant triple-X adventure, although he did bring an assistant along this time) and you're having a nutritious afternoon snack of Goldfish and Gatorade (nothing like making the baby come out orange) and there's a wadded up comforter on the couch from where you took a nap earlier and you haven't brushed your teeth.

It's another thing all together when he comes in and looks around and says, "so, Ebay sales not going well, huh?"

faster, pussycat! read! read!

My brother has promised Saturday delivery of a copy of the next volume of the Harry Potter series, so I'm trying to reread V.4 this week.

We had to choose between the demolition derby and my parents' house for this coming weekend. I tried to talk my dad into ramming some of his cars together for us, but it didn't fly. The derby will feature not only your traditional demolition, but also school bus demolition (a year-end special) and trailer races. I can only hope that this is a monthly or quarterly event, because we chose my parents'.

Since we'll be in town, Matt's trying to get us to go along to a Harry Potter party. We'll see. I'm not a big fan of magicians; I guess I'm too analytical to give up trying to guess the secret of each trick.

I've picked up some more hours at the store, now that rowing season has ended. Achieving preferred status among the Summer help was a dubious distinction, but I must admit it is nice to reaffirm my role in life as middle management.

I tried to take up origami, but my patience is no match for my motor skills.

five more reasons i could never live in southern california.

1. I refuse to perpetuate the weather myth.

2. The constant and overwhelming urges to leave my wallet in El Segundo and ask passers-by the way to San Jose.

3a. Time-zone math.
3b. Weird "live" TV rebroadcasts.

4. Overavailability of cameras produced in Communist countries.

5. Despite all that keeps me away, the fact that I had so much fucking fun and can't stop talking about it. And the ensuing hoarseness.

five reasons i could never live in southern california.

1. Lorenzo Lamas was right when he said that thighs that touch are better looking than thighs in LA.

2. If it's good, there's a line. If there's not a line, it's because traffic is heavy and you're not there yet.

3. I am allergic to the sun. I don't know how this can be, and I'm not trying to be cute. There are hives involved.

4. Tall people get more sun. Really. The sun rises earlier for us, or so I hear. The sun definitely sets later for us. Do the math.

5. You must not pet the teddy bear cactus, or the teddy bear cactus will pet you.

good times, bad times.

There are times when a vacation is just what you need. Even if you're not technically escaping from anything, and life at home is actually pretty darn good.

Then there are times when you're sick from the moment you leave home. By the time your plane touches down, you're on the verge of puking. A few hours later, you are, by the grace of God, in an emergency room somewhere in the desert, rehydrating fluids literally coursing through your veins.

The vomiting will stop -- things will be looking up. A doctor will prescribe for you some antibiotics, to deter the progression of what might or might not have been a minor infection. All will seem right once again.

You will venture out into the desert, where you will be badly burned by the sun. You will spend the next few days prickly and miserable, hot and cold, and itchy.

This has been one of those vacations.

Regardless, I'm having a grand old time. We spent two bad days and two good days in Twentynine Palms, seeing friends and visiting Joshua Tree, and now we're in LA. I made Marc stop at a place called Cyberjava because I couldn't walk anymore. He's a good guy. He says he believes he suggested stopping. I say nobody's supposed to walk this much in LA.

Erik's put us up for the night at The Standard, for which we are really not attractive enough. We're pretending we're eccentric celebrities. I'm regretting the hasty explanation I provided for the valet who delivered our luggage to the room: "We don't usually travel with Saltine crackers..."

A few steps away is the Hollywood Walk of Fame, so now I think we'll go for some more walking, and try to guess what some of those more "mainstream" celebrities are known for.

I'm using my new (and tragically hip) Lomo camera to document this adventure, so I probably won't be posting pictures unless I can convince Marc that we need a new scanner. We do have one, but it was a hand-me-down and we've never found a suitable power adaptor. Actually, we're staying at Erik's from tomorrow on, so maybe we'll take advantage of his generosity and use his scanner.

nerves.

I just had a heart attack.

They are testing the sprinklers in the building today (as they are wont to do every week-or-so here). I was planning a simple morning of laundry and a shower, before I head out to run errands.

I was standing in the laundry room, naked, sorting, when they apparently decided to test the fire alarms, too.

Two problems: first, I was naked, and being surrounded by clothes would have been great, except that they were all dirty, and I wasn't about to evacuate (my natural response to hearing the fire alarm) in dirty boxers and yesterday's running bra. Second, the fire alarm features the loudest and most ear-piercing buzz-screech combination you can imagine. In this apartment, the sound happens to be based about six feet up the laundry room wall. Coincidentally, my ear happened to be located about six feet up my naked laundry sorting body.

That first alarm, thankfully, turned out to be just a short blip. I'm guessing that's an indication that I'm not about to be burned alive. I feel safe because the one time that we really did have to evacuate, that godforsaken alarm rang for about twenty minutes straight, and then some fire trucks came.

I am thinking that it's probably best to wait until the alarms cease to start the laundry and jump in the shower (so I've put my robe back on, you'll be glad to hear), because the sign downstairs about the sprinkler testing did say something specific about discolored water, which also happens to be one of my greatest shower fears (along with water bugs, black mold, and being suddenly and violently wrapped and smothered by the shower curtain).

Now they are just sounding the alarm for about a second every minute or so. I can hear the collective jump of my fellow tenants. On second thought, that might be the collective jump of my internal organs.

Is there anything quite like a) starting your day with carefully timed jerks of panic, and b) eventually desensitizing yourself to the sound of the fire alarm?

i'm not perfect.

I'd love to tell you all about the story I'm writing, and how it will be the next great American novel. I'd also like to tell you that I've lost twenty pounds and I'm buying myself a whole new wardrobe in celebration. Oh, and there was the day I got out of bed and decided to get myself a brand new dream job. I'm painting more, cooking gourmet but non-fattening meals, knitting up a storm, sodding my new "lawn" chair, discovering cool new ways to be even cooler than I already am, shingling the roof, and unclogging the toilet.

But I'd be lying.

I do think I'm doing all right, though. The laundry's all clean, dishes are done, the windows are washed (inside AND out), the apartment's vaccum'd, I'm almost packed for this weekend's trip to Cape Cod, and I've got a boating club application in-hand. After a year of unemployment, things are finally beginning to feel like they're under control.

Which probably means that we're due for some chaos.

In the meantime, like I said, we're heading to Chatham this weekend to visit Marc's grandmother. Today is the one-year anniversary of his grandfather's death (for those keeping score, that would be the same-side but divorced grandfather... today also happens to be the step-grandfather's birthday. Creepy, huh?) so my other in-laws will be joining us for some happy-time.

Back to the chaos: next week, we finally leave for Operation Gold Rush. We'll be spending a few days here in the desert with nothing but sun and sand. And, probably, snoring. The town and the inn were recommended in the second issue of Budget Living. That being, by the way, the greatest magazine to which I'm currently subscribing. Supposedly (at least, according to Martha Stewart Living, incidentally not quite as wonderful), we'll be there at just the right time to see the wildflowers blooming at Joshua Tree.

After thoroughly decompressing in the desert, we'll drive to LA and spend a couple of days at Erik's. LA goals include fitting Disneyland, the La Brea Tarpits, the Getty Center, and the zoo in between all of the (slightly more insider-y) things Erik has planned for us.

Any other can't-miss recommendations for the greater Palm Springs/LA areas?

my life as a porn star.

Heh. There's a maintenance guy downstairs fixing the lock on the window and he just called me "little lady." Context: "Excuse me, little lady? I need to go down to the truck because I forgot my drill."

Also, I think we can all agree that I'm a completely recovered mechanical engineer now that I am actually in the practice of "calling someone" when the lock on the window is loose.

saturday, in clip form.

good things about my birthday party:

1. when Marc's grandmother sashayed up to me, wine glass tippy in her right hand, and proclaimed, "Your apartment is so lovely! Your hair is so lovely!"

2. the way a 2 PM start time doesn't have much effect on the end time. This birthday just goes on and on.

3. the distrust and sneakiness that resulted in pretty much everyone bringing some kind of dessert. This included a cake shaped like a basket of flowers and baked for a crowd of 32, a box full of pastries straight from Veniero's, dozens of cookies, and five pounds of homemade chocolate.

4. the way my friends and family know me: where there wasn't dessert, there was wine. And sometimes, there was dessert wine!

5. when Marc's cousin mocked me for having an Amazon wishlist filled with books. Bite me, sucka!

6. my horoscope that day, which started with: "It's great to be a geek!"

7. when Carolyn called and said she was only about 3 and a half hours away.

8. when black/blacker internet celebrity Jesse Chan-Norris was bear-hugged by my hunk-ass husband.

9. when I kissed Doug goodbye and he squealed, "She kissed me!"

10. a perfectly clear blue sky and the incredible 50 degrees of delicious warmth tickling skin I haven't exposed since last August.

not-so-good things about my birthday party:

1. the tomato sauce that splurted out of the portable oven-thingy onto the carpet at 1:58.

2. all the people I know who, as it turns out, like to refer to Heineken as "Heiny."

3. when my brother-in-law turned to me as we stood in a crowd of my in-laws and said, "Well, I guess Marc's side of the family wins this party, huh?"

4. that we live in Connecticut and the limited budget that prevented us from flying in everyone I love, everywhere.

three times three times three: the inspiring poetry continues.

Now I've lived longer than Kid Rock's Joe C.,
and Nick Drake, he couldn't last longer than me,
and Gia Carangi, whose life looks quite short,
joined lovely Gram Parsons, who died of a snort.

You might try to tell me that I'm tempting peril.
"Better tip one for Kurt, he stared down a barrel.
Or Jimi, or Janis, they died this age, too,
and I see no Teen Spirit coming from you."

I'm accepting twenty-seven as neither bad nor preventable,
though I'm slightly more fragile, slightly more dentable.
I'm trying to find the bright side of aging,
though I'm doing more damage in the process of gauging.

My back is now creaky; my knees are a mess,
(though my sexual peak may be near, I confess).
It's too late to die young; I'd look like a boob.
But I am better than square; I'm a cube!

Hooray for twenty-seven.

an exciting twist.

Turns out you can turn your envelopes 90° and then address them, and they will be delivered just fine with a single 37 cent stamp. To half of your intended recipients. The other half will receive either a) a letter from the Post Office claiming that they owe twelve cents, or b) nothing but a sheepish e-mail from you. It's a gamble I do not recommend.

I'm just glad I never took this chance on our homemade wedding invitations, thanks to seventeen separate bridal magazines advising me about the possible need for extra postage. Which it actually turned out wasn't necessary, because back then, I was clever in the engineer way (the way that works).

that girl.

Marc and I went to a party recently, I know, I know, no, we didn't make any new friends there, where there was, in attendance, one of those girls. The girl with the cute haircut and the hot body and the funky glasses, who desperately searches every social occasion for the opportunity to remove her clothing.

She's the first one to suggest, as the party begins to wind down and everyone is relaxing on the sofas, a healthy streaking treatment for this stodgy neighborhood. Or a game of Strip Whatever. Or, body shots, anyone?

She's the girl you'd like to take home with you, and hug, and cuddle until she realizes that we all know she's got great tits and she doesn't actually have to remove the visual barriers so we can verify our suspicion.

She's the girl who layers on the nail laquer and hair product, creating an artfully dissheveled exterior that she'll peel away for you at the slightest suggestion.

I think I know, because I kinda think I maybe used to be that girl.

post office to america: keep the clever to yourselves.

It turns out, as a matter of fact, that it will cost an extra twelve cents to mail a standard-sized envelope, if you turn that envelope 90° before addressing. The three packages of singularly stamped birthday party invitations that I dropped in the mail Friday night will probably be making their way back to me soon.

sinking friendship.

I had my second, and final, knitting class the other night. I'm now seven rows into my first scarf. I had big intentions of making my first knitted item a gift for someone, but I can see now that with my arthritic fingers and spazmobility, it won't really be worth giving. Besides, by the time I finish, it will be May, and who wants a scarf in May?

The second class was actually not as wonderful as the first. In the first class, you may remember, I was the only one of three women to have never before attempted to knit. That was where I had the revelation that there are people in this world who thrive on being better at something than anyone else. Unfortunately for the two women besides me, they were both like that. Chaos ensued as I tried desperately to keep up. I am nothing if not an overachiever, and the teacher was falling all over herself to keep me interested. I got enough compliments to really get me excited for the next class.

The official second class was cancelled because of weather, so I had the option of attending a make-up class (which conflicted with something else) or going to the second session of the "Making Mittens" class. The Mitten class was filled with young, sarcastic, wonderful mitten-making women who just barely knew what they were doing. The teacher had to cut back on complimenting me in order to keep them on track. Best quote of the evening: "Gloves are like mittens, but with lots of thumbs. Thumbs of varying length. And no finger compartment."

One of them, Melanie, seemed particularly interested in talking to me, since we were the only ones in the class who weren't part of the weird Organic Chemistry clique at the other end of the table. We seemed to hit it off okay during the parts of class when the teacher left the room.

I was scheduled to meet Marc for dinner afterwards, and I contemplated inviting Melanie along, since the restaurant was right around the corner. But at the end of class, as I was putting my seventeen layers of outerwear back on, Melanie was suddenly engrossed in her work, not even glancing up to say goodbye.

During the long walk back to my car, I reasoned that we probably wouldn't have hit it off, anyway, even though I really wanted her to be "my friend I met in knitting class."

In these months of having few local friends, I've developed an uncanny ability to live an entire experience without ever starting it. I imagined our first fight, the disagreement over whether acrylic-wool blend yarn should really be considered a natural fiber. She probably likes to eat shrimp. I bet she loves Nelly. Oh well.

I never used to be like this. I was an ugly cloud of cynicism, yes, but with a big thick silver lining of hopefulness. I am the worst introvert ever. At least I have my knitting. Oh, God. Just shoot me.

making friends.

Here in Connecticut, things are not going too well on the socialization front. I'm afraid we lost our ability to mix well once we got married. Consider this conversation we had over fast food last night:

K: Those people look nice. We could be friends with them... Try to spill something on them on the way out.
M: Our clumsiness could be our ticket in!
K: I bet those spilly people in the Pasta Pro commercial have tons of friends.

How do you make friends?

joe millionape.

Last night, as what I thought was to be the final episode of Joe Millionaire came to an abrupt end with no final bimbabe decision, just a lot more hand-waving about connections made and lessons learned, I turned to Marc in dismay and said, "I knew this would happen, and yet I still feel like Fox just raped me."

And then that jackass butler told us all about next week's surprise ending, and I got all excited, and turned to Marc with what must have been a look of great anticipation, and he just laughed. I'm just that easy, I guess.

Incidentally, is everyone in Australia named Paul Hogan? Or just the exports?

happy this.

Where is everybody?

We just got back from happy hour. Yes, it is 10:30 PM. We are hopelessly old. This is the most social interaction I've had since we moved to Connecticut. It was fun, though. The people from Marc's workplace are decent. They have an awful lot of inside jokes, though. I guess someday we'll be part of the inside jokes, and then some other employee's wife will feel left out of the action. And so the circle of life spins round and round. Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives. Suburban happy hour is a weird mix of drinking and joking and wondering if you're sober enough to drive home. Or, if your husband is sober enough to drive home. He was.