Anneke and I did a parent/child art class yesterday. Ceramic angels. I signed her up for that one because (1) I knew she’d like it (clay! painting! angels!) and (2) CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. I even have a grandmother who COLLECTS ceramic angels.

Our class was small, just one other parent/child pair. I thought my angels were the best, but STRANGELY, the instructor failed to compliment me. Whereas she lavished my daughter and our competitors with compliments, mum for me. Whereas.

She probably felt threatened. Not with violence, but with the possibility of my cutting into her ceramic angel sales.

People kept coming by during our class looking for “the play.” Our instructor determined that a community children’s theater production of “Hansel and Gretel” was happening in the “amphitheater” at the art school at 6 p.m.

Our class ended at 3:45. Anneke wanted to walk down to the river through the woods behind the school. “Only for a few minutes,” said I.

We walked right into what I had never known was the “amphitheater” (really, a tall staircase with accompanying ledges for what I never knew was SITTING). A cute little Pilgrim looking girl ran up and handed us a program. The production was happening at 4:30, not 6.

So we stayed. Of course. Because Anneke wanted to stay, and I am a sucker for my daughter. Mostly because she whines and bawls and screws up her face like you have ruined her life whenever she is displeased. (This has been Her Way since birth.)

Waiting for the play to start, I had time to take some photos.

The way Anneke looks when I surprise her by taking her photo

The way Anneke looks when she *wants* to look surprised that I’m taking her photo

And then. Whereas I have, I hope, failed to make you vomit in reading this post thus far, I took this picture.

I took it to show her what other people see when they see her dirty, not-brushed-well, pretended-to-be-brushed teeth.

Ahem.

She gets these spots. Orange spots. I’ve never seen anything like it. You can see an obvious one in the photo at that size, but you’d see several more if it were bigger.

Maybe these orange spots are normal. For people whose teeth rot out of their heads. She says it’s fine because she can “scrape them.” They scrape right off, duh. If she wanted to, she could SCRAPE THEM. Dumb me.

Love the weekends when we go to Kerbey Lane for breakfast. Pumpkin pancakes. Yummm.

(Anneke has a bit of a Silly Bandz obsession.)

Question: Any ideas for dealing with baby constipation? We’ve run into this a couple times with the other kids, but Ohhh Emmmm Geeee, NOTHING LIKE THIS. We’re going on two weeks of minimal poop. Archie is miserable, and I feel like we’ve tried everything.

The deal is that he basically stopped eating vegetables and fruits (except bananas, of course) awhile back. We’ve tried green beans, carrots, strawberries, prunes, prune SMOOTHIES. You name it, he won’t eat it. He won’t drink juice. Water is eh. All he wants is milk, cheese, bread, and yogurt.

We finally bought some glycerin butt shooters. Oh yes. The box says they typically induce poop in 15 to 60 minutes. Twice, nothing. Last night, we bought an oral baby laxative and gave it to him in a bottle of milk, plus the glycerin suppository. He did wake up this morning with poop, but again, minimal, and ROCKS.

I wouldn’t be so worried about it – after four children, I have realized they’re pretty durable, these children, so I’m pretty laidback when it comes to my health worrying (about THEM) – but I swear to you, twice, we have seen his butt look basically like his RECTUM IS ON THE OUTSIDE OF HIS BODY. I’m pretty sure he’s getting little baby hemorrhoids.

Brad is currently spoon feeding him some strawberry Activia with chocolate baby laxative. Mmmm.

Halp meh.

I finally uploaded the pictures that had been accumulating on my phone to flickr. Every time I do that, I remember all these ideas I had for blog posts along the way, posts that never happened because I never uploaded the photos I wanted to use.

Today, in no discernible order, I give you a quick taste of things I’d planned on doing better if I’d done them when I’d planned.

And TOMORROW, I will give you a contest update. (TLDR: Contest coming next week.)

1. School started for UT Austin. I hate it when school starts because it means 50,000 people (predominantly rash, immature, shortsighted, 18- to 22-year-old people) invade the city. They clog the streets, create parking space competitions, talk on their phones, tan their bodies, and just generally annoy me. This video was taken on the first day of classes (notice the Tower bells playing “Let it Snow”). I was walking to get lunch at the Union, and was just generally horrified at the number of humans I had to wade through. (Note to self: Leave for lunch 15 to 30 minutes early the first week or two of the semester, before all the kids have stopped attending classes. The normal five-minute salad line takes 35, and you’re forced to listen to conversations that make you want to barf.)

2. I want to have friends like this.

3. As a result of a complete last-minute fluke, I drove with a friend to Dallas for the first show of the Guided by Voices reunion tour. They’ve always kinda annoyed me, but it was pretty damn awesome anyway.

4. This guy walks. It is a tiny bit cute. Just slightly.

5. School skating event… Look at the awesome PVC contraptions they have for novices these days!

6. Archer was sick. This is what he did all day when I stayed home with him.

7. Kieran has been obsessed for years with learning the dances on the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory DVD. He’s finally passing on the love.

End of post = end of days

Wait! Are you sure you don’t need any spicy hot chubbies with that?

What do you like about your neighborhood? – submitted via formspring

So, I’m just going to put the link out there and assume no one’s going to want to track me down and stalk me.

From Mueller Austin:

“In a nutshell, New Urbanism is an approach to land planning that reduces traffic and eliminates sprawl. A New Urbanist neighborhood resembles an old European village or pre-war U.S. small town with homes and businesses clustered together. Instead of driving on highways, residents of New Urbanist neighborhoods can walk to shops, businesses, theaters, schools, parks and other important services. Buildings and recreational areas are arranged to foster a sense of community closeness. New Urbanist designers also place importance on earth-friendly architecture, energy conservation, historic preservation and accessibility.”

In addition to this badass gestalt vision, we have… an active online forum (we found our missing cat through someone on the forum!), a babysitting co-op that operates on “Baio Bucks” (yes, Charles really is in charge), a really nice community park and pool a block away, plus another HUGE, modern playground within walking distance, something like 12 miles of hike and bike trails with all native prairie grasses, bike lanes on all neighborhood streets, green buildings (if I were ever to lose my job, I’d probably work at the one place in Austin where everyone with my background works… an organization that just happens to be housed in a building in my neighborhood, within walking distance, which is silver LEED certified and provides shower facilities to employees to encourage them to ride their bikes to work), a state of the art children’s hospital to which I could walk if I wanted (Griffon’s already been there twice), community events (kid-friendly movies in the park on a weekly basis for part of the spring/summer), … I could go on and on. There are always kids out. There are always people jogging with strollers and walking dogs. My commute to work is eight minutes, with about five stoplights and zero highways. WE HAVE SCULPTURES, PEOPLE! A GIANT SPIDER! A POLLEN! (In fact, our family photos were taken by a neighborhood photographer IN our neighborhood… You can see the pollen grain sculpture in the background here.)

And this is not even to say that I love my house, which, I LOVE MY HOUSE. It’s too small, technically, but I LOVE MY HOUSE.

I forget day to day that this place is so cool. I mean, you just do what you do, and your daily life becomes what it becomes, and it’s necessarily monotonous. You forget that you have all these wonderful THINGS available to you because you’re too busy getting cup after cup of milk and water, picking up disposable piece of crap toy after disposable piece of crap toy, cleaning up human after feline after canine vomit and feces, walking with bare feet in cat litter that’s been tracked all over your wood floor. Over and over and over and over and over.

But truly, it’s a fantastic place to be. If I have to smell rotting waste anywhere in the world, I’m glad I’m doing it here.

* Quick! 50 points to the first commenter who can tell me what this line is from.

When you were young, you were a blonde. Do you prefer your brunette(ish) status now over that? Do you think hair color makes a difference on how one perceives him/herself? – submitted via formspring

Beee teee double yooo… on the topic of a younger, blonder me…

Because everyone needs a pair of mom jeans. Even at age 15.

I much prefer my brunette(ish) status. I colored my hair for a looooooooooong time. Brad and I have known each other for almost 14 years, and he’s only seen my true hair color for the past year and a half. It was mostly an issue of having to keep coloring once I started, so as not to look jankety (official cosmetological language).

I have very little attachment to hair. I’ve been all shades of blonde, brown, and red; I’ve been blue, platinum, and black; and I’ve been everywhere from waist length to shaved. For a long time, I sort of needed that jolt every once in awhile that you get from drastically changing your appearance. I don’t really feel that need as strongly now — or maybe I just don’t notice it because I have so many other need-havers to which I must attend.

I worked in a salon and day spa part-time when I was in college, and I’m sure this has something to do with my orientation to hair. I see it as sort of an accessory, and one that’s often a nuisance. I’d love to live in a world in which I could shave my head and still have a professional job and go to Daisy Scout functions without getting the stink eye. Austin’s pretty good about that kind of tolerance, but it’s still not all the way there. I wore a short sleeve shirt today to work that showed my tattoo for the first time since last summer, and I was self-conscious all day. I just wish it didn’t matter.

I guess, in a roundabout way, I’m saying yes. Although I think it depends a lot on the person and the kinds of attachments she feels to her physical self.

December 31, 1999

• I fell asleep watching The Last Emperor with Brad. We watched the ball drop in Times Square on tv later that evening, but I still felt reallllly ruuuun downnn.
• Two days later, I had my second kidney stone. A day after that, I was hospitalized for ten days with a case of bacterial pneumonia in both lungs that almost killed me (the first of two brushes with death this decade).
• I had just completed my first semester of graduate school in Austin. Brad was looking for work here but still had a job in Dallas. We had been married a little over a year.
• We had no kids. (We decided to try for a baby five and a half months later, and I found out I was pregnant with Kieran a month and a half after that.)

This Decade

• I finished my M.A. and Ph.D.
• Brad went back to school and got a second bachelor’s degree (because THAT’s always smart, heh) and teaching certification.
• We accumulated close to $150,000 in school loan debts (see bullet immediately above :))
• We became parents, four times over. I gained 50 pounds.
• I tried out “staying home” with two small children (and about lost my damn mind).
• We moved back to Dallas, considered moving to Vermont, then moved back to Austin.
• We bought two houses and sold one.
• Brad’s dad passed away.

Decade the Next

• I watch my children grow to ages 18, 15, 12, and 10 (omg, I just threw up in my mouth a little).
• I employ babysitters more frequently to preserve my sanity.
• I remain gainfully employed. In Austin.
• We buy a bigger house.
• I lose 60 pounds. :)

I have every intention of doing some kind of Day Zero thing to start the new year, but it hasn’t materialized AS OF YET. You, my imaginary friends, will be the first to hear about it, though, as I will surely need to be held publicly accountable.

And you? What’s your #1 goal for the coming decade?

Did you have a night out with friends or a loved one that rocked your world? Who was there? What was the highlight of the night?*

Reading this question makes me want to cry.

I cannot think of a single solitary night “out” in the past year that would qualify as any kind of highlight. We’ve never left the kids with anyone other than family, from whom we now live more than 200 miles away. And we have four kids now, so proximity wouldn’t help anyway: our families think they’re too difficult to handle together.

So.

I suppose I can respond to this prompt with my idea of a night out that would, indeed, “rock my world,” if my world were, in fact, rockable.

My expectations are pretty modest, owing mostly to the four-kid deal, so the plan would be simple: dinner and a movie. With Brad I guess (heh). We’d have dinner, if I’m making this up anyway, at World Beat, which was an African place that existed in Austin when we lived here before. The last time I tried going there was the weekend of my 28th birthday, which was also the weekend of my doctoral commencement. My entire family was in town, and although I was supposed to pick the celebratory restaurant, it became clear that my choice should not involve anything “African,” even if that African place also made mean cheeseburgers (so they say… I never tried one because, when I went there, I liked to get, um, African food).

“Holy Mother of God, what do them people in Africa even eeeat? Aren’t them people them ones I seen on the teevee with the bones all stickin’ out every which a’ways and the flies all around?”

Okay. So maybe it wasn’t that bad, but Jesus, it was my birthday, and I’d just graduated with a PhD. Plus, I was 87 weeks pregnant with Anneke. AND I WANTED ME SOME DAMN AFRICAN FOOD. (P.S. That photo was taken three weeks before my graduation and a full month before Anneke was born. I grew mightily beyond that.)

So, dinner at a nonexistent restaurant, and then a movie at Alamo Drafthouse. I don’t have a particular movie in mind, but definitely no summer blockbusters, comedies, or anything “romantic” (because God knows the last thing I want to do on my perfect night is put out, heh… KIDDING). Okay, so a gritty independent drama. [Why, yes, I did just use the word "gritty," thankyouverymuch.] Preferably something a little depressing that’ll keep me thinking for the next week or two.

And if we’ve already eaten at a nonexistent restaurant on a night that’s never happening, I might as well have a second dinner at the Alamo. Possibly the Once Upon a Time in Mexico salad, which is just fantastic, and hot chocolate chip cookies for dessert.

After the movie, we’ll come home to a clean, empty house, watch TV for a bit, and then sleep for at least nine uninterrupted hours before waking to sunshine. Things to which we will not wake: children screaming, crying, whining, vomiting, running fevers, climbing into our bed, or peeing/pooping out of their diapers; alarm clocks; bellowing cats; or rocks for boobs. Oh. And I won’t wake to freight train-like snoring. Or jacked-up sheets or blankets.

It will be GLORIOUS.

I almost feel like I could run for President on this message.

* This post was written in response to Gwen Bell’s December 5th prompt for the Best of 2009 Blog Challenge.

I am participating in Mrs. Flinger’s Writing Well Challenge, {W}rite-of-Passage. I just learned about it, approximately 30 minutes before the end of the day on which the first post is due. Luckily! I come very easily by “most embarrassing stories.”

I’m probably cheating by posting something old, but I only just learned about this challenge, and I want very much to learn to write well, so I hate to miss the first week.

I may be a cheatypants this week, but I promise new content going forward. If you can believe a cheatypants.

Following is a July 21, 2009 post REDUX: “I Am A Moron, And I Need To Be Exterminated.”

***

So. I participate in my fair share of dumbassedry, but in the past few days, I’ve outdone myself.

It started with a facebook status update from one of my oldest and dearest friends, who, in the interest of protecting his association with a moron like me, I’ll call Clark.

So, Sunday night, Clark, a little drunk and watching Sex and the City, posted to facebook:

“I’ve been dating since I was 15. I’m exhausted; where is he?”

Several background items of note. First, I’ve known Clark since we were 11. So, 22 whole years! (Two whole thirds of my life!) He’s single, and he’s gay — and quite a cutie pie too, I might add, for those of you single, gay men who happen to live in or near Austin, Texas and who might be good enough for one of my dearest friends… I will accept digits at aliciaDbeth (at) gmail (dot) com. (And to Clark: YOU. ARE. WELCOME.)

There were quite a few responses by the time I saw what he’d posted Sunday night. And I, in my infinite wisdom *SNORT*, decided to join the conversation by contributing a bit of my own humor, which, in general, is characterized by the interjection of unexpected references to obscure experiences that I and the listener share.

Because, again, I’m a self-serving, dumbass moron.

Anyway, to this end, I commented,

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think feeling up Jenny McIntyre (not her real name) in Ms. Benton’s history class counts as ‘dating.’”

(True story.)

Oh. And then I added,

“Heh heh. Boobies.”

Because, if there were just one word to describe how I roll, no doubt that word would be “CLASSY.”

At the time, it seemed like a fantastic joke. I knew that most of Clark’s friends didn’t know him 22 years ago and didn’t know Jenny McIntyre *at all*. I knew they probably weren’t aware that he’d felt up *any* girl, much less one in Ms. Benton’s 7th-grade Texas history class. So. That would be fun for them.

And for the handful of facebook friends Clark and I share, OH HO HO, the comic return would be golden! GOL. DEN.

Of course, my little gem was made all the more brilliant because Clark and Jenny, while quite the heterosexually precocious adolescent pair, were now both SO GAY.

Clark and I and others had suspected as much of Jenny, but we’d lost touch with her decades ago. When I’d moved back to Austin in 2008 and lived with Clark for a few months before I got a permanent place, Clark and I had looked Jenny up on myspace and found her sweet face smiling in a bunch of great travel pictures with her girlfriend. We’d probably both gotten a little teary-eyed before high-fiving each other and saying, “Aw. Our little Jenny finally found her true self.” And then I probably commented on how weird it was that he’d gotten so freaky so early in life with *A GIRL*, and then he’d probably said, “Ew,” and we’d called it a night.

So, anyway, I dropped this little bit of brilliance into the ether, patted myself on the back (because I’m so damn witty, I can hardly stand myself), and moved on.

Until. I checked my email the next evening and was smacked in the chest with a message from facebook: “Jenny McIntyre has also commented on Clark’s status.”

Um. FUCK?

Apparently, much to my dismay and ignorance, in the year that had elapsed since Clark and I sat on his couch getting teary about Jenny McIntyre’s sexual orientation, she had found him on facebook and friended him without my knowledge. (That she did not friend me is neither here nor there. Bitch. (heh))

So, included in the 111 (ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN!) people to whom I had douchebaggedly announced Clark’s early sexual proclivities — and used Jenny McIntyre’s name as a prop — was Jenny herself.

Fuck yeah.

Because? I. AM. AWESOME.

Take a moment to process this. You are Jenny McIntyre (not your real name). When you were a bit of a sexually (and biologically, if we’re being honest here) advanced middle schooler, you regularly engaged in feel-copping with a boy. And sometimes, this feel-copping occurred in public venues such as, say, your 7th-grade Texas history classroom. Whatever. You’ve since recovered and now live a quiet, happy life with your girlfriend, with whom you travel the United States. When you run into an old friend on facebook, a friend who just happens to be the feel-copping boy, you do not hesitate to add him as a friend. And, you are happy to confirm, as you always suspected, that HE’S GAY TOO! You smile.

Some time later, a girl with whom you last had contact when she spent the night at your house in middle school and played ZELDA (also a true story… 22 years, people!), someone whose name you have to strain to even REMEMBER, posts a message to ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN people you DO NOT KNOW announcing that you got felt up in 7th-grade history. And by a boy, no less.

Can you imagine? If I were her, I’m pretty sure I would have found the whole experience WAY too surreal for comfort.

And really, her response was pretty innocuous:

“Yeah, Alicia…and now we’re both gay…obviously a great experience for the both of us!! ;o) Hee hee…..”

But by the time I saw that she’d commented, her picture was gone, and her profile was unclickable. She’d also posted a second response, and that had been deleted as well. I’m pretty sure she removed her facebook page completely.

Of course, I would have done the same thing if some sociopathic stalker 20 years in my past had posted something like that about me on a public forum. I mean, damn.

Anyway, after I pulled my head out of my ass and picked my jaw up off the floor, I sent the following message to Clark:

“do you know HOW MUCH SHIT i SHIT IN MY PANTS when i saw in my inbox that jenny mcintyre had commented on your status too? oh my fucking god. i should have probably checked to see if she was your friend before i made a joke like that. hello. i’m a fucking dumbass whore.

but s’rously, i didn’t even know she was on facebook. remember when we lived together and looked her up on myspace and got all teary that she’d finally found her true self?

but again, i’m a fucking dumbass bitch. seriously. i’m sweating now. my heart dropped into my feet.

Of course, sending this message did not provide the instant absolution I desired (and, clearly, this is all about me), so I chased that with a text:

“O. M. G. When i made that retarded comment on fb, i was banking on most of your friends not knowing jenny m and it just being a funny haha for our mutual friends. I was NOT thinking jenny! mcfuckingmcintyre! [her name really DOES have the "Mc" component] was one of your FRIENDS!!! Im a fucking idiot douchebag, and i need to be exterminated.”

To which Clark responded,

“…I doubt she took offense. I didn’t really think about it either… It’s like we’re in junior high again! Way to go. Now she knows i told you i touched her tatas!”

And then he called, and we laughed and laughed. So, all’s well. Between us at least.

I’m not so sure about Jenny McIntyre. Or me.

So. I participate in my fair share of dumbassedry, but in the past few days, I’ve outdone myself.

It started with a facebook status update from one of my oldest and dearest friends, who, in the interest of protecting his association with a moron like me, I’ll call Clark.

So, Sunday night, Clark, a little drunk and watching Sex and the City, posted to facebook:

“I’ve been dating since I was 15. I’m exhausted; where is he?”

Several background items of note. First, I’ve known Clark since we were 11. So, 22 whole years! (Two whole thirds of my life!) He’s single, and he’s gay — and quite a cutie pie too, I might add, for those of you single, gay men who happen to live in or near Austin, Texas and who might be good enough for one of my dearest friends… I will accept digits at aliciaDbeth (at) gmail (dot) com. (And to Clark: YOU. ARE. WELCOME.)

There were quite a few responses by the time I saw what he’d posted Sunday night. And I, in my infinite wisdom *SNORT*, decided to join the conversation by contributing a bit of my own humor, which, in general, is characterized by the interjection of unexpected references to obscure experiences that I and the listener share.

Because, again, I’m a self-serving, dumbass moron.

Anyway, to this end, I commented,

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think feeling up Jenny McIntyre (not her real name) in Ms. Benton’s history class counts as ‘dating.’”

(True story.)

Oh. And then I added,

“Heh heh. Boobies.”

Because, if there were just one word to describe how I roll, no doubt that word would be “CLASSY.”

At the time, it seemed like a fantastic joke. I knew that most of Clark’s friends didn’t know him 22 years ago and didn’t know Jenny McIntyre *at all*. I knew they probably weren’t aware that he’d felt up *any* girl, much less one in Ms. Benton’s 7th-grade Texas history class. So. That would be fun for them.

And for the handful of facebook friends Clark and I share, OH HO HO, the comic return would be golden! GOL. DEN.

Of course, my little gem was made all the more brilliant because Clark and Jenny, while quite the heterosexually precocious adolescent pair, were now both SO GAY.

Clark and I and others had suspected as much of Jenny, but we’d lost touch with her decades ago. When I’d moved back to Austin in 2008 and lived with Clark for a few months before I got a permanent place, Clark and I had looked Jenny up on myspace and found her sweet face smiling in a bunch of great travel pictures with her girlfriend. We’d probably both gotten a little teary-eyed before high-fiving each other and saying, “Aw. Our little Jenny finally found her true self.” And then I probably commented on how weird it was that he’d gotten so freaky so early in life with *A GIRL*, and then he’d probably said, “Ew,” and we’d called it a night.

So, anyway, I dropped this little bit of brilliance into the ether, patted myself on the back (because I’m so damn witty, I can hardly stand myself), and moved on.

Until. I checked my email the next evening and was smacked in the chest with a message from facebook: “Jenny McIntyre has also commented on Clark’s status.”

Um. FUCK?

Apparently, much to my dismay and ignorance, in the year that had elapsed since Clark and I sat on his couch getting teary about Jenny McIntyre’s sexual orientation, she had found him on facebook and friended him without my knowledge. (That she did not friend me is neither here nor there. Bitch. (heh))

So, included in the 111 (ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN!) people to whom I had douchebaggedly announced Clark’s early sexual proclivities — and used Jenny McIntyre’s name as a prop — was Jenny herself.

Fuck yeah.

Because? I. AM. AWESOME.

Take a moment to process this. You are Jenny McIntyre (not your real name). When you were a bit of a sexually (and biologically, if we’re being honest here) advanced middle schooler, you regularly engaged in feel-copping with a boy. And sometimes, this feel-copping occurred in public venues such as, say, your 7th-grade Texas history classroom. Whatever. You’ve since recovered and now live a quiet, happy life with your girlfriend, with whom you travel the United States. When you run into an old friend on facebook, a friend who just happens to be the feel-copping boy, you do not hesitate to add him as a friend. And, you are happy to confirm, as you always suspected, that HE’S GAY TOO! You smile.

Some time later, a girl with whom you last had contact when she spent the night at your house in middle school and played ZELDA (also a true story… 22 years, people!), someone whose name you have to strain to even REMEMBER, posts a message to ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN people you DO NOT KNOW announcing that you got felt up in 7th-grade history. And by a boy, no less.

Can you imagine? If I were her, I’m pretty sure I would have found the whole experience WAY too surreal for comfort.

And really, her response was pretty innocuous:

“Yeah, Alicia…and now we’re both gay…obviously a great experience for the both of us!! ;o) Hee hee…..”

But by the time I saw that she’d commented, her picture was gone, and her profile was unclickable. She’d also posted a second response, and that had been deleted as well. I’m pretty sure she removed her facebook page completely.

Of course, I would have done the same thing if some sociopathic stalker 20 years in my past had posted something like that about me on a public forum. I mean, damn.

Anyway, after I pulled my head out of my ass and picked my jaw up off the floor, I sent the following message to Clark:

“do you know HOW MUCH SHIT i SHIT IN MY PANTS when i saw in my inbox that jenny mcintyre had commented on your status too? oh my fucking god. i should have probably checked to see if she was your friend before i made a joke like that. hello. i’m a fucking dumbass whore.

but s’rously, i didn’t even know she was on facebook. remember when we lived together and looked her up on myspace and got all teary that she’d finally found her true self?

but again, i’m a fucking dumbass bitch. seriously. i’m sweating now. my heart dropped into my feet.

Of course, sending this message did not provide the instant absolution I desired (and, clearly, this is all about me), so I chased that with a text:

“O. M. G. When i made that retarded comment on fb, i was banking on most of your friends not knowing jenny m and it just being a funny haha for our mutual friends. I was NOT thinking jenny! mcfuckingmcintyre! [her name really DOES have the "Mc" component] was one of your FRIENDS!!! Im a fucking idiot douchebag, and i need to be exterminated.”

To which Clark responded,

“…I doubt she took offense. I didn’t really think about it either… It’s like we’re in junior high again! Way to go. Now she knows i told you i touched her tatas!”

And then he called, and we laughed and laughed. So, all’s well. Between us at least.

I’m not so sure about Jenny McIntyre. Or me.

When we lived in Dallas, Brad and I both got tickets for running the same red light. (You’d think Brad could have avoided running it a couple weeks after the City of Dallas hit me up for $50, but you’d be wrong.) Along with a bill for $50, I received a photo of my face through the windshield as I ran the light. Really, don’t you think that’s overkill? They could just as well have included a little handwritten post-it with the words, “Take that, bitches.” Anyhoo.

After the ticket, I found that I sat up straighter when I got to that light. I looked at the cars around me and wondered who was going to run it this time (it was one of those lights that a gazillion people sit through every weekday morning on their way to work, the light that immediately precedes an on-ramp, and one that doesn’t allow enough time before yielding to a way less busy street that doesn’t deserve its green light). If I approached the light when it had been green for awhile, I prepared myself to look in the rearview mirror to see which cars would pass through the intersection with the bright flash that meant they’d been gotten by The Man.

I never ever ever again entered that intersection when the light was yellow (much to the dismay of the masochists behind me).

Well. Since that experience, I’ve complained and complained that those damn cameras cause traffic accidents and other mayhem (which, according to research, appears to be the case). But! I’ve also been careful with the red lights. I look for cameras, and I actually yield on yellow.

I never noticed this until a couple weeks ago when Austin announced it would stop issuing tickets as a result of these cameras (the city apparently read those same studies about traffic accidents). “Yay,” I said, “Common sense prevails. It’s so nice to live in a city that recognizes that these things cause accidents” (and war, famine, and baby stealing).

And then I started driving in a world free from the worry of being sent a bill for $50 with a photograph of my happy ass driving through a red light.

I’ve noticed over these last few weeks that the rules that govern this new (old) world involve my hitting the gas instead of the brake on yellow. Umm, oops.

Bad. (Not bad like one of those people who sleep through the light change and then run through the light into oncoming traffic and decapitate someone, but still, bad.)

*****

On another note. I just saw PJ Harvey on David Letterman. She looks phenomenal. She’s been around awhile, so I thought she’d be all haggard, but no way. She looks and sounds great.

(In case you’re wondering, I’ll save you the wiki google: She’s 39. :))