Life's too short

Yesterday was the first day this year I really noticed tons of flowers blooming in our yard and on Main Street. After a few unseasonably warm days that teased us earlier this month -- and the crushing cold spell that followed -- yesterday felt like the start of the real thing, a promise that'd be kept.

I took a half-day and went into the city for the afternoon, and would have loved to wander around soaking in the sun in Central Park or something, but unfortunately was in town for not one but two memorial services. A friend at work lost her mom earlier this week, so I went to the afternoon service in Brooklyn before heading back downtown for an evening service for a beloved college professor.

My friend's mom was 80, and she'd been in and out of hospitals and nursing homes for the last several months. But even though her death was expected -- a blessing, even -- and her loved ones had had the time to come to terms with its inevitability, to say their goodbyes, and to make sure they said everything they'd wanted to say before she died, their pain was palpable. The family agonized, still, over whether they'd done the right thing in stopping treatment; my friend's stepdad looked lost and forlorn, like he still couldn't quite believe it. He kept going over to the open casket to touch his wife's hand, and it broke my heart. She was his whole world, his whole life, and the decades together aren't enough. Objectively, 80 years is a long time, but when you lose the person you love the most in the world, it's not enough. It's never enough.

My professor was 64, and his death was sudden, totally unexpected. No one had time to say their goodbyes while he was still living, so yesterday's service was their opportunity to do so. His agent, his editor, friends and former students made beautiful, honest tributes, and many expressed how pissed off they were that he'd been taken from this world so soon. His son, who's in the military and is also an actor, was the last speaker. He was funny and sweet, and his mannerisms -- the way he cocked his head and knitted his eyebrows -- reminded me so much of his dad. He talked about leaving behind letters for his family while he was in Iraq, in case he didn't make it home. He never really got to tell his dad what was in the letter.

He closed with a slideshow of a lifetime of photos, set to music that his parents liked to dance to in their kitchen.

The service really did feel like a celebration of life, of a life well-lived. My professor, of course, had to deal with bureaucratic nonsense at work, rejection from editors, a senseless war that put his son's life in danger. But he took the bad in stride and focused on the good: reveling in the love of family; being a good friend and mentor; writing as best he could about the stuff he thought mattered; playing with his dogs on the beach during vacations in Maine. The stuff of photographs and memories.

This quote from Erma Bombeck keeps popping into my head: "Life's too short to eat brown bananas." It's a little twee, but it rings true. There's a lot of crap in life that we have to deal with -- go to work, pick up after the dog, side the house -- but here's to making the most of the stuff over which we do have some control. Because life really is too short.

Deaf ears

I'm having a moment of being the tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear me. I'm impossibly frustrated with a person at work -- outside of our organization, ostensibly a "partner" -- who just refuses to play nicely with others.

Every time I work with him, he pulls the same crap: we agree to a particular plan of action, with specific boundaries and expectations, and we all feel satisfied that we're on the same page and things are going swimmingly. And then, without fail, he goes and does whatever the hell he wants to do, discussions and agreements and mutual respect be damned.

Minnams has worked with this guy, too, and knows my pain all too well; she just popped into my office as I was firing off an irate email to him, reminding him that he was not abiding by the ground rules we'd laid out last week. So I vented to her about what a pain in the ass he is, and how typical, and I'm telling him he can't pull this crap anymore.

And Minnams just sort of stared at me, a faint smirk playing on her lips and I said, "I know, I know. It's not going to change anything. But can't I just send it to make myself feel better?"

But, as usual, Minnams is probably right: it wouldn't make me feel better. I'd get a hollow "mea culpa" and a false promise that he'll do the right thing from here on out, and then he'd again just go ahead and do whatever he wants, and I'd get mad all over again. And as long as my boss and my boss's boss keep wanting to work with him and as long as it's politically beneficial to keep this guy around, he'll keep doing it, and my mid-level ass isn't gonna be able to do anything about it but post a rant on the Internet. Which has been surprisingly cathartic, but the whole situation still makes me cranky.

Procrastination

I have two big things to get done for work this week. I've known for literally a month that I need to get these things to my boss on Friday; he's been remarkably clear and consistent in "No extensions, no excuses" mantra on this one. I've blocked off big chunks of time on my calendar to devote to finishing these projects; I've promised myself every day for the last week and a half that I wouldn't leave the office until I finished one of them. And where am I? Half-done with both, and half-done with about five other things that I'm working on. It's not even that they're especially hard or complicated projects. I don't know what's up with me; I just cannot muster the focus or mental energy required to finish these things.

I don't know when I turned into a procrastinator; when I was a kid, I always did my homework the minute I got home from school. There was no arguing or negotiating or snacking; I just did it, and I enjoyed having it out of the way before dinner. And even in college, I remember during my semester abroad junior year, when everyone else was scrambling to get their final papers done and fighting over the four computers for 25 students, I was drinking my cider and doing quiz night at the pub, because I was all done.

But by senior year, I was definitely the one in the computer lab at four in the morning, or 10 minutes before class started, or whatever. I don't know what happened to cause me to be truly deadline-driven (really, until grad school, the notion of "you'll need as much time as you're given" in relation to deadlines was preposterous to me), but I seem not to be able to get away from it.

The biggest challenge here, aside from the obscene amount of time I know I waste by not just sitting my ass down and cranking something out, is that the Smelmooo is the exact opposite of a procrastinator, and it's infuriating to him that I'm so last-minute about everything.

Birthday present for my nephew's party on Saturday at noon? Purchased on Friday night; wrapped on Saturday morning (at which point I realized we were out of proper kids' wrapping paper, and I ended up decorating my own, which was fun, but not so much an efficient use of time).

IRA contribution for 2005? Will probably be overnighted on April 14th.

Work projects due on Friday? Led to a huge amount of mindless web surfing last week and obsessive e-mail checking today, and sucked up a bunch of family time yesterday.

So I understand why it's frustrating to the hubby, and it's frustrating to me, but I simply can't bring myself to fix it right now. Another time.

Trivial and unimportant

I'm currently, inexplicably fascinated by/obsessed with the following:

-- The whole Isaac Hayes/South Park thing. I thought it was fairly clear-cut: he left because of that episode that dissed Scientology, and then the show shot back and it was pretty awesome, end of story. But now I'm hearing that Isaac Hayes actually had a stroke and that's why he left, and that some other Scientology people actually put out a false statement attributed to Hayes. What? WHAT?! That is so crazy, and now I feel doubly bad for Isaac Hayes if this latest is true.

-- The revolving door of models on Deal or No Deal. I know, I know: there are so many things wrong with that sentence I don't even know where to start. But except for a few long-timers (Leyla, Donna), there's huge turnover. What happened to the Smelmooo's beloved Tameka (who we thought was in it for the long haul since she's the holder of Case #1 on the play-along-at-home segment) in the last episode?!

-- The wealth of incriminating information one can find on Friendster and MySpace. It's just startling to me how naked people will be when their moms or their third grade teachers or whoever can stumble across it and think worse of them.

-- The phrase, "Save the drama for your mama." Sharico's friend said it on Wednesday and I've been loving it ever since, although I've not really had an opportunity to use it, which is ultimately a good thing.

-- The You Tube web site, where you can find boatloads of clips, but my favorites are all these ones from Sesame Street, including ones I'd loved but forgotten, like The Alligator King and His Seven Sons; The Ladybug Picnic; Teeny Little Superguy; Lovely Eleven Morning; and R.E.M.'s "Furry Happy Monsters" segment. And, oh my goodness, some guy's home movie of himself doing Captain Vegetable! That's kind of awesome. And it's always good to stumble upon someone even weirder than I am.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh....

After a long and stressful day (and a long week; how is it not Friday yet?!), I just booked a weekend getaway for the Smelmooo and me. We're not going for another two months (the first free weekend we have -- yikes), but already I'm feeling more relaxed, and happy to have it on the calendar.

I think that I'm a person who needs to have a vacation looming at all times; even if it's months away, as long is it's something to look forward to, I'm good, but the second it's over, I'm desperate for the next opportunity to hit the road. Good times.

A real wild child. Not.

So it's Sharico's birthday today, her 29th (happy birthday, Sharico!), and I'm going out on a school night to help her celebrate tonight, which is totally unlike me, because I'm normally nodding off on the couch by 9 or 10 and dead asleep in bed by 11. But it's a special occasion, and it's Sharico, so woohoo!

But if I were really fun, I'd be in Orlando with Minnams today. She's there for a work meeting, with mostly people I know because I used to work with them, but because I now work in a different area I can't so much justify tagging along for the meeting and expensing it. But before the meeting starts with dinner tonight, Minnams planned an outing to Universal Studios to ride the rides, and offered to let me crash with her at her hotel tonight, and even said she'd pay for my ticket to the park if I paid my airfare.

Which was a really hard offer to refuse, especially because I've never ridden the rides at Universal and the Smelmooo is not so much a thrill rides guy, so it's unlikely that I'll be going there anytime soon. It's not, like, my dream vacation to go there, but I think it'd be fun for a day and a relatively inexpensive plane ticket.

But I wouldn't have wanted to leave the day after the Smelmooo got back from his California trip; and even though I found flights for less than $200, it's still a lot to drop on a 22-hour trip; and I have a big work thing tomorrow and I didn't want to worry about making it back in time and being tired from the plane. So I declined, and then I ended up being glad I declined because Sharico's school-night birthday party materialized and I wouldn't want to miss it.

But I'm still just a little jealous that Minnams is there without me, and felt so loved when one of the other people she's there with emailed me yesterday with a last-ditch, "Are you sureyou won't come?!"

But I'm glad I'm here; I have a big, much-needed chunk of time this morning to catch up on work, and I'm so happy that the Smelmooo is home (as is Tucker, who was all lovey-dovey with both of us this morning). Just sitting around and catching up and getting ready for work together made me so impossibly happy, and there was nowhere in the world I'd rather have been this morning.

Pet therapy

I recently heard about someone who brings her dog with her to therapy. Not an animal therapist for the dog, but to her psychologist or whatever for herself. The dog apparently helps her with her own therapy. I don't know -- I think I'd not be too psyched to be the next patient on that couch (although better a dog than a cat, for me; I'd be dying of an allergy attack, and isn't that something the therapist ought to be concerned about?).

Anyway, over the weekend I realized because of my dog that I probably need therapy (I'm not sure if I need therapy because of him, or if my relationship with him has just illuminated for me that I have global Issues). Tucker hates it when the Smelmooo is not around, and he is a huge attention whore when it's just the two of us. I think it's worse on the weekends because I'm physically in the house more, but not spending all of my time with him, and he feels neglected and pissed.

Which, this weekend, he chose to point out by: (1) peeing on the rug, which he hasn't done in like six months and (2) chewing up my brand-new belt, which I'd not even worn yet (this one is my own damn fault for leaving it on the floor, but he hasn't chewed on our stuff in literally months. I'll also point out that his collar was on the floor in the same room as the belt, but that was untouched). He did both of these things on separate occasions when I was working in the office (where he's not allowed). God, that's like your kid drawing you a picture of your family and you're not in it, and you ask why, and he says, "Because you're never at home." Right through the heart.

So tomorrow I'm putting him in day care so he can run around with doggie friends, because I feel horribly guilty for neglecting him, and then I worry that all of my priorities are all out of whack, and then I shake my head at myself because he's a dog and he should not have this level of control over me, and I should really stop being sympathetic and just punish him without a lick of guilt or remorse because he ate my damn belt. See? Issues.

On an unrelated note, I was listening to Wait, Wait,...Don't Tell Me in the car yesterday (yes, sans Tucker) and one of the questions was about how Germany is trying to curb its nursing shortage by recruiting prostitutes to become nurses. I'd like to somehow incorporate that tidbit into a Crazy People-style ad campaign in the U.S. This my be my fantasy project for the week, while I ignore my dog.

Saturday in the suburbs

Some random thoughts from and inspired by my day in the suburbs (I probably spend 95% of my Saturdays in the suburbs, but this one felt particularly, acutely surburban):

-- First, it was mostly a solo day, because at 3:45 a.m. the Smelmooo and I woke up and drove to the airport for his 5:30 a.m. flight. I was delighted to discover a billboard for Doggy Steps on the Turnpike on my way home.

-- I think I'd like to write a short story or something -- maybe a sociological study, I don't know -- about the 10-items-or-fewer checkout line and what a person's purchases there reveal. Today, I was in that line, purchasing a can of water chestnuts for the kick-ass stirfry I made myself tonight -- the Smelmooo HATES water chestnuts, and most of the veggies I like in my stirfry, so I completely forgot to get them during my main grocery store trip this morning. During that trip, I was the most bipolar I remember being in a long time at the grocery store: tons and tons of veggies and good-for-me stuff, but also tons of crap, I think because I'm trying to compensate for the lack of chocolate and ice cream. At the mall today -- more on that later -- I nearly bought a Cinnabon on three separate occasions. In addition to the water chestnuts, I had a last-minute moment of weakness and got a pack of Starbursts at the check-out.

Anyway, I was behind a guy with three items: (1) a VHS copy of Friday the 13th; (2) a VHS copy of Murders in the Rue Morgue and (3) a giant vat of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. Behind me was a woman with six different pre-prepared meals (fried chicken, pasta salad, that kind of thing) and two protein shake mixes. I once saw a saleswoman I recognized from Ann Taylor Loft at Wegmans and all she had in her little basket was eight Lean Cuisines and a case of Diet Coke.

Anyway, I find this fascinating, and I think I'd like to spend some time just observing the purchases in the express check-out lines and making up stories about the customers.

-- While I ate my kick-ass stirfry, I drank a third of a bottle of wine and may as a result be just a teensy bit loopy. I think it doesn't count as drinking alone because Tucker's with me, even though he's not drinking.

-- This morning, I watched the movie "Just Friends," which was as "eh" as you might expect. Most surprising element: Amy Smart didn't get naked. Most obvious un-made joke: Someone describing a new singer to Ryan Reynolds calls her something to the effect of "the most pissed-off female singer in a decade," but does not make an explicit reference to Alanis. I can't decide whether the intimation was funny because it was subtle or if it was so subtle it wasn't even intentionally funny.

-- "Just Friends" was another movie that rags on Jersey: Ryan Reynolds grows up in NJ, can't wait to escape it and tells all his West Coast buddies how unappealing the thought of spending Christmas in Jersey is. And I'm normally very protective of my home state, but today I sort of agreed with the assessment that it's a congested hell-hole of obnoxiousness. I went to the mall, which was mistake number one, because that's where Bad New Jersey is most likely to manifest itself. Inconsiderate drivers in the parking lot; oblivious meanderers in the corridors; people who are downright rude to their family members and total strangers. There was a one-day sale at Macy's, which compounded the nastiness even further. The woman behind me in line, although perfectly pleasant in general, was getting a huge kick out of tormenting her daughter, for whom she'd just bought a prom dress. The daughter had brought her boyfriend along, and I thought it was brave of the guy and cool of the mom to endure that, but the daughter was such a bratty little drama queen, and she and the mom were just feeding off each other. The dress was really cute, actually: a mix of pinky-red and reddish-pink colors with a little ribbon around the waist. But the mom and daughter got into a huge fight over the color of the ribbon (I'd call it red, but refused to when the mom held it in front of me and asked me to take her side) and the appropriate accessories for the dress. Then the mom said she was going to borrow the dress for a wedding this fall, and the daughter nearly put out my eardrums with her twelve-syllable, "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!" Although I guess this is not just a Jersey thing -- have you seen My Super Sweet 16? That's what it reminded me of.

-- Apparently, one of the AAA baseball teams in the area is looking to recruit local talent to sing the national anthem at games. And they were holding auditions, I guess, in the middle of the mall (this, I think, is just Jersey). By the time I left, they were on contestant #79, and they didn't appear to be finished. Seventy-nine renditions of The Star-Spangled Banner by 12:30 in the afternoon. I really felt bad for the employees of the shoe store right across from the makeshift stage. And I felt like a bad American when, halfway across the mall, I heard one of the contestants hit a particularly bad note, and I cringed, and the two women walking toward me had similarly pained expressions on their faces, and then all three of us burst out laughing.

-- Because the Smelmooo is away, Tucker refused even to walk to the end of the driveway with me. I like that he's happiest when our whole little family is together, but sheesh. He's so stubborn, and such a pansy. So I walked to town on my own, which was lovely, but it made me miss my guys.

-- Unrelated to today, specifically, but I'm so sucking in the NCAA pool. SUCKING. I can't believe Syracuse got knocked out so quickly. Bastards.

-- I spent a good deal of time today flipping through crappy movies on cable, and watching snippets or even huge chunks. I saw parts of "The Shape of Things" that I've never seen before, and I still hate it and think that Paul Rudd's acting isn't so sharp in it, and then I saw the end of "Little Black Book" and it seemed to echo the end of "The Shape of Things," oddly enough. I also caught the last 10 or so minutes of "Dave," which I remember liking, but I didn't remember very much about it, and I was startled by the very ending, not having seen the whole thing in probably 10 years. Was the real President's marriage just a farce? Is that the deal?

-- I finally made a workout playlist for Ichapod (our iPod, which I thought the Smelmooo would've taken for his trip), because I hate when I'm rocking out (as I do) on the elliptical or treadmill and then having it hit some slow crappy song mid-workout. But I realized that I'm not quite sure how to transfer it from the computer to the actual hardware, and I'm totally That Girl, that technologically ignorant girl who depends on her husband to do all of that complicated computer stuff.

I'm fiddling cautiously now -- I'd rather not have it transfer than have all of our music wiped out of iTunes or something -- but that's sort of the bottom line: I'm fairly well screwed without the Smelmooo. I do okay, but I'm much better with him, and I already can't wait for him to be back home.

How'd that happen?!

Every once in a while, it hits me that I'm a grown-up, with a husband and a house and a job and a dog, and I think, "Holy crap. How'd that happen?!"

It's not in a bad way that I think this; I'm really happy with the life choices I've made, and I'm not lamenting my lost youth or anything. I just don't really think of myself as a grown-up. And then, on a day like today, it hits me like a ton of bricks.

I'm working from home, which I love on a day when I have hardly any meetings and tons of writing to do. But my primary reason for working from home is that I was waiting for our new washing machine to arrive. And it's now installed, and I'm running an empty load to get any residual gunk out, and I'm disproportionately happy about this shiny new appliance in our basement, and it makes me feel just like a 1950s housewife (what was that movie with Julianne Moore where she enters all the contests? Oh, it was like "The Contest Winner from Sherwood, Ohio" or somesuch. Like her, even though I didn't see the movie).

In addition to the washing machine, we're also having like 5 contractors come by today to give us quotes for siding the house. Which is such an expensive endeavor that I almost feel like we may as well just buy a new house, but that's not a particularly grown-up attitude.

So anyway, I like life in our little suburban town; I like being married and having a dog; I like that I work, even though I don't like my job right now nearly as much as my husband or our house or our dog. But my perception of people generally who have all of these thngs doesn't match my perception of myself, which is that I'm pretty young and figuring things out as I go and basically faking the grown-up thing as best I can. But you know, the glee over the washing machine and the expense of the siding make me feel a heck of a lot closer to the real thing.

I'm so predictable

Part of my job is basically being a ghostwriter. Not like my high school English teacher was a ghostwriter for the Baby-Sitters Club books, but writing articles or letters or whatever. The other day, I drafted a letter on behalf of one of our senior people that I thought was actually pretty fun to do, and I thought I'd hit his tone and his voice pretty well. I love knocking off assignments like this, because I can do them quickly and people are usually grateful for the help.

So anyway, I sent the letter to its author yesterday, and ran into him this morning in the dining room, before I'd checked my email. He stopped me and said, "Hey, did you get my note back on that letter?" and I told him I hadn't yet, and he said that he'd taken a look and made some pretty substantive edits that he'd returned to me, but that he thought it'd now be okay.

I felt horrible, and told him I was sorry he'd had to take the time to re-write it, and thinking how much I wished he'd just punted it back to me and told me to re-do it, rather than taking it on himself when he has a hundred other things to do, and I was kicking myself for not having had a more substantive conversation with him at the outset about how he wanted to approach the piece, and once I got back to my desk it took me like 10 minutes to open the email from him.

Which basically said, "Terrific -- let's get it out as is."

And for a few seconds I was confused as hell, and then I realized he'd just been trying to get a rise out of me in the dining room (mission accomplished there, boss man). And I realize objectively that it was kind of funny, and that I'm an impossibly easy target because I'm so nakedly neurotic about everything, and this guy so enjoys capitalizing on that.

So I printed out the letter and brought it up for him to sign, and he apologized -- sort of -- for stressing me out, but he couldn't help pointing out that perhaps it was good for me to get a dose of this kind of therapy once in a while to help keep my neuroses in check.

I hate that he's right, and that I'm that ridiculously easy to figure out.

Weird things stick in my brain

Early March is a little touch-and-go, weather-wise, in Jersey. It can be sweater weather one day and snow a foot the next. Today, though, and supposedly this whole weekend, it's gorgeous out, more like early May than March. We are supposed to hit 70 today. 70 degrees. Fahrenheit! That, coupled with the staying light out later, is elevating my mood considerably at the end of a long-ass week.

Anyway, though, as I was pulling into work this morning, I thought, "Hey! March 10 was also a Friday in 2000, and it was unseasonably warm that day, just like this."

I have always had a weird thing with this, "Do you remember what happened exactly a year ago today?!" and I'm almost the only one who does, because other people make room in their brains for things that actually matter, whereas I just harbor a lot of random nonsense.

Anyway, March 10 is my niece Julia's birthday (and I'm secretly very, very sad that I wasn't invited to her ice skating party tomorrow, but that's another story), so the date sticks in my head. So March 10, 2000 was her first birthday, which is part of why I remember the date, but it was also the day I got pulled over for the first (and to date, only, knock on wood) time, and I'm still bitter that they actually gave me a ticket the very first time I was pulled over.

And I'd already started that day off bitter; I had had a huge fight with the boyfriend the night before, over what I have no idea, but I was still enraged when I woke up, but it was sunny and beautiful outside, so I went for a run outside to get it all out. I didn't usually exercise in the morning then; I usually was at work by like 8 or 8:15, but I was so pissed off that I just didn't care, and I ran and ran and ran and I left for work around 8:30.

My office has its very own traffic light at the end of the driveway, which forms a T with a two-way traffic road; there's traffic only perpendicular to our entrance. I make a right directly from the road into our building's long, winding driveway. And on March 10, 2000, at 8:40 in the morning, I was maybe 50 yards into the driveway when I heard the siren and saw the lights behind me. I was worried, a little, that one of my co-workers was hurt or something, or our building had been robbed, or maybe someone had just inadvertently called 911. But when I pulled over to get out of the way, I realized the police car was stopping behind me. What? What the hell? I was on private property, and I was definitely not speeding. I was totally startled and confused.

So I rolled down my window and the cop told me I hadn't made a complete stop at the light when I turned into the driveway. And how could I prove I had (which I'm pretty sure I did, although floating through my head was, "I, like, totally paused!!"), when he said I hadn't? I kind of figured I'd get off with a warning regardless, since I'd never ever been pulled over before, and it was at my place of business, for pete's sake, and dozens of my co-workers were driving by us verrrrrrrrrryyyy slowly as they made their way to the parking lot; wouldn't that humiliation be a sufficient deterrent to future rolling stops?

Apparently not, because he walked away with my license and came back with a ticket, and only then did I start protesting, and at that point he told me it was too late, and there are tons of accidents on that road. And even though it'd been drilled into me all my life that you show police officers respect, I could not help myself from snotting, "Yeah, I'm really sure that there are tons of my co-workers crashing into each other as they're coming into work in the morning." Which is totally unlike me, but it was such a crappy day, in such sharp contrast to the perfect weather (I was wearing a short-sleeve shirt and no jacket, and part of why I remember that that day was a Friday is because I was in business casual).

I pulled into the parking lot and hauled ass to my office so I could just break down, sobbing uncontrollably and wondering if the fact that the cop had written my firt name as "Tnagent" on the ticket might invalidate it (answer: no).

My sister-in-law (Julia's mom) is a lawyer, so she went with me to my court appearance (argument to the court: "She's adorable, and she's such a good kid. She's never even been pulled over before, and look at her! Look how cute she is!"; fee: a hot fudge sundae at McDonald's afterward)and got my ticket knocked down, but I still ended up with insurance points with the reduced penalty.

My boyfriend and I broke up a few months later, Julia's now seven-going-on-seventeen, and my insurance went back down, but I'm still working at the end of that same long driveway with the traffic light. And I always, always, always count for five seconds before turning right on red.

I hadn't thought about that day in ages -- it's not like anticipating a wedding anniversary or something, when I actively think about the "a year ago today..." thing. It's weird how the smallest thing can trigger a huge, vivid flood of memories about something fairly inconsequential, and how something that was once such a huge traumatic thing matters so little in the end.

I'm getting dumber

This isn't even a usual, "I'm dumber for having watched Flavor of Love," kind of comment. I think I'm actually getting dumber as I get older. To wit:

1. My parents came down for lunch on Saturday, ostensibly so my dad could help us with our taxes, but really he just flipped through our folder of documents to see that it included all of our stuff, and then he took it home with him to do on his own. I don't think our taxes are particularly complicated this year -- last year, yes, with selling the Smelmooo's place and buying ours and getting married and all -- and we probably could've done them ourselves pretty easily, but I sort of like this tradition with my dad (who likes to flex his accountant muscles every now and then), and they hadn't been to our house in ages, and they were happy to spend time with us. And they loved that we cooked for them, and my mom made a big fuss over how good it was for us to make a nice lunch, but when I pointed out that my mom's made more meals for me than I can count over the years, she said, "Huh. I guess you're right," and that seemed to make her happy, as well.

So everything was going swimmingly until dessert and coffee time. I don't drink coffee; neither does the Smelmooo. We have a coffee maker for guests, but usually they just make it themselves because we figure they're better at it. But I didn't want to ask my dad to make his own coffee when he was already doing our taxes for free, so I followed the instructions about the proper coffee-to-water ratio and hoped for the best.

And then it seemed like nothing was happening -- the On light went off, and there wasn't any noise, but the machine was hot in the back, so I couldn't figure out whey it wasn't working.

And then I realized -- or, I suppose, the Smelmooo realized -- that I'd put the water in the wrong part of the machine, so it wasn't going through the filter into the carafe, because I'd in fact put it directly into the carafe.

My dad and the Smelmooo were mocking me to no end, and my mom reflexively gave the stern, "Hey!!" that comes out whenever someones picking on someone she loves. And then we all looked at her like, "Come on -- she put the coffee directly into the carafe. She deserves it!" and finally even my mom allowed herself a laugh at my expense.


2. During a heated and almost-interminable game of Trivial Pursuit '90s edition on Saturday night, the Smelmooo and I got a question about the former television star who ended up being in Old Navy ads during the '90s. To which I blurted out, "Morgan Freeman!" Luckily, we had generous competitors who accepted Smelmooo's correction to that one.

A Thousand Words

(thanks for the smile, Bowman!)

Doogie

In seventh grade, a new family moved into the house down the street, and the younger son was in my class at school. He was kind of skinny and smart and nerdy in an in-your-face, overly political, combative kind of way (whereas I was just nerdy in a quietly-reading-in-the-corner-not-bothering-anyone kind of way). He got picked on quite a bit (and he totally picked on me all the time, and I only found out when he invited me to his semi-formal in ninth grade that it was in the "I'll pull your hair because I like" you sort of way, because he really was so awful to me that ran home crying at least once every few weeks), and usually began with, "Hey DOOGIE!" because he was sort of physically and socially reminiscent of Doogie Howser, M.D.

So I sort of wonder what's happened to the neighbor kid, whether he's become super-cool like Doogie eventually did. Seriously, when the Smelmooo and I saw NPH in Cabaret a few years ago, we were like, holy crap, how is Doogie Howser the emcee in Cabaret?! And then, all of a sudden, he was cool: he was in Harold and Kumar, and now in How I Met Your Mother, which I've had sort of lukewarm feelings about, but the Barney character -- and NPH's performance -- has been consistently awesome whenever I've caught the show.

And I just saw this morning that Barney has a blog, which is super-fun, and I love this most recent entry on the '90s, and I sort of wish it were my job to write Barney's blog.

Someone once told me I look like Wanda from Doogie Howser, which I did not take as a compliment, but now I wonder if she's turned out as well as NPH. Uhhhhh, yeah...not so much, at least in terms of her Hollywood gigs.

Finally.

Sebastian Bach + Hollaback Girl = Awesome TV.

Thank you, Gilmore Girls!