I keep having this dream…it’s one of those anxiety dreams where you’re running around trying to get everything done, and someone keeps throwing a monkeywrench in your shit. They’re either telling you you’re doing it wrong, or you need to do more. Then it gets really blatant and I’m standing in front of a firehose that’s getting turned up, little by little. And the wielder of the firehose is my thesis advisor, with her sweet Newfie accent, saying, “How’s that, then, SJ? Can I turn it up a little more?” My feet start to slide because I’m wearing cheap dress flats.

Okay, so this summer’s not nearly that bad. I think I’m just freaking out because my thesis proposal will be finished today or tomorrow, and I feel like it’s gotten away from me. My advisor has found funding and people for me to interview, but it’s a totally different project now. Suddenly I’m writing a report of my findings, and journal article, instead of a proper thesis. This is actually better, I think, as far as getting into the PhDude club goes, but none of it is what I expected.

I’m okay. I just have to flounder piteously for a minute.

In Other, Non-Neurotic, News

Okay, I’m lame. I missed the sponsor letter deadline thing for the Blogathon. Perhaps I should not have been Blogathonning while up to my hips in school. Anyway. I blogged for Bookaid, and according to the website thirty British pounds “pays for twenty books for the donkey cart.” How can you not love an organization that donates to a Donkey-Bookmobile?

If you like, you can send them your sponsorship directly. There is a mailing address here, and a secure webform through here. You can also see the donkey cart and find out what happens to your hard-earned dough. And you don’t have to say anything about me or the blogathon. And if you don’t do it at all I certainly won’t hold it against you. Or even know.

As penance for my sin of procrastination, I am going to donate ten dollars on my own behalf, har har har. And now I am off to whip myself, right after I don my hairshirt.

“Don:” totally underused. I wonder if you can “don” oven mitts? Bandaids? A bad attitude? “Don we now our bad manners.” Hmm…perhaps I should go back to bed for a while.

Update!

5:57 pm: Started drinking. Say, I can drink cranberry vodkas AND look for citations! Yes, things are looking mush better now. What was I fretting about this morning, anyway? Ooh, er.

Drunken Update!

6:56 pm: It turns out that chickens like tabouleh!

So, my sister Morgan and I went camping last week. Camping in Washington is great, because there are still less mosquitoes than in the Wisconsin camping trips of my childhood. Just to be safe, I brought the giant can-o-DEET, because I am done reproducing anyhow (WARNING! May melt nylon, small pets, and many brain cells.)

This is the first time I have soley cooked over a fire. It’s pretty empowering. I came back and saw Emeril trying to BAM IT UP on a stove and I just laughed at him. Controlled fires, food that is evenly cooked on all sides and in the center, and non-warped cookware are clearly for wusses.

I think I had a better time than Morgan did, even though it was her birthday trip. She was pretty out of her element, what with not having music and only sleeping 10 hours a night. By the third day her poor cold miserable ass was dragging, and that made me realize that teenagers really need their fourteen hours of sleep.

One thing I forgot: it is unwise to leave a major city if you have pink hair. I thought I was all free here, with my pink and orangeness, but what happens is that you actually become a prisoner to Liberal Land. This is what happens on the Outside: children are shushed in your presense, some people won’t talk to you at all, and some people just say really stupid things.

Man with Interesting Teeth and Mullet at Gas Station, smiling devilishly: “Wow, that’s some bright hair you got there.”

Me: “Yes, it makes it much easier for my HUSBAND to spot me in a crowd.”

We had some good tuna, bought right off of a dock. It only rained a little. We hung out at the beach and had long sessions reading All the Presidents’ Men together. The passenger window got stuck partway down on the second day, so Morgan rode back with the window open, and we blasted the heat.

I got over my fear of porta-potties, and Morgan found hers. I am sympathetic; I think having a spider fall at you as you are unrolling the toilet paper would freak me out too. Much PBR was consumed, and after we ran out we bought tallboys of Budwiser. I would declare the trip a success. I think I am going again next year.

Too Much: The surfer in the next spot telling us to “get some exercise.” My real life is jogging and little girlie and school, so of course I am going to drink and smoke all week.

Not Enough: Money for seafood. Sun. Blankets.

Perfect: The amount of beer and Justin Timberlake in US magazine.

Hello! Thanks to everyone who looked at my Blogathon, pledged during it, or sent me supportive emails.

I am terribly busy right now; my boss thinks it would be “neat” for me to get manuscript formatting experience, in addition to the database work I’m doing. And I am trying to get ready to go camping.

I’m glad I don’t have a laptop…I have had this vision of myself in my tent poking away at the tiny keys…I will escape!

Pledgers: Hang on. I am still trying to figure how donations work.

Blogathon Hi-Lites:

Sup, humpers. My contribution to the Blogathon is over here. You can’t donate any more money though, because my donation link isn’t working.

Frannie says: you may leave comments on this entry if you wish, since I don’t have them in the other place. Or get in touch. I will answer all viewer mail.

Remember: I will be Blogathonning starting this Saturday the 26th, 6:00 am, Pacific. That means one post every half hour until 6am Sunday. Yeah, I know, you’ll be asleep. That’s okay, you Bastards. You can look at the archives on Monday when you’re at work, for I am moving this giant server-space-suck elsewhere.

Come and see me Saturday night, when you stumble home drunk, and send me a cheering email. I will be posting candid photos that will not be here come Monday. Wink, wink.

Like:

-Sleeping-cat-on-sleeping-cat action!

-48th coffee-induced trip to the bathroom!

-“Do I have weird toes?”!

-And much, much more!

POOR OLD MR. HUSBAND. He has no idea what I’m up to most of the time. I have two bosses named Karen and my schemes change faster than Melanie Griffith’s profile. I would be confused if I were him, too.

Mr. Husband is also a schemer; unfortunately, his schemes are less realistic than mine. I scheme to run for student office, or to get a professor to write me a recommendation. He schemes and schemes and schemes…and that’s it.

I have never seen anyone so excited to get credit card offers in the mail.

“Ooh, look! They want to offer me a $20,000 loan! Now I can open that jazz club/coffee shop/iguana ranch I always wanted!”

To be honest, the whole business makes me nervous. He is not a person known for his follow-through. He has attempted college many times and gets bored after one quarter. We are currently living in a half-finished house that he has not worked on in almost a year. I can still see exposed wires. I am not going to let this man take out a business loan.

Like most people, he doesn’t like to be reminded of his foibles. I don’t like hearing about what a bitchy loudmouth I am, and sometimes over-sensitive to boot, so I understand. Instead of saying, “Gee, honey, do you really think you’ll be able to follow through with that business plan?” I give him facts, and places to get started on research, like the library. Dreamers hate reality. I wouldn’t bring it up at all, if it weren’t for the fact that my financial future is tied to his.

So I sneak. And am realistic. And bite my tongue when he has found a way to become a “millionaire by the time he’s 40.”

My sneaking goes like this: I get the mail every day, and weed out all of his credit card and loan offers. Sometimes I fail, and he gets it first. He was reading one today while we were driving to lunch.

“Wow!” he said. “My credit must be getting better because I am finally getting credit card offers again.”

“Or,” I said gently, “They are sending them because you have bad credit.”

He thought for a minute.

“Nah, that stuff’s fallen off my record by now.”

I love him dearly, but he should not open his own business, or take on $20,000+ in debt while I’m in school. What he really needs to do is not work at all, and just practice his horn. That’s what he really wants. I think he will be a great home-daddy, as long as he can play a few gigs.

The light goes on for my newer readers: “Ah, he’s a musician.” Alas.

“Just hang on,” I keep saying. “When I finish school you can stop working and do whatever you want. Hang on!”

“Look!” says Mr. Husband. “An instrument repair course, and it only takes nine months!”

That’s about six months too long, sadly.

So. Shopping. I copped out today…I was supposed to go and find a new pair of jeans. Jeans shopping always makes me vacillate between depressed (flub, florescent lights) giddy (today is the day I will find a pair of jeans that will last forever! Solve all my problems! Love me!), and horrified. The horror: stone-washed is in again. And someone told me that Halle Berry has a non-ironic mullet. The fuck?

I have this special problem, and I think I

Ooh, a sober entry, and SHHHPAF! El Peniso is gone. Sorry peeps, I’ve been busy. The O-Meter will be moved to a museum soon, since I don’t want you to have to wait for it to fall off my page.

And now a question: what up, middle-aged women? Does financial security and/or living a for twenty years longer than me mean that you are suddenly allowed to be up in my biz? Is it just the ones without children? Many middle-aged women in this town have children Frannie’s age, and they sure as Hell don’t have the energy or inclination to criticize me.

I have been kibbitzed-upon (it’s a phrase now) by lone middle-aged women three times this week, and I managed to keep my cool until the third time. I was standing in line at QFC and Mr. Husband and I were about to pay for a couple of quick snacks. Frannie picked up one of those ridiculous balloons that are the same size as she is and are always shaped like a cake or a frog or the giant head of John Travolta. Children cannot resist these, and they always cost like, twelve dollars.

The lady, who was wearing the same pink frosty lipstick that they all are right now, which makes me think it’s some kind of hip single middle-aged lady thing to do this summer, took the balloon’s anchoring clip out of Frannie’s hand and clipped it back to the rack, saying, “I really don’t think you should be playing with this balloon. I think you should put it back now,” very loudly and at us so we would know how ill-behaved our child is.

I walked to Frannie who was all of two feet away from me, and took her hand while giving the lady the fakest smile possible. I said, “We can handle her thanks,” in that way that is Parent for “if you take anything from my child or even talk to her I will shove this tin of Altoids up your nose.” I tugged Fenchie away from her and did not make eye contact again.

I heard the lady indignantly asking the checker as we walked away, “Was I being rude?” Yes, you were, actually.

Before I spawned and inflicted the world with my own worm-cuddling, hamster-bonking, restaurant-dancing snot machine, I hated every kid I saw. Oh great, I thought. Here comes another one. We are at a grocery store where every item containing even trace amounts of sugar is placed at three feet or lower, and the child is touching and moving everything around. Where is this child’s mother? Ah, in line, paying for groceries and not paying attention, and with giant bafs under her eyes to boot. The least that woman could do is take care of her appearance. I really thought like this.

Subtitled, Paybacks Are A Bitch

Now things are different. I have a child who has painted a mirror with her own excrement, and she is actually one of the good ones. No, I’m serious. Most of the time she doesn’t do stuff like that and even gives me hugs without prodding sometimes. But it has given me some perspective so that touching a balloon at a grocery store is no big deal.

I try to keep it in balance, however. Public high crimes include: interfering with other people, in restaurants or elsewhere. I know no one likes their seat kicked or to have noodles thrown in their hair. Yelling for no good reason is not cool. Frannie gets the death look and the pointing finger of doom. It turns out I was born to give the Mom Look.

Unacceptable behaviors also include: abusing a friend’s animals (and my own), and by this I mean poking, tormenting, and riding, not just kicking them or whatever. Breaking or eating things in stores without permission is also out.

This doesn’t mean this isn’t going to happen. God, I wish that was the case. But I will try my hardest to keep up my end of the deal. Which means you keep up yours: quit looking at me like that!

I am sorry I was such a brat before I got knocked up. I am sorry I bratted on about how superior childless people are, and how irritating children are. I forgot that someone used to listen to me scream at them and fixed me deluxe omelettes that I never ate or even looked at. I forgot that I had my butt wiped a million times and never said thank you. None of us were perfect children. I just didn’t realize what kind of hard work it was.

Leave me alone, middle-aged ladies. I am doing the best job I can.