Two Years Ago Today

On October 7, 2007, my grandpa on my mom's side, Donald Moore, passed away, early in the morning. Thanks to a very understanding boss and supervisor at the Writers' Program, where I was working at the time, I had spent an entire week with my family by his bedside, waiting for nature to take its course. I finally decided it was time to fly back to California and that morning, while getting ready for my early flight, I got the call from my mom, subdued and resolute, that he had finally passed.

I nodded, a lump in my throat, though she couldn't hear the nod through the phone. "How is Grandma taking it?"

My mom paused.

"She doesn't know yet. No one has woken her up."

My grandma was laying in the hospital bed, as she had done for the last few nights of his life, embracing him as best she could without disturbing the one tube he had inserted into his arm - no food and no fluids, just some morphine for a pleasant send off. And he was dead. But she wouldn't know that until someone woke her up.

I cannot think about this horrible but beautiful moment without getting extremely choked up. It is so tragic to think that someone had to disturb her peace to let her know that her companion of 62 years had slipped away from her. And then I always laugh a little imagining everyone arguing over who had to actually do it, although I can't remember if my mom was alone or if my sister, aunt, or uncle were with her that morning.

My grandma and grandpa were like peanut butter and jelly, only the cutest damn pb & j you ever did see. He was one of the quietest, most introverted people I have ever known, and she is, to this day, one of the most flamboyant, excited, outgoing people I can think of. Yet they went together so well. They would play a game together where she would pretend she had just met him, and call him "Doctor" or "Henry." For their 50th wedding anniversary, I got to make a speech about their "first 50 years" and had the opportunity to interview them (when I say them, it was probably grandma). I learned fascinating things about their early years, such as their Honeymoon wasn't a Honeymoon at all but really a ride on an army bus to Grandpa's next station, while they were in the midst of WWII. I believe that Grandma and her friends came to visit the base at some point as part of a USO effort, and I think it involved an embarrassing song and the wearing of some pantyhose on their heads...

They were so affectionate with one another, even in his last years. He had a rapidly progressing case of Alzheimer's and stopped recognizing a lot of people, but never her, to my knowledge. It was because of the dementia that his passing was probably a blessing, but we knew it would be horrible for Grandma. He had been by her side for 62 years; through wars, economic crises, births of children, grandchildren, graduations, weddings, every little step of life, they had been together. They had trundled along in the motor home from one side of the country to the other, even up to Alaska and back. My grandpa had built not only the house she still lives in, but the famed lake cabin at Loon Lake. His hand prints were everywhere in her life, but he would no longer be there.

I think I understand why they let her sleep a little longer.

Inane Facebook Updating: OMG! I love lunch!

My neighbor, Tiffany, was helping me reorganize my closet this weekend by chatting with me while I folded and sorted (she wasn’t being lazy – this was her job which I had asked her to do and it actually worked very well for me). She entertained me by reading from her iPhone a list of totally inane Facebook updates from a specific friend of hers who apparently updates frequently and mundanely. My favorite was “Just remembered I bought muffins earlier!!! YUM!!!!!”

Now, I think that it’s part of the beauty of FB that you can write whatever you want and you can make a headline out of something seemingly mundane. However, I think that some people do this successfully but realizing the mundane-ness of their update, maybe with a hint of irony, and also, not updating every fricking five seconds about EVERY THING IN THE WORLD THAT HAPPENS TO YOU EVER. I once almost updated that I was proud of myself for remembering that I had taken the vacuum cleaner out and then didn’t trip on it on the way to the bathroom at 3:00 am, but decided against it. It seemed really, really, inane, yet it did pass the golden fb rule test: if a friend of mine had posted something about almost tripping on the vacuum in the middle of the night, I actually would’ve quite enjoyed that little, funny window into their life. So maybe I should post it. But it would seem strange now: Shannon is happy that she remembered just in time the placement of her vacuum so she didn’t trip on it on the way to the bathroom, four months ago.

So I suppose it remains really up to the individual what FB update is really interesting enough to post, and to his or her friends whether or not they give a damn. I probably would err on the side of not censoring ones self.

However, because I am only 1 part Earth Mother and 3 parts Point and Laugh At That Person Who Just Fell Down, I have created this list of hypothetical updates that I think we can all agree should never, ever, be posted. We’ll call this hypothetical over-poster Julie Smith.

Julie Smith is really not happy with her current vitamins. Really, isn’t there something smaller than football she could swallow each day??? Hello????

Julie Smith has a commute, but not to bad of a commute. I guess I should be happy about it cuz some people have to drive, like FAAAAR, yo!

Julie Smith is really excited about omelets today. Why can’t every day be omelet day?

Julie Smith just heard the greatest make-up tip ever. DON’T YOU WISH SHE’D SHARE????

Julie Smith totally loves her podiatrist.

Julie Smith just went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror and her zit is TOTALLY ready to be popped. Can’t wait to get home!!!

Julie Smith can’t believe how temperate it is today.

Julie Smith had a lot of blood in the sink this morning when she flossed.

Julie Smith oh no, TOO MUCH CAKE AT LUNCH!

Julie Smith is SOOO excited about watching Oprah this afternoon!!!

Julie Smith just took a quiz.

Julie Smith just took another quiz.

Julie Smith took about 300 quizzes and really, really wants to share with you what color she is most like, what A-Team member she would be, what 90s song defines her sex life, and what dead baroque musician her mom most looks like.

Julie Smith forgot to feed her goldfish again. OOOPS!!!!!!

Julie Smith is thinking about doing her homework.

Julie Smith someone just took my favorite pair of scissors aaaaak!

Julie Smith IS SOOOOOO BOOOOOORRRRREEEDDDDDD!!!!!

Julie Smith was pronounced dead at 3:51 pm today.

When and when not to take a ritalin vacation

Or

Flap heel toe, shuffle AH-HA!

Sunday, 8/03/09:
For the record, I just walked in my apartment and barked an order at Jason that he must not talk to me until I say that it is ok to. Sorry, Jason. You see, I have the idea for what I want to write in my head right now but I feel much like when I first wake up from a dream and I know I have about 30 seconds to remember the dream before it all slips away, dispersing like morning mist.

I should have taken my ritalin today.

Yet, not taking it gave me a magnificent AH-HA moment where I suddenly remembered an experience from the past and saw it through the eyes of a now-diagnosed with AD/HD present self. (Yet, also, not taking it is frustrating me to tears right now because I’m afraid I’m not going to fully capture my ah-ha moment before the dream slips away.)

So, I went to another tap class today. Since last week’s class was a TEENY bit too easy for me, I decided to take the next level up, which is still called “beginner,” but, since The Edge Performing Arts Center is hard core, is still pretty, uh, hard core. I was hoping it would be the same “whatever!” dude teaching from last week who wore baggy basketball shorts and tap shoes with no socks, but instead I saw a spry young woman who, although she kept complaining that “high school seems so long ago, all of a sudden!” looked about 16. I got to class a half hour early (because you either get really really early or really really late with Shannon) and saw her planning the combination we would work on in class. That was probably a mistake since it looked REALLY complicated but I tried to convince myself that maybe she was just planning a combination for another class or just for fun, like, she was going to dance for her friends at a party later and wanted to come up with something really complcated to impress them.

The class went pretty well for the first half – no, actually, I should say it went pretty well the whole way through, I just had some issues near the end. The steps were honestly not too hard for me and the speed could’ve been dialed back a wee bit for my taste but I made do. The 16-year-old who complained about her impending HS reunion kept reinterating that the important thing was to do the steps at our own pace and not worry about speed so much. As I said, I did pretty well through the warm-up and the across-the-floor combination.

Then we started learning the combination which, again, I could keep up with and made me feel confident. I could even do it rather quickly. Stomp, toe, toe, step; stomp, toe, toe, step; shuffle heel-toe-heel; scuff toe-heel heel, shuffle ball-change. WHEW. Got it. We started out with four counts of eight, went over those a few times, and then move on to the next four counts of eight. As soon as I started committing to memory the next part of the dance, I felt the first part I’d already learn starting to fade form my mind like Marty McFly from the polaroid of the future where he didn’t exist. (You know, in the scene, where he's playing the guitar, and then he looks at his hand and it's starting to disappear...nevermind...) The teacher kept smiling from ear to ear and saying “Got it? Go on?” as she nodded her floppy pony-tail head and I said, weaker and weaker “um..yes…what was the last part with the flap heel toe…um, nevermind…”

As soon as I would learn a new part, it erased more and more from my brain of the beginning of the combination. What I really needed to do was either slow down, do the whole beginning part about 12 more times until it was completely committed to memory and THEN move on, or go back in time and take a ritalin this morning. Since the time and space of the classroom and universe allowed for neither of these things to happen, I just tried to keep up as much as I could, and stick to the parts of the dance that were really easy for me and try to catch back up whenever those happened.

And then: AH HA. I totally remember feeling like this ALL the time when I was a kid in dance class. Whenever we learned a new combination or dance, I would start out confident, and, as we went on, grew less and less able to retain the new steps I was learning, let alone remember what had happened at the beginning of the song. The only things that stuck with me were the parts that really “gelled” with me, i.e., a move I really liked doing or a part that really fit with a particular part of the song at that moment. I totally had a flashback to being 12 years old, wearing my black spandex shorts (with the neon pink stripe up the side), having my hair in a side pony tail, and trying to keep my feet up with all the other feet in the class and feeling stupid and frustrated that I couldn’t. (And then doing something silly and distruptive to make everyone laugh and get yelled at by the teacher.)

I suddenly realized: if I had known about the AD/HD back then, if I was on some sort of stimulent medicine or at least if I had the education and awareness, I might not have been so frustrated. I might not have quit and re-joined ballet 2x and ended up a sixth grader in the class with the 3rd graders, wearing a pink leotard while all of my friends had graduated to the sophisticated black leotards of level IV ballet and above, and later, received the honors being able to dance en pointe, i.e., wear the really awesome shoes with the hard toes that made them able to dance on their toes.

It’s so funny to realize this all of a sudden because I remember really enjoying and yet really being frustrated with dance as a kid, and not really knowing why. I’m not saying this was the only reason, but it did take me back to that “oh, crap, everyone else is getting this and I’m not” moment and treat myself with a little more compassion than I did as a pre-teen.

Back to the present: by the end of the class, I was mostly lugging my body to this side, then that side, then spinning it around, to match the pace of the other dancers. I was actually not doing all that bad, but I know I could’ve done much better and had more fun. Not only would I struggle to remember the steps, but then I would start thinking about struggling to remember the steps and how this would make a great blog and then I would realize I had totally not been paying attention for like three sets of eight counts. The more I struggled to whip my brain into shape, the more mentally fatigued I got and the harder it was to remember even the easy stuff that I had repeated over and over from the beginning of the dance.

Still, I DID have a good time and I do plan to go back – maybe to the basic level again and armed with 30 mgs of FOCUS SHANNON, FOCUS pills. And realizing during the class WHY I was having a hard time made me much kinder to myself and prevented me from getting really frustrated and throwing in the towel as I have done in dance classes of yore (there was a really challenging hip-hop class that comes to mind from the summer of ’02 where I was frustrated with not only my lack of focus and short-term-memory but also the fact that I have very little “soul”).

A Week in the Life

I decided today that I'm going to make a list for an entire week of all of the small (or big) things I do that are goofy, embarassing, or strange seem to be related somehow to my AD/HD. I came up with this idea when I was cooking microwave mac n' cheese and the directions said "Cook 3 minutes on high, stir, and cook one more minute." I registered this information, put my meal in the microwave, set it for one minute, and then walked away. I was surprised that it was still so cold until I remembered pushing the "60 seconds" auto button.

FYI, I know there will be those devil's advocates who will say "How do you know you did such and such BECAUSE of AD/HD?" I agree with my imaginary challenger that I don't, and it's a slippery slope to say what I do "because" of AD/HD. It's not like a demon that inhabits my soul and makes me put my keys in the freezer. And there's nothing to say that I wouldn't do random, spacey things if I didn't have AD/HD. Mostly I'm just trying to make a funny list of air-head things I do in a week just RELAX ALREADY!!!

Why the LA Public Library is a Boon for AD/HD peeps

1. Rather than compulsively spending money at amazon.com in order to satiate that AD/HD "itch," I can compulsively look up a bunch of books on amazon.com and then put them on hold at the library.

2. Can get lots of books at once so I'm not bored.

3. Reading stimulates my brain, which makes it happy and focused.

4. The library is nice enough to send me little emails when my books are about to become overdue so I don't have to pay fines (er, I don't pay them as often as I would if I didn't have the reminders).

5. Short walk to library gives me an excuse to take a break and get out of the office.

6. Numerous homeless people hanging out around library make me feel very clean and successful, and also reassure me that there's a cool place to hang out if I'm ever homeless

The one bad thing about the LA Public library for AD/HD peeps:

1. Possibility that all of my holds will become available at one time and I'll never actually read anything, just look at the pictures in the "French for Dummies" book.

Update: As I wrote this blog, I had this nagging feeling that I was forgetting something about the library but couldn't put my finger on it. Looked up my record and, sure enough, "French Demystified" is overdue by two days. Oh well. They need money from somewhere, right?

Shannon Taps Her Way Into Your Heart

First of all, sorry guys for not updating at all last week. As you can see from my previous blog post, I had a pretty eventful one. More on that later! Today's post is about tap dancing which, you are probably thinking, has nothing to do with AD/HD. Ah, but you see, you can make ANYTHING about AD/HD because AD/HD is all about being random. No, but really, the only way that this post has anything to do with AD/HD is that exercise is good for building energy and focus in the AD/HD individual.

By the way, if anyone is wondering why I'm writing AD***SLASH***HD it's because it is apparently now the "standardized" way of referring to ADD or ADHD and it's sort of like saying "ADD, with or without hyperactivity." Man, I had to type "hyperactivity" like three times. I kept trying to spell it "dyperactivity." Diaper activity? I think that's what my new mother friend jen (MNMFJ!) is doing a lot of these days. But I digress.

Anyway. So yeah. I have come to realize as of late, like, uh, the last 5 years, that I'm seriously getting out of shape. I always wanted to be one of those people who was as active as a 25 year old when they are 60. Now, at about 8 months away from turning 30, (ohmigod, only 8 months to plan the worlds super most awesome 30th birthday EVER!) I'm realizing that I should start out by avoiding being a 30 year old who's as in shape as a 60 year old.

But, I kind of hate exercise. I can go to the gym MAYBE three times in a row before I decide that it's super boring, no matter how much awesome Michael Jackson music I put on my iPod. An eliptical machine is still going nowhere and I shudder just thinking about whether I want to watch the monitor with MTV or CNN with the sound off. Not that I really want to GO somewhere with my exercise. The thought of lugging my butt up a dusty hill where the air is filled with ragweed also does not motivate to get off of my Ikea Erktorp loveseat. What do I like to do that involves movement? There must be SOMETHING. I mean, besides buying the big keyboard from the movie Big and playing chopsticks every night.

But ah, yes, what did I do as a Kid? And why did I just capitalize the word Kid? When I was a kid, I danced! I went to probably about 3-5 hours of dance classes a week between the ages of 7 and 15 - jazz, ballet and, probably my favorite because I was best at it, tap! So I look at the schedule of my local dance studio - a really premire institution, actually, called The Edge (no, there isn't a studio next door called Bono, just Gold's Gym). You can look it up at www.edgepac.com if anyone is interested. Just about the only class that is my level that I can fit into my schedule is the basic level tap class. So I get really lucky and find a pair of tap shoes on eBay for 99 CENTS. They were really nice and fit me perfectly. I need to send the lady who sold them to me a gift card or something because I paid less for the shoes and the shipping altogether than she paid for the shipping alone. I was so excited when I got them that I immediately put them on, thought I was half-dressed and wearing a towel on my head, and started tap-dancing in the kitchen. 30 seconds later, I realized I was making huge scuff marks on the floor, so I took it outside to my concrete "patio" (actually, 8'x5' area by the dumpster). And did some tapping out there (now fully clothed and no towel on head). This proved rather detimental to the shoes themselves so I tried to wait until class.

But anyway. Actually making myself go to class on Saturday, that was another thing. I kept hoping something would come up. I was worried that everyone else there would be 17 and know what they were doing. Finding no excuse not to go, I dragged my butt down to the dance studio. I forgot what dance studios *smell* like. How to explain? I guess if you imagine walking off of an elevator and walking into a sweaty old shoe. Actually, imagine getting hit in the face with a sweaty old shoe. Apparently good ventilation is not high on their list of priorities.

Once people started showing up to the class, there was a pretty good mix of beginners and people like me who used to dance but hadn't forever. In fact, there were two people about my age who were taking their first ever class, which made me feel a lot better. The teacher was very good and led us along gradually, beginning with just tow-taps and heel taps and working up to a few legitimate steps at the end. By then, I was having tons of fun and adding my own sweat to the hit-in-the-face-with-a-shoe smell. I even felt like the class was, dare I say, a little too basic?

Anyway, long story short, I had tons of fun and felt energized and happy all day. So, who wants to go back with me next Saturday? :)

Can't Hardly Wait. Actually, Can. Pretty Nervous.

Ok so I wanted to write a big huge blog about this but I haven't yet (although I've been writing a bunch of messy notes to try to catalogue this moment as best I can) but I just HAVE to get the news out there.

So, yesterday, at 6:04 pm, I got a phone call from my search consultant. I was at dinner with a friend in a loud restaurant and ran outside so I could hear the call.

She said she had just got back in town from a trip and had several messages on her machine - one of which was from my birth father, Steven. He received her letter, which, I believe also included my letter & photo, and is really excited to speak with me. We are possibly going to talk on Saturday.

Oh my god, it's actually happening.

Oh my god.

Don't ask me how I feel, because I really don't know!

FYI, the reason we haven't heard from the mom yet is that my search lady doesn't have her correct address yet. So she hasn't yet received a copy of the letter.

Anyway, nothing poetic to say today, just had to share!

SWADHDF (single white ad/hd female)

I totally came up with a great blog idea this morning and now I can't remember it. I am not making this up.

So here's my other blog idea, that I TOTALLY STOLE from an ongoing email thread between my ADHD Positive friends. I'll call them Steph and Jess. They really are named Steph and Jess but I'm going to call Jess Steph and call Steph Jess so that I can pretend that I'm being anonymous. Only I'm not going to refer to them individually at all, so it will make no difference. Besides, I think they're approximately 1/2 my reading audience.

Side note: Steph and Jess had never been introduced before and got along famously. You can say it's just the anonymity of the Internet, but I think there is some sort of common bond that makes a lot of AD/HD peeps friends at first tangent. Certainly I've met a few I've wanted to punch in the face, but for the most part it seems like a strange, whimsical sorority. (I realize that this excludes dudes, but most of my AD/HD friends are female, for some reason. Also, what dude doesn't want to crash a sorority party???)

So anyway. Jess and Steph were discussing the idea that there should be a website dedicated to men who want to date women with ADD. I actually disagree, because I think it's better to surprise them a few weeks into the relationship. Just kidding. Not that you want to "warn" someone ahead of time, but an AD/HD peep definitely wants to look for a mate who is going to, shall we say, "compliment" her personality. Here's what Jess (the real Jess, not the Stephanie Jess), whose hilarious and intelligent blog can be found on my sidebar, said the profile of her ideal man would read as such:

"I like women with random conversation tangents, who take on too many projects to ever complete, who forget things and lose things around the house 10 times a day, who ask repeatedly when an event begins because writing it down in ten places and putting it on the Google calendar isn't enough, who get so absorbed in Mah-jongg Solitaire that they lose track of time and go to bed at 2 AM instead of 11 PM, and who make impulse decisions or can't make any decisions because the options are all so intriguing."

Well, everyone has a type. I'm sure there's someone out there for ya, Jess. GOOD LUCK. (Oh man, is she screwed.)

Jk. Jess's description of herself could easily be that of myself or Stephanie (the real Stephanie, not the Jess Stephanie), just substitute Bubbletown or World of Warcraft for Mah-jongg Solitaire, respectively. Edward Hallowell, author of several AD/HD self help books and go-to guy for all things AD/HD related says in the book "Delivered from Distraction" that probably the two most important "treatments" for a person with AD/HD are to find the right job and marry the right person. Of course, we all want a job we love and to find "the right person" (if we're looking, of course - and certainly monogamy may not be for all those w/AD/HD). I think what Dr. Hallowell is saying is that choosing the right mate can be immensely helpful when it comes to managing one's AD/HD symptoms. But what is this "right person" for someone with AD/HD?

Definitely it's different for each person, but I think it's safe to say that most AD/HD peeps need a certain sort of understanding. I'm making it sound like we're damaged goods, which I don't believe we are. I guess the way I should say it is that, as people with AD/HD, we will be much happier with someone who is the type to be a little more involved in their mate's life than maybe some would prefer. Instead of trying to describe this intangible thing, let me give you a few examples from my own life, since Jason has told me several times how much he likes it when I broadcast details about our personal life on the web. Jason is a particularly nurturing person, by which I mean I think he has an innate drive within him to want to help others, especially his close loved ones. This works well for me because, as it turns out, I need a lot of help. (Including professional help.) Once I got over that big hurdle of realizing that having AD/HD meant I was going to need to start asking others for help, it was a very nice surprise to have someone waiting for me, ready to help. Sometimes it's a very small thing, like setting a reminder on his iPhone for me to give Lando his monthly flea treatment, and sometimes it's big things continually prodding me about my writing. He's a neatnick (so he cleans) but not obsessively so (so he can actually live with me). I do still have guilt over the fact that he will probably always do the dishes much, much, much more often than I do, though he tries to reassure me that this can just be "his job." I don't know what "my job" is, though. Certainly not dusting or vacuuming. I should add here that probably the best thing any AD/HD couple can do for themselves is hire a cleaning lady. Ours quit. Anyone got a good one?

It seems like Jason and I have a good understanding where he is helping me but in a way that enables me to help myself rather than just smother him or use him as a crutch. Hopefully he agrees with this ascertation. He also seems to enjoy my tangents and unpredictablility, while having extra stores of patience and understanding. It seems like the AD/HD mate should help to provide a some extra structure but be flexible enough to roll with the AD/HD punches and enjoy some quality out-of-the-box thinking. What do you guys think?

Parking Tickets and Dog Barf

It’s been a strange weekend. My dog started throwing up Thursday night and, by Friday afternoon, when my dog-walking neighbor called me to tell me he was still throwing up in addition to some much smellier, harder-to-clean things, Jason and I decided that a vet appointment was definitely in order. We took him in to the Cahuenga animal hospital the next morning. We waited in the lobby with a German Shepard who had been attacked by a pit-bull and had several staples as well as a length of surgical tubing used as a drain sewed into her shaved back. There was also a cat with an ear allergy. Normally Lando would strain at his leash to check out both of these animals but he just sat under my chair, curled up in a little ball of dog, looking pathetic.

I tend to fall into the camp of overreacting to any sign of illness, my own or my dog’s. The last time I thought he was sick, I was so worried that I thought I needed to take the rest of the day off work to take him in right that instant, and then he was fine the next day. This time, though, the vet seemed more worried than I was, and named a litany of very scary things that could be wrong with him. I assumed they would poke and prod at him maybe for a few hours and then we could take him home but, because he was throwing up even water, she wanted put him on doggie I.V.s and keep him until Monday. She also wanted to charge me a sum of money that would probably buy her a new one of those Louis Vuitton bags I saw her walk in with and, because I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with my dog and didn’t want him to keep looking at me with that “Mommy, what’s wrong with me?” puppy face, I acquiesced.

AD/HD symptoms tend to get worse with stress, which, of course, creates more stress, which is why a person with AD/HD is usually either slowly trudging up a hill or falling down one at any given moment. I guess I must’ve been stressed about Lando because I managed to earn myself TWO parking tickets in two days and lock my house keys in my office. The first ticket was because of a tragically short five minutes of expired meter. I knew I had to check the meter again at 6:36 pm and I knew I should’ve set an alarm on my phone but then I started reading this REALLY funny book (This Book Will Change Your Life, which apparently has an accompanying website www.thiswebsitewillchangeyourlife.com). I mean, it was really funny. So funny that when Jason was finished with his haircut at 6:41, I looked up at the clock, swore, and ran to the car only to find that yes, I was zapped in somewhere in the five minutes that I was laughing my ass off in the salon waiting room. (Apparently there are still a few LADOT employees who have not read my pro-meter maid blog from 8/4/09.)

Thinking foolishly that LADOT lightning could only strike once, at least in one weekend, I chalked it up to bad luck. Then, the following morning I was late for work and, rather than walk the 10 minutes, I took the car so I could drive in 3 minutes, proudly sending my “in” email to attendance at 7:01 am. Since we try to keep the parking lot free for prospective students to park in, I parked outside at a meter, because it was a SUNDAY, and THEY HAVE NEVER EVER MADE YOU PAY FOR PARKING ON SUNDAYS BEFORE. So of course I didn’t look at the signs – I was running late and I had parked here without feeding the meter monster at least ten times before. How surprised was I, then, to find yet ANOTHER ticket on my windshield, and only then saw the sign that said the “2 hr parking Sunday from 11:00 – 8:00 pm.” I rescind my positive blog about meter maids.

Oh yeah, and I also left my keys in my office. These keys also included a key TO the office. Since Jason had met me at work and had keys to the car and house, I just shook my head and told him I’d get them on Monday.

Well, it’s Monday now and I’m supposed to get a call from Dr. Louis Vuitton at any minute (she’s very nice and competent, I should add) telling me I can go get Lando. And it’s a good thing that I thought of sending a text message to someone as I stood in line at the bank this morning, not because I thought of something funny to text about but because sometimes when I am bored for more than three seconds and I have nothing to knit, read, or play, I text message people, because that’s when I realize that I had left my cell phone at home. I reminded my boyfriend about 9 times last night and this morning to remind me to get Lando’s leash out of the car and then I left my phone in my apartment. (Again, Jason was with me so he was able to drive me back and let me in to my own apartment, since I had no keys.)

So Jason gets the Best Boyfriend Ever award, my vet gets a new purse, and the city of Los Angeles makes an easy $100. But I won’t care; as long as Lando gets a clean bill of health I get a happy, furry ball of dog back in my possession today.

Things That Would Have Made it not as Bad that I Spilled A Full Cup of Hot Coffee On My Desk Yesterday

1) If it had already drank some of it.
2) If it had not been hot.
3) If coffee were not brown.
4) If I did not have a huge stack of documents sitting right where the coffee was spilled.
5) If the coffee had not immediately spread under the mesh desktop organizer that held more documents and which is extremely difficult to clean.
6) If I weren’t so fond of my multi-colored post-it note cube.
7) If I enjoyed having a sticky stapler.
8) If the smell of mildew and coffee mixed together were more pleasant.
9) If I had not yelled “OH SHIT!” very loudly in front of my boss.
10) If I had just not spilled the damn thing in the first place.

The Beautiful Ice Sculpture

This morning, I was in the cafe at the school I work at, and noticed, for the first time, this lovely zen fountain. The cafe has just been redone and one corner is the "Casablanca corner" and is decorated in a fun, eclectic, Afro-Mediterranean sort of way. I had seen this fountain but not really looked at it closely.

It was beautiful. While water spilled out of one main cup-looking spout in the middle, the movement of the water pushed these other small cup things floating on the surface in a circle around the center cup sculpture. Not only that, but I noticed that the cups were all made out of metal tuned to different pitches so, as the cups floated around the fountain, they gently bumped into one another making light, ethereal tinkling noises.

I was transfixed by this fountain, man. I could've started at that thing for like five minutes and must've stood there for at least a good 60-90 seconds, contemplating the fountain. Who must've picked this fountain out? How did they choose it? Did it make them as calm and happy to view it as it did me? And how many times have I or other people walked past it without even giving it a second glance?

And that's when I realized: Oh shit. I forgot to take my Ritalin today.

Fight with Meter Maid as Seen from One Block Away

So, I'm walking Lando and it's a street cleaning day which means that there are almost no cars parked on the side of the street we are coming down. About a half a block up, I see the dreaded LA DOT parking Prius next to a car which, once I walked up next to it, I would be able to see was a silver Mercedes wagon.

Next to the cars was a half-bald white dude in sweat pants arguing a black lady, the parking ticket giver, who wore black hipster glasses and had her hair back in a neat bun. Their interaction looked like it had been planned by someone directing a movie where they new no sound would be used in the final cut:

He waves his arms emphatically and angrily, points at her.

She points at the sign and shakes her head.

He waves his arms again in frustration.

She shrugs and points at the sign again.

He points to the sign and puts his hands in the air: "Well, where am I supposed to park?"

She makes a gesture, pointing around the coner.

The whole thing was pretty entertaining in that shadenfruede sort of way, but I guess I shouldn't feel too bad since the guy was making his misery extremely public. It's funny because, as I don't have a parking spot, parking can, at times, be a major sorce of stress in my life, so I should've probably taken this guy's side. I mean, where the hell are you supposed to park on a street cleaning day? What, I can't leave my car here for like FIVE SECONDS and grab a newspaper? Do you get off on this sort of thing?

But the human was actually NOT me, which, of course, made it FUNNY. It's like a scientific equation: Pain + someone else = humor. I think I'm stealing that from somewhere... but in any case, not only was it not me, but this guy was like totally losing his shit while the neat-bun black lady was totally keeping it together and not letting him ruffle her. And I have thought this before: Man, that job must suuuuuuuuck. I think of all the times I got shit from people when I was working at Starbucks or Ann Taylor just for stupid things: Why did my friend get more foam in her cappuccino? Why are the ugly green pants on sale but the pretty tan pants not on sale? (Guess why: Because no one wants the ugly green pants!)And these attacks are always personal, like I had some sort of say in which colors Ann Taylor puts on sale which week. Like they even let me decide what mannequinne gets to wear which pants. I can only put my favorite necklace on a mannequinne if we are sold out of the necklace shown in the picture and it is an acceptable substitution.

Anyway. I can't deal with stupid arguments about foam and clothing - there's no way in HELL I could ever deal with people EVERY DAY getting in my face about me giving them a ticket for something they are obviously in the wrong about. No way. That has to be on list of Most Stressful Jobs Ever, right up there with air traffic controller and person who does surgery on rich people's dogs. So yeah, kudos to you, black lady with glasses and hair bun.

That still doesn't mean I'm not going to be furious at you the next time I get a parking ticket.

Baby Monkey and Mama G

Today's lazy but appropriate post: A story I wrote for Mothers' Day 2007. Enjoy!

Little Monkey and Mama Giraffe

There once was a happy Little Monkey, who lived in the jungle with her mother, Mama Giraffe. Mama Giraffe and Little Monkey had all kinds of fun together. When Mama Giraffe couldn’t reach the very tops of the trees, Little Monkey would climb to the highest branches and bring her the sweetest, greenest leaves. Mama Giraffe would sit very patiently while Little Monkey climbed up and down her very long neck just like it was a tree. Sometimes she would even walk around while Little Monkey held on very very tightly, only daring to look at the ground for a split second. Little Monkey loved this!

One day, Little Monkey went to the hippo pool to take a bath. Little Monkey liked to play with Herbert and Hessia Hippo, who were twin brother and sister. Herbert Hippo asked Little Monkey: “Why don’t you have a mother?”

“Shhhhh!” Hessia Hippo said to her brother. “Don’t be rude, Herbert.” She splashed her brother.

“Hessia, you’d better stop or I’m going to throw a piranha at you,” said Herbert.

But Little Monkey wasn’t listening. She was confused. “I do have a Mother, though. Mama Giraffe is my mother. Why would you think I don’t have a mother?”

“Hah!” said Herbert. “That’s impossible! Only giraffes can have giraffes for mothers. And monkeys are supposed to have monkeys for mamas, and Hippos,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height, which was rather short, since he was a hippo, “Have hippos for mamas.”

Little Monkey didn’t know what to say. She had never thought of this before. She felt like her whole world had just been turned on its head, like the bats that hung upside down from the trees to sleep.

“I guess I don’t know WHO my mama is then!” Said Little Monkey, sadly. Hessia Hippo could tell that Little Monkey was sad, so she tried to make her feel better.

“Maybe we can help you find your mother,” Hessia Hippo said.

Little Monkey thought that was a great idea.

Little Monkey and the Hippo twins looked all over the jungle. They looked under rocks, in tall trees, in lakes, and in the sky, but they could not find Little Monkey’s mama. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find her,” said Hessia, as the sun began to go down. “Maybe we can look again tomorrow?”

“I guess,” said Little Monkey. She was very sad as she said goodbye to her friends and began to head home.



“What’s wrong?” said Mama Giraffe, as Little Monkey was getting ready for bed.

“Nothing,” said Little Monkey, because she did not want Mama Giraffe to know why she was sad.

“You can’t fool me,” said mama Giraffe, and she tickled Little Monkey. Little Monkey was very ticklish, so this made her giggle a little monkey giggle.

“Ok, fine. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to be mad.”

Mama Giraffe promised. “Now what’s on your mind, my little monkey?”

Little Monkey sighed a big sigh. “If you’re my mama, how come you’re a giraffe and I’m a monkey? Herbert Hippo told me that Monkeys are supposed to have Monkey Mamas.”

“Didn’t Herbert Hippo also tell you that Hippos can jump 50 feet straight up in the air?”

“Yes.”

“And was that true?” Mama Giraffe asked.

“Well, no. But it is sort of funny, isn’t it? I mean, Herbert and Hessia look just like their mama, Hosephina, but you and I are as different as a tree and a rock!”

“That is true,” Mama Giraffe said patiently. “But tell me this: who makes sure you always have enough bananas to eat?”

“You do!” said Little Monkey, thinking of all the delicious bananas she had eaten that day and all the bananas she would eat the next.

“And,” continued Mama Giraffe, “Who tucks you into bed at night and sings you a lullaby to help you get to sleep?”

“You do…” said Little Monkey, who was starting to wonder where this was all going.

“And who teaches you to be nice to all the other jungle animals, and to share your bananas?”

“You do.”

“And what would you call somebody who makes sure you have bananas, tucks you in at night, and teaches you right and wrong?”

Little Monkey thought about this for a minute. “Well, I guess I would call that a mama.” Her face lit up. “That means you ARE my mama!”

“You are right, little monkey, I am your mama, because I take care of you, and I love you just like all mothers love their little monkeys.”

“I love you too, mama giraffe!” said little monkey, wrapping her little monkey arms around mama giraffe’s neck. And then Mama Giraffe tucked Little Monkey into bed, and they both slept soundly under the Jungle Moon.



The End

"Yes, but what about your REAL parents?"

Those of you familiar with six-year-old Shannon know that I was a precocious child. That is to say, much more of a smart-ass than someone at that age has any right to be. Those of you who met me, say, 20 years later, I’m sure you can only imagine. I used to explain words to adults that I had just learned, thinking that, since I had previously been unaware of their existence, there were probably others out there in the same boat. Thus you would find me saying things to people about eight times my age like “This says EXPIRATION DATE. Do you know what an EXPIRATION DATE is?” And then, of course, I would explain to them what it meant. (The irony is that expiration dates now mean nothing to me, my boyfriend frequently asking things such as “Babe? Are these the eggs you just ate? They expired last week.” Whatever. They didn’t HATCH, did they? Then they’re ok. Sheesh.)

Anyway. When I entered into Kindegarten and First Grade, that meant interacting with a whole new social group, and lots of kids had questions about me being adopted. Of course they all KNEW I was adopted because I loved to offer up this information. I had learned quickly from reading books about superheros that superheros were either orphans (Batman and Robin) or came from some mysterious birth (Wonder Woman) or were, like me, adopted (Superman). I had not yet read Joseph Campbells “Hero with 1000 Faces” (actually I still haven’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t talk about it at parties) which explains that the first step of any Hero’s Journey is that the Hero must have an unusual birth. Though I liked the idea of being sculped by an Amazon goddess and magically brought to life like Wonder Woman, and I also enjoyed wearing my Wonder Woman underwear around the house as if it were an outfit, I identified most with Superman.

For those of you who weren’t at Comicon last week, Superman was originally named Kal-el to Jor-el and some chick with an equally dorky name on the planet Krypton. Something bad happened to Krypton, like shit blowing up type bad, and, much like Moses, Jor-el and wife sent lil Kal-el in a magical space-basket to Earth, where he was found by Ma and Pa Kent. Ma and Pa Kent raise him as their own, try to keep it a secret from him that he’s a space alien, but then one day he starts flying and stuff and you guys know the rest.

It always seemed pretty obvious to me that Superman loved Ma and Pa Kent very much and thought of them as his parents. So it confused me, as six-year-old Shannon, when people asked me if I knew who my “real” parents were. Granted, these were other six-year-olds conversing with me so their vernacular was a little limited at the time, but I never missed the opportunity to give them my smart-ass answer: “Of course. I LIVE with them. DUH.”

It was always just a “duh” to me. I realize that not all adopted children were so lucky. I know some weren’t treated like “real” children or given all the love and Pontiac Sunfires they could ever need. I know that some adopted kids have been neglected, or made to feel less important than their brothers and sisters who are “natural children” of their parents. Not me, man. As early as I could remember, my parents had told me “Kelly” (my sister) “came from mommy’s tummy and you came from another lady’s tummy.” I was like, ok, that works. It made sense. And it was just one more think that made me different and special, so I wore it like a badge of honor.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious. Even superman went to his secret ice-cave and talked to the disembodied head of Marlon Brando. I still need to find my own disembodied head of Marlon Brando.

Book Reviews by...Oh, look, a ladybug!

Summer is a great time for leisure reading. Whether it’s by the pool, on the beach, or on the 2’x2’ slab of concrete next to the dumpster behind my house, it just feels right. Here are some great summer reads to suit everyone’s taste:*


The Castaways: A Novel Hardcover by Elin Hilderbrand
Hilderbrand has a sort of whimsy to her writing that is at the same time clever and nostalgic, without ever being saccharine. Her imagery takes the reader to a simpler time. I couldn’t help but think of this one time, when my grandparents took me on this vacation in their motor home and the motor home was SO COOL especially, like if you were a little kid because it had bears ALL OVER it. Like, the seats all had these latch-hook seat covers shaped like bears and the pillows were bear heads and all of the corners of the cupboards or anything you could hit your head on had these little Koala Bears stuck to them with Velcro and I loved to take them down and play with them. I told my grandma that Koala Bears weren’t real bears, like Panda Bears, but she didn’t mind that I was a know-it-all because that’s just how grandma’s roll, you know?


Burn: A Novel
Linda Howard
Though Howard sets up a promising premise, the reader is left adrift sorting through the author’s web of loose ends. This is probably because the reader stopped reading at page 20 and started playing Bubbletown on Facebook.


Black Hills
Nora Roberts
Roberts is a master of both suspense and romance. Once again, in Black Hills, she does not disappoint. For example, page 82 has a really hot sex scene. Page 134 too. And, even though they don’t go all the way, I highly recommend pages 37, 46, 98, and 113. The rest of the book is probably good too but I couldn’t tell ya.


Why the Devil Chose New England for His Work
Short Stories by Jason Brown
This book has a really pretty cover. I think that people are really impressed when they see this book on my bookshelf because the title is so enigmatic and pretentious.


*I did not actually read any of these books so please don’t NOT read any of them because of anything I said here.

You Know Something Big Has Happened When I'm Speechless

Holy crap, guys, holy crap. Holy crap sunday with an OMG cherry on top.

Today I learned the first names of my biological parents.

Yeah. I know. Big. Super big.

For those that don't know or weren't paying attention when I told you, I'm adopted. I hired a person called a "confidential intermediary" back in December. Her name is Judith and she's an adoptee too, I think. What she does is submits an application to the through which my adoption was processed asking that my file be unsealed. (Yes, I totally imagine it being in a back room in a crate a'la the arc of the covenant in Raiders of the Lost Arc.) She gets to see all the information and will try to locate them.

So, it's taken a while, but my file was just opened. And apparently, she is allowed to tell me their first names, which I was TOTALLY not expecting. Actually, I don't think I was ever expecting any of this to ACTUALLY happen. I'm still in a tizzy about it. I'm not going to post the names here because I'm not sure I'm ready to share with the whole wide world this new information, and also, it won't mean anything really to anyone but me so I'd like to keep it important and secret. I'll probably share eventually but right now I'm going to keep it wrapped up like a puppy in a towel in a shoebox (with holes poked in the lid, of course).

But wow - they're, like, real people! They have names! They exist! (Or, at least they did, hopefully both are still around and kicking.) I knew it was going to be a huge deal when I found out, but I was still so unprepared for how it would make me feel. I started laughing and crying at the same time when I read the email. It was a wonderful surprise. I have a feeling it's just the first of many surprises on what is going to be a fascinating and emotional journey.

Yes, I have lots of questions. Lots and lots. And yes, I'll be taking notes. Please forgive me if the ADHD blog gets hijacked for a while and becomes the Adoption Reunion blog. I have a feeling none of you will mind. :)

Je ne blog pa

Sorry, no real post today. In lieu of real post, please meditate on the following interesting items:

-Our neighbors have a fruit tree in their front yard. I only ever see the fruit when it is small and green on the tree or big, yellow orbs, rotting on the ground. I wish I knew what sort of fruit it was.

-I gave my dog a bath last night and he doesn't necessarily smell good but he doesn't smell bad and I've caught myself smelling him several times tonight just to enjoy the not-bad smell.

-Last, and perhaps most exciting, I learned today that, when I order a coffee at work, and, for some reason this is only a medium coffee, when my barista rings me up and he chooses "small coffee" from the computer menu, it gives him the option to "add cheese."

Land of the Lost

At any given time, there are usually 2 or 3 items I cannot use because they are "somewhere in my apartment." Repeat offenders (as if it's their fault and not the crazy lady who puts chicken in the knife drawer)include sunglasses, phones, credit cards (I don't know how this happens), hairbrushes, and items of clothing. Most of the time they "turn back up" at some point, which is why I'll say something nonchalantly like "Oh, yeah, sorry, can't go to the movies right now; I can't find my credit card." When the person I'm speaking to gasps in horror, I have to explain that it happens from time to time, that I'm like 99% sure it's in my apartment somewhere, and that I PROMISE to cancel the card if I don't find it in a few days. Of course, every time I've cancelled a card, it magically appears 48 hours later.

I used to tear my apartment up looking for things, and occasionally still will if it's something I need urgently or if I'm just in one of those "I can't stop 'till I find it" moods. People around me love these moods. Usually, these days, I adopt sort of a zen approach, which is "it'll turn up, eventually. It's as if the apartment is using it, and it will return the item when it is done with it. Perhaps the universe is witholding the items from me because I need to learn some sort of lesson (Usually "hey, lady, put your damn keys in the same place every day. Thank you. Signed, the universe.") I'm not a supersticious person but there does seem to be some magic attached to the items, because I can only find them when I am looking for something else.

At the current moment, I cannot find a) my wine opener, b) my headphones, or c) the cord that attaches my iPod to my computer. The somewhat frustrating thing about these items, besides the fact that drinking wine and listning to my iPod are both things very important to my overall wellbeing, is that I own at least TWO of each of these items. So there are two wine openers, two sets of headphones, and two iPod cords hiding somewhere in my actually quite small apartment. Yes, sometimes I even amaze myself.

Oh, and by the way, my iTunes gift card is not technically "lost" because I haven't tried looking for it yet, despite what my boyfriend might tell you.

A Brief Reenactment of my Relationship with Jack FM

For those of you who live outside of LA, Jack FM (93.1) is a station that's been around a few years. I think a lot of other cities have something similar. Their "format," if you will, is "Playing what we want." As if there's a bunch of disgruntled peeps sitting around in a room saying to one another "hey, let's just say WTF and play THIS! Wow, that'll really blow people's minds!" But really, it's a mix of top 40 hits from the 80s and 90s along with some popular stuff from today and some strange oldies.

Here is a recreation of the rise and fall of esteem I once held for Jack FM:

Oh, wow, "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears. It's always good to hear a Tears for Fears song.

Wow, "Smells Like Teen Spirit," following Tears for Fears? That just blows my mind! That's cool that they'd play that back to back.

Ok, "Hotel California." I haven't heard that yet this year. That's my one Hotel California listen this year.

Hmmm, Goo Good Dolls. They suck. Oh well, I guess there's something for everyone here.

THE NEXT DAY

Hey, Tears for Fears again! They're neat.

Hey, another Nirvana song! Rad. Kurt was such a visionary.

Really? Hotel California? Again? Someone there must really like this station.

Wow, more Goo Goo Dolls, huh? Hmmm.

THE NEXT DAY

I am so sad that I hate Tears for Fears now.

You people don't deserve to play Nirvana.

LA LA LA LA You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave, LA LA LA LA LA

Baby's Black Balloon? What does that even mean?

Ok, that's it. What's playing on K Jazz?

Random Thought for the Day

As if I have thoughts that aren't random.

I was just thinking of this as I walked to work this morning. When I was 19 or 20, I had to go to the doctor to get a physical in order to be a camp counselor that summer. The doctor examined me, asked me some questions, and then recorded his summation of my health into his little hand-held recorder. It was the standard "Subject is 19 year old female, blood pressure is blah blah blah" etc. Then he says "subject is of a cheerful disposition but is mildly overweight." He says, into his recorder, in FRONT of me, that I'm mildly overweight, but does not at any time say "Hey, btw, you might want to think of losing a few pounds.

Isn't that weird? Don't know why I just thought of that today.

One-sided conversations I have with my Dog

Please don’t bark so loud, sweetie, mommy has a hangover.

What is that? What’s in your mouth? Give it! Give it! Ew, it’s squishy… you can keep it.

Mmmm, mommy’s ice cream is so yummy! Mmmmm, it’s delicious NO DON’T EAT THAT! STOP! STOP!

Yeah? Yeah? You wanna come in the bathroom with mommy? Ok. Yeah? You wanna go out? Ok. Yeah? Yeah? You wanna come in?

Please don’t stand on mommy’s hair, sweetie. Mommy has to get out of bed.

No no, people can see mommy’s underwear when you do that.

What is that? What are you eating? Is that your leg? Why would you want to eat your leg? Stop! Stop!

Do you know how many human males wish they could do what you’re doing right now?

Please don’t lick mommy’s mouth. Thank you.

Please don’t lick mommy’s nostril. Thank you.

Please don’t lick mommy’s eyeball. Thank you.

What? What do you want? Use your words! Oh, that’s right, you CAN’T, wah hahahahahha.

EWWWW you have some big eye boogers. Come here. Let me get that. Look at that – OH MY GOD, why would you eat that?

No, sweetie, we can’t poop there or we’ll get yelled at in Russian.

"Contents of Pockets Include only Pepper Spray and Dog Feces"

Thanks to the super-fun economic what-have-you that's been going on, my cute, hipster neighborhood has been experiencing a major spike in crime. My car was recently broken into - something I was honestly surprised hadn't happened before given that I've lived in an apt w/no parking spot - as have a handful of my neighbors'. Worse, there have been several muggings since January, some of them violent. I actually have a neighbor who lives in my BUILDING who had a tooth knocked out. Yikes. I've lived in worse neighborhoods - supposedly "Brangelina" live just a couple of blocks up the street from me - but the amount of muggings combined w/the fact that one happened to someone I actually know is freaking me out.

A few months back I bought some pepper spray, which I am convinced I am going to somehow accidentally spray in my eye. Don't ask me how this would happen, all I know is that I've ended up with mustard on my forehead and underwear in my pant leg and I don't think that a self-inflicted ocular pepper spray attack is that unrealistic. To add to my paranoia, my friend (whose name I really can't print here and yes, that makes me feel special)who works for a certain government agency tells me that the pepper spray I purchased is three times stronger than that which his mysterious government agency supplies its agents with.

Also, I let the sales woman at the army surplus store talk me into the larger size. Why on earth would I need the larger size? Hopefully I'm never going to need to use this stuff, let alone twice. Certainly I should have time to go back to the army surplus in-between muggings.

I recently read an article in Psychology Today (my therapist confirmed that, no, therapists don't actually read Psychology Today, just "psychology enthusiasts," i.e., "crazy assholes" like me) about how criminals choose victims. Surprise, surprise, looking "distracted" is high on the list. Good thing I look like a menacing badass when I walk down the street. I mean, unless I see a butterfly. Or think about a poem I'd like to write. Or think about that one time in high school that my friend and I put banana peels all over the stairs thinking someone would walk by and think "Oh my GOD, how funny! You always see that in cartoons and stuff but someone ACTUALLY put banana peels all over the stairs!" and didn't think about the fact that putting banana peels on the stairs is actually really really dangerous and then I laugh out loud.

Anyway. Bananas. No, wait, muggings. So the article says that, while some people advocate talking on your cell phone or pretending to talk on your cell phone as a deterrent to would-be attackers, that doesn't really work. The inmates interviewed for this article said that someone talking on a cell phone is NOT a deterrent, but rather a signal that the person is distracted. This is good for me, because I can stop having pretend phone conversations that go like this:

"Hi, it's me... yeah, I'm almost there... oh, how funny, I can see you from here! Is that a new baseball bat you got?.... Wow, that was smart of you to put the nail through it like... oh, a railroad stake? Yeah, that makes sense, it was sort of larger and more deadly looking than a... what? Oh, that's cool, I'm glad your police friend Marvin is currently in your apartment, looking out the window with you, I've always wanted to meet your police friend Marvin... oh yeah? He's showing you his gun?... Wow, I didn't know those were legal...oh, yes, of course... no, I won't tell..."

According to one inmate quoted in the article, a person walking a dog is a deterrent. Even a little fluff ball thingy like Lando. A psychological principal called the "Yap Factor." This is good because, when I fear getting mugged, I'm actually more afraid that something will happen to my dog than I am that something will be stolen. I actually wondered once if it would be a good mugging deterrent to leave the dog poopy bag untied so I can hurl feces at a would-be mugger. I have also considered:

Stabbing someone in the face with my keys held fast between my knuckles

• stabbing someone in the head with a high-heeled shoe that I have taken out of my bag, just in case I have to stab someone in the head



• throwing up on someone (don't know if I could do this on cue - then again, maybe it would happen naturally)
  
• pretending like I was schizophrenic (stole this idea from someone who says he has avoided a mugging by doing just that)


• pretending I have syphilis
  
• pretending I'm a Scientologist


• Holding up a bible to make them feel bad for attacking a woman carrying a Bible, although I was not carrying a Bible for the reason most people would carry a Bible
  
• kicking someone in the nuts (the classic)

So if you see me walkin by, and you want to say hello, and it is nighttime, consider identifying yourself first or you might just get stabbed in the head with a high-heeled shoe.

Every Now And Then, Bizarre Things Happen...

This has nothing at all to do with ADD. I assume that's ok with you guys. This is just a random story about a mini tennis ball.

First of all, for context, here is a picture of Lando sitting next to a desk chair.



So, Lando has these tiny tennis balls he enjoys playing fetch with. The other night, I gave one a hearty bounce on my kitchen floor so that it would fly up in the air. Normally what happens next is it bounces a few times and Lando skitters all over the floor, nails scratching on the tile, trying to subdue the bouncing ball with his mighty, mini schnauzer mouth. Instead, this time, it bounced once, flew under my desk chair, and disappeared.

Upon further inspection, I realized that the ball had lodged itself between the chair and the lever you use to adjust the seat height.

Like this:



There was barely room, yet it was wedged in damn good, like that's where it belonged. Like that's where I kept my mini tennis ball when I wasn't using it. I guess, statistically, a mini tennis ball is bound to wedge itself inside the framework of a desk chair once out of every 500,000 throws or something.

Lando tried to get it out:



He gave it his best try.



It would not come out.

I took pity on him and removed the ball once it was clear he wasn't gonna move it on his own.

That's it. That's the ball story.

Please Stop Waving Your Light Saber At Me, Sir

Arch nemesis to the AD/HD driver: Those valet parking guys waving neon flags or light sabers on the side of the street in the hopes that you will give up on looking for a parking spot and graciously accept their services.

Here's why I consider this a crime: their main purpose is actually to distract you while you are driving. You're driving down La Brea, hoping that the entitled BMW X5 driving next to you will back up a few inches to let you in, but they're not so you're trying to shove your car in front of theirs in the hope that they would rather let you in than pay for body work. At the same time, you're trying the read the bumper sticker on the car in front of you - you can't tell if it's ironic or just stupid. "Save a Cow: Eat a Vegan." Dirty, maybe? You try to gather contextual clues from the bumper stickers around it. They seem to be a Blink 182 fan. Well, that could really go either way. At the same time, you just heard on NPR that some famous old actor just died and you think, "Man, I totally thought he was dead already..."

Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, there's a dude frantically waiving an orange neon flag at you and gesturing for you to turn right. IMMEDIATELY.

Thanks to evolution, the human brain is hard-wired to think the following things upon seeing this:

• Turn right immediately or die
• You are about to run over a puppy
• Your baby is strapped to the top of your car
• Hey man, there's a cop around the corner and it's not even a regular cop, it's one of those CHP assholes on a motorcycle
• Please help me; I need to get my baby to a doctor

Here's what the guy waving the flag is really trying to tell you:

• Expensive parking!

Let's not reward this sort of behavior, folks.

There Is Absolutely Nothing Funny in this Post

So, for about...hmmm... seven months now, yikes, I have been "meaning to get back to my blog." And for at least the last three weeks, I've been stressing about what my first blog "back" should be, like I'm Norma Desmond or something.

Thus, I decided to create this post, just to make me feel like I'm posting again. Therefore, this post has no content, no jokes, and no reason for you to go on reading it. And yet, here you are, still reading it. How does that make you feel?

Ok, that's all. But I really will post again. Really! I'm carving it into my skin with the end of a paperclip right now. It's pretty dull so it's going to leave a messy scar. So, even if I don't keep my word and update the blog again, I'm going to feel just awful about it for a long time.