More Reflections on Seedlessness

Mo asked me this morning: What are you going to post about today?

I replied: ...

Mo: How about potty training?

Me: ?

Mo: How about the vasectomy?

Me: Great!

So here I am typing about my nuts again. Whee! I haven't much to say at the moment, but a few vaguely connected thoughts have recurred of late.

Discussing Vasectomy
It appears one, okay, I, am able to have more forthright discussions of this subject with females. With the men, it's all "Ahem... ah, hahaha" and "get the fuck away from me". This phenomenon is apparent even with my GP. "You'll still be able to cough up the goods!" he assured me, smiling wanly at my faux-stoic expression. I like my GP, he's a good doctor, but there's no getting around the nervousness involved with matters residing below the belt. I don't think I am breaching any patient-doctor privilege in pointing out that the examination of my dangly bits at the annual general is prefaced invariably by the phrase: It's time to check out Big Jim and the Boys.

Firstly, if I ever rejoin the band I was in, I will lobby for that name change.

Secondly, his name is not Jim. It's Spartacus.

Thirdly, what the fuck is my rectal exam going to involve, by way of throat-clearing?

Obtaining a Vasectomy
I will obtain a no-scalpel vasectomy. I imagine the physician in question uses, in lieu of a scalpel, elastic bands, or pinking shears, or his teeth. I had to read the warning. Then a couple of friends (two of the three men I know who have discussed their chop jobs) described vividly the complications which followed their surgeries. Oh man! What was I thinking? (Hmmm, a free ride?)

Back to the topic of discussion: even the chop shop operator is a little squeamish. His instructive site is littered with cheesy jokes (You'll be just like a Sunkist. All juice and no seeds! No shaving required in this practice.) and I can only imagine the witty bon mots he will offer while he handles my nuts and I stand there... sweating...

Preparations
Mo and I will hedge our bets. In the event we wish to procreate again (we won't) or in the event one of our little humans dies (we are morbid thinkers) we will need to store some of my, um, material in a freezer. Not our freezer! I am told.

So, off to the lab to jerk off into a cup. I fear this more than the operation. I can't get a handle on it.

PMO

An artifice in which the child uses the word zeal

I know the blog has been sorta suckey lately. A bit too many off handed one-liners. Rolling diatribes and well ... tired, overworked, taxed bloggers parents of two children nearly under two... Itinerant commenters (sorry we are getting around again..)

But you're on notice now. I have some really great material in mind these days. It is all in draftsville. Just you wait.

For now here is a letter to new older siblings from our Girl Friday. Congratulations to Lumpyhead and Q. on their recent arrivals and to dear Foo on her growing boy...

Dear All,

Heard you got some new siblings out there. Let me tell you how it really goes when you get a little brother or sister. I can tell you it has been a bit of road for me. Yep, quite the experience from the hoth-pit-all to today when my juji-baby provided the applause at my dance class. The news ain't all bad, eh?

In the first month
You will find that you get a lot of gifts. Who-hoooo.... right? Well, yes the presents are nice. There are certainly a lot of visitors coming around. But the don't just come. They go, too. And, that is a bummer.

Also, as a toddler who often thinks meals are stupid.... I was not prepared for how much THE BABY wanted to eat. Weird.

In the second month
You might find things will have returned to normal for Dad. He will be at work like before and it could just be you, Mom and THE BABY at home.. All the good food supplies will have dried up by now and you'll find you get to eat a lot of pizza. In my case that was good news.

By this time I thought it was worth trying to get THE BABY to join in with all my excellent gaming. But you know when I asked if THE BABY could sit with me.. Mom said no. Could THE BABY say hi to me? Mom said no, honey. Can the baby wear a hat? Yes. Yes Mom said. THE BABY can wear a hat.

I was somewhat relieved by this and we managed to sit in the laundry basket off and on and pretend we were on an ocean voyage. At least he got the hat part. That's something. BABY was getting less amoeba-like. Good.

In the third month
I was finally returned to daycare when THE BABY was about 3 months. THANK GOD. You know living with a baby is stressful. They have no routine and they poop all the time.. it's yellow. Did you know that? It really didn't matter how easy going a baby we had when Opa asked I volunteered. "THE BABY cries. A LOT!"

It was a lot more relaxing for me to kick back with my friends at daycare a couple days a week. Make some crafts. Play pretend with more complex concepts than the hat thing.. Get. some. sleep. Phew.

In the fourth month
MY BABY got a lot more fun. I could make MY BABY laugh. And, I could tell you who could -- and could NOT -- have MY BABY. We would have storytimes with Mom and he would laugh along with us at the good parts. He would touch my face and I would hold him. Sometimes Mom would cry. She is such a sap. (And, she says she's tired too.)

In the fifth month
Well, it was Christmas around here so who really cares about anything else? I think at this point Mom let me give baby a cracker or something. I am a big help Mom says.

In the sixth month
Things are starting to look really good. We can play ball now and he loves balloons just like me. I know MY BABY loves me and I love him.

Sure there are were times I pulled his scalp. Or told Mom not to feed him AGAIN. I have shouted to put him back in his crib and I meant it. I have not always been myself since he was born. But that said I don't remember what is was like to be without him. Mommy's big belly is a more than distant memory.

Mommy tells me "He's your brother and he will love you for the rest of your life." (someone smart told her that) That sounds really good. I don't know that I really understood love like this until I had my brother. I mean I knew Mommy and Daddy, and Baba and Grandpa and Uncle B. and Auntie Cookie, Oma and Opa and all the rest of them.. well they loved me. For sure. But I don't think I knew quite so clearly how to love someone else; not like now. Not like I do now that I love my brother and it isn't always easy. I love all my family and even my friends with greater zeal. It feels good. All this love.

I'm lucky. Good luck to you.

Signed Miss Fancy

Mmm...

I'm not normally one to blow my own horn in terms of what I own or, as the case may be, am using while my creditors are focused on others but tonight I have to depart from the norm. I am busy trying to persuade you, the discerning reader, I am not so empty-headed as to believe I can convey to you the essence of my good taste by identifying Brand X as my liquor/coffee/plug in air freshener or that I may establish my impeccable consumer credentials and vast disposable income (as shown by my unflagging support for auto mechanics in greater Vancouver) as identified by my ownership of a German motor vehicle.

Allow me a preface of sorts. I am not comfortable discussing who I am in this forum. Mo will likely add "or in any" to that sentence if permitted. This blog is like Salome's dance. I wiggle along, trying to stay alive out on the interweb, desperate not to reveal all, to divulge too much. It is a delicate dance, all veiling and re-veiling. This would be far less discomfiting if I didn't have two left feet. "My Two Left Feet" starring me! Perhaps it is the widespread popularity this blog enjoys... I am reticent to share my innermost bits with such numbers. That must be it.

Perhaps not. It goes like this. I am pressed for time at the best of times. Vacuity pisses me off (I am often at odds with myself). Hallmarks of vacuity: name dropping, product placement, pandering paeans to kids, empty-headed support for those who post about their non-problems and solicit support from their readership and the bubbleheads who rise to it and post smarmy and codependent comments... there's probably something else... oh, people who act like they are better than all that. I hait that. (Wait a minute...)

So tonight I depart from my hitherto unannounced norm and identify to you, those among the 5% of people worldwide who owns a computer, amazing products which have astounded me for their quality. No, not quality. Quantity. Nope... descriptive qualities.

What's in a name? Who knows, I don't know. Sometimes a name evokes majesty. That's what I look for when seeking to purchase a device into which I can place small baby items prior to dishwashing. Mo found it: it's the Prince Lionheart Infant Dishwasher Basket: This is a tremendous product. It has conferred upon us a noble and brave dishwashing air to which we aspired.

I am what I eat: Yu-Meng Noodle. This excerpt from the package says it all. "The lustrous, bright, soft and nutrient noodles should be poured by cold water after it is recovered from water."

Mmm. I feel silky inside and out.

P-man out.

Mill on the Floss

So I was driving down Main Street last week in the bimbo box feelin' as not cool as I am all the family packed along. It was a sunshiney day and everyone was fed and rested-like en route to a Saturday afternoon nap. I was rushing to seal the deal and tuck toddler to bed before infant got a screech on for the mammaries.

An ill timed stop light. Kids all twichy

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and run my tongue over my teeth with impatience. Hey, hang on. What the hell is that!!

In that moment I felt in my own mouth the sort of thing I had been digging for in the mouth of my six month old. Wee, pearly white buds. WHAT the fuck! I think maybe some upper wisdom tooth that I didn't get extracted have poked through? Well is'nt that a trip.

Another terrifying trip to the dentist for me. I usually avoid them like the plague since I have pretty poor dental hygine and it's enough for me to get my guilt at church. I have always admired p-man's dental care though I have to remember that some thoughtful orthodontist pulled about 14 teeth out of his head when he was in high school so, unlike me, he can usually floss quite easily with a pair of pantyhose.

Recommended title: Sector 7

Sector 7.
by Wiesner, David
Clarion, 1999.
Subjects
Empire State Building (New York, N.Y.) -- Fiction
Clouds -- Fiction
Stories without words

ISBN: 0395746566

We have been quite remiss not to have yet sung to the high heavens praise for our latest love in the stories without words category. To say Sector 7 is beautifully is illustrated is inadequate. It is awesome in the actual meaning of the word. And, it is a damn entertaining tale. This is a great book. We are certainly not alone in our love of all things Wiesner so don't just take our word for it. And, while these reviews are coming from little girls' mommies (and dads!) I think this is a don't miss for the next little boy gift you seek. I might make it a vitural gift to this little shot with a nod to his artful eye.

Skip to my Lou

Yesterday we went to a dance class. My son screamed and squealed with delight watching the girls dancing.. do I smell a Producer?? And, Miss Fancy? Well, she said like 10 times, "This is fun, Mum."

I am pretty glad I quit my job. Yep, I quit that sideline gig (still got my regular job to return to next ???). Let's face it was doing the shittiest job EVER. And, if I hadn't I would have spent another moment like the one described above looking over my shoulder wondering if I would get busted for doing the shittiest job ever. So 6 more months of mat leave... and I will enjoy these guilt free.

You know on the way to Roots of Empathy yesterday I thought about how I really got the nerve to do it. How? Part of it was individuals with a knack for helping with this sort of crisis.. but it was also the acceptance and self-acceptance I have built in this blogourhood of parenting. I think?

Know what I mean?

Dub Thee

Thanks to Kittenpie for the link to...

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Milady the Right Reverend MoWo the Lush of Piddletrenthide on the Carpet Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

I like it. What's yours?

ps.. do you think every entry to sites like these just peg vistors for a 90 day serving of fresh spam? sometimes these things smell like a scam... tech types, what say ye?

p.p.s with the way potty training is going it is Piddletredhide over here today!

Bad Catholic Confessional

So the Christmas season is REALLY over. This past Sunday we celebrated the wrap up with a trip to church for the post-Ukrainian Christmas-Parish Supper.

I think I cried 3 times?

Yep. Church has been a tough go for me since the kids were born. Mostly because my kids are not baptised and here's why. I am not Catholic enough for our parish priest. I believe what he said when I brought in my secular-spouse and asked for a baptism for my first baby was wweeelllll. We let you in but what have you done with that? And, so it has gone.

About 16 years ago I was largely estranged from my sainted mother. One thing I managed to negotiate with her was that it would be nice for us to go 'as a family' to a Ukrainian Catholic Church near my apartment in town. The parish was small then and the windows were just clear as money still needed to be found for paintings and icons and stained glass. At that time there was little my mother and I could manage together without vitriol but sitting in church on Easter Sunday or Ukrainian Christmas, those things were doable.

In the years following I have been an itinerant parishioner. I loved the place in a manner not unlike others. It tied me to a faith that was deep and grand of course but mostly it linked me through the mass to the rituals of generations of my ancestors. The graceful ways of my Ukrainian-Canadian aunties, the humble wisdom of my maternal grandmother, the wit of my uncles. In my romantic mind it even tied me to the sacrafice of those I never knew those brave relations who, unlike my grandfather and great-granparents, never escaped the horrors one might find in 20th century Ukraine.

When it came time to marry I was lucky to have a most generous and jovial priest to agree to 'let me in'. You see I had never been baptised myself. This will an even longer story if I go into it let's just say.. my Mom married a heretic, too. But Father P. he helped me out. He encouraged me to be a part of the church as a part of my marriage. Though it should not be overlooked that the considerable wit of p-man was never lost on Father either. He got us dispensation to wed. But he is gone now.

I guess I attend mass maybe a dozen times in a good year. Does that make me a good parishioner? A mid-grade Catholic? What is the standard? Well, it seems that membership is optional for weddings and burials but come baptism time you better have your missal in order. While membership seems to be key here. I have -- likely in response -- dug in that faith and membership should not be dealt as synonymous. I'll let you in on this little sermon gem of Father's that he hates when people use the phrase 'take communion'. I have a similar response to drive at our parish for membership.

Basically, it seems that the Church would rather have 12 pious widows in the pews than one more Cafeteria Catholic like me ... and my family. That is what hurts most, what makes me tearful. Certainly my own alienation stings.. but it is the dismissal of my children who seem so naturally dear to everything I envision of God. I want my family to be a part of this Church but they are not. Where we might be encouraged to be a part of the church as a part of our children's births we are not. I have been told repeatedly, to my face, via my mother and most recently with a digusted head shaking in the parking lot last Sunday to step up my game for them to count.

Part of me thinks I should I pack up my tenous affiliation and move on. Baptism seems a challenge that has galvanized my fringe status. Where am I realistically going to find godparents even? Besides I don't need this anymore. When I was a kid I went to church with my Mom. I wasn't quite Catholic back then either. I never shared communion as I was -- guess what -- unbaptised, I was an observer not a participant. I remember how it was something 'for my mom'.. the mother-churchgoer dragging her husband along for high holidays. My dad used to snicker and trot out the same lame jokes every year, "hey padre your purse is on fire" can destroy solemnity right quick. Do I want that for the kids?

I went last week thanks to a call from a friend; of whom I have 2 at this church. My heart sang when I saw my two-year-old bend to pray; her chubby fingers folded in prayer her eyes darting at the majesty of the windows full of pictures today. The sun streamed in and encased us all in kaliedscopic colours. It is a good feeling the sight of your child with God. She met the task I set her and easily picked out Mary, the mother, who she took to most happily in her Christmas stories last month.

I don't know how this will turn out but I will try to keep trying. Father you say I need to learn more about the church. True. Let my children teach me. As my friend said at the supper -- kids just get it. Well, yes.

Wednesday My Ass

I come from a long line of "no" people. My mom says "no" even when she's agreeing with me. It is unusual to say the least. She is constitutionally incapable of saying "Yes." The first word I uttered, according to unnamed sources, is "No". I continued to use and abuse this word for years. I've said "no" even when I thought "yes" merely because it is easier than getting involved with people once we've agreed to do something. It was my shield, my sword, my succour. It was a point of pride to me, as odd as it may be, to be able to negate or refuse nearly anything. (Except single malt. And beer. And chronic... ok, it was very hard to say no to a lot of things. This thesis is falling apart!) (OK, I will posit a small variation. If I couldn't find the "no" I would change the subject, answer indirectly, or run. So there.)

Then we had a girl. Saying no is becoming increasingly difficult. Saying "no" to the toddler's "no" is also proving problematic. It involves unwanted conflict. I am unsure how to find a creative way to reach my goals without strife so I cave way too often. Mo is going wild - wondering why the kid is still in her pyjamas when I am set to depart to the office. I can't expalin it, I know I'm soft, and I have no defence.

This development on the home front is clearly spilling over to my job. Yesterday was annual review, my first time from the employer's side. Our staff members are, as it turns out, a really good bunch. They all wanted an increase in salary. I couldn't say "no". I thought I wanted to, but I didn't say it. It was weird. By day's end I was having an out of body experience, viewing the room from behind the ficus as raises were sought and given. There was a whole lot of yes going on and I was a part of it.

Just today, people here were asking me questions and I responded "yes" each time. I think there were between 5 and 7 consecutive affirmative responses out of me. Oddly, it didn't hurt a bit.


Meanwhile, on the Dirk Benedict front:



Dirk Benedict was up for eviction from the Celebrity Big Brother quonset hut of fortune. It turns out he is no longer considered a celebrity. Fucking Richard Hatch is on BG2, and Dirk is not a celebrity? He still has the van, people!

P-man out.

Heard on Radio

I have always admired MaryP's aboutness as a "pragmatic optimist". Yesterday, I think I caught an author describing herself as a benevolent and jovial pessimist on the radio.

Man I wish I'd thought of that one.

Heard here

Mommy, up.

Sorry, honey. But I can only cook dinner, read a story and feed the baby at one time.

Come Hear the Band

Before our son was born I had fears about not being quite 'up to' the duo parenting program. I, in fact, had long planned to be a parent of one. With debates about one and onlies, new take two blogger babies coming out and some already here

I think about it still and often... Are we doing ok? Are we holding the fort?

On a few occasions I have explained that it can be tough. Sometimes I feel like Mike Harris. It seems my role is all about cutbacks and downsizing. I look to find any area that can be rationalized milking every bit of independent play, introducing solid food from jars *gasp* at 6 months and as we know the tv. Yep, to my gagging chagrin I often parent like a fiscal conservative provides public service.

This week I really don't like it. I can't deny part of me wants my old life back. I want to turn off the tv and spend a morning making up pots of fresher food than we get these days. The pressure of time in my house is looney to say the least. This morning I had an opportunity to get up at the regular time with my daughter and leave p-man and baby dozing late. What a stupid thing to do! Losing 90 minutes is fatal to the time/space/poop-nap continuum. I was head badger again in the town of Bickerville. Yuck.

And, what has it done to the blog. Well don't get me started. Sigh.

All this navel gazing aside when the snow kept p-man late coming home and we needed some entertainment my girl declared "I will spin and A. will laugh". He did. Laughed his ass off.. all the while my heart swelling to fill her whole little bedroom. I guess neither depression, nor recession, can keep at bay the truth of... life is a cabaret. (like our new hug sidebar photo?)

Related reading: Bobel, Chris. The Paradox of Natural Mothering. Boston: Temple University Press, 2001.

Recommended title: My Mama Says

My mama says there aren't any zombies, ghosts, vampires, creatures, demons, monsters, fiends, goblins, or things

Viorst, Judith
Atheneum, or Aladdin 1973
Subjects: Mothers -- Fiction; Monsters -- Fiction
ISBN: 0689301022 (Atheneum); 0689712049 (Aladdin : pbk.)

Sort of a lesser known Viorst gem (after Alexander) this book came to us from p-man's young step-brother's library. My MIL shared it with our Girl Friday and at first I didn't like it. But really this is a great book. I use it strategically when I have one of those days when either me, or the kids, need a reminder about the Mama inside the monster. Really the world needs more books with Mamas that are less than perfect.

But how does she know when she can't even drive me to
Christopher's house without getting lost on the way?
So, sometimes even Mamas make mistakes.

...ps. My Mama don't like this book either don't take her book reviews; trust me.

The Ass Man v. Face Man

Two men in the press have captured my attention today. The Shrub? Hugo Chavez? Mais non! Stephen Murmur and Dirk Benedict, of course. But which of these lucky men will capture my full attention?

Who can say. I certainly worry about Mr. Murmur. I wonder who will hire him now that his paintings, obviously of a private(s) nature, are now pubic, I mean, public. Were it that they had remained private(s).

Meanwhile many cups of coffee go cold, files go ignored, and children wallow in filth while Big Brother (UK) continues. I must give it my full attention. Allow me to state my support of Dirk Benedict grows. Dirk Dirk Dirk... the Face Man. O rapture, o bliss, the Face is still in the house. He is favoured to win... go Dirk, go!

Given recent criticism of the name of this blog, referred to in "I Suck" (Jan. 6/07), maybe it is time for a change. Perhaps Mo can change the name of this site to "Dirk Benediction" or something really cool like that.

PMO

SaBloBoMo Uno

I had planned to post on the subject of my kids, their diets, their dietary restrictions, their excrement, and the faces they make while eating and or defecating. That was the plan. Since I am not actually involved in any of those tasks I haven't the data required to produce the piece. The research appears to be difficult. Maybe I will post instead on the Canucks and whether this is the year they win the Hopman Cup. (Probably not.)

Last night E and I read "Olivia Forms a Band" for bedtime. Olivia, as you likely know, is a pig. I have heard Mo compare E to this famous pig before... sadly, the child has my nose.

A word on this literary heroine. I enjoy this series of books (especially the first one, where she found the ark of the covenant) and so does E. It turns out these are books which sell well. Many people enjoy Olivia. The titular character is a fun little pig. I daresay Olivia may be one of those products which melds quality of product and quantity of sales. The author does not pander to the audience, the books are pleasant for adult and child alike, and the images are sparse but interesting. Clearly I am a fan.

On Christmas I had a bit of a set-to with a relative, who will go unnamed (Mo's mom), who upon learning we purchased an "Olivia" book for each of E's friends stated "Olivia is so mediocre." That statement was a match to my fart. I began a rigourous defence of my fair porcine figure which raised the dander of her accuser. All thoughts of entering a blissful turkey coma were set aside as the, er, "debate" continued without resolution. I was a wee bit angry. It was enough to lead me to convert to some non-Christmas-celebrating sect until I remember I am not denominated.

Tonight, while wallowing in mediocrity, the following occurred.

Me: (reading) But you can't have fireworks without a fireworks band!" Olivia explained.

E: No. A marching band.

Me: That's right, a marching band...

E: I am Olivia. I am a pig... you are a pig. Mommy's a pig, A is a pig, Barry's a pig too.

Me: I am a pig.

E: I am Olivia... I am not Olivia, I am LIKE Olivia.

At this point, I abandoned the "Gee, this is sure cute and fun and shit" mindset for the "Holy fuck, did my kid just use a simile? Where is that on the development charts? That was a comparison... (dumbfuck parent thoughts continuing until the universe reasserts itself...)"

E: I'm a PIG.

PMO

Did you know it is SABLOBOMO? Post about books all month? We're in!... just in time for me have to share the blog whole hog (snort!) with p-man. Phew. I know he's up to this. Thanks Sassy! And if you want to catch up on our earlier booktalks check out this link. -- Ed. (aka mowo)

I Suck

I recently received this comment, in response to a post dated July 17 of last year, "Your blog title, your ears, your aesthetic feeling if any at all, and your wittiness if any at all, suck. So you suck all over. You must be a grocer or something. Better give your comp to charity & go sell your onions fella."

It was followed by this: Wow... You suck...

This, unfortunately, does not come as news to me.

These insightful comments appear to originate from an IP located in Russia. I have no idea if that is where the commenter hails from. They are from a source who goes by the handle "Anonymous". This author has returned to this site since commenting, presumably to look for some form of response. Having disappointed once I do not wish to do so again.

Well, "Anonymous", you brave little soul, thank you for your visits. My life has been enriched by your contribution to this, our sad little corner of the internet. I understand the main thrust of your comments. I have great difficulty understanding the rest on account of the vernacular you employ. It's my ears. And my eyes.

Please allow me to apologize. If it is my treatment of "The F", which appears to be your search phrase, then I apologize to you and to the letter. I love the letter F. It is a wonderful consonant. If it was my overuse of the phrase "you suck" I am sorry if I hit a nerve. If only I could offer to you, as a token of my regret, a copy of my Mike Oldfield boxed set. I imagine it's right up your alley - but I don't know who or where you are.

PMO

Where am I Now?

I have a confession to make: I was a real fan of the A-Team when I was young and marginally stupider than I am today. Everybody has a weakness, an Achilles heel in the taste department. For some it is Battlestar Galactica. For others it is Springsteen. There is no explaining taste and I am not here to judge (even if I am, outside the binary confines of this forum shaking my head in wonderment and despair).

We all know that George Peppard is dead, Mr. T is immortal, and the skinny crazy-acting guy goes around acting crazy and skinny on other programs. I often wondered, once the show was cancelled, and Battlestar Galactica (Mk. I) was cancelled, what had become of Dirk Benedict. "How could a man of such obvious talent go without notable and highly remunerative work for so long?" is a question I would ask myself, and others, with alarming frequency. The answer, alas, was not forthcoming.

Many share a fondness for watching reality shows. At our office there is a "Survivor Pool" which does not involve pirhanas, or even Chilean Sea Bass. While I liken the fondness for viewing these shows to sharing a fondness for popping bursters on the backs of strangers and wiping the excreta on one's eyeballs I recognize my views are in the minority. I am not here to judge etc... but what is the deal with this shit? Do we not have our own lives to lead? Do we really give a shit which unemployed actor/beautiful person is the last contestant in or on the choir/monastery/18th century farm/Faroe Islands/tropical island/houseboat/house/outhouse/or is the only contestant able to withstand the taste of Joe Rogan's excrement? I will admit to an inability to get it. Perhaps I am missing the opportunity to have my life enriched by this species of, um, "entertainment". Yeah, that's it.

If that is the case, then surely now is the opportune time for me to become enriched. Observe. Now, if I could only get the BBC here at home...

PMO

Well, it's just my procrastination... runnin' away with me..

When I planned a writing contract last May it all seemed so sensible. I provided long deadlines and had some childcare in mind. But the work in hand has now officially become a race to survive. My next deadline is January 15th and well I am already thinking about how this deadline exists in reference to the next deadline.

I am an existential procrastinator. (You may find me outside of the Winchell's.)

I must take to heart a spirit of 'please blog responsibly' and try not to completely decimate my professional life TODDDAAAYY!!!! I hope you enjoy what p-man has to say over the next couple weeks.