You've been to PostSecret, no? Click on the postcard above and read them all the way down. So worth it.

Jackson was antsy on the plane to Denver. I took the aisle seat and put him next to the window and he kept slamming the window shade up! And then down! So it would be light! Then dark! And then light! Until I told him to stop! or! I! would! kill him! And also because we were getting some looks from the man in front of me. Normally, I don't respond to subtle social pressure like that, if you have a problem with me then you need to say something, I do not read minds. But I'm also sensitive to the fact that when they're on airplanes children's boundaries don't necessarily shrink the way an adult's do, so it's my job as a parent to keep my kid from invading the privacy and comfort of those trapped within a six-foot radius of his idly kicking feet.

So about an hour into the flight I'd finally got him to pay attention to a story in his Shrek comic book when he slammed the window shade up! And I glanced over and saw huge red canyons below us and I yelled, "Jackson! Look! That's the Grand Canyon!" And he listened while I went on about how famous it is, how that river, doesn't it look like a snake, it carved slowly through solid rock over millions of years, and, you know, whateverthefuck, everything I could recall from eighth grade earth science class with the Christian teacher with the beard who liked to tell us how much he loved his wife.

I was so involved in my little geology lesson that it took me awhile to register that the man in front of me who'd been casting us looks over his shoulder started trying to talk over me, telling everyone in general, "Hrm, HRM! CANYONLANDS! Look! We're over UTAH! HRM! Those are the CANYONLANDS. The CANYONLANDS! In UTAH! Hrm!" And I was all, whatever, dude, I was wrong but my kid is four, I could tell him we were flying over the lunar surface and he'd believe me, and it would probably be more confusing if I started telling him with equal conviction that everything I just said was a dirty lie but this next thing I was about to tell him, that would be the truth. And anyway, by that point Jackson had decided to imitate my authoritative tone and was explaining to me how a green bullet and a black bullet went flying through the air and a snake caught them in its mouth and ate the bullets and the guy was still going on about UTAH and I was just done with him. But for some reason he wasn't done with us.

When the plane landed -- and this was cute, the pilot did a little touch-and-go thing where we came down almost to the runway, then pulled back up, then went back down and landed, which lifted everyone's wigs a little, and Jackson said, "Oh! That scared my pecker!" So anyway, Mr. Utah CANYONLANDS, he stood up in the aisle to wait for the door to open, but the plane was small and his head was right next to the overhead compartment where I'd stowed my camera. I opened the compartment door and got my camera out, but then the guy shifted his weight over to the right and when I brought the compartment door down it was about a quarter of an inch from his head, which, you know, he noticed, as you would, if something whispered past your ear, even if it moved very slowly and carefully so that the person moving it wouldn't hit you and was hoping you wouldn't notice so she wouldn't have to ask you to move your self-righteous little head. It didn't work, and for this, my failure to acknowledge his annoying presence, I got a slow, burning look of total incomprehension, which I pretended not to see. Really, sir, I am not in the generous mood to connect with you, or gently reconcile our differences, or pay you any goddamned attention at all.

Well, as Jackson was in a big rush to stay on this guy's heels as we got off the plane, we managed to remain two feet behind him, down the stairs and across the tarmac, which gave me plenty of time to examine him from the neck down, where it turned out that he was a shorts, socks, and sandals kind of guy, with the Polartec fleece and the Indiana Jones hat, and a fiddle. Not a violin, a fiddle, in a case, and it all started to come together. Uptight folk music mountain nerds! They're everywhere, and they take themselves very, very seriously. It was then that I got a look at his nondescript, L.L. Bean-wearing wife and son, who'd apparently been the ones across the aisle he'd been yelling at about UTAH. They seemed nice enough, so my opinion of Mr. UTAH softened a micron.

But then we got into a sort of hallway that led us into terminal B and Mr. Neurotic Need for My Attention, he just couldn't stop looking back at me and Jackson, and I was getting sick of it. Plus I was hobbled with a hundred-pound messenger bag, a thousand-pound laptop bag, my camera, and Jackson's lap robe and pillow. With exquisite timing, Jackson started whining about the walk and demanding that I carry him, too. So, you know, great fucking chance to let this guy get ahead of us. Jackson and I stopped so I could rearrange my load and gently tell my little son that if he didn't carry his own lap robe and/or pillow I'd gladly leave all three of them behind. But the guy, Mr. UTAH!, he WOULDN'T LEAVE US BEHIND. He fucking waited for us. He did!! There was a door we had to walk through to finally get into the terminal itself and he just stood there, holding it open, letting people stream through, waiting for us, watching for us. When Jackson and I finally had no choice but to walk within a foot of this strange, strange man I felt as though I had no choice but to grudgingly mumble "Thank you" in his general direction and keep on walking, whereupon he let the door go and followed us, and said to my back, ". . . should've just pinned the door open." And I was all, Jesus Christ, buddy, are you TALKING to me? Who should have pinned the door open? You? Me? The airlines? Who gives a fuck? Where are your wife and kid? Do they just amble on through life while you get all stalker on strangers who have a hard time pinpointing their exact location above the earth's surface, do they just wait for you to get over it and catch up again? Fortunately, Jackson and I were immediately bestowed with the opportunity to practice jumping on and off the airport's "moving sidewalk," and so we moved the fuck away from Fiddle Boy and his Strange Need to Connect with Us and Right Our Geographical Wrongs.

If I was willing to expend this much energy on the plane ride alone, imagine the details I could give you about the rest of our trip if I had the time. Stories will come as time allows. I didn't take nearly as many photos as I'd hoped to, but here are a few.

I'm currently stranded in suburban Denver with a dial-up connection in my old bedroom at my parents' house. Which is, of course, a totally awesome way to go cold turkey on the Interweb for a week. I may or may not be returning e-mail for a few days, so thanks in advance for your patience and cooperation on that front. Believe me, I'll be posting some no doubt fascinating pictures of, um, stuff! as soon as I get back.

"The world on time."

I was cleaning up my computer desktop this morning when I found these photos I took a couple of months ago when we were picking up a package at the big FedEx center in Goleta. I gave the girl the doortag and she went into the back to look for the package, and I thought, Hmmm, I wonder what time it is?



I follow written directions really well, so I looked where the sign told me to:



I'm sure there was a very good reason for this.

It was time to shop for a new bathing suit because they're all going on sale, and Jack firmly stated his intention to take me shopping. I hedged. "What's wrong with the bathing suits I have?" I demanded. "How about keeping things fresh for the old man?" was his retort. I slapped him twice with my gauntlet. He laughed in my face and went off to prepare a fine bolognese. I relented. What was I going to say? "No! I am stubbornly going to let our marriage wither and die from lack of attractive swimwear!"

So I let him drive me to The Bikini Factory in Summerland, which is pretty much the best place on earth to buy a bathing suit. They have all the weird sizes and good fabrics, and the women who work there are very sensible about telling you what does and what definitely does not belong on your body.

Everything looked like crap on me. You know what it is? It's this short hair. I only look sexy fully clothed, in long sleeves and turtlenecks and mittens and snow shoes. You need to have long hair if you're going to look right in a bikini, this is what I realized after trying on about two dozen suits and almost, but not quite, reducing myself to bitter tears.

Jack is trying a new tactic. He changed the screensaver on his laptop to feature some extremely healthy-looking women wearing bikinis from this place*. After the last few weeks of staring at all these all-but-naked ladies, I've just about been brainwashed into believing that I could pull it off. Thing is, if I found the nerve to go out with two square inches of Lycra covering my tits, the condo association would probably ban me from the pool for the rest of the summer.

Unless I can find a waterproof wig. . . .

*Kind of borderline safe for work.

JACK ASKED ME TO POST A CLARIFYING UPDATE because the link I used for Wicked Weasel goes right to the fancy models, when the women he has on his screensaver tend to be more healthy, normal-sized models, pictures customers have sent in of themselves, even ones with short hair. Still probably a little unsafe for work, but very wholesome nonetheless.

Blogging for baby furniture

I'm on the Design Public blog this morning! They asked me to write something about children and design and in return I'm invited to buy something from their site at a discount. Which is clever of them! To think of a way for me to pay them. Seriously, though, we need lamps.

Top fifty films for children up to the age fourteen

Jackson's already seen half of the movies on the list because we're such lax parents we'll just pop in any old movie to get him to quit asking us for food, or attention, or love. The half he hasn't seen would probably scare the socks off him at this point anyway -- I mean, Night of the Hunter? You need to be at least seven before you're allowed to have Robert Mitchum's sweaty fists ruining your dreams. And Raiders of the Lost Ark still scares me, with the faces melting? And the Nazis? Holy no thanks, Batman. The one I did add to our beloved Netflix queue is La Belle et la bete, the old black-and-white Beauty and the Beast, because when she floats down the hall and all the lights raise up to meet her? Those are real human arms! This is not some cute Walt Disney story with baby teacups, this is the Brothers fucking Grimm, baby! Which reminds me, has anyone else seen that preview for the new movie where Matt Damon is one of the brothers Grimm? Seriously, he is.

The other night Jackson had a screaming fit because the streetlights were coming on and it was time to come in and he didn't want to stop playing with his friend Boloni*. It was the worst tantrum Jackson'd had in a very long time, but the most interesting part is that when he charged at me and screamed, "I hate you!" the lights dimmed. There was no reasoning with him, but naturally I had to try, which only encouraged a fresh onslaught of fists and epithets, which coincided with the lights dimming again. I looked at Jack. "One more time," I said, paraphrasing Karl Jung**. Jackson continued to freak. It happened again***.

*I could turn this entire post into another sad diatribe about baby names, but instead I'll just write a little footnote to tell you that Jackson's best friend in the neighborhood is a little Mexican kid named Boloni, who got named that by his cousin because he was such a fat little baby he looked like one of those huge rolls of bologne.

**There's a story about Jung meeting with Sigmund Freud after their split, and at one point their discussion was getting intense and a large wooden piece of furniture in the room made a huge crack! -- I think Jung believed the furniture was being strained by their psychic energy -- and I think it happened twice and then Jung looked at Freud and said, "It will happen again," and crack! it did.

***A couple of days later my boss said that his lights dimmed that night, too, so unless we've got The Omen part VII on our hands, it was just a coincidence.

Then, yesterday after seeing Sky High I took Jackson to the Discovery store to mess around with the cheap-ass remote control toys for a few minutes, and on our way out of the store we ran into a slightly older kid who was standing near one of the fountains in the mall. The kid was staring in that frank way that kids have, and Jackson reacted by slumping his shoulders forward and making a weird face. "What's your name?" the kid said. Jackson rolled his eyes and continued to make strange faces. "You're weird," said the kid. "No, I'm funny," said Jackson. I was just about to intervene in some jackassed adult way when they started running around in circles and laughing, so I went off to the side and sat down in the sun and watched. Within minutes Jackson and this kid who five minutes earlier had been a complete stranger had invented this game where they stopped suddenly and froze like stiff-armed robot soldiers every time the kid's litte brother came up to try to join them. It was one of those borderline exclusionary games where two kids love being chased and the kid doing the chasing is almost ready to cry and eventually gives up and finds something better to do, and then the kids no longer being chased come over to find out what the little one has found so interesting in the fountain.

What's so interesting is there's money at the bottom of it, and if your mom will give you a quarter you can make a wish. But once your quarter is in the bottom of the fountain you can't fish it out because then your wish won't come true, which is what I should have told Jackson before he dumped head first into the water. Once I determined that he hadn't drowned, I started to get my camera out, but even though everyone was laughing and telling him it was okay he seemed a little downhearted, so I put away my camera and dried him off with his rap robe instead. I told him he was continuing a fine family tradition, that Uncle Stinky fell into every fountain in New York City when he was Jackson's age and Grandpa Adam would make him take off all his clothes and set them out on a rail while Uncle Stinky waited in a nearby boy's room until they were dry. Me, I just wrapped up my boy and carried him to the car and stripped him down and let him ride home in his car seat naked. It's sort of an unexpected pleasure, riding in a car with no clothes, if I'm to judge by the satisfied look I saw on his face in the rearview mirror.

One last thing, if you buy a Fussy.org t-shirt I cannot guarantee that something like this will happen, though I wish I could. Honestly, though, if you get any odd reactions while you're wearing one let me know. Or take a picture. Either way I'll post or link to your story or photo.

On Tuesday morning I took our dog, Katie, to work with me, as usual. It's pretty boring for her there unless Tam Tam, the girl I share the office with, is in. About half the time Tam Tam's out at the job site doing design work, but when she comes into the office no one is happier to see her than Katie. She literally jumps for joy when she hears her coming through the door, and if no bosses are around Tam Tam gives Katie the true doggie-style love that only she can doggy do:



I love this photo, it looks like some sort of black-velvet pieta.

Anyway, Tuesday morning it was just Katie and me in the office when I started to notice these little spots of blood on the floor. I thought, Is she losing another tooth? and I looked into her mouth, but it looked okay so I wiped up the blood spots and thanked God the office has a polished concrete floor. Because about halfway through the afternoon I realized the blood was coming out of her ass. Or more accurately, out of her vulva.

Katie's having her first period.

It didn't exactly bring a tear of joy to my eye, but seeing as she's the closest thing to a daughter I'm ever going to have I gave her a hug and took her to buy some maxi pads.



Specifically, I bought her a doggy diaper garment.



It has velcro fasteners and little removable panty liners, and you can imagine her reaction to me strapping this thing around her butt. She scooted around the house for about an hour, trying to wear it off, I guess, until finally she just showed up while I was typing the previous post, turned around so her ass was facing me, and took a big fat crap in it.

So, yeah, the doggy diaper's in the trash right now, $36.00 down the drain. At least our new carpet at home has little flecks of brown and red in it so anything she leaves behind kind of blends right in.

BlogHer Roundup

In case this thing happens again next year and you're wondering if it's worth attending, this is what I took away from BlogHer '05.

Number One Best Thing was meeting people I'd only known from their blogs, but this was not pure coincidence. We'd been e-mailing back and forth for months about Taking the Next Step in our long-distance love affairs, and the planning stage was not without its setbacks, i.e., airplane tickets don't grow on trees. But we all overcame our own particular obstacles, and before we knew it we were standing in the lobby of the Westin hotel singing Kumbayah.

However, meeting a good portion of your Internet crushes can be really fucking draining. I have a hard enough time as it is coping with life unmedicated, and I do so by filtering most of my relationships through a computer screen. So when called upon to extend myself in person, after about five minutes I start looking around for a paper bag to breathe into*. When Mightygirl sat down next to me at dinner the first night I felt as though someone had put my head in a plastic dry cleaner's bag: there was suddenly no air in the room, and it was all I could do to smile faintly before hiding behind my camera and taking a picture of her chest. Smooth. If I'd been a guy she would have gutted me like a fish. Fortunately she seems to be one of the most well-adjusted people I've ever met, because by noon the next day I was going, "Molly Shannon!" and she'd get all Bond Girl and stick out her arms and say "SUPERSTAR!"

*I know, everyone says that, but ask anyone who saw me curled up on my bed like a tiny, shivering mollusk Saturday night and they'll tell you IT'S TRUE.

Meeting Heather was, predictably, a pleasure, especially since she's all normal and shit. Seriously, the only difference between a regular person and Heather is that she's as tall as a giraffe and has the bone structure of a Ford model, but otherwise she chews with her mouth open and waves her hands around when she talks and generally behaves like someone with a big brain who listens really well and treats other people with a great deal more respect than they sometimes treat her with. I felt really shy around her. She flatters me by calling me "grounded," when in reality I'm pretty much a basket case until I've known you for seven or eight years. After that, you know, I find it's pretty much safe to relax.

Melissa and Alice were the roommates dreams are made of. Melissa plays all self-deprecating and shit on her site, but she's so warm and funny and AWESOME that I wanted to just squeeze her and squeeze her and then lie in bed and listen to her giggle all night long forever. Alice I didn't want to squeeze so much as I wanted to tether her to my waist so that I could take her wherever I go for the rest of my life. Actually, the ideal arrangement would be to tether Alice and Melissa to me as though we were mountaineers, then whenever it was my turn to lead I could look back down and see them dangling from their crampons and laughing so hard they snorted freeze-dried milk from their noses. I'm not sure where that image came from, but there you have it.

JenB is just like I thought she'd be, just sort of funny and placid and generous and so easy to be with. Jen is probably the only person who didn't freak me out in the slightest way, and she brought all sorts of crazy Canadian candy that I brought home to the sincere delight of my son and all his friends.

It was a total surprise to see Sweetney there, and as soon as I recognized her I deprived her of all free will and bade her to BlogHer with us, and she was powerless to resist.

And I made some new friends:

Amanda, who remains fresh and lively even after great quantities of tequila

Liz, who is so quick, and has pretty purple bangs, and who gave me a great compliment by being one of the first to buy one of my t-shirts

Jenijen who beats the pants off me, blogging style, by managing to write engaging posts far more frequently than me while raising four intelligent, socially-conscious children

Jenny, again with the thoughtful blogging and the kids! These women have energy to burn

Koan. I didn't get to talk to Koan, but I got to hear her talk at the Getting Naked panel and I learned a lot. I learned that I don't know beans about the courage it takes not only to be transgendered but to go public with the most intimate knowledge of yourself. My god. I don't know why but I feel so proud of her.

THINGS ABOUT BLOGHER THAT DIDN'T WORK FOR ME

1. The sessions felt too short. The Getting Naked panel, which was about revealing your personal life on the Web, just managed to scratch the surface of some incredibly important issues like privacy (yours, the people you write about) when whoops! time for everybody to get out. Same with the political blogs session, and same with the moms-who-blog session, in which half of the attendees turned out to be single and childless -- just when it started getting interesting, wham! Get out! Go eat your cookies NOW!

2. Women being assholes to other women. Oh, the sexism women use against each other. I know this isn't strictly a blogging phenomenon, but as everyone there was using a blog to define herself or her opinions, we might as well have the conversation one more time in a panel discussion format. Especially after one woman stood up after it was all over and said, "You know, with all the power blogs have to change the world, I think those mommybloggers should try thinking outside of their boxes!" [This in reference to the importance of blogging about the problems of women in the Third World.] Yes, I've heard that blogs can change the world, but apparently our own stories just aren't good enough. So that was nice, to be shoved aside by the portion of the sisterhood who likes to think that reading and writing about my son wiping his own butt is a big fat waste of time. Really, as if!

Seriously, though: Grrr. Bad blogger! Bad!

Next year I hope more men will attend, especially men I love so much I want to hide from them, like Sac and Laid-off Dad, if only just because they're tall enough to reach the highest liquor shelves at Trader Joe's.

Here are my Flickr photos from BlogHer last weekend. I think I uploaded them in reverse, or, I don't know, they're all in the wrong order for some reason, but screw it. I was overwhelmed by the company of so many hilarious, intelligent, nice women.