Just Because You Work for Fox Doesn't Mean You Are One

Crazy busy days. Good, great, gigantic things happening. Not a "baby-steps" kind of week, this one goes down in history as the best that sober life brings. To see the Dalai Lama would be enough, certainly, but it wasn't, not by a long shot.

My oldest child was in San Diego, and called her mother almost daily, just to say "hi" and share a quick story. My second child is God knows where doing God knows what, and I love it. Love her life for her. The flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants part wouldn't suit me; I need a plan. She doesn't, the wind blows her, she laughs at it, and the race is on. My baby baby did what most "Jerzy Grlz" do, and rented a room down the shore with friends. I signed my life away as the responsible adult (cuz I am) and blew a kiss goodbye.

The certificate for my LLC has come from the State, and I am officially the owner of a small business. Checking account opened, insurance policy purchased, personalized stationary ordered (comes with a free return-address label dispenser), all done. We are on our way, folks!

Today, as I shop and cook and clean, I ruminate. Do I reflect on my accomplishments with grace and gratitude? Do I call my mother and share my wonderful life? No. I play out an old recurring story in my head, the one where I meet Ann Coulter. This works as a tool to keep reminding me of exactly who I might become: a real bitch. What would I say to Ann Coulter? What would she say to me? Could I effectively cut her down and make her cry, which you would think would happen whenever she showed her nasty ass bony knees in public? Could I express to her that I left the Republican party because I didn't want to be in the same category as she and Sarah Dollar Signs Palin? Would she care? I imagine saying to her, "Excuse me ma'am, you really can't assume you look good in a mini skirt and high heels. At your age, only Tina Turner can make that look good." Hah! Get it?! Tina is black and over 60, and everybody loves her! Or, upon being introduced, I would hold out my hand and say, "I'm sorry, Ann Who?" How about this gem: "Pardon me, you have lipstick all over your teeth. Did you just blow Hannity in the men's room? Ew." Well, it's a start.

I have also started a gratitude journal, and Ann Coulter is definately not in it. My children, friends, soul mate, and Dalai Lama are. Hmm, Ann has none of these. Not one. So, I'll take my life, and she can take my bitchiness. She seems to always want more of that, anyway.

To be continued, or not.

There had been no fiery Armageddon; the family had just stopped breathing. It had not existed so long that anyone passing through would really notice it was gone. The house remained standing on a manicured lawn, the curtains pressed, meals made and eaten, windows put up at night and pushed down securely in the morning. But the family was no longer. The house seemed to maintain itself just fine.