peevish mama

I haven’t had much by way of writing fodder lately. Or maybe it’s the writer, not the fodder that’s the problem. I have found, in the past, that when I have nothing to write about, writing is paradoxically, what shakes loose the block. You, my dear reader, have been subjected to too many of my attempts to write myself out of a corner. Even when I don’t explicitly come out and say so, there are certainly times when I hit the publish button with a disgusted sigh. I have twenty minutes before the sitter comes for Devil Baby, so we can take the other two to see the Black Eyed Peas. Surely, I will have much to report tomorrow. For now, I want to blow away this cloud hovering around my temples, so I can step out with a clear head tonight. I hereby offer you a hot tip as a token of my appreciation for coming to visit me here, in this arid land of peevishness.

Funny People: ok, not exactly hot, this tip, but I’m guessing at least some of you haven’t yet seen this movie. It’s directed by Judd Apatow, of  Superbad, 40 Year Old Virgin and Knocked-Up, but it’s Judd Apatow doing something really risky, really successfully: dramedy. This movie is funny and sad and touching and toes the schmaltz line without ever stepping over it. It’s lovely and raunchy, a delicate balance, indeed. And Adam Sandler? He’s epitomizes the sad, no – angry clown in this movie and he was damn good; I would so rather see him actually act than talk like a baby. And it turns out, the man can act. Here it is, days later, and the movie is still slipping around in my head. This never happened with Apatow’s other movies, funny as they were. I highly recommend it and with that, I bid you good night.

And by the way, that “hey, hey, hey” is pronounced à la Duane from the beloved late seventies sitcom, What’s Happening!!  Don’t ask questions. It just is. So, I’m just a smidge excited to share this news with you. I got my first “real” piece of writing published over at Simple Good and Tasty this morning and I’m all a’ dither. Simple Good and Tasty is an online foodie mag based in the Twin Cities dedicated to promoting local, sustainable and organic foods and the people who produce them. I know! LOVE! Of course, I dig their mission, but I also dig their approach. They don’t seem to take themselves too seriously and they obviously love food. Kinda like me!

I have Lady Shutterbug to thank for pointing me in the right direction when they were looking for writers. First I sent them links to a few of my posts from Vittles, which got me through the first hoop. They invited me to write a spec blog post for them and I hemmed and hawwed and almost didn’t do it because I just couldn’t bring myself to write a well researched “straight” piece. Finally, I just wrote what I wanted to write and lo and behold, they actually went for my particular flavor of crazy! Check it out here and feel free to leave lots of comments so they think they’ve hired someone really famous and special! Just kidding. No, not kidding, do it. Heh, just kidding. No I’m not. Yes I am. No.

The picture is from my bio for the website and if you’re wondering whether I ate that bacon, the answer is – of course.

Let’s not mince words. I’m in funk. A thoroughly funkified funkmaster funkty dumpty funkalicious funkafreaky funk. I feel like I’m looking at the world through the musty living room curtain of a nonagenarian smoker, my thoughts veering wildly from: mother fucking mother fucker it’s colder than a mother fucker in this mother fucking god forsaken ice hole of a bung hole of a place, to the decidedly more upbeat and pithy: What’s the point of anything? To make matters worse, it also seems I can’t write my way out of a paper bag. In a classic chicken and the egg quandry, I don’t know if I can’t write because of the funk, or if I’m in the funk because I’m not writing. As frivolous and silly as this blog may be, I must admit that it does bring me some pleasure and even a measure of peace from time to time, so the yawning silence of my keyboard has got me down. In the dumps. In the dumptastic, dumpgusting, dumptopia, dumptragic, dumpster diddy dumps. Speaking of dumps, that last post, the one about winter, I felt like a constipated old woman (yes, the one with the dirty sheer curtains) hell bent on taking a huge dump only to squeeze out one unsatisfying, measly, rock hard pellet. I know that’s gross. Sooooo gross. So so so gross.

But look, can’t you tell I’m feeling better already? 

Actually, the reason I’m feeling better is that yesterday I got to take in a double feature of girl love. First there was a tasty riotous lunch at Blackbird Cafe with Nanook, Birdie and Pretty Young Thing for a belated celebration of Crackerjack’s birthday. Two bottles of wine would barely begin to wet the whistles of this crew after sundown, but tucked into a cozy table in the middle of the day with no kids, it felt deliciously decadent and before long we were shrieking and chattering like a tree full of crazed baboons. It was lovely. A total breath of fresh air. Happy Birthday CJ!

And then last night as a few of us were lingering at Lady Biker Babe’s house after book club, my funk was detected. They are nothing if not astute, this bunch. They are nothing if not fixers, this bunch. They can sniff out and snuff out a funk a mile away. I mentioned my writer’s block and the fact that I can’t seem write my way out of a paper bag. Actually, I don’t think I used the words “paper bag” at all, but bear with me, I’m trying my hardest to stay away from the dump metaphor. Instead of poopooing the paper bag, they saw the paper bag. They nodded, quietly acknowledging the paper bag and then without a lot of fanfare, Lady Shutterbug handed me some pinking shears. Then Lady Homeslice used her socked foot to slide a nail file in my direction over the couch cushions. On her way out the door, Lady Doctah Poodle wrapped my fingers around some knitting needles. Lady Tabouli (whom I’m temped to rechristen Lady Rollergirl after a story I heard last night – she gets to pick) palmed me a tiny switchblade and Lady Biker Babe tossed a lighter in my lap. I don’t remember anything specific that anyone said, I just know that in their own way they were helping me fight the funk. They were helping me fight my way out of the paper bag.

So, what else can I do but just try, right? What else can any of us do? But. Just. Try.

Believe it or not, there are whole chunks of time when I float along writing whatever it is I write on this blog without getting all freaky deaky about it. Times when I feel like it’s fun for me, maybe fun for a few others, and I don’t give it much thought beyond that. But the thing about a blog is that it’s a solitary endeavor. I just put thoughts and words out into cyberspace and there is no one there to stop me. To check me. To laugh in my face. To go pshh, ya, whatever. I just deck myself out in my own particular brand of crazy and there’s no one to give me the stink eye and send me back to my closet.

I’m the peevish unabomber and like everyone who holes up with their own thoughts for too long, I start to go a little batty. And if you can indulge me in my stretchy metaphor that this blog is a remote, dingy, one room cabin filled with papers, empty cans and beaver pelts, then I dare say you’ll humor me in taking it a bit further and agree that this blog can also be a big, moist yellow batter cake with white buttercream frosting that serenely sits on a cake stand with the songs of angels wafting about it.

And the thing about lonely shanties is that every once in a great while, there’s a knock at the door. 

And the thing about beautiful white cakes is that it’s only a matter of time before a big gleaming knife cuts right through it.

And the thing about this blog, is that from time to time something jars me into realizing that this isn’t all just in my head. That all this crazy talk, all these absurd musings are real, that they’re out there and anyone can read them, giving them an up close and personal tour of the inner workings of my mind.

And then I feel deeply deeply sheepish. So sheepish in fact, that if I were one of those dolls that has another doll under its skirt that you unveil by pulling the skirt over the first doll, then the first doll would be Peevish Mama and the doll under the skirt would be Sheepish Mama. You see?  I’m doing it again. I can’t help myself. I do love those dolls though.

A few months ago, Dash and I were out to dinner with Pipes and his lovely girlfriend Sassy Jewels and Pipes mentioned that his youngest daughter had asked whether she could read my blog. Now I’ve known this little chickie since she was four. She now babysits my kids. I understand that she’s quite a little writer and I adore her. So my reaction was something along the lines of OF COURSE THE FUCK NOT!!! Luckily Pipes was on the same page and I don’t have to worry about corrupting the girl with my ruminations. But it made me stop for a second and take stock. There’s a lot of my “stuff” in here, and it’s not for everyone.

I had a similar reaction in another situation when I ran into my friend La Chilenita walking with her friend. Oh, smiled La Chilenita when she saw me, this is my friend so and so and this is her first baby and I was just telling her about your blog! And I thought, oh dear God! This poor young naive mother will be prematurely and irrevocably tainted with my weary venom! She doesn’t need to know about how it’s all going to unravel for her a few years and kids down the road. Let her enjoy her baby and the smug belief that she’s a good mom. She doesn’t need to know how much she’s going to yell. She doesn’t need to know how much food off the floor she’s going to let her kids eat. She doesn’t need to know how many times she’s going to forget chess club. She doesn’t need to know she will disappoint her kids. She doesn’t need to know she will disappoint herself.

But I eventually shake off the cringe. I tell myself that if it doesn’t resonate with someone, doesn’t catch their interest, they won’t come back. It’s simple, really. Doors are made to be knocked on. Cakes are made to be eaten. Blogs are meant to be read. That is until you get a comment from the Minneapolis Farmers Market where, in simple terse words, they thank you for supporting farmers. Waah? All of the sudden you’re pulling your skirt over your head becoming Sheepish Mama doll again, because, really? Really? Did I really just subject this nameless, faceless, innocent at the Minneapolis Farmers Market to Squash Claw? Oh dear God.

There is a woman. I don’t know her, but she intrigues me. It’s been awhile. It’s been awhile since I’ve been intrigued by someone in this particular way: the way of someone young and curious, the way of someone with time to watch people and ponder, the way of someone who might be taking a short fiction workshop, the way of someone more interested in looking at everyone else than herself.

If you live where I live, you may have seen her. She is tall and has short hair that looks like an afterthought – neither unruly nor too kept. She is a light skinned black woman. She waits for the bus. Sometimes she walks. Once I saw her on her bike, bundled up against the wind, a scarf around her head, big glamourous sunglasses hiding her face. But I knew it was her. I can spot her from a mile away. She just has one of those bodies that cuts the air in an unmistakeable and completely unique way.

50th Street seems to be her artery, or maybe it’s mine, because this is mostly where I see her. She doesn’t have a car, and if she does, she chooses not to use it. Her feet point out slightly, giving her a peculiar gait, at once graceful and gangly. She reminds me of Josephine Baker. Maybe she’s a dancer. Maybe she has a lonely heart. 

If she’s not a dancer, surely she should try it.

She waits at the bus stop, not reading, not talking on the phone. Simply waiting. Is she waiting for something else? Besides the bus? Because who does that? Wait for the bus, not reading, not talking on the phone?

I wonder.

I would like to watch her dance.

It’s been a long time since I’ve wondered about someone like this. In Boston there was a man who used to floss his teeth in the street with an absurdly long piece of floss, his hands held at least twelve inches apart. No dental hygienist had taught him how to roll it around his index fingers and so he played his teeth like a cello. I used to wonder about him. The homeless man with impeccable dental hygiene. 

She reminds me of Josephine Baker. Maybe that’s why I think she should dance, because really, nothing else about her seems like a dancer. She has a long, strong, flat footed stride. But then again, so did Josephine Baker.

In Southbend there was a little old couple who used to walk around campus holding hands. They were always impeccably turned out – he in a hat, overcoat, and natty suit, she in a neat twin set, a matching tweed jacket and skirt, stockings, sensible shoes. Gray and twinkling, they were throw-backs to a time of tailors, dressmakers and haberdasheries, of yellowed measuring tape, pins and dashes of chalk. I used to wonder about the little old couple. How had they managed to stay in love for so many years? What had they survived in order to walk hand in hand under the shade of the trees?

I wonder if her job involves paper. She looks like she pours over words, possibly numbers, her torso curled into a C in her chair. She probably has to speak only sparingly, a polite word at the soda machine, an update for her boss. Words may bring her pleasure, but I suspect it’s not the spoken kind. Her desk is either really messy or really neat. Not in between. And she has little gold frames with pictures of children, though not her own. Sweet dimpled faces of a niece and a nephew, but from a few years ago. They must look so much older now. I don’t think her office has a window, but what do I know?

Maybe if she danced, it would make her smile. 

I wonder.

I think I’ve finally done it. I think I’m finally all out of words. I’m off my crutches and the process of climbing out of my head and back into my enfeebled body has left me tongue tied. Like a kid who used up his alloted amount of tokens within the first twenty minutes at Chucky E. Cheese, I feel slightly bereft, slightly sheepish after my greedy, glutinous spew. During my six weeks on crutches, this blog was my lifeline – it was the only thing I could DO, produce, create.

I am surprised to find myself with absolutely nothing. Nothing. Left. To. Say.

When my world shrunk down to my house, my car and anywhere I could painstakingly get to on my crutches, my mind started racing. I felt chafed by my confinement and the words in my head were my only way to run. Now I can go anywhere and I have circled the wagons tight. I have redrawn my circumference within a few feet of my knee. I focus on watching my step, smoothing out my gait, lifting my way to a normal looking quadricep, taking this knee of mine across the finish line. Also in this little circle are my family and the small stuff of life that needs my attention. The angst, the anxiousness, the twitching antenae, the mental chatter, the monkey mind that drive this blog and usually drive me, seem to have quieted. Peculiar.

Nothing about this experience has been as expected. I thought I would go wild when I got off my crutches. I thought I would be euphoric and bristling with energy. But I find myself strangely quiet. Relieved. Cautious. Sated by the simple blessing of being on my own two feet.

So as you can see, peevish mama got a bit of a makeover. Doesn’t she look pretty? Or maybe this is your first visit, in which case welcome!

I started this blog almost a year ago and for a long time, I only told a couple people about it. Blogging felt incredibly self indulgent and moreover, I was afraid I would simply suck at it. Slowly I grew comfortable with a little self-indulgence and a little sucking and I told a few more people. Still, I felt like I needed to keep this baby under wraps because if it wasn’t going to be a safe place to spew and vent and curse and complain and bitch and gush and pant and brag and shiver and cry and wonder and love and question, then there was simply no point in it for me. Also, I wasn’t sure I would continue because, really, how long can you keep writing about nothing? Many months, apparently, and here at peevish mama, I will continue to test that hypothesis. 

So this whole letting the cat out of the bag thing feels precarious and maybe even stupid, but I take some comfort in the fact that I’m being precarious and stupid with so many other people it’s not even funny. Every other fucker and his brother has a blog, so really, what’s the big deal? It’s not a big deal.

If I have told you about this blog, it means I am comfortable swearing in front of you or at you. It means I think you won’t judge me, and if you do, I’m ok with that. It doesn’t mean I expect you to read, it doesn’t mean I expect you to talk about it with me. I’m just letting the cat out of the bag – what you and the cat choose to do is entirely between the two of you. Having said that, if you do happen to read, I care what you think, so comment away – I love getting comments. It’s like finding surprise candy in my pockets! Should I ever happen to find a turd in my pocket, I’m turning off the comments button right way because I have a very thin skin. This is superficial entertainment only – I don’t want any shit. 

I need to take a moment to thank the man who made this extreme makeover possible – the guy who is hosting this blog and fielding my inane questions with the patience of a smiling Buddha – the irrepressible, irreplaceable Rip Van Techno.  My old blog was so low-tech I couldn’t lump my writing into categories – it was just one long chronological archive of my fiendish musings. Now my fiendish musings are roughly organized into the categories you see at the right and I feel oh so much better! So thanks Rip. You da man.

Uncle. I miss this blog. The little hiatus I’ve taken in order to move the blog has been no good. For starters, there has been a marked spike in my cussin’, notwithstanding my resolution, because I have nowhere to write shit fuck shit ass ho mother fucker piece of shit asswipe fucker jackass dick ass mother fucking mother fucker ass face. It has left me sitting in my hands, feeling helpless and dubious that moving the blog is actually going to work. While Rip Van Techno stokes his mojo to get me set up, I sit around and cheese myself out. And curse.

I’ve had all sorts of time to determine that there is really no point to this, that I am totally full of shit, that my writing voice is annoying and nasally, that I’m a show-off, that my flagrant exploitation of ellipses underscores what a lazy, careless, charmless writer I really am. Gag me with a spoon. Why bother? Why? Why? Trite drivel. Honeyed clichés. And is there, God help me, is there ever any smugness? I HATE smug. It’s really the only thing I hate. And I worry. Was I ever smug? Even for a few seconds? Maybe? Oh God. That’s it. No more. Spare us. Please. Beg. Total shite.

And then Red Vogue sends me an email. A tentacle from across the creek. She tells me she misses my blog. Oh jeez. Really? And then Crackerjack gives me a huge pep talk last night at the bar, only she doesn’t even know it’s a pep talk – I just chug my beer and hear it as a pep talk because I’m such a pathetic desperado. She misses my blog. Really? Oh sweetness, thank you. Because, the truth is, I miss it too.

I had forgotten why I started. I had lost sight of the founding principles. Aim low, sweet chariot – coming for to carry me home . . .

This was supposed to be for me. Not you. It was supposed to be a risk. Not safe. It was supposed to be an experiment. Not a success. It was supposed to be vulnerable and raw. Not polished and perfect. It was supposed to make me write. Not stew and doubt. It was supposed to bring me peace. Not notoriety. I never intended to make you read. I never intended to make this good. I had forgotten that this is nothing. This is a lark. This is a low stakes game – a no stakes game. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a little exercise wheel for my brain. Shallow, silly. A crunchy nothing shell with a creamy something center.

I’m not bombarding you with carrier pigeons clutching my folded up musings. I’m not sending clowns or strippers to read you my thoughts. You come here. Of your own free will. To my messy house. There’s shit everywhere. If you’re willing to pick your way through the garbage, you’re welcome to take a seat on the couch – put your feet up. Move all those toys. I love that you’re here. I cannot express how much. Thank you. I love you. And if it ever gets annoying – if I ever cheese you out – just let yourself out the back.

I must have been about five years old.  We were living in a two-bedroom apartment in an unremarkable, dull brown complex called Royal Manor.  It didn’t look royal and it certainly didn’t feel royal, but I fancied the name and looked for opportunities to tell people the name of the place where I lived.

Royal Manor was housing for medical residents at William Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan and was filled with young families, like ours, whose parents spoke with funny accents, like mine.  Upstairs lived my friend Sapla who wore pretty dresses and gold bangles that jingled on her thin brown wrists.  I ate rice with melted butter at her house.  Sapla ate with her hand and I used a fork.  I also tried pomegranate seeds for the first time at her house.  To this day, every time I spend a meditative few minutes dislodging pomegranate seeds from the waxy white pith, my thoughts turn to Sapla’s mom, beautiful in her diaphanous saris, telling me they were called Indian Apples in a voice as thick and golden as honey.

One night our buzzer rang.  I jumped up, leaving my dolls in a shocked heap – frozen and wild-eyed – and slid to my mother’s side in socked feet.  She opened the door and there, in the florid yellow light of the hallway, stood a perfect fairy princess.  She was shorter than me – and much more beautiful, with long, wispy, white-blond hair, a poufy pink skirt, sparkly wings and a tiny tiara on her head.  She was holding an orange globe and she positively took my breath away.  I hid behind my mother.  

“Trick or treat,” she called in a tinselly but surprisingly loud voice.  My mother cocked her head to one side, put her hands on her hips and bent over to peek inside the globe.  I held my breath.

“Ay, ohkay, leetle bayllerina . . . wait, wait.”

My mother turned and strode into the apartment, leaving me alone with the fairy princess.  I lowered my eyes to her ball, wondering what my mother had seen.  She reappeared shaking a box of white peppermint Tic Tacs – the box that normally shimmied around her purse with a crinkly blue pack of Parliament cigarettes.  She was about to toss the Tic Tacs into the girl’s ball, when suddenly the door burst open and a jumble of children pushed their way into the hall yelling “trick or treat” in a rowdy chorus.  My mother calmly assessed the motley assortment of streaked face paint, vampire teeth, capes and wigs and, ever the pragmatist, proceeded to shake a few Tic Tacs into each expectant bag.

My cheeks burned.  I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I did know that these kids were at least entitled to a whole piece of unopened candy.  The children fled, their excited voices growing fainter and fainter, finally flittering away through darkened branches into the night sky.  

My mother closed the door and with a casual flick, turned off the light and laughed, “No tengo mas!”  She thought this was funny and my shame flipped to anger.  As I glared at her in the dark, she reached behind me, pulling my long black hair up into a ponytail, smoothing the sides, checking for stray wisps with her warm fingers.  She held my hair in her hand and gently led me to the front window where I plopped down, my hair dropping heavily around my shoulders.  She sat behind me – much younger then than I am now, remembering all of this – and curled her body around mine.

My mother and I waited in the dark for what seemed like a long time, peeking out from behind the sheer white curtains.  Shouts and laughter signaled the approach of more children and we tensed up and giggled as they ran up our steps and rang the buzzer.  We waited, covering our mouths, frozen for an eternity until they thumped back down the steps.  I looked at my mother and laughed, but I felt sad to see them go. I felt sorry for having tricked them.  I exhaled a cloud of breath onto the cool glass in front of me.  As I watched the foggy ghost I had made slowly recede, I mouthed those magical words silently to myself, feeling them in my mouth like a couple of slippery white Tic Tacs. Trick or treat.

So why blog?  My reasons are manifold and since I haven’t really planned out this first entry (I was more just sort of ferreting out a cool background), I’m just going to say that it has a little something to do with having too many words in my head flapping around like a bunch of nasty pigeons.

Sometimes all these words get strung together into thoughts  which are incredibly convoluted and, frankly, out there.  By way of example, I have actually imagined spawning a tiny version of myself who, after landing deftly on the countertop, arm of the couch or where ever I happen to be, scrambles up my sleeve, does a neat pike dive into my ear and hangs out in the bubbling hot tub that is my mind, rather enjoying the churning and the noise, but completely oblivious to the outside world.  

I have also composed entire paragraphs in my head depicting my travels in India, a travelogue redolent with the scents of turmeric and clove, frangipani, tuberose and water hyacinth . . . are you feeling me?  There’s more: dusty cows, swirling saris, warm sheets of monsoon rain, piles of gold and saffron in the markets, secret maps etched on the hennaed hands of brides.  I have never been to India, and, more importantly, do not have a job that would require me to document my impressions of India should I ever go there.  

Better to get all these words out, no?

This whole being in my head thing sounds a bit escapist, I’ll admit, and so this would be a good time to introduce the three short people who live in my house.  Wait.  One step back.  There is also one tall one, taller than me, actually, and I’ll call him Doctor Dash.  He vetoed Doctor Love because, he, unlike me, is not so sure that no one will ever read this blog.  In fact, Doctor Dash has enumerated a whole honkin’ list of things I’m not allowed to write about, but we’ll just see about that.  

I WILL NOT BE CENSORED!

Actually, I will.  I will censor myself to protect the innocent because this is just a lark, a little free therapy, and I intend to avoid any unnecessary mortification of loved ones (myself excluded).

Doctor Dash is very smart, which is very sexy – which is not to say that he wouldn’t be sexy were he not smart – I just wouldn’t be married to him.  He’s also funny, to me anyway.  We met our senior year in college when we were young and fun and about 15 pounds heavier each.  We met at the age when we both lived in flannel shirts and 501’s and drank copious amounts of beer and smoked copious amounts of woops!  We basically got to grow up together.  He wrapped me up in music, I wrapped him up in books and I’m so thankful I didn’t play too hard to get for too long.  (Yes, I was peevish back then too).  He gets me and really, what else could I ask for?

Our oldest lad is a heavenly seven and I will call him Saint James.  He loves all creatures, great and small, and wants to be a naturalist when he grows up.  He’s got the circadian rhythms of a teen.  He’s a killer reader and a pretty great soccer player too.  He’s got a big pouf of dirty blond hair, my eyes but in sparkly blue, an infectious cackle, a gentle soul, and, currently, a horrible case of hay fever.  

Our middle child is fabulously five and I will call her Supergirl.  She’s fearless and sporty and has the biggest green-brown eyes you’ve ever seen.  She craves speed, physical peril, and candy.  She rides her bike like the wind, is never cold and has the world’s dirtiest feet at the end of a good day outside.  She, I suspect, will also have many words in her head someday because she loves to chat and sometimes, honestly, you feel like you are talking to a teenager (albeit, a relatively agreeable one).  She’s determined and fierce and does a mean one-handed cartwheel.

Our youngest, God help us, our youngest is almost two and I can’t decide whether I will call her The Boss or Devil Baby.  Yes, that’s right.  I love her, I’ll keep her, but SHE’S FUCKING KILLING ME.  There, I said it.  I’m sick of all the pitying looks I get at Supergirl’s preschool as I wrestle 28 pounds of bucking fat and muscle to the car every day.  Devil Baby likes to stay and push the toy shopping cart around.  If you fuck with her plans, there is hell to pay.  She has porcelain skin, blue eyes, doe colored hair, and the steely innards of a mob boss.  She can be hilarious and she can make you want to stick your head in the oven.  She likes Elmo and tearing down the street on her big wheel.  She does not cooperate.  She does not compromise.  She does not listen.  She is killing me.  But I love her.  

I love them all.  And so I will write, a bit, to make myself a little more sane, a little more patient, a little less peevish.

Ah, yes, and why peevishmama?  Well, I think I’ve pretty much covered that.  Suffice it to say that I like the word and it captures, perfectly, how I feel 94% of the time.  And by the way, it’s not just my husband and kids making me peevish.  No, sometimes it’s everything and everyone else and they, Doctor Dash, Saint James, Supergirl and Devil Baby are the only, and the perfect, antidote.