Evidence that I am a direct descendant of Job:

The Tour de France and World Cup overlapping each other. Yes, I do find George Hincapie attracive in a sort of horse-faced, anorexic way. I love picturesque chauteaus in Brittany as much as the next person... but really what is the Tour to me? Three weeks of watching what really amounts to not sport so much as legal human torture. There are heartbreaking losses and crashes and every day I hear some chap with a lovely British accent say, "Oh! look! The peloton seems to be coming around yet another corner...and there's three, no five, no, twenty-two riders down...what a dissapointment for team Leakygas." (I'm told the correct spelling is "Liquigas", and also to please grow up.)

Then Bob...whatever his name is, (he's the guy with the gap big enough for one of the riders' arms to fit through his front teeth) goes off into a ten minute solilliqy about how "in 1964, we had only a chunk of hardtack and two unicycles pegged together, and we raced our hearts out. I personally had a broken fibula held together with duct tape and gauze, but by gum, I kept riding. Those were the days, Bob, those were the days." Seriously - right this very minute he was just commenting on the peculiar smell of burning flesh that pervades the races - the riders get suntanned, and then their hot flesh goes smearing across the pavement when they fall, creating a lovely eau de human barbeque smell. Eddie Izzard would be compelled to comment here that it probably smells of chicken.

This, combined with the last month or so of "GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL!" and "the referee is taking out a yellow card, oh, no, wait, a RED card...this doesn't look good for Botswana, Mic, not good at all.." proves that if its not the NBA, its OLN, or NFL, or some other channel with three letters that translate into hours and hours of droning, punctuated only by commercials for trucks or tools or Levitra, and that weird "inspirational" music they always cut into the shows with.

Bella (age three, not thirty-three, remember now) turned to me in the midst of our Sunday services last week and asked, "Where's your kids?". Out of nowhere, thin air, the little dear put two and two together and figured out that I need to be hounded at every possible moment. I leaned over to Scott and whispered, sotto voce, "That was officially the Last Straw! We are moving to a deserted island next week!" He just blinked and gave me the, "you need medical help, if not a strong tranquilizer" blank stare.

This morning Fynn left me a sort of tiny, mustardy "chocolate chip" on my freshly changed sheets. Nothing says, "I love you!" like the chance to scrub a tiny bit of turd out of a sheet and throw it back in the laundry (with bleach, don't worry). It was an accident, and you don't want to know any more detail, trust me.

That nice check I just got? Pretty much half of it will be going directly into our mouths, and I will be left dead broke... again. When I look outside at the sad state of our "yard" and imagine how lovely it would be if I had a single spare dollar to spend on it, I seriously want to cry. Mostly because that single dollar would need hundreds, really thousands, of friends in order for that tiny area to not look like the cursed earth that it is. Instead of crying, I just shut the curtains and hope that people walking by are looking across the street, and pour myself a drink. (Water, people, water!)

Remember how I mentioned that I was really excited about the wedding I had the other week? It was lovely and charming and everyone loved the music Scott was spinning. Things were fabulous, right up until the point where they crossed the line from, "happily buzzed" to "absurdly, sloppily plastered" and I got to do the following (in four inch heels, no less) Fun Things:

1. Sprint down a ramp barking, "No pool! Nooo poooll!" in order to prevent a Vera Wang-clad bride, groom and who knows how many other people from jumping in the pool and probably hitting their heads and drowning. Which would lead to them suing the hotel, me, and everyone else for every penny we have. (Which, in my case: None....)
   

• Lift and half-carry someone who had "accidentally" mixed post-surgery pain pills with her Patron and posh champagne. Uphill, upstairs and through the v. posh lobby, where nature took its course...all over the couch of said posh lobby (blaaaaaaaaaaah!). After swabbing up someone else's $150.00 vomitus, in front of the entire check-in staff, ten smirking bellman, a pissed-off Head Valet and all the cute boys that work for him, I had the pleasure of rounding up fifteen drunk people and forcing them into a cab. My job is suuuuuuper-glamourous, no doubt about it. *Note to horrified, raised-eyebrows-of-intense-dissaproval-at-me guests in the lobby: Did you notice the part where my back was spastically and involuntarily arching in order to keep myself from puking all over the place due to the intense stench that is regurgitated filet mignon with garlic? No? Did you know that I could have let those people puke wherever they liked, and get in the car and drive and been well within my rights? No? You didn't? I could, just so you know....but I think that saving someone from death or a DUI is worth a little mortification on my part. Maybe you disagree; I'm so dreadfully sorry to ruin your thirteen-dollar martini. PS: I can get a better one for like eight bucks.
  

I think someone new has moved into the apartment building next to our house*. They have loud child(ren?) and they smoke. I believe that they exhale directly at our bedroom windows, which are open because a) it is summer b) I must have 'fresh' air to sleep c) I don't think air conditioning for homes was invented when our house was built. Awesome! Now every load of clean laundry I bring inside to fold, our clean sheets, and my hair will be permanantly redolent of a French film noir, or an old bar.

*This is the same apartment building where the landlady refuses to pay to have the bloody massive, bi-forked oak tree (the one that drops crap on my house 24/7/365, attracts spiders, bugs and other vermin, and doesn't let any light hit that side of the house....yeah, that one) because she "thinks its pretty". Gaaaaaah! Oak trees, jackarandas (we have three in the parkway on the other side of the house, because the Santa Barbara Planning Commission suffers from severe cranio-rectal inversion) sycamores, and pine trees do not belong next to a house. They belong in a field, far, far away from anyone, preferably with a sign that says, "These are pretty trees that belong outside in a field. If you plant them by your house, you are a blithering idiot. Now go home and enjoy your non-shedding, light-trimming, spider-free, no-raking-every-day-required yard."

Before you remind me that I can legally trim all the 'overhanging branches' on my side of the property, let me remind you of two things: The entire tree/s 'overhang' and trimming the stuff on my side would leave two large stumps and equal a very angry neighbor lady, plus future awkwardness when we want to remodel or have a party. Also: These are Oak Trees, which means I have to have permission from afore-mentioned planning commission... who would likely require the owners' permission. Which puts me back at square one, as well as in the "Mean and Complain-y Neighbor with Crappy Yard" category. I was really hoping to avoid that one.

Bring on the boils, baby.

Oh! I forgot! I was also attacked by giant cockroach last night after going to see a friends' band. Someone would not even step on said bug for me, and it ran right towards my dainty, naked, sandal-clad toes and bare, bare legs. I'm going to start drinking (not water) in the afternoon if this keeps up. Also, I put myself on 25 Peeps. How embarassing is this?