The little angel has a cold. I hear her coughing from time to time in the night. We called the pediatrican, shoved unread baby books under one end of the crib mattress to elevate her head and bought a must-be-cleaned-daily-or-will-become-infested-with-icky-mold humidifier. We salined her nose. She is still sick.

It doesn't seem to be bothering her too much. Her disposition is still as sunny as could be expected, but there are faint purple circles under her little eyes from disrupted sleep, and Oz tells me she has other, bowel-related problems, but I have seen no evidence of that yet. She snurgles a lot.

When I told a friend about the little angel's situation, he described it as "kennel cough." Apparently puppies get sick a lot from being cooped up with other puppies in the kennel. I'm not sure how I feel about that description, but that's pretty much the size of it. I know she either gets sick a lot now or sick a lot in preschool, but I still feel somewhat bad sending her back into the germ fray at Oz every day, now that I've had my first experience with what it can do to her.

Poor baby. Wah.

This weekend, my beloved, the little angel and I had dinner with friends. Over the course of dinner, it came up that they had met through an online dating service. Apparently, the male half of this duo had withheld this information before because he was under the impression there is still a stigma attached to such services.

Let me clear the air.

I've thought a lot about the subject of how people meet, particularly those out of college and without planned activities that force one to interact with people with whom one shares interests (graduate school, for example). I remember struggling desperately with the whole dating scene when I lived in Chicago, land of leather-wearing, materialistic freaks (and some dear, dear friends - don't get me wrong). I found that many of the 30-something single men in Chicago were more concerned with their leather couch or their down payment than their date's hopes and fears.

When I moved to Kansas City, I was further stymied by the perceived lack of single people. I think we made some magazine's countdown for "worst city to live in as a single person." As I would ponder my situation in my one-bedroom over yet another Smart One and bottle of wine on Friday nights, I came to the conclusion that modern society has stifled community to the point that IT REALLY IS IMPOSSIBLE TO MEET PEOPLE if you don't already have a circle of friends and acquaintances in the city you live in. I know most of the people that I hang out now because of a) work b) grad school c) friends' friends. I imagine if I were dating, it would be the same way. I wouldn't probably again date anyone I work with or went to school with (I've seen things like that turn bad, though my beloved and I did work for the same company when we met), so that leaves friends' friends. If you don't know anyone, or only married people, you're kind of out of luck.

It is so hard to find someone with whom you'd like to attend a Bach Vespers, let alone spend your life. With this sort of mounting challenge, is it any wonder that our service-industry society has spawned paid methods of meeting people? Is match.com any different than my beloved sorority, Delta Gamma? I took a lot of crap for "paying for my friends" in college, but really what I was paying for in my mind was organized events at which I might possibly meet other people my age who liked to drink cheap beer.

So stop with the stigmas already, people! In a country where we can screen calls simply by lifting the phone and staring at it, how can we be surprised if it's hard to make a love connection without a little organizational help? If you paid for a service to help you meet your loved one, be happy that it exists! Think if all you had to rely on was a county fair, or, God forbid, your workplace? Think if you had to let your mother set you up with all her friends' sons and daughters! Because that, my friend, is the alternative. Egads. Thank you, electronic dating world inventor. Now everyone, go set up your single friends. They need you.

Last night I went to a much-needed happy hour after work. I had every intention of having ONE drink and leaving after an hour. However, sitting outside in a beer garden on a sunny, autumn afternoon laughing with other adults felt really, really good. It felt carefree in a way that I am not often carefree these days. Not that it's a bad thing to have this responsibility - I would not want to go back permanently - but for two hours, it was nice.

Until I realized I was a bit buzzing and ten minutes late for the parents' meeting at Oz. Que horor.

I frantically tried to call my beloved to let him know that I would be late, while attempting to display a calm exterior for my friends. I had a feeling said beloved would be none too happy with me for showing up late and smelling like Ernest & Julio. At least it was outside, so I didn't also reek of cigarette smoke. Thank goodness for the little things.

I trucked in there as quickly as I could and met up with my beloved. Then we sat and listened to the parents of older children gripe about the teachers in the Pooh's Pals room (I think Pooh's Pals are around two years old). I made a mental note to get the little angel the hell out of Compton by the time she is two. All the complaints the other parents seemed to have, though, did not apply to the little angel's cohorts, so I was feeling pretty good about my village in Oz by the time we left. I questioned the judgement of parents who were worried that Oz earning a Missouri state certification would up their tuition (no, don't improve! It might cost more!), but other than that, it was an interesting experience.

Then I went home, decided to have ANOTHER glass of wine (hey, I had already thrown the Points thing out the window by that time) and proceeded to have a feature-length dream in which Matt Damon first tried to get me fired by erasing my hard drive and then tried to kill me by running me down on a twisting, seaside road in his Mazda. I'm not sure how to interpret this dream. I don't work with anyone who looks like Matt Damon. So perhaps it's a sign I should cut back on the People magazine. I'm not sure.

Last night I went to a much-needed happy hour after work. I had every intention of having ONE drink and leaving after an hour. However, sitting outside in a beer garden on a sunny, autumn afternoon laughing with other adults felt really, really good. It felt carefree in a way that I am not often carefree these days. Not that it's a bad thing to have this responsibility - I would not want to go back permanently - but for two hours, it was nice.

Until I realized I was a bit buzzing and ten minutes late for the parents' meeting at Oz. Que horor.

I frantically tried to call my beloved to let him know that I would be late, while attempting to display a calm exterior for my friends. I had a feeling said beloved would be none too happy with me for showing up late and smelling like Ernest & Julio. At least it was outside, so I didn't also reek of cigarette smoke. Thank goodness for the little things.

I trucked in there as quickly as I could and met up with my beloved. Then we sat and listened to the parents of older children gripe about the teachers in the Pooh's Pals room (I think Pooh's Pals are around two years old). I made a mental note to get the little angel the hell out of Compton by the time she is two. All the complaints the other parents seemed to have, though, did not apply to the little angel's cohorts, so I was feeling pretty good about my village in Oz by the time we left. I questioned the judgement of parents who were worried that Oz earning a Missouri state certification would up their tuition (no, don't improve! It might cost more!), but other than that, it was an interesting experience.

Then I went home, decided to have ANOTHER glass of wine (hey, I had already thrown the Points thing out the window by that time) and proceeded to have a feature-length dream in which Matt Damon first tried to get me fired by erasing my hard drive and then tried to kill me by running me down on a twisting, seaside road in his Mazda. I'm not sure how to interpret this dream. I don't work with anyone who looks like Matt Damon. So perhaps it's a sign I should cut back on the People magazine. I'm not sure.

The air conditioning seems to be out in our building today. I'm on the 11th floor. It's already hot, now, at 8:49 a.m.

The windows don't open.

Hopefully I'll still be here to post tomorrow.

The air conditioning seems to be out in our building today. I'm on the 11th floor. It's already hot, now, at 8:49 a.m.

The windows don't open.

Hopefully I'll still be here to post tomorrow.

Last night during my community-college composition class, a disturbing event occurred. I lost control. I've teetered on the edge before, but the situation had always come back to the lighter side after a moment of inner panic on my part.

The first few weeks were the honeymoon period. They liked me. I was cool. I didn't make them do grammar worksheets (don't believe in them) or actually write out the homework from the St. Martin's Guide (don't see the point). In my opinion, they are in the class to learn to become better writers, and if they can do that without reading the book, great. If they need to read the book and they don't, it will be reflected in their essays, which make up the bulk of their grade. They will suffer, not me. So I guess I have been something of a softy, putting more emphasis on class participation and discussion of their ongoing essays with me than on any weekly sort of homework.

Last night, however, was bad. I handed back their graded essays two weeks ago. Last night, I gave them the opportunity to hand in revisions for a better grade. First off, only two people took this option. Secondly, when we broke out to do a classroom activity about a half hour before the end of the class, about half of them SNUCK OUT THE DOOR when my back was turned! I was appalled. I dutifully took note of who stayed until the end and talked a little more than I'd planned to about MLA style as a reward for those who stayed (vowing in my head to ding anyone who royally screwed it up in the next essay, even though I think it's really hard to master).

I guess next week's class will start with a short explanation of how the "attendance and participation" grade works. Most of them are scoring a cool C for either being consistently late or leaving early. I'll bet they don't realize that. The last thing I want to do is stand at the front of the class and lecture them on respect for me (they won't care) or how much they should care about my class (they all admitted on the first day that they are only taking it because it is required). What I strive to do with everything in the class is to show them that class is just a microcosm of the world. Everyone will always expect you to know how to present your position on any subject well. Everyone will always expect you to show up on time and stay until the end. Class is no different than life. They don't seem to get that, though. I guess I'm going to have to lecture. (sigh)

This weekend, my beloved and I left the little angel in my parents' loving care to ride the MS-150 charity bike ride. I planned to only try for 50-60 miles, because prior to the bike ride, I had not ridden more than 23, and I had not ridden up one "major" hill since before I got pregnant last summer. In other words - I was NOT in shape for this ride.

However, the weather was beautiful - it was actually cold for the first 30 miles or so. We had made it 50 by the time we stopped for "lunch" - bologna and cheese - they ran out of bread - and peanut butter crackers. My thoughts on the dismal food they expected to fuel us for a long bike ride can't be printed publicly. Shame on you, organizers of long bike ride! Shame! Shame! Anyhoo, it didn't really get hot until around mile 65, which was where my husband and my friend B. decided to pack it in and call it a day. They apparently could hear the siren song of Applebee's and big-screen TVs after their bologna and cheese.

My friend S., who is new to biking and had never been on a long ride, wanted to keep going. I agreed to reframe my focus for 80 miles and go on to the next rest stop. At 80, I secretly knew that I had had it. Stick a fork in me, I was done. However, S. REALLY REALLY wanted to keep going. And I knew that by the time a sag wagon came along to pick my sorry ass up, I could probably already be at the end of the ride. So I agreed to keep going, what the hey, half a banana and two cookies could fuel more biking, right?

By the next rest stop - 89 miles - I was in PAIN. My left knee had little shooting pains running up and down it, my neck was aching and my rear hurt so bad I cried out using the port-a-john when the running shorts grazed my haunches the wrong way. However, 13 more miles. (The ride was actually more like 103 or something.) I really knew by this time if I didn't finish, I was kind of pathetic. I mean, after going 89, how bad can 13 more be?

Bad.

Very bad.

Hilly.

Painful.

Peanut butter doesn't taste so good when it starts to come up.

Anyway, I finished. I did whimper a little. Okay, I was crying by the end, everything hurt so bad. But once I saw the swine pavilion (the ride ended at the state fair grounds), I knew my own huge glass of wine and greasy freedom fries were waiting for me, right after my wonderful SHOWER. So I bucked up. I also knew there was NO WAY I was getting back on the bike the next day, so I went ahead and got sloshing drunk.

It took six hours yesterday to get home, though (a 100-mile trip, remember) because of the POOR ORGANIZATION of the Sedalia end of the MS-150. Kudos to Kansas City for their end of the organization - flawless. Sedalia, BOO ON YOU. Learn to make decisions. And for God's sake, eat before you come to work. We had to wait a sum total of 85 minutes for various bus drivers to chow down at various feeds (BBQ, pancake, you name it - depended on time o' the day) while we waited, sweating and tired, on a school bus for them to shovel down one last forkful and push away from the damn table. Boo.

Anyway, we finally made it home. Grandma and Grandpa were playing happily with the little angel, who smiled the world's best smile when she saw us.

Last night, my knee was really throbbing, as was my seat, so I decided to use the two-year-old Ben-Gay sitting in the bathroom. I forgot how little you need to use, so I plopped a palm-sized dollop on each leg and rubbed it in. About ten minutes later, I was dancing around my mint-scented bedroom. I thought my thighs would go up in flames, and not in a good way. Then I was cold. Very cold. Cuddling under four blankets cold. This lasted about twenty minutes, until I finally passed out from exhaustion. The good news is that this morning, I felt GREAT. Yeah for Ben-Gay, if you can stand the application process.

Glad this weekend is over. I'll not be taking the physical challenge again until early October, when we attempt to take the little angel on her first 5k. Yee-haw. God bless charity events.

Yesterday I had a no good, very bad day. It started when my beloved overslept the business breakfast he was supposed to attend and woke up cursing. He was so upset, he accidentally set the alarm, which he's not to do every other Thursday because the cleaning people come then. My phone rang first around 10 a.m. My husband was in a meeting. I could hear the 1,000,000-decibal alarm going off in the background as my cleaning person frantically mispronounced my name. "The alarm! It is going off!" she cried. I instructed her to let the alarm people call me at work. They turned off the alarm.

Twenty minutes later, we repeated this process. Apparently the alarm people were not actually disarming the alarm, they were just turning off the noise. Every time the cleaning people opened a door, it would go off again. It occurred to me the cleaning people would have to leave, and they would probably choose to use a door as their point of exit. I looked up the customer service number for the alarm people and called them. They told me it would cost $18 to disarm the alarm for the day. I sighed. I thought about how the expensive cleaning service was supposed to relieve stress, not create it. I conceded the $18. The cleaning person called again. "I am leaving now!" she said. "No alarm, please!" I didn't know if the alarm people had had time to turn it off again or not. I inquired as to the cat's mental health. The cleaning person had not seen her in some while. I remembered the time she got scared and climbed into the crawl space under the bathtub, the time (at seven months pregnant) I'd had to call the fire department to fish her out because I was too huge to navigate the cubby space between the wall and the cupboard. I wondered if the cat had scaled the wall and was currently dangling from a light fixture. I sighed.

After my noon-to-one, no-lunch-provided usability meeting (in which everyone discussed how much everything I work on rather sucks), I was starting to reach a melting point. I was hungry. I was disgruntled. I was receiving toxic e-mails at the rate of 23 per hour. The usability guy was following me around as I attempted to find a depository for my former laptop (I just got a new work one) that I had inadvertantly locked myself out of trying to delete my profile so that the next recipient of the laptop wouldn't be subjected to a screensaver featuring the little angel. I walked into my boss' office, usability guy at my heels. At this point, she reminded me I had a 2 p.m. meeting, which would preclude me from completing the total revision of the 39-page document I had been working on, which is due end of day today.

At this point, I went hot. I felt the tears rising through my nasal passages. My boss, a friend from years past, could handle it, but I did not want usability guy to know. I faced her and tried to talk normally as the tears started rolling down my cheeks. She looked alarmed. "You look a little stressed," she commented. "I think I'm accessing my reptilian brain," I replied, succombing to my meltdown and turning to face usability guy. "I can't deal with you right now, E," I said. E. took one look at me and scampered away. I proceeded to have twenty-minute meltdown.

After the 2 p.m. meeting, I spent a productive hour working on my document, only to hit "No" in response to "Save Changes?" as I exited out of the program. Twenty minutes of looking for a auto-saved copy later, I realized the little angel was going to be the last kid in Oz and scampered out of the building, forgetting my PDA behind me.

When I got to Oz, I could hear the little angel screaming from upstairs, through two fireproof doors. Feeling like the Worst Mother in the World, I ran down the hall and swooped her up. "She hasn't been crying long," said the hapless worker, who is very nice. "I think she just doesn't know me."

I held the little angel close. She had the after-shudders of a good cry going on. She looked at me with huge, crocodile tears puddled in the corners of her little blue eyes. And then she smiled at me. A big, toothless, dimpled smile.

Suddenly, my day was fine.