This morning I was listening to Beloved's evil conservative radio station, which he only listens to because it's the one in Kansas City that actually has detailed traffic reports about the road he takes to work.

They had some economic blowhard on there talking about Japan.

I've tried to ignore Japan, because I got very depressed after Hurricane Katrina. If I allow myself to ponder the chaos of 10,000 lives lost instantly due to a natural disaster, I will descend back into that dark place. It sounds very selfish to say this; perhaps it is selfish to be self-protective when it comes to world events. My former therapist would tell me to analyze whether or not I could actually do anything about a situation before getting so emotionally engaged in it.

And so, I've tried to acknowledge, to pray, but not to focus.

But then there was this guy who was saying THANK GOD the only costs to the Japanese earthquake and tsunami were human. The good news -- he said -- was that the economy didn't seem to be suffering and so the American economy would not suffer as a result.

I could not believe what I was hearing.

I kept waiting for the DJ to rip the commentator to shreds. It never happened. They went on to talk about the economy.

Then -- just now -- I admit it, I was watching Dr. Phil again -- and they were talking about a guy who identified as female even though he is male and how if he ignored his feelings, that might impact his life in different ways -- and "the workplace" might be affected.

A man thinks he should really be a woman and we are worried about his ability to get a ten percent raise?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

There is more to life than money and our ability to earn it. Japan has been devastated. This man wants to be a woman.

And none of it has anything to do with money. At all.

When I was in college and my friends and I went out to eat (which was more often than not), one of us would inevitably use the restroom and return to a rapidly cooling sandwich or a nearly-gone pizza. It's one of those inevitable laws of life -- things happen when you have no ability to deal with the ramifications.

For instance, if you really want to finally finish scraping wallpaper off your kitchen, wait until your company is launching a huge redesign! And while you're at it, maybe five literary agents will ask to see your whole manuscript almost an entire year after you started sending it out.

I'm scared and hopeful and scared about how this week will end.

Over the past two weekends, I've pulled off the last of the country rose wallpaper in our kitchen. It's gone. All of it. Gone, gone, gone. Even though we're planning to take down the soffits eventually, I don't know what "eventually" means. For us, "eventually" can mean "two days from now" or it can mean "before the little angel graduates from high school." So I painted them anyway. And the kitchen ceiling.

When it was all said and done, the kitchen went from "heinously ugly" to "needs updating." And just like that, some iceberg fell off my psyche and drifted away.

Then it started snowing on the first day of spring break, and I didn't even care.

Huh.

Editor's Note: I don't have pictures. I seem to have chosen the busiest week of 2011 at work in which to conduct this home improvement, hence my recent radio silence. 'Cuz that's how I roll. Updates to come!

The little angel didn't like the outfit I designed for her this morning.

I told her if she wanted something different, she'd have to go get it herself, with me not being her personal assistant and all.

MAD EYES.

STOMPING.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

Beloved and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

"We created this, you know," he said. "Literally."

And then we both yelled at her to knock it off as the stomping sounds traveled across the upstairs hall toward her room.

As I emptied the dishwasher, I saw her plaintive cheeks peeking in from the living room. I walked over, gathered her on my lap, rubbed her back.

"Do you think it's even remotely possible for you to stop stomping? I won't yell if you won't stomp."

She shook her head. I felt it rather than saw it.

"Why not?"

She wiped her nose on my shirt. "Because it makes me feel better to stomp when I'm mad."

I considered.

That's true.

"I'm learning that if you just wait a little bit, the mad part will go away and then you can go back to being happy."

She shook her head again. "I keep thinking about it even though I don't want to. And then I get mad again."

"Well, I guess it's sort of up to you if you want to think about it again. It's taken me an awful long time to learn not to do that."

"I guess I'll just stomp." She wiped her nose on my shirt again and wrapped her little arms around my waist.

"I love you, Mommy."

"I love you, too."

Well, I guess stomping isn't really the worst thing in the world. She'll only be six for another few weeks. And I stomped until like yesterday.

... you have three different notebooks from three different areas of your life open with a list of uncrossed-out things on your desk

... you have to think really, really hard to remember what you did last night, and then you remember, hey, that was important! and are amazed you forgot

... your cat won't speak to you because you forgot you wouldn't be home until an hour and a half after her lunch

... you hear Twitter go off and jump because you think it's an actual bird in your house

... you realize next week is spring break for your kid but you totally forgot it starts on Friday

... you broke all the rules today and finally bought your girl the stupid pink Kid Snuggie she's been wanting since Halloween because it made you feel more normal than the three notebooks

---

Hey! I finally reviewed a book I've had for more than six months! Check out the fabulous Nicki Richesin's latest anthology (up with anthologies!) on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.

Glass vases held live tulips and flickering candles. The high school gym, a charity-auction prom, thudded with live music. As I bobbed back and forth on the dance floor, I felt my tights working their way down to my knees. Wasn't feeling like such a hottie, no, not really owning my beauty. In fact, I was wondering exactly how stupid I looked dancing in my glasses and the old-lady top that was the only thing that vaguely went with my most comfortable boots.

I remember when I used to flail with abandon in college -- the only time in my life when I really felt comfortable dancing in public, and always because the dance floor of whatever smoky bar I found myself in was always packed with other people, also dancing, and usually more drunk or high than I was.

Somewhere in there I became self-conscious, uncomfortable changing in front of my friends or using a public bathroom or dancing for a good cause.

Beloved gave me the chin-up-the-little-angel-is-probably-fried-in-the-auction-daycare wave. I looked over at my closest friend. "I think we're going soon," I mouthed over the music. She peered at me. She could've been my sorority sister -- my age, from Iowa, someone I would've been friends with in college -- all of them were. She bumped me in the hip, still glorious.

"Dance until you have to leave, Rita!" she yelled.

Last night I did not win any parenting awards.

We were out of prescription cat food. Which can only be purchased at PetSmart. With the prescription.

When I picked the little angel up from the neighbor's house, it was already past six. By the time we got the cat food and hit the bank, it was 6:40. By the time I'd Skyped Grandma and Grandpa to tell them about the read-a-thon and cooked the mac & cheese, it was 7:20. The little angel was covered in mud. It was supposed to be Party for Girls because Beloved had a work thing. I told her we could play Zhu Zhu Vets before the bath.

But by the time dessert was ingested and homework was done, it was nearly 8.

There was foot stamping. There were mad eyes. Then, in the bathtub, she suddenly said something about my needing to check her backpack even when she didn't have homework and burst into gut-wrenching sobs. Apparently there was a permission slip we'd missed and the rest of the class got to go do something while she and two other kids had to watch two videos. She didn't even know what she'd missed.

I finally persuaded her to get out of the bathtub and dry off. I held her wrapped in a towel and tried to comfort her, but she was lost in that childhood place called Left Out.

We got into her bed and read until my voice started to give out. She asked if I would cuddle for a little bit. I turned out the light and heard her muttering.

"What is it?" I asked.

"This was the worst Party for Girls EVER."

She finally fell asleep, and I staggered downstairs. 9:30. I'd stopped working three hours before. I still had stuff do, personally and professionally, but I felt like I was walking through a nearly-fell-asleep wall of water. I was tired, emotionally drained. I'd missed calls from my sister and emails from my husband. Kind of just couldn't balance it all. Just ... cooked. And I felt like -- no matter how hard I tried -- I would never see every message or permission slip. Like -- I would always be letting somebody down by virtue of how much stuff I was trying to fit into every day. But everyone feels like that, right? RIGHT? I know -- I read the posts, the essays. I know I'm not the only person trying to balance a job and writing and family and friends.

Beloved reminded me that if forgetting a permission slip was the worst parenting move I ever pulled, everything was fine.

But it's not really that I felt guilty. I knew this morning was the book fair and a mommy-and-kid breakfast thing that I'd already planned to attend. And picture day. My husband wasn't upset about the missed email, my sister would forgive me. I knew it would all be fine.

I think I just felt bad for the little angel, in the empathetic way that understands the world of Left Out. Of Missed the Boat. Of It Won't Happen Again and I Wasn't There.

Or course it's fine today. But I do understand.

This week, I'm heading to Salt Lake City to moderate a panel on ad networks at Alt Summit. Alt Summit is a conference for design and lifestyle bloggers. That would be the people who understand how to tie a scarf and write beautiful blogs with stunning photography highlighting one-of-a-kind wooden rings hand carved by sage old men living on mountaintops.

While I feel pretty decent about my ability to discuss ad networks, I feel pretty intimidated about my personal style. I am not the type to obsess about what to wear, either. Years of working in corporate America has bestowed upon me plenty of pairs of black pants and acceptable cardigans. I've spoken on panels before and spent exactly two nanoseconds deciding what to wear. Usually it was something that would easily accommodate a clip-on microphone. And black pants. And a shirt that wouldn't show my nervous underarm perspiration. I live in fear of my nervous underarm perspiration. Kiss my ass, clinical-strength deodorant, you don't work.

But this conference. Oy. This one has thrown me for a loop. Do I wear what I always wear and at least look authentic, or do I try a little harder? (Trying a little harder for me usually means accessorizing as opposed to rosettes and purple tights, just to draw the line.) Yesterday I peeked into my closet and tried to figure out if I could work in my Kohl's deep discount knee-high gray slouchy boots that are so cute and totally remind me of 1982 but that I bought without having anything with which to wear them. And I sort of glanced through all the incredible bracelets I inherited from Gran, who loved labeling her jewelry with time and location of purchase. And then I looked at my hair and wondered if it is short-cute or mom-cute and all this thinking about my appearance started making me hyperventilate so I had to go videotape the little angel and her friend making the world's best Barbie movie, or at least arguing over set construction for fifteen minutes before giving up.

I can't believe I'm worrying about this. But I'm sort of worrying about this. WTF?

The polls are open until 8pm; I urge you all to get out and vote in today's important U.S. Senate Special Election. Whether by sling, stroller, or on foot, we always bring Laurel with us to the polls and are heading out shortly to cast our vote. If you’re unsure of where to vote, simply enter your address in the Secretary of the Commonwealth poll locator.