And now, for some good news:

Insurance things are nearly settled. They're giving me $500 more than I paid for my car a year ago, and in exchange I send them the title for my wreck. Now on to car shopping. Any suggestions?

Yesterday I spent two hours and nearly $200 on a tattoo that is hot. You may want to steer clear of me, because, at this point, I'm feeling rather vain about it.

Karaoke last night, then three hours of sleep, then twelve hours of babysitting. The kids and I walked ten blocks to the park. When the wind picked up and threw leaves and blossoms around the various pieces of playground equipment I suggested that we leave before things got worse. No sooner had we begun our trek back when things did get worse, and we were rained on all the way back. I kept morale high by telling the kids that they were Lewis and Clark (and Clark) and that I, Sacajawea, would lead them back to safety and hot chocolate. Everything turned out just as I said it would, and there was happiness in the land.

I sing with Gena's Day of Lions tonight. In one hour, actually, at Valentine's. Come down! It's free!

Alllllllmooooooost.

So, so close. Last week the Toyota was finally towed away from the front of our house headed toward its final resting place. I'm supposed to receive a call tomorrow from an inspector who will tell me how much my insurance company thinks my car is worth. God knows I'm going to get screwed over, but, as every sympathetic person has told me, At least I didn't get hurt. I suppose that's all a matter of perspective, though, isn't it?

This evening my comics teacher wrote on the left side of the chalkboard: SET UP.
On the far right side she wrote: PUNCH LINE.
And in between the two she wrote: SHIT HAPPENS.

In addition to the twins, my employer has a daughter, Emily, who is six months or so older than me. She lives in Australia for half of each year and is in Portland for the next few weeks. I told her about my trip plans and she offered to travel a bit with me on the South Island of NZ and then hook me up with places to stay in Australia. That sounds good, aside from the fact that I think she might be a little bit crazy. And she doesn't get my sense of humor at all.

At all.

We have these conversations where she tells an interesting story, then I make an amusing comment, and she says, "What?" Then I explain that I was just making a joke and tell her why I thought it was funny. She still doesn't get it. My time in Australia may just be a series of aborted jokes and blistering sunburns.

illustrations

For some reason I decided to give up my work-free Fridays in exchange for an art class at PCC. A six hour drawing class, actually. Five of the six hours are spent standing in front of an easel, arm extended (I don't dare rest my wrist), drawing the same things again and again on 18x24 paper. Last class session a girl played her CD on the community boom box, a horrifying mix of Top 40 alternative rock hits from circa 2001. God have mercy on my soul.

The whole experience is exhausting. After the lunch break I hate the objects for being elusive in their dimensions and proportions. I hate the concrete floor for being so unyielding. I hate the charcoal and graphite for being so quick to shatter. From noon to three PM I am a mess - eyebrows shoved together in almost psychotic concentration, a slew of profanities uttered not quite under my breath.

It wouldn't surprise me to learn that my classmates call me Turrets Girl when I'm not around.

[In other news, Anne Lamott is speaking for free downtown next week. Anyone want to go?]

"My father bleeds history"

Pink eye: cured. The remedy? Multiple eye washings every day with a solution of hot salt water, followed by hot, salty chamomile tea bag compresses. Utterly miserable. I went to the video store in my embarrassingly pink eyed state and was hit on relentlessly by a nineteen-year-old who finally convinced me to give him my Myspace info. ("Mind if I message you some time?") The final cure was fresh breast milk dropped into each of my eyes.

Insurance: bullshit. It's been nearly four weeks since my St. Patrick's Day disaster. I have been riding my bike to and from work every day, which would normally be fine and good if it weren't for the bitterness that I harbor in my heart every day towards bad drivers and wicked insurance companies. This morning I talked to the police officer that was at the accident and found out that the other driver was arrested on charges of DUI, hit and run, and reckless driving. You would think that with all of that stacked against him we would be somewhere closer to getting my car fixed, but no. No, no, no. Now I'm having to threaten legal action against the insurance companies which is an enormous can of worms that I'm not anxious to open.

Last week I started two new classes at PCC - Intro to Comics Art and Intro to Drawing. The comics class is the best. When I first walked in to our assigned room last Wednesday I was the only girl among ten guys. I put my face in my hands and thought, I should have expected this...
To my relief, the final count is Girls: 7, Boys: 17. Our teacher is in her fifties and wears John Lennon sunglasses and black denim mini skirts. I get to read exciting graphic novels and argue with socially maladjusted males! Awesome. And there was some talk of phone numbers being exchanged in binary, but that's another story.