It worked Dermatologist tomorrow morning.

For a laugh, dress a small rashy boy in footed truck pajamas and take him to Amy's Ice Cream at the Arboretum. Yuppies exiting Pottery Barn will break their necks staring.

I was trying to eat my ice cream in peace and forget our Whining, Itching, Scratching, Screaming, Suppurating Eczema Hell when a small girl not dressed in truck pajamas bounced over to our table and asked me, "Why is your hair so red?"

Some days I'm liable to forget my manners. First of all, most of it washed out, and it's really not that red anymore. Secondly, she's a little kid and it's not her fault she's never seen anything more outre than chunky highlights. But here's what I really wanted to say:
"Because I worship the Devil."

It's been That Kind of Day, the sort where it's probably pretty fortunate the bottom half of my garage door fell off because otherwise I'd go out to the car and gas myself. It's the kind of day when I go out thrifting because I'm desperate for some element of pleasantness, and I score a 48-piece jigsaw floor puzzle of the solar system (including the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter) and three pairs of size 3T cotton summerweight pants, yet we still feel like crap. The kind of day in which you encounter a physician's assistant in the hallway of the doctor's office, and she glances up briefly from a chart she's reading, sees your kid's mottled face, and cries, "Oh, God!"

But we shall call it a success because we got a doctor to bump back Tarrytown ladies seeking microdermabrasion in order to review the rash. Now let us rejoice.

I'm a happy camper Tomorrow we're going to camp out at the dermatologist's office. I'm going to bring a big box of Legos(tm), a blanket, and all our pretend food items. We're going to set up camp in view of the receptionist, who neither checks messages nor returns calls, and the scritch, scritch, scritch of my son--who will be naked--scratching his full-body rash will disturb everyone until we are seen.

The good news about this managed-care fiasco is that I'm now evidently able to see The Really Great Doctor who caught my hepatitis and didn't laugh at me when I suggested that I might have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. I love this guy. I may be obligated to have sex with him. Sorry, J.

domo arigato Somebody sent me something in the mail, and I'm not going to say who or what it was, but I will say that I opened the box and went "Squeeee!" when I saw a certain item enclosed. In fact, I'm still going "Squeee!" but you can't hear me out there in cyberspace.

For Sheila Weird Al loves you. And so do I.

rock the fuck on, Gabrielle Redfern You nurse that baby, girlfriend.

Then there's Joe Fontana, president of the Miami Beach Condominium and Homeowners Alliance, who told the Miami Herald, "It's distracting," Fontana added. "Why inside? Why not step outside to do it?"

I hope Mr. Fontana eats all his meals and drinks his coffee outside so as not to disturb others with his rapidly working jaw and flowing digestive enzymes.

You don't want to see it? Don't look. The same way I avert my eyes from people in too-tight pants and bad toupees.

things we like Quoth Baldo:
"I like John Cale, Kerry/Edwards, Jarvis [Cocker], Murry [Hammond], fire trucks, and also police cars and ambulances."

I like Mekkasimian.

the itch that rashes, part deux You ever have a conversation with somebody that convinces you you're not crazy after all, but that you've been dealing with pod people from Ganymede? Yeah, that was me today at the pediatrician's office.

Our doctor--who is very hot, by the way, so let's call her Hot Doctor--reviewed Baldo's chart and said, "Okay, so what treatments are the specialists doing for his eczema?"

I blinked. "Besides the topicals?"

She put the chart down. "The topicals aren't treatment. We really don't want to be using steroids on him all the time. That's just to make him comfortable during the treatment."

"Really."

"So no immunology therapy?"

"You mean allergy shots?" I'm kind of an idiot. "I don't even know what his triggers are. Our allergist only did one round of RAST."

"And who is your allergist?" You know when they ask you that, there's going to be another name on the shitlist.

So I gave her the name of the one allergist covered under our Shitty Former HMO Whose Company Has Now Gone, Like, Totally Bankrupt Because They're the Most Hideous Fuckweasels Known to History.

"I see."

Now I'm all fired up. Referrals to new doctors.

so... Did everybody have a nice 4/20?

I did, but the toilet's still broken.

must fix toilet Flush arm broken. STOP. Replacement parts obtained. STOP. Attempting to install. STOP. Toddler chattering in ear. STOP. Steals screwdriver. STOP. Can't hear self think. STOP. Toddler hands me basketball. STOP. Thanks, but where is screwdriver? STOP. Toddler is in yard with garden hose on. STOP.

random notes We've had such a grouchy weekend that I really needed to cleanse my palate here for a second.

It falls to me to create a neologism for mothers who stalk other mothers because we're just absolutely fascinated by them, and if we had some kind of Official Mother Hand Jive we'd shoot it at them, as if to say, "Hey there, mama." And they'd shoot it back. And that's how I feel about Asia Carrera and her baby. Like, maybe we should fire off some milk at each other. I think I can still do that. Hold on. Let's check.

During the tense moments in which we pondered the koan "When is bedtime not bedtime?" I hid out behind Baldo's door reading Torso, the graphic novel. Bad idea. I am so freaked the fuck out right now. When you are hiding behind the door at bedtime, you should only read books about fuzzy wittle bunnies. I have dozens of those. I have books about baby chicks, curious kittens, stuck ducks, and dogs at the beach. I have a book with an entire petting zoo. Why did I have to read the one book about a serial killer who mutilates vagrants and dumps their bodies in a reservoir?

There's something about early parenthood that makes you run screaming for the stanky, corrupt world of adult vices whenever you possibly can, presumably because the opportunities are so rare. I wish I could go out and vote right now.

the itch that rashes There are thirteen bags of oak leaves and pollen on my porch.

Take that, you meshuga trees. Oh, yeah, I just had to have fully mature live oak trees in my yard. Stupid asshole trees.

We bagged and mowed and Leaf Hogged for ten hours yesterday. At one point I was standing in the driveway cussing out my trees--I think the neighbors are used to it--and one of them dropped a piece of pollen that fell into my glasses and lodged in my eye.

And then J. went to close the garage door, and half of the bottom panel just fell off. I just about peed myself. It was hilarious. This house is going to fall apart around us.

Baldo had class pictures on Friday morning. The photographer was concerned because she couldn't get him to smile.

"Well," I said, "was he actively screaming?"
"No."
"Good enough."

The rash is everywhere except what's covered by his underpants. We were walking into school in the morning, and one of the other parents recoiled in horror and helpfully pointed out, as if I weren't aware, that his cheeks were "so awfully red."

Thanks.

Now, I want you to be sure to take aside the parents of every special-needs child you see and point out the kids' differences. See, we really like that. It helps us get through the day. And if you see somebody in a wheelchair, be sure you tell them their legs don't work. They like that, too.

Several issues back, Granta had a good story about a radical treatment for OCD--something about drilling a hole in the skull and manipulating some nerve or whatever (see how carefully I read?)--and the focus of the piece was a guy who was obsessed with leaves falling onto his yard. I wonder which one of us--J. or myself--will get that way first. Pre-Paxil, I'd have put money on him. Now I'm not sure.

yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time Baldo: "Murry has to use the potty! Rhett, unzip Murry!"

eureka! So I dyed my hair flaming red last night with horrible toxic crap on sale for $3.99. And guess what we have now?

Massive eczema.

I should have figured.

I've been coloring my hair for eighteen years. I could give up peanut butter and shrimp burritos. I could drink Roastaroma and eat spelt flour. I could do these things.

Now I'm going to have to stop coloring (or else stop nursing) and let my hair return to its original beige. Which is now actually quite gray. Sort of a "weasel" effect. Hooray.

But now we know.

good news, everyone! The insurance adjuster says we're going to need a whole new roof!

(beats head on desk)

pretend play We've already discussed my son's obsession with the Old 97's, right? (No, I don't think they should have an apostrophe, either, but they do, and I'm tired.) In case I didn't mention it before, here's a summary: My son is obsessed with the Old 97's.

Baldo is big into pretend play, which means that he calls out directions to me like some kind of little Lee Strasburg: "Be a firefighter on this truck"; "Now we are kittens." And of course I comply because it's all very innocent and developmentally appropriate, although sometimes I'd wish he'd say, "Now we are patrons at Dupar's, and we will eat this pie and have coffee and sit down for an hour." I'm really good at that game.

So now I have to pretend to be Rhett Miller, and I don't really know how to do that. Should I sweat a lot and change my hair dramatically? Go record a solo album?

"You are Rhett making cookies," he said today. I don't know how Rhett makes cookies, but mine turned out to not have enough oatmeal.

Of course Baldo is Murry Hammond. I tried to teach him how to do the voice, but he just likes to run around playing his guitar, which is made from a shoebox.

It's really too bad The Muppet Show isn't around anymore, though of course I understand and accept why it isn't. The Old 97's would be perfect for that--the "Rollerskate Skinny" number, the goofy banter. They could help Kermit when he gets locked in Gonzo's steamer trunk full of mold.

You just love my errand style I was going to write an entry about how J. takes forever when he runs errands. He's a dawdler. I'm not. I'm ba-bing, ba-bang, here's the groceries.

And of course here he is now. I caused that.

Happy Birthday, J. Behold the birthday boy, 35 years young:

the shit list In no particular order follows a list of people who are cordially invited to bite my ass:

1. The glass "repair" company who blew me off today after I waited at home for five hours. $125 may not be a lot to you, but it's more than one paycheck for me, you cocksucking jive turkeys. Maybe a busted-in window in your kid's bedroom wouldn't be a big deal to you, either.
2. Note to the universe: I cannot obtain ingredients for and prepare my husband's 35th birthday cake when I am waiting at home for the glass "repair" company who doesn't show up. And at the end of the day I will still have a broken window and an unbaked cake. So fuck off already.
3. Bite it, oak pollen. In addition to the rash on my child, you apparently cause my cat's left eye to swell shut. I am not putting any more prescription anti-inflammatory ointment on any more small mammals. You hear that? Yeah? Fuck off.
4. To the various men at Waterloo Records: It's called a "child." Perhaps you were one earlier in your life. Stop gawking at it. And I'm sorry I took 2.3 nanoseconds longer than I should have in the bathroom changing his pissed-in pants. You should consider yourself lucky I wasn't menstruating and I hadn't eaten bad clams, as both cause considerably longer delays. God forbid you should ever have to wait for somebody who is paraplegic or even arthritic. You should all fuck off and take Bright Eyes with you. Go piss in a shrub. Or else bring me an affadavit from your mother certifying that you never caused a brief delay in a public place when you were three years old, and you are excused.

a series of terrifying realizations

1. I think Gaby from Sesame Street is hot. So I asked J., "Can Gaby join us?" He didn't know who she was. I showed him, and he said, "Okay."
2. I think Mr. Noodle from Sesame Street is hot. (Though not Mr. Noodle's brother Mr. Noodle, who is the late Michael Jeter, brilliant during his lifetime but not hot.) So I asked J., "Can Mr. Noodle join us?" His response was unequivocally no. Maybe it's the better. You have to show Mr. Noodle how to do everything. Though the man is auspiciously named, I'll admit.
3. I knew I was succumbing to the slow creep of children's-entertainment mediocrity when I found myself defending Elmo's World against the usual criticisms. "It's project-based," I pointed out, "and it engages multiple intelligences." These are good things, but Elmo's World still sucks. Roosevelt Franklin--now there's you a Muppet.
4. Sesame Street is still very thoughtful and inclusive, but I'm still waiting for a character with eczema, like "Itchy the Kid Who Has to Live on Soy-Nut Street Because of Cross-Reactivity."
5. I hate the way "Journey to Ernie" tries to teach process logic outside of a real-world situation. Isn't that ironic? Don't you think? Why doesn't Big Bird just find Ernie with a magic wand? How can you teach process logic in the absence of predictable real-world causality? It's no wonder we're all so fucking stupid.
6. I can't believe I spend so much time thinking (and talking) about Sesame Street. Just a reminder: I was a philosophy minor. I've read Bahktin. Not recently, though. But I wanted to point that out. And well, you know, that and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee. Still terrifying to me.