The Motherhood has worked me over good this time. It must take me up to the mothership every night and drain my brain something fierce, then set me right back down in la-la land. Everything's confusing me lately. I can't for the life of me figure out if Lil' Kim is now headed to the pokey for refusing to reveal that Karl Rove was seen with WMDs, the wife of a CIA agent and assorted rap stars outside of a nightclub in Mombasa on the night Warren Zevon died.
The whole Judith Miller thing is troubling, because I must confess that for a while there I wasn't really sure if she should be rotting in jail alongside Lil' Kim. And, gulp, I actually subscribe to the NYT. Now if I only would read the thing the way I always intend to every morning at breakfast, I'd have long ago figured out that she, Miller, (hell, Lil' Kim too for not asking if her dates came with guns) should stay there for a good long while, as the rumor is that Karl Rove is The Source. Big shocker there. Judith Miller, essentially, helped furnish the whole WMD house for chrissake. She was practically the freakin' PR agent for the whole Talking Points Administration! Oh my.
I had no idea. I've been pretty busy lately with watching Ava's ongoing reenactment, typically in the front yard of the condo complex, of that critical scene in Racing Stripes where the heroine, Channing, overcomes all the social obstacles in her teenage life by hurling herself on to a speeding zebra and thereby winning the Kentucky Derby-like event and thereby unfreezing her grief-stricken, but also quite yummy, dad's previously-frozen/widowed heart.
My childless, mostly single neighbors have long ago gotten over the sight of a five-year old zooming around the parking circle area while beating herself with an imaginary whip and yelling out such memorable bits of dialog as "Get to the rail, Stripes. There's nothing stopping us now from achieving our foals in life. You've got to watch it bad enough. Sir Trenton's stall needs mucking out. We did it!!! MOMMY! Remember you're NOT Mommy now; you're supposed to be Max."
Only the most child-savvy observer would ever understand that Max is actually on loan from another medium altogether - TV. Max is, of course, the also-quite-yummy riding instructor from The Saddle Club series. Believe me, if there were no Yummy Widowed-While-Tragically-Young Dads in tight jeans sauntering by in all these kiddy shows, I wouldn't be watching them in the first place. I'd be reading the Times since way back when all those WMD were being unearthed right and left in Iraq. And I'd have stood up and hollered about it too, just like all those reporters at all those press conferences W was giving before we set the war machine, excuse me, The War On Terror, in motion.
Of course I don't have a clue as to how the press corps is supposed to be doing its job these days. The Motherhood erased the motherboard for the professional side of my brain long ago. But then again, I would do just fine without one if I ever went back to work in news.