What I like about the Bluths is that they always leave a note.

Why didn't anyone tell me these things?

~*~ Thumbdrives. With portable software. Are massively cool. Currently
I'm trying both Notepad++ and Rough Draft for writing, some random task
manager to see if it's more useful than annoying, and I've even got a little
photo editor for the occasional crop and adjust away from home. I save to
my laptop at home and to Gmail when away.

~*~ Writing a list of "have-dones" is more focusing than knocking off a list
of "to-dos". A BA in psych and I still have to learn cheap psychological
tricks like this the hard way.

~*~ Don't hate me for this one, but I used to find it rather easy to
accomodate menstruation. In retrospect, it was a mere sluggish creek
compared to the raging torrent visiting me these days. I've heard stories,
and while I believed them, I also cherished my body's desultory dotting of
Is and crossing of Ts when it got around to having a period.

Alas, no more. The "cold water for blood" technique isn't the arcane
laundry hoodoo I thought it was, as I'm not only applying it to the
occasional pair of delicates but also to sheets, towels and the floor. I'm
not concerned: it's shifted from one slope to the other on the bell curve,
but still within normal, just the new normal, which is apparently
less like paperwork and more like ritual slaughter.

Gentles, please share with me your favorite iron and protein rich foods.
What has fortified you after formidible blood loss, be it cyclical,
charitable, or accidental?

And now, a rant.
Here's some YouTube videos I want to see someone make: commercials featuring
real laundry and real messes cleaned up by real
people. No coy grass stains next to maroon dollops the size of a quarter,
as if skinned knees are the main source of blood in clothes. I want to see
the kitchen towel I had to salvage yesterday, which looked like it had
cradled a traumatic head wound.

I don't want to see another pack of tweenie-boy soccer hooligans flinging
mud and orange pop onto the pristine tile of a cavernous suburban kitchen
while Chinos Mom gasps in horror as she flashes back to beer-bonging with
the dirty white hat crowd at college.

I want someone corraling curious kids and cats while their partner attempts
to remove raspberry jam and imbedded glass shards from twenty-year old
linoleum that was dark reddish brown and disturbingly sticky to begin with.

I want stain-stick pens with wide chisel tips and barrels made to look like
fountain pens, marketed in an upscale manner to professional women who also
happen to have impressive racks (which we all know are more of a lunch
magnet than a nice tie).

I want to see a dad helping his son sort his socks and underpants by
"vaguely pink" and "vaguely blue" and trying not to laugh as he explains to
the sullen boy that yes, he does still have to do his own laundry and hey,
this is where that color sorting step I told you about but you thought was
stupid comes in handy, and well, if it really bothers you there's this great
stuff we call "bleach", but honestly, dad was a punk in high school and if
the old man could rock a skirt back in the day then junior can get the fuck
over some pink socks. And they have a bonding moment. And I smile through
my glistening tears.

The sky is very pretty in my world.