Has anyone invented butt warmers for the toilet (that don’t involve yarn, naturally)? Because it ain’t right that I should be freezing my ass off INSIDE MY CRIB. Good Christ. Glad my outdoor assignment was canceled today (for lack of snow instead of appendage-freezing-off weather, of all things); now, I can throw myself into such intellectual pursuits as laundry and oven-cleaning, and maybe some Crap TV at Girlie’s later if I can be persuaded to go outside.

Everything seems to be back in order after hell week—Mother’s settled in, and after sleeping most the day Friday, I don’t feel quite as beaten down anymore. Chatting with my pal Laura was also somewhat helpful: She lost her mom a little more than a year, I think, before Dad died, and her dad, God love him, isn’t much further along than Mother in the grieving process (though he IS much more responsible for his own health and can take care of his own doctors’ appointments). So anyway, Laura has three sisters and a brother, and her dad has started mentally noting what they call “grieving points,” wherein her dad reports to each of them who’s paid the most attention to their mom’s tomb for the week (i.e.: “Your sister left the most beautiful arrangement and stayed x amount of time"). The object, apparently, is that all the siblings are then supposed to top the others’ efforts. Fortunately, all five them have sick senses of humor, so they’re well aware of what their dad is doing and can laugh heartily about it. That right there is what I wish I had the most; I mean, I can tell people how ridiculous some of the shit is that goes on with Mother and me, but it feels like all I’m doing is being an ungrateful cunt, and that includes to those who either have met her or have known her as long as they’ve known me. With siblings—or even Dad himself—at least there’s someone who knows exACTly how it is, and you don’t feel like you have to defend yourself when you’re frustrated. And you know, I had no intention of turning this into another “Woe is me” diatribe, so pardon me while I go suck it up ...

There. That’s better.

So Friday night I covered my alma mater’s MLK Jr. celebration, which featured King’s youngest daughter, Bernice. And once again, it was an assignment that there was no way in hell it could be given the treatment it deserved in 8 to 10, which is what I’m typically writing these days. The reporter chick from the competition and I just looked at each other like, “Fuck. Where do you even start?” Just amazing, and timely to something my sister and I have been talking about the past few weeks, but I’ll talk about that later since I think it’s been two hours since I sprayed the crap out of the oven and therefore should probably clean it before I stick my cauliflower thingy in to cook.