Mr. COI strikes again

Whew, busy week. I've been working like a dog on that four-author book, but there's no way it's going to be published in time to hit the sales cycle for fall college classes. The authors have been dragging their collective feet and turning chapters in late AND in rough shape, and permissions for software they'd planned to include on the book's DVD are turning into a nightmare. Even with open-source software, they have to get the software creator's permission to distribute it on a CD or DVD. Have they done that? Don't be silly. So Kid Manager and I have been trying to track down that information.

To make matters worse, Mr. Conflict of Interest (the author who can't be bothered to show up for conference calls) said he was dropping off the project because he was having surgery for "an old war injury." FINE WITH ME! For a few blessed weeks, I didn't have to deal with him or his sloppy work. However, when author seconds of his chapters were due, suddenly he was back on the project and claimed he'd have the first chapter done by last Friday. Keep in mind he's had that chapter with my edits and reviewer feedback since December 20, OK? That will be important later.

Naturally, I assumed he wouldn't finish by the date he gave, but when Friday came and went with no chapter, I started e-mailing to ask for updates. Finally, on Tuesday, he e-mailed the chapter files because he said he couldn't access the FTP site to post them. I opened the files and discovered, to my dismay, that not only had all my edits--10 hours worth of work--and the reviewer feedback disappeared, but the chapter didn't even have the original changes for his author first draft! I did some checking and realized he'd gone to the FTP site and downloaded the previous edition's chapter, and submitted that version. So he did NOTHING for his author second pass, and he lied about not being able to use the FTP site. I was livid, I tell you. I wrote a terse e-mail to him, stating what he'd done, and copied all his co-authors, Kid Manager, and the acquisitions editor (the big cheese, in other words). Do not fuck with me, Mr. COI. His co-author tried to apologize for him, saying Mr. COI couldn't get to the FTP site to download my edited version, but I told him that excuse didn't wash. Mr. COI had been notified on December 20 that the chapter was ready and had plenty of time to try to download the files, and I'd specifically told him I'd be happy to e-mail the files to him if he had trouble with the FTP site. Take that, you putz. Gah! Do these people think I'm stupid?

OK, enough about work. I think I mentioned Daniel's Brain Game team was done for the year, but he joined the science AND social studies academic teams, which also have quiz matches with other schools. The kid went for three years refusing to participate in extracurricular activities, except for occasional French Club meetings, and suddenly, he's signing up right and left for activities. I think the Little Red-Haired Girl is on the science team, and I'm sure she's a partial motivation. I'm delighted he's having fun and getting involved in something with a social component, though.

For the past few weeks, he and a few other seniors who have been taking French the past four years have been going to local elementary schools and teaching French to third graders. I thought Daniel might not have the patience to teach young kids, but he loved it. He even asked me for ideas on lesson plans! I'm still useful! Whooo! The last day of teaching, he came home looking exhausted and said he'd learned a valuable lesson. "What's that?" I asked. "Never, EVER, give candy to third graders," he said grimly. He and his partner decided to take in some candy for the last day as prizes for a game they'd devised, and apparently the kids were bouncing off the walls in a frenzy of candy greed and sugar rushes by the end of the lesson. Heh.

Kevin's art class went well last Saturday. Not as many students as he'd hoped for, but the five who showed up had a great time and asked when he'd be teaching another class. He met with the art center's director, who asked him to teach at least one class a month, preferably two. His next class will be on making art dolls, loosely based on the faux voodoo dolls we made as a craft project at our last Halloween party. Mayberry's on the cusp of the Bible Belt, so Kevin's promotional materials for the class have to include a disclaimer that the art center doesn't endorse voodoo, and the dolls aren't meant to be used for actual voodoo practices. Because that's SO likely to happen, you know. Without the disclaimer, who knows what people might try to do with these potent symbols of evil!

Kevin made a big deal of saying he wanted me to attend this next class, too. He's been making an effort to take the iniative more on finding things for us to do together, bless his heart. We had a little talk about some of his recent behavior, but I didn't accuse him of having irritable male syndrome or anything. I figured that would put him on the defensive. I are so smart sometimes! One decision we came to is that we need to spend more time together doing things we both enjoy, and art and crafty pursuits are definitely interests we have in common.

Sometimes it seems as though we go for weeks in which our conversations consist mostly of details about picking up milk and stamps, figuring out what to make for dinner, discussing whether shampooing the couch will get rid of the smell from Holly throwing up on it, and other fascinating topics. I guess other couples fall into similar ruts, but with an impending empty nest, I don't want to become one of those couple who go out to dinner and have nothing to say to each other. That prospect terrifies me. My theory is that spending more time together to remind us of what we saw in each other when we were falling in love might help both our irritable moods. And if it doesn't work, I can always make a voodoo doll of Kevin to make him behave. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Maybe I'll just get him a Playboy subscription

Kevin's teaching his first class, on collage and mixed media, at the Sugarcreek Art Center today. He had to work last night, so he was up late gathering supplies and going over his notes for the intro. I can tell he's nervous because as he was leaving, he said "I wish you were coming to the class!" Fine time to tell me, pal, when I'm sitting here with crazy bed head and wearing pajama pants. Oh, don't feel sorry for him. I think he wanted me there more to boost participant numbers than for moral support. Only five people signed up ahead of time, but the center does get walk-ins for classes. I think the weather and time of year affected the number of sign-ups, too. He's planning to teach a class on rubber stamping later this spring, and I'm sure more people will sign up then. Keep your fingers crossed the class goes well for him, will you?

Oh, and I must say something snotty about his cousin Sam, who's heading up the foundation that Kevin's the artist in residence for. Sam blathers a blue streak about how "marvelous" Kevin's artwork is and how "supportive" he is of Kevin's artistic efforts, but is he attending the class today to support Kevin? Why, no. And Kevin wonders why I snipe about Sam being all talk.

******

That damn Greg (heh) suggested a Playboy subscription for Daniel's 18th birthday. He was kidding, of course (RIGHT, Greg?), but his suggestion reminded me of something I know about Daniel that I'm not supposed to. A while back, Kevin was putting away laundry and went into Daniel's closets to hang a few shirts. (He doesn't usually put Daniel's clothes away FOR him, just for the record. He was carrying a bunch of shirts up and decided to hang Daniel's up so that they wouldn't wrinkle or fall off the doorknob. Anyway, end of unnecessary explanation.) A stack of magazines on the shelves in there caught his eye, and when he took a closer look, he saw they were Playboys. Here's what's funny, though: They weren't current Playboys; they were from the late '60s, early '70s, and quite tame by today's standards. We figured someone brought them in to the bookstore with a box of books to sell, and Jon offered them to Daniel and the other male employee more as a joke. Apparently Daniel took him up on the offer! I had to laugh when I looked at a few issues. I mean, the pictures are almost sweet. If that's as far into porn as he gets, fine with me.

******

I was more upset than I let on by Kevin's touchiness over getting stuck in the snow last weekend. See, when I met him nine years ago, he was one of the sweetest, most laidback men I'd ever met. Frankly, that quality was a huge part of his attraction for me, as it was a diametric opposite to my ex-husband's personality. Over the past couple of years, I've been surprised to see outbursts of anger, irritation, and defensiveness from him. He's not a psycho, but the change has been noticeable. I tried to rationalize it by attributing it to depression (and his moods did improve a little after he started antidepressants) or frustration over being out of work or working in jobs that gave him no opportunities to use his creativity. He's had a lot of problems with his daughter, and Lord knows problems with kids can make you angry and frustrated as hell. I've had some ups and downs in moods, too, what with occasional depression and perimenopause and idiot salesclerks and theater employees (heh), too, so I thought maybe he was reacting to MY moods.

Greg mentioned male menopause after my entry about Kevin's snit fit, and I thought it might be a possibility, but with my usual laziness, didn't look into it any further. Then I got an e-mail from Kathy (more famous as The Millionth Reader at Jane's) talking about dealing with men's midlife crises, and I thought "Second mention in a week: Someone's telling me to look into this more."

So I Googled "male menopause" and lo, there were more than a million hits. I started clicking around, looking for descriptions of symptoms. This WellnessMD article, among many others, listed "dwindling libido and impotence" (which I first typed as "importance"--ha! Freudian, much?) Uh, NOT A PROBLEM. And I'll leave it at that (you're welcome).

I kept looking, and found this article at MSNBC, which also mentioned decreased interest in sex but added increased irritability and feeling "down and discouraged." What's interesting is that the article said testosterone levels start decreasing gradually as early as 30 and continue for many years, whereas woman have a sharper decline in estrogen levels starting at 50, on average. So men do go through menopause (or, more correctly, andropause), but the transition is usually a hell of a lot easier for them because it's more gradual.

I was feeling somewhat put upon, all "Men! And if they had periods, instead of cramps, they'd have soothing, tingling waves of contentment wash over them. Hmmmph!" And then I found the MenAlive site. According to the author, male depression can mimic andropause symptoms, making diagnosis more difficult, and depression often manifests itself differently in men than in women, as anxiety and irritability. Then I hit on irritable male syndrome (IMS), which at first I was tempted to dismiss with "I think that's called just being male," but I don't know. A lot of what I read sounded familiar. IMS is sometimes called Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome because of how drastic the behavioral changes can be, and that certainly fit Kevin. If you're involved with a middle-aged man, I recommend checking out the information. I don't know whether the guy writing the stuff on this site is a crackpot or is making up all these theories or what, but what I read made sense to me.

Now I need to read more about what to do about IMS. I did see something about testosterone supplements, and hell, no. That's the last thing Kevin needs, in my Google M.D. opinion. More testosterone in him? I'd never get anything done!

Edited to add: Y'all should pay attention to the lovely Miz S, if you go check out that site! I'm oblivious to advertising most of the time and didn't notice all the stuff this guy is hawking. That makes me suspicious, but I still think the descriptions of behaviors are interesting, and to be honest, I'm relieved to think there might be something wrong with Kevin, whether it's physical or psychological. Not that I WISH an ailment on him, but that's better than resigning myself to him becoming the world's crankiest old man, right?

Oh, and no worries: He doesn't read anything here. I'm not hiding it from him on purpose, but when I switched sites, I just never gave him the new address. Even at my old journal, he didn't read that often because I think he was afraid of inhibiting my "self-expression" or some such notion. Self-expression, heh. More like aimless babbling, but still, it was sweet of him. See? He is sweet when he's not being Mr. Crankypants.

Heed the snow blob's warning!

Why do I have to work for a living? Whyyyyyyyyyyyy? It gets in the way of so much I want to do. For one thing, I was enjoying updating more often, but I don't how I'm going to continue doing that if work stays at this pace. More work = money coming in, so I don't want to complain too much. Sometimes the feast-or-famine nature of freelance work gets to me, though.

******

In case you were wondering, the snow finally started melting, and I did indeed survive my Cabin Fever '07 experience. Good thing I wasn't a pioneer woman in one of the plains states who was forced to hole up in a cabin the entire winter. I wouldn't have maintained a Little House on the Prairie cheerfulness in the face of hardship. No, I'd have been the type who wrote increasingly paranoid, disjointed entries in my diary that would one day be found and illuminate for my descendants why I went insane and roasted my family in the fireplace. Or maybe I WAS one in a former life, and that explains my dread at the prospect of one more day of being trapped inside by the weather.

******

Damn, American Idol sucks up a lot of time during semifinals, doesn't it? I read the other day that at 1 minute and 30 seconds per song for each contestant, a night with 12 contestants takes up 18 minutes of actual singing. That's of a two-HOUR show, folks. That leaves 102 minutes for judges' comments, commercials, intro-backstory blather about contestants, and, of course, manufactured drama. Thank God Kevin's been working mostly nights and I've been taping shows; we just fast-forward through all the crap and commercials and save vast amounts of time. I don't think I'd enjoy it nearly as much if I wasted 204 minutes plus the results show in one week.

******

Daniel turns 18 in three weeks! I'd like to get him something special for his birthday, but I'm so broke right now. With all the work I've had, you wouldn't think I am, but payments are at least a month behind the actual work. Anyway, I wanted to give him a present that acknowledges the significance of this birthday--that it marks the transition from child to adult, in a way. I haven't a clue what that might be, however. Any ideas?

Speaking of my boy, he continues to develop a warped sense of humor that fills me with all kinds of strange pride. Heh. The day after the blizzard, he went out to shovel the steps again and took his camera outside to get some pictures of the snow. He said he'd tried to make a snowman, but the snow didn't pack well. However, I found a picture he took the next day, and he did manage to fashion a snowman of sorts--more of a snow blob, I guess:

Bwah! I just love that kid. He's never lost his "Calvin and Hobbes" quality.

He was so excited last week because he got an acceptance letter from Purdue. He'd listed geology as his first choice of major, with history as a second choice. Unfortunately, his math grades and math scores on the ACT/SATs weren't high enough to get accepted into the College of Science, but he made it into the College of Liberal Arts. He's cool with that and figures he can reapply after a year, if he takes some science and math review/remedial classes and does well in them. His grades in natural sciences have always been high, so I think he has a good shot at it; if not, he'd be happy doing something in liberal arts.

******

Netflix finally sent The Departed, so I'll have seen an unprecedented TWO of the nominees for Best Picture before this year's Oscars. Whooo! The other one was Little Miss Sunshine, which I loved, even though I don't think it's going to take the Best Picture award. Daniel and I have already filled out the ballot cards Entertainment Weekly includes in the Oscar preview issue. We've been doing that for the past three years, and then keep score during the show of who predicted the most right choices. I've edged him out every year so far, but his prediction score has been improving. He just might whup my ass this year--our own nerdy little version of the child surpassing the parent. Poor Kevin. The man hasn't got a competitive bone in his body and is slightly bewildered by our intense enjoyment of this game. He adores snarking about the red-carpet interviews and cheesy performances of Oscar-nominated Best Songs, however, so that night has something entertaining for us all.

I'm back in the sweat pants again

Even with yesterday's fresh snow, I was optimistic about getting out of the house to see a movie. Going down to Mt. Pilot was out of the question, but maybe, just maybe, Mayberry's local theater would show something besides Talladega Nights, which topped the marquee for six solid weeks. Ugh. Holding my breath, I dialed the movie line and was shocked to hear that Music and Lyrics had a 5:00 showing. Matinee prices, even!

About 4:30, Kevin and I headed out to the garage, with me practically skipping down the shoveled path. I was wearing real pants! And a bra! Lipstick, too! Well, I'd wear lipstick in the aftermath of a tornado with a fever of 105, but REAL PANTS, people. Mountains of packed snow lined the driveway on either side, but I stayed positive--until Kevin backed up and got stuck. He kept revving and spinning the tires while I gritted my teeth. I lived in Chicago for 10 years, and I know that technique isn't going to get you anywhere on slick snow. Finally, when the smell of burning rubber began drifting through the air, I suggested Kevin try going forward again and rocking the car back and forth. Apparently this remark was a slur on Kevin's manhood, intelligence, character, etc., etc. "Stop criticizing me!" he yelled. "Oh, I forgot being helpful is CRITICIZING," I retorted.

For God's sake. Am I nuts? It would have been better to let him burn the tires up than offer advice? Meanwhile, the clock on the dashboard was ticking inexorably toward 5:00, and the possibility of a fun movie date began fading. Kevin was getting nowhere fast, so he grudgingly got out of the car to let me try. I told him to get ready to push on my signal, and then rocked the car back and forth a few times. When it felt right, I hollered at Kevin to push and backed up until I was through the packed snow. Kevin ran to the car, and I was nice enough to brake for a few seconds while he climbed in.

Now, let me emphasize that I did not gloat, but Kevin pouted and muttered "Fine, YOU lived in CHICAGO, you know all about driving in snow." All the way to the theater, we "discussed" the difference between criticizing and giving advice, and I bit my tongue about 42 times to stop myself from shrieking "Would you GROW the HELL UP?" Which would have been quite mature of me. Pot, kettle, yadda yadda. I was determined to see the movie, however, so I tried to let it drop.

We raced into the theater at a few minutes before 5:00, and as the teenaged cashier was handing the tickets to us, I happened to spot the movie times listed above him, which said "Music and Lyrics: 4:50 7:00." WHAT? The movie line said 5:00! I asked Teen Cashier whether the movie had already started. He looked blank (well, blankER) and said "I dunno." I asked whether he could, oh, I don't know....FIND OUT? He stared for a few seconds and stuttered that the previews were "probably" still playing. Fine. We walked back to the theater, but when we went in, I saw Hugh Grant talking (adorably, I might add) to Brad Garrett on the big screen and threw a minor hissy fit. I don't know about you, but I'd rather have major dental surgery than watch a movie that's already started. It's just not done. If I started my own religion, that would be number one on the list of deadly sins. (Number two: Talking in the theater during a movie.) I stomped back to Teen Cashier and demanded our money back.

Of course, nothing else worth seeing was playing in that stupid theater, so we went back home. I was crushed. I'd looked forward to this outing so much, and I desperately needed to get out. Instead, I got a stuck car and a ridiculous argument and missed the movie because the idiot girl who records the movie listings read the wrong time. Hmmmph! If we get more snow today, I'm going to commit hara-kiri on the giant icicle hanging next to my back door. At the very least, I could put my eye out!*



*For the three people who haven't seen A Christmas Story, I'm kidding.

All snow and no fun make Lisa an insane woman

After this week, I'm thinking of writing a book: Diary of a Mad Freelance Editor Stuck Inside Her Freaking House Because of a Damn Blizzard. Possibly with a shorter title. After Tuesday's blizzard dumped about 16 inches of snow on central Indiana--and the 35-40 mph winds created drifts up to four FEET high--going anywhere was impossible. My garage is a separate building out back along an alley, which the city never plows, of course. Kevin shoveled a path from the back door to the garage Wednesday, but too much snow was blocking the driveway and alley to shovel away.

I'd gone to the grocery store last weekend, so food wasn't a problem. Cold weather and snow puts me in a cooking mood, and this week I made two huge pans of stuffed shells and homemade beef-vegetable soup with corn muffins, and I even indulged my guys with pancakes and bacon for brunch on Valentine's Day. I figured if I kept us all stuffed, we'd be too lazy to kill each other from all the enforced togetherness. Heh. I was in a good mood that morning, too, because of the little surprise Kevin left on my desk the night before. Usually, we don't make a big production out of Valentine's Day, but I found a sweet card and this plant waiting for me:

What made me laugh, though, were the little clingy gel hearts and cupids he'd stuck all over my monitor, which I didn't see at first because it was dark. When I moved the mouse, the screen lit up, and all the decorations popped out.

Daniel was delighted to have snow days Tuesday and Wednesday, but a little dismayed to have another snow day Thursday. Three days at home with just your mom isn't any teenager's idea of a good time, I'm sure. Usually, he never has a problem with getting bored; that kid has always been able to amuse himself quite well. When he offered to shovel the front steps and walkway, however, I knew even he was grasping at straws for something to do. I posted a few pictures on Flickr, mostly as proof of his stubbornness. It was 10 degrees outside, but would he wear anything on his head? Don't be silly. He's been a walking furnace since he was a baby, but I can't believe his head wasn't cold! I sent one picture to my parents, and my mom was horrified at his hatless state--which is, of course, the main reason I sent the picture to them.

When Kevin got home from work Thursday, he discovered that a mysterious he-man neighbor had partially cleared the alley with a snowblower. Bless retired men with motorized toys who need to find something to occupy their time. So Friday morning, he was able to get the car out to drive Daniel to school and--even more important--make it to the store to buy Diet Coke and a People magazine for me. I was going through withdrawal, people! No Diet Coke since Wednesday, and the new People had been out for a whole DAY. Besides, being cooped up inside has made me a little crazy, and he was hoping those two offerings would make the mad glint in my eyes subside. They did help, but the prospect of going out today and seeing a movie with him were doing more to keep me sane. You can imagine my dismay when I looked out the window earlier this morning and saw more snow falling. The weather people predicted two to four inches, but we've already got that, and the snow's still coming down in buckets. Arrrghhh! If you read about a middle-aged woman who's been wearing sweat pants and slippers for four days going berserk and chopping her family into bite-sized pieces, don't be surprised.

Storm of the century? BFD!

Blizzard! Danger, Will Robinson! Oh, all right: It's still just a blizzard warning, but I like to get a jumpstart on overreacting. The weather liars have been trumpeting THE STORM OF THE CENTURY since Sunday, so naturally, everyone's running around freaked out. Kevin said that last night at work, every customer immediately asked, after walking in the door, "Do you still have milk??" What the hell is it about imminent snowstorms that makes people flock in Pavlovian droves to the store to buy up all the milk, bread, and eggs? Do they develop a craving for French toast when it snows? As it turns out, W@lgreen's was indeed the last place in town to have milk stocked. Both the grocery and W@l-Mart were out. That's a LOT of milk, folks. Mayberry-ites must have the strongest bones in the Midwest.

Daniel and I started checking school closings last night, but of course this stupid school district can't plan ahead and put out an early notice. No, every school district surrounding this one had posted a closed notice last night, but not Mayberry. I guess having strong bones means you can withstand a trip to school through a foot of snow and gale-force winds. Kevin had to get up early because he's on the day shift today, so I got up with him and flipped channels impatiently to get to Mayberry's spot in the endless list of alphabetical entries. Daniel's school did close (yay!), but while I was waiting, I noticed that preschools and day care centers have the oddest names these days, especially church-affiliated schools. Among others, I noticed God's Treasures, Tomorrow's Hope (because the children ARE our future), and Lit-O-Lamb Preschool. The strangest, by far, was Excellent in Flight Daycare. What the . . . ? I'm picturing tots in aviator goggles and flight suits toddling around. Remind me to get a good look at the pilot the next time I fly out of Indianapolis, would you?

******

Last night, my editor pal Jill called. Like me, she's a freelance editor and works for most of the same clients; for years, we saw each other's names pop up on e-mails and pub schedules, but had never talked. A couple of years ago, we wound up working on a set of companion textbooks and quickly became phone buddies. We e-mail and call every few weeks and often have delightful bitching sessions about frustrating authors, stupid copyeditors who don't know a comma from a semicolon, Hitler-esque production staff, and other topics that would bore non-editors to tears, I'm sure.

I've wondered a few times if we'd be friends if we weren't in the same field of work. Jill lives way out in the country, about 50 miles outside Phoenix, and spends her spare time riding dirt bikes and motorcycles. I'd feel isolated in that environment, and I fall over if I just see a PICTURE of anything motorized on two wheels. She's almost frighteningly blunt and straightforward, whereas I avoid confrontation and unpleasantness as though they're the main causes of cancer. She considers children an alien lifeform, and I . . . well, sometimes I can see her point. Heh.

Anyway, we're very different, but on anything related to editing, we connect like nobody's business. She called last night to warn me an unpleasant project might be coming my way; she had turned it down and suspected it would be offered to me next. Then we started talking about a nightmare project she's working on: a series of books for the new Office products coming out for the Vista update. A team of authors, editors, and product managers are working on the series, and except for Jill, sound like the most anal-retentive bunch you can imagine. In addition to weekly conference calls for the editors, the style guide is updated two or three times a WEEK (highly unusual) and is up to 86 pages. That's crazy. You simply can't work with a style guide that long. The worst part is that the authors, who have worked together on this series for the past 15 years, have a ton of style rules that exist only in their heads, as Jill keeps discovering. She'll make a correction only to be told "Oh, we don't do it that way." Jill then consults the style guide and can't find that rule. When she asks, they just say "Well, it's not in there, but that's the way we've always done it." Yikes.

Last week, Jill was on a conference call with the entire team, including the head honcho who started this series. (I can't say the name of the series, but it's a major one used in almost every college.) Head Honcho and the author team were arguing about some minor point, so Jill took that opportunity to doze a little while clutching the phone to her ear. Suddenly, she heard Head Honcho snap "Oh, BFD! I really don't care." She jerked awake, thinking "Did I really just hear this guy say 'BFD' on a conference call, or did I dream it?" BFD. Can you believe it? It's unprofessional, to say the least, but what a juvenile expression! I don't think I've heard "BFD" since sixth grade. We had a good laugh about it, but I told Jill she should have asked politely what "BFD" stands for, pointing out innocently that the acronym isn't on the style guide anywhere.

******

I just took this picture out my front door. You can't tell, but the wind is blowing so hard the snow is coming down sideways. Not much accumulation yet, however. Looking at this photo, I'm afraid I'd have to say "BFD!" Hee.

I need to update my TV references

Lord, was that financial aid seminar boring! Mostly, it consisted of a pinch-faced woman standing at the front of the cafeteria reading every single word in the FAFSA worksheet. Words that were right in front of me. In print. Plus, she was soft-spoken to the point of near-inaudibility. She'd make Low Talker Girl from Seinfeld look like a brassy loudmouth. Hell, I was ready to agree to wear a puffy shirt if she'd just SPEAK UP. Not that she said anything useful. I've been able to read for, oh, a number of years, and I wager I could have figured out the intricate distinctions between single, married, divorced, and widowed without her low-pitched mumbling commentary. Daniel and The Ex amused themselves by making rude observations on the other seminar attendees and snickering like 12-year-olds. I adore being the mature one, you know?

Pinch Face droned on, while several assistants circled the audience like sharks to answer questions from attendees. I was reading ahead (because I are so smart!) in the worksheet, and I got to the question about whether the student had registered for military service. The worksheet explanation stated that male students between the ages of 18 and 25 must register for military service to receive federal financial aid for college. I saw red, and my arm flew up as if independent of my brain to flag down one of the assistants. An assistant shark spotted blood in the water and rushed over, and I asked her whether that statement was accurate. "Yes," she said, looking puzzled. I was trying to keep my voice down, honestly, but I don't think I was completely successful. One clue was Daniel and The Ex whistling and feigning fascination in the ceiling tiles, clearly pretending they didn't know me. "Well, putting aside what I think about REQUIRING military service, why does this apply only to MALE students?" I asked. She looked at me as though I had suddenly started speaking in tongues and explained "Because women aren't required to register for military service." "Oh," I said. "I thought it was 2007. I guess I was mistaken." By this time Daniel was beet-red and The Ex was almost choking, trying not to laugh, so I mumbled "Never mind" and went back to studying the worksheet.

I'm still a little steamed about it, to tell the truth. I'm too lazy to go look up statistics, but from what I've seen on the news and read, a substantial portion of American soldiers don't have penises. If the military is going to continue targeting its recruitment attempts at low-income youth--because people who are rich enough to not need college financial aid have much better things to do than serve in the military, of course--why not do so without this backward, 1950s-reminiscent gender bias?

The seminar wasn't a complete waste of time, however. The worksheet is useful, and the assistants gave out pamphlets with several Web sites to check for scholarships. I found out, too, that I don't have to declare The Ex's income on the application. Considering child support stops next month, and I doubt I'll be able to count on him to contribute much to Daniel's tuition, I think that's fair. Even better, Daniel and I picked up some beautiful salmon steaks in a Dijon-herb marinade at Trader Joe's and had a mighty fine dinner. I broiled the steaks and made some rice pilaf and carrots with lemon-dill butter, and we even lit the candles on the dining room table. Just don't tell the feds! I can see my application coming back with an "Are you KIDDING me?? Rejected!" stamp on it, accompanied by a handwritten note: "If you can afford salmon steaks, missy, you don't need financial aid from us, now, do you?"