The night before last I dreamed that I was minding a store and couldn’t make change because the cash register was neatly filled with empty tubes of toothpaste.

Last night I dreamed that Alfie and Sugar were alive, and that they and Bebe were my animal friends and we and the girls were out having adventures. We went to a beautiful island like Kirrin Island, except that it was in Sydney Harbour. I parked Hedwig on the tidal flats and she was flooded, but we floated her to shore and there was magically no damage.

The dreams of Alfie are often especially vivid and concrete. In this one, he was occupied with business of his own but came, obligingly, when I called. I had to adjust his saddle because it had slipped back, and I saw and remembered how the blonde and chestnut hairs grew all crazy and hedgehog at the top of his tail. His red mane was almost a foot long and tangled in the salt spray. I lifted Julia onto him and she wound her hands in its strands.

We catch the end of a pet food commercial. The spokesmodel is saying: “…we are the leader in holistic pet food.”

Jeremy cracks up.

Claire asks: “What’s so funny?”

“We live in paradise,” I said.

This morning two workmen carried a pane of glass across the busy intersection of Stockton and Geary, and a car chase did *not* roar through and shatter the pane of glass.

I remain confused!

ETA: Badgerbag points out that the car chases don’t get triggered unless there are fruit barrows as well, and a couple of Vespas.

win the first: I ask Claire to run through her recital pieces. “Okay mama, I will play them all once.” “Fine. I just want you to feel confident and proud on Saturday.” Pause. “Okay mama, I will practice them all twice.”

win the second: I trot across Geary to Peet’s to order my medium coffee. It is already made! My barista knows what I mean when I tell him: “I don’t even NEED a Ducati!”

Is this the future where it turns out I am actually a replicant too? I can never remember.

ETA: Jeremy says “I always just assumed you were a replicant.” (That’s okay; I quite like boys with robot fetishes.)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a girl in possession of a retirement-level liquidity event must be in want of a tax shelter.

“I just like giving pink cupcakes to Goths. It’s a very specific fetish.”

“So when you get the opportunity, you HAVE to indulge it.”

“Exactly!”

“Rule 34!”

“You totally just Googled ‘pink cupcake Goth’, didn’t you.”

“I totally did.”

Have I mentioned how splendid horses are? No? …that surprises me.

Thanks for all the Kate Bush and Kinks thoughts! For your next assignment, please discuss Abba, Michael Jackson and Queen.

I’m totally having a royal wedding party. There will be Pimm’s. Stay tuned!

The trouble with this country is that some of the people who live in it are ex-boyfriends of mine. Conversations such as the following may ensue.

“You should call her brother.”

“I’m not going to call her brother.”

“Why not?”

“What if he answers the phone?”

“What if he does? You could talk to him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t talk to him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I touched his penis.”

“That does make it awkward.”

“That does make it impossible.”

“It was a long time ago!”

“Not long enough!”

“Fine, but how else are you going to get hold of her?”

“Can we avoid using the phrase ‘get hold of’?”

“You’re the one who brought up penises.”

“Can we not talk about bringing up penises?”

“I can see this is hard for you.”

“We should also avoid the word ‘hard.'”

“This is bringing up some issues. There’s a lot of stuff coming out.”

“Yes, that’s right, it’s coming from deep inside.”

“You never know when it’s going to sort of, spurt forth.”

“This is my point!”

By this time we are both laughing so hard that, at least in my case, my back ribs are aching and it is difficult to breathe.

“You are corrupting innocent children here,” my sister accuses me.

“I think we’ve all learned a valuable lesson,” I say. “Never touch anyone’s penis.”

Sarah, who is, in fact, my sister: Did you think of a holiday achievement plan with checklist items like “Play mahjongg,” “Drink Bailey’s” or “Loll around aimlessly”?

Me: …um, no?

Sarah: So basically, you set yourself up to fail.

Me: I’m sorry, but have we MET? Do you even KNOW ME?

Me to Jeremy: And then she climbed the Harbour Bridge and laid a clutch of giant glowing green eggs.

J: Did she.

Me: Read it on Twitter. Must be true.

J: I never thought of Oprah having an ovipositor, but it makes sense.

Me: It totally makes sense!

J: You’ve got an ovipositor! You’ve got an ovipositor!

Together: EVERYONE’S GOT AN OVIPOSITOR!

Do I sound miserable here? Someone asked me today if I was going through a hard time! I’m ashamed to say I laughed. Oh, my heart is breaking for the all kids who committed suicide this month, and I just sobbed my way through several relevant bits (ETA Milo’s is the best), but the reason the It Gets Better project slays me dead, every time, is precisely because I was bullied and it did get better, so much better, better than I could possibly have dreamed. Not only do I live in a city that, if it were human, I would have a helpless girlcrush on and want to make out with all the time, just look at this place, I mean, damn, I’ve had at least two occasions in the last twelve months – Jeremy’s last birthday party and the Labor Day picnic – where about five hours flowed past in real bliss. Didn’t even know that was possible. I’ve been worried my blog is getting too sappy, because I am just nauseatingly cheerful and fulfilled right now.

Anyway! Just felt I should clear that up. Today was really great. Claire, Julia and I Internationally Walked to School for cute keyrings and stickers. The webinar I gave in the morning went exceptionally well. I had a vat of Blue Bottle coffee and a very delicious bit of salmon at the reliably nommy Boulette’s Larder, right on the Bay, with several of my favourite people. In the afternoon I fooled around a little with amusing work, and then I came home to run the first math circle session for Fall. All the math parents just lovely, and even better, half of them already knew each other and were overjoyed to catch up. The new space is pretty much ideal, and it’s about sixty feet from my front door. I was able to sneak away during the third session, have a sit-down dinner with Jeremy and the kids at home, and be back in time to lock up. Now I am blogging with the MacBook on my left hip and the Beeblebooble curled up on my right. Oh look, and there’s a new MythBusters, and Jeremy just brought me tea and chocolate.

Riding lesson tomorrow! Oz Farm this weekend! Tickets to Zoe Keating next week!

All I had to do was take the farmer’s market spoils home and put them away, rescue the cream pan for Jeremy, find the girls’ swimming costumes and towels and pack everything for their swim lesson, change into a non-coffee besmirched sundress and find the matching cardigan so as to look kicky at the first New York-San Francisco International Childrens’ Film Festival. Matters were complicated somewhat by the breakfast things being left out, but this wasn’t insuperable. I shouldn’t have been so late and flustered by the time I got to the car that I slammed the car door into my face.

I really recommend not doing this.

The topology’s tricky, I admit. Imagine I am drawing diagrams for this bit: it only happened because Hedwig was parked on the steep hilly part of the next block of Eugenia, and because I was distractedly reading a chalk sign in front of some chairs out on a stoop (NOT FREE! PLEASE DO NOT TAKE!) Our neighbour kids must have been planning a sit out in the lovely sunshine, they sure do love their pavement chalk, their handwriting is improving every day: this all passed through my mind as I was glancing at the chairs and simultaneously pulling the car door open. It was as I glanced back that I saw the top corner of the door from VERY CLOSE UP, and then it hit me in my right nostril.

I didn’t see stars, as it turns out: everything just went white. Did I mention this is something you should not do? There was a lot of blood, and more pain. This all took place just after 11am, and it’s nearly 9pm and the whole lower right quadrant of my face still feels like, well, like I slammed a car door into it and got steel up my nose.

I had a lovely day otherwise.

Jeremy is in Australia so I am spending the week cross and sad. Which is a bit ridick, because Saturday night was an especially fine Balsa Man (I made a fortress of solitude on the cliffs, and all my friends came and hung out there to watch the burn), Sunday I had a fun ride on Omni and Monday was pretty much the awesomest Glen Park picnic evar, with all-optimal people and bejewelled sunshine.

Still. Hmph.

On mornings when the timing works out – not all mornings, but definitely the best mornings – the whole family walks down Eugenia together, the girls in school uniforms and non-uniform tights and boots, their bright backpacks on their backs, and Jeremy and I in our serious grownup Linux hacker and industry analyst standard city equipment.

J and the girls take the bus south, I go north. The buses are frequent so there’s usually not enough time to wave, but one morning last week, Mission Street was empty for a while. I waved, the girls waved. I waved. They waved. I blew kisses, they blew kisses, I made heart shapes with my hands, they made strange squashy shapes with theirs.

Then we all paused. Still no bus. Awkward.

I made jazz hands. They made jazz hands.

All three of us started to dance.

We danced and danced. We boogied. We step-ball-changed. We twirled. Julia, especially, twirled.

For ten minutes, on two sides of Mission Street, we got our white girl funk on.

When my bus finally arrived I saw a woman on the other side of the street solemnly high-fiving Jeremy and the kids.

Jesus, what is it about this time of year? My ghosts walk; the past comes squirming Buffy-like out of its grave. Hand me my shotgun and swear to me, if I become one of the evil undead, you will kill me.

All of which is to say: dear my Australian friends, screw both candidates and vote Independent or Green. But you were going to do that already.

Eek!

You need some back story, an essential piece of family lore which I have mysteriously never blogged. Once when Claire was very small, we made one of our regular visits to (be still my heart) the Monterey Bay Aquarium. A docent was introducing her granddaughter to the Pacific Giant Octopus. When the docent ran her finger in a squiggly pattern against the glass, the octopus followed her with a tentacle. In a voice aching with affection, the docent said: “He loves to interact.”

Now you are ready for my story. I have called my husband on the telephone. This is what ensues.

R: Can you stuff the girls’ sleeping bags into the big IKEA bag? And pyjamas for each of them? And a change of clothes for tomorrow?

J: Sure.

R: …with a pickle?

J: You don’t like pickles.

R: Hate ’em.

J: The girls don’t like pickles. NO ONE LIKES PICKLES.

R: Someone must like pickles.

J: Because they exist?

R: …yes, that was going to be my supporting evidence.

J: So someone likes neutrinos?

R: Not very often. And only in caves, far beneath Antarctica.

J: They like them. They just don’t like to interact.

Look, I know how foolhardy it is to even try to recreate one perfect day; so sue me. We were up as I mentioned at hideous a.m. and out of the house by 8, having coffee and a sausage roll and a meringue at my favourite Cambridge delicafe, Origin8. Then we caught a double-decker bus to the station and Grant just materialized at our side, handsomer and funnier than ever. And we took a taxi out to the Orchard Tea Rooms.

Where it was frickin freezing and we huddled, chilly, in deck chairs grimly eating scones. Oh, whatever; it wasn’t until we were walking back through the meadows and I stood in a fresh cowpat that I realized that none of this actually matters, that I was just so very happy to be with my best boys and girls. There were cows, well, steers, grazing by the river. I had been reading Temple Grandin’s Animals In Translation, in which she describes the charming curiosity of cattle, so I got down at eye level and one of the beasts did come up to us, all liquid eye and prehensile tongue. Then Claire made a sudden move and he trotted away.

I had a funny exchange with Grant, then or later; about how hilarious I find it that I have such a great job, since I had assumed from an early age I was too delicate a flower, by which I mean too utterly useless, ever to survive in a market economy. That I needed a tenured job because otherwise I would not be able to hold down a job at all. How weirdly things turn out.

“Have you considered,” he said, “that maybe you were wrong in the first place?”

The kids made it all the way back to Cambridge, more or less, and we met Kirsty and Chris at Fitzbillie’s and had rather great brunch, and then walked to an art store and bought sketchbooks and paints and markers for the girls, and then to the pub in Midsummer Common, the Fort St George, for cider. Lovely wandering conversation, gossip and politics and ideology, dialectic and praxis, books; mad fun for wonks.

I failed fast that evening, shivering like someone woken at 3am, and indeed the girls were already out like lights. But Jeremy had the perfect cure for what ailed me: Doctor Who! In real time! Sleep fell from me, and it was a splendid episode and all. Chris cooked for us, a fabulous eggplanty pasta sauce. And then I was gone.

Hangover! It was brutally hard to get started on Sunday morning but at length we were all in a punt on the Cam and I was bonding with Rory, our guide, a townie, over politics, to Jeremy’s considerable amusement. Then to Dry Drayton where I was introduced to Thokki and reacquainted with Freydis, two very respectable Icelandic horses (they are not ponies, no matter how small; they are dignified.) Keir dropped us at home where Grant was waiting to roast a chicken with us, and Chris came by as well. We blanched broccoli and made spinach salad with pumpkin seeds and roasted an eggplant and put away two bottles of only-passable sauvignon blanc, made delectable by the company.

On Monday I was hungover and jetlagged and exiled from my happy home, bound for London with a rolling suitcase that broke en route. The bus took a ludicrous 45 minutes to get to the station. All was dire! Until I got to the hotel and saw all my colleagues and realized, possibly for the first time, how smart they all are and how much I like them. Then I met Grant and Kirsty and Jo for dinner and had the same revelation about them.

I think this is the first time I have been in England medicated and healthy and sane. I kept having strange third-party high realist visions of myself as a competent and likeable person. Odd. And with this it is suddenly possible to not feel threatened by new things or people; to respond to things as they are, instead of continually dancing around all the abysses only I can see. At one point during the conference our CFO was making incredibly stupid jokes, and we were all half-laughing half-groaning, which was his point, and I put my arm around him and said “I love you,” which is a thing I never do; but it was true.

The conference went okay. The other best moment, for me, was when a newish colleague called me “Amanda” by mistake, and later explained that it was because she thinks I look exactly like Amanda Seyfried. Since I’d been feeling oldish and frumpy around the new women hires, many of whom are seven feet tall with glossy hair to their waists, no lie, and since I have loved Amanda Seyfried since the first season of Veronica Mars and not only despite but secretly even because of Mamma Mia, this made me gloriously happy. I walked on air all the way back to the Underground.

What with the good mood and the sanity and all, I spent the whole journey to Kings Cross looking at the other people on the train. Good Lord! Women of London, you are so beautiful and stylish! Your colour choices are fashion-forward, and your statement necklaces fill me with awe! Straight men and lesbians of London, how do you not fall madly in love every time you turn your heads?

Last night’s turnout included a Rachel, a Rebecca, a Naomi and an Elizabeth. We need to recruit a Mary or an Eve so we can start a Biblical Heroine Fox Force Five.