The best pieces of advice I’ve received in my life were from my dad and my brother. My dad told me Don’t shit where you eat. It’s applicable in every situation.

And my big brother told me he was a pessimistic optimist. It goes like this, sorta: You go into every situation expecting things to go completely wrong. Then, if things unexpectedly go right, it’s a lagniappe, a little gift, an unexpected happiness.

This philosophy has never steered me wrong. I expect the worst while hoping for the best. Facing Game 5 in the Stanley Cup series, this outlook also serves me well.

Ben and Sam both wear Chicago sweaters, mostly ’cause they look cool. I wear a Flyers sweater now that the Duckies went down for this year. I don’t get my hopes up. But if those boys win, total lagniappe. ‘Cause y’all, they are SO overdue.

I like to write top ten lists. For a while, in fact, I was actually retained by some actual, respectable (as opposed to fake and sarcastic) website to do it. However, this arrangement ceased when said website concluded that my name was funnier than my writing.

After that, I made occasional forays into top ten on my blog, like Words Of Wisdom For The Next President and Election Week Top Ten List around the time of the 2008 election. It’s been a long time. But someone reminded me today of the abundance of certain concepts in my Facebook entries, so I give you:

TOP 10 ELEMENTS OF GRETCHEN’S FACEBOOK POSTS

(1) The word “fuck”
(2) The loathesomeness of California generally and Los Angeles specifically
(3) Penis
(4) Weather
(5) Sexual double entendre
(6) Bad grammar, spelling and/or punctuation
(7) Pythons
(8) I’ll bet I can write an entire post without saying “fuck”. D’OH!
(9) Elvis Costello
(10) Shit

As it turns out, I appear to be a sort of one-trick pony. So I tried and tried to think of a topic on which I could manage to sound profound and/or respectful. Couldn’t think of one. Not a single one. Earthquake in Haiti.The health care bill. The war on terror. All I could come up with was “Ha ha, remember the Iraqi Information Minister saying on TV with a straight face that the infidels had been repelled, when anyone could see he had a U.S. tank up his ass?” Sometimes irreverence and humor are required to make reality palatable.

Someone said that use of profanity is a sign of little or no education or intelligence. I disagree. It’s an art form best practiced by those who can speak or write expertly and therefore are entitled to dip into the basement for embellishment. Think of low humor as a sort of garnish or parsley. I’m probably thinking of Joe Biden as I write this, but in fact at this hour I’m thinking not much at all.

In short, give the guy a break, and give me a break. You can’t unfriend him, and you can’t make me stop saying “fuck”.

December 24, 2009 marked 25 years since I came to Southern California for, apparently, the rest of my life. In odd ways, I’ve grown used to it; I’d have a difficult time going back to someplace where I couldn’t get a triple espresso and a New York Times in the dead of night. In other ways, I’ll never get used to it. I’m sort of done crying What is wrong with you people? because I know. I know exactly what’s wrong and it’ll never get better. So it goes.

I wish I was John Irving. I’m rereading A Son of the Circus and he has exactly the words for everything. Last Night in Twisted River is fucking brilliant; okay, there is the usual flair for the dramatic, but you have to admit the boy does his research. Logger? Sous chef? The boy is THERE. Oh, and can you say achondroplastic dwarfism and orthopedic surgery for A Son of the Circus? I thought not. Is this a writer’s life, always looking in from outside? I can tell you everything you might wish to know about the latest storm system headed our way, but that’s all I’ve got.

Like him or hate him, I adore John Irving. Yeah, Dickensian. But I am rereading A Son of the Circus and Ben keeps asking me “What are you laughing about?” It’s life, Crumpacker. Hilarious but deadly serious. As John Irving would say, an X-rated soap opera. So it goes. This post may have turned out to be a paean to Vonnegut and Irving, but that’s okay with me. Those are the gods I invoke when I sit down to seriously write.

This evening I really ought to go hunt up a long hooded black robe and a scythe, because two — count ‘em, two — of my pets died today. Not major pets, I suppose; if you rated the Crumpacker pets by weight, the turtle was in about third place and the froggie in fourth or fifth. Both hale and hearty, to meet the eye, up till today. And now both deader than doornails.

This happened to me once before, years ago, when I kept birds. There they were, merrily chirping and feathering my carpet and generally doing their birdly thing, when Erika and I left to go to the Strawberry Festival. When we returned a couple of hours later, both of them were pushing up daisies. Never found out why. No apparent reason. Gas leak? Scared to death by — what? The mystery remains.

But it gives me the shivers. Here is one of the perks of being raised Catholic: a persistent sense that this specific terrible thing is specifically and terribly my fault. I have been biting my lip for three hours pondering how I transgressed against these pets, and when they are replaced, how will I avoid unwittingly bumping off our new charges as well? I’ve been researching various reptiles and amphibians all evening, but I can’t seem to find one which appears to be shatterproof.

I suppose it’s not a bad life lesson for the kids. In between their grandmother’s cancer death last fall and the various life forms I’ve apparently felled, they seem to accept without fuss that death is a part of life. And not being raised Catholic, they don’t even blame themselves! And now back to the research. Do you figure a snake this time? I used to have the most adorable baby ball python I carried around in my bra — he lives with Erika now, but perhaps my bra is a safer place than the wide wide world.

Coda: Crying my eyes out, bringing out my dead and burying them together in my back garden, in the pouring rain. I get similar reactions to beloved plants which die. These are signs than I am either hopelessly stuck in childhood or have (or am trying like hell to have) my finger on the pulse of the Universe, or quite possibly both. Humans too often think life other than theirs doesn’t count. I sometimes think other, “lesser” life, being more in need of protection, counts for more.

Either way. There are these men and children whom I love, and they don’t up and die of red leg on me. I’ll take it.

6:00 a.m.: Wake up. Pee. Drink two cups of coffee. Pee. Drink a third cup of coffee. Pee. Drink Diet Coke. Leave for work.

8:30 a.m.: Arrive at office. Pee. Drink cup of tea. Pee. Drink bottle of Arrowhead water. Pee. Drink cup of Starbucks Via. Pee. Drink iced oolong tea. Pee.

12:30 p.m.: Eat nine Triscuits. Pee.

2:00 p.m.: Drink bottle of iced tea. Pee. Think about drinking more tea. Pee.

5:00 p.m.: Come home. Pee. Drink Diet Coke. Pee.

6:00 p.m. - 10:00 p.m.: Drink several more Diet Cokes. Pee several more times. Go to bed.

The author Tom Robbins once wrote that humans are merely a device invented by water for transporting itself from one place to another. I’m living proof that he was right.

A couple of weeks ago, Ben and I took the kids to the Orange County Swap Meet. I’m not sure if they have swap meets in other parts of the country; when we lived back East, we called them flea markets and they mostly consisted of cast-off used items or purported antiques of obscure background. Our swap meet consists of a large number of vendors peddling items they can’t readily sell elsewhere — if people really wanted to buy their stuff, if they were making a profit, they’d be able to afford a proper storefront. In other words, it’s a matter of wading through acres of cheesy crap. About once every six months, on a Saturday or Sunday, Ben and I have the following conversation:

Ben:  We could go to the swap meet.

Me: Yeah, we haven’t been there in ages.

Ben: It’s a good way to get our exercise. Let’s go.

Exercise, hell. He wants to go because they sell beer. But I always let it slide. This is the secret of the swap meet: Daddies don’t mind walking all over creation while Mommy browses beauty supply shops and discount shoes, if and only if they can have beer.

I’m such a bitch. A real snob. I’m extremely picky about the clientele in the places where I shop. Meaning, for someone of my means, that I turn up my nose at Wal-Mart. I’m a Target girl, me. I refuse to rub elbows with the Great Unwashed in order to buy printer ink and toilet paper. But the swap meet? Makes Wal-Mart look like Fashion Island.

Honestly, where do these people come from? This is coastal Orange County, after all, and these people look like they’ve climbed on a bus from Jurupa or Rubidoux. Smokers. Scads and scads of them, and the swap meet is one of the few remaining places in OC which hasn’t banned smoking. These people figure no problem, we’re outdoors! all the while they’re practically flicking their ashes on my children. It requires a monumental effort of will to not physically assault them. Well, that and the fact that most of them are 300 pounds and covered in tattoos. I don’t think I could take them.

And morbidly obese people. I’m not talking about stuff like my fat Polish ass, I am talking about people who are so overweight they have to ride scooters because they physically can’t walk around. And who sent out the memo to young women who are 30 pounds overweight that it’s cool to wear belly shirts and strappy tank tops? Yeah, that rolls of visible fat look is all the rage in OC. At least I have the grace to keep my fat to myself.

I always spend my time at the swap meet snarking to Ben about these people under my breath, eventually announcing Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand this place one moment longer.  Next time we get the urge to go to the swap meet, I’m going to insist we go to the Santa Ana Zoo instead. There’s lots of wildlife to be observed there, and at least those animals don’t blow cigarette smoke on my children.

Yes, I know, I know! If I still have readers, which after what, 8+ weeks I shouldn’t expect? Apart from the fact that I’ve been employed by the boss from Hell. I mean, guy still is batting off the fresh brimstone when he arrives every morning. What am I meant to do about this?

For the first thing, I have been in this business for 28 years and have always HAD a secretary not BEEN a secretary. That alone should be disquieting enough, right? Except also that this guy is undercutting me by like $25K per annum in pay, and believe me, he ought to be giving me combat pay instead.

This economy puts you to serious issues. On the one hand, I’m glad he’s not trying to undercut me by $35K, which believe me people are anxious to do; I’ve been looking for 10 months. On the other, I ache to call him on the carpet and read him the riot act. Either way, it’s 2:30 a.m. and I’m wide awake, thinking. Mamas and daddies, persuade your kids out of the legal profession, okay? It is no longer an Honorable Profession. It’s no fit place for civilized people. Just ask my husband.

Anyway. I promise to post something interesting just as soon as something happens in my life apart from batshit boss, endless laundry or Oh my God, what did Boolie spill on the Pergo this time? Meanwhile, read The Thirty Mile Zone if you want excitement. They always have the latest Michael Jackson death aftermath news, which is good schadenfreude if nothing else.

Last weekend, we celebrated Father’s Day with fresh guacamole and beer margaritas. They were so good, we gave it an encore this week, and I think I’ve got my recipes perfected. So here you go, and don’t say we didn’t warn you about their addictive qualities:

The Crumpacker Family Guacamole

• 4 avocados - peeled, pitted, and mashed
• juice of 1 fresh lime
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2/3 cup diced onion
• 3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
• 2 medium tomatoes, diced
• 1 1/4 teaspoon minced garlic
• 1/8 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper

Mix everything together thoroughly. Place it in the fridge for an hour. Eat way too much of it.

Beer Margaritas

• 1 (12 fluid ounce) can frozen limeade concentrate
• 12 fluid ounces tequila
• 12 fluid ounces water
• 12 fluid ounces beer
• ice
• 1 lime, cut into wedges

Pour limeade, tequila, water, and beer into a large pitcher. Stir until well-blended, and limeade has melted. Add plenty of ice, and garnish with lime wedges.

So we’re back home from Sequoia. In lots of ways, the trip was everything such trips are meant to be. If you haven’t been up in the redwoods, you can’t imagine what it’s like — it’s like church. My eyes crave lots of green, lots of wildlife and lots of tiny flowers — result of having grown up spending every free moment wandering in the woods. You don’t so much get that in Orange County. There is a particular charm about looking out the lodge window and seeing deer grazing 10 feet away. About seeing a black bear lumbering through the meadow. About a hundred varieties of tiny wildflowers. And of course, those incredible trees. Now here come the highlights:

Wholesome Family Activity: The most major undertaking was a tour of Crystal Cave, which was really breathtaking although in retrospect, I sort of wish we’d just bought some postcards instead. The inside of the cave is eerily beautiful, with rushing streams inside, and the park ranger was very nice although very, very verbose. The main problem I had with the Cave was the steep 3/4-mile hike on a dirt trail to get down there — and, of course, back. The altitude differential is over 300 feet and most of it is unfenced, with a drop of a few hundred feet as your reward if you lose your footing. I just don’t take well to spending every step terrified one of my kids will fall off a fucking mountain.

Is This A Felony? Probably: Both Matt and Boolie ended up having to take a whiz along the trail back from the Cave (no restrooms for hours). It’s probably a felony to take out your dick in a National Park, although if you’re a government official such as a Senator, probably not. Perhaps it’s even required.

Study In Personality Contrasts: Sam completed the requirements for a Junior Park Ranger badge, which involved a bunch of nature observation and completion of a little workbook. After he was sworn in and received his badge, I turned to Matt and asked if he would like to be a Park Ranger too. Matt’s response? Nah, I don’t want to work so much. Rock on, my hippie slacker dude. This, in a nutshell, is the difference between Sam and Matt.

Inappropriate Comedy Moment: Just after climbing back into the van outside the Visitor Center, I turned to Ben and howled God, that woman’s ass was gigantic. Not realizing that Ben had just wound down the window so that everyone in the parking lot could hear every word I said. I spent the remainder of the trip hiding behind things in case I had to face her again. But dudes: That was one big ass. I mean preposterously disproportionate.

Barf-O-Matic: The drive home was extremely vomit-intensive. Take a bow, Matt and Boolie. I now get to spend most of tomorrow devising ways to rid my cloth upholstery (WHY the hell didn’t I spring for leather?) of extremely noxious stains and odors. Bool, in fact, was sweet enough to give us an encore performance after our late lunch in Bakersfield. While I was trying to clean things up as best I could, some stupid bitch tried to panhandle me in the Arco parking lot and received my full wrath for her troubles. (In retrospect, I should have offered her five bucks if she’d clean up the yarp.)

What We’ve Learned: Probably nothing. But next trip = nice flat, shortish drive to Palm Springs.

Roxanne Hack of the Orange County Register wrote a column this week about hating mommy conversations — how just because you have a kid, everyone assumes you’re interested in everyone else’s kid, their bowel movements, their teething issues. Roxanne hit that one out of the park. Oh, I blog about my own kids, a lot — too much. I’ll mention them on Facebook. That’s the beauty of the Internet: you can close the window, ignore the post, choose not to read. But in realspace, please don’t hit me with the mommy talk.

Waiting to pick the kids up from school, I sit on the schoolyard benches with my nose buried in a history book on the Kindle. The rest of the moms are chatting in little groups. About what? Cupcakes? The PTA? Play dates? Who knows. If they would like to discuss criminology, or foreign policy during the Kennedy administration, I’m their girl. But I get the feeling they don’t. Shit, just for reading a book instead of chatting, they look at me like I’m from another planet.

I’m not totally lacking in mom friends, of course. I have my Facebook buds, and also a private online group of longtime Internet mom friends I hand-picked for their wit, intellect and lack of female cattiness. We talk about our kids, sure, but we also talk about everything else from our careers to sex to religion to our sons’ equipment to politics to our coochies. I’m not going to find that level of discourse on the playground, and besides: these girls aren’t going to ask me to pick up their kids from school or expect me to sit in their kitchens sipping coffee. I like it this way.

I’ve always been a bit of a tomboy, of course. I spent my entire early childhood catching turtles, snakes and crawdads in the woods. At parties, I don’t hang with the women in the kitchen, I hang with the guys — that’s where all the fun is, the dirty jokes and sports talk. I’m pretty damned comfortable with who I am. I just wonder if my kids would prefer a normal mom? A classroom-volunteering, cupcake-baking, SUV-driving, scrapbooking, coupon-clipping kind of mom? Does it bother them that their mom is, well, not like the other mommies?

My grownup daughter, who should know because I really haven’t changed, says it’s okay — she wouldn’t have wanted me to try to be like that, and I’d have done a bad job if I tried. I hope she’s right. I hope for my kids, hikes and tarantulas outweigh the lack of cupcakes and volunteerism.