"Okemah was one of the singiest, square dancingest, drinkingest, yellingest, preachingest, walkingest, talkingest, laughingest, cryingest, shootingest, fist fightingest, bleedingest, gamblingest, gun, club and razor carryingest of our ranch towns and farm towns, because it blossomed out into one of our first Oil Boom Towns."

- woody guthrie describes his hometown

I got two Guthrie children's albums out of the library yesterday and, as millions have done before me, been utterly blown away. The Anti-Stephen was always listening to Woody, but I didn't pay too much attention. Suddenly I can really appreciate "Little Saka Sugar." Also: is that quotation not the greatest example of superlative use? Like, ever?

I finally finished The Kid, so I'm free to waste time on the computer again. Blake is snoozing in his crib, or at least playing silently (and since he's terrible at playing silently, I tend to assume the former).

I haven't written about Blake's sleeping lately, mostly because there's been nothing positive to report. Ever since he hit his personal best & woke up three times total, he's relapsed into the same up-and-wiggly-nurse-all-night-long pattern. Now that I have to get up every day at 7:30, I'm getting remarkably less tender about his naptimes; when he yawns and fusses and cranks and doesn't seem to know what he wants at 8 a.m., I'm prone to putting him in the crib & lying down across the room. I guess in some twisted way I feel like I'm allowed to let him cry if I don't hide from the sobbing in another room. This morning the two of us fell asleep simultaneously as soon as he stopped screaming. I'm not proud of myself, but I do know that our morning nap keeps me from losing it completely, so I'll do it despite my shame.

This weekend the Boy has promised me a whole night's sleep: I get to sleep in my parents' bed 3 floors up and he gets lots and lots of formula-filled bottles. It'll be my first in more than a year and I'm trying not to get too excited for fear that something bad will happen to my precious night. Yes, lack of sleep makes you paranoid.

I've been trying to combat the loneliness of living here by going on at least one errand a day (for woe is thick upon the days on which I do not have the need to wear shoes). To this end I've been behind the wheel at least once every two days. I just have one problem: my right signal light is out.

We noticed this last week, when it seemed that every time we made a right-hand turn, some asshole would honk at us. At first we just thought that we were running into a lot of assholes (and since it's the suburbs, it sometimes seems to be raining assholes). But the Boy had the bright idea of checking out the rear of the car, and I suddenly felt bad for all of the righteous people I'd ignorantly cursed. Now who's the asshole?

Normally this wouldn't be a problem. But (and this is where I reveal my secret unfeminist weakness) normally I ask my dad what to do and he fixes it for me. This week I'm on my own. So I've started to revive the ancient art of the handsignal. It's a lucky thing that I was one of those nerds who paid attention in bicycle safety class. And it's doubly lucky that I chose to braid my genetic stock with another safety nerd, as he was able to tell me that I'd confused the right turn signal with the stop signal.

Of course, I'm willing to bet that 98% of drivers think I'm waving to another car, but the remaining 2% may be impressed enough to keep off the damn horn. I hope.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 9/15/2004 09:38:00 p.m.