It's been a Saturn return kind of week. Yeah, I'm not kidding; it started balls-out at 11:00 Monday morning and didn't ever stop. Lex's ear infection(s) and baby's stuffy nose and, uh huh, teething. The thing is, though, the kids were the least of it. And this week we have a three-year-old's birthday party, which will be featuring salt dough, food coloring, and, uh huh, acrylic paint, because that's fun, and Saturday night is the night before my birthday, and dammit we're going to have a party if it kills us because I've earned it. And then Sunday I'm the lay reader (puns about my first trip to Chico can be left to your own devices, thanks) at church, plus we're providing the flowers *and* the coffee-hour goodies. And I'm pretty sure I'm leading the Bible study that evening. I'll probably have the chance to make up a quick ukulele song about Fibonacci, too. And then it's Thanksgiving, let alone Christmas, neither of which have I begun to shop for. Yee.

So Monstro's been bugging me for suggestions of what I want for my Fibonacci birthday and Christmas, and after putting a Nikon D80 and corresponding SB-600 strobe, and some Jake Shimabukuro stuff on the list I kind of stalled out, so I went to gifts.com and did the “gift personality” quiz. Here's what I am, according to them:

Gifts for The Hipster hand-picked by our Gift Gurus

Morning Ritual: Decaf soy latte at a local independent coffee shop.

Uniform: Vintage, alternative, original — no head-to-toe trends for her.

On her iPod: Indie rock, downtempo electronica, local DJ mixes, YouTube videos.

Reading List: Art, film, music and fashion pieces.

Ride: If the sun is shining: her Vespa. If not: her Mellow Yellow Mini Cooper.

Mantra: Friends don't let friends drink Starbucks.

Famous Examples: Sofia Coppola, Maggie Gyllenhall, Chloë Sevigny.

I have way better eyebrows than Sofia, but other than that, it's pretty close.

Other than that, this week has been wretched. On the plus side, though, I no longer wish to eat dirt.

I post something in support of (President-elect) Obama and you give me no end of s**t, but I tell you that I want to eat dirt and it's nothing but crickets, and once — in the distance — a dog barks.

Is unagi umami?

On Election Night, NBC's ice rink map of the United States was better than CNN's holograms.

I called some friends on Election Night. Marian was drinking red wine and eating nachos. Kris spiked a chocolate SlimFast shake with Kahlua and chased it with a low-fat ice-cream bar.

And me? I awoke the morning of Election Day with an overwhelming desire to go out into the backyard and eat me some dirt.

Apparently, I'm flirting with pica. It happens sometimes to nursing women and denotes an iron deficiency.

Two mornings in a row I awoke with the thought that I could go out and eat dirt. Or maybe chalk. Yummy.

After I voted, I bought a Rice-Krispie treat, and as I was eating it I swear I thought to myself, “well, this is almost the consistency of dirt.”

Yes, it's weird. Yes, I'm back on my prenatal vitamins. Even better, Theo only nursed one time last night, which meant five hours of uninterrupted sleep for Mommy.

Even better than that, I did not awaken with the desire to chow down on some loamy topsoil.

Don't forget to vote today!

SF Chronicle photo by Fred Larson

Would you want your three-year-old to see this in your mailbox?

It is the scariest piece of direct mail I've ever seen; I nearly did a coffee spit-take when I saw it. Now nobody can say the Republicans don't prey on fear… while we pray in fear.

Happy Halloween.

Don't know if any of you ever followed my link to Blowing Shit Up With Gas but he stopped writing on September 19th and might never return. It's really sad. Patrick Hillman was one of my favorite writers — and don't you dare refer to him as a mere blogger, nay, not that composer of novels, screenplays, memoir and piano music — and I'm feeling the loss of any new work from him.

If you have any sense you aren't even reading this entry anymore, having followed the link in the first line, but in case you haven't, his last entry refers to his personal 9-11: 9-18, in which he learned of his mother's breast cancer as well as something else so big that it shook him to his core and made writing a blog seem pretty damn silly (my words, not his, though that's the gist of it). He hasn't posted anything new since then, and 38 people have commented with well-wishes.

My point is, there's not much worse for a writer than to go through something that you can't, for one reason or another, write about. Especially after keeping an online repository for years. For this reason, and many others, I feel for the guy.

Nate Burkus — Oprah's favorite interior designer — is coming to San Francisco. The SF Chron helps explain his design aesthetic:

“Behind those cupboard doors – 'where I imagine most people keep things like pancake mix,' he said – Berkus stashes decorative bowls, vases and other accessories. In his always-evolving Chicago apartment, they are the finishing touches that he swaps in and out as inspiration strikes.”

This kills me (and I'm making sure the horse I've been beating all week comes along for the ride).

All I'm saying is, spend your money how you want. *Especially* if you're rich because, well, then, you can afford to. My only point is, does the money go farther, does your investment GROW more if you buy:

A) some vases and bowls to swap “in and out as inspiration strikes,” or
B) a year's worth of hot school breakfasts for some hungry kid you don't know.