I’ve been down with the flu, and blessedly Ben has been able to pretty well handle things on his own, so I’ve been where a woman with the flu belongs: flat on my freakin’ back, thank you, rather than staggering about trying to keep the household running in a half-assed and miserable manner. I’m pleased to say that the kids have not been running about undressed or unfed or smeared with shit, so, you know, I think he did a pretty good job of it. I’m mostly back on my feet now, and as for Ben’s feet, I’m feeling inclined to kiss them with gratitude for LETTING ME GET SOME REST, OH MY GOD.

Oh, and Miss Julia wore her first pair of sticking-out little pigtails today, which melted everyone’s hearts but which I unfortunately failed to photograph before she’d turned them into startling jelly-and-toast-crumb works of origami.

I don’t write enough about Julia. This is not so much because there’s not much to say, but because words cannot do her justice; she defies description. Nor do photographs ever seem to capture her adequately. You can see the pixyish face, the big dark eyes she shares with Sam; but the most amazing things about Julia are things that words can’t capture.

If I were a better writer, I would write of her loving and happy heart, the way she wakes up every morning smiling at her family, patting her brothers’ heads until they wake up and smile back at her, holding up her arms to me and saying “Uppy-puppy!” until I pick her up, whereupon she fastens her arms around my neck and kisses me again and again.

I could write and write, but ultimately I cannot describe her. She’s everything to me; as much as I love all my kids, she will always hold a special place in my heart: my surprise gift, my brilliant mistake.

I get my website stats and hit counts from StatCounter, which serves me well in two important ways.

First, it gives me fairly extensive traffic data absolutely for free!

Second, since the data is limited to the last hundred hits, it always exhorts me to INCREASE YOUR LOG SIZE TODAY. Which makes me laugh my ass off every. single. time.

Enough to drive about shouting it to the world, that’s how much. I considered having his name tattooed on my ass instead, but this is a lot less painful AND a lot more public (or so one would devoutly hope).

Today I paid a visit to my shrink’s office. (Yes, like everyone else in New York and L.A., I see a psychiatrist.) I made sure to bring a thick piece of literature and not to make eye contact with any of the other patients — not so much because I’m afraid their Crazy might rub off on me, but because my shrink is notorious for being constantly and grievously overbooked, and I always fear getting locked into interminable conversation with someone whose Crazy far exceeds my own.

As it transpired, I waited a good hour and a half before I was ushered into the inner sanctum. “How’re things?” asked my shrink. I explained that while the deep depression that had overtaken me at the end of 2006 had eased, I still lacked motivation. “I go to work every day, and I do just enough to get by around the house. Apart from that, all I want to do is sit in bed and watch cartoons with my kids.”

He asked which cartoons. “Spongebob,” I said, and he appeared to note this down. I wondered if it was considered a strike for, or against, my relative sanity.

“It’s not such a bad way to spend your time, you know,” he said at last. And do you know, he might have a point.

The law firm where Ben and I work, like almost everywhere these days, has a “business casual” dress code. This means that he wears a lot of khakis and collared polo shirts, and I wear a lot of cardigans and cute low-heeled shoes with black pants. The last time I really had to dress in a professional manner, Ben was my boss, not my boyfriend.

So today we got an e-mail directing that everyone in the office wear professional attire tomorrow, because of a VIP type personage who will be visiting. Our reaction to this: IMMEDIATE PANIC. Every last one of Ben’s dress shirts is in the bag to be taken to the cleaner’s, and I am not at all sure I still own any pantyhose.

So how will I be spending my afternoon? That’s right: buying Ben a dress shirt and me some nylons, and rummaging through the back of my closet to see if I have any dresses that don’t look like someone wore them to Woodstock.

A few minutes ago, Ben walked into my office and asked me what I’d like for Valentine’s Day. I think he must believe this is his duty as my husband, but this is our eighth Valentine’s Day together, and he should know the answer by now.

I don’t want anything, I told him. My Valentine’s Day present to you is this: I’m letting you off the hook.

From what I’ve seen, Valentine’s Day can be the source of substantial friction between couples. Either the guy forgets the day completely, or he doesn’t get her the right thing; his gift is not romantic enough, or does not consist of enough carats, and so on and on and on. In terms of men’s stress level, Valentine’s Day must be right up there with April 15.

So, do this for your man: if you love him, let him off the hook. If he forgets Valentine’s Day, don’t take it personally, because it isn’t personal; the forgetting of important dates is a trait linked irrevocably to the Y chromosome, and he can’t help it. If he gives you a lame present, hug the stuffings out of him and give him props for even making the effort. And if he happens to give you a superb present with as many carats as you might have wished for, shout his praises from the rooftops.

Because what he does on Valentine’s Day is really not important. What he does, or doesn’t do, on the other 364 days of the year – that’s what shows how much he loves you.

There are a number of things on my mind this week — radio chat host Adam Carolla, a pair of shoes of which I’m insanely fond, an Elvis Costello album I’ve been growing to love. Instead, I find myself talking about what everyone else is talking about: the dead blonde.

Her name isn’t really important; fifty years from now, Anna Nicole Smith will be at best a footnote, a trivia question. She was one of those faux celebrities who are famous for being famous, what in localspeak we call a MAW (model, actress, whatever). Certainly, despite the inevitable comparisons, she was no Marilyn Monroe. But since yesterday afternoon when the story broke, even on “respectable” news outlets it’s been all Anna Nicole, all the time.

When did all the media go tabloid? When did a dead blonde become worthy of round-the-clock nonstop coverage? I watched Wolf Blitzer on CNN yesterday looking embarrassed at even having to show up, yet diligently covering the story like everyone else. I think it was Fox News who emblazoned “ANNA NICOLE SMITH DEAD!” in red above the news crawl at the bottom of the screen. Shit, September 11 didn’t merit an exclamation point, nor did Hurricane Katrina and the clusterfuck which ensued; but, apparently, a dead blonde does.

It’s pushed everything else right out of the headlines. What about the “troop surge” in Iraq? Anyone thinking about that anymore? Since when did CNN turn into Page Six?

In the twenty-first century, we’re all living in a reality show and everyone is famous for fifteen minutes. And dead blondes? They get thirty minutes.

So you think you’d love to live in Orange County? Consider the following: I live in Costa Mesa, the purple blob right next to that lakey looking thing. My children go to day care in Fountain Valley, that little green area just to the left. And I work in Santa Ana, the pink bit snuggled so cutely next to Costa Mesa and Fountain Valley.

Every morning, I drive my two younger kids from home in Costa Mesa to day care in Fountain Valley and then continue on to work in Santa Ana. All three towns adjoin each other, and according to Mapquest, the total trip is about fifteen miles, much of it on the freeway. And would you like to know how long it takes? ONE HOUR. One hour to drive fifteen miles.

This is the price of endless summer.

Lying in bed sick as hell and half-listening to cartoons on Nickelodeon for two days will make your brain turn into SOUP. Back at work today, I can barely focus my eyes, use my opposable thumbs or walk upright without my knuckles scraping the floor. I did, however, learn this:

Mr. Krabs: There are thirteen bad words which you must never say.

Squidward: I thought there were only SEVEN bad words.

Mr. Krabs [winking]: Not if you’re a sailor.