I was raised Catholic; more than that, I attended Catholic schools for eleven years, from my earliest education until I escaped to university. The result of all this is, of course, that I am forever haunted by guilt. I feel guilty over everything. About things which are my fault, certainly, but also about things which are not so much my fault as they are accidents. Even about things that have nothing to do with me. The nuns who dogged my childhood and teen years would be delighted.

I’m usually pretty good about keeping the guilt at bay. My life pretty much revolves around my husband and my children. Okay, and books and the Internet. But I’m what you’d call a family girl. I’m always at home, or if out and about, I’m either earning money or doing things with my husband and kids.

But then there are the Basenjis.

I really don’t have time for them, and they are the major source of guilt in my life. They spend most of their time in the backyard, for the simple reason that they need extremely close supervision indoors lest they leap up and eat your dinner, or chew up your $400 purse. (There is really no excuse for having a $400 purse, so I guess I should thank Rudy for chewing up mine.) But they are masters of the guilt trip, and they play on the sneaky aspect of my Catholic conscience that constantly whispers There is misery afoot, and it’s all your fault.

Anytime I enter the kitchen, which features a large window overlooking the backyard, Rudy jumps up on the wrought-iron patio table to fix me with a baleful stare and commence Baroooooooooing fit to wake the dead. I can go outside and pet him and Dollie, and feed them treats, and replenish their food and water, but the next time I appear at the window Rudy will again Barooooooo. Again and again and again.

After ten minutes of this, I’m irritated; I’m cooking dinner or doing dishes, and I don’t have time for quality Rudy time. The truth is, I frequently don’t have time for quality Rudy time. Make that hardly ever. So that dog, and his furrowed brow and his reproachful Barooooo, have become a sort of constant reminder of all the ways I’m failing to be Supermom.

So how do I handle this? By saying Shut the hell up, Rudy a lot and going upstairs where he can’t see me through the window. Because if I go into the living room, he will peek through the blinds at the patio door and scratch on the glass with his paws. Did I mention he knows how to operate the kitchen doorknob? I’ve seen, from the inside, the knob turning as he manipulates it from outside. It’s only his lack of opposable thumbs that prevents him from marching inside and telling me what’s what.

I suppose I should be grateful, though. My mother has passed on, and my kids aren’t even Catholic. And a girl raised Catholic needs a source of constant guilt in her life. Rudy fills that need admirably.

Around the middle of last week, I had a sudden inspiration for the family to take a weekend getaway. It all started with a conversation wherein I mentioned to Matt that he was made in San Diego. More specifically, he was made at the Hacienda Inn in Old Town San Diego, where Ben and I stayed for two nights with 9-month-old Sam while Ben was in town to take depositions. Old Town is quite picturesque and historical, with state-sanctioned California Historical Landmarks every 50 yards or so, and the highest concentration of Mexican restaurants I have ever seen in my life. Shopping is plentiful, with the same blankets, ceramics and Baja hoodies available across the border in Tijuana.

There was nothing for it but to hit several of the Mexican restaurants in search of the ultimate margarita. I’m not sure we found it, but we certainly had a hell of a good time trying. The kids were fairly burned out on flan and tortilla chips with salsa by Saturday afternoon, so I suggested we drive up to La Jolla and hit the mall. Sam narrowed his eyes at me. Is it a MEXICAN mall? he asked, warily. I assured him it was not, and he seemed relieved. Good, he said. Because this place is a little too Mexican for me. He had a point.

The mall wasn’t a big hit, mostly because there were no toy stores. (Whatever happened to toy stores? They used to be everywhere, and now they’re all out of business.) We wound up driving into downtown San Diego, ending up in the Gaslamp Quarter, home to more restaurants per square mile than anywhere I’ve ever seen in my life. Still, the kids enjoyed some dessert at the Rock Bottom Brewery, Ben and I tasted a couple more margaritas, and we probably completely ruined the evening of a couple of hapless tourists to whom we gave completely erroneous directions to Horton Plaza.

This morning we drove back home through a blinding downpour of rain, and are now ensconced in that strange Sunday malaise that comes from having been away from home the whole weekend and knowing the alarm will ring at six-thirty the next morning. I’ve got laundry to catch up, kids to bathe, and the dogs, who are annoyed with me for leaving them, to placate. Still, it was nice to do margarita research and hang out with the kids, and with every margarita we toasted Matt, who finally got to see the place where he was made. He was impressed; Sam wasn’t. Big deal. You and Dad came here and had sex, he said darkly. Childhood isn’t what it used to be.

Is there anyone so self-absorbed as a woman on a diet? I’m not an unconscionable heifer, but early in 2009 I became aware that I had packed on some tonnage through the months of general depression and malaise that followed my mom’s death in November. Now, in my case, “overweight” means “more than a size 4″, which is really depressing. The fact is that I am a short sort of miniature person, and when I put on 10 or even 5 pounds, my ass starts to resemble the San Onofre nuclear power plant. Well, actually, that looks more like boobs. But I digress.

My husband is a pretty good sport. Of course, he has to look at my ass more than anyone else, so he has a personal stake in its lack of immensity. But I have suddenly become a general pain in the hindquarters as regards anything pertaining to food. It’s all Oh, I can’t eat that or I have to look up how many points or, worse, God, do you know how many grams of FAT are in that steak and egg breakfast you’re eating?  Honestly, I don’t know how he hasn’t killed me by now. Oh, that’s right, he has to watch me undress for bed every night. Never mind.

I’m aiming to take off 20 pounds and therefore get down to my fighting weight, as opposed to my I’m nearly fifty and had three kids in the four years after my 40th birthday, so back off, asshole weight. I’m figuring this will take a few months if I don’t get extreme about it, so I’m doomed to be a pain in my husband’s ass for the foreseeable future. It’s the plight of every human female above the age of 40 who can’t afford extensive plastic surgery and doesn’t have the time to work out 3 hours a day.

Still, I think back with extreme jealousy to the 25-year-old me who sat behind her desk eating M&Ms all day, never worked out, and weighed 105 pounds. If this sounds like you, enjoy it while it lasts, because it won’t last. Someday you’ll be just like me, eating a bowl of raw cabbage with noncaloric salad dressing (there is such a thing! and it doesn’t taste much like doodoo at all!) just to keep your ass from needing its own Congressman.

My friend Mary put up this meme on Facebook, and since I’ve got bugger-all to write about that won’t bore you to tears, I’ll bore you with this instead. Feel free to pick up this ball and run with it.

1. I have a good working knowledge of palmistry and Tarot card reading (leftover from high school/college years).
2. I started college when I was sixteen.
3. I’m married to my third husband.
4. I’ve almost died three times: once from simultaneous measles and German measles when I was three; once at 17 when I almost broadsided a semi truck that was blocking the highway at night; and once when I was 28, my appendix ruptured and I got peritonitis.
5. I have no living parents, aunts or uncles.
6. I have a Mexican red-legged tarantula in a tank in my living room.
7. I can’t touch the bottoms of my own feet; it completely squicks me out for some reason.
8. I have never broken a bone.
9. I have a tipped uterus.
10. I have a “lucky fork” stamped with “Prop. of City of NY” which was stolen many years ago from Bellevue by a friend’s father; I eat almost every meal with my lucky fork, and no one else in the family is allowed to touch it.
11. I watch “Robot Chicken” religiously.
12. I was vegan for a year, about 12 years ago, with the result that I hated vegetables for 10 years.
13. I would give my left ovary to move back to New Jersey.
14. I live in Costa Mesa, CA on the Newport Beach border, but frequently say I’m from Newport Beach because it sounds cooler.
15. I’m afraid of heights.
16. I don’t believe in Satan or Hell.
17. The most worthwhile thing I’ve done in my life is mothering my kids.
18. I’m neither as tough nor as confident as I come off.
19. I’m a member of Mensa.
20. I’m a dreadful housekeeper, really bad.
21. I will always regret not finishing law school.
22. I’m crazy about my husband.
23. I like liver and onions.
24. I wish I lived someplace where it rains and/or snows like hell.
25. In general, I find memes boring and stupid.