We spent the morning hanging out in the fanciest car dealership waiting room that I�ve ever set foot in. They even had wireless data ports so people could work while they waited. They had free Starbuck�s coffee, soda, and kick-ass donut holes. AJ and I spent the morning in a little soundproof playhouse in the middle of the waiting area eating donuts and watching Sesame Street. While AJ zoned out in front of the TV, I absent-mindedly pulled a magazine out of a stack on the table to leaf through. It was Highlights, so I looked for hidden pictures and checked out what Goofus and Gallant were up to. After I read about how Goofus never wears his jacket outside and Gallant always dresses appropriately for the weather, I looked up to check on AJ. He had his head buried in a copy of Kiplinger�s. I think we may have a future Alex P. Keaton on our hands.

After an hour of paperwork, we are now the proud owners of a brand new car. Actually, when I say �we,� I really mean my husband. Even AJ knows this. He chastised me when I tried to get behind the wheel to take it for a spin: �No, Mommy, that�s DADDY�S car.� And the radio doesn�t work. It appears not to be hooked up. Of course, if I had driven the car home, we wouldn�t have gotten it out of the parking space without me noticing that. However, my husband is not quite the audiophile that I am, so we are soundless until our next trek back to the dealer when our license plates come in.

The chief advantage of the new car, as far as I can tell, is that my husband wants to drive it. So when I asked him if he could pick up some milk this afternoon, instead of looking mildly irritated, he practically sprinted out the door.

I did get to take the radioless car down to the local post office to mail the first four chapters of my diss to my thesis advisor, who still hasn�t read them. It felt good to see a pile of 200 pages and realize that I�ve written them. There�s still a lot left to do, but it felt good nonetheless. What didn�t feel so good was talking to the person helping me at the post office. �What is this, a dissertation?� she joked as I shoved the papers in the envelope and passed it over the counter. �Actually, yes,� I replied. �I thought so. I got a Ph.D. in Art.� Nothing against postal workers, but that type of employment really wasn�t in my career plan. I hope that little encounter was not a vision of my future.

I am looking forward to a Bush-free evening. I always feel compelled to watch the State of the Union. It�s a ritual. Rarely do I actually enjoy the speech (this is particularly true when our current leader is on the dais). But I love the partisan demonstrations. I love the voiceovers describing the action and the First Lady�s wardrobe. It reminds me of the announcer for the Metropolitan Opera who details each diva�s gown and bowing technique during the current calls. I loved hearing the cheers when Bush said key provisions of the patriot act were set to expire this year. I love watching who is clapping and who is not. I could do without watching W smirk every time he thinks he�s going to get applause.

AJ is refusing to fall asleep for his nap. I may have to excuse my self to try to stop the endless stream of �mommymommymommymommymommymommymommymommy� coming out of his room. Then again, I may just crank up the stereo.

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