Got an email from a woman who just found out her father wasn't really her father. All these years, she's been lied to. She's a working professional who's now working through the emotional fall out. The fact that she reached out to me, a person who stood in similar shoes ten years ago, moved me. The fact that my project has stagnated to a halt, embarrassed me. Was it the initial rejection or laziness?

I met my birth family eight years ago. Eight months ago my birth father, riddled with cancer but indomitable as ever, moved in with me. He hung on till February. Last week, I cruised to Alaska with my birth mom and half-siblings. Why in the hell can't I write this?

KIDS

Most people probably know it's gauche to ask a woman with a little extra weight around the middle whether she's pregnant or, god forbid, "When are you due?'' Well, as a married, childless woman, I decided that the converse of this tacky question is, "Why don't you have kids?'' Are you kidding me? It's not like I was riding a bus reading a book on "reproductive troubles of late 30-somethings.'' This was someone I was interacting with in a business capacity. And I'd just signed a boatload of paperwork on sexual harassment in the work place. This woman, who chatted wildly about her own children, persisted in her questioning about whether I wanted kids and when I said, "Parenthood isn't for everyone,'' she shrugged in disapproval. I considered winking at her, but as she rolled my fingers across the LiveScan machine (to send my prints to the DOJ) I thought better of it.

How's that for a hiatus? So, I still haven't published my book, as the story continues, and am now molding young minds as an elementary school teacher. Oh, and I'm married. Life's rad.

But onto Mom/Birth mom stuff...
The story has practically written itself, a combination of crushing irony and delicious poetry. In August, I made the trip back east to see both Mom and Peggy, my birth mom. Mom had been having a couple of bad days - not talking to me, mad at my stepdad, mad at me - and so DJ saved me, again. Now a days, when home turns into hell, he takes me to Peggy. She and I took the Metro into DC to go to the Newseum, a phenomenal museum of all things journalism. As we ambled down Pennsylvania Avenue, Peggy clucked her tongue and said, "Wow. The last time we walked through D.C. together, you were inside me.''

And that's the kind of time we had. It's tough for her, not knowing how to comment when I'm visibly depressed about Mom and another soul stifling trip to Gaithersburg. All she could do was be Peggy. So, on the Metro going back to Northern Virginia, she ran her painted nails through my tangled hair and said, "I just can't understand someone not appreciating your company.''

Back at Peggy's, I plopped on the couch and, after pouring us each a glass of wine, she shrieked at the TV. One of her favorite movies of all time was on: "Mommie Dearest.''

I knew it well.

Deja Yikes

The unsightly bulge protruding from Dan's tire looked menacing. He noticed it in Santa Monica, 20 miles away from home as the crow flies, but a good hour in traffic.

"Eh, I'll take it into the shop tomorrow,'' he said casually, as if referrring to his dry cleaning.

Almost home and approaching the 110 tunnel just south of the 5 - the stretch where everyone slams on their brakes and either thrusts hands in the air or wails on their horns because they consistently ignore the flashing "SLOW'' lights - we heard the unmistakable and repetitive thud of a flat tire. Again, as calmly as if pulling into the super market parking lot, Dan steered to the left shoulder and asked if I had my phone. Nope. He didn't have his. I panicked. He, of course, had changed a tire before and popped the trunk to remove the spare and jack so he could change another one. Maybe it's because my birth dad crushed his back when a jack failed but watching Dan pump up the car frightened me into nausea. That and the speeding motorists whirring within inches of his head. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to help. Mostly, though, I just stood there looking worried. I tried removing the lug nuts but, like all those screw-top jelly jars, I failed. Where was a traffic jam when you needed one? The cars slowed every few minutes, with a surprising handful of drivers asking if we needed help. Even an LAPD car inched by to see if we were ok. We smiled. Dan twisted. I chewed my cuticles.

Dan changed that tire quicker than I change the sheets. Still, it felt like hours. Lots of squealing tires and horn honks - not because of us. Just that damn tunnel. I kept thinking all it would take was one person on a cell phone accidentally veering into our lane and we'd be memories.

Fifteen miles north and twelve hours later, a suspected drunk driver hit and killed two people changing a tire on the side of Interstate 5.

DONALD DISMAY

He lisps. He spits. And he don't wear no pants. He's Donald Duck, my favorite cartoon character and one of the only reasons I daned to cross the threshold of Disneyland on Wednesday. Turns out, this vintage character is conspicuously missing from the glut of retail stores at The Happiest Place on Earth. I fought the crowds. I endured stroller wheels crunching into my ankles. Mickey-earred lollipops brushing against my shorts. Just a hat, a fisherman's hat, preferably. That's all I wanted. Something with my favorite fowl's image and possibly even my nickname stitched into the back: Donna Duck. My stepdad conjured the name in high school. My buddy, DJ, still calls me The Duck, the name which appears on his cell phone whenever I call.

Sadly, the store clerks mustered only blank stares when asked of Donald's whereabouts. I understood when the sadistically smiling Disney employee, toiling away in Tomorrowland, snapped that his store featured Buzz Lightyear for obvious reasons. But the cavernous store in Downtown Disney, the one featuring Donald's nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie hanging above the entrance, all it could offer me was a Donald-head pen or a $20-$40 plush toyl? Top-heavy pens tire my hand and I need another stuffed animal like I need more cellulite. No Donald hats? Not even a garish one topped with a plastic orange bill? A kind but clueless clerk pointed my friends and I to the back of the store where I found a fuzzy costume, complete with Donald head and cotton tail. I doubted that even the largest size - the 24-month-old - would fit. Besides, I couldn't hack off his head and sew it onto a hat. I can't sew a button onto a blouse. Thankfully, my cleaners got the blood out and button on, but I digress.

I guess I'll search the Internet, the world's largest garage sale, for a Donald hat of some kind. It's still saddens me, though. Where has my good duck gone? I may have to write to corporate about this. I had a surprisingly fun time with Jenna and Stephen at the theme park, but my disdain remains for Mickey, who hogs the store shelves and the spotlight. Hey, Mick, I've got a message from the duck: Quack off!

AND the award for the most audacious restaurant goes to...the woefully overpriced, tragically duplicitous Sky Room in Long Beach. So much for that reception venue. Who needs art deco interrior with panoramic views of the Pacific and cityscape when the bread is as cold and hard as the butter pats and the chef disallows you to order appetizers and salads as an entree. I nearly dropped my Veuve Clicquot. But the best part, the part that prompted Dan to squeeze my knee under the table in an attempt to thwart bubbling snarkiness, was when the waiter said they can toast my bread but that they've got 200 people to serve and it's not like they could toast everyone's bread. What?! How do you get to be a five-star restaurant with a small toaster? Must be all the schmucks who pay $300 for dinner.