Round Up

Thanks, Toymakers Everywhere!
My kid has been playing with asbestos for a week. Sweet. If you don't want to click, it's this CSI fingerprinting kit. I have been a Criminal all week. There is crime scene tape across our fireplace, due to the apparent break-in of the large jolly fat man, which is great, because it's not like we would want to use the fireplace in winter anyway.

I have contacted eToys, from whence I purchased said product, and I am ready to go all Investigative Reporter on their asses if they don't step up. Oh, yes, Sirs. Don't mess with me. Whilst I cannot slam your (potentially lousy customer support) in a pithy, heavily TV-referenced column, know that I do, indeed, blog.

Oh, yeah. Don't make me blog, yo. Wield the mighty blog. Go bloggy on you.

I know.

*

The New Year

My tipple cup runneth over. I started this year burned out, and sad. Oh, so sad. I'm still chubby and my hair's a mess and my novel's unsold and W. Bush hasn't a clue and there is a lot of rabbit fur under the table and we have costly vet bills and there was the chicken pox and multiple illnesses - ohmygod - but I end this year happier than I have been my whole life. I wish I could tell you the secret. I think it's an age thing, to be honest. And it's lots of walking and sunshine.

And then also it's my torrid affair with Orlando, our strapping young gardener.

I love looking back over the year - if it was a bad year, I feel particularly superheroish for getting through. And if it was a good year, I feel exceptionally clever. Some of this year's things were such lovely things (new babies in the family! Hurray!) and then some were less-than terrific (Near death scary ER visits! Boo!). I get it. It's a roller coaster. Up now and down again soon enough.

So, tonight I will stagger downtown to a do-it-yourself "Last Night" parade in Santa Cruz, known for the most sillyness, with a side of weird. I am bringing my camera and hopefully I will have some seriously ridiculous photos to share with you.

Another year. See how lucky we are?

Here comes trouble

Oh, sure, you think I went to see "Alvin and The Chipmunks" under duress, as the work-from-home parent with the home-from-school-on-the-vacation-that-simply-will-never-end kids. But, no. In fact, I viewed "Alvin and the Chipmunks" with 987 of my closest five-year-old friends in order to study the furry trio (Alvin, Simon and Theodore) as they navigated the treacherous waters of child stardom, not unlike Miz Spears, La Lohan and Paris Hilton. The caramel machiatto reference, the binging (oh, Theodore!) and the trashing of rooms a la Chateau Marmont? The backup dancers? It was to weep.

Really - the pop parallels were unmistakable. I'm thinking the cultural resonances will stay with me for a while. I see a stage musical, with Donny Bonaduce, the aforementioned starlets and maybe a walk-on by Peter O'Toole. Or, we could go a whole different way - think "Pan's Labyrinth," with poopie jokes. Although, the allusions to the Spanish Civil War were done with such a light hand. . .

And just so you know, I lost an hour of my life trying to Photoshop Paris Hilton's face onto the chipmunk on the left (Simon). It didn't go well at all.

Updated to add - Oh! I was saved utterly by Antonia!:

Happily, the film did not require me to explain to my children heiresses who have routinely used disparaging racial terms and yet are, if not lauded, not mocked (enough), grainy recordings of a personal, grown up nature or the Brazilian.

*

I sure love New Year's Eve. Not the party-party aspect - as someone I know likes to say, "It's amateur night." Indeed. For 364 nights of the year, I can wear spangly too-tight clothing and get stinking drunk and find a reasonable parking spot. But you kids go ahead - karaoke and chasing the wrong guy and drinking 'til you puke! Woohoo!

What I do enjoy about New Year's Eve is the artificial finish line. I like starts and stops. But mostly? Starts. In a life where I am always - always - trying to weigh less and write more, where goals are nebulous and process-based rather than product-based, anything with a clear finish line is a comfort.

So, to you: Stop! Stop that thing you know you need to stop doing!

And also? Start! Start everything else!

secular suburban xmas haikus

I made more candy
no, you never do get some
I eat it at night


hey UPS man
come sit down. coffee's ready
the Ellen show's on


the mall Santa has
strange, sticky rheumy eyelids
I'll just stand here, thanks

The somewhat unreasonable season

The holiday season can be a trying time for families. Mine is not immune. There was Food Stamp Christmas, Recently Deceased Beloved Grandma Christmas, and the Christmas of the Double Pneumonia. All remarkably memorable in their own delicately sugar-spun ways. And then there was Christmas of the Bad Santa.

My son could not handle the whole Santa concept. Santa freaked his toddler sh*t right out. Utterly. He thought "Claus" meant "claws" - no matter how we tried to break it down for him. Hey, YOU try explaining a homonym to a three-year-old. He refused to even entertain the idea of some guy, a stranger with huge, snapping, monster-movie crab claws, sneaking into our house to do God knows what. No way.

Then, just before Christmas, he saw some poor rent-a-Santa outside an apartment complex and was agog. "Santa No-Claws!" he yelled. "Santa has hands!"

And then he asked for a Wii.

Not really. Come on - he was in preschool!

He asked for a Smartfone.

*
As a very young child, I feverently spoke at night, in bed, to Teen Jesus In Heaven, about getting a bike, about not being afraid of the dark, about not being afraid of Bobby who put pudding on my shoe and pushed me all the time, hard, about the faith that things would someday get better. About, somehow, surviving. Teen Jesus never spoke back, but that was okay, because while he looked like David Cassidy with a thin beard (In my mind), just explaining it out helped me. My talks with Teen Jesus were an early and extremely inexpensive form of talk therapy.

Now I'm old and positively grizzled, and I don't talk to Teen Jesus anymore. I do think about my ol' Teen Jesus, though, and my ol' Baby Jesus, and how so many folks have their own version of who and who not and what and what is not. And whatever my faith (And, oh! Please. Let's not do that thing - that my-faith-is-better-than-your-faith-and-let's-argue-because-I-can-argue-you-out-of-your-faith thing, because you know what? No, you can't. And, no, I can't.), I always come back to this: Christmas is lights, strung everywhere, in the darkest night. Christmas is a loud, boisterous (possibly drunken Uncle) cheer that it won't be dark and cold forever. Christmas is the whisper that there is a great mystery unfolding. While there is war and cold and a weak housing market, know that a child, right now, may be the one to change everything.

I don't know why that makes me want to make vats and vats of nutty brittle. I guess I just want to be at the party.

I wish you, whatever your faith or nonfaith or wobbly, seesawing faith, peace and joy, and lots of nutty brittle, unless you have a legume allergy, in which case I wish you lots of fudge. And if you are avoiding chocolate, I'll make you meringues.

Come on - what about a nice fruit plate?

This crazy-ass year is almost over - we really need to mark it with a snack.

oh, baby

I was surprised to read about Jamie Lynn Spears' baby news. Jamie Lynn isn't really on my pop culture radar - I'm an old fart, and she's young enough to be my much, much younger sister. Or, okay, my daughter.

I was older than she is now when I first starting keeping time with a gentleman caller, but not by much. And I don't subscribe to that "After School Special" party line about how teen moms are bound to go nuts if they miss the prom, but I did wince. It's not easy to be able to give as much as a baby needs for you to give when you have some of your own crap to figure out. And at 16? You still have a lot of crap to figure out. Like how to keep your temper (also known as staying "Adult and Passive" when your child is making you batshit crazy). Like how to get sleep when you'd rather be out, because you know you'll need the rest to get through the next day and be able to keep your cool. And, yes, you can learn all that while mommying, but it's easier to learn it before. And there's less resentment (not much, mind you, but less), if you've already had some time as Officially Irresponsible.

So, I wince for Jamie Lynn. Things are going to get harder for her before things get easier. And I wince that she has to do this in the spotlight. My article about her is up at MSN.

The book Lynne Spears was slated to write? I sure wish she'd still write it. I want to know what happened in that family. The level of fame Britney Spears has? She was famous long before she was infamous, and that level takes more than some dance steps. There was an overwhelming drive (whose?), and some sharp marketing. I would be interested in discussing how to navigate the waters when you are marketing your daughters' looks, their nascent sexuality, all while telling them to not be actively sexual.

Eat, drink and curse the darkness!

How are you doing? I find this time of year a struggle. It's dark when I wake up and it's dark again before dinner. It's cold. No matter how much I do and how fast I move, I always feel like I am behind and without and frumpy and a little lost.

This is one hard time of year. Tiny salves and minor delights becomes fingerholds. I find lighthearted distractions help. Such as:

• Virtual Snowflakes at Make-a-Flake!
  
  
• Candy Crack, also known as Paula's Nutty Brittle From Savannah's Candy Man
  (You will not believe how good this is. I have made four batches since the weekend, and it's barely Tuesday.)
  
  
• Making Fiend's Fiendish follies
  
  
• Elf madness. I shall now unveil for you a paux de du between myself and the one-and-only TV's Adam West, last seen declining my advances:
  
  Elfing with TV's Adam West
  
  
• And, lest you think I am not politically referential: Hit, it, Dems!

True Confessions

I was leaving this Thai restaurant, my bag of take-out in my hand, and a woman outside the entrance held the door for me. I started to say "Thank you," but she was muttering something to a man walking past (her companion, I assumed), so I did that distracted smile/no eye contact thing in her direction and continued down the street.

"No?" She yelled at my back. "Just gonna ignore me?"

I didn't alter my gait, in case she wasn't talking to me, but if my ears could swivel, they would have. Was that at me?

"You don't even have a f*cking quarter?" she yelled. "You cheap, curly-haired bitch!" Ah, hah! I'd recognize me anywhere. I kept my back straight and my steps sure, but I wanted to cringe and run to my car. I am still arguing with her in my head, about how I hadn't heard her, the woman who called me names. And, yes, I should just be amused or irritated, but I'm also feeling a little embarrassed, because it was rude of me to not respond to the woman who called me names.

Shame, you see, is an involuntary emotion.

Also, I watch Nip/Tuck. I find it vulgar. The characters all loathe themselves. It's television p0rnography; like traditional p0rn, there is no joie de vivre, no cheer. I don't go looking for it. I can't remember when it's on, but if I'm surfing and I come across it, ding!

And:
As far as I am concerned, whatever I eat before 10 a.m. and after 10 p.m. doesn't count. I'm not saying I stand by the light of the microwave clock, waiting for 10:01, the unearthly green glow my signal to hit the nacho platter. That would be weird.

I'm trying to think of other guilty pleasures, but like many a fine middle-aged American mom, I'm basically all about junk food and crap TV. I need a new vice. Suggestions?

Viva La Friday

My house is full of sickly people and my cat was just hit by a car. I blame the commercialization of Christmas!

(She'll live. Hurray! Her care, however, will cost hundreds of crisp and tender new dollar bills. So, there goes our Very Shiny Holiday."Oh, Honey! You got me my very own cat femur x-ray? You shouldn't have!")

I hate to start our weekend on a grumpy, (slightly) cat-flattened note, so please, allow me to leave you with a bit of cheer:

The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency has announced that it is once again safe to eat squirrels in New Jersey.

From News Of The Weird.

Good night, search engines, wherever you are

Those who stumbled here looking for "clothes evening bar mitzvah" - go very dressy, especially if you are on the East Coast. Really. Spangly Cocktail attire! Evening Wedding Fabulous! I did flowy slacks and a lovely top avec cleavage and big hair and I looked relatively frumpy. You've been warned.

Came here via "dumped by platonic friend"? I'm sorry. I've been there. All I can say is, the next time you decide to dump a friend, think about how you feel right now and then proceed gently. A fruit basket is always a nice touch.

"Ink stained wretch" got you here? It was just one of a number of subheads I was using, and it stuck. I started the blog simply as an online resume (hence the real name thing), and then got mouthy. Story of my life. I'm not actually stained with ink, but coffee? Geegum, yes.

For those of you still looking for "Oprah's extra toe:" there isn't one. That story aired in May of 2007. MAY, people. Since then, the Berlin Wall came down and Paris Hilton announced she had a vestigial tail. Seriously, read a paper once in a while. But I know. I sort of wanted it to be true, too. Can't you see it?

Oprah's Sixth Toe for Vice President!

Kicking The Republicans' Ass One Little Piggy At a Time!

How quickly it went all bad

I so enjoy shopping this time of year - not the craziness or the grabbiness, but the Hunt. Finding something unusual and cool that suits someone I love? How satisfying!

It's important to support independent artists and get one's crumpled dollar bills directly into their exhausted, gnarled, talented hands.

"Our pair of COCONUT OIL SOAP BOOBS are a great gag gift. Set them out in your bathroom and get ready for some laughs."

Sadly, I'm not shopping for a twelve-year-old boy. Hmm. There must be something here. I do love jewelry.

Its my scrotum made into a ring seriously (sic)
"Made out of sterling silver, this ring was casted by the artist (me) from a man's scrotum (mine). I am artist and have always been fascinated with the human figure. Recently I did a show involving the human figure in fashion and I created a jewelry line using the human form and it had a great response."

Oh. Well . . . Um. Hmm. Not that the concept and execution aren't fascinating, mind you, but I don't even want to wear the scrotal impression of someone known to me. Bedecking in a stranger's scrotilia seems untowardly intimate.

I know. What can I say? I'm just an old-fashioned gal.

How about this? Offered by my new secret crush, Miss Poppy:

"Turn or Burn" Mini Gift Basket for the Hellbound
"The 'Turn or Burn' Mini-Giftbasket' contains one pack of ultra-frightening, hip retro Hellfire Bible Tracts; one mini fire extinguisher; one "Anima Sola" floaty pen; and two packs of Red Hots candies, all packaged in a lovely basket."

While I may find this tres amusing, a Damnation gift basket is perhaps not be the best choice for Hanukkah or Christmas. Looking. . . Looking . . .

Gray Catbutt earrings
"Let's face it, lots of people like catbutts."

Really? They really do? Do we know that for certain or are we assuming? Because, when we assume, we may just fall into that well-known "catbutt" trap.

A selection of bosses

Larry
1993. He didn't know how to turn on my computer or that I stayed until 10 p.m. at least four nights a week. When he lied, he sparked his Tourette's into a painful dance of shoulder twitching and throat clearing. He lied a lot. #38



Bob
1994. He supervised all the desktop contractors; I started during the Michael Jackson accusation brouhaha. Bob had us gather daily at lunch to argue his point that a twelve-year-old boy was "old enough." I was afraid to ask the others if they loathed him, too. #39

John
1985. He played Grumpy Father to my Wayward Kid. I don't know if he disliked me; I earned it, if he did. I'd like a do-over. #40

I am participating in x365.

Baby Makes Bling

Did y'all see this recent article in the New York Times?

A Bundle of Joy Isn't Enough?

"When Jena Slosberg of Bedford, N.H., gave birth in March, she endured a labor that lasted 17 hours. But her discomfort was ultimately worth it, quite apart from the arrival of her daughter, Marin. In the recovery room, her husband, Paul, presented her with a pair of diamond earrings.

“I was on cloud nine,” Ms. Slosberg said. “It was the perfect present to make a frazzled, sleep-deprived, first-time mommy feel absolutely glamorous.”

She added, “I wonder what 17 hours of labor will get me next time?”"

- - -

(To sum: the piece talks about the practice of women having a big ol' diamond ring/hot tub/piece of modern art shoved on their finger/back yard/wall as soon as they've given birth as a "Thank you" from their husbands. Because, you know, it's still 1952. And do you know what they call it? A "push present.")

On one hand, I don't want to be on record turning down gifts, mmkay? On the other hand - well. Let's play Reversal for one second. What if, after giving birth, I presented my husband with silver cufflinks (or a Wii. Let's be serious here). You know, as a stud fee. The dude knocked me up! He begotted me with child! He earned that Wii!

Right. Ridiculous. In a marriage where both people are - oh, I don't want to bandy around that old sawhorse, "equal" - let's try "neitherly disenfranchised," the paying of one by the other for something we don't consider a wage-based act is nonsensical. It's a gift, you say? The giving of a gift for a gift makes no sense unless the baby came out of an actual Tiffany box. Because babies are not gifts, except in the blessings sense. We don't "give" people.

The more I think about this whole thing, the more self-righteous I'm becoming. I need a self-righteous font. Sans serif fonts don't do justice to my mighty wrath!

Now, look here, Mommafriends, don't be refusing gifts, because we work damn hard and we look, well, right now we're looking a little frazzled. A massage and a hot soak is just what you need. But you are a person, not a human Pez dispenser. Buy it your own damn liberated self.

And, totally, don't give anything nice and shiny to infertile women, because they didn't earn it. In fact, women with infertility issues should give their husbands an "I'm sorry I'm broken" gift. Maybe an HD TV or a subscription to a year of soft cheeses.

No Glove? No Love

This was clearly designed by someone who doesn't understand that the very best part of holding hands is that first moment, when you so want that someone to reach for your hand, but you don't know if he will (or she will. Depending.). When he first reaches for you, or you for him, and your hands fold - that is the best. The sweaty palm bit once you're in lock-and-walk mode? Not something to plan handwear purchases over.

Oh! Waiting for that reach. That ache in the pit of your stomach that no one should ever call "butterflies," because it's not pretty and delicate. It's fear and hope and anguish. It's Anguish. You are trying to be funny and clever but not too loud and he's, God, in this light, he has the best squintyness. He's just - Dammit! Is he going to take my hand or not?

And, if he has this contraption - voila! He doesn't simply take your hand, oh, no. He stops mid-stride; bicyclists go around you, grimacing, while he pulls out a heart valve-shaped mitten and flips it and no, it's sideways, and oops, it's inside out and finally he thrusts it on and waggles the empty bit for you, with a slightly bashful, yet impatient look. It's the G-rated version of Awkward Condom Placement/Grappling, but with fleece. In the park. With, you know, few-to-none genitals.

There are things I would like invented. So, go to it, Youth of Today!

A safe food additive that turns dog poop fluorescent, so dog owners can find and scoop it from fields/leaves/etc. And also? Walkers would see it and not step forthwith.

Self-cleaning windows.

Self-cleaning ovens. Oh, wait.

A bathroom outfitted with car wash sprayer/scrubber thingies in the ceiling. Just shut the door, turn the air lock and hit the button. Open and - shiny clean!

TV remotes/(turned off) cell phones and other electronic devices that know to beep when lost under the couch cushions.

The utter outlawing of socks that fall down and squinch partially under your foot and you are stuck with it all damn day. (Okay, okay. This is not an invention. Still. There ought to be a law.)

Underwire bras that know their place and do not turn sociopathic, with mini shivs and sudden moves. A little breast loyalty is all I'm asking.

meme

I've been meme tagged by Who She She. I'm going all rebellious here and a) not listing 8 things (I'm not that interesting) and b) not tagging anyone, because when I have, people have gotten all grumpy at me.

Okay. Here are four.

1. I am the least authoritative adult I know. I run a writing circle at an elementary school once week and I invariably have to consciously slow my breathing every five minutes. Those first graders own me.

2. I read infertility blogs. Not all of them (dear dawg), but more than one. I dealt with my own secondary infertility for a long sad woolen lump of years.

3. I have self diagnosed body dismorphic disorder (not full blown - a la carte). I am tall and have crazy hair and big boobs and while I am not Hedi Klum, you would not mistake me for a man. At all. I am Farm Girl on the outside, but in my head I think I look masculine and huge and odd and galumphy and have mannish forearms and very much Dude Looks Like A Lady.

4. At the tender age of 12, I was in Ms. Magazine for writing, producing and directing a commercial. This sounds like bragging until you do the math; my career peaked 30 years ago.

Hmm. I can't come up with anything else. What do you think? Any questions?




Image added after Martha left a comment all up in it, y'all. Here we are on set:



Bottom row: my brother, whom I had to include 'cuz stoopid Mom made me, and there's my own beloved Martha. Right above Martha is, of course, me, in my Dorothy Hamill haircut and braces, because who doesn't want gawky Year Twelve documented for posterity? And standing at eleven o'clock from me, our producer, Bruce (with 'stach), about whom I had a most delicious crush. Dude knew how to wield a blow drier. His hair feathered perfectly.

To Whom It May Concern

I hereby request I be issued one (1) standard Writer uniform.

Currently, said working dress includes one (1) pair fuzzy red socks with orange toecap, one (1) stripey flannel pajama bottoms with tie waist, one (1) too-short-to-be-a-nightdress/ too-long-to-be-a-top souvenir Portugal tee with coffee stain in general vicinity of upper left bosom area, one (1) woefully unhip gator claw hair holder, and one (1) bra (Optional. Apparently).

Whilst functional, stated working attire currently precludes one from sitting upright, brushing one's teeth and placing dry dishes in cabinets slots left empty for the expressed purpose of unexceptional dish placement. Current working attire also precludes one from enticingly answering the door and successful woo-ment of recurring Fed Ex guy (see also: November 2, 13 and 26).