baldo mow!

baldo mow

baldo with camera

a rock block of Bach Maybe it's because I'm a soggy old mom, or maybe it's because I'm a wannabe teacher, but I adored School of Rock, which I saw today. The kid actors aren't too schmoopy, Joan Cusack is wonderful, and while I appreciate Tenacious D more in theory than in practice, Jack Black is...well, Jack Black. And I have two points to make.

One: J., can Mike White join us? Yes, I say that having seen Chuck & Buck and I know he's not really a Texan (although he makes a very convincing one in The Good Girl), and I know he's a guy, and that's not really your thing, but you can't blame me for asking. He is just that cool.

Two: I know I tend to be kind of chest-thumpingly Texocentric despite my disdain for Republicanism and big business (sorry, Dad) but I will say this: We make some fine motion pictures. J. and I watched Bottle Rocket last night, and the Wilsons/Andersons are here in town shooting, and Tim McCanlies has a movie out, and the premiere of School of Rock is tomorrow at the Paramount, and I'm just feeling really good about Austin being on the map cinematically, the way that it is. There is nothing, nothing insincere about Texan filmmakers. We do not make precious or misanthropic or ironic statements. There is no Texan equivalent to Todd Solondz or Neil LaBute. The closest we have to that is Rick Linklater, and I really can't say what School of Rock is going to do to him with the New York critics. They'll probably hate it. Which saddens me, in a way, the same way it saddened me that people didn't get Bottle Rocket. It celebrates love and friendship and muddling through, and it ends on a grave note that you know it's not fluffy or shiny-happy. Okay, so now I'm rambling, so let me wrap this up by asking: Can Mike White join us, or what?

tribond What do these three things have in common?
oven mitt
Billy Bragg
Whammy bar

They're all things my kid said today.

I wussed out. Well, I guess I'm not the ass-kicking cavalier mother I'm supposed to be. The doctor's appointment was frustrating, and we're only testing for latex because I basically lost my shit, like "Why? Why? Why?" The allergist doesn't think it's food-related. A part of me is inclined to agree. After removing virtually everything from our diets, nothing got better.

I'm not blaming the doctor because he was very cool about it and seems to understand how frustrating it is to want to help your kid but not be able to. We had a very long visit. He asked me if I wanted to test for anything else, and I could have asked for corn or rice. But I felt like an asshole at that point. We can try rotating those foods out on our own.

Maybe this is just something that Baldo's going to have as part of his life. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but that's a possibility you have to accept as a parent--that you can't make everything perfect for your children, and sometimes you just have to help them deal. I guess we'll still go to the Hoodoo Doctor.

The exam room was full of artwork done by the kids who are patients there. It makes me sad that there are so many kids with allergies. I don't want to get weird here, but our world is so full of strange crap made from complex polymers that I think that some people just really can't handle it on a cellular level. We're going to end up living in a yurt in the desert like Julianne Moore at the end of Safe. I think about everything I did that could have been a mistake--giving him cereal too early, trying him on pacifiers, eating peanut butter while I was pregnant, having a cat. If you think like that too much you'll go crazy.

Justine called me the other day, and I think it saved my ass. She created a detailed scenario in which Baldo goes through life as a Wussy Kid and gleans wonderful qualities from the experience. He is sensitive to other people, a really nice person. He has Wussy Kid friends and they stick together. I keep thinking of the asthmatic kid who can't get through a sentence on Malcolm in the Middle.

oh, sod off And according to The Gender Genie, that last entry was written by a male.

Oh, the parts where I'm talking about my boobs, my stretch marks, and my menstrual cycle didn't tip you off? Then I corrected it and it told me I was "one butch chick." Please, I am such a femme!

overheard Overheard in someone's LJ: "Stretch marks are sexy, dammit."

Not from a defensive mother, either, mind you. From a guy talking about boobs.

I used to love my post-pregnancy stretch marks. They looked like a flame job. Now I can hardly see them. Even my scar is turning silver. Is it weird that I'm kind of sad about that?

Today is a much better day, especially since I took a break and went thrifting. I got an e-mail appertaining to one of the 1,325 Things For Which I Am Waiting. And I weaseled out of my assignment tomorrow so we can go to the doctor. My ass-kicking shoes are laid out and polished for the occasion; my VISA card is stretching to prevent cramps. We are going to test this child for sensitivities to every known substance in the earth's biosphere, and then we are going down the street to the Doctor of New Age Hoodoo, who will smudge my child with ashes of sage and decapitate a chicken. And if that doesn't work, we're getting back in the car and driving to NASA, where the team of scientists who've been trying to track my menstrual cycle will turn their attentions to my child's afflictions. They will place him in a Lucite toddler Habitrail and study him for a period of three weeks, which I will spend convalescing in a trailer in Terlingua. The CDC will send out a female android with the antidote stored in her memory banks. Gangs of bikers in latex will try to stop her, and it's up to our hero Jean-Claude Van Damme to save the world from the plague. But can he overcome the demons from his past and save himself from crucifixion atop a telephone pole?

Oh, wait. There I go again, conflating my life with Cyborg.

I just wanted to add that I am thrilled to have found a copy of Chuck D's autobiography at Half-Price Books the other day during their 20% off storewide sale. It's been out of print forever!

i'm freaking out I am really, really anxious right now.

I can't handle everything.

B. isn't doing well so I called the allergist to set up another series of tests that we're going to have to pay for out of pocket. I can get the money together, but I scheduled it for Wednesday not realizing I took an assignment in the morning, and I'm not only double-booked but I don't have babysitting. I have to call back and reschedule, and B.'s supposed to be off his medications in advance of the appointment, but I can't stand watching him gnaw on his hands until they're bright red. I have to get out the oatmeal and make a paste for his hands, and it gets everywhere, and then there's only one packet left for bathtime, which means another trip to the pharmacy. And then there's more mess to clean up, clean up, clean up--I'm always cleaning up and picking up and wiping up and it will never be done. I had to struggle to get B. down for a nap so I could brush my teeth and take a shower. I've already been on the phone all morning, making appointments and breaking appointments and trying to get my dad to visit, but he's thinking he might want to come on Wednesday and so now I'm triple-booked and I have to call about that. And my friend T. called to chitchat and I really needed to talk to her and make sure she's okay but I can't handle one more thing. I'm going to snap again, and I can't do that. I have to keep it together.

My yard is completely full of toadstools. I taught B. to step on them. I don't have enough hands to keep him away from everything that might be dangerous to him. I don't even know what is or isn't dangerous to him. It seems like instead of outgrowing his allergies, he's developing more. I can't keep other kids' toys and balloons and banana bread out of his mouth. I'm running and running to keep up with him and as soon as I try to sit down and look at the floor and think about something other than being a mother, he grabs my hand and says, "Mama, walk. Mama, walk," and he pulls me over to something forbidden I have to deny him--sharp things in the dishwasher, another trip outside to the yard, a book I've already read fifty times. He wants up. He wants down. He wants in. He wants out.

What the fuck is the matter with my kid? We've done three antihistamines and two tacrolimus creams and four steroid creams and we got rid of our cat and took stuff away, and I can't stand it, I'm crying because he's still scratching constantly. He has to sleep with shoes on. I can't even handle being a mother to a regular kid.

I can't sit on my hands and just try to manage the symptoms. I can't watch him get itchier and itchier until his airway starts to swell inside and he gets asthma. I think about the kids I know--kids who live with cats and eat peanut butter crackers off the floor and play with balloons, and I get so angry that they never bite their hands and knees and get to eat whatever they want. They can wear cotton blends.

My sink is full of dishes and the light in the living room is broken so you can't turn it off. I guess I'm just going to let it burn out. Our pecan tree is totally covered with moss. Everything is going to shit around me. Everything is going to shit inside me.

by the way Did I mention that I'm still antsy? Come on, people!

whoopsie Our date night took an unexpected turn. We were running so late that we couldn't make it to any of the movies, so we decided to bag it and go bowling and drink Schlitz, like Dan and Roseanne. The last time we went we bowled on a lane next to Gibby Hayes (of the Butthole Surfers). This time we bowled next to some of J.'s former students. Aieee! They were all dressed kind of gangsta-like, but when they saw J. they got all goofy and sweet, like, "Hey, it's Mr. Baldo!" And of course they were trash-talking with J. when it was time to bowl and stuff.

I am such an incompetent bowler that J. and I had to switch turns mid-game so that I wouldn't be embarrassed by the disparity in our scores. (Isn't he a gentleman?) I just don't hit the pins. But things got a little better as the game went on, and we were loosening up and having fun. J. picked up a spare and got one last frame. And when he went to bowl, he accidentally stepped over the line. When they say the lane is slippery, they're not shitting around. J. slipped and landed on his face, with his rib cage taking some of the hit. I giggled until he got up with serious blood on his face, and everybody kind of went silent, even the kids. We got napkins and ice and doctored him up. While I was paying us out, some dude butted in complaining about how the lane he reserved got given away, and I gave him Marrit's Look of Death and he actually blanched. We made it home and Aunt K. (who was babysitting, bless her) and I got ice packs and Pepe, our heating pad, for the ribs. (Please don't ask me why my heating pad is named Pepe.) We got nasty food from Jack-in-the-Crack and watched the Miss America pageant and patted J. reassuringly.

I think he's going to have a wicked scar on his eyebrow. Which I think is estimably sexy.

whoa whoa whoa So much of the fun in being a parent is teaching your child things to say, such as "Bye bye, hackers!" and "It's raining men!" We're still working on "lady"--all women are still "mama"--and so I thought I'd employ a little Tom Jones mnemonic action and teach B. to sing "She's a Lady." So now he points to women and says, "Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

It's date night, date night, yeah yeah yeah. I want to see American Splendor but I'm not sure we can make it over there in time.

From writergrrls: The Gender Genie claims to deduce a writer's gender with 80% accuracy based on a 500-word sample. I put in all my Chronicle reviews, and time after time, it told me I was male. I guess because I say stuff like "Derrida" and "hot wet vinyl" instead of "super plus" and "fear of commitment." The algorithm seems to key off personal pronouns. "Male" words include articles--"a," "an," "the." Who knew?

I hate RealPlayer, but it's worth it for the brand-spankin' new KOOP streaming audio. KOOP is my world. KOOP is a giant steaming lattice-crust apple pie that somebody stuffs in your ears, except instead of giving you minor burns and an inner-ear infection, it makes you really happy. I especially like The Lounge Show, and B. and I listen to Country Roots and the Country Swing and Rockabilly Jamboree during playtime in the morning. KOOP has taught my child to say "kinky boots." And what's cooler than that?

fried five

1. Who is your favorite singer/musician? Why?
   Jim, are you writing these questions? This sounds like an 8th-grade language arts warm-up question.
   
2. What one singer/musician can you not stand? Why?
   I'm currently bothered by Mya. My Love Is Like...Wo. What the shit is that supposed to mean? "Like...Whoa"? As in "positively overwhelming"? "My ass is like...whoa"? Is that good or bad? My ass is "like..whoa" because I eat a lot of pie and sit down in movie theaters. Whimsical spellings and ambiguity piss me off. I can handle purposeful misspellings that convey an idea (i.e., we're the "Geto Boys" because we're miseducated, etc.) but "wo" is just not a word. I used to work for a company whose name was whimsically misspelled (because it's so "fun"!), and it made me shudder to show up every morning. Get the hook!
3. If your favorite singer wasn't in the music business, do you think you would still like him/her as a person?
   Um, gosh. I have no idea. I like a lot of musicians who don't necessarily seem like the pleasantest people to chum around with, but that doesn't actually tell me anything about what they're like in person. To wit, I have always been terrified of GWAR, but I met one of the guys who was Beefcake the Mighty recently and he is a helluva guy. But I guess the answer is ultimately yes, since I do like most people.
4. Have you been to any concerts? If yes, who put on the best show?
   Last night I went to see Cornell Hurd at Jovita's and it was wonderful. But the Best Show Ever is still the Reverend Horton Heat at Axis in Boston in 1995. I've never seen another human being go through so many contortions to entertain, and the crowd was Just Right. The next time we saw him it was three years later in San Diego, and he'd taken a self-conscious lounge direction and attracted all these really inexplicable people who were dressed up all rockabilly and affecting these Texanisms and it just made me absolutely furious. I ws standing next to some guy with pomade and he threw his fist in the air and yelled, "Yee-HAW! Them Texas boys can rock!" I wanted to grab him by his shoulder patches and scream, "Stop it! You're from Escondido! Be yourself!" It had suddenly became fashionable to act like some west coast vision of my extended family, whom I'd always seen derided as hayseeds and rednecks. Onto the next question.
5. What are your thoughts on downloading free music online vs. purchasing albums? Do you feel the RIAA is right in its pursuit to stop people from dowloading free music?
   Why "vs."? I like to download music and then buy the album. If the major labels had any brains, they'd embrace file sharing and offer me a real alternative to Kazaa. I like to sample tracks from an album--not necessarily the singles--before I spend money. It's the only way to really get a feel for the music. And I'm not talking about some cheesy slick download site with a million billion pop-ups for Mya, because y'all know how I feel about that already. I liked Audiogalaxy. Independent artists would host their music, and you could click to buy it. You could search by genre, and there were discussion boards. Smart people worked there and made decent recommends. It was independent. And it was based in Austin! But it was too good, so it had to die.

can't say much I'm waiting for a technician to fix our AC, which is flooding the hallway. Blech. But my kid thinks wet carpet is the funniest shit ever.

$240 worth of automotive pudding If I were an eccentric millionaire I'd drive an Avanti. I saw a silver one tooling down the street as B. and I were driving to the park, and I almost shit myself with glee. What a beautiful ugly car. I don't understand why rich people buy Humvees and BMWs and stuff when they could have something really special, something not mass-produced. Nor do I understand why the world needs a Studebaker SUV. Stop the madness!

Now that school is back in session, the park is safe for B. again. The playground was covered in toddlers. There was a black curly mop dog running around, and a kid was apoplectic because unleashed dogs are forbidden. He kept coming over to me to tell me about it, as if I'm going to chase the dog and tackle it. What, it's a calf scramble?

B. has a goose egg on his forehead. He was spinning around to amuse himself, then he stopped and staggered woozily into the corner of his dresser. Some of the other parents at the park were kind of like, "Oh, you must have been so scared." And again, I don't mean to be flippant, but if my kid isn't covered in welts and breathing belaboredly, I'm pretty happy. Kids run into things.

Had a nice chat with my dad this morning. My grandmother isn't doing so well. Evidently she's showing signs of diabetes.

it's oh so quiet While I was waiting at the dentist's office today I chanced to read Parenting (the only other choice was Outdoors). There were a few articles in with the ads, perennials like "Every Word Is No" (also a good song) and "Whither Postpartum Nookie?" And, of course, the crafts. I kept wanting to drop the magazine into the aquarium. But there was an interesting piece correlating the diagnosis of ADHD with the rise of "academic standards" for kindergarteners (i.e., kids--mainly boys--who are kinesthetic and prefer model learning become bored after being made to sit still afternoon and "act up"). Seems pretty sensible to me, and it's a good argument for instructional variety--not to mention Montessori schooling.

Anyhow, I read the "Every Word is No" piece--which, of course--took the form of a ten-point checklist (parenting magazines are so predictable) and I realized with horror that I do this stuff already. Consider that (a) most of it's just common sense anyway and (b) I'm actually kind of on top of it as a parent. Who knew? Parenting magazines are supposed to make you feel horrible and inadequate, the way fashion magazines do. But all that shit's a slam dunk for me. It feels weird to even say it in print. But you know what? I am a good parent.

I'm thinking we need Wussy Child magazine. Photo spreads will display stylish new cozies for your kid's Epi-Pen Jr. There will be recipes that contain absolutely nothing. There will be no ten-point checklist for "Is Your Child a Bully?" because we already know yours is a Wussy Child.

Which is not to disparage Das Toddler, of course. I just need to let off some steam after Sunday's vegan cookie repeated on us with an epidermal vengeance. B busted out with a mega-rash, even on his back and shoulders and belly. I called around town to get an ingredient list for the cookie--vegans are awful about putting peanuts in things--and the likely culprit is sunflower seeds. Here's the sad part: He asks for his Atarax by name. "Atarax," he says, pointing at the cabinet where we keep our stash of immunosuppressants and antihistamines. I want to beat my head against the wall.

But you know what? I am a good parent.

Ay caramba!
I could be doing something productive, but instead I'm making myself over as a boufy-haired tourist on ivillage.com.

I blame Christiane.

colonel josh We went to Ruta Maya this morning for their kids' show, which featured the titular erstwhile Asylum Street Spanker and his guitar. Kids were going nuts and running everywhere, but Baldo curled up in a recliner to watch. We saw Moz the Wonder Baby and his parents. I still think I could move into Ruta Maya and live there.

B's new thing--yes, I know he has a new thing every seventeen minutes or so--is to grab my hand and pull me down the hall to my office saying, "E-mail Marge. E-mail Marge." (Marge, of course, being my editor.) Baldino really likes Marge. It sounds like Eeem meeem maaaa but that's definitely what he's saying. He takes my hand and puts in on the seat of my chair and says, "Mama, mama, mama" until I sit down and start 'puting.

Here are some things about my kid that make me particularly proud:

• He eats spinach!
• He puts his cup in the dishwasher when he's done eating. Then he tries to take out all the sharp pointy dirty things.
• He still likes to hand me the Boppy and nurse on it, even though he's a big toddler.
• He likes women. Especially Amy the Threadgill's waitress, Marge, and Aunt K.--he refers to them often.
• He loves the washer.
• We fold clothes together. I put a pair of his pants on my head and a pair on his head, and we rock out to Ozzy while we fold.

Today the music at the grocery store sucked. Except for Queen. I had a lengthy conversation with a man who was deciding between two sippy cups for a shower gift. I frighten myself with how opinionated I am about sippy cups.

say what? What the hell?

say what? What the hell?

canines Our pleasant napping ritual has gone wonky. B. is visibly fatigued after lunch but remains revved up after naptime begins. Today he didn't fall asleep until 1:30, which is pretty late when he's been up since 6:30. Either he's trying to transition into a later schedule or it's the canines, which have begun to appear distantly on the horizon.

Babies are so meshuga. We were eating at the Magnolia tonight, and B. kept picking up my hand and biting it. I asked him to try to tell me what he wanted, and he put my hand next to Jim's so we could touch fingers and say, "Toot. Toot." (A Mr. Rogers thing.) And that was what he wanted, I guess, because he smiled and seemed satisfied. He bites really hard, though.

I don't like these weird developmental wonky moments. It's not enough to drive me to despair--which is a sign, I guess, of how sick I used to be and how much better I am. But this wonky shit still blows. Toddlers can be a real pain in the ass.

Then they turn around and surprise you by doing something cool. They say "Wash hands" after you finish changing their diaper. Or while you're listening to the Johnny Cash special on the Lounge Show, they pull out their baby bongos and start wailing on 'em. Kids.

freakin' exhausted five

1. Is the name you have now the same name that's on your birth certificate? If not, what's changed?
   No. I changed my last name when I got married.


2. If you could change your name (first, middle and/or last), what would it be?
   Well, I could change my name. I'm just used to it now. I hated it growing up. It's kind of a fakata name.


3. Why were you named what you were? (Is there a story behind it? Who specifically was responsible for naming you?)
   Sheila named me after one of her sorority sisters, Marit Bjelland of Oslo. I got an extra "r.'


4. Are there any names you really hate or love? What are they and why?
   I can't stand froofy girls' names or names that are adjectives, unless they're for dogs.


5. Is the analysis of your name at kabalarians.com / triggur.org / astroexpert accurate? How or how isn't it?
   triggur is okay ("marrit likes to see others fail"). Astroexpert is ok. The Kabalarians didn't have my goofy-ass name before. Glad to see it's been added. Others may often find you reserved and aloof, when actually you desire love and understanding. This name creates a withdrawn, reserved nature. You feel very alone at times and find it difficult to merge with others in a happy, relaxed manner. ::cries:: Oh, wait. That's crap.

I still miss someone

I had to ask
You are a Craven Zombie. Somebody slipped you some
Zombie Dust and now you think you've died and
been resurrected. You must do the bidding of
your evil master as long as he holds your soul
imprisoned. Since you're not really dead, you
can be killed with a well-placed toothpick!

What kind of Zombie are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

uhn?
Higgs Boson -- You are crazy and wacky and nobody
really understands you. Theoretically your
humor gives the universe mass and existence,
but the explanation as to how this all works is
still in the works.

What kind of subatomic particle are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

hell yeah! Gen. Wesley Clark!

sept. 11 I feel as if I should have something significant to say for September 11, but I don't. There are smarter people with better blogs for that. For us it's just day by day.

Baldo and I went to the Central Market playground early this morning before the store was even open. We found a wallet on the playscape. Check carbons, receipts, bank cards, ID. I tried to call the person at the number printed on his checks, but the number was out of service and 411 didn't have a listing. So I took it to the police station. If you're out there, man, I hope you get your stuff back soon. Sorry you're going to have to get out to North Jebus to get it.

We also took a bunch of flowers and some cookies to the station with us. Then we stopped off at the fire station with another bunch of flowers and some cookies. The firefighters seemed to like Baldo. They showed him the fire engine and flashed the lights, but he was more interested in trying out all the chairs in the station house. He wanted to sit at the computer and mouse. We came home loaded down with stickers and fire safety stuff for kids. Baldo doesn't understand stickers. He doesn't affix them to things.

"Thanks for the cookies," the firefighter guy said.

"Thanks for watching out for our butts," I said.

random notes I've almost filled another notebook, so it's time to break out a fresh one. But before I do that, I like to go back through my notes and relive them. I write down some really strange things.

• Nia Peeples in wet vinyl
• This is pretty much a big smack on the Vatican
• I'd love to defrock him
• no, not the lotion...
• Kurt Loder, I love you
• The people of Paducah, KY are pissed!
• the ascot-clad gay inmate
• This movie is loathsome. Sure is a nice apartment, though
• interracial buddy hijinks in the T-top Firebird
• Why don't they notice the muscle-bound guys in sailor suits and hot pants?
• I could use some of that doobie.
• pizzicato strings play whenever Chow Yun-Fat does something amusing
• "The air. You can't see it but it fills your lungs." This sucks.
• The Russian mafia pops up in the third act as an afterthought
• Robert Carradine? What else?
• a trying-on-clothes montage...oh, no! I'd wear that!
• I kind of like the principal despite her remark about "mouth-breathing trailer trash"
• There is a guy here with a thresher or something strapped to his back!
• Don't jump off the dock!
• fake boobs in...3...2...1!
• Sandra Oh in beret and black leather jacket!
• Is that a drag queen?
• Awww, a tiny kitten! This movie plays me like a concertina.
• Holy shit, that is one hyper little man.
• Mutton Chop Guy always has chewing gum or pork rinds!
• Pam Grier!
• Their conversation is contrived, but I like her sweater.
• "In hell demons pour Coke on the parched gums of the damned."
• Wow, look at those Icelanders drink!
• a rampaging forklift!
• Jill St. John!
• Alexis Arquette lounging by the pool with a dildo.
• Oh my god I have to have that clock!
• Hank looks disconcertingly like JM J. Bullock
• Evidently System of a Down is Armenian?
• She matter-of-factly picks up a blown-off leg and returns it to the body.
• I like that sexy democratic Finn!
• No! Don't kill him!
• Yeah! Take it off!

oh. my. god. Leni Riefenstahl is dead. This is good news for Aunt K., who's been picking her for the dead pool every year.

Holy schnipes! I just got an e-mail from a literary agent who likes my proposal. He says he's too overburdened to represent it now, but he said the book is "funny and manic." He wants me to beef up the proposal and resubmit it later.

And get this: He used to live on my street. That's really the noteworthy part. He lived across from my neighbor Charlie, on the other side of our cross-street, I guess. I'm freaking out.

Damn this pie is good.

broomba It's all about the broom in this house. B. will pitch a piece of food off his tray and then look at me hopefully: "Broomba?" Today he found my tint brush and started sweeping the floor with its little tiny bristles. We have an I Spy book about numbers; it might as well be called Broomba and a Bunch of Other Stuff because B. flips right over to the page with a little toy broom in the background and points and says, "Broomba!"

It's Broomba and not Broom because J. and I got slaphappy one day and were regaling one another with fantasies about the Roomba--the robotic vacuum cleaner, that is. We could turn a bunch of Roombas loose in the house. Evidently B. was listening very closely.

His new thing to say: "Baby balls." Meaning, of course, baby balls. We used to reach in his diaper to check for poopie and if it came up negative, we'd say, "Just baby balls." Because it takes a sleep-deprived brain a few seconds to differentiate between a turd and a baby scrotum. We'll ask B. if he has poopie, and he says, "Baby balls," meaning "no."

I worked all day yesterday on my Cinematexas stuff while B. and J. ran errands. They brought back the single largest pie I've ever seen from Costco. It would be heaven on earth if the apples were cooked a little more.

I'm tired. Since B. doesn't nurse at night I went ahead and took some Theraflu for my cold symptoms. It's been so long since I had decongestant that it was like Yellow Submarine-type mind-altering. I can't remember what I dreamed, but Joe Don Baker was there.

feliz cumpleanos, The Other J. Since I can't reach all the way up to Wisconsin to administer 31 spankings, I'm going to celebrate The Other J. with a list.

• The Other J. is officially my oldest friend. By that I mean that I've been friends with him longer (and counting) than with anyone else I know. My oldest friend, literally speaking, is my neighbor Charlie.
• I met The Other J. in English class in the eleventh grade. Our desks were configured in two half-circles, and he was across from me in alphabetical order.
• The Other J. is that person you know who is Into Everything Before Anybody. It sounds cool but I bet it feels more like a Cassandra curse to be talking about the stuff you like and no one has any idea what you're talking about, and then six months later everybody's all "Hey, have you heard of blah-blah?" and you're, like, "Yeah, I've had that album/magazine/book/whatever for a year now" and then they think you're a horrible snob or something when you're only just answering their question.
• The Other J. was quite a novelty in high school because he moved from New Jersey. I don't know why, because in retrospect I realize I knew quite a lot of people from the mid-Atlantic states. Maybe it was just that I'd grown up around the same cohort of people since elementary school. Or maybe it was just that he was so weird, driving around really aggressively listening to They Might Be Giants back when they still wore funny hats and their main venue was Dial-a-Song.
• The Other J., Aunt K., and I shared a house briefly. It's kind of a dark time in our shared history, since it was around graduation time for all of us, and each of us had some individual bad juju going on in our lives. We were probably each depressed. It didn't end that well but I still remember it fondly. We are all Virgos, and we were very tidy and responsible.
• Around this time The Other J. made a big blue stylized art dog out of papier-mache or some kind of stuff, and I wish I still had it because it was really cool, but I think Baldo would sit on it and squash it, so maybe not.
• I was telling J. this morning how The Other J. used to be very caustic and sarcastic, and J. didn't believe it because The Other J. has mellowed out into The Very Nicest Guy Possible, especially since he fell in love and got married. I think that The Other J. is excellent Dad material. I can't imagine him turning into an old fart. He's very dynamic.
• Once in high school (or early college?) The Other J. and I were out driving around in his yellow Dodge Caravan when it started to rain really heavily and quickly turned into a flash flood. (That happens in Houston a lot. Our neighborhood was in a flood plain.) We got stuck in the parking lot of a Stop-n-Go store, which was open, and we realized we could just sit in the back of the car with cigarettes and Hostess snacks and hang out listening to the radio, which was better than driving around anyway.
• The Other J. and I were driving around in our wobegone unfunky suburban neighborhood when we discovered ktru. They were playing XTC, and we both got really happy about that. It was my first experience of college radio, and in retrospect it seemed like a harbinger of the cultural bubble that settled in around 1989/1990, when there was all this good, intelligent contemporary music--Robyn Hitchcock and Michael Penn and Billy Bragg and pop songs with lots of syllables and lines like "You're a dedicated swallower of fascism"--that kind of rolled into the Manchester sound and indie filmmaking and "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and the rise of the Internet and this big mutiple-point-source groundswell of freakishly good stuff that was everywhere at once--Mystery Science Theater 3000 and Exposure with Your Host David Sadoff and My Bloody Valentine, and geez, you could even get good lipstick and cool shoes and Manic Panic all of a sudden. And then it was really, really okay to be a dork. I didn't have to have big hair anymore. I associate all of that, foremost, with The Other J.
• Now we're old and we look at the world and it seems full of crap like the PATRIOT Act and Mya's "My Love is Like...Wo" and rapper-actors have fallen from Ice Cube to DMX, and MTV is just a giant talking Carson Daly head, and Ashton Kutcher is somehow everywhere. The popular cool kids chop at Hot Topic and it seems as if mediocrity has somehow triumphed. But I still look forward to mix CDs from The Other J. The Other J. is always surprising.

dirty sanchez We had a lovely afternoon with The Other K., her family, and the band at the lake. We shot footage and listened to music and saw dogs. This is high living for us, even though we wussed out and went home early. (I am not compatible with a rock 'n roll lifestyle. I have more of a Pat Boone lifestyle. And I think I'm comfortable with that, being a square. It's who I am. Love me! Love my squareness!)

Anyhow, The Other K. is such a fabulous foxy spitfire that I just want to stand in her armpit all day. But I'm not going to do that, especially since it's past Baldito's bedtime and I am sick with a cold. I hate colds. I groan and whine and snuffle pathetically. Colds are such a nuisance.

I have a metric assload of work to do tomorrow for Cinematexas and the regular review week. I've been assigned "non-narrative documentaries." I don't know how I ended up on the experimental movie beat, but I should point out that while I have infinite respect for experimental filmmakers, I really like the goofy shorts about silly stuff.

i swear i didn't cheat

You're Texas!
You aren't really much of your own person, but everyone around you wishes you'd go away, so you might as well be independent.  You're sort of loud-mouthed and abrasive, but you do have a fair amount of power.  You like big trucks, big cattle, and big oil rigs.  And sometimes you really smell.  But it's not all bad, you're big enough to have some soft spots somewhere in all that redneck madness.
Take the Country Quiz at the Blue Pyramid

party! rock 'n roll! cleveland! As the Mamamobile was rolling toward the Chronicle office this morning I chanced to be playing the Corporate Classic Cock Rock Radio Station instead of B's favorite song ("Wack Wack" by Young Holt Trio, which he requests repeatedly). Lo and behold, what should we hear but "Iron Man." B.'s eyes widened and he started yelling, "Iron man! Iron man!" It was pretty goddamn priceless.

Today's risible word is schnauzer.

flarkin' five

1. What housekeeping chore(s) do you hate doing the most?
   Washing dishes.
   



2. Are there any that you like or don't mind doing?
   I like to vacuum.



3. Do you have a routine throughout the week or just clean as it's needed?
   Clean up after toddler. Repeat.



4. Do you have any odd cleaning/housekeeping quirks or rules?
   I dunno. Do you find it odd that I have a spatula in a baggie that I use to scrape shit off my son's diapers? Do you find it odd that this spatula is inscribed with its name--"Poopy Joe"? And that we refer to it in conversation as if it were a person? Or maybe it's just that I never actually put my laundry away. It lives in the living room on top of a box. I just walk out there to get dressed.



5. What was the last thing you cleaned?
   Take a wild guess. A diaper. Then I put Baldito down for a siesta, washed my hands, and ate some cookies. And I'm doing fsck-all nothing for the duration of this nap.

pimpity pimp pimp If you haven't seen my site, you may or may not wish to do so.

I mention this not only because the site design is by the magically delicious little elf I like to call The Other J., but also because we put up parts of my book, which I am shopping around places.

No takers yet. Which is a pretty typical outcome for me when I'm shopping my ass around.

It also has photos by Celesta Danger, who really is a magically delicious little elf. When I first met her, she was eating a salad standing up and running around, and she's got so much energy and is so very short that I felt like an old-growth sequoia that had grown into her house.

Jane poops! The Baldotron 3000 and I were eating breakfast this morning (Kix and melon for him, applesauce and toast for queasy me) when we saw the neighbor's cat (formerly known as Skanky) squeeze under the fence and tiptoe through our lawn. She batted a patch of grass with her tiny paw, then assumed the tremulous squatting position required for feline defecation. Being the verbal mother I am, I narrated the whole thing for B. "Look, honey, Jane's going poopy! Jane's going poopy!" I feel like such an asshole sometimes when I stop and listen to myself. Just the same, cats and poopy loom large in the toddler psyche, and when you've got the two together...

That explains why I keep finding shit in the yard. J., watch out when you mow.

We had our 18-month checkup today. B. is on the slender side at 24 pounds, but he's average height. Apparently his head zoomed up to 90th percentile. Go figure. I was all prepared to get read the riot act for B. being too skinny, which pediatricians will do without provocation if they're traditional enough. "Give that boy some whey and blackstrap molasses! Make him churn butter!" I think the kid's just an ectomorph like his grandfather. Of course we discussed the eczema. My regular doctor is on maternity leave, so we had to go through the litany of questions again.

Yes, we've tried Elidel. Yes, a dermatologist and an allergist. Yes, Atarax at night. Yes--eggs, peanuts, and cats. Yes, I know peanut allergy is serious. Yes, we have an Epi-Pen. No, the cat's gone.

I did like the doctor, though. Her name is Janet Mitchell, but I keep misremembering it as Sharon Mitchell, like the porn star. So she wasn't what I was expecting--she was clothed, and the scene didn't go anywhere.

There were lots of tiny-tinies in the waiting room with us. One was six days old. Her mother had a breastfeeding diary with her. I charged right up to her and asked how they were and was everything okay? There was another couple with a tiny kid, and they were staring off into space, not even speaking, and I really wanted to talk to them, but I used up all of my extroversion on the brand-new parents. I always regret seeing a sad-looking mom and not talking to her. I wonder if she's okay--if she has good support, if she's getting depressed, if she's worried about something her kid's doing or not doing. I should make up a card and hand it out to people. Cheerful Paxil mom offers coffeeklasching and vegan brownies! Except I just ate the last of the brownies.

I'm going to a screening tonight of Under the Tuscan Sun. It looks dreary--middlebrow continental romance for the book group-and-chardonnay set--but I sure like that Diane Lane.

queasy! At first I thought it was last night's tamales. Then I thought it was the brownies. Then the *real* cup of coffee. Turns out I'm just queasy.

yuck! Eeuw! I just baked some of Rosa-Maria's delicious vegan brownies. Delicious except for the part when I bake them, that is. I was low on all-purpose flour and Smarty Me thought, "Hey! I have all these tubs of esoteric flours from our wheat-free experiment! I'll use those! Yeah, tapioca flour!" I guess this is why wheat-free recipes contain a metric assload of baking powder and xanthan gum, whatever the shit that is. They're good, but they're not brownies. They turned out lumpen and slightly gritty--from the rice flour, I'm guessing. It's not an unpleasant texture--it reminds me of Baldo's baby cereal, which is slightly al dente, like an oatmeal cookie--but it's not a brownie, like I said. I put them back in the oven in an attempt to dry them out. Otherwise we'll call it a chocolate air freshener.

I really need to be writing my review of Herod's Law, the ever so slightly ham-fisted Mexican political satire. (The fists of ham are thinly sliced, I guess.) But of course I am too antsy to do anything constructive.

One of the things I've been waiting for is starting to edge forward a little. But with each glacial movement, three or four questions arise, injecting additional uncertainty into the situation. I'd say it's annoying, but I'm one of those people who likes complications and forks in the road. But they can keep a person away from her meat-and-potatoes reviewing work.

Cinematexas is also coming up. I always forget about Cinematexas, but I've seen some really great shorts there. I particularly like the Cinemakids movies. I can't remember the name of it, but I loved this one that was a hardboiled private-eye caper shot by some high school kids in New Jersey or something. And the main kid was acting all Edward G. Robinson except for this part when he jumped up randomly and started dancing, doing toe-touches and everything.

Oops. Baby up. Anyhow, if you read this and you are that kid, Marrit sez: "I love your work! Keep at it!"