two more things Words I have just taught my spell-check: Xanax, Eraserhead, motherforker, vanilla (as adjective), storytime, candypants, webcams, vomitus, McMansion, badass, blaxploitation, waterbirth, prodromal, Pitocin, Raffi, pleather, starfruit, femdom, squarejohn, Nubain, poopy, simethicone, horchata, Thorazine, Lysistrata, alt.fan, fanfic, hinky, chipotle, plushophile, indie, Tampax, and bitchslap.

We live in a messed-up world when I have to eat toddler arrowroot cookies for dessert because every piece of chocolate known to humankind contains nuts or nut residue from shared equipment.

suriname part deux I dreamed about the leatherback turtles of Suriname last night. I also dreamed my mother and I were on a train that had a bomb on it. Then I dreamed we were visiting the family farm and I was digging around in the closet and found all these things I had left for myself: all-cotton footed sleepers (except by now they were too small for B.), a massive collection of old good tapes and label comps and singles and stuff. I was trying to load all the music up but B kept pulling on me and screaming for my attention.

We had Date Night last night while Nana and Papa were here. I had two pints at the Ginger Man and I swear I'm still potted. Everyone in the house is sleeping now but I got up so I could wake up and normalize instead of being a speedbump all day.

these trees Baldo woke up screaming at 2:00 this morning. J does night duty (cheesy 1980s people that we are, his code name is "Night Ranger" and mine "Dawn Patrol") so that meant that I sat in bed marinating in maternal flop sweat while he ran the diagnostics. When the boy indicated that his skin bothered him, J administered Atarax and udder balm and all was well until 6:00.

Moments later I was kind of half awake futzing around in the kitchen with B. in our pajamas when J materialized at my side like a fearsome apparition and intoned: "It's those nuts."

A new and plausible theory: In addition to latex, cats, eggs, and peanuts, B. is allergic to tree nuts. Not just eating them. Playing with them. Specifically our treasured hybrid pecans, which B. likes to roll with sticks and collect. Indeed, his rashes have worsened significantly since fall arrived and the nuts dropped (uh, as it were).

"Well, fuck me," I said, and began browsing the Yellow Pages for tree removers.

I don't think the Board-Certified Allergist Guy did a RAST for other kinds of nuts. I'm going to call Monday morning and find out. I called the number today to leave a message and got some harried intake person at the After-Hours Clinic instead.

suriname Last night I dreamed I was vacationing in Suriname with some of my old coworkers from The Company. I realized when I awoke that I know nothing about Suriname, so I decided to look it up on Lonely Planet.

"Standing atop the Voltzberg dome at sunrise is mind-bendingly spectacular and watching wildlife such as giant leatherback sea turtles lay their eggs is breathtaking."

I learned about the coup d'etat and reign of terror of Desi Bouterse.

Suriname is pretty interesting.

okay
Which Colossal Death Robot Are You?

open the door to your mystery rash Today Baldo's facial rash has returned. (The body is consistently rashy.)

Which of the following substances caused it?

1. tree nuts in the pecan pie
2. blueberries in his cereal
3. pollens in the air (outdoor play with visiting grandparents)
4. solar flares
5. Evil
6. none of the above

just throw your hands in the air A tip for new and prospective parents:

You must teach your child to say harmless but amusing phrases. It will keep you going when you've been up since 4 a.m. and you have to apply lotions and clip fingernails while your child's newly budding canines sink into the flesh of your forearm.

Baldo's newest: "Get down, party people."

happy turksgiving Luby's was excellent.

The pecan pie was a little disappointing. And the pumpkin was way gone by the time we left at 1:00--and the line was still out the door.

cutting muffins What do those Hall's people put in these lozenges to cause such flatuence?

but it feels like friday

1. List five things you'd like to accomplish by the end of the year.
   
   • bake a pie
   • sleep late
   • finish revising my proposal
   • eat the pie I baked
   • possibly bake a second pie
   
   
   
2. List five people you've lost contact with that you'd like to hear from again.
   
   • Jessica
   • Amanda
   • umm...
   • too much pressure...
   • drawing a blank now.
   
   
   
3. List five things you'd like to learn how to do.
   
   • sew
   • juggle
   • bake pie
   • make a zine (but then I won't do it)
   • human beat box
   
   
   
4. List five things you'd do if you won the lottery (no limit).
   
   • pay off the house
   • save for Baldo's education
   • travel a bit
   • have LASIK
   • do lots of random nice shit for people
   
   
   
5. List five things you do that help you relax.
   
   • eat pie
   • thrift
   • listen to music
   • read
   • go back to the kitchen for another piece of pie

the merry old land of oz Australians. Is there anything they can't do?

They make lovely movies, they party like it's 1999, and they saved Eddie Vedder from drowning. (Or were those New Zealanders? I can't keep up with everything.) And now they've saved my sweet Texas ass, as well.

Behold the wonder of Recover My Files. As you might expect, it recovers one's files, even after a reformat. I could fly to New South Wales and kiss these people. Get my keys!

Australians seem quite a bit like Texans, really, in that they're boisterous and insane, only with some minor differences (e.g., they don't bomb other countries when not at war). And I was going to say that they're uncommonly attractive, like Texans, when I remembered that we gave the world Patrick Swayze and Dr. Phil. And Crystal "Don't Touch Me There" Bernard. And Anna Nicole Smith. And Kris Kristofferson, whom I find quite striking in a rumply, derelict kind of way, but I guess he's kind of an acquired taste. Anyhow, I guess we both kind of have a patchy record with regard to genocide, so there's that, too.

Along with seeing the midnight sun and getting thrown out of a bar, it's one of my life goals to visit Australia and party down with the people. J still talks about how he went for the Boy Scout World Jamboree many years ago; he was touched by the warmth and hospitality and the lower drinking age.

*cough* A little better today, though. I took a Big Sweaty Afternoon Nap. We all powered down for three hours. Then we got up and went to Sun Harvest for groceries.

Tomorrow there's a new phase of the Hoodoo Treatment that calls for the temporary elimination of calcium. (Word to my mother: I stress the word temporary here.) I don't think the Hoodoo Doctor realizes that 25 hours is a really long time for a toddler to go without yogurt and string cheese. I don't understand how people can have vegan toddlers. Probably they're not allergic to fruit and corn?

I'm getting up the ova to bake my very own pie from scratch. That'll be a first. We have a lovely crop of pecans this year. J. used to regard the pecans as yard waste; I had to set him straight on that. Now that he lives among us in the Land of Texas, he must collect the pecans and store them on velvet pillows under special lights with soft music playing until such time as they are cracked and eaten or prepared as part of a recipe from the Pecan Growers' Association Cookbook. He got into the swing of it beautifully and took down a recipe for chocolate pecan pie.

My lovely friend Seattle A (as opposed to Portland A) called today and we had a chat. I miss her and her little guy. I have decided that I will do whatever is required to visit Portland next spring. I've never been and suddenly I somehow know, like, 4,372 people in the Pacific NW. Details will be forthcoming. I just really want to go there. I've always planned my travel around family and business, and now I think I'd like to just go somewhere for me. Any stumping I have to do for work will just have to be extra. Carpe diem and yadda yadda. We'll find a way.

One of the cool things about having a nostril piercing is that the back collects large and sticky boogers when you have a cold. Removing them is tremendously satistfying. They're like raisins.

I'll show you my blue side (language alert, Dad) Did you know that today is National Day for Survivors of Suicide?

A board I frequent has an interesting discussion on the topic going on now. I am hearing a lot of stories from widows and friends and brothers and sisters, people who lost loved ones or almost killed themselves.

Forgive me if this all sounds too platitudinous, like Tonight on a Very Special Episode of Marrit's Blog, but our vocabulary for talking about death and mental illness isn't very sophisticated. We only have cliches like I'm so sorry and Isn't it tragic? so even when those feelings are true they sound fake.

I had (and probably still have, to some extent) postpartum depression and I wanted to kill myself every day. I had a detailed plan and almost acted on it several times. Failing that, I used to get through each day by cutting myself and taking dumb risks. It's not like my hormones suddenly went all wonky out of a clear blue sky and I got sad. I am kind of wonky anyway.

It didn't work because people who love me got in my face and told me to cut it the fuck out, doing stuff like sitting in my house with me and picking me up and taking me out of town. Then I got in my own face. I started telling other people that I needed help. I told them to hide the sharp and pointy things and the firearms. I asked them to come over. I got a babysitter. I told everyone I wasn't in control and I was afraid of myself. I called hotlines. I posted online anonymously, and people stepped up and told me things that scared me and made me cry, about other people who died and about their own rapes and suicide attempts and PPD. People told me about their psychotic episodes, about sitting in the car not knowing which way home was. Then I decided to write my own story too.

And then I decided that as long as I could ratiocinate my feelings, I could beat the motherfucker. I took drugs that didn't work and I saw scary therapists, one of whom pretty much tried to get me into a cult, which made me laugh more than anything. I still have days when I really want to hurt myself, days when I put B. in his stroller and walk around the neighborhood in tears and the traffic looks sort of tempting. And that's when I know that I have to fight. I have to rally my threat team behind me; I have to sit down and write. I have to fight harder.

behold a pale horse It's bad enough that we sing a song from...don't hit me...Barney...during clean-up time. Today I realized with horror that I added a bridge to it. So I'm singing "Clean Up, Clean Up" and kind of rubbing some funk on it. I need to get out more.

Upon reflection I realized that the bridge is the bridge from Gleaming Spires' "Are You Ready for the Sex Girls?" which just puts us into some other kind of weird area. It amazes me how much of my life is done on autopilot these days. Then J and I had a discussion about whether putting two different parts of two different songs is actually musical creativity or pastiche art.

We are all sick. J and B went out this morning for errands and I stayed in bed and sacked out and had dreams that I was in Iraq staying with a family. I couldn't open my eyes in the dream. They were stuck closed.

Jim's teaching colleague D says they run the names of the dead soldiers at the end of the Jim Lehrer Newshour the way Walter Cronkite used to for the soldiers in Vietnam. Since my blog is bipartisan in readership, y'all can just make of that what you will.

I'm still hoping for our Camelot. Please don't tell me the 1990s were our Camelot.

oh well. No luck.

fork. Dear child:
You've been up since 5:00. Please. Take. Your. Nap. Now.

two things of note There are two excellent pieces on Salon.com this morning--an interview and an op-ed about Iraq. That's the first thing of note.

The other thing is that the commercial you have to watch is for Oklahoma! on PBS. I'm laying down the gauntlet: I freaking love Oklahoma! And I don't care who knows it!

It strikes me as an odd juxtaposition: A quintessentially American musical play, about the jouissance of the frontier experience--I mean, it's got an exclamation point at the end; how American is that?--and Bush's visit to London and Iraq policy, which is quintessential American realpolitik.

Yes, I really do love Oklahoma! We learned the songs in music class in elementary school and I still remember them. Man, "Surrey with the Fringe on Top" rules!

well...
Say Anything...

What movie Do you Belong in?(many different outcomes!)
brought to you by Quizilla This would mean more to me if John Cusack weren't dating Britney Spears.

metal mix OK, we're getting into a weird, weird area with our Hoodoo Treatment. At some point I'm going to have to keep my toddler from touching metal for 24 hours. I'm trying to figure out how this is possible with all the doorknobs and cabinet pulls in the house.

Next stop: That hypoallergenic yurt Julianne Moore moves into at the end of Safe.

I get weak in the knees thinking about how much this is costing. I prop myself up reminding myself that having a kid is expensive anyway, especially when he needs steroids and antihistamines and special clothes and latex-free stuff.

And--how's this for motivation?--it is good for the book. I got so much material out of today when the HD "asked" Baldo's body if she could proceed with a particular treatment. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I figure if we're doing it anyway, such is my nature to write about it.

Baldo has a cold. I can't help but laugh at his stuffy-nosed pronunciations of words. He threw up on me today and prevented me from teaching my class. J took it. He showed the restaurant scene from La Femme Nikita. I forgot to ask how the manipulative exercise went, but I got pictures from Google search of all the components of a standard Hollywood action sequence (exploding bridges, a wide-shot of a robbery) and threw in random images for variety (a cat in a suitcase, a close-up of somebody's stocking foot, a friendly dog). I want to make a movie of that. ("Meanwhile, back at the foot...")

oh, fred... Are you still around? Can you remind me which firewall/protection software you have?

ranty pants I'll type as much as I can before J's laptop eats my keystrokes and/or bathtime is up.

[ranty pants=on]
Apparently my HD (old, not new) is DOA and full of irretrievable data, including but not limited to my book. I have a CD backup from about a month ago, so all's not lost. But I did lose some stuff I've been revising, including my proposal, which I must now request back from my agent.

J's slapping himself upside the head because he didn't back up my HD before he took my 'puter in last week. But actually he did me a favor by taking it in--that's four days of work I was unable to do and subsequently lose.

My mojo is not limited to computing. I was trying to take a picture of B's rash, which is out of control now--all over his face, in big splotches on his back, up and down both legs. And the camera just flashed and flashed (the anti-redeye thing) and while I was dinking with it trying to turn of the automatic stuff B. was tantruming and finally I just said, "Well, how about I take a picture of my crotch!" And so flash! there's a picture of my crotch on the roll. My kid's eczema? No, can't have that.

Last thing, then I'll stop. I have a lot of dear, dear friends who are into natural medicine and I completely, totally respect that. But if I hear another parent agonizing about administering Baby Advil, I swear, I'm going to piledrive their ass. What would you do if there was something really wrong with your kid? Something that chamomile couldn't fix? Eh? You ever think about maybe you're complaining to a parent who'd love to have your teething problem?

[ranty pants="off"]

eggs I taught Baldo to say "This sucks!" while we were browsing around in The Corporate Baby Superstore from Hell in search of a replacement for our nightlight, which took a header off the dresser and broke. Didn't find one single nightlight in that giant freaking store. How stupid is that?

the toxic avenger I attempted to clean some of the carpet backing adhesive off B's floor with a toxic solvent this morning while Los Dos Hombres went to see kids' music at our usual venue. What kind of a mundungus puts carpet over tile? Two applications liquified the blobs of adhesive and then I scraped it up, ruining both our spatulae in the process. Looks like it's time for another trip to Spatula City. Along the south wall the adhesive melted down into muck that looked like cookie batter. It's a serious mess and needs a third application of solvent. The paint is still there, melted down into a translucent sheen, like doughnut glaze.

My 'puter is back in the infirmary. I tried troubleshooting it last night but after three hours of dorking around with various drivers that don't play well with ME (and what does? it's horrible) I said, "Fuck it. I have a toddler and toxic solvent to apply" and on went life.

Back to the Hoodoo Doctor tomorrow.

Anyone have any advice about a good action movie to show students? Something with cinematic merit and a good single standout action setpiece that can be appreciated in isolation from the rest of the film? I went to the video store yesterday and realized I haven't seen a decent action movie in forever, maybe because there aren't any, or maybe because I only get assigned three-hour character dramas from Lapland so if there are any action movies I don't know about it.

sacre merde! Baldo pooped in the potty!

hoodoo lady I'm not going into detail about our alternative-health practices. I described them to Aunt K. last night, and she said, "You pay money for that?"

"Yes, quite a bit, actually."

We're becoming one of those families Andy Rooney whines about: The kind with massive VISA bills. "Now why is it that people can't set a budget and stick to it?"

Try this, Andy: Go to the grocery store and buy food for a family that contains none of the following:

• corn flour, corn starch, or corn syrup
• caffeine
• fruits or fruit juices
• eggs, egg whites, egg proteins
• peanuts or peanut residue from shared equipment
• potatoes or potato starch

You're going to end up with a slab of liver and $5 boxes of cereal. And while you're shopping there's an itchy toddler in 100% cotton zip-front footed pajamas screaming for apples and throwing an I Spy book at your head, so you can count on making a few costly mistakes.

This is why, while I should be working on my book proposal (for which I have interest, btw) I am downloading Petula Clark mp3s and eating Butter Leibniz. Because I am a complete Crazypants.

More Leibniz.

Mitigating factor: Last night's trash was Blacula. It was magnificent.

pedagogy Does anyone know of a readymade, preferably low-tech teaching tool that can teach film editing to kinesthetic learners? I want to impart that the meaning of a film is constructed during the editing process via the juxtaposition of images. These are sixth graders in an afterschool program, so I can't lecture to them about the Kuleshov Experiment and then fail them if they don't get it. (Which is sort of a crappy method anyway, but it's the one I grew up on.)

I'm imagining something like a set of cards with images on them that you can build into a storyboard. Like, imagine there are a bunch of different random images (an XCU of a cat's butt; a person recoiling in horror, holding her nose; a car driving) and you can put them together to suggest a causal or sequential relationship. In other words, it's the Kuleshov Experiment, but they're the ones actually doing it. And because I'm a big fan of Tarkovsky I can choose to "make" my film be a twelve-minute long take of just the cat's butt, and that's a completely legitimate cinematic statement.

Oh, and by the way, I'd need five copies so each student can have an individual hands-on experience. Yes, my class has dwindled to five students. I am so bad at this stuff.

I'd be okay with something computer-based if that were my only option, but I'm not sure I have enough workstations and I'd prefer to not have to teach them how to use the technology in order to perform the exercise. We only have fifty-five minutes and I want to be able to talk about the exercise afterward because I only see them once a week.

As I'm writing this--hey, maybe I'm a kinesthetic learner, too!--I'm thinking that I'm just going to have to Google for a bunch of images and run off copies of each. That is so sucky and not exciting to kids.

Have I mentioned that my students are going completely batty because I'm trying to teach them film theory instead of just showing 2 Fast 2 Furious? I am tilting at windmills. Maybe I can get some pictures of Vin Diesel and cars blowing up. Last time they were all packed up and inching toward the door at 4:30 and I was calling after them, "If you get nothing else out of this experience, remember to look at what the camera is doing, not just what the camera is filming! Watch movies! I'll see you next week!"

Folks, this is why J is the teacher and I'm a wannabe. I seriously hate academia but I am completely unequipped to provide K-12 instruction.

The Very Random Kid is adorable, I have decided. He derails every discussion with long, unfocused questions like "How do they make Yoda jump in the air?" and "When it looks like somebody is dead in the movie but they're not really dead, how do they do that?"

So finally I figure I should engage his prior interest in special effects by showing a clip from an effects film and talking (or trying to talk) about the theory.

So I tell him after class, "Alex, I'm going to bring in and show a special-effects sequence just for you next week. And we'll talk about how the filmmakers shot it."

He almost literally jumped in the air and asked, "What is it? Is it going to be Spiderman?"

And I said, "Well, I don't know yet, but I think you'll like it." And he ran out the door. And then a minute later the door creaked back open and Alex said, "Miss...?"

"Yes?" I asked.

"Thanks," he said shyly, and left.

moreover And wow does my blog look shitty in Netscape.

i am an idiot Gee, Marrit, why do you have so much time to blog today?

I'm glad you asked, loyal reader. It's because I'm an idiot.

Like so many (ahem) working parents these days, J and I often pass like ships in the night. I show up for the afterschool class, he pats me on the shoulder in a comradely fashion, I hand him the boy, he hands me my roll sheet and transparencies for the overhead, and we go our separate ways. He heads home to beat the traffic while I stay across town and try to teach our nation's youth the beauty of long takes. ("Man, I don't want to look at some dude's face all day," they reply.) And today, because I am a bright girl, I handed him the diaper bag, reasoning that he might need our son's diapers and Epi-Pen Jr. Y'know, in case of anaphlactic shock or a big diapersplosion.

And of course my keys are in the bag.

So I sit across town in an empty classroom while my family drives the keys to the Mamamobile north, stopping to pick up my computer along the way. My poor car, lying fallow in the lot as rush-hour traffic builds around me.

I used to have a panic disorder, engendered by the simple need to keep everything organized and avert disaster in my personal life (which is actually rather straightforward compared to many people's). I used to literally lie awake at night planning all the different things I was going to do the next day. What would I eat for breakfast? What if there weren't enough Alpha-Bits? If I went to the store to get some more, should I go in the first entrance, which means I'll have to make a left turn across a double-yellow, or should I go in the second entrance, which backs up onto the street? Stuff like that. And I literally drove myself crazy.

I went to the doctor because I was convinced I had Parkinson's or some kind of neurological problem, and he put me on Prozac and Xanax, and after I kicked my addiction to the Xanax (with some difficulty) I became a more or less functional person.

Unfortunately I also became rather stupid. Most times it doesn't bother me much. I figure I'm smart enough to realize how stupid I am, which is actually rather astute in comparison to some people, and it doesn't take much to keep me happy (just pie, really). But I sure do lose my keys a bunch.

are you there, dave? It's me, Marrit.

Just checking.

user error Well, I guess I saved my first post after all.

error Dammit. I wrote a whole big post about things going on, and J's laptop kept moving my cursor, so after typing and retyping and swearing and kicking the desk, I finally finished it. Only to inadvertently log myself out of MT while the page was rebuilding. Goddammit.

Topics:
My dreams about a subterranean network of kiddie rollercoasters.
My grandmother.
The evanescent nature of life.
My book moving forward.
My kid's obsession with fish.

dreams I've been having this recurring dream about living in Boston (which I used to) and riding the MBTA. Except the T is now an interconnected series of kiddie rollercoasters instead of a subway. You open a door in the floor of your house and climb down underground to get to it. A rollercoaster stops when it sees you, and you say hi to the other riders and plunk down in the seat and belt up, then off you go. It's a ridiculously fun dream. I like having it so much I think about kiddie rollercoasters when I go to bed.

J's laptop keeps wiping out my text. I want my Eddie back! I miss my DSL; I miss my book. I miss everything.

I've typed this about seven times, but here goes #8: Am worried about my grandmother, who hurt herself falling out of bed again. I haven't actually talked to my mom yet. You know that feeling where you should call but you don't have anything constructive to suggest for the problem? I have that. I had more to say about the situation but it got erased.

What do we do?

We visited her at her nursing home last week when B. and I were at the farm. B. thought she was neat and tried to push her wheelchair, but he was really more into the fish tank in the lobby and kept shouting, "Nemo! Nemo!" and I was embarrassed for fear that people would think Pixar movies are a bigger deal to us than our family is. We haven't even seen Finding Nemo. The kid just goes apeshit over fish because they live in water and blow bubbles and look shiny. And that's all good. I just wish I could explain to him: Look, this is your great-grandmother. You're lucky to know her, and she to know you. She probably won't be with us much longer. But I know I'm projecting my feelings onto him. My parents and I have had many (but brief and kind of elliptical) conversations about the quality of life and "just existing" when you reach a point where your body gives out. Maybe someday I'll have that talk with Baldo.

I am having conversations about the book this week. I think it's going to move forward.

Mamalicious went to press yesterday. I'm really excited. If only J's laptop weren't moving my cursor.

rashtacular I think I got the fig bars instead of the apple bars at Whole Paycheck. It was a matter of reaching into the wrong bin because I was distracted by all the other bulk-foods shoppers attempting to climb up my ass. Ergo a massive rash for Das Bebe which necessitated the all-day wearing of pajamas and big does of Benadryl. Either that or apples are causing a problem now.

Then without thinking I put J's yogurt on my cereal this morning. Duh. It's peach yogurt, and pitted fruits are verboten.

We have an appointment with Dr. Hoodoo on Thursday.

We celebrated by seeing Amy for dinner. She has highlights and I didn't recognize her at first.

My contractors are AWOL. Y'all better get back in here and finish my flooring lest I chase you down and nail shoe molding to your butts.

but . wait I need to go shower because I smell like ass, but let me say something first.

I was sitting in the kitchen with B on my lap, watching the shadows of the leaves in our pecan tree undulating on the surface of the cupboard, and I was struck by the realization that It's All Going to Be Okay. It will. It has to be. Maybe I'll be old or dead by the time our cars run on corn oil and our governments stop sodomizing each other and their own people. But I believe in our potential. Even wasted potential is still potential.

And our child is rashier than ever with the carpets gone, but dammit, it's going to be okay. We played an outstanding game of nutball this morning and I had two cups of first-rate coffee and he sang different verses of "The Wheels on the Bus" with absolutely no prompting. He still thinks every written word is "Amy," but the kid can sing. He peed through his diaper and my flooring is half-finished, but dammit, it's going to be okay. I have a plan for class on Wednesday and I have finally made peace with my New Mom Look--schlumpy knit pants and hair sticking up. I think I can work a Sharon Osbourne angle with it, and that's fine with me. I'll go throw a ham at somebody.

The last of the chocolate is gone, but I have to go to Whole Paycheck to get a package of Chichi Diapers for Wussy Toddlers, so I might as well just get some more. It's survival, you know?

Question re: the entry below. The cop guy isn't the one who died, is he? I'd look it up but I smell like ass and I really should go wash myself.

yes!
You're the policeman. You protect the weak and
ensure that justice is done, all while wearing
really tight pants. Why wear a uniform if you
can't have style? You don't take any crap and
are more than happy to use your nightstick on
anyone who gives you lip.

What member of the Village People are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I have returned After a brief sojourn to The Farm, where life is slow and access is even slower, Baldito and I are back. We returned to find our floors (mostly) made of bamboo, although the thresholds aren't finished and there's no shoe molding yet. Our salesperson--if he can indeed be called a person--wants us to pay extra for the molding, too. Flooring is such an unpleasant business.

On the positive side, J pulled up B's carpet to find tile underneath. Much better than the bare concrete we were expecting. Of course it's smeared with paint and adhesive and we broke some of the tiles pulling up the carpet nails. But it's actually kind of cute tile. It has a "schoolroom" kind of look, very 1960s.

B. has been skipping his naps for the past several days and I'm jumpier than a possum. Which might explain why I had a mini-freakout this morning at the kids' show. The entertainer this week was Nommi, the purveyor of "radical music for kids." I expected a puppet show about sustainable agriculture and organic farming, but it turned out to be a full-on electric rock show with the amps up to 11 and songs about physical fitness. School-agers were running amok, toddlers were freaking out, and B. was nursing constantly for reassurance. "It's Baby Altamont!" I cried to J., who was commanding other children to walk inside the building. The singer looked an awful lot like my ex-boss "Tony." In requesting that the band turn it down, I officially earned my Mother card. But seriously. I don't want my son to get tinnitus from some kiddie rock show. That's what we go home and listen to Sabbath for.

Guess who's still not going to sleep?

I didn't get to write at all last week and it drove me nucking futs.

I'm not making this up The Boy has started in on the verses of "Iron Man."

I am antsy.

I love you, mama. Guess what my kid said today!

He also asked for "bottle" (of Atarax, his medicine), for "poon" (meaning "spoon"), and for "8-ball" (our magic 8-ball). I hope CPS doesn't have a bug in the house because a person could really get the wrong idea.

bad juju Suddenly there's bad juju everywhere. Bad juju is happening to people all around me. Please go away, bad juju.

Some of the juju is irreversible. Please let there be peace in the hearts of everyone afflicted by the juju.

Baldo at a glance Name: Baldo

Age: 20 months

Weight:~26 pounds

Height: ?

Hair: beige

Eyes: brown

Likes: bulgogi, robots, cheese, doggies, brooms, Bear's Picnic, Mr. Steve

Dislikes: wearing socks, nail clippers, peepoo, green beans, cleanup time

Ambition: to become Iron Man

Favorite Song: I Love Onions

re: kitchenware Me: I really like your rack.
Aunt K.: It's heavier than a mofo.

wonderful Nice, nice CD baby.

loathsome stupid Clear Channel.