all done

haircut #3

haircut #2

haircut #1

these are the words of the pop stars We had something approaching a perfect day today.

I drank Real Decaf Coffee (well, at least it's not Postum) and J. made waffles for breakfast. Then we went to the barbershop (pix forthcoming) and got Baldo's hair cut for the first time there. He looks like a little tiny German soldier in Garanimals. And he still has that problem with the cowlicks on either side of his head--these little tufts that puff up and make his head look like a matador's hat.

We ate leftover tacos and broccoli for lunch. I made some revisions to my Seal Press piece and then we all took a Mega-Nap. I dreamed about the subway system of kiddie rollercoasters again.

We woke up and I talked to my mom--the fabulous sash--and then we all drew chalk art in the driveway. We drew a big undersea mural. Baldo would yell, "Dance on the shark! Dance on the shark!" and we'd all run over from where we were and dance on the shark J. drew, or dance on the octopus I drew. We drew a boat on top of the water. Our neighbor was out practicing his juggling and their new Boxer puppy was running around. A kid was goofing around on his skateboard at the end of the block.

We went to our favorite Little Local Family Restaurant for dinner, listening to Rooney in the car on the way over. Baldo fussed and wanted to sit in my lap while we ate. I was bummed initially but it felt so warm and familiar having his little body sitting on mine. He ate lots of vegetables and drove his fire truck around. His little German solider head was right under my chin, and I knew he was growing up even as we sat there eating. I felt melancholy but it was good. We didn't have to look back. Better things lay ahead.

fried-day five No five today. I am too tired.

But I'll summarize. It's something about a million dollars. I'd buy a certain amount of pie. I'd buy a certain amount of multi-family property and rent it to single mothers and low-income families for the cost of taxes. I'd have LASIK. I'd set aside for Baldo's education. That would probably use up the mil.

Other fantasy notions:

• I would solarize Nipplewood.
• I'd get a flame job on the Mamamobile.
• My parents won't let me give them money but I'd like to see them travel.
• I'd visit the Motherland.
• I'd say I'd give it to charities but everybody does that, and I think I just want to do Random Nice Shit for people in my community.
• I'd invest in wind power.

I'm really tired.

awwww Now, I was hoping not to clog up the Web with schmoopy stories about cute stuff my kid did and said, but I'm a moldy old mom, and I'm going to do it anyway. Okay? I'll be brief.

I decided that today would be Pajamas Day and Baldo and I would hang out and be casual all morning--no errands, no doctor's appointments, no playdates, nada. Just us. So that's what we did. We listened to the Country Swing and Rockabilly Jamboree on KOOP. We played with cars. We only read a couple of books, but Baldo has learned some more letters! I was chuffed.

But here's the cool part: We're winding down for naptime, and I put away our books after we read three and offered to tell B. a story about Nee-Nee and Dee-Dee Robot.

BALDO: And Johnny Cash?
ME: Nee-Nee, Dee-Dee, and Johnny Cash?
BALDO: Yesh.
ME: Did they go to the thrift shop? (My favorite story.)
BALDO: Go to Sears.
ME: Sears? Not the thrift shop?
BALDO: Yesh.
ME: Okay.

So Nee-Nee, Dee-Dee, and Johnny Cash went to Sears. Johnny Cash needed to get a little can of touch-up paint so he and June could fix some dings in their stairwell. The paint was robin's-egg blue. He also bought six nails for some light repairs. Then Johnny Cash helped Nee-Nee and Dee-Dee Robot pick out a teddy bear to give as a gift for Gee-Gee Robot's birthday.

At some point I'm going to have to explain that Johnny Cash is dead. I really don't want to do that.

oh, they're tops at skiing Today at the Hoodoo Doctor (Nut Mix#1 and Nut Mix #2) we got a sticker that shows an elephant on skis. Each time Baldo had started digging around in the sticker bowl I secretly wished for the elephant on skis so I could make an Eddie Izzard reference. When he'd caress the elephant on skis but ultimately pass it up in favor of a rooster playing guitar or a giraffe saying "Super!" I'd feel crushed inside. Just because I wanted to make the joke.

It's a pink elephant, too. How perfect is that?

It's the little things, really, that get you through the day.

J. is at a professional development seminar down the street so he came home for lunch. This will sound catty and petty, but I was quietly pleased when he fucked up the quesadilla he was making. See, now that I am MOM I am magically imbued with sandwich-making powers beyond those of the average person. Ok, it's not magic. It's lots and lots of quesadillas. I made one with spinach and mushrooms the other day and it was fantastic.

The problem with being a teacher isn't that the hours are long and the pay sucks (though that is true). The problem is that every year the administration hauls your butt in to teach you some hot trendy new classroom method that has an idiotic acronym for a name, and you have to apply the method in your classroom and provide a detailed account of its efficacy, and if your principal has a Learning Walk and you're not using the method you will be buffeted. It's asinine.

Today's method is something called CRISS, which I found exciting initially because I was like, "Rock! You get to teach the kids how to play drums in cat makeup!" But it's some stupid shit with Venn diagrams and no drums.

I'd like to point out that these are my opinions only, and not those of my husband, who is a really excellent teacher and always willing to learn new things. I just figure if you can't play the drums in cat makeup, why bother?

the big bounce I adore Owen Wilson but he has weird-looking nipples.

Yes, I know that a lactating mother has no business calling anyone else's nipples weird, but at least I have a reason for mine looking this way.

post #502 spectacular! Ignore Aunt K's modesty. Her key lime pie is that good.

By the way, welcome one and all to the 502nd post. I do go on, don't I?

We did the latex test at the Hoodoo Doctor's office this morning. Which means no vacuum cleaner for the next twenty-three hours. Which means that if there's anything to this Hoodoo stuff, we could potentially be able to eat fruit sometime. Which means I am going to pile up a plate with grapes and eat them until my butt explodes. I love grapes. They're nature's candy.

I should take a nap because I have a screening and an overnight review this evening. But for some reason I'm all wide awake. Very unusual. I feel almost chipper. Very unusual indeed for a smelly showerless person covered with Crayola marker and human bite marks. Who has no pie left.

There's just something about a day when the rain has washed all the cedar away and your sinuses are clear. Left behind are those dry boogers that are satisfactorily picked with ease. The sun is out. You get a fresh canvas for your outdoor chalk art. Nice.

key lime I have just finished the last slice of key lime pie brought by Aunt K. for Trashy.

It has been the single most excellent pie of my life. No kidding.

The crust was pressed into the plate with such care that this sucker would hold together in zero gravity. I'm not even a proponent of NASA, but this pie could be shot into space as a gift to any intelligent life that heeds its beacon.

Parenting a toddler is challenging in its own way. I still think I prefer it to the screaming and puking stuff, but I still feel like I've been running with the bulls at the end of each day. (Now it can be said at least that each day has an end.) This is new: After Baldo refuses a suggestion, he repeats: I said no! Which is not a big deal, really--but damn he is certainly becoming the confrontational little guy.

We went back to the kids' show and saw The Telephone Company again. J was beside himself. It didn't seem as weird as it did before, except there was a new song about lumberjacks eating a swimming pool full of oatmeal.

a fool's hope, part 2 Hold your ground, hold your ground. Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers. I see in your eyes the same fear that will take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails. When we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields and when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day. This day we fight. For all that you hold dear on this good Earth, I bid you, stand, Men of the West.

a fool's hope So at last I went out for some break time--a time when no errands were run, no toddlers supervised, no groceries obtained, no proposals mailed. I went to see, at last, Return of the King at the Alamo Drafthouse.

It could be the caramel mocha talking--no Postum this--or it could be the myriad battle sequences and the rousing Agincourt-type speech delivered by the otherwise wildly overrated Viggo (I prefer Sean Astin). It could just be that I was going batshit and I got out of the house, but something is changed in me. Ordinarily I drag through the day like a snail. Now I am full of zip, like a meth-addled trucker doing woodwork in the garage at 4 a.m.

I'm not one of these Tolkien fantasy-fiction people, but I got reeeeally swept up in the epic good-versus-evil bit, the ironclad codes of honor, the fealty to one's ruler. And it hit me why we need these movies now, more than ever, why the theater is still packed with youngerish geeky people, the purpose this experience serves for us, my demographic in particular. We don't experience these feelings in our lives, never at all. We don't rally around our nation's emblem with chest-beating pride. We don't have anyone to follow into battle.

I'm not talking about the appeal of the stories in particular, when they were published and the decades interim--I'm talking about the here and now.

And the here and now is this, if you'll allow me to make a bit of a caffeine-impaired stretch: Like quite a few people of my acquaintance I believe that the Bush administration is evil. I feel stupid even typing that: Evil. Isn't that a Bushism--the "evildoers"? Doesn't that kind of hysterical rhetoric belong to the Ann Coulters of the world? Doesn't that kind of Manichaean worldview belong in tall tales about Elves and Hobbits--or in the Republican Congress?

Those of us who are not political conservatives are left aside to wring our hands and fret amongst ourselves about veganism and our degrees of personal privilege. While we are forming a circle and unlearning our -isms, elections are being stolen. Private companies with partisan interests are building fraud-prone voting machines. Our leaders play dress-up in flight suits while they send young working men and women with families to invade a country that they weren't even sure had weapons of mass destruction. Anyone who dares to question the workings of the Bush administration is punished.

(And these are just the broad strokes. Don't even get me started on the fine points--the consolidation of media, the "protection" of marriage, the $500 billion deficits, the shameful and politically expedient standardization of public-school curriculum and methods. We can leave all that off the table for now.)

We are talking about a government that is fundamentally dishonest, self-protective, corrupt, and...can we say it?...evil.

Now cut to us, the Young Urban Liberals. We're slapping ourselves on the foreheads and wondering when America will wake up. We're LiveJournaling furiously. We're signing online petitions. We put the appropriate stickers on our Subaru wagons and drive off to Whole Foods for some dishwashing soap with coconut-based solvents. And we're cringing with every wrong move someone on Our Team makes--every bizarre ululating battle cry and whatnot. This will sink us.

I don't think it's going to be enough. We're watching the show, not participating in it. We need to get serious.

Conservatives are powerful because their belief in Evil is just so...motivating. Isn't it? If you believe Planned Parenthood is Evil you can organize like-minded people to harass a building contractor night and day until they don't build a clinic. These people don't just read the newsletter. They live their cause, day and night.

Maybe we should adopt the attitude that the Bush administration is capital-e Evil and our job is to expunge it. We will employ our various talents thereto, in solidarity.

Now, I'm a homemaker with a toddler. I'm nobody special. But I put my signs up in the yard. And I'm going to brew a thermos of coffee and get my talking points ready for November. I'm going to dress my kid in something cute and I'm going to put him in his stroller and get out and talk to my neighbors--retirees, veterans, voters. I'm not good at this kind of stuff, and I don't know if it'll make a difference, but I'm going to do it anyway, because I can and I should.

pie-day five At this moment, what is your favorite...

1. ...song?
   It's by no means a favorite, but at this moment I am shamelessly enjoying an mp3 of "Screaming in the Night" by Krokus. There. I said it. I am listening to Krokus. Is that a problem for y'all?
2. ...food?
   Hmmm...let's think...well...oh, wait, I know this...pie!
3. ...tv show?
   I'm almost off TV entirely. We watch one show total: "The O.C."
4. ...scent?
   I'll never know because I can't smell. I hear good things, though, about cinnamon rolls. Some study or something? Cinnamon rolls smell good, yes?
5. ...quote?
   Here's a good one I saw today:
   

   The consecration of Gene Robinson as bishop of the New Hampshire Diocese of the Episcopal Church is an affront to Christians everywhere. I am just thankful that the church's founder, Henry VIII, and his wife Catherine of Aragon, and his wife Anne Boleyn, and his wife Jane Seymour, and his wife Anne of Cleves, and his wife Katherine Howard, and his wife Catherine Parr are no longer here to suffer through this assault on traditional Christian marriage." (Owen Keavney)

i'll drink to that Happy National Pie Day tomorrow, everyone.

a letter to my CBS affiliate Just a note to let you know that my family and I won't be watching the Superbowl this year due to CBS's decision to refuse paid advertisements by Moveon.org and People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.

For us and our son, watching the Superbowl is a cherished tradition. We love the whole spectacle. But we feel that the refusal to air these advertisements is tantamount to censorship. Families like ours are entitled, I believe, to a range of viewpoints in the mass media. We deserve to see different perspectives on politics and current events. We can make up our own minds about whether we agree with them.

So many advertisers want us to buy new cars, lose weight, drink soda. Why is CBS afraid of advertisers who want to make us think?

pie and savers Sitting next to me is 365 Great Pies You Can Bake, courtesy of the lovely Christiane. I keep poring over the recipe for Coffee Toffee Pie. Doesn't that sound beautiful?

This book is pie porn. Period.

We're supposedly in for a cold-weather storm so I took Baldo thrifting this morning for gloves and a sweater. I also got him a new winter hat. He was still wearing his little-baby one from last year. It has earflaps and ties under the chin. It's too small, though, so it kind of smushes his face together. Not so good.

We had a bit of a setback with the book so thrifting also helped me get out of my negative mind. Mark your calendars: On February 2, everything is half-off at Savers. I was made for Savers. I'd kind of like to live there. Sleep in a bunk bed. Read paperbacks in somebody's cast-off papasan. Admire the hooked rugs and giant clown paintings.

Posted by Marrit at 02:16 PM

bluck. I just plain couldn't watch the State of the Union address.

Every member of the Cabinet and the Congress should be made to do without health insurance (paid for by you and I) for a year. Let 'em scramble to buy a policy out of pocket. See what happens when they go to a drive-through doctor approved by their HMO to cure a sinus infection and end up in the hospital with hepatitis.

Other people around this big wacky Internet (such as my friend Gib) speak more elegantly and authoritatively about political matters than I, but I do have this one thing to say: Just give me the candidate. Technically I'm a Dean supporter but I couldn't give two shits who we run against Bush. Please just let's get together to get rid of the guy. Senator Ron Paul is starting to look good to me, for crying out loud, and he's a crazy-ass libertarian. But even he knows Bush lied about Iraq.

Lying about war. I'm trying to think of what a single human being could do that would be more unforgivable, more catastrophic.

with iggy

crappy Today was pretty crappy. B. was Mr. Screamy Cedar Fever Person. He wouldn't nap even though he was exhausted and crabby. I finally got him to rest lying on me in the chair. It was an unpleasant reminder of how I used to sleep in that recliner every night, and if I moved at all he'd flail and wake up. I'd be flat on my back, and if my feet were sticking out of the blanket or if my arm fell asleep I'd just have to stay still anyway.

I can't believe we did that for so long.

I can't fall asleep on my back. The older I get, the more particular I am about needing to be facing a certain way in a certain position. I've become one of Those People.

My girl ozmaofoz visited us last night. Her little baby guy is so mellow and wonderful. I'm going to miss them.

I'm really tired. I got shit-all nothing accomplished today. Just a total wash of a day.

say cheese

I have eyebrows

baby altamont, take 2

striptease

hooray for everything I just got a piece accepted for print in a Seal Press anthology on women's friendships due in Fall 2004. Now let's all sing the "Hooray for Everything" theme song: Da doot da doo dat da, da doot da doo dat da....

Woot!

Okay, on to the important stuff. The trash I selected for this week was Barb Wire. It put me in mind of two things:

1. I really want Udo Kier to be my little assistant person. He could dispense pie, help me choose from my wide assortment of cotton-poly loungewear, and run off unruly visitors from the postapocalyptic wasteland. Doesn't every girl need an Udo?
2. I think I really like Pamela Anderson. Two planned homebirths. Canadian. Okay by me. But of course I kept staring at her boobs (who doesn't?) and asking myself this question: Can you nurse with implants? Seriously. I don't know. If you had implants like that and your milk came in, would your breasts not literally explode? I'm a Small Girl(tm) and I got so engorged I could hardly stand up and walk. I just sat on the couch and cried. It was as painful as early labor, no kidding.

Then there was the extended "wet Pamela Anderson" sequence at the end of the tape, which J. and I watched with quizzical expressions. I was trying to figure out how they staged that, how many big beefy grips were standing out of frame with hoses. Sometimes a strobe light would go off and we could see the grips in the background, and we'd fall all over ourselves laughing. Some mustachioed guy looking like a longshoreman holding a garden hose. I wonder if there's a particular union for these guys: The International Brotherhood of Guys Who Hose Down Hot Chicks. For them it's in a day's work.

attack of the humanoid animals Pardon me if this sounds like typical Gen-X pop-culture omphaloskepsis, BUT...

I do not understand why, for example, Maisy is a big biped mouse who can drive a fire truck, operate machinery, and have a friend named Cyril who is a similarly humanoid squirrel, yet Little Black Cat is obviously a lower-order feline: quadruped, physically smaller, incapable of ratiocination. Either all the animals wear pants or they don't, right?

We went to a birthday party for B's baby friend Another B. today. Another B. fell asleep about five minutes after we arrived. Good time though. I drank two grapefruit sodas and got a sugar buzz. Then I remembered why I don't generally put carbonation through my system. I really don't need extra gas going in.

Aunt K. has the rotavirus, so we had to skip Trashy. I feel just awful. We're most likely to blame. Then again the rotavirus is so easily transmitted that who knows where it came from? Apparently they've seen a good deal of it at urgent care. Man, I hate that fucking rotavirus.

B. has been apoplectic today on the topic of vacuum cleaners. We vacuumed the house this morning, we went to Target to see vacuum cleaners, he spent much of the party in a closet talking to and petting the vacuum cleaner.

I should be working on my assignments. I've reached the point of being anxious about them, to the point where I don't even enjoy farting around.

by request I'm sure that item isn't technically a guitar, but c'mon! It's a monkey!

procrastination nation I should be watching Tokyo Godfather. And I will. But dammit, I'm going to take half an hour and fart around here. You know why? The freelance contributor is always at the end of the chain. I wait wait wait wait for somebody to return a call, answer an e-mail, be done with a tape, drop something off, and then it's rushrushrushrushrush to meet the deadline. I'm sure I'm not unique in feeling this way. But because I am small and petty, I feel as if I'm repaying the universe by farting around when I should be productive--because once the call is returned, the tape is dropped off, &c, everyone is waiting for me.

In that spirit, the Friday Five:

1. What does it say in the signature line of your emails?
   My URL. Alternatively I use my favorite misremembered song lyric: "My whole existence is flan." Perhaps...Chocoflan.
2. Did you have a senior quote in your high school yearbook? What was it? If you haven't graduated yet, what would you like your quote to be?
   I don't think I was even in my high school yearbook aside from the picture in the front, the one with the drapey not-quite-a-dress thing pinned on to the front of me and my hair all purple with giant cha-cha bangs. (I was a total hairspray queen back in the day.) We had 600 people in our class. Nobody got a quote.
3. If you had vanity plates on your car, what would they read? If you already have them, what do they say?
   No vanity plates. Too California.
4. Have you received any gifts with messages engraved upon them? What did the inscription say?
   I can't remember. My wedding ring is engraved with the date of my anniversary so I can remember that. Otherwise I'm sunk. Pot smoking+motherhood=no memory. I'm almost to the point of writing notes to myself all over my body.
   
5. What would you like your epitaph to be?
   Crazy woman, loved pie.

would you believe...? After all that, I didn't use the robot or the monkey. They just didn't fit into the project. We'll save them for the paperback edition.

rock on I am making a book of guitars for Baldo. I gank pictures (sorry) and add text and then J. will laminate the whole shebang. It's so much fricken fun.

I'm learning a lot too. Donna R. (a.k.a. Alison Robertson) and I share the same birthday. Except I'm, uh, a few years older.

I'm trying to get as many random pictures as I can. I have a robot playing guitar. That's going to be a big hit. And a sock monkey.

The best is when I can get a good usable picture of someone we know or can meet. That's gravy.

NO!!! Today B. began screaming, "No!" It doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would. It's like, "Rash clear? Check. No teeth coming in? Check. You're fine. Sorry you're mad."

previously lubricated Sorry--I thought those Spanish-to-English flan instructions were so funny I had to repeat them.

It had to happen, didn't it? Hot Topic Baby.

I've got an itch to gank the Metallica logo and print my own. Maybe sell them out of the Mamamobile. Wait--don't sue!

I do have plans/an urge to gank some stuff and print toddler shirts for summertime, but I'll send a personal check to the appropriate parties. I'd buy official merch if it were available in toddler sizes.

There's a discussion going on in one of my listservs about using your baby as a "fashion accessory" by attiring him or her in weisenheimer printed shirts. It's an interesting point, but better that, IMHO, than some poly fleece official sports-themed apparel. If I'd had a onesie that said "Mama Drinks Because I Cry" it might have made our colic and reflux phase more of a laff. Sadly The Boy is altogether too itchy to be naked for prolonged periods.

Now that The Boy is old enough to indicate his clothing preferences, he does in fact select the one garment we have that is covered with footballs. So it all comes back around anyway.

Have I mentioned how much I love Protopic? I love you, Protopic.

Still itchy, though.

oi I was reading about this new dessert: one layer is chocolate cake, and the other is flan. Get my keys!

acetate Team Ingman is alive and well once more. Huzzah!

My article is done and in. It's a snoozer IMHO. I've done better work. I've even done better work covered in baby vomit. But everybody ebbs and flows, I guess. That's the thing about working with deadlines.

Aunt K., I'm ready for that pie now!

Word: There's a mondo sale at Wardrobe (in the 26 Doors shopping center). T tipped me off. I ran in there this a.m. while J, who is still home from work, was hanging with the Dauphin. I got a pair of fricken kickass acetate boxy pants with cargo pockets for $15 (reg. $98). In the future I'm going to try not to look as if I just crawled out of a ditch. I'm a mom now and I have a book and I've gotta be able to make my ass presentable every once in a while.

I'm almost ready to embark on sewing adventures. I went by the fabric store and there was some fricken kickass cotton printed with grapes on a beige background. I have a major grapes fetish--pictures of grapes, I mean--that's almost up there with pie. But they didn't have enough to do my curtains with.

Really, I don't understand why grape-print fabric isn't everywhere.

I feel like I've been under a vomit-soaked rock for four days. It was so weird driving in a car by myself. I kept talking to myself. I couldn't shut up. Yeah, kind of like how I blog.

B is his alert regular self today. Chatty. What scared me most about the sickness is how he wouldn't talk--he just laid on me and stared. Today we've made up for that by reading Go Dog Go about thirty times. He told me this elaborate story about the mailman going to Whole Foods.

revenge of the rotavirus We are home after a trip to urgent care and to the ER. The UC doc sent us on for rehydration, but the ER doc gave us the OK to go home and push fluids. Which means I have to go wake up the Napster and administer nurny.

The doctors and nurses both places would walk in the room, say "Holy cow!" or the equivalent, and try to treat B's rash. And we'd say, "No, no, we're not here for that."

We got to go in the "latex-free" examining room. I was really impressed. I love Children's Hospital.

In fact I really like the urgent care too. Ba-bing, ba-boom, we were in and out of there and I got a scrip for Bactroban (for B's hands) in the bargain. I'd been leery of the UC since they sent me home with hepatitis. But today is one of those days when I'm thankful for Western medicine and I'm not mad at my HMO.

I seem to not be sick with this, though I am queasy for a while after eating. Knock wood.

okay, now I'm freaking out Still barfing. Still shitting. We're going to urgent care.

the big score We have begun keeping score in what we now call "Vomit Fest 2004."

I've scored one direct hit today. J has had three. Now he and B. are passed on on the couch together.

barf out The good news about being a reflux parent is that you can't help but be sanguine about vomit. I tried to teach Baldo how to barf over the side of the bathtub today but he will twist and pull away in order to vomit on me. I have changed my clothes (and his) seven times today.

Our clothes should all be made of cream-colored terrycloth.

it's a bug The spinach casserole is not to blame. Rather, we seem to have a stomach flu afoot. Barfy the Clown hurled all night and this morning. Now he is asleep in a chair.

addendum I think what saddens me most is that the boy threw up before I could order buttermilk pie.

ralph mouth Well, we can cross Threadgill's off our list of restaurants.

The much-vaunted Amy doesn't work there anymore.

Then Baldo barfed all over the place. Some on J., some on the floor. Some into J's cupped hand, which we then emptied into J's water glass.

Oh, that spinach casserole. Baldo was shoveling it in and I guess his stomach just couldn't take anymore.

Aunt K. was with us. I doubt we'll be hearing from her again. We're such yucky breeders.

Nee-Nee and Dee-Dee go to Sears, See Mowers My child and I are in the process of creating an elaborate fantasy realm inhabited by the so-called Nee-Nee and Dee-Dee Robot and their friends. (His names, not mine.) They have friends named Pee-Pee (Baldo insisted), Gee-Gee, Zee-Zee (I imagine him with a fedora, long beard, and Stratocaster), and Tee-Tee Robot. There is also a Wee-Wee robot (who is Dee-Dee's great-aunt) and a cousin named Eee-Eee who lives at the beach.

Nee-Nee and Dee-Dee Robot go places whenever we wind down for a nap or nighttime. I tell a story. Baldo likes for them to go to Sears, which is like Heaven on Earth for toddlers. (Vacuum cleaners! Lawnmowers! An elevator! Shoes!)

Once they went to a photography lecture. That's about as highbrow as it gets. Baldo has not requested a return to the photography lecture.

I'm going to sneak them off to the movies and show them something amazing sometime--maybe Alexander Nevsky.

Sometimes real people infiltrate Nee-Nee and Dee-Dee's world. My editor Marge often runs into them at the library. Jim's teaching colleage Doug is another favorite. (Again, this is all at Baldo's request. I let him guide the story.) Today he wanted our friend Abby, whom he idolizes to the extent where I'd almost say he's got a pre-romantic crush on her, to join the bots at Sears. I was desperate to add a wrinkle to the story, so Abby also went two doors down to the fabric store to buy 3 1/4 yards of powder-blue faux fur. I wonder what she's going to do with that.

from kellie Hilarious.

say, that reminds me... I can't seem to shut my yap. If I had this much to say about Italian neorealism my article would be done.

Can we go back to calling them "French fries" now that those Gallic people have averted what was likely an attempted terrorist attack on Los Angeles? Say thanks, maybe?

much better, thanks Yay! The franchise owner for the Baja Express Frozen Seafood Thingy is agreeing to preserve the mural from the Sound Exchange days.

Now he can sit back and make assloads of money. I'm still going to get my tacos from Arandas, but thanks, man.

I am ass-deep in Italian neorealist movies. Like the dingbat I am, I took an assignment with a Monday deadline. Naturally it's going to kick my ass, but does that stop me from procrastinating? Of course not.

This is the reason that I never have the correct answer when people stop me and say stuff like, "Hey, you're a film critic, right? Is Cold Mountain any good?" or "What's the best film of the year?" I can't tell you those things because I've been watching Il Grido (The Outcry), an Antonioni movie from 1957. And then people get all huffy. What can I say? Pie and naturopathy ain't free, you know. They ought to be, but they're not.

Why doesn't anyone come up to me and ask, "Hey, have you seen any Italian neorealist movies lately?" I could ace that discussion.

Film critics are supposed to be monastic--not have families, watch six movies a day. I never thought that was the way to go, which is why I'm so bush league, I guess. I think it's important to write well and think well, and collecting a variety of experiences can only help you do that.

I made the mistake of reading Quackwatch re: the Hoodoo Treatment. Of course they think it's like putting $1000 in a pile and setting a match to it and the practitioners should be prosecuted for fraud. But again I have to ask: What can I say? You have a chronic health problem, you'll do whatever you can, especially when the MDs say, "Well, we've tried everything. You just have to live with it." I keep reminding myself that Chinese medicine is quite satisfactory to Chinese people. The world's oldest extant civilization just calls it "medicine."

hi, how are you? Fuck you, Wendy's, and your Baja Express Mexican Grill or whatever that stupid shit is that's going into the old location of Sound Exchange.

If you paint over that Daniel Johnston frog mural, you are going to incur the ire of the whole city. Including one very angry, menstruating mom who's been deprived of pie for too long. I'm going to get wicked on your ass.

Of course I'd post our pic of the frog, but you know, Windows.

And another thing. Baja Express? Our seafood comes from the goddamn Gulf of Mexico. (At least it ought to.) That Baja shit may work in San Diego, but we want our fish tacos deep-fat fried with yellow cheese on them.

We are having a crappy, itchy day.

amen I'm all over the place with remarks today, but hell yeah to this:
If hacks like [Stephanie] Zacharek [of Salon.com] want to know why the South will vote overwhelmingly for Bush, it's because of the condescending, ignorant "we're so much better than you rednecks" horseshit they get from pseudo-liberal writers in "blue country."

Ah yes. The shit needs to stop because we need Bush gone.

one more thing My kid may think that every letter of the alphabet is B, but he has a freakishly good memory and his ability to sing and remember songs scares me.

He remembered the name of the contractor who installed our shoe molding before Thanksgiving, and he remembered that she had a pencil with her. I pointed out a pencil in the Hoodoo Doctor's office and he said, "Cindy!"

I put in a CD we hadn't listened to in a couple of months and he started singing along with the first song.

He sings along with almost all of the first Fountains of Wayne album and really gets into "Leave the Biker."

He is becoming obsessed with guitars. He tells us the names of various people who play guitar. We tried to teach him to say "Juliana Hatfield."

We may have a rock critic on our hands. But he's going to have to learn the alphabet.

Still my favorite: More Johnny Cash!

return of the hoodoo doctor We have resumed the hoodoo after our holiday hiatus. Today we can eat no salt. No sodium. No cheese. No frozen or prepared foods. No tap water. We can't drink tap water. We can't touch tap water.

I'd give my left ovary for some french fries.

I think the left one is the fakakta one anyway.

As we were stocking up on no-sodium fruits and vegetables at the store (no watermelon, no beets, no swiss chard...) the produce stocker grabbed us and bent our ears about childhood skin shit. Evidently his grandkid has Fifth Disease. We had a big commiseration party. Nice guy. Really nice people working there.

J. is back at school. I miss him. B. misses him too.

pimp walk Hear ye, hear ye...

The first issue of Mamalicious is on the stands. It features not one but two articles by Yours Truly.

LAUGH as Marrit recommends five movies with kick-ass mothers!

CRY as Marrit's scanner problems keep her photo off the contributors' page...and relegate her to the "also thanks" section!

CRINGE IN HORROR as Marrit embarrasses herself with a fan letter to Trent Reznor.

The rest of the magazine is even better...because I didn't have anything to do with it! Whee!

If your periodicals retailer doesn't have Mamalicious, punch 'em in the eye! Then special-order it! Or else let me know because I have an extra copy!

what's that on your face? Don't you just love it when you roll your cart up to the cashier at Target and she takes one look at your kid and says, "What is that?"

Um. It's a baby. People sometimes have them as a result of sex. You were probably one once. Can I just get these socks, please?

No, no. What's that on his face? Is it chickenpox? 'Cause I've never had it. Yeah, idiot. I brought my suppurating, contagious child to Target just so we could infect you on aisle #7. Here, let me rub him on you. Hold still.

It's eczema, you assmunch.

It's not contagious.

Sometimes they grow out of it. No, I can't say when because that is the future.

Now shut your pie hole.

Then you won't have to freak out on anyone who has a giant hairy mole, cystic acne, a goiter, a large birthmark, freckles, a broken bone, or any of the other myriad physiological pitfalls the human body may encounter.

slideshow mel. i mean SIDESHOW mel. I feel as if I should like The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players but I just can't get into their music. It's insufficiently musical. I like their concept and their fashion sense, but I've listened to three of their songs and I'm just not there with them.

OTOH, when we went back to pick up our stuff from Picture People, they were playing The Most Godawful Shit Ever--a fake reggae Casiotone song about cleaning up your messes and a cleaned-up version of "Get This Party Started" by a tweenish Pinkalike. The good news is that one of our pictures actually turned out kind of okay, meaning that we're off the hook until Baldo is at least five or something. The black-and-white closeup was hilarious. B. looks very dour, like Art Garfunkel.

I told my mom about the pictures this morning and she wanted a family portrait. Nope, no, nyet, nein. We'll gather round the CrapCam 3000(tm) and I'll upload a pic if I can ever get Stimon.exe to turn back on.

Today's victory: My floors are munuhfunkin' clean.

anyone? anyone? J's parents and mine are reeeally big on Bill Gates. He's such a neat guy! He's no leech! He gives millions to charity! He wears Dacron sweaters!

Do y'all realize he's the reason I can't post holiday pictures of your grandson? Or the professional snaps I went through all heck to obtain?

Blame Bill. No, guys, not that Bill.

Does anyone know how to turn on Stimon (the still image monitor) besides Start, Run or going in through the Windows directory? Do I need to put on the Al Green records and dim the lights?

I'd like for my scanner to be more than a neat shiny thing on my desk.

And yes yes I know I should be running a Linux system but until the publishing world switches over I'll be running myself out of one freelance job after another. You can't fight City Hall.

Edited to add: I am running the highly undesirable (but new at the time of purchase) Windows Me, not the slightly less undesirable Windows 98.

I am so proud "More Johnny Cash!"
--Baldo

the exalted bastard of champlain

party people It's about 1 am here, and my mouth is full of Brie. Picture by Andy.

party people Huh?

Oh. Yeah.

We are tired dead-ass white people today. Last night's par-tay--which was a splendid idea: an overnighter with the pack-and-play for Baldo to sleep in--went swimmingly until we stumbled upstairs at 2:00 and awakened B. with the squeaky door. Hilarity ensued for the next several hours. Crying, screaming, rocking, telling stories, making deals with the devil, putting B. in bed with us and lying there patiently as he sprawled across my back and pumped his legs in the air. We had to sneak out of the house and schlep back across town at 4:00, and even that blew because we pulled over for doughnuts and mine sucked ass.

Anyhow. We're keeping it together okay. I remember how I used to be this tired all the time, how we used to take turns sleeping while the other partner joggled Tiny B. around the living room to industrial or polka music to get him to stop fussing and wind down. Being awake since 2:30 was not unusual.

Fun party though. I feel fortunate to know so many cool parents in town.