schtuffy Holy sinus cavities, Batman!

This is the slowest, stuffiest cold ever. I think my eyes are going to pop out.

party party party Waiting for J and B to come home from the birthday party--a coproduction with Baby Moz, who is two days older, and his parents. I stayed home to avoid the transmission of Mega Cold 3000, which is still parked in my sinuses. I feel like krap.

The cupcakes turned out fine, except the recipe made too few and I had to break out the oat flour and brown sugar for a second batch. Factor in the banana I used (successfully) as an egg replacement, and they were really more like frosted muffins. I really wanted to eat one. Sick people=no cupcakes.

I'm also up to my ass in SXSW work. I used the opportunity to park my ass on the couch and watch Public Domain so I can interview the author tomorrow. I sound like Ruth Buzzi. Should be interesting.

i kick ass Who's the ass-kicking mama? I am.

I just made my kid his first bootleg rock shirt.

Tomorrow is his birthday. I may not be back to write more. So happy birthday, Baldito.

sick So what's with this Mega Cold 3000 that incubates in your throat for five days before roosting in your nose? We didn't have this cold when I was little. Is it some kind of avian thing?

There isn't much to say because we're asstactularly busy. Deadlines for March 1 have been met as of last night. I gotta find a recipe for a white cake that can be made vegan. (At this point I'm thinking mix.) Yellow cakes are readily made vegan, but Baldo's stipulation that the cake be blue--which I'm willing to honor because a blue cake kind of trips me out--may interfere; what if we tint the yellow cake blue and it turns out green? No one will eat it. Correction: I'll eat it.

The eczema is in full bloom again. I've been dosing us with echinacea, and he apparently reacts to it.

Like I said: Not much to say.

from grimalkyn George W. Bush was thrilled at being able to spend his first night in the White House, but something very strange happened. On the first night he was awakened by George Washington's ghost.

"President Washington, what is the best thing I could do to help the country?" Bush asked.

"Set an honest and honorable example, just as I did," advised Washington.

With all the excitement of the White House, Bush still couldn't sleep well and the next night the ghost of Thomas Jefferson moved through the dark bedroom.

"Tom, what is the best thing I could do to help the country?" Bush asked.

"Cut taxes and reduce the size of the government," Jefferson said.

Bush still couldn't sleep well and the on the third night he saw another ghostly figure moving in the shadows. It was Abraham Lincoln's ghost.

"Abe, what is the best thing I could do to help the country?" Bush asked.

"Take in a play," Lincoln replied.

sigh. Lucky me. I get to go see Club Dread tonight on campus.

I turned in The Interview That Ate Itself last night. And then this morning was full of alligator-wrestling with Baldo, who is fully sick with a cold. I feel like I'm going to fall over, but it's also kind of a rush to be all booked up and dealing with it.

Sometimes I can't believe my kid is going to be 2 this weekend. Sometimes I can't believe he's that young, with his fully-formed sentences and "I shall" constructions. He really knocks me out.

I have to get my shit together for this so-called birthday party this weekend. I have to finish an 1800-word feature. I have to bake a cake. I have to shower because I smell like somebody's ass.

I got my first-ever Zimbabwean bank scam spam today. I can't believe it took so long. Now I can relax.

Ralph: Hang it up, man. Don't be a dick. Didn't you see our Chief Executive proposing to alter the Constitution so as touneqivocally disallow civil rights to certain adult citizens? Why you gotta front, G?

Two words, people: qualitative difference. Maybe you think all party politicians are the same but I bet 3000 recently-married couples might disagree with you.

I should go take a nap but if I do it'll be all over for the rest of the day.

mucus Every baby I know has had or is having some kind of virus attack. Mine merely appears to be neverendingly snotty. He's neither prurulent nor feverish, but his nose id ahd shtuffed ub and he yarfed a boatload of non-prurulent snot during lunchtime. I'm telling you, this child has no immune system. The allergy count isn't even that high today.

The capital city is all atwitter with the rumor that our conservative, school-praying governor is having an affair with another fella. There's even a demo tomorrow at the Capitol urging him to shit or get off the pot vis-a-vis his personal life and his anti-gay rights policies. I think I will send a letter. "Hi, Rick. If you are in fact gay, as everyone in town says you are, could you stop with the self-hate and heterosexism? It's very hypocritical. By the way, I met you at my office a couple of years ago, and you did seem to be awfully into your hair. Thanks--one of your breeding constituents."

The bad personal juju count is ratcheting higher for a lot of people I know. No names. But there's more than one of you. I'm with all y'all. If you call and I don't answer, it's just because I'm mopping up mucus and strawberry cottage cheese.

catching up with baldo's mom The redesign is courtesy of The Other J. Who rocks.

We went to the farm this weekend to see my dad and mom. It was loverly.

Then we ran home and I had to go out at naptime to replace my glasses, which got twisted into an unwearable shape by a certain toddler. I have new frames, which are brown and square. Now I am very tired.

consider that a deee-vorce The Governator doesn't like it.

Look, it's already wrong enough that Arnold Schwarzenegger is the governor. I can't help but imagine him loading up like a pistolero and screaming toward San Francisco in his Hummer.

Friends of mine from a message board got married. They waited in line at 4 a.m. They have a daughter together and are wonderful partners. Marriage is a civil right and they are entitled to it as adult citizens. Period.

death The topic of death has insinuated itself into my conversations with Baldo.

A line of sugar ants was circumnavigating the drain of our bathtub when I went in to fill it for him, and without thinking I wadded up some toilet paper and smushed them, shouting, "Die! Die! Die!" Great job, Mom. Now he runs around shouting, "Die! Die! Die!" No idea what it means, I don't think. I don't know. Maybe he has some idea; maybe it's just a funny word to shout thrice.

We were listening to Elliott Smith at lunchtime, and I told Baldo that Elliott died and Mama was sad. He'd repeat it: "Elliott died. Mama sad." He'd kind of smile, and I'd say, "No, Mama sad." It's so tempting to clown around all day and make him laugh, but I can't always do it. We're starting to talk about feelings. He knows that I get grumpy sometimes if I'm tired. I told him that sometimes people have sad lives and feel bad a lot of the time. And it's just a fact, just as the trash truck is red and just as we peel an orange before we eat it. Some people are sad people. I mean, my kid's not even 2 yet but it's important to me as we raise him that we acknowledge bad feelings. I never know when mine might come back. He'll have them, too.

It also doesn't hurt that my kid has a particular affinity for people who are dead. With all the Elvisiana in the house, and all the dead people who are part of our lives, and that Johnny Cash business, I guess it's not particularly surprising. I miss a lot of people today.

retrospect I lost the notebook I take to the movies with me, so last night I dug a spiral-bound one out of a drawer and threw it in my bag. Turns out it was the notebook we used to keep records of Baldo's colic, feedings, reflux, and pooping in his early days of life. Man oh man is it ever a downer to read.

We have notations like "left nipple/cracked" and "trying but failing to latch on RT in cross-cradle & football hold." I wrote down that our sewer backed up and overflowed into the bathtub when Baldo was thirteen days old.

In May we really started trying to document the reflux and allergies. "Green stool @ 4:00 a.m. (unusual)" and "Neocate -- took 3 oz. but started resisting. Spit up--chunky/high volume."

Then there was a stomach flu last February and I wrote down all the pukes and poops.

I wrote down our night waking.

God that was all so hard but we did it. We really did it.

Now I have other mysteries to consider. What kind of a person is this kid becoming? I'm going to start writing down the clues.

2/18: (morning) Screams for lipstick and is given empty tube of MAC Lipglass (color: chai). "Applies" in car, then eats sponge off tip of applicator.

2/17: Clearly states "Martin Gore." Good sign?

2/15: Begins screaming something unintelligible. We parse it down to "Lady, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the store," a quote from Army of Darkness. T. claims B. will be "coolest kid in kindergarten." I think he will be a dork, like parents.

2/13: Recognizes and imitates riff from "Smoke on the Water."

miscellaneous B Coming up on my fourth overnight review this month. I assumed that On the Ropes was a youth gang drama, but it's actually a biopic with Meg Ryan as the first woman boxing promoter. Yawn. Garcon? More coffee!

I got my dad a birthday present today. I also got and started reading Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp. It's making me nostalgic for the Phoenix.

It's, like, 70 degrees outside. I'm wearing a short-sleeved shirt. I love how random Texas is in the winter.

I just Googled a childhood friend of my sister's. She turned right up. There's a picture of her, looking very highlighted and perky, at an office desk. I wonder what my sister would be like today if she hadn't died. I wish a search engine could show you that.

there can be only one We were behind a Toyota Highlander the other day and it got me wondering. When one Highlander meets another on the road, do they have to battle to the death?

sniglet du jour Murby - (n.) a person who looks like Moby but for one significant difference (i.e., too tall or too chubby).

There were two Murbies at HEB today while we were shopping.

this is pure snow! Happy St. Valentine's Day, all.

We awoke to a light accumulation of snow, which is exceedingly rare for central Texas and a cause for great rejoicing. It was melting even as we ran around in it. Baldo was--quelle surprise?--afraid of it. Then he got into the swing of things, at least until he slipped on it and freaked out. We probably won't get snow for another five years.

The last time I remember snow was in 1994. It snowed and iced so the freeway got closed down (the city only has four trucks for de-icing) and I was supposed to go to campus and take the Miller Analogies Test.

I had an interview today with Faulkner Fox for Mamalicious. We filled up almost a whole side of tape, and now I'm not sure how I'm going to condense everything down to fit in the ish. I always hate that about Q&As. They could be my least favorite thing to write for that reason alone. Revising them is such a Procrustean task.

Ordinarily I'm not a stuffed-pizza person but we got a heart-shaped one from Mangia today and it was excellent. No sauce. Just cheese.

I'm still a bit tweaked about the personal juju that went down, but I had a feeling today that everything is going to be all right in the end.

snow snow

more snow

snow

Close your eyes, Dad! I can't thread this fucking machine. I am going to drop it off the Hwy 183 flyover. I took it to the Sewing Machine Whisperer who for a $53 service fee proclaimed what I already knew: The problem is me.

My grandmother gave it to me so that I could be a good, practical girl, which I am not. I always wanted to be good at something. I always wanted to have some sort of demonstrable skill that would be self-evidently valuable in a "Lord of the Flies" situation: hunting, identifying non-poisonous berries, crafting protective footwear out of tanned animal skins.

But no. I had to be an EDITOR. (Read="protein source.")

I hate sewing. It is clear now.

Yet herein lies the problem: I also hate ready-to-wear clothes. I hate the Scylla and Charybdis of pret-a-porter: (1) Look like a fat 13-year-old or (2) Look like a middle-aged realtor from Hutto.

You, you that design clothes? Yeah, you fucking people suck my ass in hell.

Fortunately the gods of pie saw fit to grant me a friend who is a genius seamstress and always broke.

The world has too many useless writers in it. My mediocrity angers me.

oh hell yeah The only thing better than reading this story is reading it while listening to "Teenage Kicks" by the Undertones. Sometimes the universe gives you a big ol' tasty biscuit, you know?

technical difficulties I've been having some problems with the site, which is why Tuesday's entry just showed up today. I've also been super busy. And some personal juju went down.

But I'm here to say: Baby dropped his first f-bomb today. I'm only surprised that it took this long.

A while ago our much-loved vacuum cleaner fell over onto the floor and the handle broke off. It's very irritating to have an upright vacuum with a broken handle, so I think I swore at the time. I super-glued and duct-taped it, and you can push the vacuum forward. But of course when you pull it back you just pull the handle right off. I made reference to the broken handle being unfixable. And then Baldo said it.

I won't repeat the actual quote because my dad dislikes hearing his baby girl swear. And I can't even imagine how he'd feel about his grandson swearing.

The kid is a talking machine. He said all of Baldo's Greatest Hits at playgroup today, including "Look at all those guitars!" and my personal favorite, "Chuck D. has a hootenanny!" But my world fell apart when I offered Johnny Cash this morning and Baldo instead requested "Pepino, the Italian Mouse" by Lou Monte.

this just in I want all three or four of you out there to know that my brief fixation with Sean Astin is officially at an end after watching him lisp steroidally and clench his butt rhythmically in zebra-printed bike shorts in 50 First Dates, which I reviewed tonight. There's not really anything else to say, except that Adam Sandler had a puffin sidekick named Willie. Sometimes my work is not very rewarding.

halloween #1

ass-kicking contest Ooba dooba. Looks like I'm not going to have time to eat bonbons and watch my soaps this week.

I have press interviews set up for Friday and Saturday, I have another overnighter tomorrow, and I have deadlines comin' at me as of the 15th and lasting all through the end of the month, which concludes in Baldo's birthday. A certain book proposal is making its fateful journey through Middle Earth. Thank you, Paxil, for keeping me off the ceiling. And thank you, soy butter.

When shit gets going it really gets going.

Not to schmoop out too much here, but there are moments in the toddler stage in which you can look at your particular kid and appreciate her or his personality and think, "I just like this person." I just like Baldo. We were at the Hoodoo this morning (animal dander treatment), and the next appointment came in while Baldo was shaking a maraca from the toy box in the waiting room and yelling, "Hootenanny!!" And this guy just about fell over himself talking about Baldo.

I'd like to officially go on record as one of those people who's just not cut out to parent a tiny baby. That's like carrying a potato around in your ass crack. It's uncomfortable, it chafes, and it's apparently pointless. Now toddlers I like. Give me a toddler at his worst--tantruming, stalling before bedtime, demanding juice--any damn day of the week. Toddlers are people. Babies are plants that can scream.

weekend update Blogging away on our newly upgraded system, courtesy of the fabulous T and M. J. would also like to give a shout-out to Eric from SBC customer service; he "rocks."

J. is cleaning the office around me. Hey, the carpet is beige!

We went to the kids' show this morning and it was this sweet nice couple who hung up pictures of their dog and sang together and played guitar and they were so nice and I felt awful for being unable to control my inner Simon Cowell. I love it when people want to make music for families to enjoy together but there's still an X factor, you know--you need to have a craft? Which is what keeps me out of the business: I'm not musically talented.

I'm also really smelly. I don't know if it's an endocrine something-or-other or if it's just that I'm get old and falling apart, but as my pits get stinkier, my skin gets more sensitive. The Super-Powerful Alzheimer's-Inducing Anti-Perspirant I got last time has given me a sunburn-like rash. So now I have to switch back to the Gentle Hypoallergenic Deodorant that's like rubbing a leaf on yourself.

For those of you riveted by my son's keen appreciation for Johnny Cash: Sometimes when I put him down for his nap I'll hear him sing himself to sleep to "My Old Faded Rose." Except it's more like "My Old Old Rose." Miiiieeeee...ode ode rrrooooooosseeee....

This entry is all over the place because I kind of need to use the bathroom but J's kind of blocking me in.

I put streaks in my hair the other day but they're hardly visible.

I have an overnight review and an interview next week.

B's second birthday is coming up and sometimes when I get a look at him from afar (which is rare) he looks like Toddlerzilla. He looks like he's four feet tall. He climbs up on me now, pretending to want to nurse, except then he uses me as a stool to get at the forbidden cutlery drawer, so rich with chopsticks and flatware.

And don't quote me, but the Hoodoo? Seems to be working. We ran around Friday afternoon with pecan shells in our hands. We've eaten bananas every day. B licks the vacuum cleaner's hose. No rash. I also bumped the Protopic down to once a day. His hands are still a little spotty but everything else is clear. I don't want to say too much because I'm afraid he'll wake up with welts on his back. It's fun to break the rules again. I'm going to make a smoothie with carrots, pineapples, and cat dander. Put some shrimp in there, maybe. We're still holding off on the peanuts and the scary-scaries.

Ok, now I really have to go pee.

still antsy antsy antsy antsy antsy antsy antsy

bush budget bingo! Inasmuch as I realize my blog is for domestic updating and not a platform for partisan punditry, this just slays me: President Bush has proposed eliminating the Elementary and Secondary School Counseling Program, a federal program that funds school counseling in middle and high schools. I can hear my states-rights friends moan, "But isn't education a statewide issue?" Not if the funds aren't there--98 school districts would have to cut their counseling entirely.

Maybe school counselors aren't the Answer to Everything--I can recall not being terribly fond of mine--but I think they stack up favorably compared to other items privileged by the Bush agenda, such as missile defense and a manned mission to Mars. "No child left behind" my ass. I'd be sad if teachers were left to pick up the slack in advising students about magnet programs, independent learning, scholarship opportunities, and what have you.

The irony? It's "National School Counselors' Week!"

fluffy I really need to be fluffy right now because I had one of those Classic Mother Freakouts after J. came home from the second part of his CRISS training today. The kind where I'm trying to mop yogurt off the floor while a toddler conforms to my shins, and I look back and see a packet of yeast lying on the countertop, the one I neglected to put in my pizza dough, which I was kneading while trying to hold up my end of a conversation about which teachers skip PD and which show up. The mop clatters to the floor and I hear this sound, this Aaaaaaaaaaiiiiieeeee and it's coming from my mouth. And I say a lot of Classic Mother Freakout things, like, "Can't we keep this floor clean for an hour?" and "Do we have to make a mess out of everything?"

I don't care that my laundry is piled on the bed in the guest room. I don't care that the floor of my office is covered with random shit, like a sponge for stamps and the box to Norton Antivirus 2000. I just don't want to be up to my ass in four-day old butter beans because that shit is gross. I just don't want thumbnails on the bathroom counter.

a dubious use of time I was hoping to spend nap time blogging about Janet Jackson's breast. But now I'm up to my ass in calls for submissions, one of which actually requires me to dust off my curriculum vitae. Ye gods of pie! I just started redoing it from the ground up. It's a good thing to have.

I didn't watch the Superbowl, but from what I understand the halftime show involved (1) the musical stylings of Justin Timberlake and (2) a certain amount of dry humping and sexually suggestive dance manuevers. Correct? Yet it became offensive to the sensibilities of viewers only when a breast appeared? Because breasts are bothersome and rude? To me that's like somebody whipping off a hat to reveal their bare ear or something. Cover your eyes, Ethel!

When I am queen Justin Timberlake will be prohibited from appearing on network television under any circumstances and women can be topless anywhere, any time. Just as my lumpen, pasty truck-driving neighbor Joe goes shirtless without compunction, so shall the women of the world, even if we are saggy or stretch-marked. I was planning to go to a "flash-in" during Austin's Mardi Gras when I was heavily pregnant*, and I was disappointed when the cops relented and said they wouldn't arrest any topless women. I was looking forward to kicking off my arrest record pregnant and topless. Primagravidas Gone Wild!

I hear what some people are saying about the "aggressiveness" with which Mr. Timberlake partially denuded Ms. Jackson, but I think healthy and consensual sexual expression can include a certain amount of aggressive behavior. Yet how lovely of CBS to show us that instead of the damn MoveOn.org ad. You know, because we don't want any controversy.

Well, there's my pebble added to the avalanche.

I should go work on my CV. I fucking hate academia.


*I was pretty hot when I was pregnant, even when I retained eleven pounds of water in one week and puffed up like Fat Elvis.

the good, the bad, and the texan No doubt we are the last people outside of Utah and nations without power to have seen Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Spectacular. I sat on the couch digging my nails into J's arm with every costume change and application of MAC. And I said to him, "Where did this John Cameron Mitchell come from?"

The answer? El Paso.

How lovely.

Any time something stupid happens in the world--say a B-movie actor crashes his plane drunkenly or a plaquemaker transcribes a MLK Day award with the name "James Earl Ray," I clutch my pearls and mutter, "Please, God, don't let it be a Texan." And so often it is. And I shake my fist at the sky and threaten to move somewhere else. But where would I go? I can't function anywhere else. I require a certain amount of lip gloss, inexpensive beer, and brisket. I gave it a go in southern California but the food was like licking pavement and the beer was from Oregon, and people got all worked up over a restaurant called The Boll Weevil. There's resonance without meaning for you: a down-home eatery named after an agricultural parasite.

Me: (later) Can we put that flour in a Ziploc? We don't want weevils.
J: We don't what?
Me: Weevils get in there if it's not sealed.
J: What now?
Me: Weevils.
J: Like the Boll Weevil?
Me: Yes.
J: That's a real thing?
Me: (clutching pearls) Yes.

Anyhow. Thank you, John Cameron Mitchell, for being from Texas.

We saw puppets this morning at the kids' show. If anyone is out there reading you may know that I have kind of a low-grade fear of puppets, which is really to say that I don't understand why people make little effigies out of cloth or wood and use them to tell stories when there are plenty of pencils to go around. Maybe it's my own limitations as a person that cause me to feel this way. Anyhow the puppeteer was one of those entertainers who gets worked up easily, like Dennis Miller with something on his hand called Stinky the Possum. Children's entertainment puzzles me. You can scratch the fuzzy-bunny surface of it and find a lot of strange emotions lurking in there. And then you can watch a movie about an East German drag queen with a one-inch vestigial penis, and it's so brilliant and artistically interesting that I actually want to wake Baldo up and show it to him.