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puffy J.'s wisdom teeth came out today. He's very puffy and in pain.

Today has been such a jumble that I can hardly write. So I guess I'll just say a bit, jumbledy.

I sat with him in the recovery room for an hour, tormented by Magic 95.5. Phil Collins. REO Speedwagon. Avril Lavigne. I'd never heard Avril Lavigne before. Now my ears have been violated.

I tasted a bit of his peanut butter banana smoothie, and now Baldo is rashtacular again. I'm a bad mother.

I'm reading an interesting book, the sociological "Flux," about women's lives and choices in early adulthood wrt to relationships, career, family--the tradeoffs and whatnot. I just finished the first section, which made me want to throw the book against a wall--"high-achieving" careerist twentysomethings with jobs in medicine, publishing, and finance complaining about unmotivated boyfriends and a lack of older female role models in business. The financier was a real twit. She made some assfaced remark about people "unambitious" enough to make less than $35,000 a year. It made me glad that I'm a slacker, glad that I never tried to live in Manhattan, never thought it necessary and proper to work 80-hour weeks. Words fail me, so I quote Beck: "I ain't gonna work for no soul-suckin' jerk." That's your life if you want it, but don't delude yourself that low wages=low ambition.

We watched Capturing the Friedmans last night. It was excellent.

Some of our favorite Portlanders, D. and E., visited today. There's a party which I cannot attend; there's also Ladyfest, which I cannot attend outside of my performance time. I'm sulky, so I'm going to paint my nails red with the $1.99 bargain-bin polish I snagged when I went to pick up J's Percoset.

terror A lot of my peeps in blogville are talking about this terror threat as a political ploy. My comments here will be too random to address their musings properly (I have cramps, and The Boy is going to wake up any moment). So let's just say that Logical Marrit gets that, but Primal Marrit has questions. The intial reports of the threat, on the AP wires last night, came not from Tom Ridge but from an anonymous source--which to me is more suggestive of a leak which was then followed by a declaration to control the damage. The initial reports were also somewhat more detailed (then again, isn't almost anything more detailed than Tom "It's a crisis, but don't panic" Ridge?).

I'm no fan of the current administration, and I can easily see how these reports could be used to play the electorate like a concertina. Like I said, intellectually, I get it. But part of the mother gig is troubleshooting danger, looking for soft spots on the underbelly of our lives, and I can't help but wonder why somebody hasn't walked into the Mall of America carrying a duffel bag with a homemade bomb inside by now. Say the words "radiation sickness" and "dirty bomb" to the parent of a young child, and you'll get a reaction.

hey! The pics are back to the right! Word!

Smooches to The Other J.

expecto patronum! I saw the third Harry Potter movie yesterday at a preview. I got pressed into service and off I went, not fully realizing that I hadn't eaten or brushed my teeth yet. A nice guy from K-EYE shared his popcorn with me.

A few kids were wearing wizarding robes. I kept imagining Baldo as a five-year-old sitting next to me at the movies someday. Not sure what I'll do if he wants to go see EVERYTHING with me, or at least everything rated within the threshold of suitability. Just the same I flinch at escorting my son to some of the Saturday-morning fare I've seen thus far, with its super-pushy product placement and hysterical wackiness. Of course I'd rather take him to an Ozu retrospective. But I guess that kind of thing isn't high on a five-year-old's wish list.

On my other side sat two teenage girls. In the interminable moments before the movie rolled, they squealed a lot and ate Skittles and talked about their finals. One of them was doing the "I'm so fat!" thing. I could barely restrain myself.

I wanted to stand up and hoist my shirt, point at my baby belly. "Just wait until you get one of these! You'll wish you were as 'fat' as you are now! So shut up! You're not fat, you're not old, and you're not ugly." Maybe smack the Skittles out of their hands, because, girls, you will regret not having taken better care of your teeth.

For the record, I really like my baby belly. I cup it while I'm sleeping. I only have one Stupid Issue with My Body, and I think we all know what that is. Yes, I know it's stupid and self-hating, but I get up in the morning and there it is.

livin' in a box

peace

crashed

a parking meter?

forgive us our trespasses

bustin' loose

playdate

can I get a "hell yeah"? Word to your mother.

And now for the big pimpin': Didya see the links to Brain, Child and AustinMama.com? Didja? Didja? Man, it's like I can alllllmost reach out and cudgel a book publisher into submission.

I am Glenn Erath I am Glenn Erath.

I never wanted this to happen, but here I am, making up goofy parody songs.

Witness "Baby Got Poop," which dribbled out of our brains one day.
I like to poop and I cannot lie
All you other brothers can deny
When you get a twinge in your intestines
You run to the potty, sit down, and go poop.

Pooopie, pooopie!
You ain't the average dookie!

It hasn't encouraged my child to defecate in the toilet, but it amuses him, and his amusement amuses me. And when a member of your household enjoys watering the floor and pinching loaves in the living room, you take what amusement you can get. Or something.

There is, however, no way to explain "Little Squirrels," the Oingo Boingo parody song.

here comes the summer We're getting all our ducks in a row for summer. J. needs his wisdom teeth out. Nana and Papa are visiting. Swim lessons. Miracle of miracles, our film is starting to move forward again. I'm proofing a book. I still hope to be publishing my own. And that's just June.

good news, everyone! In my news-reading moments (Baldo's nap), I specifically went out in search of uplifting and inspirational news items--ones not about our armed forces attacking an Iraqi wedding party, for example. I found this.

bad baby names Man, I love this site.

I also like the purses.

life in the police state Un-fucking-believable.

If that were my kid who'd been disciplined, or my husband who'd been fired (or not rehired), or my neighborhood school's curriculum being tossed out, I'd be in the principal's office with a sleeping bag.

baby names I might be making some enemies here, but I've been mama-blog surfing, and I feel like the only person on the planet who doesn't really give a fork about kids' names. If you want to name your child after a concept or a jazz musician, I think that's peachy. But I'm not on that bus with you.

I think it's because I grew up with a "weird" name in a time and place where only girls named Jennifer or Michelle were welcomed into the upper strata of juvenile society. I still think my name is weird. (Sorry, Mom and Dad.) I was drawing up a business card, and in testing fonts I started really tripping on my name, the way a word sounds strange if you say it over and over. Dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt is one of my favorites.

What is a marrit? Some kind of nocturnal rodent with a bushy tail? Who really cares? Wait--I'm thinking of marmot, right?

I used to keep a list of words that spell-checkers recommended for my name whenever I used a computer (and when I used a spell-checker).

Our friend Bob, who is strange, used to bird-dog the Parenting boards and ridicule the "name" chatters.

at Lids J. took the B-monster to the mall for some shoes. They went in to Lids, the jock-hat store, and B. alarmed the gentlemen present by declaring his love for "that butterfly hat"--a Longhorns youth cap.

sugar coma Snapple and brownies
make slogging through proposals
interesting and fun!

viva trash! After a lengthy hiatus, Trashy Movie Night has returned.

Tonight's selection=Slumber Party Massacre II.

The Crystal Bernard jokes alone were worth the rental.

J kicks ass J. came home from school today (Now with Extra Faculty-Meeting Action!) with a big sad tired face and a bottle of Grolsch.

Me: Aaaah! I want one, too!
Him: [big sigh]
Me: Well, can we share?
Him: [big sigh]

I sulked off to put B. to bed. Later I was monkeying around with The Proposal That Will Not Die Quietly, and J. peeked in. (Thursday nights we have "cave time" and work on our stuff separately.) And he deposited upon my desk a bowl of grapes and a Hershey bar.

additional random thoughts Went to happy hour with the fabulous L. and her crew at the Ginger Man. Drank one Celis White.

A bird crapped on my arm. I thought, "Wow. Nobody's crapped on me in a while." Or thrown up on me, for that matter. We used to say that the first time I went twenty-four hours without being vomited upon once, we were going to get a bottle of Cristal. That's how much my kid puked.

I tried to go to Story Time today, but Story Time is never when you think it is. Your flyer says 10:15 on Wednesday? Sorry, it's now 11:30 on Thursday. So then you're the only person in the library with a toddler--hell, you're the only person in the library under 50--and the first thing your kid tries to do is scale the stairway marked "Staff Only" and have a screaming meltdown on the first stair. So what can you do except blow it all off and go thrifting?

I never did get that bottle of Cristal.

Today there was an acoustic guitar at the thrift store. I almost--almost--picked it up. I didn't have enough money. I may have to go back.

not that mali I'm giddy with glee, as our friend L. has returned from her Peace Corps service in Mali and is visiting for a week.

J.'s wisdom teeth are coming out soon. He has a consultation with the oral surgeon today.

Our back yard is so beautiful and jungly that I can hardly stand the thought of mowing it.

I wish I had more than disconnected thoughts to offer, but this is kind of an off-week. I just feel out of things.

recap Mother's Day rankles me a bit, the way Valentine's Day rankles me a bit, but I like pampering so screw it!

We had an awesome day. Let's just say that.

I watched Young Adam last night. Ladies and gents, if you are trying to cure an obsession with Ewan McGregor, this movie will help while indulging your ardor at the same time. The highly controversial full-frontal business just makes me laugh. Penises are so not a big deal. Sorry, guys. Maybe it's being with the same person for ten years, but it's like looking at an ear. Nothing wrong with an ear, but what's the fuss?

We bought a drum kit at the thrift store. Have I mentioned that? We'll probably get around to setting it up and soundproofing when Balditicito is twelve. I'm stoked because providing recreational alternatives to television is one of our highest priorities as parents. (Not "No TV!" since we're marginal media types, but "Hey, here's this to do, too!") We have plans to stack all our furniture like cordwood in one room and turn my tiny, closet-like pink office into a music room. Get an autoharp in there.

nine minutes I have nine minutes in which to post before I head off to the pre-MD Mama Shindig, at which nachos will be eaten and Mommie Dearest unspooled.

Went to a fund-raiser at The Preschool with the Nine-Mile Waiting List. The dads were Hawaiian Shirt Guys. The moms were varied. I really really really really...

...really really really like The Preschool, which means it will probably be struck by a meteor within the next week.

Have been obsessing about biodiesel. I can fuel a car with restaurant grease? Shit, do you know how much restaurant grease I generate? Then, as if I were thinking "plate of shrimp," a TDI Passat wagon with a biodiesel bumper sticker appeared at The Preschool! Is this some kind of sign?

ttfn

boob

a very baby day Impromptu playdate this morning, with T. and her two bairns, Aunt K., and a neighborhood mama whom T. accosted and invited in after seeing her walking down the street with her stroller. Coffee, bagels, clothesline volleyball in the backyard, and drawing with chalk. We also collected rotten loquats that had fallen off my neighbor's tree and took turns stepping on them in the driveway. I love the loquat pits.

T. thinks her boys are budding Republicans because they have competitive instincts and the elder is freakishly good at golf. He's four. He got a hole-in-one the first time he played mini-golf. Maybe some things are inborn. I don't know. But she says he has a crush on me, and I was sure to kiss his cheek and embarrass him as they were leaving. Maybe we crazy mothers will leave our imprint yet.

This morning I went to memoryhole.org and saw things I didn't really need to see. Spent some time trying to suss out the distinction between "torture" and "abuse." Then the boy woke up and our house was suddenly full and busy, and I had the sense that to persevere is a form of resistance. I don't know if it will make a difference. But when your house is full of women and babies, and you're all helping each other, that does matter.

the olsen twins Argchk, those Olsens.

What else is there to say, really?

I got sent to review New York Minute last night. On the plus side, I brought Aunt K. with me so we could have a nice laugh.

On the minus side--and perhaps I am naive but I try to go in to everything I see with a more or less open mind, and I would so love to see a movie pitched at ten-year-old girls that isn't total swill--but it sucked a bag, you know? I wasn't even asking for much. I never ask for much, which is why I persist in this, uh, job. Or whatever this is in which I am persisting.

Disgustingly racist movie, with joyful hand-clapping, finger-snapping African-American beauticians and Chinese video pirates and Andy Richter speaking pidgin. Disgustingly disingenuous dangling of the Olsens as skeevy old man bait while simultaneously insisting on the "wholesome" label. Just fucking disgusting. You want to be skeevy old man bait? Fine. You're almost 18; I don't care. Can we please just shut up this moronic doublethink? Yes, Britney's a virgin and Janet's wardrobe malfunctioned, absolutely, I'm so sure. People, I swear, we are living in the most weirdly hypocritical age of human record. Everybody, just take off your pants already so we can shut up about it. Let's just be real for a minute. Our cokehead President wasn't elected. Janet popped her boob on purpose. There are no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, and Clay Aiken is gay.

Poor Andy Richter. He has a family to feed, so I'm not going to knock on him personally for what he had to do. I like the guy. I miss his sitcom tremendously. It spoke to the agony of the soul-crushing office job and acknowledged that we live our lives in fantasy states. And it proved to me that Michiganders are the most wonderful people alive. Better, even, than Canadians.

big pimpin Behold mon interview with Dianne King Akers and Robin Bradford in the current AustinMama.com.

Great stories.

the violet crown festival Yesterday we went to the Violet Crown Festival as a family. I staggered around with a dazed look. Baldo is not quite old enough to really enjoy such an event, but after the two previous days of toddler pique--and rain--I was determined to have a family outing in the sun. So I dragged him out from under our Ikea rocker (he likes to crawl under there to have private moments scratching his eczema) and off we went.

We saw Sara Hickman, which was nice. We listen to Toddler and know all the songs and stories. We drank aqua fresca and ate barbecued corn and ran into a couple of other families we know. Baldo found some jugglers and ran over to their pile of unused clubs, balls, and other items. He laid down upon them and refused to budge (ever see jugglers get really pissed off?) even though we were getting pelted by stray hacky-sacks.

I got really overwhelmed by the sheer volume of humanity and had a mild to moderate panic attack in the sandbox. Motherhood is like sobriety. If you look at it as the rest of your life, you will freak out. You have to just be in the moment.

Periodically someone would ask us where we lived, and we'd have to confess that we don't actually live in the neighborhood but slightly north of it, where we could afford to purchase a home because the schools are shitty, the houses slightly newer, and the population less BoBo.

And now for something completely different: A terrifying Joyce McGreevy column.

the war I don't talk about it much because of the bipartisan readership factor. That doesn't mean I don't think and worry. Nobody thinks and worries like a mother.

I try to imagine how I'd feel if my son, a grown man by then, were a captive of a foreign army. I imagine how I'd feel if his captors stripped him naked and posed him for pictures. Humiliated him. Laughed at him. Abused him sexually. I'd be furious. I might even be furious enough to strike back.

I try to imagine how I'd feel if my son, a grown man by then, were a solider in the Army. What had they done to him to make him think it was funny to strip captives naked and pose them for pictures? Had they made him hate? Had they taken away his ability to empathize--this ability that I am struggling so hard right now to build? Is he no longer able to look at another man and see him as more than a racial, religious Other? To see a father, like his own father? To see a son, a brother, a member of a community?

I suppose you cannot empathize if you are a solider. Every bullet you fire would be hell on your psyche. You have to learn to take orders without question, without thinking. So then when you are among the people we are ostensibly trying to provide with the American Way of Life, courtesy of KBR and Halliburton, it figures that you would see them not as people but as dark-skinned things you can debase for laughs.

War undoes the work of mothers. For that reason alone I despise it.

bad day Yesterday was a Bad Day.

We had to skip the Chronicle Party and the Boxcar Preachers because we are in a parenting phase in which the prime directive is "make it stick." Baldo is nearing the age in which he can connect actions with consequences and we are trying to make it stick.

I told him if he had quiet time in his bed, we could go to the party this afternoon. But we needed to rest first. Wind-down routine and into bed with a Miffy book. Nope. Screamy. So then when I went to bring him out of bed, he bit me. And twenty minutes later, he clocked me in the head with his Fisher-Price popper thing--which, in a moment of Bad Parenting, I tore from his grasp and flung down the hall. I turned back to him and said in a voice so calm it scared even me, "We don't hit people with our toys."

So we stayed home and freaked out all over each other all afternoon instead. J. and I have since discussed matters, and we decided that the kid is just in a weird two-year-old place where he needs us to be there, to impose limits, to give the world some shape and structure, but he's not ready to accept those limits. So he's testing and pushing so that we'll impose limits, whereupon he freaks out and tantrums. Delightful.

We are also discussing whether freelancing is long-term feasible. I am feeling very frustrated and powerless.