So for quite some time now, I've had two books percolating, which I work on haphazardly, and then this children's story. Now I am actually doing some freelance grant consulting work (I can't say grant writing because my client hasn't actually asked me to do that), which is okay. More on this in a moment. And now my dear friend Coolia has approached me with ideas for not one but two television shows and wants me to be part of her writing team.
Whew!
The "grant writing" meeting last Saturday went well, despite my arriving a bit late due to rain/last-minute car issues/Saturday afternoon traffic. I am being asked to edit a grant template and query letter, and to vet their list of prospective donors and provide recommendations on how to approach each one and how much money they should request from each. Since I have been in the fundraising business off and on for nearly ten years now (Holy shit!), this is no big deal to me, but the reaction of the committee was "Wow! This is great! You have no idea how much better this meeting was than our last meeting, we feel like we are finally getting somewhere, thank God you know what you're doing, we wish we could pay you for more than six hours of work, but clearly you are going to be able to work miracles in that paltry amount of time -- all hail Lisa the Magnificent!"
I think I mentioned already how I feel very odd when people look to me as the expert, but there you have it. Somehow I managed to gain their confidence, and for better or worse, access to some documents which indicated that they were willing to pay a consultant $15/hour more than they are paying me. I don't intend to use this against them, but I will be raising my rates to what is evidently market-value with any new clients I pick up after I'm through with this group. Especially since I just realized I have ten years experience in this bloody ridiculous field! They say time flies when you're having fun. My experience has been that time flies no matter what the hell you do, so you might as well enjoy yourself, right?
Hmmm...anyway, Coolia and I had dinner Monday night (sadly, she didn't drink this time, and also sadly, we didn't run into Ratboy) and she asked me what I thought about helping her write a sitcom. I know it is hellishly hard to write for TV, that if we write a pilot and it is picked up, the odds are against us that it will be successful, and that even if it is successful, the hours and the amount of work involved would break me like a twig. But nonetheless, I am on board, and so is our friend Xtal, and we are going to meet regularly and try and make this happen. Sweet William has a friend who writes for TV, so I am going to try and pick her brain about how we should get started.
Sleep. Sleep!
In other news, Viva and Sweet William both have colds and you know how much fun that is. I am so completely sleep-deprived that last night when Viva woke up at 11:30 (after we put her to bed at 7 and spiked her rice milk with Baby Tylenol-Cold to make her sleep), I melted down. Folks, it was not pretty. I put Viva in the bed with us and she started shrieking like I had laid her down on an anthill. I had just gotten back to sleep after passing out on the couch, being roused by Sweet Willie, and peeling my contact lenses out of my eyes. I had had enough.
I am not proud of this, but I'll be honest with you. I used the f-word, and I addressed it to my child. I said something to the effect of, "I can't take this, why won't you sleep, Viva, I am so fucking tired, I can't take this!" and stumbled out of the room, leaving Sweet William to deal with our little banshee. Unfortunately, he wasn't doing too much better, although at least he didn't cuss. I took a deep breath and went back in and calmed her down and of course we ended up back on the couch until 3-something-AM, when Willie woke me up by saying, "My poor wife!" He then put Viva back in the crib and I stumbled back to bed, where I lay awake for at least 30 minutes before going back to sleep.
But here's the best part, where you can see once again that I have The Best Husband Ever. Viva woke up at 6:30. Willie dressed her, put her in the car and went to the supermarket. When I got up at about 7:45, he was feeding her a smoothie and a scone. After a little huggy time on the couch, he then took her to the park and gave me the whole morning to myself! They didn't come home until nearly noon. We had lunch, put Viva down for her nap, and I gave myself a facial and a pedicure. Viva will be up shortly and you can be sure that she will see a completely rejuvenated Mama Bird. Squawk!
We are off tomorrow to Oceanside for Easter and all the accompanying madness. There will be ham, there will be roast beef, and evidently, there will be cheesecake. And three small children tearing about looking for eggs. Peace out.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Friday, March 18, 2005
Three posts in one day! I'm on fire!
Now I can't remember what was so damn important that I had to write about it.
I hate myself sometimes!
I wanted to update...oh, yeah. I have a meeting tomorrow (yes, on a Saturday) with a prospective client. Looks like I am actually getting my ass in gear to get back to work. Boo, hiss. I was so hoping they would cancel, too. It's with a committee of five people. I guess it will be all right, except that every time I have to do one of these, I always end up feeling like I am some kind of impostor, and that inevitably I am going to be de-cloaked. I get this queasy feeling whenever somebody says, "Well, you're the expert." I don't feel I am an expert on anything. What the hell do I know?
I do remember that I want to give props to my dentist, who is a freakin' comedian. We went to see him en famille on Tuesday, so Sweet William could get a cleaning and Viva could sit in the chair and get used to the idea of the dentist. I asked Dr. M how his kids were doing.
Dr. M: Oh, God -- trying to get out of the house -- I'm telling you -- this morning, it was the Leprechaun Trap.
Me/Sweet Willie: Huh? Whuh?
Dr. M: These kids, with their school projects, oh my God, I'm warning you. This is what's coming. And this morning they had to have a Leprechaun Trap for school, and the walls wouldn't stay on, and it was [mimics crying], wah-hah-hanh! And trying to get them into the car. Oh my God.
Freakin' hilarious! It took me a minute to figure out what on earth he was talking about (if you haven't already guessed, English is not his first language), but I am telling you, these school projects do scare me. I don't look forward to having to help Viva create a scale model of Mount Kilimanjaro or whatever the hell.
Oh God, that was a good laugh.
I hate myself sometimes!
I wanted to update...oh, yeah. I have a meeting tomorrow (yes, on a Saturday) with a prospective client. Looks like I am actually getting my ass in gear to get back to work. Boo, hiss. I was so hoping they would cancel, too. It's with a committee of five people. I guess it will be all right, except that every time I have to do one of these, I always end up feeling like I am some kind of impostor, and that inevitably I am going to be de-cloaked. I get this queasy feeling whenever somebody says, "Well, you're the expert." I don't feel I am an expert on anything. What the hell do I know?
I do remember that I want to give props to my dentist, who is a freakin' comedian. We went to see him en famille on Tuesday, so Sweet William could get a cleaning and Viva could sit in the chair and get used to the idea of the dentist. I asked Dr. M how his kids were doing.
Dr. M: Oh, God -- trying to get out of the house -- I'm telling you -- this morning, it was the Leprechaun Trap.
Me/Sweet Willie: Huh? Whuh?
Dr. M: These kids, with their school projects, oh my God, I'm warning you. This is what's coming. And this morning they had to have a Leprechaun Trap for school, and the walls wouldn't stay on, and it was [mimics crying], wah-hah-hanh! And trying to get them into the car. Oh my God.
Freakin' hilarious! It took me a minute to figure out what on earth he was talking about (if you haven't already guessed, English is not his first language), but I am telling you, these school projects do scare me. I don't look forward to having to help Viva create a scale model of Mount Kilimanjaro or whatever the hell.
Oh God, that was a good laugh.
Molested by Seemingly Innocuous Animated Character
By the way, the other night, I gave Viva a bath. She has gotten back into taking baths, which I am kind of relieved about.
Anyhoo, I was cleaning out the bath tub after I had scooped her out of it and handed her over to Sweet William. I picked up all the tub toys and noticed that one sounded particularly splooshy, so I squeezed it to get the water out. And let me just tell you, this toy had developed a hole in a certain area. And, well, there's no nice way to put this: Boots the Monkey shot his wad on me. Like, right in my face!
I didn't think we had that type of relationship.
Anyhoo, I was cleaning out the bath tub after I had scooped her out of it and handed her over to Sweet William. I picked up all the tub toys and noticed that one sounded particularly splooshy, so I squeezed it to get the water out. And let me just tell you, this toy had developed a hole in a certain area. And, well, there's no nice way to put this: Boots the Monkey shot his wad on me. Like, right in my face!
I didn't think we had that type of relationship.
Woman Bites Dog
Why I Take Viva to a Park that's 2 Miles Away When We Live 2 Blocks from a Park
1. There are always at least three (presumably) homeless people sleeping in various places in my neighborhood park. It is just one block south of a main urban thoroughfare -- Sunset Blvd.
2. There are prostitutes of various genders and inclinations in the area. Which is fine and dandy, world's oldest profession and all that, but I would prefer that Viva not actually have to see any actual...um, I don't know, transaction, should we say?
3. I have witnessed what I believe is drug activity at the park. I think they call it possession and distribution. I have seen too many Law & Order episodes, clearly. But seriously, I have seen cars pull up, cash handed over, and a second person further down the block hand over the goods. By the way, this is about three blocks from the police station.
4. Sweet William has told me matter-of-factly numerous times not to go to "the Bum Park."
And yet, it is a lovely park. Nice big trees, park benches with little paths, and a playground area with sand and swings and climbing structures for little ones. It always looks pretty peaceful. I mean, the transients seem pretty pleased with it; it must be a pretty peaceful place to flop.
The other day, I piled Viva into the car and drove first to the post office, where I mailed my credit card payment, and then drove past the Bum Park on the way to the Nice Friendly Bum-Free park, where unicorns frolic and ice cream grows on trees. From the back seat:
Viva: I wanna go dere!
Me [hoping against hope]: Where, baby?
Viva: I wanna go dere! Dat park!
Me: Oh, baby, really? You wanna go to that park?
Viva: Yes!
Me: Oh, sweetie, but if we do that, we won't see your friends. Don't you want to see--
Viva [on edge of tears]: I wanna go dat park! [breaking down] I wanna go dat park...[sob sob sob]
Me [sigh, turning right]: Okay, honey. We'll give it a shot. It sure would make things easier...
So after I made a complete circle around the block, we parked, got out and walked into the park -- just behind a guy with two pitbulls. Red flag #1.
We went to the playground, at the far end of the park, furthest away from the gate. In fact, there is a gate at that end, but it is locked. I guess because if you are on the playground and need to make a quick getaway, you can't. Maybe this is helpful to the cops in some way, but it sure wasn't helpful to me. We said hello to the family that was already at the playground. They said nothing in return. We shared the climbing structure in relative silence, since although Viva kept smiling and saying "hi" every now and then, the kids did not return her greeting. Red flag #1 1/2.
We went on the swings, with me keeping an eye on the dogs, who were off the leash and chasing a huge stick, at times grappling with each other and snarling. Their owner was sort of keeping an eye on them, I guess, but then he got a cell phone call, which must have been very important. Too important to pay attention to his dogs and/or maybe put them on a leash, as many signs posted throughout the park demanded that he do. Viva and I had sat down on a park bench and she was eating a blueberry cereal bar, and all of a sudden these two dogs went thundering through the playground, chasing each other and snarling, right where we had been crossing the sand mere minutes before. Now, I don't know about you, but I have been bitten by a dog before. A dog that was not rabid, that was a family pet, that I did not provoke in any way. And, you know what? Fuck that. I picked Viva up and beat it the hell out of there.
Viva's friends were happy to see her.
1. There are always at least three (presumably) homeless people sleeping in various places in my neighborhood park. It is just one block south of a main urban thoroughfare -- Sunset Blvd.
2. There are prostitutes of various genders and inclinations in the area. Which is fine and dandy, world's oldest profession and all that, but I would prefer that Viva not actually have to see any actual...um, I don't know, transaction, should we say?
3. I have witnessed what I believe is drug activity at the park. I think they call it possession and distribution. I have seen too many Law & Order episodes, clearly. But seriously, I have seen cars pull up, cash handed over, and a second person further down the block hand over the goods. By the way, this is about three blocks from the police station.
4. Sweet William has told me matter-of-factly numerous times not to go to "the Bum Park."
And yet, it is a lovely park. Nice big trees, park benches with little paths, and a playground area with sand and swings and climbing structures for little ones. It always looks pretty peaceful. I mean, the transients seem pretty pleased with it; it must be a pretty peaceful place to flop.
The other day, I piled Viva into the car and drove first to the post office, where I mailed my credit card payment, and then drove past the Bum Park on the way to the Nice Friendly Bum-Free park, where unicorns frolic and ice cream grows on trees. From the back seat:
Viva: I wanna go dere!
Me [hoping against hope]: Where, baby?
Viva: I wanna go dere! Dat park!
Me: Oh, baby, really? You wanna go to that park?
Viva: Yes!
Me: Oh, sweetie, but if we do that, we won't see your friends. Don't you want to see--
Viva [on edge of tears]: I wanna go dat park! [breaking down] I wanna go dat park...[sob sob sob]
Me [sigh, turning right]: Okay, honey. We'll give it a shot. It sure would make things easier...
So after I made a complete circle around the block, we parked, got out and walked into the park -- just behind a guy with two pitbulls. Red flag #1.
We went to the playground, at the far end of the park, furthest away from the gate. In fact, there is a gate at that end, but it is locked. I guess because if you are on the playground and need to make a quick getaway, you can't. Maybe this is helpful to the cops in some way, but it sure wasn't helpful to me. We said hello to the family that was already at the playground. They said nothing in return. We shared the climbing structure in relative silence, since although Viva kept smiling and saying "hi" every now and then, the kids did not return her greeting. Red flag #1 1/2.
We went on the swings, with me keeping an eye on the dogs, who were off the leash and chasing a huge stick, at times grappling with each other and snarling. Their owner was sort of keeping an eye on them, I guess, but then he got a cell phone call, which must have been very important. Too important to pay attention to his dogs and/or maybe put them on a leash, as many signs posted throughout the park demanded that he do. Viva and I had sat down on a park bench and she was eating a blueberry cereal bar, and all of a sudden these two dogs went thundering through the playground, chasing each other and snarling, right where we had been crossing the sand mere minutes before. Now, I don't know about you, but I have been bitten by a dog before. A dog that was not rabid, that was a family pet, that I did not provoke in any way. And, you know what? Fuck that. I picked Viva up and beat it the hell out of there.
Viva's friends were happy to see her.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Sharing and Caring
Today, we were at the park and Viva was playing with this little girl, Cate, who is almost 3. Cate was very nicely building sand castles and then telling Viva she could wreck them. Viva was thrilled in a shy kind of way; every time Cate would say even one word to her, she would glance at me with this look of such surprised pleasure that it made me fall to pieces.
Cate and I were also talking quite a bit, mainly because her mom was preoccupied with her brother, who might be about 6 months old. At one point, Cate said: "You can come swim in our pool."
"Really?" I said. "That's very nice of you to offer." Cate beamed.
"Don't get too excited," her mom said. "It's just a little blow-up pool in the backyard."
To me, that's the best kind.
It made me feel a little better about our park experience today, because Viva also likes to play with a little girl named Zoe, and when she approached her today and said "Wanna play?" Zoe frowned and said no. And then she ran across the playground chasing some other kid (who later knocked her down and punched her. Not that that was karma or anything). Viva looked at me like, "Huh?"
I admit to feeling a little bad, because Viva is shy and I have been encouraging her to be more pro-active about playing with other kids. But that's life, I guess. You win some, you lose some.
Oh my God, now I'm depressed!
Cate and I were also talking quite a bit, mainly because her mom was preoccupied with her brother, who might be about 6 months old. At one point, Cate said: "You can come swim in our pool."
"Really?" I said. "That's very nice of you to offer." Cate beamed.
"Don't get too excited," her mom said. "It's just a little blow-up pool in the backyard."
To me, that's the best kind.
It made me feel a little better about our park experience today, because Viva also likes to play with a little girl named Zoe, and when she approached her today and said "Wanna play?" Zoe frowned and said no. And then she ran across the playground chasing some other kid (who later knocked her down and punched her. Not that that was karma or anything). Viva looked at me like, "Huh?"
I admit to feeling a little bad, because Viva is shy and I have been encouraging her to be more pro-active about playing with other kids. But that's life, I guess. You win some, you lose some.
Oh my God, now I'm depressed!
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Friends! How many of us have them?
Remember that song? I believe it was Nate Dogg, yes? With help from Snoop and Warren G? Ahh...
Anyhoo, I seem to be inundated these days with invitations to social activities. My friend Coolia and I are meeting for dinner next week, and I have to say that the last time we went out, it was quite hilarious. Not that we didn't get deep and share our problems, because we are very close friends and that's what we do. But we had just sat down for dinner in this lowkey West Hollywood eaterie when we accosted by our friend who shall henceforth be called Ratboy. If you know my circle of friends, you will know who Ratboy is. And if you don't, well, he doesn't resemble a rat at all, but he is quite mischievous and full of manic energy, so maybe that's where the name comes from. I would put his real name except that he is gay and closeted to his family and his real name is rather unusual. (And no, it's not Anwar, like that guy on American Idol. Not that I watch that show.)
At any rate, Ratboy was there for a blind date with some guy he met on Match.com. He hung out with us for a while, then went to the bar and found his date. Now Coolia and I had already ordered wine, which is unusual for us (not so much for me, but she rarely drinks, so I rarely drink when I'm with her. We are usually just so psyched to be together that drinking would be superfluous), but as we were tucking into our repast, pomegranate margaritas arrived, courtesy of (who?) Ratboy. We both got pretty snookered. As a result, when Ratboy's date ended and he came back to sit with us and tell us how horrible it was ("He sent me a picture that was 20 fucking years old!" "He was drunk when I got here!"), it was hilarious in that way that only experiences seen through a boozy haze can be. And since I run into Ratboy one out of every three times that I step into West Hollywood, I'm hoping he will arrive in another such chance outing (pardon the phrase) the next time we get together.
I am also quite pleased to report that my sister and I are friends again. We got together on Monday and took our two-year-olds to the park (okay, Viva is not quite two, but almost. Almost!) and out to lunch. My nephew is the cutest thing on the planet! He kept hugging and kissing us all day. I missed him. Oh yeah, and I missed my sister, too. No, seriously.
I have also spent a lot of time on the phone with my friend Brianna lately, since we are both in the same boat -- i.e., trying to organize children's birthday parties without even the smallest clue of how to do so. Her daughter's birthday was this past Monday (Happy 1st, Maddie!), so her agony is over, for this year, at least. Sweet William and I have decided, by the way, that this year we are doing a family-only party at home. Viva is too small and too high-strung to deal with all the people we would have to invite if we had the party off-site. But we are getting together with Brianna and friends this weekend. Yay!
I am in an "I love everyone" kind of mood today, and I don't know why. I hope you all love everyone, too. No, seriously.
Anyhoo, I seem to be inundated these days with invitations to social activities. My friend Coolia and I are meeting for dinner next week, and I have to say that the last time we went out, it was quite hilarious. Not that we didn't get deep and share our problems, because we are very close friends and that's what we do. But we had just sat down for dinner in this lowkey West Hollywood eaterie when we accosted by our friend who shall henceforth be called Ratboy. If you know my circle of friends, you will know who Ratboy is. And if you don't, well, he doesn't resemble a rat at all, but he is quite mischievous and full of manic energy, so maybe that's where the name comes from. I would put his real name except that he is gay and closeted to his family and his real name is rather unusual. (And no, it's not Anwar, like that guy on American Idol. Not that I watch that show.)
At any rate, Ratboy was there for a blind date with some guy he met on Match.com. He hung out with us for a while, then went to the bar and found his date. Now Coolia and I had already ordered wine, which is unusual for us (not so much for me, but she rarely drinks, so I rarely drink when I'm with her. We are usually just so psyched to be together that drinking would be superfluous), but as we were tucking into our repast, pomegranate margaritas arrived, courtesy of (who?) Ratboy. We both got pretty snookered. As a result, when Ratboy's date ended and he came back to sit with us and tell us how horrible it was ("He sent me a picture that was 20 fucking years old!" "He was drunk when I got here!"), it was hilarious in that way that only experiences seen through a boozy haze can be. And since I run into Ratboy one out of every three times that I step into West Hollywood, I'm hoping he will arrive in another such chance outing (pardon the phrase) the next time we get together.
I am also quite pleased to report that my sister and I are friends again. We got together on Monday and took our two-year-olds to the park (okay, Viva is not quite two, but almost. Almost!) and out to lunch. My nephew is the cutest thing on the planet! He kept hugging and kissing us all day. I missed him. Oh yeah, and I missed my sister, too. No, seriously.
I have also spent a lot of time on the phone with my friend Brianna lately, since we are both in the same boat -- i.e., trying to organize children's birthday parties without even the smallest clue of how to do so. Her daughter's birthday was this past Monday (Happy 1st, Maddie!), so her agony is over, for this year, at least. Sweet William and I have decided, by the way, that this year we are doing a family-only party at home. Viva is too small and too high-strung to deal with all the people we would have to invite if we had the party off-site. But we are getting together with Brianna and friends this weekend. Yay!
I am in an "I love everyone" kind of mood today, and I don't know why. I hope you all love everyone, too. No, seriously.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Writing? Not. Slacking off? Yes.
I hate my book right now. It needs something and I don't know what. Let me stop and clarify: the novel I was working on last year (the political satire, hereafter known as P.S.) is on hold because it requires a lot more time and effort than I can give it. Because it is a political satire, I created a completely different world and political system to set it in. And just as I'd get down to the story and start writing a scene between characters, there'd always be these logistics to be worked out or research to be done to be sure things were making sense. In the meantime, the deadline to be finished (set by me, and coinciding with me having to go back to work/Viva going to preschool) loomed ever closer. I realized I was very far off from finishing and I don't want to do a half-assed job. It is a really cool story and I feel privileged to have even had the idea occur to me. Speak to me of the evils of perfectionism some other time.
So a few months ago, I decided to put P.S. on the back burner and resurrect this contemporary love story that I had written about twenty pages of a few years ago. I figured it would take less time to write and that it would ultimately be more sellable. Sweet William says I should just churn out a "Waiting to Exhale/Disappearing Acts" type of book and then I won't have to go back to work (yes, he fully expects my first book to be a bestseller. He has more confidence in me than I do in myself). So I have been working on it when Viva sleeps (which is not enough, by the by: she has recently violently rejected the concept of Nap and must be coaxed into it through a long and elaborate process that leaves me exhausted), and while I love the characters, I'm not loving the turns the story has taken. I'm trying to re-design the basic story arc -- I know my two lead characters have to break up at some point, just as I know they will get back together ultimately. But it's what breaks them up that I'm getting stuck on, and what happens in between, and how long the separation is. I get bogged down and then I'm not liking it. What the hell, writing is work, right? I wanted to use my brain, yes? (Does it mean anything that when I was just typing the word "brain" it came out at first "barin"? Am I reading too much into this? Is my brain barren?)
Then I was at a kids' birthday party yesterday (Happy 6th, Gavin!), and one of my friends asked how the book was going. I told her it wasn't going very well at all, partly because of Viva's sleep issues and partly because I had to fire my babysitter.* So then I got to talking to my friend's mom, who was telling me I should switch to children's books because there's always a market for them and they're even quicker to write. Here is where we get ironic (apologies, Alanis Morrisette): I have already written a children's book. I have even illustrated parts of it. I wrote it for Viva while I was pregnant with her. It took me about half an hour to write it. Have I done anything with it? I think you know.
* I promise I will explain at some point why I fired Maria. There is just too much else going on.
So I can beat myself up for not working on this stuff, and then I can look at why. We have a ridiculous amount of family drama going on (from both sides), I am trying to plan Viva's birthday party, I am trying to toilet train Viva, I am trying to work out*, I am trying to keep our apartment clean, our larder well-stocked, and our child clean, clothed, shod and fed.
* Sweet William purchased a scale this weekend. It is clearly the work of the devil. My weight fluctuated a full four pounds yesterday (I think I weighed myself at least four separate times; hopefuly the novelty will wear off soon). Surely this means the scale is defective?
The bottom line is that I can't do everything. No, it's true. But don't tell anyone.
So a few months ago, I decided to put P.S. on the back burner and resurrect this contemporary love story that I had written about twenty pages of a few years ago. I figured it would take less time to write and that it would ultimately be more sellable. Sweet William says I should just churn out a "Waiting to Exhale/Disappearing Acts" type of book and then I won't have to go back to work (yes, he fully expects my first book to be a bestseller. He has more confidence in me than I do in myself). So I have been working on it when Viva sleeps (which is not enough, by the by: she has recently violently rejected the concept of Nap and must be coaxed into it through a long and elaborate process that leaves me exhausted), and while I love the characters, I'm not loving the turns the story has taken. I'm trying to re-design the basic story arc -- I know my two lead characters have to break up at some point, just as I know they will get back together ultimately. But it's what breaks them up that I'm getting stuck on, and what happens in between, and how long the separation is. I get bogged down and then I'm not liking it. What the hell, writing is work, right? I wanted to use my brain, yes? (Does it mean anything that when I was just typing the word "brain" it came out at first "barin"? Am I reading too much into this? Is my brain barren?)
Then I was at a kids' birthday party yesterday (Happy 6th, Gavin!), and one of my friends asked how the book was going. I told her it wasn't going very well at all, partly because of Viva's sleep issues and partly because I had to fire my babysitter.* So then I got to talking to my friend's mom, who was telling me I should switch to children's books because there's always a market for them and they're even quicker to write. Here is where we get ironic (apologies, Alanis Morrisette): I have already written a children's book. I have even illustrated parts of it. I wrote it for Viva while I was pregnant with her. It took me about half an hour to write it. Have I done anything with it? I think you know.
* I promise I will explain at some point why I fired Maria. There is just too much else going on.
So I can beat myself up for not working on this stuff, and then I can look at why. We have a ridiculous amount of family drama going on (from both sides), I am trying to plan Viva's birthday party, I am trying to toilet train Viva, I am trying to work out*, I am trying to keep our apartment clean, our larder well-stocked, and our child clean, clothed, shod and fed.
* Sweet William purchased a scale this weekend. It is clearly the work of the devil. My weight fluctuated a full four pounds yesterday (I think I weighed myself at least four separate times; hopefuly the novelty will wear off soon). Surely this means the scale is defective?
The bottom line is that I can't do everything. No, it's true. But don't tell anyone.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Report from the Toddler Trenches, Part One
On behalf of toddlers everywhere, I have taken it upon myself to conduct a variety of experiments in my home laboratory (also known as our apartment) to help us all make sense of the bizarre world that adults meander about in.
Experiment Number One
While she is elbow-deep in soap suds, yell repeatedly at Subject A (more formally known as Mommy) that I need a smoothie. Once smoothie has been produced, yell that I need a straw. Once straw has been produced, drink approximately half of said smoothie. While Subject A is preoccupied with domestic chores that appear completely meaningless to me, open kitchen drawer and pour the remainder of said smoothie into the drawer.
Preliminary Results: high-decibel shrieking from Subject A, followed by removal of near-empty smoothie bottle from my possession, followed by removal of all contents of drawer, followed by thorough sponging-out of drawer and assessment and cleaning or disposal of contents thereof. Much frowning and groaning and "you do NOT do that" issued by Subject A toward my person throughout this process.
Further Results: in the evening of that same day, Subject B (more formally known as Daddy) is removing food from the device known as HOT! STOVE! HOT! and preparing it for storage in the device known as DON'T PLAY IN THE FRIDGE/CLOSE THE DOOR, YOU'RE LETTING ALL THE COLD OUT. He holds up a long shiny stick and asks Subject A, "What's up with the aluminum foil?" Unbeknownst to Subject A, peach smoothie has dried onto several layers of foil. Subject A rolls her eyes (note to self: keep facial gesture in tickler file, for use during pre-teen years and beyond) and explains earlier experiment. Subject B is clearly amused. Success!
Next Post: I will describe in excruciating detail the torturous device of confinement known as the HIGH CHAIR. Reader discretion is advised.
Experiment Number One
While she is elbow-deep in soap suds, yell repeatedly at Subject A (more formally known as Mommy) that I need a smoothie. Once smoothie has been produced, yell that I need a straw. Once straw has been produced, drink approximately half of said smoothie. While Subject A is preoccupied with domestic chores that appear completely meaningless to me, open kitchen drawer and pour the remainder of said smoothie into the drawer.
Preliminary Results: high-decibel shrieking from Subject A, followed by removal of near-empty smoothie bottle from my possession, followed by removal of all contents of drawer, followed by thorough sponging-out of drawer and assessment and cleaning or disposal of contents thereof. Much frowning and groaning and "you do NOT do that" issued by Subject A toward my person throughout this process.
Further Results: in the evening of that same day, Subject B (more formally known as Daddy) is removing food from the device known as HOT! STOVE! HOT! and preparing it for storage in the device known as DON'T PLAY IN THE FRIDGE/CLOSE THE DOOR, YOU'RE LETTING ALL THE COLD OUT. He holds up a long shiny stick and asks Subject A, "What's up with the aluminum foil?" Unbeknownst to Subject A, peach smoothie has dried onto several layers of foil. Subject A rolls her eyes (note to self: keep facial gesture in tickler file, for use during pre-teen years and beyond) and explains earlier experiment. Subject B is clearly amused. Success!
Next Post: I will describe in excruciating detail the torturous device of confinement known as the HIGH CHAIR. Reader discretion is advised.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Ode to Sweet Willie's Sweet Cheeks
Sometimes when something weird or funny happens, I'll make a note of it on a slip of paper so I'll remember to blog about it later. I also make notes to myself about books I want to read/buy, things to do, grocery lists, random phone numbers, etc. Recently, I left one of the "blog ideas" pieces of paper lying on the bar separating our kitchen from our dining area. Here is what it says:
1. [in my handwriting] completely insane squirrel
2. [in Sweet Willie's handwriting] My Ass
3. [also in Sweet Willie's handwriting] My Ass (Broken Down, Cheek to Cheek).
Since I know he thinks I won't actually write about his ass, I'm calling his bluff and here we are. Sweet Willie has a nice grabbable behind. It is firm (from yoga, swimming and running), it is round, and it is a lovely dark chocolate color. Like a Silky Dark Chocolate Dove candy bar (mad props to my homeslice Coolia, for hipping me to this tasty confection. The candy bar, not my husband's ass.). Indeed, the Cheeks of Sweet William, on a scale of 1 to 10, rate about a 15. They are quite fantastic.
I'll tell you about the completely insane squirrel some other time.
1. [in my handwriting] completely insane squirrel
2. [in Sweet Willie's handwriting] My Ass
3. [also in Sweet Willie's handwriting] My Ass (Broken Down, Cheek to Cheek).
Since I know he thinks I won't actually write about his ass, I'm calling his bluff and here we are. Sweet Willie has a nice grabbable behind. It is firm (from yoga, swimming and running), it is round, and it is a lovely dark chocolate color. Like a Silky Dark Chocolate Dove candy bar (mad props to my homeslice Coolia, for hipping me to this tasty confection. The candy bar, not my husband's ass.). Indeed, the Cheeks of Sweet William, on a scale of 1 to 10, rate about a 15. They are quite fantastic.
I'll tell you about the completely insane squirrel some other time.
I'm a crabby old crone. Nice to meet you!
File this under the "you know you're getting old when" category:
I'm at the salon last Saturday, getting my locks hacked off because the only hairstyle I seem to be able to manage these days is a ponytail, and it. is. tired. It's not a hairstyle, really, it's a cop-out. So I got my hair cut quite short, as I've been telling you I might. It's cute. It's kind of sassy. It's low-maintenance (except that now I'll have to get it trimmed more regularly).
But while I was at the salon, blabbing to my stylist, the Fabulous Christine/a (more on that later), she said to me, "I can not believe how old you are. I mean, like when you're telling these stories and you're saying, 'When I was 32' and that was like, before you met your husband, and you've been married, like, what?"
"Three-and-a-half years."
"Yeah, and I mean, you don't look a day over 30."
For the record, I am thirty-six. And a half. And evidently I am at the age where looking 30 is a compliment. Cheezus!
The Fabulous Christine/a is all of 24 years old. I would have pegged her at 27. I'm not being bitchy, I swear. And the reason I call her the Fabulous Christine/a is that everyone (including her) calls her Christina, but her business card says Christine.
At any rate, she is a fabulous hair stylist, so I am not mad at her. Not really.
I'm at the salon last Saturday, getting my locks hacked off because the only hairstyle I seem to be able to manage these days is a ponytail, and it. is. tired. It's not a hairstyle, really, it's a cop-out. So I got my hair cut quite short, as I've been telling you I might. It's cute. It's kind of sassy. It's low-maintenance (except that now I'll have to get it trimmed more regularly).
But while I was at the salon, blabbing to my stylist, the Fabulous Christine/a (more on that later), she said to me, "I can not believe how old you are. I mean, like when you're telling these stories and you're saying, 'When I was 32' and that was like, before you met your husband, and you've been married, like, what?"
"Three-and-a-half years."
"Yeah, and I mean, you don't look a day over 30."
For the record, I am thirty-six. And a half. And evidently I am at the age where looking 30 is a compliment. Cheezus!
The Fabulous Christine/a is all of 24 years old. I would have pegged her at 27. I'm not being bitchy, I swear. And the reason I call her the Fabulous Christine/a is that everyone (including her) calls her Christina, but her business card says Christine.
At any rate, she is a fabulous hair stylist, so I am not mad at her. Not really.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want to
...is what I think Viva will be saying if we move ahead with plans for a big birthday bash. Everything I have read says that for a child of her age (she will be 2), a party with more than three other kids at it will be too overwhelming. The problem is, if I invite her cousins (ages 6, 3.5, and 2) over, that covers the three kids rule and that means I shouldn't invite anyone else. I'd like to invite friends of ours who we rarely see who have kids around her age and also a few of the kids that we've met at our favorite park. This totals about twenty kids, which is completely ridiculous. I just really wanted to have around 8-10 kids, which is more than is recommended, but less than I feel obligated to invite.
I don't know if our apartment can handle that many kids. And if we have it elsewhere, I need to get my shit in gear, pronto. The standard price for an outside party seems to run about $300-$400. Errgghhh...
Oh, and by the way, Viva is sick now. Nose running like a faucet, and at times crabbier even than she was already due to the damned teeth. But still apt to throw her arms around me at random moments and proclaim her love for me. " I love love LOVE you," she says, and fondly, "MY mommy." Birthday prices be damned! Nothing's too good for my baby!
Whew, kids are rough on you, aren't they?
I don't know if our apartment can handle that many kids. And if we have it elsewhere, I need to get my shit in gear, pronto. The standard price for an outside party seems to run about $300-$400. Errgghhh...
Oh, and by the way, Viva is sick now. Nose running like a faucet, and at times crabbier even than she was already due to the damned teeth. But still apt to throw her arms around me at random moments and proclaim her love for me. " I love love LOVE you," she says, and fondly, "MY mommy." Birthday prices be damned! Nothing's too good for my baby!
Whew, kids are rough on you, aren't they?
Thursday, February 17, 2005
An Everything Update
1. Ever since Viva pooped in the tub, she will only take showers. She loves showering so much that she refuses to get out. I have to say, this has made my morning routine easier since I can just plunk her in the shower with me and she is happy as a pig in, well, poop.
2. I just spent a total of 59:03 minutes on the phone with my ISP, and I actually got referred to "Stage 2 Support," which meant that after 44 minutes of dealing with a customer service rep from India (and perhaps in India), I got transferred back to an American. (I am not a xenophobe. I just find it hilarious that the past three times I've talked to Tech Support, I've spoken with three men named "Mike," "Mark," and "Raymond." And they all had what sounded to me like Indian accents.) I felt like I had, hmm, maybe not won the lottery, but kind of like I got the FastPass at Disneyland. And for now, it seems like my DSL is fixed. Praise Jesus and all that sort of thing.
3. After weeks of dealing with UPS and Barnes and Noble, I finally got in touch with someone at Barnes and Noble Retail Customer Support, who tracked my order in two seconds and said, "Oh, how about I just send you a duplicate book?" And it was here two days later! Merry, merry Christmas, Sweet Willie!
4. Today is my sister's birthday, for which I burned her a CD of happy/"let's bury the hatchet" music. When I dropped it off at her house, I talked with my brother-in-law, who told me the only reason my sister was mad at me was that I wasn't in Oceanside for Christmas. All that other stuff was incidental. Hmmm...it felt very personal to me. I am trying to be zen and simultaneously Jesus-like (not in the Jesus freak way, but in the essential "love one another" kind of way that was Jesus' key message) and put all the bad vibes behind me, but this conversation brought it all back up. Ugh. You know I would rather stick my head in the sand, right? It's so nice in the sand. I can't see or hear anything. It does make it difficult to proof-read my blog, though...
5. Sweet Willie is doing yoga pretty much every twelve hours. He says something is happening, he can feel it. Can enlightenment be far off? And if it is, can I live with it? Did you ever read that Nick Hornsby book, How to Be Good? I'm just saying, is all.
6. I have done nothing at all about planning a birthday party for my diva, Viva. I mean like nothing. I have, in my defense, been preoccupied with sending her to preschool in a month and a half. Oh, and I fired our babysitter/housecleaner, so I have been scrubbing toilets and doing laundry and such. That is another story.
7. I don't think I've mentioned it here, but Viva is working on eight teeth at once. Four molars, four canines. The upper two molars have broken through, and the lower canines are just about there. I can see them gleaming through her gums. Come out, goddammit! She is driving me mad! The pain must be excruciating.
8. I have not bought any microwave popcorn in...hmm, I think nearly a month. I think I deserve a reward. You know what would be good? Microwave pop--d'oh!
2. I just spent a total of 59:03 minutes on the phone with my ISP, and I actually got referred to "Stage 2 Support," which meant that after 44 minutes of dealing with a customer service rep from India (and perhaps in India), I got transferred back to an American. (I am not a xenophobe. I just find it hilarious that the past three times I've talked to Tech Support, I've spoken with three men named "Mike," "Mark," and "Raymond." And they all had what sounded to me like Indian accents.) I felt like I had, hmm, maybe not won the lottery, but kind of like I got the FastPass at Disneyland. And for now, it seems like my DSL is fixed. Praise Jesus and all that sort of thing.
3. After weeks of dealing with UPS and Barnes and Noble, I finally got in touch with someone at Barnes and Noble Retail Customer Support, who tracked my order in two seconds and said, "Oh, how about I just send you a duplicate book?" And it was here two days later! Merry, merry Christmas, Sweet Willie!
4. Today is my sister's birthday, for which I burned her a CD of happy/"let's bury the hatchet" music. When I dropped it off at her house, I talked with my brother-in-law, who told me the only reason my sister was mad at me was that I wasn't in Oceanside for Christmas. All that other stuff was incidental. Hmmm...it felt very personal to me. I am trying to be zen and simultaneously Jesus-like (not in the Jesus freak way, but in the essential "love one another" kind of way that was Jesus' key message) and put all the bad vibes behind me, but this conversation brought it all back up. Ugh. You know I would rather stick my head in the sand, right? It's so nice in the sand. I can't see or hear anything. It does make it difficult to proof-read my blog, though...
5. Sweet Willie is doing yoga pretty much every twelve hours. He says something is happening, he can feel it. Can enlightenment be far off? And if it is, can I live with it? Did you ever read that Nick Hornsby book, How to Be Good? I'm just saying, is all.
6. I have done nothing at all about planning a birthday party for my diva, Viva. I mean like nothing. I have, in my defense, been preoccupied with sending her to preschool in a month and a half. Oh, and I fired our babysitter/housecleaner, so I have been scrubbing toilets and doing laundry and such. That is another story.
7. I don't think I've mentioned it here, but Viva is working on eight teeth at once. Four molars, four canines. The upper two molars have broken through, and the lower canines are just about there. I can see them gleaming through her gums. Come out, goddammit! She is driving me mad! The pain must be excruciating.
8. I have not bought any microwave popcorn in...hmm, I think nearly a month. I think I deserve a reward. You know what would be good? Microwave pop--d'oh!
Conversational Tidbit
Explaining to Viva why she can't use my lipstick:
Me: It's not for babies.
Viva (protesting): No babies! Viva!
Me: It's not for little girls, either.
Viva (nodding): Not for little girls. Or small Viva.
Me: It's not for babies.
Viva (protesting): No babies! Viva!
Me: It's not for little girls, either.
Viva (nodding): Not for little girls. Or small Viva.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Why won't she sleep? Why? WHY??
My dearest child is doing her utmost best to drive me slowly insane through a fiendish plan of concerted sleep (and/or rest) deprivation. It's working.
It's 3 PM and she hasn't had a nap yet. Since she goes to bed at 7-ish, a nap at this point would be fruitless. I am really ticked off. I have left her in her crib, where she is talking to herself, and I am taking some time to myself. I must admit I was feeling really close to doing physical harm to her. I realize I can not control her, but I depend on her nap time as my only alone time -- it's my time to get my head together, figure out if I've bounced checks, write my book, write my blog, sometimes take my first shower of the day, or return phone calls without worrying about getting interrupted. Or, like today, rip CDs to make my sister's birthday present. (More on that later.) Oh, and do laundry, and tidy up the apartment, etc.
Don't get me wrong, I love her. But this no nap thing is killing my buzz in a big way.
It's 3 PM and she hasn't had a nap yet. Since she goes to bed at 7-ish, a nap at this point would be fruitless. I am really ticked off. I have left her in her crib, where she is talking to herself, and I am taking some time to myself. I must admit I was feeling really close to doing physical harm to her. I realize I can not control her, but I depend on her nap time as my only alone time -- it's my time to get my head together, figure out if I've bounced checks, write my book, write my blog, sometimes take my first shower of the day, or return phone calls without worrying about getting interrupted. Or, like today, rip CDs to make my sister's birthday present. (More on that later.) Oh, and do laundry, and tidy up the apartment, etc.
Don't get me wrong, I love her. But this no nap thing is killing my buzz in a big way.
Friday, February 11, 2005
The Glass
Is it half-full or half-empty?
Today is my half-birthday, I just realized. The only reason I am aware of this is that my sister's birthday is coming up soon, and when we were kids our families used to give both of us "half-birthday" gifts on each other's birthdays. This was to reduce any hard feelings on the part of the one not having the birthday. Since my sister's birthday is in February and mine is in August, this worked out quite conveniently for our family.
I'll take my gifts in cash, thanks.
(Is just joke. No gifts, please. Just your undying adoration. That's enough.)
Today is my half-birthday, I just realized. The only reason I am aware of this is that my sister's birthday is coming up soon, and when we were kids our families used to give both of us "half-birthday" gifts on each other's birthdays. This was to reduce any hard feelings on the part of the one not having the birthday. Since my sister's birthday is in February and mine is in August, this worked out quite conveniently for our family.
I'll take my gifts in cash, thanks.
(Is just joke. No gifts, please. Just your undying adoration. That's enough.)
That's Ruby Hamwich to You
Miss Hamwich if you're nasty.
Go here to try the hobbit name generator: http://www.chriswetherell.com/hobbit/.
What I love most about it is that Viva's name "translates" to Dimple. Her true name, that is. If you use Viva, her name translates to Bramblerose. I kind of like Dimple better. And Sweet William must now and forever answer to "Bungo." HA!
Okay, so maybe I'm kind of behind the times in discovering this (it has apparently been around since 2000), but you know, I think all it proves is that The Lord of the Rings is timeless.
Fly, you fools!
Go here to try the hobbit name generator: http://www.chriswetherell.com/hobbit/.
What I love most about it is that Viva's name "translates" to Dimple. Her true name, that is. If you use Viva, her name translates to Bramblerose. I kind of like Dimple better. And Sweet William must now and forever answer to "Bungo." HA!
Okay, so maybe I'm kind of behind the times in discovering this (it has apparently been around since 2000), but you know, I think all it proves is that The Lord of the Rings is timeless.
Fly, you fools!
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
The Art of Conversation
A sampling of recent Viva conversations...
FUNNY
Setup: after fighting sleep for over an hour and screaming loudly throughout, Viva finally succumbed and slept through the night, waking up at nearly 8 AM and calling for me to come get her.
Me [picking her up]: Good morning, baby. You slept a long time.
Viva: Yeah, long time. [suddenly remembers, points to the crib:] I was scared!
Me [confused]: You were scared? What are you scared of?
Viva: I was screaming!
Me [realize she is talking about the night before]: Yeah, you were, I was there. It was loud!
Viva: Loud.
Me: What scared you? Are you scared of the dark?
Viva [frowns]: No.
Me: I mean, does it scare you when it's dark?
Viva: Yes...[looks confused, then:] I was screaming!
Me: Yeah, I know. Something scared you?
Viva [nods]: Screaming scares me.
Me [starting to laugh]: Your own screaming scares you?
Viva [laughing too, yells]: YEAH!
CUTE
Setup: We were supposed to meet our friends, Carolyn and Lucy, at the park at 10:30 this morning. We arrived at the park around 10:20, at which point Viva began to tell me she wanted to go home. She reiterated this point on the swings, on the slide, and in the sandbox. Finally, at around 11:00, I gave in, figuring Lucy must still be napping and we wouldn't be seeing them that day. Later, as I was snuggling Viva before her nap, we had the following exchange:
Viva: I play Lucy. I play Lucy. I play Lucy.
Me: Yeah, you wanted to play with Lucy, but she was sleeping. She was taking a nap when we were at the park. We'll play with her sometime soon.
Viva: Oh. [pause, then confidingly] I like Ca'lyn, too.
IMPOSSIBLE TO CATEGORIZE/POSSIBLY TOO GRAPHIC
Setup: I have just finished taking a shower and I am in the bathroom drying off and getting dressed. Viva is also in the bathroom, picking up Cheerios from the floor where she has dropped them and talking to me. She looks up as I am inserting a tampon.
Viva: You put in your bum-bum?
Me [trying desperately not to laugh]: WHAAAAT??? Nooooo, baby!
At which point, I lose the battle and we both just laugh and laugh, although she has no idea why. Oh my Gawd. It is too much!
FUNNY
Setup: after fighting sleep for over an hour and screaming loudly throughout, Viva finally succumbed and slept through the night, waking up at nearly 8 AM and calling for me to come get her.
Me [picking her up]: Good morning, baby. You slept a long time.
Viva: Yeah, long time. [suddenly remembers, points to the crib:] I was scared!
Me [confused]: You were scared? What are you scared of?
Viva: I was screaming!
Me [realize she is talking about the night before]: Yeah, you were, I was there. It was loud!
Viva: Loud.
Me: What scared you? Are you scared of the dark?
Viva [frowns]: No.
Me: I mean, does it scare you when it's dark?
Viva: Yes...[looks confused, then:] I was screaming!
Me: Yeah, I know. Something scared you?
Viva [nods]: Screaming scares me.
Me [starting to laugh]: Your own screaming scares you?
Viva [laughing too, yells]: YEAH!
CUTE
Setup: We were supposed to meet our friends, Carolyn and Lucy, at the park at 10:30 this morning. We arrived at the park around 10:20, at which point Viva began to tell me she wanted to go home. She reiterated this point on the swings, on the slide, and in the sandbox. Finally, at around 11:00, I gave in, figuring Lucy must still be napping and we wouldn't be seeing them that day. Later, as I was snuggling Viva before her nap, we had the following exchange:
Viva: I play Lucy. I play Lucy. I play Lucy.
Me: Yeah, you wanted to play with Lucy, but she was sleeping. She was taking a nap when we were at the park. We'll play with her sometime soon.
Viva: Oh. [pause, then confidingly] I like Ca'lyn, too.
IMPOSSIBLE TO CATEGORIZE/POSSIBLY TOO GRAPHIC
Setup: I have just finished taking a shower and I am in the bathroom drying off and getting dressed. Viva is also in the bathroom, picking up Cheerios from the floor where she has dropped them and talking to me. She looks up as I am inserting a tampon.
Viva: You put in your bum-bum?
Me [trying desperately not to laugh]: WHAAAAT??? Nooooo, baby!
At which point, I lose the battle and we both just laugh and laugh, although she has no idea why. Oh my Gawd. It is too much!
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Random Thoughts
This may be a very boring entry, but maybe I’m just a boring person. Or just very self-absorbed, as many bloggers are apparently accused of being. Whatever. For those that are still reading, I tip my hat (my pink Lakers baseball cap, that is) to you.
Now, here’s a question: why is it that when you are considering cutting all your hair off, someone inevitably tells you how good your hair looks? I ran into a lovely young woman in the elevator in my building last week, and she had a really cute short and curly natural hair cut. Since my hair is also curly and also natural (i.e. I no longer relax it because chemicals are bad bad BAD for your hair), I was thinking to myself, “Hm, that’s a cute look. Maybe I could do that.” Well, do you know that at that precise moment, she had the nerve to turn and tell me that my hair was beautiful? Can you believe that? I was taken aback.
In other breaking news, I recently finished a delightful book called Summerland, by Michael Chabon. If you are the type who likes stories that combine the real with the fanciful, I recommend it. It’s slightly Harry Potter-esque, but in a good way. I also highly recommend The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize.
In still other news, we have finished painting the living/dining room areas, have re-hung some of our pictures, and have cleaned the carpet. Now we just have to get curtains and our living room will be the bomb!
I may not have mentioned that our self-imposed deadline for finishing these home improvements was Superbowl Sunday, since we were having a small get-together. I guess I didn’t want to jinx us. At any rate, our Superbowl gathering went very well, and our guests made much of our paint job, having had to hear about it in painstaking detail over the past several weeks (much like yourselves). For those of you who are obsessed with food and its consumption, we had teriyaki chicken wing drummettes, wild rice salad, a green salad with red pears and mandarin oranges, sub sandwiches, tortilla chips with two kinds of salsa, and beer. Erp. And a variety of cookies for dessert…double erp.
Hey, speaking of which, I believe there are some cookies left. I’m letting you off the hook. Time for tea…
Now, here’s a question: why is it that when you are considering cutting all your hair off, someone inevitably tells you how good your hair looks? I ran into a lovely young woman in the elevator in my building last week, and she had a really cute short and curly natural hair cut. Since my hair is also curly and also natural (i.e. I no longer relax it because chemicals are bad bad BAD for your hair), I was thinking to myself, “Hm, that’s a cute look. Maybe I could do that.” Well, do you know that at that precise moment, she had the nerve to turn and tell me that my hair was beautiful? Can you believe that? I was taken aback.
In other breaking news, I recently finished a delightful book called Summerland, by Michael Chabon. If you are the type who likes stories that combine the real with the fanciful, I recommend it. It’s slightly Harry Potter-esque, but in a good way. I also highly recommend The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize.
In still other news, we have finished painting the living/dining room areas, have re-hung some of our pictures, and have cleaned the carpet. Now we just have to get curtains and our living room will be the bomb!
I may not have mentioned that our self-imposed deadline for finishing these home improvements was Superbowl Sunday, since we were having a small get-together. I guess I didn’t want to jinx us. At any rate, our Superbowl gathering went very well, and our guests made much of our paint job, having had to hear about it in painstaking detail over the past several weeks (much like yourselves). For those of you who are obsessed with food and its consumption, we had teriyaki chicken wing drummettes, wild rice salad, a green salad with red pears and mandarin oranges, sub sandwiches, tortilla chips with two kinds of salsa, and beer. Erp. And a variety of cookies for dessert…double erp.
Hey, speaking of which, I believe there are some cookies left. I’m letting you off the hook. Time for tea…
Friday, February 04, 2005
The Soap Opera Next Door
I almost just typed "next store"...what the hell is that about?
Anyhoo, about my next-door neighbor, who has been screaming on the phone for the last half-hour, making it difficult if not impossible to concentrate on anything:
1. First and foremost, he is from Boston. Translation: he is filled with rage. (Note well, I am also from Boston).
2. To keep his rage under control, he smokes a lot of pot. Like, a lot. Because if he doesn't, he gets "really aggro." And by a lot of pot, I mean "so much that the hallway on our floor pretty much always smells like pot." Nice when Grandma comes to visit.
3. Because he is such a weedhead and fits the stoner stereotype (shoulder-length blond hair, never wears a shirt, wears surfer clothes), we refer to him as "Dude."
4. Dude is married. Second or possibly third marriage -- he has one child from his previous marriage, but also has a stepson and a stepdaughter from someone before that. None of these children live with him, but they occasionally visit.
5. He claims he is thirty-six years old.
6. His wife, a twenty-seven year-old lovely from Japan, has left him more than once because she has caught him cheating on her.
7. He continues to cheat on her, and regularly brings his girlfriend to their apartment while his wife is at work.
8. The girlfriend is married, is a former friend of Dude's wife, and is practically a clone of Dude's wife (i.e., also a young, slim Japanese woman with long dark hair and high heels).
9. The reason Dude can bring the girlfriend over during the day is that he does not have the standard 9-to-5 gig. Since I have known him, he has worked as a stripper, a model, and a "concierge." In this last assignment, he was paid to procure drugs for a wealthy older gay man and then go back to his house to sit around with his shirt off while the man partook of said substances. Oh, and he also at one point was selling supplements. You know, the kinds the bodybuilders take.
10. I am not making any of this up. How could I?
Anyway, for a good portion of this afternoon, Dude has been on the phone with his girlfriend, on speakerphone. He yells at her for a couple of minutes, she hangs up, and then he calls her back. This has gone on for at least forty-five minutes now. He clearly thrives on drama.
I, on the other hand, could use some peace and quiet. My bedroom, where I like to write because all my writing stuff is at hand and I can hide it quickly if Viva wakes up unexpectedly, backs up to Dude's living room. So my writing time has been compromised somewhat today, but I have to give Dude some props because he may show up in one of my stories some day, with details ever so slightly altered. Have I mentioned that he has a dead tooth? Right in the front?
Booh-yah! I wish I had some microwave popcorn right now. It is quite a show. I might just call Mark Burnett and see if he wants to make a reality show out of this. Have I mentioned that the wife is bisexual? Is that titillating enough for prime-time? I have to say yes, yes it is.
I don't feel I am properly conveying just what a character Dude is, so give me one more shot at it: on their holiday card (yes, we're on their Christmas list!), Dude is wearing a crimson suit. With a crimson shirt. With a crimson tie. With a crimson belt. And parts of his suit, like his lapels, are shiny. And Dude's wife is wearing a dark velvet number with her midriff showing. Hot damn! Can you picture it? Because when I first saw this card, it took my breath away. I mean, come on.
The beauty of this too is that Sweet William and Dude, over time, have become friends of a sort. Sweet Willie goes next-door to watch football and such. This is one of those things that no one can prepare you for. Marriage brings all sorts of surprises.
And the fruit of that marriage is now making sounds via the baby monitor, indicating that she is awake and in need of attention. So for now, I must bid you adieu...
Anyhoo, about my next-door neighbor, who has been screaming on the phone for the last half-hour, making it difficult if not impossible to concentrate on anything:
1. First and foremost, he is from Boston. Translation: he is filled with rage. (Note well, I am also from Boston).
2. To keep his rage under control, he smokes a lot of pot. Like, a lot. Because if he doesn't, he gets "really aggro." And by a lot of pot, I mean "so much that the hallway on our floor pretty much always smells like pot." Nice when Grandma comes to visit.
3. Because he is such a weedhead and fits the stoner stereotype (shoulder-length blond hair, never wears a shirt, wears surfer clothes), we refer to him as "Dude."
4. Dude is married. Second or possibly third marriage -- he has one child from his previous marriage, but also has a stepson and a stepdaughter from someone before that. None of these children live with him, but they occasionally visit.
5. He claims he is thirty-six years old.
6. His wife, a twenty-seven year-old lovely from Japan, has left him more than once because she has caught him cheating on her.
7. He continues to cheat on her, and regularly brings his girlfriend to their apartment while his wife is at work.
8. The girlfriend is married, is a former friend of Dude's wife, and is practically a clone of Dude's wife (i.e., also a young, slim Japanese woman with long dark hair and high heels).
9. The reason Dude can bring the girlfriend over during the day is that he does not have the standard 9-to-5 gig. Since I have known him, he has worked as a stripper, a model, and a "concierge." In this last assignment, he was paid to procure drugs for a wealthy older gay man and then go back to his house to sit around with his shirt off while the man partook of said substances. Oh, and he also at one point was selling supplements. You know, the kinds the bodybuilders take.
10. I am not making any of this up. How could I?
Anyway, for a good portion of this afternoon, Dude has been on the phone with his girlfriend, on speakerphone. He yells at her for a couple of minutes, she hangs up, and then he calls her back. This has gone on for at least forty-five minutes now. He clearly thrives on drama.
I, on the other hand, could use some peace and quiet. My bedroom, where I like to write because all my writing stuff is at hand and I can hide it quickly if Viva wakes up unexpectedly, backs up to Dude's living room. So my writing time has been compromised somewhat today, but I have to give Dude some props because he may show up in one of my stories some day, with details ever so slightly altered. Have I mentioned that he has a dead tooth? Right in the front?
Booh-yah! I wish I had some microwave popcorn right now. It is quite a show. I might just call Mark Burnett and see if he wants to make a reality show out of this. Have I mentioned that the wife is bisexual? Is that titillating enough for prime-time? I have to say yes, yes it is.
I don't feel I am properly conveying just what a character Dude is, so give me one more shot at it: on their holiday card (yes, we're on their Christmas list!), Dude is wearing a crimson suit. With a crimson shirt. With a crimson tie. With a crimson belt. And parts of his suit, like his lapels, are shiny. And Dude's wife is wearing a dark velvet number with her midriff showing. Hot damn! Can you picture it? Because when I first saw this card, it took my breath away. I mean, come on.
The beauty of this too is that Sweet William and Dude, over time, have become friends of a sort. Sweet Willie goes next-door to watch football and such. This is one of those things that no one can prepare you for. Marriage brings all sorts of surprises.
And the fruit of that marriage is now making sounds via the baby monitor, indicating that she is awake and in need of attention. So for now, I must bid you adieu...
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