Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
we're flat as a pancake, germany
So over at my other blog, I talked about what I'm going to be doing in November.
Writing a 50,000 word NOVEL, WIENERS*. I mean, God willing. You can go read about what the hell I can possibly be thinking about by clicking here.
The upshot of this foolhardy endeavor is that The Gallivanting Monkey will not have the usual daily spate of up-to-the-minute reports for which it has become world-famous. (World-famous, I tell you! My stat counter tells me that I have visitors stopping by from such far-flung places as Egypt, Germany and Uzbekistan for up to 5 seconds at a time in search of* milk-inflated bosoms.) (Yes. Hope springs eternal for some dude in Germany. Herr Boobmann, keine boobs, zum hier zu sehen. Bewegen Sie entlang, okay? Bye-bye.)
*Now I'm going to be getting a bunch of visits from people in search of novel wieners. "What a novel wiener you have there, my good man. Positively groundbreaking!"
Does this mean that there will be a whole month of no new content on this blog? Friends, it does not. In between now and next Wednesday, I am going to try and bust out a few posts to scatter through the month for you. I'll write them now, and then toss 'em up here and there. And now and then I might pop on here and tell how you great or terrible I am at writing a novel.
Okay. I'm going right now to write some posts for you. When I post them, they'll all show up under whatever date I wrote the draft*, rather than the date they actually appear here. So don't be checking the date for freshness. These babies are going to be fresh to YOU.
Speaking of babies, here's the top of Finn's head:
See? That's all it takes for me. Man, it doesn't take much. He's got this little plastic lobster teething toy that he loves, with a little cartoon face. The fact that Finn loves it makes it a sacred object of great tenderness for me. I looked at it lying next to me on the couch the other night and had a brief boo-hoo on the spot.
Writing a 50,000 word NOVEL, WIENERS*. I mean, God willing. You can go read about what the hell I can possibly be thinking about by clicking here.
The upshot of this foolhardy endeavor is that The Gallivanting Monkey will not have the usual daily spate of up-to-the-minute reports for which it has become world-famous. (World-famous, I tell you! My stat counter tells me that I have visitors stopping by from such far-flung places as Egypt, Germany and Uzbekistan for up to 5 seconds at a time in search of* milk-inflated bosoms.) (Yes. Hope springs eternal for some dude in Germany. Herr Boobmann, keine boobs, zum hier zu sehen. Bewegen Sie entlang, okay? Bye-bye.)
*Now I'm going to be getting a bunch of visits from people in search of novel wieners. "What a novel wiener you have there, my good man. Positively groundbreaking!"
Does this mean that there will be a whole month of no new content on this blog? Friends, it does not. In between now and next Wednesday, I am going to try and bust out a few posts to scatter through the month for you. I'll write them now, and then toss 'em up here and there. And now and then I might pop on here and tell how you great or terrible I am at writing a novel.
Okay. I'm going right now to write some posts for you. When I post them, they'll all show up under whatever date I wrote the draft*, rather than the date they actually appear here. So don't be checking the date for freshness. These babies are going to be fresh to YOU.
Speaking of babies, here's the top of Finn's head:
See? That's all it takes for me. Man, it doesn't take much. He's got this little plastic lobster teething toy that he loves, with a little cartoon face. The fact that Finn loves it makes it a sacred object of great tenderness for me. I looked at it lying next to me on the couch the other night and had a brief boo-hoo on the spot.
Friday, October 20, 2006
six months in a leaky body
Finn Stanley John Rowley is six months old today. I think it's safe to say that he is a man, now. Men sit up on their own. Men bang you in the jaw with their heads twice in a row. Men wake up in the morning and begin their lectures. "Baaaaaaa," they say. "MrrrAAAAOOWglphhhh."
Men pull on your shirt and try and move it out of the way of their mouths. Men wear tights, yes, they do. They are the principal dancers in the Jack-0-lantern Ballet. The feet of the tights of men hang down a few inches below the actual feet of men. This is so that men can grab the feet of their tights while they're wearing them and wave their legs around manually. Men's opinion of pears from a jar changes weekly. Men look forward to rice cereal, because it won't be long now before men eat it. Men kiss your eyeballs. Men call bullshit on various things when they have reached a certain point of tiredness. Bullshit, they imply. And they are right.
When I was a young boy, I wanted to sail 'round the world....
That's the life for me.....living on the sea....
The spirit of a sailor circumnavigates the globe....
The lust of a pioneer will acknowledge no frontier....
Here's to you, Old Master Rowley. There's a world to explore, there's a town back on shore. You just spent six months in a leaky boat!
Love,
Mama
Thursday, October 19, 2006
voyage of the dawn treader
I'm writing this post from the waiting room of the sleep clinic at Swedish Hospital. My brother is here, as he is an inordinately sleepy man. Right now I'm sitting at a tiny round kid's table near the cardboard books, on an eensy padded chair. This is the piece of paper I'm writing on:
Writing on a scrap of paper I found in a waiting room makes me feel like a real, dedicated writer. I'll do this anywhere! Because I have to! I'm Hemingway!
But I'm not here to talk to you about writing, or sleep. I'm here to talk to you about action! I'm here to talk to you about me on the treadmill.
So, I've mentioned recently that I've joined Weight Watchers. Well, ladies and mofos, I have joined the shit out of it, in my opinion. It's a weird sensation, going to meetings and all that, but it's working so I'm into it. I have a big Weight Watchers ounce-tracking water-drinker mug with a built-in straw. (I won't bring it out in public though until I papier mache it over, though. It's too much like, I'm drinking this water because I'm FAT!) And I got the Weight Watchers Walking-To-Keep-Fit-Or-Whatever CD and DVD set. I haven't used the DVD because Camp Finn Entertainment is in the way of where I'd be walking and watching. And I can't watch tv from too far away across the room, can you? I just can't. It stresses me out, it gives me...agoraphobia or something. All that space between us, me and the tv. Ack, it's creepy, like I'm falling off the edge of the world. That this is some sort of sad commentary on something is not lost on me.
But I'm not here to talk to you about tv! The treadmill. I am ON it. I listen to the Weight Watchers CD and I pound the treadment like a hero. This is what I look at whilst treading:
This is some of what the encouraging lady says on the CD:
I'm proud of you for taking action today.
You're doing great.
Picture yourself in that new outfit. Don't you look great? Don't you feel great? Keep burning calories and walking and that picture will be a reality very soon.
Nice.
This is what I'm thinking about and imagining while I tread, my mental tread-fodder:
1. Don't think. Just look at those leaves. So pink. Red? Pink red. There's life in those leaves. There's life in me. It's the same life. Be quiet and feel the life in the leaves with the life in me.
2. I am on the catwalk. I am America's Smallest Next Top Model. I live in a world where a five foot woman who looks cute enough after she lost all her weight is considered model material. Or, no. They're just making an exception for me because I've got something so undeniably magnetic going on now that I am such a skinny little fairy. I've got some kind of fantastical geisha makeup on. Walk, walk. Man, that tiny old model has a great walk. Boomp, boomp. Many people I know are in the audience of this runway show, or watching it on tv. Wow, they say to their neighbors. I would never have pegged her as a model. Throw that on the pile of other amazing shit she can do that I didn't know about until recently. Have you heard her CD? I'll tell you later. She is working that jumpsuit.
3. Not that damned latin beat again. Snore. Snore clinic. Put my snore to bed!
4. Ah, the old lady Bob Barker music! My favorite. It's jazzy and pizzazzy. I wave my hands in the air like I'm a seventy-year-old lady who just doesn't care. Beemp beemp ba-deedee, beemp beemp ba-deedee! This reminds me of when I used to do water aerobics at the YWCA with Tricia. She hepped me to the beauty of water aerobics in a pool full of old people. A of all, it's one way to be exercising in a room full of people and not be the worst one in it. B of all, it's splashy! C of all, nobody but you and the instructor and the old people know that this old-people's-level class is the right level for you. D of all, it actually kind of kicks your ass. E of all, chlorine smells good. And finally, f of all, old people are largely excellent, and it's fun to smile back and forth with them supportively as we all try to speed walk across the bottom of the pool.
And this is what the treadmill counter looks like when I'm done:
Believe it.
Writing on a scrap of paper I found in a waiting room makes me feel like a real, dedicated writer. I'll do this anywhere! Because I have to! I'm Hemingway!
But I'm not here to talk to you about writing, or sleep. I'm here to talk to you about action! I'm here to talk to you about me on the treadmill.
So, I've mentioned recently that I've joined Weight Watchers. Well, ladies and mofos, I have joined the shit out of it, in my opinion. It's a weird sensation, going to meetings and all that, but it's working so I'm into it. I have a big Weight Watchers ounce-tracking water-drinker mug with a built-in straw. (I won't bring it out in public though until I papier mache it over, though. It's too much like, I'm drinking this water because I'm FAT!) And I got the Weight Watchers Walking-To-Keep-Fit-Or-Whatever CD and DVD set. I haven't used the DVD because Camp Finn Entertainment is in the way of where I'd be walking and watching. And I can't watch tv from too far away across the room, can you? I just can't. It stresses me out, it gives me...agoraphobia or something. All that space between us, me and the tv. Ack, it's creepy, like I'm falling off the edge of the world. That this is some sort of sad commentary on something is not lost on me.
But I'm not here to talk to you about tv! The treadmill. I am ON it. I listen to the Weight Watchers CD and I pound the treadment like a hero. This is what I look at whilst treading:
This is some of what the encouraging lady says on the CD:
I'm proud of you for taking action today.
You're doing great.
Picture yourself in that new outfit. Don't you look great? Don't you feel great? Keep burning calories and walking and that picture will be a reality very soon.
Nice.
This is what I'm thinking about and imagining while I tread, my mental tread-fodder:
1. Don't think. Just look at those leaves. So pink. Red? Pink red. There's life in those leaves. There's life in me. It's the same life. Be quiet and feel the life in the leaves with the life in me.
2. I am on the catwalk. I am America's Smallest Next Top Model. I live in a world where a five foot woman who looks cute enough after she lost all her weight is considered model material. Or, no. They're just making an exception for me because I've got something so undeniably magnetic going on now that I am such a skinny little fairy. I've got some kind of fantastical geisha makeup on. Walk, walk. Man, that tiny old model has a great walk. Boomp, boomp. Many people I know are in the audience of this runway show, or watching it on tv. Wow, they say to their neighbors. I would never have pegged her as a model. Throw that on the pile of other amazing shit she can do that I didn't know about until recently. Have you heard her CD? I'll tell you later. She is working that jumpsuit.
3. Not that damned latin beat again. Snore. Snore clinic. Put my snore to bed!
4. Ah, the old lady Bob Barker music! My favorite. It's jazzy and pizzazzy. I wave my hands in the air like I'm a seventy-year-old lady who just doesn't care. Beemp beemp ba-deedee, beemp beemp ba-deedee! This reminds me of when I used to do water aerobics at the YWCA with Tricia. She hepped me to the beauty of water aerobics in a pool full of old people. A of all, it's one way to be exercising in a room full of people and not be the worst one in it. B of all, it's splashy! C of all, nobody but you and the instructor and the old people know that this old-people's-level class is the right level for you. D of all, it actually kind of kicks your ass. E of all, chlorine smells good. And finally, f of all, old people are largely excellent, and it's fun to smile back and forth with them supportively as we all try to speed walk across the bottom of the pool.
And this is what the treadmill counter looks like when I'm done:
Believe it.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
we are still alive
Maybe you thought that we sold Finn and moved to some underground bunker. Maybe you thought that we died. Maybe you thought that we never even existed.
But we didn't, we didn't, we do.
Here is proof that we still have a son:
This photo is also proof that Finn enjoys eating pears out of a spoon. He's done it twice. Once with a crowd of onlookers, once in a private seating.
Finn also enjoys looking like he's about to enter high school when he stands up. He also enjoys eating couch cushions and despairing about his new teeth. They're starting to poke out of his lower gums, two of them, rudely. Finn will be six months old in a week. Sunrise, sunSET, mofos. Sunrise, sunset.
I'm sorry about the long absence from the blog! I have been supremely uninspired.
Some things that have happened:
*I watched Jules et Jim again, confirmed that it is indeed one of my favorite movies. It took me like four hours to watch it because I kept pausing it every two minutes to enjoy the trains of thought it sparked. Plus it was a beautiful grey dark autumn late afternoon, and the lamp was lit low and Finn was sleeping on my lap and the ambience was just right. Linger linger linger linger.
*I joined Weight Watchers two and a half weeks ago to lose baby weight and also I-quit-smoking-seven-years-ago weight. Now I am unphotographable, as I have disappeared. I can sneak up on everybody and eavesdrop on their conversations, with my five-pounds-thinner undetectability.
More soon. I'm serious.
But we didn't, we didn't, we do.
Here is proof that we still have a son:
This photo is also proof that Finn enjoys eating pears out of a spoon. He's done it twice. Once with a crowd of onlookers, once in a private seating.
Finn also enjoys looking like he's about to enter high school when he stands up. He also enjoys eating couch cushions and despairing about his new teeth. They're starting to poke out of his lower gums, two of them, rudely. Finn will be six months old in a week. Sunrise, sunSET, mofos. Sunrise, sunset.
I'm sorry about the long absence from the blog! I have been supremely uninspired.
Some things that have happened:
*I watched Jules et Jim again, confirmed that it is indeed one of my favorite movies. It took me like four hours to watch it because I kept pausing it every two minutes to enjoy the trains of thought it sparked. Plus it was a beautiful grey dark autumn late afternoon, and the lamp was lit low and Finn was sleeping on my lap and the ambience was just right. Linger linger linger linger.
*I joined Weight Watchers two and a half weeks ago to lose baby weight and also I-quit-smoking-seven-years-ago weight. Now I am unphotographable, as I have disappeared. I can sneak up on everybody and eavesdrop on their conversations, with my five-pounds-thinner undetectability.
More soon. I'm serious.
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