i could be a better time manag-

Happy Holidays, everybo
PANIC
I still have a few presents to wra

!!!!

Gotta g

sorrysorrysorrysorry

Yeah. I was all I'm gonna Nablopomo forever! Yeah.

I'm rehearsing a play. It's the best process maybe ever so far. My friend Kristen Kosmas wrote it and Mr. John Kazanjian is directing it. I feel completely stretched and inspired and on fire with it. Happy! And so, also, busy.

Later I will come on here and post house colors**. You can look at them and go, OH! Yes. Dreamy! Love that one. Oh! That one is great. Don't go, that color is stupid. Because we're not changing anything anymore.

Gotta get the Finn down for his nap and then start turning the house into the North Pole. Dave's mama is arriving from the South Pole* day after tomorrow, so we want to make it as super Northy and Yuley as possible.

*Queensland is the South Pole. It's just...tropical.

**Stupid Behr.com won't let me copy the colors off the website. Behr, Behr, what do you imagine I would have done with the images? How could I hurt you? How could I bring you down in any way I can't bring you down with an actual paint chip, mmm? I'm going to do it. I'm bringing you down with a paint chip.

Meanwhile, the color names for inside the house are: Canyon Mist. High Plateau. Shangri-La. Sapphireberry. Enduring. Apricot Flower. Pebbled Courtyard. Chinese Violet. Lady Luck. Bellflower. Just imagine them. Good, right? Good.

Also, how would I go about getting a job naming paint? I want that job.

sneak peek new house.

nablopomo day 30: hoot! hoot! bing bong gong ding ding!

At first I was like, what me thinkin'? Doing National Blog Posting Month like this. But I love it and I'm one of the people who's going to take this daily blogging thing and keep doing it. Except for weekends or if I'm crushed under a bookcase. Earlier in another post I was all, I'm going to do National Blog Posting Thirty Years instead. I was greatly underestimating my love of communicating things to people all the time. I try my hardest not to come across that way in person. It's important to me to be a person who doesn't talk people's ears off. You're welcome!


But I really like writing people's eyes off. I think it's a generous thing to do because I can be rambling on and on and you can simply walk away from the screen and run a bath. And I will never know. Well, I might know. I could see you in person and be like, so tell me what you thought about paragraph four of the post of December 12th! And if you're not like...oh, yes, the Chinese restaurant story, very winning...then I'll know. But I'm not going to ambush you like that, unless you're Dave, and then I'm only going to do that the minute I wrote the post and dragged you over to the computer to look at it and read it over your shoulder while you were reading it and asked you all the time which part you were chuckling about. I won't do it two weeks later. Dave. So don't worry.


Finally, I introduced these guys way back at the beginning of NaBloPoMo and then I totally abandoned them. So here they are in their final star-studded appearance. You will surely have to click to enlarge or else you are truly, truly bionic. If it doesn't work, tell me and I will...do something. I don't know what that would be. I will try and fix it! I don't know how I would do that. But...something!

nablopomo day 29: peekaboo blue

I just got my hair cut short. I believe that I am largely in favor of this haircut. My lovely hairstylist told me of a client who has three subtle areas of "peekaboo blue". This idea pleases me. I want to do it.

Like this, maybe:

nablopomo day 28: i meme me

Oh, will you look at that? I've just tagged myself for a meme. Tina! Really?! You want to know a hundred things about me? Oh, man. That's great.

A hundred things is a lot of things, so feel free to space out or play Free Cell or something while I'm doing this. This shit is self-indulgent in the extreme. I know.

Oh, screw it. I'm just going to do 28 things. For the 28th day of NaBloPoMo.

28 things...I don't even like to say "about me". That should be one. But it's not:

1. When I'm tired, often I will say, "Ooh la la" to express it.
2. I went to high school with a guy named John Belcher.
3. I went to college with a guy named John Burpee.
4. Before every performance, if I take a sip of water, I will burp four thousand times.
5. I get scared that I will go on stage burping.
6. This has never happened.
7. Also before I go on stage, I like to touch the walls backstage to feel their temperature.
8. Noticing cold or warm things with my hands calms my nerves.
9. 1983, end of freshman year in high school, voted Best Personality.
10. 1986, end of senior year in high school, expecting to receive this accolade again.
11. Voted class clown instead.
12. I'm sort of pleased, but also think, "Has my personality eroded?"
13. Also won "Patriot Award" at a special assembly where people's parents come and it's a surprise and everything and it's this deep honor.
14. Missed the assembly because my brother was graduating from Harvard.
15. Found this out after we returned from my brother's graduation.
16. Found out that my parents had known it all along.
17. Never knew why I won that award.
18. Am still mad.
19. When I say "am" without "I", I feel like I'm trying to be Bridget Jones.
20. I don't like to feel like that.
21. When others use the am-without-I construction, I am jealous of their freewheeling, not-caring-if-they-sound-like-Bridget-Jones ways.
22. I care too much what other people think.
23. I work against that as much as I can.
24. When I eat Indian food, I don't know or care if I'm full.
25. I love Gossip Girl.
26. Shut up. I love it. I don't care.
27. See 22 & 23.
28. I feel the pressure of this last item. This list should end with bang. It would be good it if were funny. But also extra-revealing. Shocking, maybe! Okay.
28. I'm pregnant!
28. I am not pregnant.

nablopomo day 27: animal orchestra

Welcome to the homestretch of National Blog Posting Month. We have accomplished a lot, have not we? Nearly thirty posts pressed together, doubtlessly boring my ones of readers with their sheer manyness. Like if you're my friend, and I send you one nice juicy email, that's probably kind of a treat. But if I do it thirty days in a row, you're probably like, okay, Tina. We're all caught up. If I send you thirty emails over the course of thirty years, however, you'll treasure each one a little more. Next time, I'm going to do National Blog Posting Thirty Years.

That said, let's take a look at my favorite of all of Finn's little books.



Animal Orchestra. It came out in 1958, and it's got all the wit and style of its era. Subtle pleasures abound in here! Okay. So, the premise is, it's Musical Day in Animal Town and the town orchestra is going to play and it's very exciting for everyone. I'll just show you my favorite bits.



Man, I love these nattily dressed musicians heading in for the show. The fox, the seal and the giraffe are all working the collar-up look (figs. 1, 2 & 3) and the llama, monkey and leopard are all sporting elegant, colorful scarves (figs. 4, 5 & 6). I want to give it up for the bear's scarf (fig. 7), but I just can't quite do it. That's a muffler. A muffler is a much smaller sartorial risk than a scarf that looks like it was tied by a Frenchwoman. In fairness, I can't see how the leopard's scarf is tied, but his scarf makes the cut because it's fucking Schiaparelli pink.



All right. Here's the audience waiting for the show. The best guy on this page is hands-down the owl (fig. 1). Can you believe how skeptical this motherfucker is? I love it. He's like, everyone is telling me this orchestra is very good but I will believe it when I see it. I could be at home reading Trollope. I also love the Great Dane (fig. 2). This guy is a serious fan. He's a classical music lover and he looks like he's getting into a nice meditative state to savor the evening's offerings. It's also interesting to note that most of the animals are wearing clothes, but some species tend toward nudity. The birds are all nudies, and so are the reptiles. And some of the mammals are like, well, if no one minds, I will also be nude. The baboon, for example, and the mouse. But I just want to give props to the moose or whoever that is (fig. 3) for wearing another of those fabulous scarves. I love men who have the balls to wear scarves. ("Men".)



I just think this fox has got it going on. I love how he's perched on the chair and getting into it. I bet this fox makes great time with the ladies.



The llama! Come on, man. He's wearing a bright pink suit and he's spitting! Balls to the wall, llama. I salute you.



Okay, so the show's over and it was a smash hit. I love the zebra's grin (fig. 1). That guy is a cute patootie. And the manic look in that cat's eyes (fig. 2) is great, too, I think. You know she's going to go home and write a letter to that fox about how she's the president of his fan club. She appears to be underage and so I hope the fox acts responsibly. It's tough to predict. And (fig. 3)the Great Dane! You'll notice in the previous audience picture that he's got a jacket on. Well, he threw it to the wind! It's gone. It's not on his lap. It could be on the back of his chair. But he also could have eaten it, because he is letting it all go tonight! The evening was everything he thought it was going to be. And best of all once again is the goddamned owl (fig. 4). He is a convert. Enough said.



Finally, I want to give a shout out to the orchestra itself. The text (if you can't read it) says:

The conductor bowed, and bowed and bowed.
All of the orchestra players were proud.

I love how just about everybody is letting their pride show on their faces (fig. 1). They're all smiling and bright-eyed. But the Rhino (fig. 2), God bless him, is all dignity. He's a professional. He's not going to show it. He probably thinks he just did his job, and these accolades maybe embarrass him. But you just know he's going to go home and weep into his pillow because of all the love that came their way. There's something behind his eyes that makes it look like he's just barely holding it all together. Rhino's gotta learn to let people in. I love him.

Animal Orchestra, ladies and gentlemen.

nablopomo day 26: self portrait with dave

This is some down-to-the-wire, up-to-the-minute posting. We're watching the movie* right this second. The day is almost gone. This will have to do.

nablopomo day 25: it really looked like it.

So. I was in the bathroom at the grocery store today.

Before I say anything else, I want to say in my defense that I hadn't eaten anything yet all day. I was woozy! Okay? Know that I was woozy.

I was in a stall, and the...personage in the next stall left and I saw the "leg" and "foot" of the personage and I was like

OH MY GOD IT'S A REINDEER. THERE'S A REINDEER IN HERE.

It was total wonderment.

For a second! Then I knew that it was a person with a cane.

But it looked like this!



That looks like a goddamned reindeer leg. It really does.

I wish it looked like that. It didn't look like that, all "sinewy" and "leg-shaped". It wasn't a cane like that. It was, frankly, a cane like this:



Yeah. Just straight up and down like that. So I'm super crazy.

I cannot stress enough the importance of a good breakfast.

nablopomo day 24: aussie! aussie! aussie!

Oi! Oi! Oi!

Elections just happened in Australia, and their conservative prime minister -

this crankypants right here, John Howard - has just been voted out of office after eleven years! The Labor party candidate won! And now Labor is in control all over Australia!



Hello, Kevin Rudd! Congratulations.

PLUS! The Green party now holds the balance of power in the senate, so ain't nothing going to fly without their say-so. Go Earth!



We Aussie battlers - large, small, and ersatz alike - are going to celebrate tonight. We're going to have

meat pie and chips but not with the new prime minister and a morning television personality dancing on it. I will also make it without the words "iStockphoto" on it.

Also, I'm going to make pavlova....



....delicious, delicious pavlova, the nationally beloved dessert of Australia.

Crikey! Have a go, ya mug! Ratify the Kyoto treaty! Be a harbinger of things to come*!

*It's the only kind of harbinger you can be, I think. You never hear about any other harbingers. Poor other harbingers with their low, low profile. Maybe they like it that way. Maybe they're a private people.

nablopomo day 23: no one will care if I don't post

Except me. I will care. But this will be the tiniest post ever because I'm being a pirate on Facebook right now and so is Dave - on different computers - (we are the sexiest! couple! in! the! world!) and we keep throwing bombs at each other and leaving monkey/dynamite booby traps for each other and oh my god you guys it's awesome. It's like we're connecting, you know?

When we renew our vows someday I want us to do it on

this deserted Facebook pirate island. We can SEARCH FOR SOME BOOTY IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN oh man that is rich arrgh I be killing myself. Killin' myself. Killing myself sounds like I am taking my life. I'm not taking this life! I've got gold to live for, and monkeys!

Arrgh, back to enemy waters. Tomorrow I'll tell you about me voiceover I did today. This old salty dog loves doing voiceovers.

nablooblygooble day 22: self portrait

nablablabla day 21: loch ness monster!

You think Finn is just sticking out his tongue. Oh....oh, no. No. This, what you are seeing, is a rare and precious sighting of The Awesome Thing Finn Does Which Never Happens When a Camera Is Around.

He's not sticking his tongue out. He's winking.

This is how he winks!!

!!!!!!!!*


You wink at him and you're like, now you wink at me. And most of the time he just looks at you blankly for a second and then wanders off to read the Talbots catalog. But sometimes! Some lucky rare times, he will bust out this weird wink of his! This weird tongue-sticking-out but eyes-doing-nothing!! wink. And that is rare and ultra-bitchen, but this was the one time we've ever been able to catch The Wink on camera.

It's like Halley's coment. It's like Nessie. (Nessie is real, ok? For my purposes here? Real and just really rare.)

*I understand that my enthusiasm level for this move of his is higher than yours can ever be. I don't need for you to freak out like I'm doing. But you can if you want because it's AWESOME, MOFOS!!! OMG.

nablopomo day 20: self portrait

nablopomo day what is this? 19?: for my consideration

I'm cooking the Thanksgiving meal this year. Vegetarian, no problem, I grew up that way. As long as I can use butter and eggs and cheese and cream and milk, we'll eat well. The trick this year? Making food for our guests - a pair of beloved, ancient and finicky vegans.

The vegan part isn't even a problem. We'll do a split of lacto-ovo and vegan offerings. No sweat. It's the ancient and finicky part. That's what's freaking me out a little.

we've got a real type of thing going down

Finn constantly wants us to turn this mother out. It's in heavy rotation in that funky little mind.

I'm halfway through a birthday party out in the world. I came home to get Finn to sleep. It's halftime and Dave is the entertainment at the sleeperbowl. I have to get back in there and close the deal. What we don't need right now is the funk. He's a little overfunky in there. That's supposed to be mama's job tonight.

nablopomo day 17: self-portrait

nablopomo day 16: light from the heart nebula

Tonight on his way to sleep, Finn said to me, "Mommy. I love you."

It was the first time.

nablopomo day 15: ffffffffffffft

You know when your day starts out with a 911 call that blogging is not going to be your top priority. Everyone's all right. My mom is on a pulmonary embolism watch. Most likely she's fine. But we had some drama. And I don't have the verve to give Stan the post he deserves. Part Two of the Stan post will come as soon as I am full of the necessary beans.

National Blog Posting Month. It's not mandatory. There is no big carrot at the end of it for the blogging rabbit of me. Why am I doing it? Because I said I would and I want to keep my word. Damn it.

WHY, WHY DO I HAVE SO MUCH INTEGRITY??

Oh, lord, ha ha! Ha. Ha ha ha. So much. I am swimming in it. I have no other qualities. Just that one.

Goodbye, November 15th. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.

happy birthday, stan: part one

This beautiful guy here is Dave's dad, Stan Rowley. He would have been 64 today. He died in March 2004, of lung cancer. But Dave and I met late in 2003, so I got to meet him and spend a little time with him. Lucky!

I'm going to do this like a Christmas stocking, where I pull out an item and we look at it together. It'll be a belated birthday stocking. That's what.

*A good thing about falling in love with Dave is that here's a man who knows what true love is - he got to see it in action all his life, watching his mama and papa. Stan and Larraine were together for forty years and they were like teenagers all the way. Intensely, madly in love. It's great to join a clan that has that kind of goodness at its base, right?

To be continued tomorrow.

nablopomo day 13: triumph of the hatrabbit!

Dave got another poem published! Click, click and see.

Juked is the journal.
Good Intentions Snap Like Yesterday's Breadstick is the poem.

Dave fact of the day: He loves the band this dude loves.


Quoth the mutt:
Ace Frehley rulz!

I don't usually provide Dave facts of the day. This is a special offer.

nablopomo day 12: nanowrimo flashback

Hello. Please enjoy the last bit of the QUOTEnovelUNQUOTE I wrote last year. These last few hundred words of the novel are what happens before the rest of the novel begins.

.............

............

...

Okay, I'll tell you! What happens is there's a big earthquake and Annabelle survives but her boyfriend Carl does not! Also, her mother Lori died a few years back. So, two dead people! This is really moving. Remember that it's really super moving. Her father dies in the earthquake, too, incidentally. Unbelievably moving. But we don't talk about him here. Thank God! You'd all have to run to the store for more Kleenexes partway through the post.

There's a part where it's all black. A black part. That is the INDESCRIBABILITY.

*****************
7:00 a.m. Annabelle is dreaming. She dreams that she is on an enormous cruise ship, in choppy waters. She and her mother are traveling together. Lori and Annabelle are shopping in the cruise ship's megacomplex mall. Annabelle is happy to be with her mother. She's aware that Lori died once, but Lori is here now so that is all that matters. That death must not have taken. Lori is not how Annabelle remembered her in life. This Lori is gossipy, bubbly, more like a girlfriend than an authority figure. In life, Annabelle's mother was warm but distant. Annabelle could get only so close to her, and then her mother would retreat. This Lori snuggles up to her, takes her arm while they shop. Annabelle is amazed and delighted. Lori has booked this cruise for them to be closer together. Now Lori is shopping for her, wants to buy her something special. A new outfit. Lori is showing her the sorts of things Annabelle used to wear. She has access to old clothes of Annabelle's, right in the shop. Underneath fluorescent lights, Lori rifles through one of these historical racks. Khakis, tee shirts, cotton sweaters from Annabelle's high school days. Inoffensive clothes that didn't stand out, invite praise or scorn. Lori looks at Annabelle to see if she understands. Annabelle isn't sure what she is supposed to understand. The ship sways a little. Annabelle recognizes this shop. It is like a Lerner's, or a Lamont's, a mini cruise ship version of the sort of store Annabelle and her mother shopped in during Annabelle's youth. Lori leads her out of the dingy shop with its overhead light, leads her by the arm down the main promenade, which is all glossy wood and potted trees and elegant track lighting. Lori is taking her somewhere new. Lori spontaneously gives Annabelle a kiss on the cheek. Suddenly Annabelle wants to stop and find a bench, snuggle up with her mother, climb on to her lap.

Annabelle is smaller than she was when the dream began, and younger. Lori looks at Annabelle with surprise, notes the change. Annabelle smiles up to her mother. She feels cozy, protected. Lori puts an arm around Annabelle's shoulder, kisses the top of her head. Lori looks a little bit sad. Lori leads them to the next shop with purpose. This shop is dim, candle-lit. The sorts of clothes here are the sorts that Annabelle the adult would never wear. Annabelle may be a child now in the dream, but she remains tethered to the fact of her daylight adult standing. These clothes are brightly colored, sexy, flowing. Annabelle expects to hate them, but she has a child's eye now and sees these as magnificent dress-up clothes. She could be a woman in them. Lori is searching for something among the tables, hanging along the walls. Lori is becoming distraught. Lori becomes haphazard. Annabelle watches her nervously. Lori grabs Annabelle, brings her over to a mirror. She piles gold necklaces around Annabelle's throat and chest. She pulls a long royal blue silk dress over Annabelle's head. The dress swims to the floor, pools around her. Lori grabs gold bangles and shoves them on both of Annabelle's wrists. The shopkeeper signals something to Lori. Annabelle sees Lori looks at the shopkeeper intensely, a plea. The shopkeeper shakes her head. Lori stands behind Annabelle at the mirror, grasps her shoulders, and the two of them look at Annabelle in the reflection. Annabelle thinks she looks like a painting, one of Klimt's ferocious ladies. Annabelle laughs. Lori is feverishly analyzing Annabelle to see if she has forgotten anything. "I'm sorry," says the shopkeeper, "We're closing." Lori bows her head. The ship sways severely. Annabelle loses her footing, reaches for Lori and finds that she has gone.

8:00 a.m. Annabelle wakes, remembers snatches of gold jewelry from her dream, has a brief hold on its entirety and then she stretches and the dream has evaporated. Annabelle lies still to see if the dream will come back. Someone was there. But morning and Annabelle's cool, warm sheets are physical and real, and Annabelle enters the day. Carl is next to her, asleep. The morning is still dark. Annabelle is not working today, but she has slept enough. Annabelle would like to get up, enjoy the quiet of the dawn. First she rolls over and looks at Carl. Carl has traveled lower on the bed than his pillow during the night. It rests at the top of his head like a large, kooky hat. Annabelle wants to wake him up and tell him about his hat, but she nestles into him instead. He murmurs, remains asleep. Carl smells vaguely sweet. Annabelle wraps his bare arm around her, bites into his bicep. She stays like that for a minute, with his arm stuffed in her wide-open mouth. She lies there blankly, peacefully. She imagines Carl's arm to be a life ring, the bed to be an ocean. She floats there and falls back asleep.

9:45 a.m. Carl is hurrying himself out of bed and swearing. Derek is out of town and Carl has forgotten to go and feed his cat. Mike will be waiting there, starving. Mike is a popular cat among their friends. A whole personality and backstory has been attributed to Mike. Mike is small, black and sleek. Mike can mix a mean martini, goes the lore. Mike was once arrested for protesting the WTO, rumor has it. He was maced in the face by a renegade cop. Mike is secretly writing a screenplay. Bad breakup? Tell Mike about it. He'll understand and advise. Mike does Derek's taxes each year. Mike also has political aspirations. Mike is probably looking for Carl and Annabelle's number as we speak. "Hold on, Mike," calls Carl out into the air, "I'm coming. Goddamnit." "Miiiike," says Annabelle. "Make him make you breakfast after you make his breakfast, " she counsels. "I'm not making him make me breakfast," says Carl. "I'm gonna make him fix my alignment." Carl has pulled on jeans, socks, a sweatshirt and a baseball cap. He has grabbed his navy sneakers, and he sits on the edge of the bed to put them on. Annabelle rolls out of bed and crouches on the floor in front of Carl. "I'm tying these guys," she says of his sneakers. "I am in the mood. I am going to tie your feet together. Then you'll have to stay here and make French toast." "Don't tie them together." "I will, a little." "Mike." "Miiiiike. Calm down, Mike." "Don't tie them like that." "Arrgh. Okay. I'm doing it right now. This will, check it out, this is an excellent tie. These babies shall not come untied. This is proper." "Do you really want French toast later?" "Yes!" "All right, baby. We'll have it. We'll make it or we'll go out." "Sweet." Carl is ready. Annabelle stands up and curls in for a hug. Carl hugs her. They have a small kiss. "Love you, bunny," she says. "Love you," he says. "Back in an hour. Like an hour. I might play a video game. Call me if you're getting too hungry." "I will." Carl grabs keys off the dresser, rounds into the living room and out the front door. Pa-chunk, says the door as he pulls it closed.

10:30 a.m. Now we know what kind of day it is. It's a sunny one. A cold, sunny one. Annabelle can see the day in front of her. Breakfast. Movie. Lounge around. A walk. Annabelle is almost dressed to go out for breakfast. She has jeans on, shoes on. In this load of laundry, she has that fluffy coat thing that she loves and will go out to breakfast wearing. She piles the laundry into the laundry basket, sizzling and staticky. The Blue Star, thinks Annabelle. French toast and an egg and hashbrowns. Not so fast. The Five Spot. Forager's Forest omelette. The Hi-Spot. Green Eggs and Ham. Bengal Curry Egg Thing. Big biscuit. Biscuit and jam. Jam and butter. Hello, Hi-Spot. Annabelle is calling Carl when she is done folding this laundry. The sun sneaks in the side window of the basement, touches Annabelle's head as she approaches the stairs.

10:32.a.m. The earthquake begins. Michael's sound is sounding. It's finally come.

10:33 a.m.

Do you know that when a baby is ready to be born, it secretes a hormone that travels to the brain of the mother. The hormone is estrogen. Estrogen is womanliness. Then the mother's pituitary gland releases oxytocin, while the mother's womb prepares to receive it. Oxytocin is love, and the womb is your house. Your house becomes sensitive to love. God is where love is from. Your house becomes sensitive to God. Your house has become too small for you. You are pressing to get out. The shaking begins, so you can.

nablopomo day 11: we got the funk

Winona Ryder asks herself, Why am I here? What have I to do with funk? You will see.

Which funk will I relate first? We're stinkin' lousy with funk over up in here.

Yesterday we had a raging party with all of Finn's stuffed animals. The party started on the chair. And dude, everybody was there. Koala was there. Mr. Pink. Elephantito. Teddy Bear. Other Teddy Bear. Old Teddy Bear. Bernard. Mrs. Kookaburra. Brooklyn. Bunny. Bunny Ilene made. Nordy. Monster. Ugly Doll. Small white teddy bear with the red bow - a totally obscure motherfucker who came out of the woodwork to get down. Miss Kitty. Giraffe. Leopold. Everyone. Everyone.

It started on the chair but the cops came and we took it to the playpen.

And look. Everybody at that party was WILLING to get down, but couldn't really get down of their own accord. So at one point Finn kept handing me partygoers to make them dance, and I had the whole party squeezed precariously in my arms, moving them back and forth and singing, "We got the funk. Gotta have that funk. Ow." Over and over. And Finn kept piling stuffed things on me and yelling, "Funk!" or "We need the funk!"

Later at dinner* Finn said to me, "We need the funk." I agreed and then he said, "Get it."

*In the diamond room. He calls the dining room the diamond room. And yesterday he even called it the funky diamond room. Oh, hell yes. I love to take my meals in the Funky Diamond Room.

I can't get the funk for you, son. You have to summon your own funk from within.

So he's practicing. He's a little, uh, literal with that at this point. He was in his crib this morning, and we gave him a couple of magazines and a book and a booklight to play with to pass the time until we were ready to get up and get going with him. He said to me at one point, "Poop." And sometimes he just says it, you know? Apropos of nothing. So I didn't leap out of bed like, ARE YOU SERIOUS?! I was just like, oh, really? I see. Poop. Yes. And then he kept talking about other things.

Gobe.

What, honey?

Gogue.

Gogue? Oh, Vogue. Vogue.

I got Vogue magazine.

You got Vogue magazine, huh?

What in it?

Look and see, honey?

Ladies. A lady.

Ladies, yeah, that' s right.

Poop.

And then Dave came back into the room and pointed out that he had pulled out his own poop-free diaper through his pants leg, and then pooped down his leg onto the crib and also on to that issue of Vogue he was looking at. He got Vogue, yes, he did. He also got The New Yorker. Perhaps he was making some kind of bold performance art statement about the media.

nablopomo day 10: biffed it!

Oh, fuck, you guys. I have biffed it!

All right. So I just read this unbelievably great book. This be the book:



The picture is so tiny that you perhaps can't read the subtitle, seeing as how you are probably not bionic. The subtitle - or screw it! The whole title is But Enough about Me: How a Small Town Girl Went from Shag Carpet to the Red Carpet (click, go, buy) and it's by Jancee Dunn, who's written for Rolling Stone for umpteen years, among many other things.

It's funny and charming in the extreme, this book! I would put a little funny excerpt on here for you but I'd have to climb over my sleeping family right now to get the book from my nightstand, and then I wouldn't get to do it anyway because I'd have to breastfeed somebody immediately because I woke them up.

(Dave, it isn't fair. You're a big man now. I think we should gently, gently think about weaning.) (Now you're going to freak out when you read this and I'm going to have to breastfeed you to calm you down. I want out of this cycle, honey.)

So, not only did Jancee Dunn write this great book, but I found out that she also has a blog! Go look. So I went to her blog and was swimming around in there, frolicking around in all of the fun, and I left this long comment. Part of the comment was...see, she has a sidebar with praise for her book, and one of the pieces of praise comes from a guy named Matthew Klam. And Klam! What a great last name, right? Mr. Klam. It's probably pronounced "Klahm". But that's not how I read it. And so in the comments I was like, Klam! That's the best last name I've heard in a while!

And then I read more and I realize that one of her best friends, Julie, whom she talks about in her book, is very likely married to or the sister of Matthew Klam, and so I've inadvertently kind of KIND OF made fun of her best friend's last name! This when I'm leaving a long comment the subtext of which is WE COULD BE FRIENDS, MISS DUNN. THINK ABOUT IT. YOU'D LIKE ME.

Listen, Jancee. My maiden name is Kunz. If you're perturbed with me, please imagine how my name got mispronounced right and left. Yes, that's right. That's how. So I have nothing but love for a potentially dicey last name. Please forgive me. You, too, Julie. Peace. Peace, bras.

nablopomo day 9: great moments in recognition

So, I may have mentioned somewhere on this blog how I crave recognition. Glory! More glory! Will there be any glory for me today?! I will get out of bed and find out!

It is sad. And it is true. And every time even a drop of recognition has come my way, I have gnawed on the bone of it and dragged the bone around and knitted little sweaters for it to this very day.

Today has been glory-free so far. So let's review, let's pull out a few old bones in their little colorful pullovers and admire them. Who's pretty?! Who's a pretty little bone?! You are!

*I am in third grade. We are going to be having some kind of class picnic or class party or something. Something is going to happen where we eat cool food. A boy who is universally considered irritating is absent today. I call out to the class in a fit of verve, "Guess what ______ ________ is going to be eating today?! Get this: burnt toast!" And the class erupts into appreciative laughter. Maybe even cheers! (Maybe not cheers.) But, oh, man! I set it up and drove it home! Boo-ya.

*1982. Eighth grade. Yearbook signing time. I have been working some fashion-forward looks this year. Mini skirts and headbands and leg 0'mutton sleeves. We pass the yearbooks around Spanish class. The little dude I have a crush on writes, "You're pretty cool for an 8th grader. Love, ______ P.S. The mini skirts are pimp." THE MINI SKIRTS ARE PIMP. OMG.

*College. After my final, extra fall semester, I come back in the spring for the Drama Banquet. (I was a drama major. Yes.) (Drama. Drama! It's such a funny word for a major. I'm majoring in DRAMA! Oh, mercy! You would not BELIEVE what happened in class. I don't know where to START. I'm MORtally EXHAUSTED. ) Anyway. My fingers have been crossed, and it happens. I win Best Actress - it's a split between me and my friend Sheila. But we are awarded little silver bracelets with our names engraved on them. Harper Joy Theater. Best Actress. 1990-1991. Tina Kunz. And our names go up on a plaque in the theater. I feel like I have won an Academy Award. (Which is just as well, that I feel that way. Because the actual feeling of winning an Oscar is going to remain shrouded in mystery until I die. Unless I bust out a geriatric movie career that sets the world on fire. ) In the few years that follow, I look at the little bracelet hanging on the doorknob or lounging in a drawer and it looks to me like a little gold man and I wonder how I can casually work it into conversation that I am an award-winning actress.

*The Blue Mountains of Australia, 2004. We're living at a friend's house. Three little girls live next door. The first time they come to say hello to me, I paint their faces on the back porch. They can't believe their good fortune, that I'm doing this. The youngest one, Megan, says to me with awe, "You're the best lady I've ever seen." This is the least tough crowd I've ever played.

nablopomo day 8: oh, the simplicity!

Dave was telling me today that apparently this guy - Graham Kennedy, who was an Australian comedian and Johnny Carson-esque figure - did a bit that got him taken off the air for a couple of weeks.

He did this crow call:

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahck!

I can't stop laughing about it. I love it. It's so stupid. It's so simple and pure and retarded and perfect.

early signs of genius - nablopomo day 7

When I was a child, I wanted to be a writer. I liked writing things that were

crammedfullofbeauty.

This is the kind of gorgeous, pretty, lovely writing I used to do when I was, oh, say, eleven:

Gwendalinda Masterington was walking out of the study in her green velveteen day dress. The brown flowers on the small Chinese buttons echoed the chocolate gloss of Gwendalinda's thick curls. The skirt was full and rustled thickly as she strode into the hallway. She tucked her rose red hair ribbon purposefully behind her ear, which was next to her long, sideswept bangs. Gwendalinda was on her way to go change into her royal blue evening taffeta. The sun had been shining on the lake all day like diamonds on sapphires.

Had I finished this novel, here's what would have happened:

Gwendalinda would have walked from room to room changing clothes, and possibly, possibly, showing some emotions if things got cooking. The plot would have been, "Here's our heroine. Um. Look at her. That's her dress...and, um. She's pretty. That's her other dress. It's out of a different fabric, and it's a different color. She has some other ones, too, I'll show you. And...if she were ever in any situations, she would be all heroine-y. Hey, look at the sky! Clouds, beautiful clouds that show my gift for description. And now Gwendalinda will be crying! Look at her. Feel the feeling of the feelings I evoke. Listen to her heels clicking on the floor on her way out of the room. Click, click. (Sound effects, even, for reality.) She's gone, now. And that was the story. That was the novel. Please now go away."

Last year I did NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I believe I mentioned that in a previous post. I wrote 50,000 words of a novel. I had a heroine, and she felt feelings, and (sort of! sort of!) had situations but I'm afraid I didn't say enough about what she was wearing all the time. I could have made that baby 100,000 words.

I could have made it 200,000 words.

yes, it is, honey. yes, it is.

This is a Pink Pearl apple. Can you believe it? Can you believe its pearly pink flesh? You may have thought MY GOD WOMAN YOUR GUMS ARE BLEEDING GET THEE TO A DENTIST but no! This is the weird true pink flesh of this apple. Also, it's delicious.



This is how the apple looks not in my hand but on my computer table. Hmm! I see!



Here is Dave, preparing his water bottle. He'll be drinking water with...



...this bean and cheese quesadilla. Poor Dave. Me, I am eating these weird, lyrical apples, and he is eating prosaic stuffed tortillas. I chronicle this. I'm chronicling this.



Yes, it's NaBloPoMo. Day 6. Dave's quote while this last picture was being taken:

It's going to be a long month, isn't it.

It's important to note that he didn't say it like a question.

the halloween report

We had a fantastic time at the Halloween Awesomehead Convention of Adorableheads, yes we did. Man, this was the baby's first really dialed-in holiday, and it was a joy.



I was briefly afraid that Dave and I wouldn't get it together to carve jack-o-lanterns but after Finn went to bed on the night before Halloween, we pulled it out! This was Dave's first pumpkin carving, as a transplanted Australian. And it was kind of mine, too! You see, I was the baby of the family. Everybody else always handled the carving. I just wandered by and idly patted them on the back, "That looks great, you guys. Carry on. I'm going to go draw on a wall or something." And I didn't have the impetus to spearhead my own pumpkin carving until Finn came along. But there they are up there! I feel that we did well for first-timers. We didn't make, like, pumpkin lace or anything, intricate cobweb headgear, any of that tricky advanced stuff. But these jack-o-lanterns represented, I think.



Finn was psyched when he came downstairs and saw them. "CUTE!!!" he yelled. "FUNNY! GREAT PUMPKINS!!" He wanted to pat them and hold them and hug them. "Hug pumpkins!"



The skeleton suit isn't bad, but it's not like we made it or anything. And the surfer hood sticking out sort of dilutes the look, but, dude. Babies gotta be warm. Dave liked the simplicity of the skeleton suit, and I agreed with him. But I'd lobbied mildly for a pirate suit for him. I'm glad we went this route. Honey. If you're reading this. Which you will be, because I make you. I liked the skeleton suit.



Here we are at the University Village. None of our photos captures, or can capture, the mayhem of University Village at trick or treat time on Halloween. Mardi Gras. New Orleans. But for babies. I'm telling you. The joint was crammed with butterflies and Spidermen and Harry Potters and dinosaurs and bears and charming awesomeness. The Gap, in an apparent effort to protect the teeth of the future, was giving out stickers.



The whole trick-or-treat concept was a little wobbly for Finn. He could say "trick or treat" but he never launched it during the actual moment. This blue arm above is attached to a woman dressed up as a giant Ugly Doll. Finn became obsessed with the big Ugly Doll.



"Big Ugly Doll!! CUTE!!!" He kept saying it after we'd left the scene so we came back and got a photo with her.



Oh, he's just that into you. He's into you, all right, Ugly Doll.



All in all, Finn got about five pieces of candy, all of which Dave and I ate in the car on the way home. He's too young for candy. But he's not too young to score a small Kit-Kat for the woman what gave birth to him.



At home, to receive trick-or-treaters, I busted out the witch hat and a black outfit. You can't tell from this photo, but Finn was fairly impressed. But I can't compete with the pumpkins. The pumpkins are his first love.



All in all, Finn's mind was properly blown by this Halloween. As he was going to bed he cuddled with me and Dave and told us what he'd seen. "Boys and girls! Walking the ROAD! Cos'umes! Pumpkin. Many, many!" He could barely fall asleep. And then he woke up at four in the morning, still wired. We went ahead and took him downstairs for a brief visit with the pumpkins. We told him that the pumpkins were smiling at him. And he yelled and waved at them,

"Hello! Hello, pumpkins!"