i didn't like the old title of this post but i don't have a new one in any case it's about being a pirate

Ahoy. I be Tina Rowley, Level 60 Barbary Pirate of Facebook. At yer service. Or no, no. At nobody's service! That's not piratey to be at your service, I think.

I love being a pirate because I love things that are a little bit boring. It's lulling to be a Facebook pirate. Soothing. Mind-numbing. Hypnotically retarded.

It's like this, it looks like this.



You're sailing along in your little ship. Only, of course, you're just looking at a sad little cartoon of a ship. You click along, and approach land, enemy ships or just nothing. Mostly nothing. With small variations in weather.



Partly cloudy. Doot doo-doo.



Click. Click.



Storm cloud! They tell you to go back to harbor. I don't go back to harbor. That's right. You heard me. I go on. What?! Tina, no! No to YOU. I go on.



I get caught in a hurricane. Or, yeah. There's a cartoon in front of me with a grey ice cream cone on it. As a result, I am stronger. Or my ship breaks and another kind of pirate ship that's cuter than my kind - stripey red sails - saves me and I become that kind of pirate for a while. But they're called Buccaneers, and though my ship is cuter now, I miss being called a Barbary pirate. But then after I do this for four hours another hurricane comes and my ship breaks and a Barbary pirate ship saves me and I'm a Barbary pirate again. So, now when they tell me to go back to harbor, I do because I don't want to be a Buccaneer pirate again. Or a CorSAIR pirate, whatever THAT is, even if their ships are drop-dead adorable, which I don't know. So, when I said I go on before, I was talking about when I was young, before I learned.



Sailing again. What I really like finding is a desert island. You can find booty or bury your booty. There are no options like shaking your booty or booty calls on these islands, but I don't need those options. I am "all" "about" "the benjamins".



Score! Island! Search for booty!



This is what you want to see. Coins! Coins coins coins pirate coins arrgh. But usually, you do not. You see nothing, and yer back to sailin'.





I should enjoy it when I run into the next thing here, but I don't.



This is an enemy town. First of all, this is a lame graphic. I just can't get excited about pillaging this scene. It looks like a bunch of paper clip factories to me. Second of all...

...

...

...c'mere a second. Away from my crew. I have three crew members. You guys...I think my crew is also lame. They go in and attack a house and frequently just barely escape with their lives. Or they get robbed. Or they pillage, like, one coin. Sometimes they'll have a good night and bust out of there with 16 coins, or, like, 35 on a real wing-dinger. But while they're in there pillaging for that split second, I'm like, come on boys. I'm shaking my head. Let's pull something out, dorks. If I were, say, their parent, I would not be a proud parent. Those are my boys! I would be one of those assholes at the Little League games who are all C'MON, TOMMY, LOOK ALIVE WHAT WAS THAT YOU CALL THAT INFIELDING?!



But I love it, this tiny stupid sea. I buy new cannons with me coins. I click and look at the fake weather. I fight enemy ships (I had no graphics I could copy to show you) and throw bombs at my friends who are pirates and I steal their coins. I "eat" "ham". I explore north. I explore south. I row, row, row me boat. I stare at this same tiny cartoon. I waste my god-given talents, whatever they may be, and grow small increments older in the most relaxing way. Like visiting a flat, five-inch, fake spa.

an aside

Finn, in bed two nights ago as he's falling asleep:

Oh Mary strawberry Oh Mary strawberry Oh Mary strawberry very very educational. Very educational.

Long pause.

Oh my gracious.

************

I'm cranky and weird and will post something good the minute I kick myself out of this mood.

what it's like around here

this just in

This morning Finn was flipping through catalogs as usual, saying "More ladies."

And then he added a twist.

"All aboard, ladies."



If and when we enroll him in some kind of playgroup or preschool, we'll pin some kind of a warning on him. Otherwise...

Catfight!

help me pretend to help you.

Please, if you will, answer these questions so I can make the blog that makes you happy*. Or, you can know by answering these questions that we can't be happy together.

*an exercise in futility, if you read on. Or, you know, already.

1. How did you get here?


I'm a regular/Tina, it's me, Dave.

I was googling for milk boobs.

I am very bored and have followed my friends' links as far as I can and you are the dead end.




2. Do you like babies?


A baby killed my family.

A baby saved my life.

Your baby is exquisite.




3. Do you like clumsy MS Paint drawings?


I love them.

I am blind.

I think I love them.




4. Do you mind if I swear?


Oh, fudge. I hoped you wouldn't ask that.

Fiddlesticks! Swear away, my good man!

I am a lady, you cocksucker.




5. But do you really mind? If you do, I'm sorry about what I said up there.


No, I don't mind.

Swearing degrades us all.

I secretly mind.




6. Do you wish I would overtly make this a mommy blog?


No!

Yes!

It is already.




7. I was going to ask if you care if I post about other topics, but I don't know that I care.


Good for you.

You are a bitch and I wish I could smack your face.

I am mad at you about something else.




8. Do you find this all unbearably wonderful??!!


This quiz? This blog? This life? Um....no?

I do! I'm spinning around like a CHILD!

Lop off the "y" and stick on an "e" and stop right there.




9. Which will it be?



Long walks by the beach, someone who can wear jeans or a tuxedo, someone both plain and fancy.

I am at the bottom of a giant bag of potato chips, hiding and eating.

I can't answer this, because I am already five web pages away.




10. All in all, I will return to this blog


because I love you/I'm your husband and you make me read everything right after you write it.

blog this to return will I, all in All, NO.

when you stop referencing this blog in your blog.

Thank you for taking this quiz. You are a brick and I owe you one. Please call me when you're moving and I will carry a box.

The thing is, you won't know if you got into the right preschool, or how you did, or what it all means, and neither will I because I built it funny. But submit your answers anyway because it hurts to take a quiz and not hit a button.

See, I built it to score not just with numbers but also with things like ":(" or "!" or ">:[". But it's too late to fix it and too late to care. The thing also didn't let me make your answers take you to a category like:

45-99 points: You're a stone fox!
10-44 points: A little concealer goes a long way.
-99-9 points: You googled for milk boobs.

Oh, fuck it.

Mostly top answers: You're conniving.
Mostly middle answers: You've got a lot on your mind.
Mostly bottom answers: There was a twenty dollar bill in the pocket of your blue cords. But you spent it on candy.

fock in sock

I love this reading of Fox in Socks, or Fock in Socks, as Finn says, which comes out sounding like "fuckin' socks", or "fuckin' sucks", which I'm sure he doesn't mean, otherwise he wouldn't make us read it to him all the time.

The rhythm they have going is so loose and tight at the same time. It's so of its era, so hep. I fock in love it.

fountains and mountains

Okay, first of all. I announce right now to Dave and Finn that I'm going to go do a post. And in my mind, this post is already titled fountains and mountains. But I haven't said that out loud. And Finn says, "Fountains and mountains."

Bloink!

He doesn't say it all day long, "fountains and mountains". It's not like there was already a 75% chance that that would be the next thing out of his mouth. But he does say it sometimes, and I like it, and that's why I was going with this title. He just says it, apropos of nothing.

"Fountains and mountains!" he declares as we're driving in the car, pointing out of the car window to a fountain-less, mountain-less scene.

Look. Let me say right now. If you're one of those people who's like, "I don't CARE what your BABY SAID. It's not that cute. It's not that awesome. Don't tell me everything your baby says," just cover your eyes a minute.

Okay. I will assume that everyone left here is either on the floor dying to hear or mildly amenable to hearing a few more of the SOLID GOLD HITS that have recently issued from my issue.

Excerpt from Night: A Nearly Inaudible Monologue

Finn: Santa Claus...to town!

I like this because it's like he's calling Santa over an intercom. Santa, please report to town.

Morning: A Small Tiny Playlet

Finn: Mom. Mom. (murmurs something inaudible)

Me: What was that, honey?

Finn (shyly): Pleased to meet you.

Oh! Agh! My heart! All right. I promise that the next post won't be exclusively about how great my child is. It will be something else. Person who had to cover their eyes, you can uncover them now.




You can look at him for a second, right? By the way, that's our house there in the background, getting all built.

the noisy little playboy returns

He's not mellowing with age, the Noisy Little Playboy*. He's not ready to settle down yet. His oats are, if anything, getting wilder.

*Latecomers, refer here and here.

Here he is in The Ladykiller, otherwise known as his Blue Colander Hat. Say goodnight, Gracie. You little ladies are toast if he makes it very far out of our living room.



He likes to look at the Pottery Barn catalog at the fireplace page. "Cozy fireplace!" he enthuses. And then he flips around the catalog and grows pensive. Something is missing. "More ladies," he decides. The Pottery Barn catalog needs more ladies. The Noisy Little Playboy realizes there's no point to a cozy fire without a pretty mademoiselle or three to pitch his wee woo at.

Specifically, he's looking for Pottery Barn to carry ladies' nipples. He was flipping through a veritable chopped-down rainforest of catalogs this afternoon on the hunt for ladies and their nipples. "Ladies' nipples!" he demanded repeatedly, "Get it!"

He covers his tracks. "Milk," he explains. "Milky."

Oh, ladies. Nice fire, huh? Mmm. Yes. My hat. You like? I'm glad you like it. Hmm, mmm. Ahem. My throat. It's a little parched, excuse me. Ahem, hmm. Could go for some, I don't know what we've got lying around here. Some...milk might...might hit the spot. Do either of you...say, that's a nice shirt, Francine. What's...do you mind if I just look under here a minute? Oh, well. Well! Well, say. I think... There might be a little bit of milk in here if I were to just-

AHBLAHBLAHBLAHrrrargh rrargh.



Dream away, my son. That's what catalogs are for.

P.S. Yesterday's new Finn word? "Educational." Ka-doing! It's from one of those Mo Willems Pigeon books. Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late. The pigeon is, naturally, trying to stay up late and he's working an angle about a show that'll be on tv later that night, about birds. "Should be very educational, " he tries. Finn sponged up the word and is now wandering around calling things "educational".

parallel bedtime monologues: now showing nightly

This, friends, is a nearly literal transcript of this evening's attempt to lure Finn to sleep via breastfeeding. Finn is a talking maniac. And it holds up well as sample text for what we experience each and every night. Each and every. All of 'em.

Finn:

Milk. Milky. Good milk. Yummy. Nipples! Ladies' nipples. Pizza. Fock in Socks. Ugg boots. Daddy! Come back! Mommy. Blacelets. Meditating. Candle. Curious George!

E....e-i....e-i e-i...E E....E-I-E-I...e. Old Mc. E. E. Cookies. Cooky. Ai yi yi.... Googengoogengoogen.

PANCAKES.

Milk! More milk. Mommy hug. Hug. Nuzzle. Daddy's pillow. Daddy pillow. Aaah! Mommy pillow. Aaa.

Aaaah. Aaa. Eeee. Buh-buh-buh. Sleep. Sleepy. Play! Buhbuhbuh. Ai yi yi. Leg. Leg.

Mommy. Mommy. Milk. Hug. Pillow! Pillow...! Aaaaah bah bah.

Brrrrdrrr. Boom. Boom band big band boom boom bang. Bang. Boong. Bim Ben. Bim Bim band boom. Fock in Socks. Knox. Luke. Loke. Loke lake. Aaah. Buh buh buh.

Aah. Vvvvv. Vv. Vwwww.

Wwww.

Frr.

Aa.

(Repeat with small or extremely weird variations a thousand times.)


Finn subtext:

This doesn't mean anything. That we're here and it's dark. Milk's all right. Milk's cool. I like milk. This doesn't have to mean anything. I can drink the milk. I can drink the milk without giving anybody the wrong idea. I can help this by waving my arm around wildly while I drink the milk. See, lady? See? Whoah! Yeah. No sleep precursoriness about this milk session. You can dream on. But...I do, I do kick it a little with the milk here. I don't deny, I don't deny its relaxing qualities. Relaxation, a little bit, is not per se a bad thing. I can let a small amount of this happen. Yes. My eyes, they can heavy up a minute and I can bounce them back when the time is right. Like now! The time is right! Quit staring at my eyes to see if they're closed! I can see you doing that! Yeah, feast your eyes. Those are my eyeballs. The whites of them. That's right, woman. That's enough. That's enough milk.

Up! I have to sit up! Now! It's almost too late! I'm up! And now I'll throw myself over HERE. And over HERE. But here, here is my Mommy. Mommy. Mommy, my beloved. Let me hold your face. Look into my eyes. Look at me. Peach yogurt. Peach yogurt is yummy. Yes, listen to me. It's true. What...where am I? What was I saying? Oh, yes! I'm alive! We're ALIIIIIIVE, Mommy. ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE! Oh, take my hands, Mommy. Run through this field with me. Spin with me. What - wha - let go of me, woman. What is this? Who said you could touch me?! Oh, Mommy. Oh, Ceiling. Oh, bed. Oh, pillow. Oh, feet. These, these are my friends. This is my posse. This is my life. I'm living it. Breathe this air! Huh? Isn't it? Man. MAN OH MAN.

Man, oh, man.

This is the life. This is...

Buh. I'm...

Awake-ish. I'm...

I'm still....

Don't think I'm...

Because...

Aah.


(And meanwhile. My entire internal monologue goes thusly.)

Me:

You're killing me.

(Repeat a thousand times with two different meanings.)

i repledge again to bring it

Friends, readers, blogrymen, lend me your eyes;
I come to bury the old, infrequently updated blog, not to praise it.
The not posting that people do lives after them;
The good posts are often archived with their bones.
So let it be with The Gallivanting Monkey, version one.
Blah blah blah, my statcounter fell off when I updated
To the new Blogger. I stopped posting because I could not see
Who, if anyone, was still visiting. Blah blah blah;
I like to know who's out there, but my statcounter is all weird
How I put it back, and I feel like it dropped off the memory
of THOUSANDS OF VISITS, THOUSANDS I COULD NOT SPARE.
Blah blah blah. I enjoy knowing you're there, but
Are you there, sir? Are you there, Mistress Readerpants?
I do not know; I will proceed as though you are.
I will proceed as though there were millions of you,
Quinjillions.

You all did love The Gallivanting Monkey once,
Not without cause. What cause withholds me then from
Updating frequently and with care? I will post.
Even if I post into the air.