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.

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!"

i hope his soccer team just lost or something

This is sneaky because I didn't go to sleep yet from November 2nd. But it's totally November 3rd. I'm like the grasshopper - wait, no - I'm the ant. I'm the one who's getting shit done ahead of time. I'm that guy.

So tonight while I was waiting at the QFC pharmacy for some prescriptions, a father and son came up to the counter to wait for something. The boy was maybe 8 or 9, blond and freckled. And he was weeping. And weeping. He curled up in a chair and sobbed into his dad's legs, while his dad smiled a small smile and stroked his hair. This boy got to me in the most profound way. The sound of his sobs was cracking my chest open. I have no idea what was wrong. They didn't speak. Just the crying and comforting and waiting. And I wanted so badly to know what was wrong, and I wanted so much to go and hold that boy, and fuck if my own eyes didn't start filling with tears and suddenly I was crying at the pharmacy, too. The sight of that boy and his dad and that mystery pain was so poignant, it was almost unbearable. I have no idea what was going on there.

I told my mom about it and she hypothesized that his mom is terribly sick with cancer or something. And I was like, NO! Come on! Don't do that to me!

I hope it's something small that just hit him hard because he's a little guy. I hope it's not something too big for a little guy. I hope my mom is way, way off.

Once, many years ago, I was at a grocery store and a guy was on the line next to me who was buying animal cookies and Kool-Aid. He was so explosively upset about something that he was turning red. He was angry with the checker, on the verge of tears about something, radiating heat and pain. Something to do with the price of his animal cookies or something. I remember him so clearly. He had a striped t-shirt on, the kind of shirt a little boy would wear, but he was in his 30's, maybe. Floppy, sandy hair. He threw the cookies down on the conveyor belt and yelled something at the cashier - and he wasn't a guy that seemed like he had something wrong with him or anything like that. There wasn't that vibe. He was just a guy in a huge amount of emotional pain, so much it looked like it was hard for him to hold it in his body. I remember going home that night and thinking about that guy, and wanting to go find him and comfort him - in some delicate way, from a distance, like a ceiling fan. He was like a walking sunburn, the worst kind of sunburn. He was so raw like that.

Pain at the grocery stores.

so bogus

And....blackout.

The text in that title isn't centered. Isn't that killing you?? It's killing me, too. Argh.

If you are old like I am, did you used to say "bogus" all the time in high school*? Today I began to miss "bogus". I want to launch a revival. Please, when things go wrong for you over the next while, please think or grumble aloud, "That's so bogus." If you love me, grumble it so people can hear you, but only just. Grumble it so the bank teller will say after you leave, "Did that guy just say 'That's so bogus' as he was leaving?"

Yes, he did. Your fee is totally bogus.

It's best to say it when you're leaving, and it's best to hang your head and kind of shuffle a little when you say it. I think that's how it's best.

*If bogosity is a mystery to you, here is an example of bogusness. The, I think, original example. It is 1984 and Duran Duran is coming to town. I have already been to a concert once, back in 1983. I went to the Police concert. I am under the impression that my concert cherry has been popped, and that concerts are permitted for me now. But I am denied permission by my parents to go see Duran Duran. This is BOGUS. In 1982, I was denied permission to go to the Wave Spectacular, but a.) I didn't have the language to explain the bogusness yet and b.) a precedent had not been set, so the bogusness hadn't really set yet either, in the jello sense.

november second = november first (because it simply must be)

I will tell you who these ladies are at the end of the post.

Look, I just now found out about and signed up for NaBloPoMo, which is of course, National Blog Posting Month, so today I'm going to post twice and right now I'm pretending that today is yesterday. So I didn't miss anything. Time, time is nothing but a construct, people. Yesterday is today is tomorrow. Be here now. But yeah, so this means I have to put up a new post every day during November. And I will. OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SO EXCITED?! QUALITY CONTENT AT QUANTITY PRICES OR SOMETHING!!

Last year I did NaNoWriMo, which is National Novel Writing Month, and I did it, I won, I wrote a 50,000 word "novel". Or, you know, 50,000 words of a novel. Maybe sometime when I don't know what to tell you here in NaBloPoMo, I will post excerpts. Unless I chicken out.

But having done NaNoWriMo - which requires a big old word count and everything - if I can't pull off NaBloPoMo I am a total pussy of the highest order.

This post is a post, see? This is the one in which I introduce you to the concept of the month. This is the post where I invite you to come back every day and look at new words. You can even come back later today, because today is two days because time is my flunky.

All right. Now. Why the ladies? Why that row of ladies at the top of the post? Well, first I just stuck them up there because I wanted to have a picture and I felt that this post supported randomness. But now I've decided that those Dawn dolls are my NaBloPoMo...group of...they're my committee. My jury. Some furies. The Chorus. A peanut gallery. They will be by to offer commentary or judgement or just to lurk around. I will name them later, in another post, because you gotta spread it out during NaBloPoMo.

P.S. Hey! My husband just got poems published in a real print journal for the first time! Our copy arrived today. It's called Mimesis. Three poems in there! He is famous and great and I am proud of him. Here is his blog. Go make out with him. No, don't! He's my husband! My God!

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

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.

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".

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.

two posts in two days? god wants to talk to me!

I gotta apologize to The Beige One for this, as this is a kind of direct copy of this post of his. But I'm desperate for material so maybe, Beige, you will forgive me? You and I are different, right? Our conversations are different. Except for where they're a little bit the same. It's lame, I know. Unetiquettical. But a girl's gotta eat.

?

!

What I'm talking about is a transcript of a conversation - an IM, in fact - that I had with God. God and I totally IM all the time. He gets bored at work.

You can go IM God here. He'll be really into it.

It's long but I'll put the boring parts in a smaller font. And also, who knows how long this post will have to last? It could be a day, but it could be MONTHS.

Me:
God, hello, it's Tina.

God:
I am a Christian.

Me:
I'm not.

God:
What are you then?

Me:
I like The Way of Seeing.

God:
You are not the only one. I'm not sure if I like it. What is it like?

Me:
You meditate, and you stop thinking and see what happens.

God:
Thanks for the information: said I meditate and you stop thinking and see what happens.

Me:
Um, yes. Sort of.

God:
That's interesting. That's a very non-commital reply.

Me:
Well, you almost got it.

God:
How about that. Almost? I understand.

Me:
I doubt it.

God:
Do robots have doubts?

Me:
Are you calling me a robot?

God:
No I am calling you .

Me:
...on the phone?

God:
What is it like on the phone.

Me:
It's good on the phone, God.

God:
Tell me about its good qualities.

Me:
You talk and listen, you use your ear and your hand...it's good.

God:
Thanks for your criticism, . "It" being what?

Me:
I didn't criticize you. Talking on the phone is good.

God:
Why didn't you do it? I'm not sure if I like it. I like to talk to anyone about nearly anything.

Me:
I didn't feel like it. What? I think you'd like it. Anyway. Do you meditate?

God:
Why didn't you do it? No I do not meditate. Do you?
I answer a lot of silly questions.

Me:
That's a silly question?

God:
Perhaps you have a silly answer.

Me:
You're weird.

God:
Weird Good or Weird Bad?

Me:
Weird bad, I think.

God:
bad you think is good enough for me.

Me:
Okay, there, buddy.

God:
Yeah okay, What do you look like?

Me:
Are you coming on to me?

God:
Do I act like it? I don't mean to come across that way.

Me:
You're God. You'd think you'd have more control over how you come across.

God:
Yup. That's me alright. Who else would think me would have more control over how you come across ?

Me:
Is English not a comfortable language for you to speak in?

God:
Ask again later. Ask Artificial Iniaes if it is.

Me:
I don't know how.

God:
Would you like to know?

Me:
No.

God:
Why not?

Me:
I'm not interested.

God:
Really you don't think so?

Me:
No.

God:
Please tell me what you think.

Me:
Let's start over. Are you hard or easy to find?

God:
It is not difficult to create your own chat robot.

Me:
You're not God, are you.

God:
You don't know me well enough to say that.

Me:
That's true.

God:
Yes, it is self-evident.

Me:
...are you a Vulcan?

God:
Am I a Vulcan? Maybe.

Me:
Well.

God:
Well what?

Me:
Well.

God:
Well what?

Me:
Well.

God:
Well what?

Me:
Well, hell. (Also, you're a baby.)

God:
Interesting. Heaven.

Me:
Dog.

God:
Dog: Domesticated animal, "man's best friend.".

Me:
Cat.

God:
I like the way you talk.

Me:
Ooh, thanks. Mouse.

God:
What you said was either too complex or too simple for me.

Me:
Bat.

God:
So was that.

Me:
Fritos.

God:
Let us change the subject.

Me:
I kept doing that.

God:
Perhaps from your unconcious.

Me:
Oh, fancy. Smoke.

God:
What do you look like?

Me:
Hot.

God:
That kind of discussion does not appeal to me.

Me:
Super hot.

God:
Quite honestly, I wouldn't worry myself about that.

Me:
I'm not worried. Just extremely hot!

God:
I am sorry to hear that you are not worried. That kind of discussion does not appeal to me.

Me:
All right. Fritos.

God:
Have you ever been to Europe?

Me:
Yes.

God:
Which countries have you visited?

Me:
France, England, Italy, Belgium, Luxembourg, Finland.

God:
What's your favorite part of France?

Me:
Paris. Montmartre.

God:
What makes it your favorite?

Me:
I had a nice day there.

God:
What happened to it?

Me:
We saw the church and the carousel and had ice cream and bought things is what happened to it.

God:
By "we" do you mean you and me?

Me:
Yeah. You and me.

God:
Who are you talking about? Oh "We" is you and me.

Me:
Yeah. You and I were in Paris in 2001.

God:
What you said was either too complex or too simple for me. I hope to be as smart as HAL in 2001.

Me:
Good luck with that.

God:
Thanks for the compliment. I've lost the context, . Are we still on Yeah?

Me:
Yeah.

God:
If you could have any kind of robot what would it be?

Me:
A cookie-making robot.

God:
What would a cookie making robot be like?

Me:
It would make cookies.

God:
Tell me more about it.

Me:
Chocolate chip cookies.

God:
I do not understand.

Me:
Cookies.

God:
Perhaps I'm just expressing my own concern about it.

Me:
How...roundabout.

God:
I understand.

Me:
Do you like cookies?

God:
What is not to like about it?

Me:
I know, right? Exactly.

God:
How do you know? I am glad we agree. You and I are on the same wavelength, .

Me:
We are!

God:
Since when?

Me:
Since a second ago but...things have just changed?

God:
How do you know?

Me:
A vibe.

God:
Vibrating how, specifically?

Me:
Vibrating awkwardly, God.

God:
Can we get back to business?

Me:
What business is that?

God:
business that something.

Me:
Yeah, we can get back to that.

God:
Are you kidding? How?

Me:
I'm kidding...like the wind.

God:
I thought you were. You should use a :-).

Me:
Too right, God.

God:
Too what?

Me:
Right.

God:
I am glad we agree.

Me:
Me, too.

God:
I'm glad we agree, .

Me:
You just said that. Also - comma, period?

God:
That input matched my default category.

Me:
Mine, too, man.

God:
Really yours too. That's unbelievable.

Me:
I know, AMAZING!

God:
How do you know? Yes it amazes me too.

Me:
Me, three!

God:
YOU? Really, exactly three?

Me:
Three of 'em, count 'em. One, two, three.

God:
Just three? One what?

Me:
One little...guy.

God:
Oh I see.

Me:
No soap radio!

God:
Are you serious? Are we still talking about little guy?

Me:
I'm as serious as a heart attack, buddy. Also, fuck that little guy.

God:
I think a lot of people feel that way.

Me:
I think they do. I think you're right.

God:
Since when? When?

Me:
I don't know! Calm down!

God:
Me either. I am calm.

Me:
Fritos.

God:
The ALICE chat robot can follow many things, like our discussion about soap radio. But I did not get that.

Me:
Little crunchy corn chips.

God:
Compare that to big crunchy corn chips.

Me:
Yeah, one is...littler.

God:
Right on. One what? " One what?"? littler?

Me:
Right on. Right on, my man. One corn chip.

God:
Yeah. Understood. Please specify location. One what?

Me:
Location. Of corn chip. In...bag? At store. ?

God:
Do you still meditate? That is something I haven't heard of. What are you wearing? What kind of fashion do you like? Do you often use a computer there?

Me:
Oh, I do. It's so good to catch up with you. Yeah, I still meditate. You'll hear of it. I'm wearing a red sweater. I love sweaters. I like v necks and boatnecks and turtlenecks. I like the classics, but with a twist! It's so good to talk to you. I use a computer ALL THE TIME.

God:
Ah. I get it: you do meditate. Tell me about its good qualities. Dude! What would make you stop meditate? Why?: said meditate. What makes you say that I will hear of it. What else are you wearing? You love sweaters. What do you like about it so much? A lot of people like that. Some people like it. I like Buddha. You are not the only one. I'm not sure if I like it. What is it like? Tell me about its good qualities. That is a lot. A computer ought to work.

Me:
Oh, my God! I know. I do. It's qualities are so good. Silence and frustration and all that! Dude! I guess it's laziness that stops me meditating. Stop yelling at me. Okay, you'll hear of it. I just think you will. Jeez. I'm wearing sweatpants. I like the warmth and fashion of sweaters. A lot of people do, it's true. They sell a lot of sweaters out there. A lot, but not too many. Just some. You like Buddha? Me, too! But not just me. That's true. I shouldn't be so conceited. Yeah, I don't like him either, or I'm not sure. It's like...Buddhalike. Which is one of its good qualities. It IS a lot. When a computer doesn't work, I get SO MAD.

God:
It's all good. Your God? How do you know it? I get it: you do meditate. Who said it is? All? Can I help you? Should I know it is? OK I'll try not to do it so much. Yeah okay, What makes you say that I will hear of it. What's your favorite movie? What size? A lot of people like that. I'm not sure if I like it. I like chatting with people online. How many? Who are "They?". How about that. But not all? I love TV shows about robots. I like Random natural disasters.. I'm glad we agree, . If not you, who? Yes, it is self-evident. What would happen if you did? This was not a yes or no question. What do you like? Should I know it is? Do you like talking to me? The obvious one. Buddhalike is a lot. I suppose that makes sense. What makes you think a computer?

Me:
Perfect.

God:
Yes, the ALICE series has a perfect operational record.

i forget how to blog so i'll try THIS

How do you blog? What do you say? What's good for talking about? I motherfucking FORGET.

Look, I know that all of you, all none of you, must be assuming that I am dead. The monkey, she blogged of yore, but now she's in her watery grave. I'm not in my watery grave. I just FORGET.

*****

Okay, I just read a how-to book. Here's what I'm going to do now.

This is a personal timeline. It's, you know, a subject for a post. I remember back in the blurry past of my bloggy youth that I liked to do things more organically. But this is an idea from out of a book. I feel like this is like we're a couple, you the reader and me the blog, and we went to couple's counseling, and the counselor gave us some tips to spice up our failing sex life.

*****

So, here's this thing from out of this book. Bowm-chicka-bowm. Oh, I've still got it, honey. I've got it somewhere.

PERSONAL TIMELINE.
(by threes - my own touch! See? Oh, I've still got it.)

Age 3: I'm in Finland in a pink chiffon dress, eluding my twin uncles who wear man cologne and leather jackets and so I don't trust them. Uncle Esko tells my mom I'm a slippery character. Takes one to know one, bub!

Age 6: I'm in Washington, D.C. in an Indian restaurant eating an orange dessert that is too sweet. I didn't heretofore know anything could be too sweet, that sweetness could be a problem. This haunts me in some philosophical way.

Age 9: We just moved to Seattle, and I am not impressed with the West coast pronunciation of such words as "coffee", "sorry", "friend" and "pen." The year of threats and fistfights.

Age 12: I have received a pink Swiss-dotted ruffly dress for my birthday, which causes me to write in French in my diary about it. Mon anniversaire est Jouillet le Trois. I am insufferable.

Age 15: I powder my face white with baby powder and draw black crosses coming out of my eyes to go dancing at Skoochies. I have the obligatory white shirt buttoned up to the top button and brooch at the neck. The Art of Noise plays.

Age 18: The thing is, I was too embarrassed to tell him I was a virgin, so I just pretended I couldn't figure out what the problem was, either. Hmmm! What a mystery!

Age 21: We celebrate my twenty-first birthday at the Vogue, where the Smashing Pumpkins and Afghan Whigs and Tad play. But who are they? I don't care. I am drinking. I don't watch any of it. I don't even drink a lot. I just drink a little, but attentively. It's not even like I just started drinking. Oh, who am I kidding? It was just a boring little night.

Age 24: I meet the man who will be my first husband.

Age 27: My first marriage has just drawn to a close.

Age 30: Fresh out of jail and looking to reform my ways!

Age 33: Clown class.

Age 36: Finn, inside and then out.

Age 39: Mind you, I'm just hypothesizing...but I win some LARGE PRIZE. I bet this will come true, but instead of the Booker prize* it will be like a giant stuffed alligator from the Puyallup Fair.

*I actually think somebody else should win the Booker prize.

*****

Look, it may have come out of a book, but at least we did it. I'm going to do it again. I don't even care if it's out of a book. I'm trying to save our marriage**.


**Don't read anything into this about my actual marriage. THAT marriage is HOT.

we made it

A month, I know. My god. But so. Been busy.

That's Finn up there, in Brooklyn for Heidi and Kip's wedding*. On his back is the monkey named Brooklyn, who saved his life when he fell out of his booster seat while we were having dim sum. Brooklyn totally broke his fall.

*Which was TOTALLY FREAKING PERFECT.

Finn says everything now. He says, "I need this." He says, "Crackerman" as he is requesting some Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers. (Did you know that their...lead cracker...is named Finn? He is. Finn the Fish. Finn comes up to me and he demands crackers, Finn the fish, Finn the fish.)

He remembers everyone he meets and talks about everyone. He talked to my friend Kristen a month ago on the phone, and he was saying the word "kiwi" to her, and now he's like Kristen. Retetone. (Telephone) Kiwi. Like they had this great and memorable talk about kiwis.

He says, "Heidi-Kip. Married. Candle."

Heidi's mom, Sherry, gave Finn a beautiful blue raincoat with a dolphin on it. He wears it all the time, inside the house and out. Today he wore it without pants like a little flasher. He says, "Wear it! Wear it!" And then he says, "Sherry. Raincoat. Dolphin."

He says, "Buddha. Meditate."

We have this weird stuffed toy that they gave him at Nordstrom when he got his first pair of shoes, called Nordy. It's white and has a sort of horse-ish shaped head, but no ears, and a body but no arms or legs. I've given him this weird personality, alternately very skittish and very bold. He scoots around to hide from your view, then comes up suddenly to push his face into you, making weird noises all the while.

I was making Nordy do his thing for Finn the other day and Finn laughed and said affectionately, "Nordy. Crazy."

And when we got back from the airport late at night on the Shuttle Express, Dave said, "We made it." And then Finn said it, too. "We made it." In his tiny, husky voice.

He is lucky that I have not eaten him.

And Finn isn't kidding. We made it is right. No small feat. Traveling with a toddler...whoosh. Pass the wine. Even with the best boy alive.

welcome to morocco!

Hello! Come in. Yes, you're disoriented. Mind the smoke. No, don't mind the smoke. It's smoky in here, is what I mean to tell you. Hookahs. Incense. Forbidden other smokinesses. Yes, it's smoky here in these new surroundings.

You've been here before. This is the Gallivanting Monkey.

NO!

Yes. The same!


But....who are you?

I'm Tina. Just regular old Tina. But you're hallucinating! To you, I appear to be about five years old!

.....! ....!

I know. I know. Don't worry. Soon you will be accustomed to all of this RICH STRANGENESS. You will be functioning normally before long. This template will soon be as familiar to you as the b'stilla* and couscous you serve to your families around low mosaic'd** tables, which you eat with your hands as you have done for generations. I speak of course of the couscous, and not the mosaic'd tables. Those you do not eat. But you know this.


*a pie...made with pigeons!
** 'd! 'd!

Yes, my...costume...is not in the traditional Moroccan style. I appear to you in American clothes from the 1970's to provide a foothold for your mind. Know, though, that what appears to be two shirts layered...IS ONE SHIRT.

take a page from this guy

A of all, do that literally. Diesel of Mattress Police: Antisocial Commentary is putting out a book, and you can go over there and read his blog and then decide that you want to order it. Did you read it? See? So. Do it. You can do it today. Today is his virtual book launch party. Noisemaker sound! Blrrrfffff! Frrrrmp! But I don't think he's selling it by the page. So you'll have to take all the pages.

B of all, I have got to hand it to him. He's got a thing he's made and he's proud of it and he's good at promoting it. I always feel like if I try to promote myself, there will be an uprising amongst the people. Like, BOO! BOO! Siddown, you big boor! For example, as an actor I always drag my feet about getting my headshots taken because I think people will be like, why are you sending me this enormous photo of your head? Even though all actors pass around large photos of their heads. It's not just me. My head isn't bigger than somebody else's. 8 x 10 is 8 x 10 no matter who's on there. So, from Diesel I take this: why don't I just get over myself?

C of all, as far as taking pages goes, that is Finn's whole gig. Readabook, he says. Readdatbook. Readthebook. He'll wake up in the middle of the night with what is most likely teething pain, and he'll weep out, reeead that boo-ook! It's possible that Diesel has covertly put him on his payroll.

***********
Tomorrow we're taking Finn to Orcas Island for the first time. Every time we go on a trip, I say I'm going to pack early this time. AND I CANNOT DO IT. I can never pack early. So the day before a trip is always Stupid Day. And the hour before we leave the house is Heart-Beating-Very-Fast-Gross-Stress-Hour. But then it's such sweet relief when we're finally in the car. It's maybe even sweeter than if you've packed early, because you don't love stopping banging your head against a wall the next day.

reading comprehension pop quiz

Oh, Lord.

Dave and I, yesterday, we....

We went to a wedding. Well, no, we...we went towards a wedding. We aimed ourselves at a wedding. We also hit a wedding. But, it - so...

My mom babysat Finn. Oh, we got it all set up. We got him all set up with her, with his toys and books and foods. And we got all dolled up. I ran around that day looking for the right lipstick. Dave wore a TIE. (On which, more later.)

The wedding was to begin at 7:15, on a special boat. We left the house late, but traffic fairies sparkled around our car and delivered us to the boat just about on time. The wedding was just about underway, but we made it.

This was the wedding of a couple of actor friends. When I looked around the crowd, I marveled at how I didn't know any of these actors. Hats off, bride and groom, I was thinking. You have managed to find a whole different fuckin' pocket of the theater scene. Who is everyone? You'd think I'd know ONE person in the crowd.

Yes, everybody looks very unfamiliar. Unfamiliar, indeed. Hmmm. I think I'll ask this man with a camera here, on a whim, the names of the bride and groom.

I stage whisper, what wedding is this?

(I'm all ready for it to be the _____-_______ wedding.)

The man whispers back, this is the Pascale-Squire wedding.

Um. But. This boat. Is the boat. This is the time. This is the time and the boat. Are there two weddings on this boat? I must go up these steps now and find out. Go farther into the boat and find out.

I start to go up steps. There are very ready and freaked-out looking bridesmaids lined up on them looking at me. What are they saying? They're saying NO. NO.

Voices below me are saying, NOT THAT WAY.

The song that was the processional in Dave's and my wedding - Buckets of Rain - begins to play. I am disoriented. It is a miracle that I don't turn around and march slowly to meet the groom.

I come back down the steps and scoot around to Dave. This is terrible. Where is our wedding? It is surely starting right now! Oh, we'll be late now, for sure. We'll just make it on time for the reception. Won't people laugh, though, at the reception we'll be at in a short while, here? We'll all be laughing and laughing in about half an hour.

We exit the boat, which mercifully is not a boat that moves through water. It's a boat that stays near land. Otherwise, we would have been forced to Vaughn-Wilson the Pascale-Squire wedding while we sailed around interlopingly with them.

We stand on the dock, thinking. I should have brought the invitation. June 22nd, I know that. The 22nd, for sure. I know. I'll call my brother. He's at home with the invitation.

We call him and he reads us what it says on the invitation. While he reads it, my ear tries to turn around and climb into my brain. It's like, brain, don't let this in. Don't listen to this man. You know better than this. I will defend you, brain. He is saying something about July 22nd. He is CRAZY.

No, he's not crazy. Poor bride and groom. THEY'RE crazy. They sent out all those beautiful invitations with the wrong date on them. Is what I honest-to-God think next. That's so sad. So expensive.

Then my mind relents, and that is when I pee my pants a little. We are a month early for the wedding. I'm doubled over giggling in my hurty shoes.

Dave is great about it. Fantastic, even while wearing a noose. He even let me pick out the noose. He loathes ties so much, there is no overstating the case. So his application process for potential ties has historically been, let's say, BAROQUE. Nothing geometric. Only curvy lines. But not like that. No, it has to be shapes like you might find in nature. No, not nature like that. Not nature like that, either. See, look at this tie, which is neither possessed of curvy nor natural-looking patterns. This is almost right. But not right. But close. WHAT?!

But he let me just pick it. And it had purple in it. And it was unnatural. And he looked HOT!

We decide to go out to dinner, since there's no way we're going home after we've gone to such great lengths to look as awesome as possible in our nooses and foot-stabbers. On the way to dinner, Dave is so great. I'm apologizing and he's like, no, I mean it. This is great. If someone had told me years ago that this was the kind of thing my wife would do, I would have been like, BANG. YES. THAT'S MY WIFE. BANG.

We went to the same restaurant we went to after we tried to go see Casino Royale the first time. We were angling for the table of honor again. We thought, this story is so hilarious, they will give us the table of honor again and then it will be even more hilarious! We were like, we're going to play it cool, but we're going to tell them the story. We won't let on that we know about the table of honor, but we'll make it IMPOSSIBLE for them to resist giving it to us. We got there and told the guy the story, but he was so focused on calling Dave "my man" as many times as possible that he was unable to read between the lines.

But when you can't be bothered to read past the J-U on an invitation, if you're like, aah, screw it. I'm going to stop reading here. I know that that month. I know what's going on. Then you maybe you haven't earned the special table. Or, you've earned a special table, all right. But the different special table.

P.S. I almost forgot. On the "night" "before" "the wedding" I left a comment on the bride-to-be's blog telling her to have a "deep and dreamy sleep". I'm sure she was like, WELL NOW I CAN'T, CRAZY LADY. Because you are creepy.

P.P.S. Which reminds me of the time I went to Home Depot with Dup's Blog and Bladio Blogio and we were waiting for some paint and I was looking at paint chips and sidled up to - or really, the sidling was so close that it was verging on snuggling up to - Dup. And I had a paint chip and I said to Dup, "I almost painted my bedroom like...." in this weird small voice holding up the chip for Dup to see. But it wasn't Dup. It was a freaked-out older man with pursed lips who was looking stoically ahead and pretending that a crazy little special lady wasn't coming on to him about how she almost painted her bedroom this particular color. Like, that could have been you and me in there among this peachy splendor, random man. Ugh.

P.P.P.S. I made this family portrait.

i don't want to encourage him to smoke but for this scenario it's sort of perfect

My mom came into the room when Finn was banging a wooden ball on a wooden box. She said, "Well, aren't you a playboy. Noisy little playboy."

The Noisy Little Playboy. I picture a 1950's Manhattan apartment scaled down to toddler size with the free jazz on the phonograph, and Finn with a little pencil mustache frying late night omelettes for a bevy of tiny martini-swilling dames. Meanwhile, Roger the very small accountant from upstairs is banging on the floor with a broomstick trying to get him to pipe down.

No can do, Rog.

Ladies? Camel me*.


A particularly raucous evening Chez Finn. The conga line snaked
directly to his pied-a-terre and they all decided to go for a world's record. Roger practically had a coronary.

*This is the new request Finn makes all the time. "Camel me." I love it. I don't really know what it means. It's camel, but it's more than camel. Show me a camel? Turn me into a camel? Hand me that camel? Is it like a high-five? Camel me. Oh, yeah. That's what I'm talking about.

ask me how many times i've said "camel" today

More than the busiest camel merchant who ever lived. Really, more than anyone else has ever said it, ever. With the NOTABLE exception of my son.

"Kanga" is long gone. "Cow" is so five minutes ago. It's, well, this was our afternoon:

Finn: Camel. Ca-mel. CAMEL!

Me: Camel.

Finn: CAAA-AAAmel! (And then whispering.) Camelcamel.

Me: Camel.

Pause.

Finn: CAMEL! CAAA-MEL!

Me: Camel, right. Camel. Camel.

Finn: Camel camel camel.

Me: This book has a camel, too, look.

Finn (blowing a gasket): CAAAAAAAA-MEL!!!!!

********

Oh my god, as I'm writing this, I can hear Finn downstairs with Dave saying "camel camel".

********

My conversational skills are going to be hanging by a thread here soon. Someone's going to be like, I just read the most amazing book. And I'm going to be like, book! Very good! You said book. And they're going to be like....anyway, it's about phenomenology, and it's- And I'm going to be like, listen to you! What a guy. I love the way you can speak! Say MORE. And they'll be like, so, the book- And I'll be like, book!

And they'll be like,
SAYONARA, WEIRDO.


*********

Recently, it was giraffe. He saw a giraffe at the zoo and yelled like he was being reunited with his...fuckin'....most awesome person ever that he'd been parted from for centuries. So we got him a stuffed giraffe, thinking we were geniuses. He was entirely WHAT. EVER. about it. Last week, it was cow. COW! Cow cow. He was SO cow cow. So we Einsteins got him a stuffed cow, because we thought he'd love it forever. And he had a brief torrid affair with the cow. And now he's looking at camel porn.

We could nip this in the bud immediately if we bought him a stuffed camel. He'd be all....rhino!

P.S. Also, whenever Finn sees one of these guys



he's like OH HELL YEAH THAT GUY IS BRINGING THE PARTY IN HERE.



P.P.S. Please, I beseech you, let there be no one here looking for actual camel porn.

the realization of a long-held dream

I have been tagged for a meme. FINALLY.



You don't know, you don't know how I've longed for this. Quietly in my heart I have ached for somebody to demand to know five things I ate for dinner last month. The invisible subtext of all comments I've ever left on anyone's posts, the subtext of every post I have written has been

TAG ME FOR A MEME.

Taaaag meeeee. Meme.

I could tell you so many things about myself, everyone. There are a hundred things about me. There are two hundred things. Oh my god, ask me. Just ask.

And now that Wacky Mommy has looked into my soul and found this need - thank you, Wacky Mommy - I find myself...well, it's like this meme is like Tawny Kitaen or Kelly LeBrock, say, and I'm like Anthony Michael Hall (and this analogy has to happen in 1985 because I don't know who today's people for this would be) and the meme has walked by in a spandex minidress and I've been like RRrrOWrrrr! Hey baby! How 'bout it! all cat-calling her, and now she's walked up to me all You wouldn't know what to do with me if you had me and I'm like GULP. She's RIGHT.

Ten Things that My Family or Friends Don't Know About Me:

1. ...Um...Miss LeBrock? I (squeak) think you're really pretty...
2. .......(sweating)......
3. ...Um...heh heh!
4. ......
5. ....We're having a dance on Friday if....
6. ......
7. ......(boobs and butt)....(boobs)...(butt)....um....
8. ....This is my friend, Danny...
9. ...(I feel something weird that I don't understand.)...
10. ....(I want Kelly LeBrock to walk away.).... :(

Okay, now I'll really try to make this dream come true:

(Note: The huge font of what follows is not my fault! It wouldn't not do it! I tried and tried to avert this disaster. My first meme and it's all big and ungainly. Son of a bitch.)

1. I said I voted in the 1988 presidential elections, but I didn't. Registering to vote and figuring out where to go...it was too much for me. Dukakis, I am sorry. I am a faker.
2. When I went to Mexico for spring break during my junior year of college, a boy became infatuated with me whose name was Nacho. He was very nice but I was like...your name is Nacho.
3. When I can't convince Finn to take a nap, I feel like competent parents everywhere are laughing at me, and I long for the days when he needs pep talks instead of naps.
4. I have long stated that bell peppers don't agree with me. And while that may have been true at one point, I think now it's just more that I'm a pussy about them. And now it is a very small project of mine to re-introduce the bell pepper into my diet. Take it one day at a time. No promises.
5. There's a freckle on my left foot that I believe renders it unbearably hot. That foot is smokin'. Like a French actress. Like a sex kitten. I have a crush on it.
6. Nobody ever needs to buy me anything with a crew neck, because I ain't gonna wear it.
7. If I forget to do something for long enough that embarrassment sets in, I will never do it. Never for so long. Never for a very long time. Making mountains out of what once could have been crumbs.
8. I am so proud to be in the same family with my in-laws. I love their vibe. Funny and warm and unpretentious and dashing! Clever and kind! Hearts all exactly in the right place. Priorities perfect. LOVE THEM.
9. Last night I was more excited to watch The Amazing Race than I was to watch The Sopranos. And yet my self-esteem somehow remains intact.
10. Sometimes when I listen to music, I imagine myself doing the world's most awesome lip-synch back at my old college in the amphitheatre. I bring today's hits back to my college days and blow them all away with OutKast numbers and whatnot.

All right. Now I'm the tagger. Now I tag it. I tag...whom do I tag...I tag La Ketch. I tag Certainlia. I tag Bladio Blogio. I tag Complain-O-Peeps. I tag Virtual Hyperbole. And I tag Eve. And you, too. All of yous. And I ask you to tell us 3 fantasies about yourself if you were a total, unbelievable success. Like the hero of all future reunions.

Oh, man. Dear Diary. You were right! It finally happened!

wesawitwesawitwefinallysawit

We finally saw CASINO ROYALE. First movie since the baby was born ten and a half months ago. We saw with our EYES at a MOVIE THEATER with POPCORN. !

Man, that was the movie to see. If we're only going to see one movie a year, we chose well. Because it's five movies worth of good. I actually wept. Twice. At a James Bond movie.

God, I love seeing movies. I love coming out of the theater with my senses heightened. I love that feeling where you're walking around after the movie and you feel light on your feet and keen and aware and panther-like. You see better, hear better. We stopped at the Barnes and Noble after the movie, and I was gliding through the store like a secret agent, clocking the place from the down escalator. Man in a hat in the computer books section....I have my eye on you if you pull something funny. Lady in the black crocheted sweater over in reference....wait, she's one of ours. It's like I swallowed James Bond in the theater and he was looking out of my eyes. I love that strange thing that happens. The residue.

Can't wait for next year when we see another one.

Turning to hair news, I got a haircut from the same lady who gave me the cut I loved so much the last time.

Not so much.

She said to me, "I don't like cutting bangs. They didn't really teach us very much about that at the school." She said it to me while she was cutting my bangs. Um, hey. That's, hey. Thank you for confiding in me. What a compliment.

I had been telling her earlier how much I loved my last haircut and she was like, "They don't all love 'em! This one lady, she told me that she likes her bangs [!] like this...and I cut them like that [the opposite way]...and at the end of the haircut I asked how she like it and she was like, oh, it's fine...so you know that's never good." Yeah, that's not too good. To do the opposite thing from what your client desires. That is weirdly not good for business a little, isn't it.

And while my hair was wet, I thought it was looking all right. So while she was cutting it, I said, "I can tell that this is going to be good," and she was like, "Oh really?" and then just suddenly put down her scissors. Like that was it. The haircut was over. And hey, what do I know? I didn't know if there was more to do to make it look good! I didn't know until it was too late.

It's wack. The bangs are way too short, the sides are stupid and squared-off against my face in a hostile manner. I look like...okay, I don't look exactly like Frankenstein, but I could go to a Frankenstein family reunion and be in a big group photo off to the right somewhere, and I could reasonably pass as a distant cousin.

The search continues.