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 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 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.

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.