Thursday, June 29, 2006


Look at this.

1. Dave, in baby form

2. Finn, in present form

If your reaction isn't OH MY GOD THE RESEMBLANCE, I don't want to know.

But OH MY GOD THOSE ARE TWO CUTE BABIES is a good reaction, too.

Definitely don't want to know if your reaction is

P.S. Dave isn't in black and white anymore. He was in black and white because he's so old. But he's gotten modern and been colorized.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

happy two month birthday!

When asked to give a speech, Finn said:


Skip around the room, skip around the room, we won't shut up until you skip around the room!

We love that little chuckler!

the old dilemma

The dilemma, it's so old and timeworn, it's such a hand-me-down. I've just grown into it, and I'm trying it on for the first time. I can't even believe I'm wearing it. You see ten thousand people parading by wearing gauchos, and they're all tearing their hair out and pulling at their legs going, "I can't believe I'm wearing these gauchos!" And you're like, yeah, yeah, the gauchos thing. And then you look down and you also have them on. And then you start doing the fucking macarena. I'm talking about the thing with the identity crisis with becoming a mother and figuring out how and when and if and where I'm still an artist.

Oh, man. See, I'm a part of this theatre company. I have been for ten years, with a tiny break in the middle. I just got a very sweet email from my friend who is the artistic director, which was in the gentlest of terms telling me not to disappear, since I'd not been to a meeting or even replied to the announcement of a meeting (!!!) since Finn's birth. I felt awful, totally distraught at not replying, and apologized to everyone forthwith.

I mostly didn't reply because I have my head up my ass - or rather, up my baby's ass. But I also a little bit didn't reply because I...don't feel like an artist right now. I feel like a fake artist. Like I'm carrying an old artist identification card and hoping I can still swing it.

I'm wiping baby puke out of my bra as I write this.

Here's my fear. I'm afraid that something is going to wither - my abilities, my confidence, my energy. I'm afraid that fear will wither the impetus to be creative in a public forum.

It's on the books that I'm going to do a solo show under the auspices of the company, the centerpiece of which is a story I've told on this blog. I've written good chunks of it. I've never done one before. It feels scary and ballsy. And I'm having trouble locating my artistic balls at the moment. Also, suckily, a way more famous and experienced solo artist person is going to be doing a show here in Seattle, and a large bit of the show is set in the same milieu as my show. I don't want my first experience with a solo show to be like:

If you like Giorgiotm, you'll love PRIMO!tm


If you liked Howard's End, you'll love *Enchanted April*!

Yeah. If you liked _________'s show, you'll wonder why Tina did her show.

I was weeping this morning and talking to Dave about my fears, and he was very concerned, and said I needed to make time regularly to work on art-related things, so that part won't wither. Then I cried even more. Where is the energy going to come from?

I have the energy to blog, because it can be anything or nothing, and it can just be honestly whatever.

I love art. I love acting. I love being on stage, I feel alive and alert there. Keen, like an animal. I love writing.

Who the hell am I? What's it going to look like?

I don't want Finn to have a mom that's like, "Wow, must be NICE, getting to FULFILL yourself like that. Live it up, sucker."

I realize it's only been eight and a half weeks. I guess I can take a moment to adjust to motherhood before fulfilling all my artistic aspirations. But it makes me nervous. It all makes me nervous.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

tuxedo junction

Yep. That's him. That's him, all right*.

Ok. Ok. Begin the tiny tuxedo-themed post now.

It seems that Finn can't get enough of the song "Tuxedo Junction". I started singing it while burping him, and it soothes the savage beast. Never fails. I suspect he was a swingin' bandleader in his previous life, or at least some type of swingin' cat.

Here are the lyrics:

Feelin' low...
Rockin' slow...
I want to go
Right back where I belong

Way down South
in Birmingham
I mean South
in Alabam'
to an old place
where people go to dance the night away

They all drive
or walk some miles
to get jive
their Southern styles
That makes you want to dance away the day

It's a junction
Where the townsfolk meet
At each function
In a tux they greet you

Come on down
Forget your cares
Come on down
You'll find me there
So long, town
I'm headin' for
Tuxedo Junction now

Sing that baby to the tune of "Tuxedo Junction" !

And now, here's a tiny excerpt of an interview in The Believer, wherein the author of the Lemony Snicket books is interviewing Jack Black. They've been talking about weddings, and wedding attire, and renting vs. owning tuxedos. Jack Black rents. Daniel Handler owns, and elaborates a little:

Daniel Handler: It’s nice to have a tux because sometimes you can just put it on and wear it. It sort of shocks the hell out of people.

Jack Black: [laughing] Do you do that?

Daniel Handler: Yeah, I just wore it to someone’s birthday party. If you really go all out and it’s not a sarcastic-looking tux they just don’t know what to do with you.

If all goes according to plan, Finn'll be the kind of guy who'd do that. I just gotta figure out whether to use reverse psychology or just basic forward psychology.

*Finn in his first tuxedo, a white appliqued terry cloth footed number. Shut up, it's a training tuxedo.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

loot bag

1. For those who might care, with apologies to those who don't, the breastfeeding has taken! We're in, now. We can just do it. It's cool. It ain't no thing, and whatnot. We've been doing it for a couple of weeks now.


Finn's latching style is a little bit Hannibal-Lecter-just-released-from-his-mask meets random-blind-lunging-pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, but the process no longer hurts or makes me cry. Also, it doesn't give Finn that worried look on his face he used to get. He used to accompany that with "I'm on the fake telephone" hands to his ears. Like he was calling his agent with one hand and a lactation consultant with the other.

2. Also, HE'S INTO ME!


He's flashing that Peanuts blank-mouth smile at me all the time. And a couple of times now he's stared at me with this crazy look of stunned adoration while cooing at me in this sweet, strangulated way, as though he's striving like mad to articulate his feelings accurately.

When That Happens = Me = Puddle

3. A new blog is on the blogroll called Mundane Superhero, penned by one Heels. She's a mama and very smart and funny and charming and prolific, and she does all this crafty stuff that I would love to do if after I conceived of a project it did itself. Like, I would quilt all the time. I'd make quilts like Paul Newman doesn't personally make pasta sauce. I'd make quilts like Jude Law makes time with the nanny. I'd make like a tree and leave to go make a quilt. I go to EQuilter and design hypothetical quilts for real loved ones all the time. If ever I've spoken the words "I love you" to you, I've imagined in detail the quilt I'd make for you if I were someone who ever got anything done ever. I made a real quilt once for my parents, which ruined me by giving me the idea that I'd ever do it again.

Apropos of that,

Happy 3rd Anniversary to Kristen and Chris.

The quilt I promised you three years ago....I have the squares cut out and organized into rows. They're in a bag somewhere, slowly dying.

4. My husband got a poem published in this online journal called andwerve. He is getting so good, I tell you. He's going to let me post some here. He's the MOST, mofos.

5. Two poems for you, by Catherine Wing. She's unfuckingbelievable. Elizabeth came over and read us this one (if you're going to have poetry read to you, pretty much you want Elizabeth to do it):

The Evil Hypnotist Plans His Next Session *

your head is full of angry bees.
Your tongue is made of butter and
has melted. You are made of butter.
Now you are nothing but a stain on the carpet.

Imagine, please.
Your eyes are cocktail onions.
They cannot see.
Your lower half is planted in sand.
The tide is rising.

you are made of glass.
You are a candle snuffed.
A bubble blown - pop.
Don't breathe, please.

You are an old pickle jar
being filled with bacon grease.
A head full of dust, crumbs on a table.
You will be disposed of with a crumber.
Be still.

You are a hull of the unseaworthy.
You are the husk of a cicada,
the shell the snail abandons.
You are the bed of a stream
that's lost to drought.

Imagine, please.
A sandbag with a hole in it.
A slow leak.
A water balloon come undone,
empty and nothing until
you are dead.

You are dead.

*Alternate title: Finn Was the Hypnotist on Monday, We Were the HypnoTEES

Another one:

139 Words about Me

Dear Mr. Everything:
17 words about me. I like bad weather.
Seeking smarty-pants.
Drummers a plus.


Dear Vanilla Pudding:
My pronunciation is often bad.
ISO the world's smallest parade.
No mullets.


Dear Iniquitous Villain:
Kick my tires.
Seeking a synonym for nefarious.
Bad weather a plus.


Dear Gentle Iconoclast:
For Sale...As Is.
ISO same.
No beef jerky.


Dear Hey Sailor:
I'm an athletic drunk in an iron lung.
Need Deck Hand.
Usuals a plus.


Dear Cute Punk Rock:
Tired of kicking.
Seeking similar bird of feather.
No hootchie-kootchie to start.


Dear 17 Words:
Break me from my cancer shell.
ISO an iron lung.
Jesus a plus.


Dear As Is:
The usual parade.
Seeking Latin Cosmonaut.
No discounts.


Dear Dear:
I must stop somewhere.
ISO you.
The universe, please.

Monday, June 12, 2006

the fuss budget is in dire need of adjustment, or, S.O.S.

We are over budget. The fussing has exceeded its set limit. But we do not want the fuss budget increased. We should strive to spend less.

If you are someone I know, and you've recently emailed me and I haven't emailed you back, that's only because you're not apparently on fire and shrieking in my ear. It isn't you. I promise you that someday I will email you back.

Oh my god, he's awake again. Anything could happen. He might eat me.

This may be my last entry.*

*not really. This is a reference to a joke we had when Bald Faced Lie was touring Canada. We liked the idea of a Donner party-ish trip journal like this:

Day 1

9:45 a.m. Camp is set up, breakfast is on the fire. We anticipate a smooth trip to Edmonton, and spirits are high.

11:00 a.m. This may be my last entry.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

two things about a baby

1. An observation

One of the trickiest among many tricky things about having a child is that you fall in love with him and you must not be shy to remain in love with him even if sometimes it seems like that love is unrequited. This is an unfamiliar sensation. Normally, in all my other relationships, if I've felt love blooming in me for another and sensed a dearth of love blooming back, I've either moved on post-haste or at least started making a list of things to pack for when I did eventually move. Here, there's no packing, there's no moving. If I love Finn and somehow he ends up deciding that he's just not that into me, that is too bad for me. I will have to live out my life humbly and openly carrying my torch. I'm not saying that Finn doesn't love me. I'm saying it's too soon to tell, and that sometimes a neurotic person could read his vibe as NOT INTO THAT PERSON*. And I'm totally into him. I write his name on my Peachee, his initials on my sneakers, I give him a code name**, I want to ask him to the Tolo. Finn 4-Ever. I will be the dork who never gives up. I will walk 500 miles and I will walk 500 more. I joke about this, but it's also pretty serious. It's dangerous! to bring a person around that you are going to fall on your knees adoring, and risk none of the love coming back your way. It's one of the reasons that I've never pursued acting with the vigor I might have liked to pursue it with***. Rejection is so deep, man. So scary. It's so much easier not to ask for the thing you want so much, and not to have to hear NO spoken aloud. C'mon, Finn. Love me. Mama needs a new pair of shoes.

* I also take his gassy smiles personally, though, so I'm reading things into things on both ends. Better for my emotional teeter-totter.


***I will risk the icy indifference of grammarians with that preposition, fuckers.

2. A gross event

Dave and I went into Fremont for an hour the other day while our unbelievable doula Sara watched Finn. I had burped him beforehand, and he'd puked down my chest into my bra. Nothing to write home about there. Cleaned it up and moved along. But when we came home later I was idly playing with my hair and in back there was a clump that Finn had puked on that had invisibly congealed into some sort of small clear papier mache hair dagger. Oh, I can't tell you, can't tell you how creepy it was. It looked and felt like a little dagger, or a crow's claw****, or something else just horrible. I was so deeply skeeved that I could barely accompany myself to the bathroom to wash it out. I kept stalling and showing it to Dave a few times. Look! Look at it! Feel it! Look! I really had to force myself to go with myself. Ugh. Oh. Erf. Wash. Blarf.

****And now, hopefully a long hiatus from any even vaguely bird related content.