jesus wouldn't try to get away with pants

Here are two pitiful amuse-bouches for today's post - a couple of t-shirts that I enjoy:




I particularly like the first one. Jesus is so adorably game. Look at you go, buddy!

NOW....

Hey! Are you in Seattle? Then you should buy a ticket and come to a benefit for the theater company I'm a part of, which be Printer's Devil Theatre. It will be grand! A hot, hot party. It's a

RED DRESS PARTY!


Click on the links up there and find out more, but I'll tell you this - it's on February 10th at the McCleod residence in Belltown. Doors open at 9:30. You have to wear a red dress. You cannot fudge it, culottes-style. You can't wear it over pants. Be you man or woman, you must be wearing a red dress.

I'm putting together the music. Tell me the song that you love that makes you knock over your grandmother on the way to the dance floor and leave her there squirming while you shake your callous ham. Seriously, tell me. I want to know. Especially if you're coming. But even if you're not, tell me.








Note to the small boy: I hope that's a belted t-shirt dress otherwise your sister's getting in and you're not. I see khakis. I think you might be screwed.

buried in sand is the natural habitat of my head

If ostriches weren't gigantic freaky phobia-rattling birds we would be likethis. I would call up the ostrich and be like, what are you doing right now? And the ostrich would be like, I'm hiding. And I'd be like, me too. We should hang out. We should start a club. It has to be at my place, though, because I can't come to your place because my head has to stay here.



I just finished reading Laurie David's book Stop Global Warming: The Solution is You. I don't know how I got my head out of the sand long enough to read it but I'm glad I did. It's wee, a wee tiny read, but it's incredibly vivid and engaging and galvanizing.

I'm not an activist. I deeply admire activists, but I don't have that drive. I wish I did. It's beautiful, that kind of heart and fire. But Laurie David, holy shit. She deserves to sleep well at night. She started getting concerned about global warming soon after she became a mom, and then when Kerry lost in 2004 she cried for three days and three nights and then woke up hell bent on doing something about it.

Torpor is more my thing. Fear, torpor, paralysis. I think of myself as easily overwhelmed, easily defeated. Defeated before I begin. So, global warming is exactly the sort of thing I am built to run away from. See you later, motherfucker. The Golden Globes are on. I gotta parse some outfits. I need to go crack open Us Weekly and see if I agree about Who Wore it Best: Angie Harmon or Jamie Lynn Sigler. Only 44% say Jamie Lynn Sigler? That's madness! Are those daffodils blooming out there? January, huh? La la la. Mmmmph. Stars are just like us, they scarf their lunches. Now I know.

Laurie David's inner flame must be something else indeed if it managed to sneak a spark down under my flab of inertia, down through the sandy grave that houses my head. I'm not doing much now, but I'm doing more. I'm turning off the light when I leave the room. I'm turning off my computer when I'm not using it. I'm thinking about it. It's part of my thinking now. I hope I turn it up a little, get a little busier. I hope I can continue believing that my teeny weeny actions make a difference. I hope I don't get discouraged and start saying, ah, screw it.

I mean, look at this guy. Look at my son.





Why would I want to contribute to the screwing over of his future? And look at these guys, now.



That mama surely adores that small bear with as much passion as I adore mine. I want to be someone for whom that fact is vivid and important. I don't want to fall asleep about it.

If you're scoffing at all, eye-rolling, like, here she comes with the polar bears and the pictures of her son, I am of two minds with you. One of the minds gets it. One of the minds recognizes the potential...what is it...corniness? saccharine quality?...overuse of that kind of heart-tuggy image, the possible deadness of that. The other mind wants to yell, NO, THINK ABOUT IT! Think about someone you love! Imagine them in jeopardy! Get uncool for a second! Don't make the image come meet you, you come and meet it.

And then I think that this is exactly the sort of internal debate that hamstrings me from being an activist. I don't want to do it wrong and contribute to someone shutting off. So, yeah. This is going to be awkward. Ah, well. Damn. C'est la vie.

Edit: The Trivial Psychic strikes again! I did this post last night, and then found an email from Laurie David in my inbox this morning. The subject heading was "Call to Save the Polar Bears". All right, it's not that amazing. But it's a tiny bit amazing. Mildly notable. I have these trivial psychic moments sometimes. Like once I dreamt about a woman in a purple suit who was thin in the beginning of the dream and then fat at the end of it. The next day I was watching the Tracey Ullman show and she did a sketch wherein she played Elaine of the restaurant Elaine's in NYC. She was skinny in a purple suit at the beginning of the sketch and fat in a purple suit at the end. I AMAZE YOU.

clouds

Sharp change in tone for the blog here for a moment. I don't know how much to write about this, but I need to write something. Please bear with me for a minute. This will be oblique, and it's mostly for my own benefit. This is my small mountaintop that I can shout from*. And if I don't do a little shouting, I'm going to sit here curdling in something. No, thank you.

*Yes, the participle dangled. I'd love to stop caring about that. That rule should go. I am tired of it.

I found out some things today about two family members who are no longer living, who are a couple of generations removed. I'm not going to name names or be specific about what I found out, because relatives may read this and it would be unfair. But what I found out made me sick, it made me angry, and because they're dead and there's no way I can confront them, it made me feel helpless.

What do you do when you suddenly find yourself angry at someone who has died? What do you do?

I can't say what they did, but I have to, so here's how I'm going to do it.

The first person, a male, did this: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The second person, a female, did this: She stood by and watched something, and didn't intervene.

Again, I'm sorry this is so vague. It has to be that way.

I'm glad I learned what I did because it's the truth, and the truth is illuminating. I'm angry that I have this knowledge because it's ugly and I don't want to hold it. I want these people who have died to hold it.

I took Dave to the chiropractor today, and when we were driving home it was late afternoon. The cloud formations were strange and stunning in that sunset light. There was a row of clouds over the freeway that looked like mournful orange faces poking out of the heavens, and I wanted those faces to be there for what I found out today. I wanted those to be the remorseful faces of my ancestors, or the grave faces of disapproving gods.



The clouds in the picture are someone else's. I didn't take a picture of my clouds from today. It's just as well. Those faces wouldn't have translated, just like you can't take a picture of ghosts.

i like everything everybody hates sometimes and vice versa

Soon I will stop talking about awards shows and fashion, but not yet.



First of all, Cameron Diaz looked great. She's the most annoying celebrity in the world, but I thought she looked stunning. And all the magazines and blogs are like, HATED IT! You are wrong, you magazines and blogs. When I saw her, I was like, WHO'S THAT?! And then I was like, oh. It's Cameron Diaz. Mmmph. And then I was like, WELL, SHE LOOKS GREAT.



Rinko Kikuchi. She's Japanese for pete's sake! She has license to dress like an adorable pile of cotton balls if she feels like it. This look is charming and entertaining at the same time.



Au contraire, mes freres. Drew Barrymore's dress didn't fit right and her tan was odd. She followed Angelina Jolie's example and rubbed newsprint on her face to make it look muted and bizarre.



See? Because that's what Angelina Jolie did. Right after Sarah Jessica Parker did her hair.



Vanessa Williams. Can it, hosers. I feel that she pulled this shit off. I like her hair, too. Oh, I'll say it.



Other than her hair, I like what J. Lo has going on here. I didn't say I love it. But I don't hate it. Because I'm in the middle, liking it. It must be weird to be Jennifer Lopez these days. On the Mrs. Marc Antony down low and all that. Give her a break. I don't know why.



Eva Longoria, NOPE. Slender puffy torso awkwardness on a lame lady. You are a suckball and you dress like a suckball, suckball.



The Fashion Police tried to arrest Kyra Sedgewick. I intervened, and threw their crack pipes to the ground. Kevin Bacon and their daughter Sosie are like, who is this weird lady rushing to our family's defense? It's me, you guys. It's Tina. I'm Tina.



Some people thought Reese Witherspoon's dress was too yellow or something. It was yellow, all right. Yellow like a fox!



And Filliam H. Muffman pulled it out this year, I thought! Good recovery! What a groovy dress. But I don't think anybody hated it. Or, probably someone did but I have not been apprised.

********

There are two new blogs on the blogroll: Le Petit Hiboux and Dalai Mama. Do enjoy.

what i always forget about awards shows

They're actually really boring. But I'm like a goldfish so I'll have forgotten this by the Oscars and I'll be just as psyched for next year's Golden Globes.

Oh, well.

Also, Dup's Blog and La Ketch are having a baby!! And my postpartum doula has just announced that she's pregnant with twins. More cute babies! Hurray! I LOVE BABIES!

nobody call me between 6 & 11 pm

I will be staring at the television so hard that my eyeballs will push out the lenses of my glasses.

I LOVE THE GOLDEN GLOBES.

Oh, Christ, Christ on a red carpet they make me happy. See, I'm a sucker for celebrities, I love fashion...and also I think perhaps I am starved for recognition. These things conspire to completely crackify awards shows for me. (Not all of them. The Grammys can suck it because who is everybody and who cares? The Emmys can likewise suck it. The Tonys, too. Snooze alarm! Wha'? Huh? Oh, the Tonys. Smack. Zzz.)

No, I'm talking about the Golden Globes and the Oscars. And the Golden Globes are great because they've got such a quorum of famous people. They're rockin' it movie-style AND tv-style. Plus all the celebrities are drunk and wander around from table to table schmoozing. (I far prefer watching people schmooze, even fleetingly from a great distance, to schmoozing myself which I find a holy terror. I wish I could watch a whole show of actors schmoozing, skillfully and unskillfully. I wouln't be able to take my eyes off of it. It fascinates me because I find it so difficult.)

Then there are the women's outfits. Sorry, fellas, but I have never seen a tuxedo so interesting and well-executed that it caused me to give a shit. The ladies have all the plumage. It's our revenge on the bird kingdom. Naturally, since I'm an actor - it doesn't matter that I don't have a movie career...or even really a stage career...Q. Uh, what kind of actor are you, exactly? A. Shut it. - I examine all of the outfits and pick the ones I will emulate when my award-winning movie career materializes out of thin, thin air. (As the years go by, I start keeping an eye more to your Helen Mirrens, your Brenda Blethynses, as I'm increasingly one of those long-sleeve wearing older actresses in my fantasy - I'm keeping it real, see?)

Here are some Golden Globe looks of yore which I've admired:



This is one of my favorite things Nicole Kiman has ever worn. The color is so rich and the look isn't stiff, which is a sartorial pet peeve of mine. I love a little artistic touch like the feather there.



Sarah Jessica Parker generally looks like her hair is giving her a migraine, and she usually looks wicked stiff, but I love the sparkly gray juxtaposed with her teal shoes and eye makeup. I'll give you this one, ma'am.



Shiva Rose McDermott, lose the watch-fobbish string thing, and we are in business.



Gwyneth Paltrow got flack for this look, but I thought it was very charming for her pregnant figure. Pregnant ladies doing sleek minimalism are barking up the wrong tree.



Debra Messing is also white and fluffy and pretty here.



Cate Blanchett has to work hard not to rock it. If she wanted to not rock it here, she failed.



Jennifer Aniston, you know thyself. Kudos.



Kate Hudson, you are a loose cannon, mama. But this made you look like a big sexy glass of champagne. And I don't even like you.



This is an Oscar dress but I don't care. It's my favorite ever. Julianne Moore looks perfect.



Now, listen. I would rather see this train wreck...I would a million times rather see this or Bjork's WHATTHEFUCK swan dress than...



...this boring, flat, "classy" bit of business from Talbot's or Staples or wherever she got this piece of plain white paper. A bad day for Filliam H. Muffman, Inc.

There. I've said it. You have an hour and a half to reach me by phone, and then I'm like Dick Cheney, twenty thousand leagues under the sea in my contact-proof bunker.

P.S. It stings me that I've barely seen any of the nominated movies/performances. I must not glare at the baby this evening. I must not glare at the baby this evening. I must not glare at the baby this evening.

P.P.S Finn issued this statement two mornings ago, "Boo qua qua qua."

P.P.P.S. I can't glare at the baby. I just tried.

And look! New theme again. The holiday theme had to make like a leaf and beat it. Also, I revamped the favorite posts section, the erstwhile Gallivanting Monkey Memory Lane. I put those favorites together like four months after I started blogging, and then left it like that for lo these many moons. Clicking over there was like buying The Greatest Hits of the 70's and finding out it only had Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head on it. Now it's Ye Olde Gallivanting Monkey Poste Shoppe and it has far more of yesterday's hits of today. Belly up to the sidebar if you are on a drunken archival rampage, but don't want to search around willy-nilly.

It's a beautiful snow we have in Seattle right now. Too bad it started falling THE MINUTE DAVE'S MOM LEFT TOWN TO GO BACK TO AUSTRALIA! She's sixty years old and she's never seen snow falling, never been near anything more than the tiniest powdered-sugar dusting of snow. The snow was supposed to fall on Tuesday night, weather wieners. Not Wednesday night.

Also, in case anybody is wondering if my husband and baby are still hot*:



Finally, some friends of mine who have blogs need to make some things public on their blogs so I can officially freak out over here. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

*Nobody be a smartass and say, "Well...are they?"

we hear that casino royale is great

Last night was our big night. Date night. Dave and I have managed to go out together... this was the fourth time since the baby was born. The second time alone. (The first time was on our anniversary. We ran out for an hour to have the fastest dinner ever at The Santa Fe Cafe. Finn was with my mom. She is not the sturdiest babysitter in history.) Dave's mom is in town and it was her big wish that the two of us go out for a romantic evening. Sweet Larraine!

We were PSYCHED. We knew exactly what we were going to do. Casino Royale, motherfuckers! We haven't seen ONE movie together since the baby was born. Casino Royale and then a nice dinner! Maybe a moment or two at a bookstore! Ai carramba. Beautiful.

4:00 pm - The movie's at 4:40. We should leave the house now.
4:20 pm - We leave the house.
4:30 pm - Adrift in a sea of tail lights. That's okay, though. Commercials! Previews! We'll make it.
4:38 pm - Downtown is right there. We can see it. But we cannot reach it. How late are we okay with being to this movie?
4:45 pm - Downtown is right there. We can see it.
4:48 pm - We cannot reach it. But it's playing somewhere else! Once we are off this freeway, we can find out where.
5:00 pm - You know what? It's playing in Ballard. Let's just drive there!
5:10 pm - Almost an hour into the date. Mmm. Sitting in traffic = the date.
5:12 pm - We're in Ballard. It started at 3:30. The next one is not for more than an hour. Our baby will not make it if we begin watching a long movie at 6:45.
5:15 pm - Get a paper! Maybe another movie!
5:15 pm - It's playing at the Big Picture at 5:30! Burn rubber, hosers!
5:17 pm - It's playing at the Big Picture at 5:30 on Friday. Today is Thursday. Thursday it just plays at 8:00.
5:18 pm - !!#@($#
5:19 pm - Okay. We'll get dinner. We'll go and get dinner at Il Fornaio and go to the bookstore. It's okay. It's okay.
5:20 pm - We're in Fremont. I am tired of driving. I am tired. I make a lazy turn and hit a curb. I hit it hard. But blah blah. Whatever.
5:30 pm - We're still in Fremont. Traffic! I am bored! Dave! Feel me up at this traffic light! We're on a DATE fer chrissakes.
5:35 pm - It's loud driving over the Fremont bridge, right? This bridge is louder than normal. It's weird and shaky. This is some weird work they're doing on the bridge.
5:37 pm - Son. Of. A. Bitch. The tire is flat. FLAT.
5:40 pm - Pull over on Dexter. Get spare tire out. Is the idea. How do we get it out of the thing? The thing is locked!
5:42-6:00 - Read Toyota manual page by page while Dave yanks at the thing to get the tire out.
6:01 pm - "Dave? It says loosen the nut. Then loosen the bolt."
6:20 pm - OH MY GOD IT'S COLD. Didn't wear a coat on the date, as I thought we'd be getting out in a parking garage. Dave changes the tire while I spaz out for warmth on the sidewalk. Hour Two of our fuckin' sweet date passes, Hour Three commences.
6:30 pm - We're on the road again. The road to Pacific Place, Il Fornaio and dinner. We'll be there in five minutes.
6:40 pm - We have been stuck at the same green light for two cycles. Would you like to get screamed at? Travel back in time to this moment and meet me at the white car at the stoplight at 7th and Olive. Look at me funny. Be the straw to my camel's back.
6:45 pm - We're at Pacific Place. Let's go into Il Fornaio via the upstairs entry. I don't want to be outside and get cold again. Wait. Let's just eat upstairs for a change! It's fancier, but we're skipping the movie.
6:47 pm - "Would you two be interested in sitting at our table of honor?" "-Wha?" "Our table of honor. We pick people randomly each night to sit at a special table and the chef sends out some special extras and the service is particularly attentive."
6:48 pm - Dave and I jab each other in disbelief as we are led to the Table of Honor.
6:49 pm - The actual date begins. It is weird and funny and GREAT. Being at the Table of Honor is a little bit like being a guest judge on Iron Chef. Look at this surprise crab cake on its lobster and balsamic reduction! Zabaglione is the dessert of honor! (They really called it the dessert of honor.) In other news, apparently I can drink a glass of wine and not be immediately under the table like I thought. I will be seeing you around campus, Pinot Noir. Dave and I imagine ourselves visiting all the regular tables and introducing ourselves, "Hi, we're Dave and Tina...from the table of honor...we had some down time in between amuse-bouches and we thought we should say hello...oh, you just have one kind of bread? Well, you know what? I bet you're still going to have a great time. Sorry if I seem disoriented. I'm just so used to looking at our red tablecloth. Your tablecloth is so blindingly white. The tablecloth at the table of honor is red. Oops. Here come some olives of honor. We have to run."
8:45 pm - We dash into the bookstore. I buy a book about unlocking the secrets to becoming impossibly French. This is a favorite genre of mine.
9:10 pm - We drive home slowly on our spare tire.

Finn FREAKED OUT while we were gone. Oh, date night. We will see Casino Royale one at a time, on separate days, some time in the future.

pricelessnesses of my mother: volume 37, entry 8

When my mother-in-law arrived from Australia for Christmas, we all celebrated with Chinese food and some German Riesling*. My mom hadn't had a drink of any sort in a long, long time. She got a little sauced and ate her fortune cookie whole, fortune and all. She tries to deny this. She insists that there was no fortune in the cookie. But I saw her at the sink struggling with that cookie in her mouth. She ate that fortune.

*That reminds me of a joke I heard on the Dick Cavett Show once. What do you get an hour after you eat Chinese/German food? Hungry for power. My favorite part of that joke is that I got it from Dick Cavett.

a snowball's chance in finland, or, dark days

Uh to the motherfucking oh. It didn't snow in Finland for Christmas this year. This is what they got instead.



Crocuses. This has never happened before. Also, apparently 22 hours a day of darkness is ultra-uber-dark without snow for whatever light there is to bounce off of.

And you got your giant ice shelf that broke off into the sea there. (Thanks to Jason Grote for the tip-off.) So, looking good. It's looking good. We're looking great. Our friend Neville in Australia used to walk around muttering, "Dark days, dark days." Word, Neville.

On the bright side, in hair news, I ditched the zero and got with a hero. Old hairstylist? Babe, I have left you. This not only means that I have a fine new haircut - this means that I don't have to be Zelig* any more. I have been Zelig with more hairstylists than I care to admit. They've been these loud obnoxious party girls, and I've felt this compulsion to kind of ape their brassy loud blah blah when I've been in their chairs. I was unconsciously working on the hypothesis that they would give a better haircut to someone they relate to. It was exhausting. (Confidential to the hairstylist of 2001: Your downstairs neighbor is actually a SAINT.) Not only is my new hairstylist sane and charming, she's also incredibly fastidious. And I can just be myself. My bachelor days are over.

*Zelig, for those who haven't seen it, is an old Woody Allen movie, wherein the title character has a disorder that makes him turn into whomever he's talking to. If he's talking to a Chinese person, he turns Chinese. If he's talking to an Orthodox Jew, he turns into an Orthodox Jew. During his therapy session he turned into a psychologist. During my haircuts, I became a boisterous Tri-Delt from SMU.


So there we go. We may all be up to our necks in seawater soon, but my head will look great.

mama

Finn said it tonight and he meant it. Dave was feeding him bananas in the other room, and he bit the spoon in an unpleasant way and began to cry. And then he fucking totally said it. Purposefully.

Mama.

An unbelievable feeling. Stomach dropped. I ran in there. I'm tied to him with the cord of all cords. I love that baby in a way for which I have no precedent.

Merry Christmas to me.

seasonal person hunt & scramble jumble

In honor of this blog's newly donned gay apparel, please enjoy this small play inspired by this photo of snowy Helsinki. See if you can attach the right person to the right line! Hint: There are more lines than there are people. Because, or wait, no. Okay. Two people have two lines apiece. I fixed it. It's cool. Never mind. Just play! Go! Don't overthink it! Jeez!

Finnish person 1: Hyvää Joulua!
Finnish person 2: Minä rakastan sinua, Joulu Pukki!
Finnish person 3: Minä olen pikku vauva Suomalainen kotona laivasaattue vaunut!
Finnish persons 1, 2 & 4: Aaa!
Finnish person 5: Minä olen epätoivoinen...ehkä palvelija , ehkä apulainen. Pääasiallisesti , alusta tähän epätoivoinen.
Finnish person 6: Hei! Minä olen pikku vauva Suomalainen kotona laivasaattue vaunut! Hei, törkeä nainen!
Finnish person 7: Tokko me hapantua meidän takaistuin. jotta nyt kuluva lellitellä , se jälkisäädös unohtaa me aari tähän.
Finnish person 8: Kyllä. Me aari ei tähän. La la la.
Finnish person 9: Minä olen astuva jotta sisu kotona nyt kuluva rakennus.

Translation*:

Finnish person 1: Merry Christmas!
Finnish person 2: I love you, Santa Claus!
Finnish person 3: I am a tiny Finnish baby in a navy carriage!
Finnish persons 1, 2 & 4: Aww!
Finnish person 5: I am a forlorn...possibly a boy, maybe a girl. Mainly, I stand here forlorn.
Finnish person 6: Hey! I am a tiny Finnish baby in a navy carriage! Hey, bitches!
Finnish person 7: If we turn our backs to this baby, it will forget we're here.
Finnish person 8: Yes. We're not here. La la la.
Finnish person 9: I'm going to go in this building.


*Maybe this is a translation. I used one of those English-to-Finnish translators, and I suspect I may be offering you some wack Finnish.

Oh, partridges. I don't know about this color scheme. Help me.

finn rowley, gentleman space cadet, reporting for duty

Seven and a half months on this earth. Friends, he is getting the hang of it. All sorts of things are underway. First, I draw your attention to the photo in the lower left hand corner. That's the official shot of Finn Rowley, Space Cadet. Dave flies him around and he reports for duty. He's a gentleman space cadet because he's always floating around looking for ladies to assist. He hovers over ladies' heads and says, "Excuse me, lady, are you in need of assistance? You are? Well...I'm taking my lunch break now.....also, often after lunch I have a nap. Excuse me." And he floats away.

He's a man of three teeth. Two below, one above. He's a man who's working on crawling, but once he gets himself on all fours, he's like, pardon me while I pause for a downward dog. Yoga is my passion, ma'am. He's a fellow whose hands sneak their way to the upper rim of his playpen before he struggles like a nutjob to pull himself to standing. He can do it. For a second. And then he tips over in what looks at first glance to be the Agony of Defeat. But then he's just lying there blankly considering his next move. Pas de problem.

I was feeding him some applesauce tonight and he said, "Bbbbbbba bbbbba bbbbbbba bbbmmma mmmmaa mmmmma mmmmmma mmmmmmmmma," and my heart stopped. I was like, play it cool, lady. Play it cool. That sounded like mama. But don't have a heart attack. He's just making noises. And then he did it again and I started pretty much vogueing. I pointed to myself and squared my hands around my face all, MAMA? DID YOU SAY MAMA? I'm MAMA. MAMA, that's this lady right here. I mean...you know....whatever...have some applesauce. It's cool.

I should be asleep. I'm like a crazy person here blogging for you. I'm exhausted. Finn is glorious in the extreme, but he also kicks my ass all day long. Not metaphorically, although that, too. I'm talking about getting punched and kicked and headbutted and bitten on the toe and having my hair yanked and my nose ripped off and my ear brutally examined to death. When evening falls, Dave and I stumble around like slit-eyed zombies while Finn is still merrily fighting for his right to party. We laughed until we cried the other night as we tried to calm him down to go to sleep. He was on the bed kicking his legs and squealing, and I was attempting to give him a massage and saying, shhh, shhhh, it's bedtime. Time to go to sleep. And it had so little effect that we likened it to going into a giant football stadium full of screaming fans and walking around making that two-handed, palms-down, take-it-easy gesture and murmuring to people randomly, "Okay...okay...let's get some sleep now. That's enough, everybody. Night night now. Shhh. Calm down." Ah, lord, we thought that was funny.

He's a happy guy, our young space cadet. We thank our lucky stars. 

six months in a leaky body

Finn Stanley John Rowley is six months old today. I think it's safe to say that he is a man, now. Men sit up on their own. Men bang you in the jaw with their heads twice in a row. Men wake up in the morning and begin their lectures. "Baaaaaaa," they say. "MrrrAAAAOOWglphhhh."
Men pull on your shirt and try and move it out of the way of their mouths. Men wear tights, yes, they do. They are the principal dancers in the Jack-0-lantern Ballet. The feet of the tights of men hang down a few inches below the actual feet of men. This is so that men can grab the feet of their tights while they're wearing them and wave their legs around manually. Men's opinion of pears from a jar changes weekly. Men look forward to rice cereal, because it won't be long now before men eat it. Men kiss your eyeballs. Men call bullshit on various things when they have reached a certain point of tiredness. Bullshit, they imply. And they are right.

When I was a young boy, I wanted to sail 'round the world....
That's the life for me.....living on the sea....
The spirit of a sailor circumnavigates the globe....
The lust of a pioneer will acknowledge no frontier....

Here's to you, Old Master Rowley. There's a world to explore, there's a town back on shore. You just spent six months in a leaky boat!

Love,
Mama

there but for the grace of god goes jimmy connors

I loved him for an academic year.

November 1982 - July 1983

An academic year if you scoot it over a couple of months. An academic year if there were a long teacher's strike.

xoxox He was Bjorn Borg. xoxox

I didn't even like tennis, beforehand. FOREHAND! (I haven't played tennis in twenty-two years. Is it a forehand? The one that's not a backhand? Yeah. I was really good.) But then in November of my freshman year of high school, I went with a few friends to see an exhibition match between Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg.




We were sitting behind one of the ball boys on Bjorn Borg's side. (Do they switch sides?) (Twenty-two years.) I was eating Skittles. Bjorn Borg lost an important point to Jimmy Connors. He turned to get the ball from the ball boy.

I caught his eye.

I shrugged and made a "Meh, what are you gonna do?" face to him.

He shrugged back with the same face!

I suddenly loved Bjorn Borg and tennis itself. The bag of Skittles I was eating became the Shroud of Turin. I carried it like a holy relic in the plastic pencil bag that hooked onto the inside of my three-ring binder. Although I had never played a sport in my life for more than the ten minutes it took for any P.E. teacher to give up and let me sideline myself with a fake injury, I decided I would join the school tennis team. I even joined a community tennis team for a minute, concurrently. Also, I subscribed to Tennis magazine.


This bag of Skittles is a re-creation. A dramatization, if you will. The actual bag was not a bag of "fundraiser" Skittles. They were just regular non-fundraising Skittles. Although I suppose all Skittles are a fundraiser for the people who make Skittles.

I was the bottom seed of both teams. Except for once! Once, I beat the second-to-worst person on the high school team! And then I was the second-t0-worst person on the team! But then very very very soon I was the worst person on the team again. I think the teams should have been seeded according to who the happiest person on the team was. I would have been the top seed with a bullet. I was never discouraged by my poor play. If my racket made contact with the ball and made that fooomp sound, I was aces in my book regardless of whatever trajectory the ball had afterwards. If I didn't fault while I was serving, I felt like Martina Navratilova, Chris Evert Lloyd and Carling Bassett* all wrapped up. Pop! Foomp! Shuffle shuffle! Foomp! Net! Whoo!

*Carling Bassett! The Anna Kournikova of 1982. Surely you saw the tennis movie "Spring Fever", in which she co-stars with Susan Anton. Because I did.

Our tennis coach, Mr. Case, kept yelling at me, "Footwork!" And in my mind I was like, oh, footwork....footwork's irrelevant. You don't play tennis with your feet. You play it with your hand! Check me out....fooomp!



I thought of Bjorn Borg all year, and wondered if he thought of me. Who was that adorable woman who shrugged at me from behind the ball boy? She's so understanding. She relaxes me. She'd make a wonderful wife. I don't care what anyone says, I love braces on women. She's not THAT small. And what a cute blouse she wore. I am batshit for large leg o'mutton sleeves. If I was given a homework assignment, I wrangled Bjorn Borg into it however I could. I remember giving a presentation about Bjorn Borg in front of my Language Arts class. Later, many people found polite, indirect ways to tell me to please stop talking about Bjorn Borg when they signed my yearbook, as you may have seen in a previous entry.

I had to miss watching parts of Wimbledon on tv that year. Family vacation to Orcas Island. No television. HISSY FIT. NERVOUS BREAKDOWN. THE SOB THAT WAS HEARD 'ROUND THE WORLD. This resulted in a Walkman. I accepted bribes then, and I accept them now.

Boris Becker won that year, I think. And I was like, Boris Becker? Who's THIS Johnny-come-lately? I've loved tennis since LATE LAST YEAR. Feh. Tennis isn't what it used to be. Kids today. I think I'm going to hang it up.

And I hung it up. By August it was as though Bjorn Borg and tennis never existed. I dropped them like a couple of used kleenexes and started dating The Police's album Synchronicity. Bjorn Borg was the Iceman? I was the Iceman.

the plum tree house

Wooo! Woo-hoo!

Dave and I have decided on an exterior for our new house. I canna believe it.




At first I was like, it's got to BLEND into the LANDSCAPE! BLEND! BLEND! It must look like it grew out of the EARTH! Grey stone! Warm wood! But nothing we could afford was quite looking right.

And then dorking through a magazine I saw this ad for that door, and I went apeshit. Something about that blue-violet stain drives me nuts. Love it. And since the house is evicting a couple of beautiful old plum trees, that purple feels like a nod to the plums. Plus, the door. Love it, too. We'll take it.

Dave was at the Pink House today, cleaning it out (sad. SAD. Soon I will write of my relationship with the beloved old Pink House.) and when he got home I showed him this ad, and he loved it instantly, said he was rapt with it. I smacked him on the arm and some thrilled gibberish flew out of my mouth like, "TaTAH!" and then he made fun of me for five minutes. It was such a Finn-style response.

Okay, look, we're going to buy a new camera tomorrow. You've got to see that boy. He's crazy. His new thing is to suddenly attempt to launch himself backwards out of whomever's arms he happens to be in. You have to be on your toes. Placid placid placid placid NESTEA PLUNGE TO MY DEATH*!

*Universe. I am KIDDING.

i got myself a rooster and i put him on the fence and he yelled for hale high 'cause he had good sense

Well, we did it. We went to the reunion! Here's my report:

Wait. First, look, we have no photos because our camera hasn't turned up yet. I know. And also it's terrible because Finn has this excellent hilarious tall red velour mouse hat that he's finally grown into, so he looks like the Cardinal of the Mice. We just discovered that this morning. He's like, oh, my God, this magical hat makes everybody love me even more. And he bangs his mittened fist on the steering wheel of his Bébé Pod learn-to-sit-up seat with imperious new joy. Love me, subjects! Okay, now he's a king. He turned into a king, from a cardinal. Whatever, man. Bear with me. You know what I mean.

We're just going to buy a new camera, and then we'll find our missing one, and then we'll have two.

Okay.

...dum dee dum.....

Well, we did it. We went to the reunion! Here's my report:

*Ladies are easier to recognize from their youth than men. The men were largely beefed out and sort of balded up. We were given little name tags that were actually our senior pictures (!) (return of the eyeliner!) with our names written tinily beneath them. You had to really peer like hell at the little nametag to make out the name, so they were pretty useless. You weren't going to walk up to someone and sort of make out with their chest for a second and then be like, oh, hello, Mike Frank. I kind of knew you. Or (squint, squint) ...oh, sorry....Richard.....Ro...senthal. We haven't met. Also, I wasn't wearing my glasses. Oh, I had them in my bag. But I wasn't wearing them. And I wasn't gonna wear them. Reunion! Vanity! Legitimate! If silly! And all night, I was like, dang it, would you believe it? I don't have my glasses. More's the pity. What a kerfuffle! Can't see who any of you are! So I talked to far more ladies than I did fellows.

*There was a healthy bunch of people that I was really happy to see. My friend Kris from Complain-o-Peeps, she and I met up with my dear old friend Sandi for a drink before the proceedings, and together we formed a reunion home base from which to operate. It was a joy to see her. You. It was a joy to see you. I know you're reading this, you cute Sandi. Call me. Seriously. (Kris, I see you all the time, relatively, so I feel I don't have to cite you, although you are always delightful.) And my old friends Kate and Kasia, it was a joy to lay eyes upon them. Kasia I hadn't seen since high school, and it had been nearly a decade since I'd seen Kate. Great ladies. A treat. And my favorite dude from high school was there, Mike Stanford. Only talked to him for a second, but I always thought he was the bee's knees. One of those quietly hilarious guys. That was nice! And Miss Kim Clark, who was in the drama class photo from the previous entry practicing her facial expression, she was a real treat to see as well. Warm and funny and down to earth. And there were lots of others, too. If for some freak reason you're reading this and you were there and you're like, what about me?, then it's safe to say that you're utterly among them.

*I totally got mistaken for somebody else in this great way at the end of the night. Dave and I were trying to make it out the door to go home, and I ended up in conversation with this one woman I knew. Lovely conversation, we were happy to see each other, but then I cut it short because we had to get home to the baby. And she was like, "Well, I would have known you anywhere. Kasia Zasoski!" And I didn't have the time or energy to correct her, so when she said, "But it's not Zasoski anymore, is it?!" I just threw out a cordial, "No, it isn't!" and we were on our way.

*Some people turned out to be dicks, is all I'll say about that. I'm not concealing any big story, I promise. You can just tell when somebody has turned out to be a dick, and that, my friends, was the case for a few of these ol' Raiders. But this was mostly only so for people who were headed that way twenty years ago.

*The keeping-it-real prize goes to Tim Little! Man, was he ever refreshing. He was like, I don't know what all these people are talking about, all "my life is so great"....MY life has been a roller coaster! He'd tried to go back to school six times, been diagnosed with ADD, been married, been divorced, is currently a bus driver, and was like fuck it! I'm on a ROLLER COASTER! God bless him. The honesty! I love it. Live long and prosper, man.

*Some exchanges were just like, here, these are my baby pictures. Okay, I see yours. Okay. Check. Move along.

*For some reason, a lot of people thought I'd moved to California. I've never even considered mvoing to California. They were like, we couldn't find your address! We heard you'd moved to California! Maybe they also thought I was Kasia Zasoski, who really lives in California.

*I wore that shirt. Nobody was like, AWESOME SHIRT! Nor was anybody like, what's with your shirt?

*There was a lot of HEY! Nice to see you! followed by an awkward pause and then followed by I think I'm going to get a drink! Good to see you! Which is what you'd expect.

*It would be stretching it to say that I ate sixty dollars worth of spicy popcorn shrimp.

*Dave was a great sport. He and Kris's husband Orion played pool and were low-key together. And he looked all foxy in his black corduroy blazer. And I was like, man, why is this music so loud! Nobody's going to be able to hear his foxy accent! So I kept working it into conversation that he's from Australia, which is retarded, but so am I.

*I loved seeing how some people who hadn't really come into focus in high school had bloomed in the intervening years. That's always how it should be, and usually how it is. You don't want to peak in high school. It's better to save it up. I'll be advising Finn to be as awesome as he likes in high school, but keep a little awesome in his pocket to detonate later in life.

i got my braces off and I know that soon you will too

I've been poring over my high school yearbooks, boning up for the reunion. First I will share some thoughts/epiphanies/top-notch ideas I've had, and then I will treat you to some of my favorite texts from my yearbook signatures over the years.

1. I looked, and the results are in. There is not one girl in my class who wore more eye makeup than I did. No one can touch me. If a little eyeliner is pretty, a lot is SO pretty. Have a look at my senior picture. Bottom right-hand corner.



In my defense, my hair is not particularly egregious, and that photo was taken in 1985. But that is some not-fucking-around eyeliner. I remember a friend of mine gently telling me during my freshman year, "Tina, your eyes are so pretty. You don't need to wear so much eye makeup." And I was like, what is she talking about? I look GREAT. In retrospect, I understand that she was just looking out for me. If she has any sartorial or cosmetic advice for me at the reunion, I'm taking it.

2. Was it your experience that all sorts of the most random people in the world wrote their phone numbers down for you when they signed your yearbook? Give me a call this summer if you get bored. People wrote down their phone numbers who would have been seriously startled if I'd dialed them. Here's my great idea: I want to call all those numbers now. Mrs. Skoglund? Is Eric there? Oh, not for a while, now? Well, if you talk to him, tell him I was bored so I thought I'd call. Tina Kunz. Kunz. Tina Kunz. From Nathan Hale. Great. Thank you.

3. Here are some photos from our drama class. The caption for the picture at the top really shows you what a great foundation we budding actors were given. I shall provide it for you below, as it's too small to read.



"TOP LEFT: Kim Clark, Kisha Palmer, Tina Kunz, Joanna Lasky and Christi Rhodes (sic) practice their facial expressions for drama class."

To be a good actor, you really have to know how to make facial expressions. Look what a good actor I was already at the tender age of 16! I could make a look at that, that's funny expression, and I could make an I'm an airhead expression. Twenty years later, I bet I can make at least twenty variations on those. I am a wonderful actor. They say it takes twenty years to make an actor. Perhaps I will do a skit for everyone at the reunion.

**********

And now it's time to enjoy some classic yearbook signatures, or excerpts thereof, or simply a great opening line or so. Most of these are from people I didn't know well, or barely knew at all, rather than from my close friends. Those signatures are the ones I enjoy the most - the pure space-fillers. I think these people rose to the challenge of just filling the space very handsomely. I shall remove the names, so no one is unfairly shamed should they be Googled:

Hey, Tina!! Hey there's enough room up here so I think I'll start to sign! Oh no Mr. Bill! Where to [illegible] Well, hey dude! Chem was a joke this year with Mitch. Michellin Man! It was an adventure, an experience, or something like that! We're Seniors next year! Wow, Hey, Cool (and the gang) I like traffic lights I like traffic lights I like traffic lights " " " " But only when they're green!! Brrrrrrr [drawing of a rocket taking off] 1600 KJET Seattle, Whatever! KJET is cool, No class will ever be as weird or fun as Brock's! Strip Pocher in the Van! COP!! New Coke Sucks [drawing of a can of New Coke with the caption 'too much nutrasweet'] Anyway, I hope you have a rockin, rollin, splishing, splashing summer and I'll see you in September, In more classes! Bye, your friend, XXXX XXXXXX

Tina,
How's life? Or should I say how's Bjorn Borg. You know you just love him. Too bad we didn't talk too much this year. Hasn't it been so boring in History. Oh, well, keep in touch. My number is XXX-XXXX! Gerard "The Great"

Tina,
It is almost summer time and that means no more Kopta [old batty French teacher] and lots more PARTIES! Your tennis playing has really improved and somebody you will be as good as BJORG BORN. Have a great summer and see you at the beach. XXX, '86

Tina,
Radical pen!

Tina,
Your a really strange person but I'm glad I got to know you. Tina you shouldn't bring so much pizza if your not going to eat it. Not much time left so I'll just say have an awesome summer and I'm sure I'll see you around but if I don't give me a call - XXX-XXXX, Love, _arrett _mith P.S. We'll have to play some tennis this summer.

Tina,
WELL I CONFESS I HAVEN'T HAD YOU IN ANY OF MY CLASSES! So I can't say that BUT I still enjoyed the things we did and I'm going to miss you. I'm going to miss lot's of people. Remember I'm going to Germany so while your missing people feel sorry for me. However I'm not depressed right now so I think the first thing we should do is go PARTY!! Dude. In all seriousness you are a wonderful person and I think your beautiful too. So stick to it dudette, remember me, remember Ms. Kreuger and remember to smile I LOVE YA _RUCE _ASON P.S. serious good luck in the years to come and may you live in a boat this big. [arrow pointing to a big boat in a photo] P.P.S. remember everything important studette

Well, there you have it. I bought that shirt. I'm going to wear it. I have a haircut scheduled for the day of the reunion, which is always a mistake. I considered flipping through the senior photos for the most upsetting haircut, and getting mine done that way as a tribute, but I think I will just let the chips fall where they may.

In parting, here's the back cover of my senior year yearbook. See if you can find my picture in there. (Hint: Look to the eyeliner.) Also, aren't you surprised to learn that Bill Cosby, Marilyn Monroe and that bull went to my high school? Well, they did. Look at 'em.

i am waiting for the cloth version

A couple of days ago Finn had his first sit-down on his own with a book. It was a cloth number called "Fluffy Chick & Friends". (I would have taken a picture but our camera is missing. I know! Everybody send vibes that we'll find our camera. You know, find-y vibes.) It was so great! He was crinkling the crinkle business on the front cover, grabbing the pages in his little be-mittened hands and waving them back and forth.

And then I thought about cloth books, and went off on an imaginary tangent. See, I don't have a lot of time to read these days. While I was breastfeeding Finn the other day, "Fluffy Chick & Friends" was lying on the couch next to me, and since there was no grown-up reading material at arm's length, I grabbed it and read it.

The blah blah horse is in the stable. Give her a wave (or something), her name is Mabel.

I imagined some old friend coming up to me, maybe at the reunion, and asking me what I've been reading lately. And I imagined replying, "Oh, well, I'm been, um, sort of into cloth books? Um....let's see....I just read 'The Big Moose'...and that was pretty crinkly...there's a goat in it whose horns were sort of vinyl and pointy and you could grab them, so...yeah, um, it's got a lot of good textures, you might give that one a read...."

Texture is something that just gets left behind in adult literature*! And I think that should change. I'd love, say, a cloth version of Anna Karenina, where there could be interludes with different textures for various parts of the story.

*I speak not of porn, freaks.

****Anna Karenina Spoiler Alert, because I ran these ideas past Dave and he was like, I was going to read that.....******************

It could be like:

Feel Anna Karenina's black dress!
(and then you pat it with your big fat hand and you're like, oh, velvety.)

This is the wheat that Levin is growing!
(Stalky...wheaty....I can feel it with my fingers.)

Feel the icy indifference as it increases in Vronsky's heart towards Anna!
(Oh...it's cold...and hard...I can poke his little heart...(stroke, stroke)...it feels cold on my hand.)

Here's a puff of steam from the train that Anna throws herself under. Feel the steam!
(.....feels poufy.....)

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

I think that this is an idea whose time has come. And I'd like to hear some of your ideas for the textures we can enjoy from famous books when the cloth versions come out.