for those no longer about to sew, we salute you

Today was a really good day around our household. Everybody was in a great mood. Finn was geegle-eagle-geegle-gee-ing around with a big grin on his face, standing up all by himself awesomely in his candy-colored stripey pants with the orange hippo on the butt, and the rest of us were just swinging along sweet as honey. My plaid rainboots arrived and they fit me perfectly.

My brother noted what a good day it was, and posited that the good vibes might be due to the fact that it's needle honoring day.

I was like, wha?

He explained that it's an old Buddhist tradition on this particular day to honor old broken sewing needles for their service. He said that the old needle parts are stuck into some tofu (!) and put on an altar and blessed.

Well, here:

Feb 8: Needle Memorial

In Japan, in a ritual that goes back 1500 years, women dress in kimonos and take the sewing needles that have broken in the previous year to the local Buddhist shrine where a three-tiered altar has been set up. The lower tier displays sewing accessories: scissors, thimbles, thread, etc. The top tier holds offerings of seasonal fruit and white mochi. On the center tier is a vast slab of tofu into which the broken needles are plunged. Priests sing sutras to comfort the needles, heal their broken spirits and thank them for work well done. No sewing takes place on this day.

Now, I don't know if that 's why we were feeling so grand around these parts, but I'll say this: learning about this needle memorial only upped the good vibes in my own personal airspace.

I'm not a Buddhist, but damn it, here's to Buddhism. Of all the major religions, Buddhism has wrought the least harm in the world. It's such a reasonable and non-pugilistic creed. And that needle business is charming in the extreme.

savage beasts will be soothed on saturday

Sweet relief, lords and ladies. The music playlists for the

red dress party

have finally been completed. Oh, mama. Five plus hours of dancing songs, five hours of songs to make out to in the makeout room. (Did I mention that there's a makeout room? There is. Pa-chow.) Some music to start the party, some music to wind the evening down. It was a giant task, but you know what? I'd rather spend 15 hours putting music together than spend half an hour on the phone asking strangers to donate goods or services. Gack.

There's more than a little bit of neurosis involved in DJ'ing a party, though. My dear friend DJ Shafty Shaft can corroborate, although he is proven to be inspired at it. You're laying your total musical cred or lack thereof out on the table for all the world to see. (Well, not all the world. We're only selling 150 tickets. Several billion people will have to miss out.) (If you're coming and you haven't purchased your tickets, I'd do it soon for it will sell out for sure.) (Click on the words red dress party up there to go do that.) Now, I don't know what the kids are listening to these days. Each year I maybe manage to incorporate one or two new bands into my heavy rotation, and become familiar with maybe...what...like...five more? Maybe? But I have, I can state with certainty, a very entertaining music collection. It's guilty pleasure central. I buy the wack things so you don't have to.

The trick in putting together this playlist was figuring out how to balance out the retarded treasures with more...oh lord, what would the word be?...it will be wrong...legitimate songs that even sober people could be seen dancing to without embarrassment. See, and the problem is, what are those songs?? I think that only special musical people know! Me, I'm blind, as it were, and I had to guess! I had to go totally by instinct. We'll see on Saturday how I did.

My nightmare scenario:

Def Leppard's "High and Dry" is thumping out into the room. Everybody stands still and glares in my direction until someone drunk enough shouts out, "The DJ sucks!" Then everybody cheers and someone from my theater company sighs and comes and shoves me out of the way, rescuing the party with legitimate music from deep in his laptop. High and dry indeed!

My dream scenario:

People are sweating, their knees are buckling, but they refuse to leave the dance floor. Kris Kross? Inspired! Electric Six? I'm not leaving! Britney Spears...ok! You've earned it! Who's the DJ? Who's the DJ? everyone is murmuring around the room. It's her!

I love her and I also love her plaid boots!



I ordered these from Zappo's. I hope they fit! They should arrive tomorrow. Rainboots will suck all the good out of my dancing, but my red dress is sort of a trenchcoat-turned-dress so I'm going for sort of a totality of look here.

Anyway. Please let me have landed on an assortment of tunes that will give the red dresses and their contents the good time they deserve. I can say this: Flaming Banjo will be happy for at least three minutes and twenty seconds. I mean, you know, if he's there. I can't make any assertions about his happiness otherwise. I just don't have the kind of information to make that call. But really, let's hope the guy will be happy for at least three minutes and change no matter what his plans are for the evening! Three minutes of happiness for everyone!

***********

Now. Also. Do you like chocolate chip cookies? Then make the recipe on the back of the Ghirardelli chocolate chip bag. Do it with walnuts. Are you fatally allergic to walnuts? Is it worth dying to put the walnuts in there? I don't know. I don't know. Maybe. Maybe it is. I leave that up to you.

***********

Note: While editing this post, I discovered I'd used the word "certainty" like five times. And I remember holding back on the word a few times since I had a vague feeling I'd used it. It was with certainty this, without certainty that. So I cleaned it up, but man. Someone's all tethered to the idea of certainty this afternoon.

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