dippis shittis ~ I know Latin

Staycations suck

2012-01-27T08:13:00.000-08:00

So we are grinding our way through January, and even though we've had a crazy warm winter so far, it is still winter in Minnesota, and therefore way too long.

Unfortunately there is no trip to Mexico or the Caribbean this year.

So instead you can look at this picture I took years ago. I found it yesterday when going through some photos.

Good Lord! I'm artistic!

If you stare at it long enough you will start to think you're there.

It helps if sit in a steam-filled bathroom in your swimsuit, then drink about five or six rum daiquiris, then fall over onto the tile floor (use your beach towel for cushioning) and then stare into the ceiling lights until you can actually hear the sound of waves crashing. Either that or someone else just flushed the toilet.

See? It's EXACTLY like a Mexican vacation.

Without the diarrhea.

What it's like

2012-01-25T09:29:00.000-08:00

I've thought about writing this post for over a year. Probably about two years, in fact.

But I never did. I wasn't sure how to start.

What could I say that hasn't already been said? Isn't there enough people out there who've said it already, and said it better?

Maybe.

But then Heather got it out of me.

I'm referring to Heather Armstrong, of Dooce fame. If you've never read Dooce then you have no idea what I'm talking about. But, in a nutshell, she is probably one of the most famous "mommy bloggers" and has written a best selling book about her battles with postpartum depression.

I've been reading Heather's blog since 2005, and when my children's book was published in 2007, I sent her a copy. Her daughter was just the right age for it at that time. And even though Heather probably gets hundreds of things sent to her everyday, within a week I received a handwritten thank you card.

The thing I appreciated most was how open and candid she was on her website, talking about her kids and her day-to-day life and her mental health struggles, which honestly, is something I could relate to. Even though we've never met, I felt like I knew her and her family.

So when she announced last week she and her husband were separating, my stomach dropped. And when she spoke of her suicidal thoughts, my heart did. But at the same time I was grateful for her honesty, and it only made me take a harder look at myself and all the things we think we assume about another person and their life.

As a kid I was called moody. That is an understatement. I don't know what to call it exactly, but for many of us out there, we seem to have been born with a layer of skin missing. I was, and am, an extraordinarily emotional person. But most people probably couldn't tell because I would overcompensate by going in the exact opposite direction. And that direction was: Show NO Weakness. Why? I had no damn clue. Only that for some reason I was embarrassed and ashamed to have such intense feelings and I did my best to hide them.

It didn't always work very well.

When I had a child of my own and went through my own depression, I really appreciated all the things Heather wrote about. I might even go so far as to say that reading about someone else's intimate experience and surviving may have saved my own life.

I didn't even want to write that. But it's true.

I wrote a very vague post about my postpartum depression, and quite frankly, that was the best I could do at the time. The weird thing is how when I think back on that time, it is really foggy in my mind. It's like my brain doesn't want to remember it. Like my brain is trying to protect me.

But I do remember some things.

I remember lying and sobbing on the floor of the shower until the water was ice cold and I could barely even feel it.

I remember finding myself sitting in our car in the garage on a bitterly cold December night. I was wearing a T-shirt, pajama pants and socks. Because our garage is not attached to our house, it meant I had walked fifty feet in the snow to get there. But I don't remember feeling the snow and ice on my feet.

I do remember a soft dark voice in my head saying, "You can make this all go away. Just turn the key."

And I sat in a car and cried and said, "Who will take care of her if I'm gone?"

No one answered.

Because I read about Heather's experience I knew that I didn't have to turn the key to make it stop.

About twenty minutes later Matt came out and found me. Thankfully all he said was, "I think you need to go to the doctor."

And I did. I had to go to my 8-week checkup and the hardest thing I did was checking the box that asked:

Have you had suicidal thoughts?

I didn't want to. My hand hovered there, but I knew this thing was bigger than me. And that was painful. I wasn't strong enough. All my life I tried to fight what I thought was a horrible weakness, the weakness of not being able to rise above my emotions. I convinced myself I was so much tougher than that. I thought all I needed was more will-power.

But this.

There was a part of me that thought I failed. The unlogical part of me.

Well, it turns out will-power don't mean shit.

I checked the box.

So when people wonder why you can't just "snap out" of it, I guess I can only come up with one example.

Being drunk.

Most people at one point or another have been intoxicated. And there is a point where you know you are.

Usually you say something like, "Christ! I'm drunk."

But knowing this doesn't change it.

You can't use your brain or your will-power to become sober.

It doesn't work that way.

I guess that's depression. You can't change it just by knowing it.

When people say, "It's all in your head." I agree.

It is. It's in your head. It's in your brain. It's in your blood. It's your intoxication, your chemicals. But like being drunk you can't just snap out of it.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that you just can't tell by looking at someone. You can think their life is easy because their wealthy or have a nice house or a dream job, but you can't really know. You just see the outside. You can't know what they're going through. The whole experience has made me kinder. More understanding of other people's frailties. It was humbling. It was horrible. And I'm grateful I got through it.

Many people don't.

Hazards of TV

2012-01-23T08:17:00.000-08:00

Because I don't always have time to watch TV, I try to catch up on my favorite shows via Hulu.

I love Modern Family. And my favorite character is Phil. His enthusiasm and optimism borders on creepy/insane and every time he starts talking I about pee my pants.

So last night I was watching the latest Modern Family episode, eating a sandwich and drinking some milk.

Well, I really shouldn't do that.

Because the show nearly killed me.

I have a bad habit of taking HUGE bites of food and then a HUGE gulp of liquid and then chewing on it until in forms a semi-solid glob of nutrients.

As I was masticating my food like a bovine I saw this:

I laughed so hard I gagged on my sandwich ball and damn near choked to death.

Love Lost

2012-01-20T10:00:00.000-08:00

Here is a lovely music video from one of my new favorite bands, The Temper Trap. They are only a new band in that I have recently heard their music. They've actually been working at it a few years.

And I love the entire album.

And I love even more that they are from Melbourne, Australia.

Because it's convenient.

Because my book is partially set in Australia. So it will be convenient for when they make the movie. And then Temper Trap can play on the soundtrack.

See, I'm thinking ahead.

Seriously, the video is perfect. If you've ever ran cross-country you'll get it. I sometimes run that way. A little bit Monty Python with some high kicks, jazz hands, and tormented facial expressions of desire and angst.

And everyone on the running trail avoids me.

The end is sublime.

Movie Review - Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol

2012-01-18T09:19:00.000-08:00

This is not so much a movie review but the random thoughts that went through my brain when watching this movie. Actually, I think most movie reviewers should do this, but of course, nobody ever cares what I think.

Previews start.

My Brain: Goody! Goody! Goody! I love previews! When I watch them it ALWAYS makes me want to see the movie.

Five minutes later:

I want popcorn.

Seven minutes:

And junior mints.

Ten minutes of previews later:

I think I should pee before the actual movie starts.

Fifteen minutes of previews later:

Dear God, how many previews are there?

Half-hour later when previews are almost done:

I think my ass is asleep. I'm hungry. I have to pee again. Why can't we have booze in the movie theater? I need a beer or something.

An hour later the movie starts:

My neck hurts. Hmmm.... when is shit gonna blow up? I know that's Tom Cruise waiting to get out of prison. Why is Tom in prison? Oh, who the hell cares.

My thoughts during the rest of the 10 hour long movie:

Tom Cruise is a very fast runner. He can really run.
Fake.
Fake.
That's totally fake.
Why is it always the Russians?
Holy Shit, I really didn't see that part coming!
Fake.
That's fake.
You can't hold your breath that long.
Tom is very fast. I bet he's definitely the fastest A-list celebrity. He's gotta be the fastest Scientologist.
What kind of car is that? Is that a Volkswagen?
Not the masks again!
Oh good, the masks are stupid.
There's no way in hell I would do that.
That's so damn fake. That wouldn't work.
That goes against the laws of physics.
The desert is cool.
I don't think I like camels. They spit. And bite.
This is fake. You can't do that. You would totally die.
I wonder if Tom Cruise is a robot.
That's fucking impossible.
Hah! That's what they should call the movie. Fucking Impossible!
I'm a genius.
Are they gonna...? Of course, yes they are.
Yeah, I knew that was going to happen.
Jesus, Tom Cruise can really run! I think he's faster than me.
How old is Tom Cruise?
I bet he's a cyborg.
Good God, I really have to pee.
Hi, Ving Rhames, how much did you get for your cameo?
I think the next movie in the franchise should be: Fucking Impossible! Tom Cruise can RUN REALLY DAMN FAST!

So there's my movie review. The thing I liked best was watching Tom Cruise run. He's very good at it.

January Book List

2012-01-11T11:45:00.000-08:00

I'm still not done with my book revisions, but that doesn't stop me from reading other books. Maybe it should.

But it doesn't.

Last year I posted that I wanted to read a book a week. That worked for a while. Approximately two months before it went the way of most resolutions.

I did read a lot of books last year I just don't remember how many, but I'm thinking of joining GoodReads just to keep track of everything.

Here are a few books I've just read. I won't write about books I didn't like, probably because I have a hard time finishing something I don't like.

But these books I did like. The genres range from fantasy to dystopian to contemporary.

These happen to all be YA books, but here are a few others I'm currently reading that are both excellent. One fiction, the other non-fiction.

Happy January Reading!

How To Be An Idiot - condensed version

2012-01-04T12:10:00.000-08:00

It's only four days into the new year and I think I just broke (or horribly disabled) the paper shredder in the office where I work.

It's a humongous, industrial strength paper shredder.

It probably costs $10,000 dollars or something. Maybe a million, I don't know.

Usually I just recycle stuff, but I had a bunch of personal things like bank statements and crap so I got the bright idea I would bring it all to work and shred it in the huge paper shredder.

I was so excited I started shoving in papers.
Then more.
Then I shoved a whole fat stack.
It went almost the whole way.
Then it made a noise like someone was squeezing a mouse.
Then it stopped and tried to reverse.
More mouse squeezing noises.
I tried to shove it through.
Didn't work.
I tried to pull it out.
Didn't work.
I started hitting buttons.
A smell of burnt paper puffed out.
I looked around.
It was early in the morning so there weren't any witnesses.
I said, "Goddamn it, muthafucka! Shred!"

It didn't work.

The red light kept blinking. I hit more buttons, but the squeal changed to a dying gurgle.

The light went off.

I killed the paper shredder.

So then I did what any intelligent person would do.

I ran away.

2012 is starting out to be awesome!

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

2011-12-30T12:53:00.000-08:00

Never, never, never, never give up.
-Winston Churchill

If I learned anything in 2011, it was this.

I wish you all a great 2012. Only three hundred some odd days until the apocalypse.

Better go make them count.

ESPN: The Finish Line 2 - Short Feature from Evolve Digital Cinema / IMG on Vimeo.

With the Internet there's no such thing as being bored.

2011-12-21T13:07:00.000-08:00

This will probably be my last educational post before Christmas.

How excited are you?

Almost as excited as these cats, I bet.

Yes, a cat video.

If you can get through it without laughing, then congratulations! Yer a robot.

2011 Holiday Gift guide

2011-12-19T10:46:00.000-08:00

For those who have everything, I bet they don't have this.

That's right. A goat. You can give a goat for Christmas! And you can order one on the Internet.

I love the Internet!

That's what I got my in-laws. They didn't have a goat. Well, actually they got a card saying I donated a goat for them.

If you don't like goats they also have cows and camels. Your choice.

You can go here to see how it works.

And if you do this and your gift recipient is all like, "Thanks for the goat!"

But then they keep looking at you.

That look.

That look that says, "Okay, where's my real gift, dammit?"

You can then say, "Huh?"

You can watch them get all red-faced and embarrassed because they just kinda sorta admitted they're greedy assholes.

Then you can say, "Fine, here's your gift, you asshole."

I'm ORGANIC! Yeehaw!

Then they will feel all guilty and shit. Which are what the holidays are all about. And then they'll feel bad and offer you some of the vodka you just gave them. And then you can drink it. It's like getting an extra bonus gift.

Merry Christmas!

Timing is Everything

2011-12-14T07:45:00.000-08:00

It's Wednesday. 10 days until Christmas. Are you done shopping yet? No idea what to get that special someone?

Sorry, I don't know, either, but here's a video to cheer you up.

You're very welcome.

Write. Revise. Repeat.

2011-12-09T09:37:00.000-08:00

I just received my editorial notes from my agent, so I will probably not be blogging too much until they are finished, which will probably take a few weeks to a month. Some of the notes are easy fixes, but some are questions that need to be explained. I have some answers, but there are also insightful questions I have no answers for, except for something intelligent like, "Ummmm.... hmmm... oh yeah, maybe I should figure that out."

When I write I sometimes have no idea what I'm doing. This is fine for rough drafts.

It's fine if the reader isn't quite sure what's happening. They will read to find out. And it's fine if the main character isn't sure either because somewhere within the story they will figure it out, too.

But the author needs to know what's going on. From the beginning to the end.

So I need to figure out what's going on. Story of my life. No problem.

In the meantime, quick! Lookey here! Pictures of a cute little 25 month-old. She is talking up a storm these days, complete sentences and everything. Why, just the other day she smiled and said, "Shit!"
I said, "No, Sena. Don't say that. That's bad."

She smiles bigger. "Bad shit!"

Can't argue with that.

Thanksgiving, cornhole, and useful mantras.

2011-12-05T09:47:00.000-08:00

Actual Thanksgiving vacation dinner conversations:

Going around the table saying what we are thankful for, in no particular order.

"I'm thankful I have a job."
"I'm thankful we made it here."
"I'm thankful I have all my limbs and they still work."
"I'm thankful 2/3 of my family is here."
"I'm thankful I learned how to play cornhole."
"I'm thankful you went out and bought that toilet plunger."

We are nothing if not thorough.

About cornhole (it's a real game, perverts!) which is similar to bean bag toss, except the bags are filled with corn. I don't know. It's Texas. And when I say it's a similar game, I mean it's the exact same thing.

I found out I stunk at cornhole. Because it requires hand/eye coordination. Everything I was throwing was bouncing off the board, and forget about hitting the cornhole, that was not happening. My own mother was beating me at this game. My mom was beating me at a sport! A physical contest! Needless to say, I died a little inside.

Then I recouped.

I drank a glass of wine. Then another.

Then it was rematch time.

I still sucked.

Until I found my mantra.

And my mantra, not surprisingly, was one word.

And that word was stupid.

I'm sure none of you are surprised.

I launched my corn beanbag into the air and hissed, "This is so stuuuuuuuupid!"

Bullseye. Cornhole.

I tried again. "Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupid!"

Cornhole.

I was on fire.

Every once in a while I would whisper, "Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuupid."

We destroyed them. 21-2.

Everyone needs a mantra.

Even if it's stupid.

Everything's bigger in Texas

2011-12-02T11:18:00.000-08:00

Well, we survived our Thanksgiving trip down to Forth Worth, TX. First time on a plane with a toddler, and man, I was dreading it. That's the best part about having an overactive, morbid imagination. Things are almost never that bad, and, if they are, they make medication for that. It's called vodka.

Anyway, even though we were up before dawn and on the first plane out of Minneapolis, Sena did really well. Minimal screaming and wiggling, and was easily amused by the in-flight catalog of completely useless crap that no one ever buys, to the barf bags, and vaguely calm and orderly drawings of what to do when your plane crashes. I don't think the artist was using their imagination when they were commissioned to do the project.

Who really is calm when the oxygen masks fall out of the overhead bin?

Does anyone ever know how to use their seat as a flotation device?

Honestly, have you ever tried to climb through a smoke-filled fuselage with your gigantic flotation device while other people are screaming and clawing their way over seat backs and aisles that are narrow enough to trap small rodents?

No? Me, either.

But I don't think the drawings I would make would look like that.

I believe in truth in advertising. But no airline would ever publish and laminate my artwork to be perused by a half-drunk acrophobe while the plane is taxiing down the runway.

I tell this to Matt, but he pretend to ignore me.

I ask him, "Quick, don't look, but tell me how many rows we are from the emergency exit?"

Matt thinks. "Umm... Six?"

"Wrong. Four. You're dead."

"Why?"

"You think you can see in a crash? Dude, you have to count the seat backs with your hand so you know how far away you are from the door."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Everything."

We are quiet for a while.

Then: "Do you know you can fart really loud in your seat and no one will hear it?"

"Yeah, but they might smell it."

"That's what the baby is for. You can always blame a baby."

"What happens once she doesn't wear a diaper anymore?"

"Then I just go back to blaming you."

I promise the next post will be about our actual trip to Texas. Sort of.

Hunger Games Trailer

2011-11-21T12:53:00.000-08:00

I know everyone is salivating to see Breaking Dawn, and believe me, I will be taking a visit to the theater myself.

But this is the movie I cannot wait to see. These books are phenomenal, and if you haven't read them or are looking for a great gift to give for Christmas, these books are it.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away....

2011-11-21T11:07:00.000-08:00

For those who are interested, I'm posting a recent interview I did for Query Tracker, the website that helped me find my agent. If you are a writer with a finished book and looking to find that book a home, this is the website for you. It's a comprehensive listing of literary agents and agencies, who's new and who's looking (and what they're looking for) as well as contact information and exactly how to submit your query, whether by email or post. I can safely say I would not have found an agent without this website, or it would have taken me at least another ten years.

My interview explains the process I went through, as well as the query letter about what my book, POLARIS, is about. And no, it's not about snowmobiles....

A Long and Winding Road

2011-11-18T10:50:00.000-08:00

Approximately ten years ago I got a weird idea in my head.

I wanted to run a marathon.

I wanted to see if I could do it.

I always ran, but never long distances. I thought it was some kind of boring torture for masochists.

But I started with a mile, then three, then five. I started to like it - the solitude, the repetition, the stress relief, the calm that comes from working so physically hard that you have no room left for anxiety or fear or disappointment.

I would think a lot of random thoughts on those runs, training for that race.

The one I kept coming back to was this:
I want to write a novel.

So I did. I approached it the same way as running a marathon. A few yards, a few miles at a time, but in this case they were sentences and paragraphs and chapters.

I ran my first marathon in 2000. It was horrible.

I wrote my first book, a three hundred page novel, in 2001. It was horrible, too.

But I finished it.

And then I decided to keep going.

I even decided to go back and take writing classes. I would take a class or two each semester, practicing and getting better, learning how to give and take critiques.

It's hard to believe it took a decade to get to where I wanted, but in some ways, I think it needed to happen the way it did. For the first time in my life, I had to work really hard at something I wanted. It wasn't just going to fall into my lap.

As a kid, I never had to work particularly hard in school to get good grades or kill myself to get on the varsity team. Usually I would quit if I thought something was too hard or I wouldn't even try if I couldn't be sure I would succeed on the first try.

Not this time. I really learned what rejection and failure felt like. It sucks.

But then I got over it.

I promised myself I wouldn't quit until I got there.

They say, at least they do in Apocalypse Now, that victory smells like napalm in the morning.

I don't know about that. I don't necessarily consider this a victory, but more of a vindication of sorts.

Vindication smells even better. And it tastes like champagne.

So I would like to introduce my new agent, someone who apparently gets my sense of humor, God help her.

Her name is Hannah Bowman, and she is a literary agent for Liza Dawson Associates in New York.

I will write more about the book I wrote and the query letter that got her attention in a later post.

When the student is ready the teacher will appear

2011-11-14T10:20:00.000-08:00

Last Wednesday everything changed. As many of you who read this blog know, I have spent the past few years writing a novel with the hopes of finding a literary agent to represent me.

In the past year, I've sent out many, many query letters.

And received many, many rejections. Some helpful, some not so much.

So I went back and revised. And revised. And rewrote.

Then rewrote some more.

I kept trying.

I kept getting rejected.

I got drunk and cried.

I got drunk and cursed the universe and felt sorry for myself.

Then I rewrote it again.

A few weeks ago I finished the last rewrite. I typed the last line. I sat there and looked at it. I smiled. I thought, "This is good. This has potential. It feels right."

Then I panicked and thought, "If no one likes this, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do."

Then I started sending out queries again.

On Monday I got a request to send 50 pages. I did.

On Wednesday I got a request to send the full. I did.

Wednesday afternoon I got an email with a request for a phone conversation for Friday. I almost puked on my keyboard.

I couldn't sleep those nights.

On Friday I took the call and was offered representation, and was given a week to get back to other agents who requested my full.

So by this Friday I will have an announcement, an announcement that I have been waiting years to make.

This student is ready for the next chapter.

2 years

2011-11-07T10:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Sena,

Tomorrow morning at 7:15 you will turn 2 years old. Those two years have gone fast, and you are no longer the helpless little tater-tot you used to be.

You are a real big girl now, Sena.

You love to dance and sing. You love to count to 10 and can even recite your ABCs. It's like you're a genius or something! You love Elmo and Big Bird and "Tootie" Monster.

You are also pretty good at trying new foods, and then emphatically stating, "I yike it!" or, "Me no yike it!" And although sometimes it's hard to understand what you want, you are always willing to grab my hand and "show" me what you want.

Sena already likes horses

This weekend you'll have your party and I think you will really enjoy yourself this year. You already know what presents are and you love cake.

I love cake, too.
But I love you even more.

I hope you have a wonderful birthday, little girl.

Love, Mommy

A picture's worth more than just words. There may also be screaming.

2011-10-21T12:04:00.000-07:00

In approximately two weeks we are going to have our yearly family photo session. The plan is to be outside, hopefully it won't be snowing, and somehow create about a half dozen decent pictures, some of which will be used in our annual Christmas greeting card.

But then I saw this picture and got super jealous.

Edward Cullen is coming to get ya'll!

Yeah, I know it's not Edward Cullen. But nothing says love like a picnic in the grass, a little wine, and a crazed, brain-eating zombie running toward you.

Because that's what love is. For reals.

I already got a midget

2011-10-12T06:50:00.000-07:00

Every year I hem and haw about what to be for Halloween. There's the usual, witches and zombies and mummies and vampires and sexy teenage mutant ninja turtles.

Why yes, it's true! Take any normal occupation and there will be a sexy version of it. Sexy nurse, sexy cop, sexy accountant, sexy smurf, you get the picture.

But here's a better idea, and quite frankly, if you have small children at home and/or pets you won't even need to put out an advertisement.

You are very welcome.

The post in which I am verbally burned by an eight year-old.

2011-10-10T10:46:00.000-07:00

I am outside, walking around watering flowers, dressed like I usually am when working in the yard, which I like to call, "mentally disturbed sporty hobo chic".

The neighbor girl Lily runs into the yard.

Lily: Can Sena play?

Me: She's still sleeping, but she should be up from her nap soon.

Lily: Why are you wearing socks with your sandals?

Me: Well, I had on my tennis shoes. Then I took them off. Then I put my sandals on because I didn't want to walk around in my socks.

I don't say I was too lazy to bend over to stuff my running shoes back on. The way I am dressed sort of implies "laziness".

Lily: That's weird.

Me: Socks with sandals?

Lily: Yeah.

Me: Well, some people wear socks with sandals.

Lily: Who?

Me: They're called Europeans.

Lily: We call them something different here.

Me: What?

Lily: Dorks.

Oktoberfest

2011-10-05T13:29:00.000-07:00

Oktoberfest in La Crosse, Wisconsin is almost exactly like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, except instead of boobies and beads there is a lot more beer, bratwurst and Leiderhosen.

And instead of French culture there is German.

And dead squirrels.

And because there wasn't any cows around to tip over, they use cars instead.

At least they didn't light them on fire this time.

Oh well, there's always next year.

I'm sure the Germans with their sturm und drang and zeitgeist and schadenfreude would be able to come up with a great word for dead squirrel tossing.

I'm bringing sexy back.

2011-09-28T12:25:00.000-07:00

So with all this stuff about sexting and whatnot, I decided to give it a try. With my husband.

We've been married a long time.

A long time.

But there is a problem.

I don't text.

So I sent my husband an email instead, and in the subject line I wrote: SEXY SEX

Me: Hey, can you get the number of that roof guy and see if he can come out sometime for an estimate.

Matt emails back.

Matt: Yeah, that is not a sexy email.

Me: I know, but I figured if I wrote "roof" in the subject line you would delete it.
How smart am I, mofo?

Matt: You can't outsmart me!

Me: It looks like I just did.

Matt: Your mean.

Me: It's you're, not your.

Matt: I don't think you understand sexting.

Me: I don't think you understand grammar.

A little while later.

Me: Can you pick up some ~~~millllk~~~ on your way home?

Matt: What's ~~~~~?

Me: It's how I say milk very sexily.

Matt: I give up.

On a side note, I only ever received one obscene phone call in my life. And it wasn't even obscene. And I didn't realize what was going on until after it happened. I was in high school and even more stupid than I am now.

Scene: My parent's house in 1990. Near dinnertime. I'm in the kitchen and my mom is sitting at the table when the phone rings.

I answer.

Me: Hello?

Caller: Hi!

Me: Hi.

Caller: How are you?

Me (thinking it's one of the neighbor adults or a friend of my dad's or something): Fine.

There is silence for a moment.

Me: Did you want to talk to someone?

Caller: Yes!

Me (in my snotty fifteen year old voice): Okaaaaayyyyy?

Caller: What are you wearing?

Me: Clothes.

There is silence. I still haven't figured it out yet.

Me: Well???

Silence.

Me: I think you have the wrong number.

*click*

As I hang up the phone, I realize what just happened.

Me: Oh my God!

Mom: What?

Me: I just got an obscene phone call!

Mom (horrified): What did he say?

Me: He asked what I was wearing. I said, "Clothes."

Mom: What else did he say?

Me: Nothing.

My mom starts laughing.

I hang out by the phone, half hoping he'll call back.

He never does.

I am a horrible wretched excuse for a human being, but that snotty waiter deserved it. Maybe.

2011-09-19T12:51:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm not really sure why this story popped into my head today. Maybe because I'm hungry. Maybe because the very first posts on this blog were about my trip to Italy. Maybe because sometimes I remember some horrible things I've done and am filled with self loathing.

This post includes all three.

There was a story I left off my original Italian travel postings.

Mainly because I was afraid they'd find me.

You remember the mall parking lot scene from Back to the Future where Doc tells Marty with disbelief, "Oh my God, they found me. They actually found me!"

Doc was talking about Libyan terrorists or something.

I'm talking about a waiter. In Rome. A Roman waiter. Perhaps they are as savage as gladiators. Or the mafia. They never forget.

Anyway, maybe enough time has gone by to tell the story.

The story is called: The First and Last Time I did a Dine and Dash in Rome Because that Waiter was a Ginormous Ass and Totally Deserved it!

It was one of our last nights in Rome and I had read a good review of a restaurant. I don't really remember where, the north part of the city, in one the hills overlooking the Colosseum. After much trodding up and down cobblestone streets we found the restaurant.

It was dusk. It was chilly. We looked at the menu. It was a little more expensive than most of the restaurants we had gone to, but I figured it would be good. I looked in through the windows and it was a lovely Osteria style restaurant and about half full. With locals. Which is a good sign.

The outside of the restaurant had a front terrace with a low wall, so you had to walk through the patio area to the front door. There was a host at the front door and we said in our best bad Italian, "Good evening!" Blah blah blah. And implied we wanted a table for two.

The host nods and disappears into the restaurant. Eventually he comes back with two menus. We think we are going inside. It is warm and lovely and candles and wine and people laughing and eating.

But no.

He puts us on one of the patio table outside, the furthest from the restaurant, in the corner, in the dark.

I am not exaggerating.

We are both sitting there going, "What just happened?"

I say to Matt, "Umm...what is going on?"

Matt says, "I don't know."

I narrow my eyes. "Yes, you do. They are assholes. They don't like us."

"Oh?"

"Because we're Americans."

Now, I obviously can't PROVE this, but it's one of those things that you can't necessarily describe but you know it when it happens to you. It's like sexual harassment for women. A look. An intonation. A turn of the head. Just a manner of speaking. It is sometimes incredible subtle, but it's there. You can smell it like a fart, hanging in the air, staining everything.

Matt is giving him the benefit of the doubt. "You think so?"

"I know so." Now I'm pissed. "He doesn't even KNOW us! That dick!"

After a very long time, even by Italian standards, a waiter takes our order.

Other people come and are seated inside. We are left alone on a dark patio for the entire dinner.

I drink a few glasses of wine and am slightly tipsy. I'm waiting for the check. And waiting. And waiting.

Matt gets up and walks to the sidewalk to light his cigarette. He smokes and stares into the restaurant. After a moment he speaks. "You know, we could just run off right now."

He said the right thing to the wrong person.

"Yeah, ha! Let's do it!"

He may have thought I was joking, but I'm fueled by a dangerous combination of vino and righteous indignation. I practically knock the chair to the ground and leap over the wall to the sidewalk. "Hahaha! Assholes!" I run past Matt up the hill and I'm twenty feet down the road before he realizes what his batass crazy wife just did.

He flings his cigarette into the street and starts running after me. I'm laughing like a loon.

Then a problem happens. Have you ever tried to sprint a mile, uphill, on wet cobblestones, after eating an entire plate of pesto gnocchi and three glasses of wine? No? Well, I don't recommend it.

A hot stabbing pain enters my chest. Perhaps I'm having a heart attack. Perhaps the Roman waiter has shot me with a Taser. Perhaps the Lord himself has reached down to smite me.

I feel like my chest and stomach are going to explode. "Uuunngghh!" I bend over and press my fingers into my side, but I'm still scared enough to look back because I hear someone running after me.

It's Matt. He's wheezing and laughing. "Hurry!" I scream. "Let's go this way."

I ignore the pain and go down a side street.

It turns out to be a dead end. We ran up the one road that has no outlet. We are like those idiot people you see on episodes of Cops.

"Shit!"

"Oh my God, we have to go back!"

"They'll see us!" I really feel like puking now.

Long story short, we walk back and look at the restaurant. They still haven't come out to bring our check. We walk quickly past and to another side street that takes us down the hill into a main thoroughfare. I still want to run and keep looking behind me. I take of my jacket and Matt says, "Yeah, that was interesting."

"He deserved it. Jerk."

"I bet he really loves Americans now."

We both start laughing.

A while later Matt says, "You know, we only made one mistake."

"Running up the hill?"

"No, we should have ordered the EXPENSIVE bottle of wine."

News Flash

2011-09-09T09:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I can't believe my grandmother let us watch Benny Hill.

But then again, I'm glad she did.

22 months

2011-09-07T12:58:00.000-07:00

Dear Sena,

Tomorrow you will be 22 months, and it seems like in the past week your vocabulary has exploded. You have so many questions, mainly, "What's dat?"

And so I tell you. Which then leads to another finger pointing question, "What's dis?"

And so it goes.

For now all cats are called, "Bee!" And a squirrel is, "Mouse!" In fact they are mice - big, hairy tree mice.

This past week your cousin, Lilah, from Texas came to visit. You had not seen Lilah for a year, back when neither of you were mobile.

But you both are now. And you, Sena, are a middle-aged, seat-belt wearing dowager of a sensible minivan. Probably a Chrysler. Your cousin Lilah is a coked-out record producer careening around in her Maserati.

So, needless to say, it was interesting to watch you two together.

But you did have fun! And here are some fun things we did:

We went to Wisconsin!
We swam in the pool!
You drank apple juice! (this was a highlight for you)
You ate cookies!
You watched Madagascar! (And you like to Move it! Move it!)
You and Lilah shared a room and screamed at each other from your playpens!
We went to the state fair!
We saw baby pigs! And baby lambs! And baby ducks! And baby chicks!

We ate deep fried cheese curds and Pronto Pups!

I hope you had as much fun as I did. Even though the summer is over now, I'm looking forward to how much fun we will have this fall. It seems I am always looking forward these days. Because there is just so much to look forward to.

I love you, Sena.

Love,
Momma

Pretties

2011-08-25T10:57:00.000-07:00

Back in the day I used to take pictures of things I thought were interesting. Like flowers, sunsets, architecture, trees, landscapes, rocks, and hairy old nude men. No, not really. I didn't take many pictures of architecture. Because I'm not a total knob.

Anyway, here are a few pictures I took recently of flowers. The first is from a bouquet I made of garden flowers the last time my garden looked good. Which was June. Now, after the heat of July and August, it looks like Sister Parish's own personal nightmare. Bonus points if you got that reference.

The pictures of water lilies were taken at the Conservatory in Como Park, Saint Paul.

The post in which I describe hitting a bicyclist with my car, which turns out to not be a comedy or a tragedy but a gigantic pain in the ass

2011-08-24T08:03:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to write this except to do it in screenplay format. And my screen play format sucks because I don't really know screen play format. Bear with me.

Scene: 5pm, North Minneapolis (not the bad part).

I pick up Sena from Grandma's house and begin the process of driving to I-94 to go back to the south side of the city.

We proceed east on Dowling Avenue (through the bad part). I am driving the speed limit and as I approach the intersection of Fremont Avenue, which has stoplights, I see something I normally see.

Teenagers dinking around on their bicycles.

Backstory: At this corner is a little quicky mart where a lot of kids "hang out", so this intersection is always hopping.

I see the two boys ahead of me, swerving and cruising around on their bikes. They are taking up most of the right lane.

I approach Fremont. The light is still green, but the "don't walk" sign is flashing.

I get closer. The light is still green. I keep the corner of my eye on the boys, who are annoyingly close to my lane.

I think, "Dumbshit kids. What are you doing?"

They apparently don't know either because at the last second the kid makes a wide curve, turning DIRECTLY into the path of my car. I am fifty feet away from the intersection and the light is still green. Somewhere in the deep dark part of my mind I saw this coming. My foot is already twitching off the gas pedal. Here it comes.

I don't remember what I said. Or if I said anything. I think I made a noise, but all I remember hearing is the absolute burning squeal of the tires on blacktop and then one millisecond later, a thud, crunk, and bash of metal being crumpled.

The kid disappears from my passenger side window. He is down.

I put the car in park, terrified he is under my wheel. But I don't move. I don't want to move the car and make it worse.

Sena hasn't made a peep.

All of a sudden I see the kid pop back up, glazed unseeing eyes, a look on his face like he smelled something bad.

I put the car in park and rummage around in my bag for my phone. Then I get out.

Me: Are you alright?

Kid: Huh?

Me: Are you hurt?

He doesn't answer, but starts to walk away.

Me (pointing to the curb): Sit down.

He goes and sits on the curb. I think he might be in shock.

Some idiot screams from a passing car: Get their insurance!

Me (muttering): Asshole. Do you think I was going to drive off?

Then I realize that in the neighborhood I am in, people do drive off.

I see the front tire of the bike under the front wheel. It is bent to shit.

A woman comes up next to me with a phone: Are you calling?

Me (dialing 911): Yes.

Woman: Okay. I saw it all. I was coming the other way.

I call 911 and someone says a car is about a block away. Two squads show up in less than two minutes.

I go back to the car to check on Sena. She is staring at me with big eyes, but doesn't say anything.

Me: You okay, punkin?

Sena: Mmmmraaaah.

I sit in the car and a cop comes up. I roll down the window.

Cop: Hi. Are you okay? Is the baby okay?

Me: Yes, we're fine.

Cop (looking around): Well, I can guess what happened. Cut right in front of you, huh?

Me: Yes.

Cop: Yep, see it all the time. Had the green light?

Me: Yes.

Cop: And not even close to the intersection.

Me: Nope.

We talk more and basically it is obvious that I didn't do anything wrong, but that the other stories he hears will probably be different. After all, what kid is going to admit he was doing something that colossally stupid? He has me back up off the bike (a nice Trek by the way) and pull over to the side to free up the traffic.

He takes my insurance and information and so do the medics who come to look at the boy. He appears to be fine, scrape on his leg but nothing broken. I am relieved.

Cop: Call your insurance. Here's the case number. They'll want to know. In case they sue.

Me: Sue?

Cop: Yep. That's what a lot of people do.

Me: Christ.

Cop: Yep.

Me: Do you know Sergeant _____?

Cop: I know Officer _______.

Me: Yeah, that's what I meant. I think he works this precinct.

For some reason whenever I think of titles, sergeant comes to mind, not lieutenant or major or captain. I think I read too many Beetle Bailey cartoons as a kid.

Cop: Yeah, I know _____. We trained together.

Me: He's my cousin.

Cop: Really? I have to tell him later. I think he's working tonight.

After about twenty minutes I'm free to go. I pull away.

Sena (looking at the crowd by the sidewalk and waving): Bye-bye! Bye-bye! Bye-bye!

Bye-bye, indeed.

We get home. I leave a message for Joe, my insurance agent.

Then I feed Sena dinner and think completely divergent thoughts:

I am relieved.
I am annoyed.
I am pissed.
I am grateful.
I am happy to be here.

Good Advice

2011-08-22T08:07:00.000-07:00

How to check a baby's diaper, wear a hat, iron a shirt, avoid falling bovines, prevent wheelchair owners from careening into alligator ponds, and the best evacuation advice I have ever read.

Have a good Monday, and you can thank me later for saving your life when that Holstein falls off a cliff and narrowly misses your Subaru Outback.

Why didn't they have this book when I was in school?

2011-08-19T06:59:00.000-07:00

Strunk and White are rolling in their grave. Maybe.

If I had used this book I might have actually known what a dangling participle is. Dangling... heh, heh.

Thanks to Laura of Fetch my Flying Monkey's fame for putting this on her blog.

All I know is that my birthday is coming up soon. Hint, hint.

Interview with a 1 year old

2011-08-12T12:09:00.001-07:00

Did you toot? Why, yes, I did.

Playground Jungle

2011-08-10T06:51:00.000-07:00

Scene: Playground at Hiawatha park near our house

I'm pushing Sena on the baby swings, and a little girl (Susie) comes running up.

Susie: Hi!

Me: Hi.

Sena: ???
(she doesn't talk to strangers, but stares instead)

Susie: I love to swing!

Me: Yes, it's fun.

Susie (swinging & swinging): Baby, baby, baby, ohhhhhh!

Me: Is that Justin Bieber?

Susie: Bieber, Bieber, Bieber! I love Justin Bieber!

Me: Really?

Susie: I also like Usher.

Me:????

Susie: See that dinosaur? (points to the Loch Ness monster, Minnie, who is floating in Lake Hiawatha)

Me: Yes?

Susie: That's MY dinosaur!

Me: Okay.

Susie (points to Sena): Is that your baby?

Me: Yes.

Susie: How old is she?

Me: In a few months she'll be two.

Susie: So she's one.

Me: Yes.

Susie: I'm three.

Me: Three's a good number.

Susie: How old are you?

Me: Thirty-five.

Susie: ??????

Me: That's three and five put together.

Susie: ?????

Me: It's old.

Susie nods at me as if I'm trying to explain String Theory and she understands what I'm saying.

Susie: I'm going to go on the teeter-totter now. Bye!

Sena: ?????

Me (looking at Sena): Well, you still think I'm cool. For now.

End Scene

Also, here is a video of a baby monkey riding on the back of a pig. Yes, you're welcome.

Persuasion 101

2011-07-29T13:34:00.000-07:00

Me: Do want to watch this movie?

Matt: Which one?

Me: Black Swan. It's supposed to be really good.

Matt: That sounds familiar. What's it about?

Me: It's about ballet.

Matt: Huh?

Me: It's a psychological thriller done by Darren Aronofsky.

Matt: Who?

Me: He did that movie Pi and some other weird stuff.

Matt: Nah.

Me: Apparently, it has a really smoking hot lesbian sex scene.

Matt: What?

Me: With Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis.

Matt: Really?

Me: Yeah, do you want to watch it?

Matt: Okay!

Lesson: If you want a man to do something he doesn't want to do, just say something like, "hot lesbian sex scene". It works, but not for everything. Like if you want him to go with you to church. It doesn't work for that. Unless you go to one of them freaky ass churches.

20 months

2011-07-20T11:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Sena,

Two weeks ago you turned 20 months old, and your vocabulary is expanding beyond your crazy piglatin hillbilly speech. Here are some words you now say with regularity.

Baby Sena (sounds like babee sheenah)
No!
Bee
Water (waadah)
Shoe
Huh?
Uffdah! (you even used it properly, after you fell down)
Blue
Yellow (yehyo)
More! (mwooaah)
UhOh!
Eye
Choo-choo
Bye!
Hi!
Mama
Daddy
Kitty

Plus, there's a whole lot of other words you understand now. But you will not say, "Yes." Nope. I don't think it's going to happen.

Because of this ridiculous heat wave we are having we have been spending a lot of time at the pool. You sure do love the water, Sena, which of course makes me happy yet nervous. I foresee many swimming lessons in your future, and maybe in a few years you will want to start doing triathlons with your mommy. Lord knows your daddy isn't going to.

You also love to color with your crayons and build gigantic towers with your Legos, which you then proceed to knock over and laugh like a maniac.

Celebrating the fourth of July in LaCrosse

Daddy and Sena by the St. James Hotel in Red Wing, MN

First carousel ride at the Como Zoo.

So summer is already half over, but we are having so much fun, and I feel so lucky to spend all my free time with you. You are growing fast and it's a privilege to watch it. Life can be difficult, painful, and sad, but it is also beautiful and amazing. You've only been in my life for 20 short months, but being with you is like being Dorothy when she steps out of her house into the land of Oz, going from black and white to color. That's what having a child is like. Going from black and white to Technicolor. Two dimensions to three. Amazing but impossible to explain because how can you explain the color orange to someone who can only see gray?

I'm glad I can now see the color orange.

I love you, Sena.

Love,
Mommy

Sometimes these blog posts write themselves

2011-07-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

Not 10 minutes after telling my brain that I hated it for the annoying and weird mental streams that run through my head on a daily basis that I received a little postcard in my office mailbox.

Here's what it said:

VOLUNTEERS NEEDED FOR BRAIN IMAGING STUDY

(X-ray picture of head)

UNIVERSITY OF MN MEDICAL SCHOOL
DEPARTMENT OF PSYCHIATRY

blah, blah, blah something about being healthy and 16 - 60
you may be eligible for a MRI study
a stipend is offered

A stipend? MRI? Brain imaging?

kickass.

I haven't had an MRI since I was seventeen and knocked myself out skiing at Mt. LaCrosse (true story but I don't remember most of it) Just the part about the ground coming up to my face REALLY fast and then....uh... not much. I woke up in the ambulance and thought two things.

Wow, look at all this shit in here! Is this a spaceship?

Then:

Oh shit! My parents are going to get a bill for this ride!

I was wrong on the first thought.
Right on the second.

My friend later told me that I was sort of arguing with ski patrol about going in an ambulance, not because I didn't want to go into the ambulance, but that my parents were going to be pissed about how much it frickin' costs to take an ambulance ride to the hospital that was a few miles away. But then I passed out again and couldn't win my argument. Damn brain injuries!

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, MRIs. Since I don't remember my last one, I thought it would be cool to have another. Maybe they'll give me a souvenir photo! Maybe they'll take one look at the scan and lock me in the rubber room.

So of course I call the number on the card.

Unfortunately I get a voice mail with information on the study.

"Hi, you've reached the White Matter clinic...blah, blah..."

ME: White Matter? Awesome band name.

"blah, blah, $100 stipend.. blah, blah"

ME: 100 dollars? Sweet. I can buy some more wine at Surdyk's wine sale.

"blah, blah, bloo, interview, scan, cognitive memory test, three visits on campus...blah, blee, bloo, blah."

"please leave your name and number and blah, blah."

I leave a message and concentrate on sounding as normal and non-crazy as possible.

Stay tuned....

My brain is not on drugs. Unfortunately.

2011-07-11T10:32:00.000-07:00

Random thoughts that enter my brain.

I'm at work, busy, busy, typing and working and stuff.

My Brain: Heh, heh, remember that scene in Animal House? Where John Belushi is looking through the window and spying on the sorority girls? Then he falls backward from the ladder onto the lawn?

I start laughing. Out loud.

Co-worker: What's so funny?

Me: Uhh...nothing.

My Brain: Thank you, sir! May I have another? That boy is a P - I - G, pig! Your name is Flounder. Why Flouder? Why not? Double secret probation. Fat, lazy and stupid is no way to go through life.

Me: Shut up, stupid brain! I'm trying to work! Why must you insist on a running commentary of classic one liners from one of the greatest movies ever made?

My Brain: Fuck you, Jobu! I do it myself! Willie Mays Hays. You may run like Mays, but you hit like shit!

Me: Oh, NOW your going to quote Major League? What is wrong with you?

My Brain: Hats for bats. Hats keep bats warm. Gracias.

Me: Sometimes I hate you.

Tastes like Chicken

2011-06-27T10:32:00.000-07:00

I often watch my little house cats, Junebug and Bee, and think something like this:

If you guys weighed 120 lbs. instead of 12, we'd have a serious problem.

Serious problem = having your face ripped off and your jugular removed.

So it is with morbid humor I post this video. Because I like cats. And these cats REALLY like this baby.

Mmmm... Baby. The other white meat. - Fat Bastard (Austin Powers)

I guess I should quit bitching about all the potholes....

2011-06-17T12:13:00.000-07:00

I didn't want to go to work this morning.

Sena has a cold, which now means I have a cold, so technically I could have called in sick.

I was feeling all sorry for myself. Didn't have time to eat breakfast. Running late because I couldn't figure out what to wear to work. And it doesn't matter what I wear to work. I could wear a garbage bag and a pair of Hammer pants and nobody would notice. Well, they might notice, but they probably wouldn't say anything, and even if they did, they might say something like, "Your pants are interesting; very shiny, but they look nice and comfy, huh? Hmmm, is that a Glad bag or Hefty? I tend to buy the plain store brand...those Hefty's are pretty pricey, dont'cha know?"

I work with library people. In Minnesota.

Anyway, I get to work and realize I have to send my supervisor a list of goals and accomplishments for my upcoming review.

I write down a bunch of crap about being more of a team player. I think.

What I really want to write?

My goal for the upcoming year is not to voodoo your ass when you annoy me. Which is, like, every day.

But I don't mess with voodoo. That shit is for real. FOR REAL!

I did have a voodoo doll. From New Orleans. I gave it to my sister-in-law when she was getting married and said, "Here! Use this to keep Peter in line!"

I think she thought I was joking.

I wasn't.

I was actually scared to keep it. I think Matt was scared too.

Anyway, after I think I'm having a crappy morning, I check the news and see this headline.

Star Sucked up in extraordinary flash

At first I was thinking something horrible happened to Star Jones, like maybe she got flushed down some huge whirlpool or toilet.

But no, it's way cooler than that.

Reading it gave me goosebumps. Then when I tried to understand how far 6 trillion miles is (one light year, duh!), I got a brain freeze.

It kind of makes all the petty day-to-day stuff seem pretty insignificant.

Except for voodoo. That shit's for real!

And then my morning got better. Someone made scones and left them in the breakroom.

I think the Universe sent me a sign.

Space is cool.

Open House

2011-06-01T11:41:00.000-07:00

We put our house on the market a week and a half ago. In the worst seller's market in a thousand years.

So far, we've had about five showings.

Yesterday, we had two.

Which is annoying. It meant I had to make the bed, pick up cat hair and Legos, put away clothes and wash the dishes.

I do that anyway, but I resent having to do it. You understand? Good.

So the second showing was from 6-7pm, so around 5:45 Matt and I grab Sena and head out for a long walk. We stop at the playground and fart around.

We get back to the house at 6:40, but we can't tell if anyone's been there. Usually, they leave a card on the table but not always. We go back inside; usually I can tell if someone's been in the house - a light is off or on or something looks different.

Well, I was starving so I proceed to make a turkey, spinach, cranberry tortilla wrap with avocado hummus (Awesome! Thank you, Holy Land.) I'm sitting there eating and I tell Matt that Sena needs a bath. Her pants and shirt are filthy (because we do not have a sandbox I let her sit in the garden bed that afternoon and dig in the dirt with her little plastic shovel and bucket, which she did for a half a hour, happily scooping dirt into her pail and getting plenty on her body). Her hair is disgusting and her face is covered with a combination of drool, sunblock, dirt, yogurt and tomato sauce so that it forms an orange crusty paste.

Suddenly, I hear voices.

I look out the window. A strange car is parked in front of our house.

I get up and go to the window. Strange people are on the front step.

I run back, still holding my tortilla in my fist.

"Someone's here! Shit! Run!"

I feel like I'm twelve and trying to hide from my dad after he busted me and my best friend having a party at her parent's house when they were out of town.

Sheer panic.

Matt throws me Sena and I head out the side door, thinking he'll clean up the kitchen. There's a bunch of food out -lunch meat, bag of spinach, cup of milk,a plate of toast and peanut butter that I was making for Sena. The cupboard doors are open. Dirty knives and forks and crumbs all over.

Matt forgets to do this. He runs behind me as if we are fleeing Nazis and even forgets to close the door behind us.

We run over to the neighbor's yard and hide by the swing set.

"What the hell? What time is it?"

"6:55."

"Christ, why are they so late. Jerks!"

They don't stay long.

They probably saw the kitchen and decided freaks live there. The whole rest of the house was spotless - we might as well have put a flaming bag of dog poo in the middle of the floor.

We go back inside, half complaining and half laughing.

"It could be worse."

"Oh?"

"You could have been sitting on the toilet taking a poop when they walked in."

"Yeah."

"And you always leave the bathroom door open."

"That would have been awkward."

Underwater Adventures

2011-05-27T12:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, so about a month ago my nephew George celebrated his birthday at Underwater Adventures in the Mall of America. It used to be called Underwater World, and I think, "Ooo. I haven't been there in over 10 years. This will be fun."

When we arrive and meet up with my sister and brother-in-law I remember why I haven't gone in over 10 years.

"20 bucks?" I say to Matt. "Jeebus!"

My sister-in-law hands us a coupon. Buy one ticket, get one half off.

So we get two ticket for 30 dollars. This is still not a bargain.

"We are going to ENJOY this," I say. "We are getting our 30 dollars worth."

So we go in and there are all kinds of aquariums and stuff. Tide pools and manta rays and octopi and jellyfish. The jellyfish room is dark and the aquariums are lit in different colors.

Then I remember:

I hate jellyfish.

Here's why.

When I was ten years old, my parents took us on vacation to Charleston, South Carolina. Charleston is really cool, vaguely creepy southern Gothic city. We spent the majority of our vacation in a condo on neighboring Sea Brook Island. It was a great vacation. Sightseeing, seafood, horseback riding, the beach.

Except for one day.

When went to the beach. The waves were pretty high, high enough so that we could do a little body boarding. For me, growing up with only placid swimming pools and lakes, swimming in the ocean was a revelation. I loved it. The waves, the strength, the power, the salt, the sound, all of it.

But I forgot about all the stuff that's in it.

Stuff you can't see.

I was standing there, minding my own business, when a particularly strong wave crested. It beat down on me and I laughed, until I felt a horrible, awful, sharp hot stinging pain cut across my thighs and shins.

"Ow! Shiiiiitttt!"

It felt like I was being cut with hot glass. I ran screaming out of the water, looking down at my arms and legs. I couldn't see anything wrong but it still hurt.

"What's wrong?" My brother yelled.

"Something bit me!" I screamed.

"Aaaahhh..." my brother waved his hand at me as if it was obvious I was a gigantic wuss.

I decided to go back in.

Dumb.

I waded to where my brother was and suddenly I felt it again. Burning hot pain. Stabbing me. Searing my kneecaps. "Gaaaaahhhh!" I screamed and ran, leaving my brother to fend for himself.

He was right behind me. "Aaaaaggggggh!"

We were breathless with pain. I finally see a mark on my shins, to tell me I wasn't imagining the whole thing. Two red stripes that look like jagged burns, about an inch long. I have no idea what it is.

My brother was whimpering and gripping his crotch. "Something stung my balls!"

I sat on the sand, blubbering pathetically.

An older guy walked by and saw us wincing and confused.

"Hey," he said. "It's a red tide."

"Huh?"

"Jellyfish coming in. They break up and die but the pieces can still sting you."

WTF?

There are dead pieces of jellyfish trying to kill us?

Then I decided the ocean kinda sucks and I hated jellyfish.

So that story is one long segue into these pictures I took of jellyfish at the aquarium. They look neat and I think I will someday print out these pictures, frame them, and put them in a future bathroom.

Aren't they pretty?

I still hate them.

The End

2011-05-20T11:57:00.000-07:00

Apparently, the Rapture is tomorrow.

I just found out about it. Shit....

Okay, here's the thing. I may be a little rusty about the whole "Revelations and Apocalypse thingy" that we learned about in the Bible, but I do remember some stuff, because dammit, I went to Lutheran school through grade 5 and those Jesus teachers made us memorize tons of Bible passages.

That was actually a class. Memorization.

It was horrible.

But not because I was bad at it. No. It's because there was always several kids in the class (always boys) who either couldn't memorize the 10 commandments to save their soul or were dyslexic or learning disabled or just didn't give a rip. It was sometimes hard to tell. Back in the 80s, they didn't screen for that stuff or make any allowances for the kids who couldn't keep it. They just beat it into you. With their Bibles.

Anyway, there was always this boy (I'll call him Tony) who would get called on and then have to stand up next to his desk and begin the process I like to call Lutheran Recitation Torture. Similar to Chinese water torture, except no Chinese or water is involved. Tony couldn't remember one damn word. Not even the "covet your neighbor's wife" part, which is kinda dirty. No, Tony would need constant prompts and cues and stand miserably twitching and trying to scratch his leg with his other foot.

By the end of listening to Tony I had gouged out chunks of wood out of my desktop with my fingernails. I simultaneously wanted to stab him in the neck with my no. 2 pencil and projectile vomit.

Did I mention I had a huge crush on Tony?

Anyway, what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, the Rapture.

Hate to break it to ya Jesus freaks, but the Rapture isn't tomorrow. Or next Tuesday. Or December 23, 2012.

I know.

Guess why?

Because I learned in the Bible that the Rapture happens only when no one is expecting it. That's how it comes. Seriously. So every time you hear someone make a prediction, you know they're full of it.

You can even say I said so.

There is an actual passage about it but I forget how it goes.

I guess should have paid more attention in class.

18 months

2011-05-18T12:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Toddler Sena,

Over a week ago you turned 18 months old. One year and a half. And I realized I don't have any current pictures of you. Here's one I took in March, when there was still snow on the ground.

I imagine in 14.5 years this will still be your expression behind the wheel, though I imagine the form of transportation will be slightly more expensive. Oh yeah, I'm looking forward to that.

Hmm... what else is new?

Well, you can talk a hind leg off a mule. Except it ain't English. Maybe it's Mule?

You jibber and jabber and are very interested in the following:

Dogs!
Big Kids!
Dogs!
Squirrels!
Flowers!
Dogs!
Basketballs!
Anything you have not seen yet!

I even got you a present for your year and a half birthday.

Sidewalk chalk!

You were thrilled - you didn't even try to eat it. Right now it's still easy to thrill you, Toddler Sena, but I suppose it won't be long until you roll your eyes and sigh mightily because you've just realized what dorks your parents are.

And by parents, I mean your dad.

I love you, Sena.

Love,
Mommy

Good Book Titles

2011-05-16T14:06:00.000-07:00

This is an actual picture book title. And over 100,000 pre-orders on Amazon.

I shit you not.

I read the book. It's pretty good, but I'm lucky I can't relate. Sena, so far is an excellent sleeper. This statement will probably come back to bite me in the butt later on. Karma sucks like that.

The other day I was perusing a picture book dummy I mocked up a while ago for my story Bad Fruit. This is one of the illustrations for the book.

Now if I could only find an agent who gets my sense of humor, because as the above book shows, there's definitely a market for this.

Booklist Recap - April

2011-05-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

Well, I said my goal this year was to read a book a week.

I need to pick some shorter books.

In January I read six. February two. March I forget. April I read 3.5. So here's what I've read in the past 2 months.

Clash of Kings - Book 2 by George R.R. Martin

Let the Great World Spin - Collum McCann

Water for Elephants - Sara Gruen

Away - Amy Bloom

I loved them all. Straight A's across the board. And these are all very different kinds of books. I'm certainly no book snob. I will read just about anything so long as it holds my attention. If you are looking for a good book club read, I recommend Water for Elephants and Away. Very quick reads, but also very satisfying. I must admit, Amy Bloom's novel broke my heart. In a good way.

Books I'm reading for the month of May?

Just started: Zeitoun - by Dave Eggers

And slowly getting through Storm of Swords - Book 3 by George Martin

Plus, there's a whole bunch of YA books I'm been meaning to get a hold of. We'll see how it goes.

Porn for Zone 4

2011-05-06T10:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I loaded Sena up in the car and we headed to the Porno Palace for us Zone 4 gardeners, namely Bachmann's greenhouse.

Bachmanns has everything. Every new flower or plant that your heart desires. Plus, the people who work there know stuff. And if they don't, they'll find someone who does. These people bleed green.

As soon as I got out of the car and walked Sena through their landscape inspiration garden, I started to twitch like a diabetic who's just scarfed down a dozen donuts. Flowers! Flowers! They were all there.

I pushed a cart into the annual greenhouse room and just about went blind from all the color molesting my eyes. It's like being Dorothy and walking out the door into the land of Oz.

Sena had a great time. She loved looking at all the flowers, while I picked up things and put them down, examined tags, fondled petals and leaves like some weird perv. I'm surprised none of the workers hosed me down, I was that excited.

They do have hoses there, and they use them regularly.

I tried to pace myself but with 30 minutes I had picked out and mentally calculated how much I had spent. I had to get out of Bachmanns!

Here are some things I bought. I don't buy the basics there because I can find impatiens for cheaper, but I tend to get unique plants that the Cub Foods flower lot doesn't carry. Stuff like this.

I'll be visiting a few more places this weekend. I'm a goin' on a bender, y'all!

The importance of characterization

2011-05-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

If you're writing a book, chances are you're going to have some characters in it. Or protagonists. Or total dolts.

But they do need names. Sometimes the names just pop into your head like a cosmic brain fart. They are perfect and you instantly see them as if they're real people. My two main characters came to me that way, fully formed so to speak.

But then there is the supporting cast. They need names, too.

Sometimes it can be hard to think of a good name, especially if you write by the seat of your pants and suddenly a new person shows up on the scene. You can't start calling everyone Bob. Well, I guess you can but it gets annoying.

This is where a phone book can be handy. I don't have trouble so much thinking of first names, but sometimes the last names are a little more work.

This is where a map can be helpful. Some of my character's last names are city streets, names of parks or specific neighborhoods in the city I live in. Minneapolis.

And sometimes names come out of my toddler's mouth. The only word that Sena repeats with any regularity, besides "No!" is the word Jedgjoe.

Jedgjoe.

I think that's how I would spell it.

If she points at something, it's "Jedgjoe."

If she wants something, it's "Jedgjoe!"

If I give her the wrong thing, she shakes her head and says, "No! Jedgjoe."

So I'm thinking in my next book I will have to have a character named Jedgjoe.

Jedgjoe will be short, possibly a dwarf, with a temperment fitting a caveman. Jedgjoe will be needy, clingy, quick to laugh, distracted by shiny things and be completely immodest, burping and farting at will. Jedgjoe will not be toliet trained, nor will he understand that it's not good manners to wipe snot on someone else's pantlegs. Jedgjoe likes treats, but can also be finicky, though it's a good bet he will always eat any fruit you have lying around.

Jedgjoe can and will have epic tantrums.

Jedgjoe only knows two words:

No.
Jedgjoe.

Jedgjoe has no shame.

In short, Jedgjoe will be the most obnoxious, funny, and tiresome creature you'll ever have the pleasure of knowing.

On the upside, Jedgjoe is obscenely cute.

SAHM (stay at home mom) or (shit! am having migraine!)

2011-04-27T14:19:00.000-07:00

Today I read in the paper that 1 out of 4 children is raised by a single parent.

1 out of 4!

25%!

My next thought:

"Jesus.... no wonder so many adults look so damn haggard."

I'm not a single parent and I'm damn haggard. Sometimes. Like yesterday.

Let's break it down.

6:07 am

Sena is wailing. And coughing. She's been sick the past few days with a cold.

6:15 am

I lay there, hoping she'll stop.

6:23

Nope. I get up and go downstairs and open her door. She is sitting in her crib, her hair is tangled and stuck to her face because of all her tears and snot. When I pick her up I realize that her eyes are crusted shut with boogers. No, it's not pinkeye, just boogies.

I pick her up and go into the bathroom and wet a washcloth to melt the goo from her face. More screaming. Apparently, it's as if I'm sticking pins in her instead of making her life better by letting her see. More snot starts flowing.

Since I don't work everyday, today is my day off and I decide (because it's going to rain all day) that I won't even bother changing her out of pajamas. Since I don't plan to change out of my pajamas either.

This is pretty lazy of me.

Then I decide I don't care.

7:15am

Matt gets up, scratches himself, sits in the bathroom doing God knows what, gets dressed, grabs the coffee I made while holding screaming, snotty Sena because she won't let me put her down, and leaves.

7:30am

I go into the bathroom to wash my face and comb my hair and brush my teeth so that I don't look like a total degenerate. It smells like a homeless person died in the toilet. I light a match.

Sena keeps crying.

8:00
Try to feed her some breakfast, but because she's not feeling well she doesn't want to eat. She throws chunks of toast and slimy bananas blobs onto the floor.

I eat the stuff off the floor. Like a dog.

8:05

Briefly wonder when I can get a dog. Figure they can't be as much work as a toddler. I think I like those French bulldogs.

8:30-11:30

Try to play Legos, read books, wipe up snot, change diaper, do a little laundry, learn stupid facts about British Royal Weddings on the Today show, and play with Thomas and Percy on Sena's new trainset.

Also, there is more screaming.

11:45

Lunch. I eat a liver sausage sandwich and raspberries and Sena throws more stuff on the floor. I eat that, too. She eats a few Cutie wedges (little tangerines) but she just sucks out the juice like a baby vampire and spits the withered husks out.

12:15

Make Sena take a nap even though she is screaming, "Nooooooooooo!!!!!"

I shut the door and she screams for 10 minutes.

12:25

Silence. Holy Shit! This is awesome.

12:30-3pm

Check email. Nuthin'. Watch 3 whole episodes of Mad Men while eating chocolate ice cream. Fold clean clothes and pick up toys so they can be strewn about later.

3pm

Sena wakes up. Crying. More crying. Normally we would go outside and play but it is still raining. I give her a snack and something to drink because she hasn't eaten much. She picks out the clean, folded clothes from the laundry basket and throws them on the floor.

3:45pm

Call Matt and ask when he's coming home. Feel a headache coming on.

5pm

Make Sena dinner. Avocado. Left over mac and cheese (organic), raspberries, and milk. Sena eats two avocado pieces, smashes raspberries on her tray with her spoon, and throws cup of milk on the floor.

5:30pm

Matt comes home. I'm saved!

Seriously, that's how I feel some (most) days. I can't imagine not getting a reprieve. Sometimes that's all that keeps me going. And I only have one kid.

I am a wuss.

Career Opportunities

2011-04-25T09:56:00.000-07:00

Conversation with Matt while driving to Easter dinner at Grandma's house.

Me: If you could do anything you want, what would you do?

Matt: --silence--

Me: Anything? Any profession.

Matt: Hmmm...

Me: See? You don't even know? People always say they want to do whatever they want. BUT THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEY WANT.

Matt: Have you been drinking?

Me: I only had one..(burp) two glasses of wine.

Matt: It's not even 3pm.

Me: stares blankly -- So you don't know what you want to be?

Matt: I kind of always wanted to be an assassin.

Me: Really? Me, too!

Matt: Yeah, that would be cool.

Me: Well, that's what everyone thinks. But it's not really like that.

Matt: Oh, like YOU know about being an assassin.

Me: Well, I've thought about it.

Matt: Where does one learn to be an assassin?

Me: The military.

Matt: Hmm..

Me: Dude, you need military background. You need weapons instructions. You need contacts. You need top secret government clearance and shit. Like, you don't meet these people and arms dealers and shit at your kid's PTA meetings.

Matt: That would be cool, though.

Me: No, it's not as glamorous as it sounds. Not like James Bond. I bet it would be stressful.

Matt: Yeah.

Me: And forget about sleeping. You'd always need to have one eye open and wondering whose gonna try and shiv you.

Matt: Shiv you?

Me: Kill you and stuff. Forget about having a family too. Nuh, uh. I think being an assasin would not be very cool.

Matt: Yeah, but you get to kill people.

Me: Yeah, but your employers are probably the very people who DESERVE to be killed. Not their targets. It's always these rich, shadowy Dr. No people who hire trained assassins. You'd be working for total assholes.

Matt: Yeah, probably. But I do that now.

Me: Yeah, everyone does. You obviously did not think this through.

Matt: I guess not.

We pull up to Grandma's house. Sena is all ready to receive her second Easter basket of the day. And I'm ready to eat all the candy in it.

I look back at Sena, sitting calmly in her car seat, and I wonder how much of our conversation she understands. More than she can say, I'm sure.

A few years from now I will be able to ask her what she wants to be when she grows up. Maybe she'll even write an essay about it when she's in school. What I want to be when I grow up.

And I'll be waiting for that special phone call from her teacher to call me in for a conference.

I'm too lazy to think of a good title

2011-04-20T11:05:00.000-07:00

I was sitting here trying to think of something to write about. I gots nuthin'. My life is boring. Last night I went to bed at 8pm, which is slightly earlier than my usual bedtime of 8:25. Awesome. Then I thought, maybe I should write about the batshit weird dream I had last night, because I'm sure you want to hear about it. The best part? I can total make stuff up and no one will know! You never hear anybody say, "Hey, dammit! You made that dream up!"

Because they can't prove it, that's why.

That's how pathetic my life is -- I have to make up dreams to make them sound more interesting.

But no, really, this is a part of a dream I had last night.

I'm hiking in the woods, except it's not really woods, more like jungle, but I'm very sure this jungle is on the banks of the Mississippi River. Yeah, this makes sense.

Then I realize I'm not really on planet Earth like I thought. Because there are lizard people walking around. Like the lizard people in the old "V" TV show, not the new one. The lizards are dressed though, wearing L.L. Bean flannel shirts and chinos and Merrel hiking boots.

I try to communicate with these preppy lizard people but I can't understand their language. It sounds like a combination of Italian opera and hillbilly bluegrass sing-song. Christ, that doesn't even make any sense.

I wake up at this point, sort of scared, and I look over at Matt, who is sleeping. He is making a weird whistling noise and I wonder if that is the weird lizard speech I heard. I poke him in the back and make him turn over.

I try to go back to sleep, but the cat has climbed onto my pillow, and somehow throughout the course of the night used her front paws to push my head off the pillow so she can spread her giant fluffy body across it, leaving me with 2cm left.

I think that I probably shouldn't have eaten that gigantic piece of chocolate cake.

See, that's what happens. I've been doing really good with my eating. No junk, no booze, lots of vegetables and chicken. Then I eat a piece of chocolate cake and end up with creepy lizard dreams. There's a moral here somewhere, and I think it's to eat more cake.

Game of Thrones

2011-04-15T10:33:00.000-07:00

Holy Moly! I just saw the trailer for HBO's new series Game of Thrones, based on the book by George R.R. Martin. These books are awesome. Epic fantasy at its finest. Honestly, I like this stuff way more than Lord of the Rings. Partly because these are definitely for adults. Plenty o' sex and violence, which is probably why HBO is making the series.

Last night I finished book two in the series, which is Clash of Kings. 968 pages. Yeah, they are long and full of characters. The character list alone is a good 30 pages, which is why you should read the books before watching this show. Otherwise you will be completely confused by what's going on.

But here is a taste. Be warned, the beginning is scary. Scary good!

Unfortunately, I don't have HBO. Or cable. So I guess I will only have to wait a whole year to see it on Netflix. Ugh.

Game of Thrones Exclusive Preview

17 months

2011-04-13T11:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Baby Sena,

I guess I shouldn't call you that anymore. Baby, that is. I guess you are toddler Sena but that just doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

So.... Last Friday you turned 17 months old. And now that it is finally spring time, here are the things you like to do.

1. Play outside
2. Play outside
3. Play outside

Can you see the pattern here? You love being outside. You love it so much that when I try to bring you in to eat lunch, dinner, nap, bedtime, any reason at all, you pretty much have an apeshit fit. Apeshit fit. That is a good name for it. Flailing of arms and legs, arching of back, shaking your head as if you would like to detach it from the rest of your body. And the screaming. Oh, the screaming and sobbing and tears and boogers. Then collapsing on the floor to bury your face into the rug. To wipe more snot on it.

If you have any poo, I'm sure you would fling it.

I think I see an acting class in your future, Baby Sena.

So to make matters worse, you now have a new tricycle, given to us by the neighbors with a gleam in their eyes as they pass their plastic kiddie toys from their garage to ours. Hooray!

You love that tricycle. Even though your feet don't reach the ground and you can't reach the pedals yet, you've already figured out how to climb on, rock back and forth and say, "Rrrrrrrreeeerrrrrrrvvvvvvvv...."

You are growing so fast I bet by the end of summer you'll be popping wheelies.

You also have figured out how to run. Which means you started to have experience falling. On cement. This morning when I got you dressed I saw two radish red burns on your chubby knees. Your very first scrapes! I was so proud. I will have to get you some special bandaids. I hope you like SpongeBob.

I love you.

Love,
Mommy

Minnesota Nice (with an accent)

2011-04-08T11:33:00.000-07:00

Reason no. 132 why I am the way I am.

I watched this stuff a lot as a kid.

Brief Glimpse Into the Future

2011-04-04T11:38:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday Sena went to a birthday party. The very first birthday party she has been invited to. A little girl was turning five, her younger brother is also in Sena's daycare so Sena was invited. I had met the parents a few times before (they only live a few blocks away) so we decided to go and check it out.

It was expressly written on the invitation: No Presents

When I pull up the the park's rec center I see several parents and little children carrying gift bags.

I swear as I pull into a parking spot. "But it said, 'No damn presents!'" Well, I'm paraphrasing here. I get out of the car and Sena is unusually quiet, staring around, taking it all in. It is a very nice day, the first nice day of spring and there are a lot of people at the park. We go in the Rec Center. For the party, there is an open gym. As I walk down the hallway following signs I can hear the crescendo of preschool screaming.

We walk into the gym and take in the scene. It is like a scene from Braveheart. Except instead of blue-faced screaming Scotsman hurtling spears as they race across the moors, it is three, four, and five year-olds in sparkly barettes and Striderites. I look around; the room is filled with balls and trikes and scooters and every piece of plastic/foam crap that China has ever produced.

Sena's eyes are as big as dinner plates from all the AWESOMENESS.

I realize that this is a genius idea for a party.

I take off Sena's coat and hat and we sit on a chair in the corner for a minute. She is a slow-to-warm up type of kid, which is fine with me, so I don't push her out into the throng. After 5 minutes she wriggles off my lap and starts galloping to the center of the gym. She runs around, picking up toys, grabbing things, putting them back down. She doesn't really interact with the other kids, she is just content to run and run and look at everything. She is the smallest one out there, so for a while I follow carefully behind her in case she gets scared. But she totally ignores me. At one point she has picked up four puppets and is twirling in circles with them, ecstatic over all the new crap she can play with.

Unfortunately, I didn't bring my camera. The video of this would have been hilarious.

I watch as she scampers to a toy box and pulls out a truck. Immediately, a little boy of three grabs it from her and walks away. She stares at him with her mouth open. I say nothing. Then she goes and picks up a little push toy from the floor. The same little boy grabs that too. Her eyes go huge. Then the tears, but I'm already over there. I crouch down and say to the little boy, trying very hard not to scare him shitless. "You don't need to take that from her. She was playing with it." I don't add, "How bout I take something from you? Like your kidney! Rrrwaaaah!"

Fortunately, the little boy's mom also saw this and ran over. "Don't you take that from the baby! She's littler than you."

She apologizes profusely.

"It's okay," I say, "She'll probably do the same thing in a few years."

F minus

2011-03-28T12:07:00.000-07:00

So I did that whole broth diet thing and it went pretty well. When I was making it a week ago I added all the ingredients to the boiling water- things like kale, parsnips, celery, carrots, cabbage, beets, onion, garlic, and let it simmer an hour until the room smelled like a bog. A nice steamy peat bog. The broth turned a lovely shade of violet probably because of the cabbage and beets. Surprisingly, it tasted good. Like a nice purple vegetable broth.

So I drank that as a snack. I also ate nice quality protein and lots of vegetables. So many vegetables, in fact, that I started to fart like a buffalo.

Normally I fart like small, well-mannered miniature pony.

Also, I ate fruit.

But here's the problem. As soon as I'm not supposed to eat something, I want to eat it.

Which is why I also ate:

Graham Crackers
Semi-sweet chocolate chips straight out of the bag
Coffee
Coffee
Wine
Wine
Wine
Coffee
More Coffee
Pizza
Donut
Brownie
Another Brownie
Bagel
Egg
Egg
Cheese
Another Egg
Chicken pot pie with cornbread

I also did the P90X cardio extreme workout. Sena sat on the couch, looking from me jumping up and down like an idiot, to Tony Horton yelling out the commands to, "Jump! Higher! More! Yeah!" She was looking at me like people look at the baboons at the zoo. Curious, yet concerned. Mildly frightened.

So basically this means that I can't follow instructions to save my life. I fail. The one thing I did do throughout the whole week? I did eat less. Smaller portions. And when I went to put on a pair of pants this morning, they felt a bit looser. They were looser.

I was pretty pleased with myself.

Of course, they had donuts at work this morning.

Tires Plus and Just Say No

2011-03-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I had the day off. A real day off. I didn't have to work and the little tatertot went over to Grandma's house. So what did I do with my whole entire free day? A free day I had been looking forward to for three whole weeks? Did I get liquored up and hit the strip clubs with a bunch of dollar bills? No. I couldn't you see, because Tires Plus took all my money.

Here's the breakdown.

Go to get an oil change. I gots a coupon! Yay! I walk in the door.

Me: Hi, I want to get an oil change.

Wayne (it's on his shirt): Okay.

He pulls up my info on the computer.

Wayne (arching his eye): Matthew?

Me: Yes.

Wayne: You're due for a transmission flush.

Me: No thanks.

Wayne: Tire rotation? It's free.

Me: Okay.

I slide my keys over, wishing I would have remembered to chalk my tires to see if they actually rotate them. Wayne picks up my keys and looks at my cow keychain.

Wayne: Does this one poop?

Me: What?

Wayne: I saw a cow keychain where you pushed a button and a brown bubble inflates out of the cow's butt.

Me: What? Where did you see that?

Wayne: You wouldn't believe the weird crap on people's keychains.

Oh yes I would.

Me: Wow! Mine only moos.

Wayne makes the cow moo, and I realize I'm wishing I had a cowpooping keychain because I think that is a lot better.

Me: Yeah, I'm from Wisconsin.

Wayne: Huh? I thought all the cow people were from Iowa.

Now I'm insulted.

Me: How long will it take.

Wayne: About a half an hour.

I wander off and go to a couple stores in the strip mall. About 20 minutes later my phone rings. It's another dude from Tires Plus.

Me: Yeah?

Dude: Ah, your transmission blah, blah, blah is really dirty. I recommend doing the flush.

Me: Okay.

Dude: There is also a cabin air filter that is really dirty. Should I replace it?

Me: How much is that?

Dude: 30 dollars.

Me: Okay.

Dude: Your battery is almost dead. Should I replace it?

Me: Christ. Okay. How much is that?

Dude: $100. There is also a burnt out bulb. Should I replace that?

Me: Where?

Dude: By the license plate.

Me: There are lightbulbs to light up your license plate?

Dude: Yes.

Me: No, don't do that. I don't care about that.

Because it will now be another hour I go over to Baker's Square. I worked at a Baker's Square in high school and walking through the door gives me flashbacks. And not in a good way.

A girl who looks about twelve seats me at a booth. I order the Eggs Benedict and doodle on my list of things to do. I wonder what Sena is doing and if she's talking her nap.

I eat my Eggs Benedict. I'm surprised that they are good. I was expecting something on the order of pig slop, but I am very happy to be wrong.

I pick up the parsley garnish and rip it to pieces. All I remember is some stupid skit from SNL called "Destroy your Garnishes" I saw when I was a teenager. It's probably on the internet somewhere. Because of this, I must shred any piece of parsley, orange peel, or flower petal placed on my plate, lest they reuse it on the next diner. As I'm doing this I realize I'm insane.

Pay bill, leave and go back to Tires Plus. They are done. I get my bill. I swear.

As I slide my card through, the number comes up. Is this okay? it asks me. I hit NO on accident but realize it probably wasn't an accident. The guy laughs nervously and has to run it again.

I drive home, stop at the car wash because I feel dirty and violated. Then I go to the liquor store and buy a bunch of wine.

My day off was AWESOME!

Prologues

2011-03-21T06:29:00.000-07:00

Some people hate prologues. Some people don't care about prologues. And some people don't know what a prologue is.

I happen to like them. They are like the fun little appetizer before the main course, and really, who doesn't like appetizers? Especially if cheese is involved.

So anyway, I put a prologue in my novel. I know, you are super excited to read it. I'm gonna post it here because I entered it in a writing contest... yeah, I know. Which means other people are supposed to visit the blogs of the writers in the contest and make comments. You can say things like, "This is obviously the next great American novel." Or, "I'm so intrigued! I must read more!" Or, "My God! The imagery! The awesomeness that is your written word! I'm stunned by your talent."

Those are just a few suggestions to help in your critique. You're welcome.

Author: Melinda Braun
Title: Starlight
Genre: YA sci-fi

PROLOGUE

“You damn girls are all the same!”

I didn’t reply, too relieved just to be able to breathe again, and now that I could the searing pain shot through me. I clutched my arm to my chest wondering if anything was broken.

“You think you can do whatever you want, say whatever you want, act however you want!”

Still I said nothing. With my good arm I reached behind my head, fingertips probing gently across my scalp, searching for the angry throb. My hair was sticky; the slick warmness confirmed my guess. Blood.

“Goddamn teases!”

I glanced up – the moon was so bright, so close, so huge in the night sky that for a second I thought I could reach out and grab it, use it as a shield. “I’m not teasing you.” Speaking felt strange. My face was numb, my left cheek still tingling from the force of his slap. My head ached, my elbow ached, my teeth ached, and now, sitting on the jagged outcropping of the bluff’s edge, so did my tailbone. “I’m not teasing you,” I repeated, wanting him to calm down. I needed him to calm down. Before it got any worse. But when I saw his face, so perverted with rage in the clear moonlight, I knew it was too late. It was going to get worse.

His smile was cruel. “No, you aren’t are you? Not like your little friend.”

He was big, much bigger than me. Thick neck, barreled chest. His forehead glistened with sweat and he licked at his lips, the gesture reminding me of some kind of reptile.

I shook my head. “No.”

“That’s right. You’re a good girl.” He staggered forward, still slightly drunk. Not drunk enough, I thought. I should have hit him harder the first time. I should have just kept on hitting him until he dropped.

I wasn’t drunk at all. If I had been, I probably wouldn’t have found myself in this situation, which I think a lot of people would consider ironic. I know I did.

He walked over the rocks to where I sat crumpled on the edge of the bluff. Ten feet. Nine.

I exhaled slowly through my nose.

Eight.

Only four days ago my life had been perfectly normal, perfectly boring.

Seven.

But I had promised myself that things would change.

Six.

And they did, just not the way I had planned.

Five.

The best laid plans of mice and men… I forgot how the rest of the sentence went. A wave of heat passed over my face.

Four.

I couldn’t see anything - everything went blue, hot electric neon blue. A strange voice shuddered through my brain. This is your last night on earth, Geneva.

Three.

My fingers were on fire, acid sparks shot across the surface of my tongue.

Two.

“Good girl,” he said softly, his voice floating somewhere above me. But he was wrong about that.

“I’m not a good girl,” I whispered.

One.

He was about to find out exactly what kind of girl I was.

And so was I.

Boba Fett would kick Dog the Bounty Hunter's Ass

2011-03-16T07:58:00.000-07:00

I remember playing a lot with my brother's Star Wars figures. And his dinosaurs. Together.

The storm troopers would die grisly deaths between the jaws of T-rex. I especially liked to play with them in the sandbox (a.k.a. Tattooine). I would try to make the best sand pit possible, and if I was lucky I could find a big ant or bug to put at the bottom, which would be the "sarlacc" waiting for the hapless prisoners as they were shoved off into their doom.

My mom probably thought I was only building sandcastles.

What I remembered really bothering me about Return of the Jedi was that Boba Fett went into the sand pit. On accident. I was horrified. Then pissed. They killed off the coolest character in the whole entire series THAT WAY? I loved Boba Fett. He was a bounty hunter, and while I didn't know what that was, exactly, I knew it was somewhat bad and/or dangerous. Plus, he had a damn jet pack. And a bad ass outfit, way cooler than those pansy-looking Storm Trooper getups.

So I was pretty pissed that Boba Fett was killed. I remember sitting in the movie theater, eating the homemade popcorn my mom brought, and just about choked on it when I saw that. My seven year old self thought, "What the fuck just happened?" Seriously. I was hoping that annoying weiner C3PO was going to go in instead.

Remember this?

I kept waiting for Boba Fett to fly out of the sarlacc. I wanted to throw my ziploc baggie of popcorn at the screen. I wanted my money back. Sort of.

But then the Ewoks showed up and they were so cute and fuzzy I almost forgot about Boba Fett. Almost.

Even now I get annoyed remembering that. George Lucas, you got some 'splain' to do.

I have no idea why I was thinking of Star Wars this morning. But there are worse things to think about.

Like the earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear reactor explosion in Japan. I love Japan. I was only there briefly, Tokyo Narita was our stop in and out of Bangkok when we went to Thailand in 2004. That is actually I story I need to write about, and I will. Later. I was horrified and started crying when I saw the pictures on the news and all the people that lost everything and may now also be exposed to radiation. So yesterday I sent a text message to the Red Cross. It was easy and automatically made a $10 donation. That doesn't sound like much but if a million people do it, it adds up. So if you have 10 dollars to spare or maybe today you will forgo your Starbucks/Chipotle/Subway/LotteryTickets/Fill in the Blank purchase, they could really use it. Doctors without Borders is another great charity that is there on the ground, doing the hard work that needs to be done.

Red Cross

Doctors without Borders

Spring Forward

2011-03-14T08:46:00.000-07:00

So I'm starting this new diet. Yeah, smart. Because I don't have nearly as much time to workout, although yesterday I did manage to go for a jog around the lake, and when I say jog I mean jogging for 1 mile, trotting, walking, hobbling and panting while pressing my fingers into my side to relieve some burning twinge that could possibly turn into a pulmonary embolism, spitting up phelgm, and then walking some more, for three miles, I decided that I need to start eating better.

Wow, that is a fantastic run-on sentence.

But I did feel better afterward. Because of all that horrible cold but clean arctic air I had to wheeze in.

So I found this weird diet book my sister-in-law had on her bookshelf. It's written by a doctor, and endorsed by Dr. Oz, so I'm guessing it's not total bunk.

There is a 1 week cleanse diet where you make and drink some foul smelling vegetable broth while eating things like vegetables and brown rice and chicken/fish. I like all those things. So I thought, "Huh, I could do that."

But then I read what I can't eat.

No alcohol (shit! Wine is vegetarian! It's fruit! It's awesome fruit juice!)
No sugar
No caffeine! (WTF!)
No eggs! (Jesus, kill me now)
No dairy! (Seriously, kill me)
No refined foods/junk food/fast food/pretty much anything that comes out of a box.

So this week I'm getting ready to start the diet, which I will start this weekend after I brew some broth in my cauldron/stockpot. This week I'm going to not have alcohol, refined foods, sugar, and step myself down from caffeine and dairy/eggs, which are things you just shouldn't quit cold turkey. Because just this morning I had cereal (organic pumpkin/flax granola) with milk and coffee (with milk). The idea of not having my spinach/gouda/turkey/tomato/egg scramble on an English muffin makes me want to cry. Oh yeah, I'm not supposed to eat tomatoes, either. I forgot why. Instead I'm supposed to make some shake with rice powder, borage/flax oil, berries & banana, which doesn't sound terrible, but still.

So I have my list made of all the weird crap I have to buy at the store, and right now I'm focusing on drinking a lot of water and eating my vegetables.

Which made me think of potato chips.

Which then made me think of this story.

I was about twelve or so. My brother had some friends over on a Saturday and it was lunchtime. My mom made everyone sandwiches, and then my dad who was eating his sandwich by the breadboard on the kitchen island, asked if anyone wanted some potato chips. Well, duh, of course we did.

So my dad gets out the tupperware container full of potato chips. (My mom stored/still stores things like chips and cereal in tupperware because you know if you live in a house with three stupid kids you know when they take potato chips or cereal out, they won't close it properly and then everything will get stale. This is true.)

So my dad walks around the table with the tupperware container. He puts a handful on my plate, asking, "Big chips or little chips?"

"Big chips," I say and he walks to the next person.

My brother and two of his friends know the drill. They know the answer. And the answer is, "Big chips."

He gets to the last kid. I think his name is Jason. He doesn't really know what's going on, as no one has ever asked him such a moronic question. Poor dumb Jason. Because everyone else has said "Big chips!" he has to be a contrarian. He has to know. He can't help it. He has to say it. And we all know he's going to say it. Because he has to. We are looking at him the way a pack of dogs look at a pig roasting over a spit. The anticipation makes our lips quiver.

Jason says, "Little chips."

My dad brings his palm down flat, smashing them into potato chip dust. He removes his hand and says, "There ya go. Little chips."

Jason stares at his plate while everyone laughs.

"Jiiiiimmmmm!" yells my mom.

"What?"

"Why do you have to DO that?"

"Do what? He asked for little chips."

Jason, to his credit, ate his potato chip splinters and didn't complain.

This is why I hardly ever invited friends over when I was a kid.

T-paw to the rescue

2011-03-11T10:57:00.000-08:00

That's what we call Tim Pawlenty in this neck of the woods. The video proves that with a bunch of flashes and crazy fast edits, you too can look like a badass. Even if you're not. You just have to have enough money to hire Michael Bay to make your commercial. I love Colbert's version even more.

The Colbert Report
Tags: Colbert Report Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,Video Archive

16 months

2011-03-11T07:05:00.000-08:00

Dear Sena,

Last Tuesday you turned 16 months old, and as a result of being such a "big girl" you have been doing all kinds of new things.

Things like:

Hugging and kissing Junebug (which surprisingly she doesn't seem to mind - even when you come at her with your drool and booger crusted face)

Clapping your hands. It seemed like it took forever for you to do this, but now you do it with gusto. Clapping when you dance. Clapping when I tickle you. Clapping after your diaper change. Clapping after you whacked me in the head with a giant Lego. Yaaaaaaayyyyyyyy!

Going backwards and sideways. For some reason walking normal isn't just as cool as it used to be. Now you like to lay on your stomach and scooch backwards like a directionally challenged hermit crab.

Climbing on the sofa. Already I have saved you three times from rolling off and hitting the floor, and saving you from another screaming fit. Yeah, you're welcome.

Speaking of screaming fits, Sena, you are getting pretty good at them. Like you did yesterday after I made the mistake of giving you a chocolate chip cookie to eat. You ate that cookie like it was the last one on Earth, the last one in the universe, and when I wouldn't give you another one you screamed horribly, running into the kitchen and pointing at the plastic container all the while shrieking in your unintelligible chimpanzee-like fury. The meaning, of course, needed no translation.

I tried to hide them, but of course that didn't work. After a few minutes of klaxon-like wailing and snot (oh, the snot factory that is your face) I caved. A little. I gave you a bowl full of blueberries to shut you up. Yes, I'm not proud of that, but yes, it did work.

But mostly, little Sena, you are a pretty good girl. I keep waiting for the day when you won't eat your dinner, but that hasn't happened. You love food! The other day you even ate sauteed kale. Kale! Yesterday you ate beets and loved them. I tried beets for the first time in my life and decided that they were pretty good, too. I think most things are pretty good when you add butter and salt.

Pretty soon this awful winter will be over and we can finally- Finally! go outside and enjoy it. And I'm pretty sure you will have fun "helping" me plant flowers and vegetables in the garden. You are growing and growing like a little weed. A beautiful, wonderful, hilarious weed.

I love you.

Love, Mommy

Sheenenfreude

2011-03-04T11:48:00.000-08:00

Oooo, yes! More Charlie Sheen news.

There is a new word floating around the internets. Sheen. That, actually, is not a new word. It normally means something like: healthy, glossy appearance.

As in: Your hair has a wonderful sheen today. What conditioner are you using?

But now sheen has become a verb. To Sheen. I am sheening.

Example: Last night, I sheened so hard I woke up in a construction site portapotty with only an empty Taco Bell bag and two different colored socks. Weird!

Translation: To behave so outrageously you have to be a celebrity to get away with it. Or have tiger blood.

It's kind of like those old Spoonerisms. I loved those words. My favorite all-time Spoonerism is the word:

Reintarnation.

Definition: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

I love English!

It's Friday, and that's all I got. I was trying to think of something funny that happened, or even mildly amusing, but no, only making fun of a celebrity who, all bets aside, will probably be making the news again when his pale, bloated corpse is found in a fancy hotel bathtub by housekeeping. That's the thing about housekeeping, you never know what crazy ass shit your going to find doing that job. Now, that's a book I would read. You could title it something like, "Do Not Disturb... Too late, I already am!"

Somebody should get on that.

Charlie Sheen, you're my hero

2011-03-02T09:33:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I confess, I've always been a fan of Charlie Sheen, ever since his appearance on Ferris Bueller's Day Off, which upon further reflection it seems he wasn't really acting at all, just playing himself. I don't know why I'm a fan. I loved Major League. I liked Hot Shots, part deux. I liked Two and a Half Men, one of the few TV shows I regularly watched. Most of his movies, howeever, were pretty forgettable. He was good looking, but I suppose years and years of hardcore partying take its toll. He is funny; although I supposed mental illness shouldn't be made fun of.

But since he's perfectly fine making fun of his batshit crazy self, well, then, okay....

Remember Mad Libs? I used to do these all the time - specifically trying to make them as filthy as possible, which wasn't hard to do.

I guess it didn't take someone long to do a Charlie Sheen mad lib.

Here's mine:

“I am on a drug. It’s called Melinda Braun. If you try it once, you will be excoriated. Your thumb will melt off, and your sister in law will poop over your flayed body … I’m tired of pretending like I’m not sexerific—a total freaking hairstylist from uranus. I’ve got wildebeest blood, hermes DNA! … They picked a fight with a unicorn. They’re trying to take all my buns and leave me with no means to fly my family. It’s not astrophysics! They owe me an apology while humping my elbow … I don’t think people are ready for the baboon I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of odorous love. I exposed toes to magic! Here’s your plasma test. Next one goes in your armpit!”

You, too, can do your own Charlie Sheen madlib.

Happy Wednesday!

February Recap: Booklist

2011-02-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

So because I read six books last month I took a little break and read only 2.5 this month. I'll hopefully finish the rest of that book this week.

So the two books I read are classified as science fiction, which is also how I'm classifying the novel I wrote.

These books, however, are completely different.

The first one is Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro.

Very well written, nice pacing, and even though I already knew what the book was about, the author had the ability to construct each chapter with enough tension that I felt like I needed to continue to the next.

The downside of this book? Depressing material. Depressing ending.
The upside? There is a movie you can watch if you don't have time to read the book.

The second book is I am Number Four, by Pitticus Lore (aka James Frey - yeah, the same one who brought down Oprah's wrath for his "memoir" A Million Little Pieces).

Anyway, this book was interesting. At first, I didn't want to read it - I thought from what I had heard and seen from the movie trailer that the book I wrote was very similar to this. I was thinking, "Crap! Someone already had the same idea as me."

However, the book is not the same at all. Which is a relief. I've noticed with this book and several other YA books that I've read that are on the best seller lists have something in common. They are written in first person, PRESENT tense. I notice sometimes that using present tense can give an urgency and immediacy to what otherwise might be a regular scene. I also wonder if I should be doing that with my book. My novel is first person, past tense, which tends to be the way a lot of people write stories. There is absolutely nothing wrong with writing a book this way. However, the first chapter of my book is written in the present tense, which I think a lot of agents liked. I got a lot of good feedback and requests to see more based on this first chapter, so it makes me wonder if that should be applied to the rest of the book as well.

So this book was pretty good but at the same time I didn't really connect with the characters. And the climax at the end seemed a little anti-climatic for some reason.

The upside? There's a movie you can watch!

Perspective

2011-02-23T12:48:00.000-08:00

I got another rejection from a literary agent today. An agent who was, "drawn into my query and pages and would love to read the full manuscript."

That was a month ago.

Today I got the reject. "I enjoyed spending time with the story, but in the end didn't feel strongly enough to pursue representation."

This has happened before.

Another quote. "You've got something here. It's not quite there yet, but it will be."

Another: "I really loved your premise, but I didn't connect with the main character."

Another: "The plot is there. The story is there. I think you're still finding your voice."

Another: "I loved the voice. I think you need to work on the beginning structure."

So basically, WTF....

I'm not sure what to do at this point. I probably should have other readers, but at the same time a lot of people I know don't know how to give critiques other than basic grammatical problems.

So right now I feel a disturbing combination of: pissed off/dejection/apathy/I quit!. I don't even know if that's possible.

But on the up side, I have all my limbs and they function correctly. My hair looks nice today. My family is healthy. I have a house to live in and food to eat. I have absolutely nothing to bitch about.

Oh wait, yes I do! There's a shitload of snow outside!

(But it's pretty)

Screw it.

For the curious

2011-02-21T07:19:00.000-08:00

For those who might be wondering what living with a baby is like.

Imagine a person with no self-control, no manners, and the inability to speak articulately. Basically, a drunken sailor.

A very cute drunken sailor.

Wrasslin'

2011-02-18T10:06:00.000-08:00

My brother used to always want to practice wrestling moves when we were young. Specifically, put me in a chokehold or a Full Nelson, or was it a half-Nelson? These wrestling sessions usually ended with me getting a rug burned chin or elbows as I flailed around trying to get away before he managed to make his pin and fart in my face. I don't know, maybe they do that in wrestling, maybe it even has a name. Like the Dirty Death Bomb.

It is probably illegal.

It never occured to me to try the most illegal wrestling move of all. Hypnotism.

Damn you, National Geographic!

2011-02-11T12:56:00.000-08:00

Last night, I came up to bed while Matt was watching the movie Valley Girl. Horrible.

Me: This is dumb.

Matt: Yeah, I'll look for something else.

Me: Something cool.

Matt: Ooh, the deadly dozen of Australia!

Me: I always wanted to go to Australia.

We watch the show - it's about the most deadly creatures in Australia. I always knew that Australia had a buttload of poisionous snakes and spiders, plus all that crap in the ocean, plus the crocodiles. I can see why England sent their convicts there!

Me: I don't know if I want to go to Australia anymore.

Matt: Me, either!

Me (checking the bed for spiders): Thank God for Minnesota winters, cuz they kill all that shit!

I shouldn't have watched that show before bed. Because this is invariably what happens.

What I want to dream about is this:

What I end up dreaming about is this:

Damn you, National Geographic!

Somebody needs to set up a task force for this

2011-02-09T13:24:00.000-08:00

In downtown Minneapolis we have a Mary Tyler Moore statue.
In St. Paul there are all kinds of Peanuts (Snoopy) statues because of Charles Schulz.

But this is the best mofo statue idea ever. EVER!!!

Unfortunately, Mayor Dave says they have no plans for this. But they should - they really, really should.

Somebody needs to set up a task force for it. The people of Detroit should demand it, set up a referendum or some shit because I don't understand how politics work (because THEY don't really want you to understand, I know that much!) But really, they should get one.

http://twitter.com/mayordavebing/status/34698788601860096#

@MT There are not any plans to erect a statue to Robocop. Thank you for the suggestion.

1:43 PM Feb 7th via TweetDeck in reply to MT

Retweeted by 100+ people

.mayordavebing

If you saw that sort of artistic Chevy commercial about Detroit during the superbowl, you can understand that instead of Eminem driving around with his "I'm either super pissed off or really constipated and I haven't been able to poo for two days" face, it would have been a whole lot cooler to have Robocop driving the Chevy around the streets of Detroit.

Then, at the end, Robocop could jump out of the new Chevy and shoot a rocket launcher at the Toyota Prius or Ford Focus or ALL of them and then while the back screen is showing the burning deitrus of uncool compact cars, he could turn around and say to the camera in his super cool robot voice, "This is Detroit, muthafuckas!"

I would totally buy a Chevy then. They could have a special Robocop edition car where the GPS system uses his voice!

I just thought of that.

Why doesn't anyone appreciate* my creative genius?

*= give me lots of money

I am the cheese (head)

2011-02-07T13:31:00.000-08:00

Can't describe how thrilled I am to have the Lombardi trophy back where it belongs.

Last weekend, we went to visit my parents in Wisconsin and my dad had to show me his latest "project". It was an igloo. It is an igloo. It's about 8 feet high and he worked on it for two weeks or so.

Why?

This is why.

Conversation between my parents, I'm paraphrasing here.

Mom: What are you going to do with that big pile of snow?

Dad: What?

Mom: The snow you shoveled off the deck. That big pile.

Dad: I don't know.

Mom: You should go make an igloo.

Dad: Okay.

So he built an igloo. And at night he sits in it and drinks a glass of wine. Like a civilized person. A civilized person who sits in a snow fort with Packers posters and drinking Cabernet.

This is not a good quality picture but you can still get the gist.

January Recap - Book List

2011-02-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned, my resolution was to read about a book per week for 2011, and I checked back to see how many books I read for January. I was shocked, then impressed.

I read 6 whole books. Some short, some long, some literary, some not, most all of them I enjoyed for different reasons.

Here they are, and the grade I gave them. If you only read one book off this list, my recommendation is Room, by Emma Donoghue. Completely original, completely believable, completely disturbing, but in the end, also completely beautiful.

Matched
by Ally Condie
Grade: B

Outliers

by Malcom Gladwell

Grade: B

Room

by Emma Donoghue

Grade: A

How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe

by Charles Yu

Grade: A-

Freedom

by Jonathan Franzen

Grade: A

Half Broke Horses

by Jeannette Walls

Grade: B+

Searching for Bobby Fischer

2011-02-02T11:41:00.000-08:00

Next week my daughter will be 15 months old. Fifteen months! Just yesterday, I finished putting together all the pictures of her baby book from her first year, clicked the order button, and should get it in the mail sometime in the next week. That made me think of several things:

1. I am behind, like Alice, running and running just to stay in the same place. Or at least, it feels like I am.
2. I am thankful for digital pictures, otherwise I would have to do my picture book by hand, like I used to, which is a lot of fun as well, but much more time consuming.
3. My picture scrapbooks are crappier than the digital books, so it's a win-win all around.
4. I just forgot what the hell else I was going to write about.

Oh yeah, I read this article in the NYTimes about how parents spend their time, or really, a lack of free time. Basically it said the average parent has about 90 minutes of free time to themselves everyday.

I didn't really disagree, but then, I only have one child. And she is getting old enough that I don't have to watch her every single second, but as I found out yesterday, I should be watching her every single second because if I don't, this is what happens.

Me (standing in the kitchen writing a list on the dry erase board and talking to myself like a schizo):
kitty food
coffee
vinegar, regular and apple cider
garlic

I stop writing when I hear something that sounds like paper tearing. It sounds like paper tearing because it is paper tearing. And not cheap newspaper, either.

I run back to the bedroom where Sena is sitting quietly like a good little girl. Except she's not a good little girl. She is ripping a page out of out a picture book, an old, out of print picture book that belonged to me as a kid. A picture book with awesome, old school paintings.

I try not to scream.

Me: Oh no no no no no no no no....

Sena: Ummmmpah!

Me: Oh no no no ripping, no Sena, we don't rip books...

Sena: Godoodoo! (I think this means, "Oh yes, I do!")

I take the book away and put it up where she can't get it.

So I do have some free time during the day, when she's taking a nap and not trying to destroy stuff, throw her body down the stairs, or throw a shit fit because I take a pen away from her so she can't impale herself with it. But even my free time isn't free because I can't turn my brain off from what I'm supposed to be doing next, what to make for dinner, I need to put in another load of laundry, did the cat puke behind the sofa again? What's that smell?

I had a conversation about this with my sister-in-law, how hard it is, how mentally tiring it is taking care of another person, trying to anticipate their every need, how I feel like sometimes I'm in a never ending chess game, trying to think five or six moves ahead, plot my strategy, and then remember, Oh! Actually, I don't even know how to play chess.

And then she said something interesting. Something smart. Something goddamn deep and profound. Something that made me feel better about my parenting skills, or lack of.

"If you're doing it right it's really hard."

By the way, the title of my post, Searching for Bobby Fischer, is from a movie. It's a really good movie. You should watch it; I highly recommend it.

If you can find the time.

Bullies

2011-01-21T11:55:00.000-08:00

There's been a lot about bullying in the news lately. Bullies are bullies and bullies suck and so on and so on. Actually, they aren't really talking about it the news. A few months ago, yes, when I planned on writing about my childhood experiences with bullies. But now they are talking about whether or not Sandra Bullock is dating Ryan Reynolds. Or something....

But anyway. About bullies...

When I was a kid growing up in the eighties, I remember lots of things. We played kick-the-can with a real coffee can, which is highly stupid because when you pretend your Pele and smack that aluminum can into outer space, the metal rim flips back and shanks you in the shin. If you're a real moron or nonathletic klutz you may actually step into the can on accident and shear off your entire foot. Then get tetanus and die.

After that incident we started using a ball.

Other things I remember. Bullies! Yippee!

Now, I wasn't a bullied kid by any means. Kids picked on other kids, but it wasn't like the daily torment some people obviously go through. I was never bullied in high school. I never thought someone was waiting for me after school to kick my ass in the parking lot. I was never afraid of something like that. It never even crossed my mind. High school was, to my teenage mind, something to just "get" through. Like a prison sentence. Prison is a good analogy. I had my own crew, was friends with enough people, didn't particular stand out in any way, good or bad, and therefore was spared from being picked on. I also had an older brother who was popular. An older brother who used to pin me down and make me smell his farts. After that kind of abuse, a knife fight in the parking lot sounded like a damn good time.

So no, I wasn't bullied in high school.

But I was in kindergarten.

It was winter of 1980. I was five years old. I think it was February. There was definitely snow. My kindergarten was Hood Creek in Racine, Wisconsin and it was half day. So around noon I would take the bus home. It dropped me and several other kids off at the edge of our subdivision on Highway K. My house was a good 600 yards away if you followed the twisty blacktop roads. In the middle of the subdivision was an open field, sunken and no houses were built there because of the culvert that ran through and would fill up with a stream every spring after the farm field snow melted and ran off. If you took a direct line through this field it was probably 400 yards. My house was on the other side of the field. This is the way I would usually go, but in the winter it was harder with all the snow, so I would follow the road.

When the bus dropped me off it was me and two other boys and the 600 yard walk home. I don't remember if they went to my kindergarten or not but one of them was a big turd of a kid. The other smaller boy was his toady. I don't remember their names so that's what I'll call them. Turd and Toady.

Now in 2011 parents would be waiting at that bus stop, waiting to pick up their munchkins and see them safely home. But this was 1980, and I was shit out of luck. No one was coming for me. At five years old I already knew this. It was like goddamn Lord of the Flies. In Wisconsin. In February. Which is worse.

Turd and Toady would quickly run off laughing, but I knew where they were going. They were going to hide at their snow fort and wait until I passed, where they would pelt me with snowballs. After I dodged them a few times, I got a little smarter. I started sitting in the front seat of the bus so that when I got to my stop I would jump from the bus and start sprinting, my legs already moving before they hit the ground. I just ran and ran and ran and I was fast enough that they had no chance.

Then they got smarter.

When I got on the bus Turd and Toady were sitting in the front seats, smiling at me. I sat in the back, a horrid feeling building in my stomach. I wanted to puke. That was the longest bus ride ever.

When we got to our stop, Turd and Toady ran off laughing. I shuffled off the bus. The bus left. I kept standing there. It was so cold. I started to cry. Pathetic. The tears froze on my face. More pathetic. I wonder how fast I could make it across the unbroken snow of the field. It was almost as deep as I was tall. With dread, I knew I was going to have to take the road.

I walked to my doom.

I saw them waiting for me, hunched behind their snow fort. I geared myself up mentally and kept walking too slow. That was my mistake.

WHACK!

A snowball hit me in the side of the head. But it wasn't a snowball. It was an ice ball. Hard, like a rock. I screamed and started running, practically blind because the tears had almost frozen my eyelids shut. They had come out from behind their fort to get a better aim. They were right in front of me but I kept running, screaming like a toddler with his hair on fire. I hit Toady like a snowplow, who was smaller than me and I made him ricochet off me and hit Turd, who fell backwards and said, "Ooof!"

I kept running and screaming all the way home, snot flowing down my chin. I was scared, angry and in pain, which was a delightful combination.

Turd and Toady, who obviously decided I was batshit crazy, never threw anything at me again.

Another Thing that's Wrong with Me

2011-01-14T13:34:00.000-08:00

I got some of those fancy $1 coins. They're all shiny and stuff, bronzy and thick. And here's what I thought when I grabbed it and looked at it.

"Why is Mel Gibson's face on the $1 coin?"

It's not, of course. It's James K. Polk. Not Mel Gibson.

My next thought:

Wouldn't it be funny if there was an alternate universe where Mel Gibson was on the $1 coin?

No, no it wouldn't. That would be one scary ass universe.

Later:

Is Mel Gibson related to James K. Polk?

So, yeah, that's how my brain works. Or doesn't.

I'm glad it's Friday.

Mysterious Ways

2011-01-12T12:14:00.000-08:00

I probably shouldn't write about this. Seriously, it's that bad. But I decided I will. Because I'm stupid. Also, I don't have anywhere else to confess. I'm not Catholic, so I can't just mosey into some church, find the squealer's booth and kneel down and say, "Guess what I did, Padre?"

No, no I can't. Besides, God already knows what I did.

And now you will, too.

How's that for buildup?

Okay, remember that post about the Hoover vacuum cleaner? About how it broke? About how pissed I was?

Apparently, someone (Jesus!) heard me.

I ended up calling Hoover. No, my warranty was no good, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the foot pedal that broke wasn't even COVERED under the warranty anyway.

My last line to the annoyed Hoover rep?

"Yeah, you know, maybe if you guys actually made parts out of metal instead of crappy plastic..."

Then I hung up.

I realized I sounded like some crusty old man, and I had an urge to open the door and yell, "Damn you kids, stay off my lawn!"

Except it's January. No lawn. No kids. Only three feet of snow out there.

Okay, so I decide I'm going to get a new vacuum cleaner. Not a Hoover.

So I go to my weekly place of shopping. Rhymes with Schmarget. It's Sunday. Middle of the afternoon, read: Busy, busy, busy....

I fart around looking at vacuums. Look at the Dysons momentarily and cannot justify spending $500 on a vacuum, even if it looks like really cool aliens made it.

I pick one. At first, I was thinking of a cheapy. Mainly, I was sure I didn't want one with a plastic foot pedal; I looked at the ones with On/Off switches on the top of the machine. I found one that was nicer than my old one, plus it had a 3 year warranty. Plus it looked cooler and the colors were nicer. Not that I care... except, all things being equal, I do care what it looks like. Except all things are never equal.

So I decide. It's the last one there so I load it in the cart. Then I finish the rest of my grocery shopping.

I scan the checkout lines, looking for the best ones. The best ones are not necessarily the shortest ones. I stay away from the ones where old people are cashiers. They are always too slow. That's mean, but it's true. They get confused when the scanner doesn't work right and invariably they have to call someone when the price won't ring up the coupon for that bulk box of tampons. Yay!

So I always look for the young kids. Specifically the dudes. They don't try to have conversations or worry if the meat is thrown in with the bleach. They don't give a shit if the bag is crammed full, worrying if it will be too heavy for my little arms to handle. I like this, because I don't care either. And the bag is never to heavy to handle. Shove that sack of Yukon gold potatoes on top of the Clorox and hurry it up!

So I find my suspect and get in line. He's a big dude, laid-back Jeff Bridges type of guy and probably smokes pot. He loads my bags with groceries and I move the vacuum cleaner from the bottom and position it in the cart so he can lean over and scan it. Then I take out my coupons and set them on the register. Then I watch the register like a hawk, making sure there are no mistakes.

I catch a mistake. He scans the avocados. There are two. But he types in 24. I say, "Uh, two avocados!"
"Oh, Sorry. I always hit the 4. I don't know why."
"That's okay." I wonder if he's high right now.

We are starting to wrap up here. A line has formed and he's moving faster, maybe feeling a little flustered by the avocado incident. He grabs my coupons and starts scanning, and thus begins my internal dialog, which I will call Evil Me/Good Me.

Evil Me: Dude, he's not going to scan the vacuum.

Good Me: What? Of course he will.

Evil Me: Nope. He's distracted. Or stoned. Ha!

Good Me: Surely, he'll catch it.

Evil Me: Uh-uh. Keep your pie-hole shut!

Good Me: Oh, say something. Really, now...

Evil Me: Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

He says, "Your total is...."

Good Me: Say something!

Evil Me: Bitch! Enjoy your free vacuum!"

Good Me (voice fading): You're going to hell!

I sign the thingy and get my receipt. Already I'm practicing my "Huh, What?" face in case someone stops me as I walk away. As in, "Huh? What? I don't know what's going on. What do you mean I didn't pay for it?" I keep walking and staring at my receipt like a mentally retarded chimp. I'm terrified someone will stop me.

No one does.

I push my cart across the parking lot, trying not to run. Trying not to look behind me. I'm grinning like a crazy person. Evil Me is laughing her ass off.

I then am crippled by fear. Oh my God! I'm in trouble. Someone will tell. I will get in a car accident on the way home. Something.

I practice justify on my way home. I deserve a free vacuum. With the amount of money I spend there, I should get a free vacuum, not some of their stupid coupons for diapers and cat litter.

I tell Matt the whole story. He is weirdly impressed with my deviance.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways!"
"Or maybe that's Satan."

By the way, this is a fictional piece. Maybe.

Arts & Crafts

2011-01-07T11:32:00.000-08:00

One of my new year's resolutions? Read more books.

Specifically, try to average about a book a week. I just started Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, and I think this resolution will be an exercise in abject failure. It's a good book; very Franzen. And if you don't know what that means then you probably think I'm some sort of literati snobby twit.

Franzen is a literary writer. A literary writer who writes a sentence so beautiful it is now burned into my brain. Because of its perfect, beautiful, beautifulness.

Here's the sentence:

She walked into the sty of a kitchen, which smelled like a mental illness.

Really, that doesn't even make sense. How can something smell like a mental illness? I don't know, but I know it's true. I knew immediately what that kitchen was like, what it looked it, and it looked like a kitchen my old college boyfriend and his best friend had in their rental house in Winona, Minnesota. The sticky old vinyl tiles. Cracked laminate countertops. It did smell like a mental illness, which I think smells like Jim Beam, Oscar Mayer hot dogs, and day-old ramen noodles stuck to the sides of a greasy tupperware bowl.

God, my imagery kicks ass!

Also, Franzen likes to use the word "fuck". Not too much. Just enough.

So yeah, it's a pretty good book.

One of my other new year's resolutions: Actually do things that I say I'm going to do.

This doesn't sound like much, but you can accomplish a lot if you stick to it. One of the things I said I was going to do was make a mobile. For Sena's room. I looked around at all the mobiles in the stores and didn't like many of them and the ones I did like were really expensive. I saw a pretty paper butterfly mobile in Pottery Barn and it was sixty bucks and I was all like, "Christ! I can make a damn butterfly mobile."

So I decided to. Except, I didn't. I made an owl mobile. Cuz, I like owls, that's why. And I promised that I wouldn't spend any money making it. I would make it with crap I found lying around my house. You, too, can make your own crappy mobile. It doesn't have to be owls. It could be dinosaurs. Or ninjas. Or ninjas fighting dinosaurs, which would be an awesome mobile!

So here's what I used.

Old ribbon
Cardboard wrapping paper tube
Cardboard
Construction paper
Glue
Staples
Thread
Stickers
Markers

You should have most of these things in your house. If you don't and you work in an office type setting, chances are you could steal most of these things. Shit, you could probably make a really cool mobile using Post-it notes, dry erase markers, correction tape and Whiteout.

You also don't have to be able to draw, but it helps. If you can't draw a straight line with a ruler you can probably find a template on the Internet somewhere and use that. Martha Stewart has some pretty bitchin' cool templates in her magazines. Just saying.

Or you can be an arteest and do it freehand. If someone gives you shit because not all your ninjas or dinosaurs look the same you can say things like, "It's handmade. One of a kind. Rustic."

I see this all the time in catalogs. Hand-made and Rustic. Code words for: the artist was really high when they did this one!

Here are some pictures. I still have to figure out a way to hang it from the ceiling. I'll probably resort to duct tape.

Sena loves her owl mobile...almost as much as I do. I think I will start on the ninja-dinosaur one next week.

Happy Mobile Making!

Black is the new black

2011-01-05T11:19:00.000-08:00

My mom is a big Josh Groban fan.

I happen to be a big Kanye West fan. Mainly because Kanye West has an affliction I sometimes suffer from.

It's called: Verbal Diarrhea

I think that should be Kanye West's next album title.

I'm serious.

As a rule, I'm not a fan of Twitter. But I might just have to pop over and look at Kanye's twitterpated messages.

Question: If one uses Twitter, does that make someone a twit? Or a twat?

Pegleg

2010-12-30T12:01:00.000-08:00

Here's a video to end 2010.... Time to move on into the next decade. I'm thinking 2011 will really be my year. And no, I'm not drunk. Yet...

This video is called Pegleg.

Which either sounds like an absolutely terrible band,

Or the title of my next picture book!

Adeste Fidelis

2010-12-29T12:26:00.000-08:00

Christmas 2010 came and went. Too many presents and too much food. And so much to be thankful for.

Is this for me?

And maybe these?

Sena, you are now 13.5 months old.... You talk a lot, saying this like, "Waadeeda?" And, "Ooodoo." And, "Meemo." And, "Goofka!"

You can walk. CAN walk, but you choose not to. You prefer to scootch around, but yet you do like to climb the stairs, crawl over to the bookcase and pull off every single David Gemmell paperback book (all 20 of them) and throw them on the floor. For a while you only grabbed the Gemmell books, but now you've moved on to T.S. Eliot and Faulkner. Perhaps you will eventually understand The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, something I never will.

For Christmas you got two toys from Santa. A soccer ball and a stacking puzzle toy. Plus a shitheap of fancy new clothes from your Grandmas, so mommy will make an extra effort to dress you up and not leave you in your pajamas all day long like some Dickensian foundling.

Even though you won't remember this Christmas, I certainly will. And maybe someday, if there is still an Internet and we all aren't living back in caves in some dystopian future, you can read all about this here.

Merry Christmas, little Sena!

I love you.

Love,
Mommy

An open (Christmas) letter to Hoover

2010-12-22T08:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Hoover,

How are you? I'm not fine.

Yesterday, I was using your lovely vacuum that I bought sixteen months ago. I really loved using it....really. I used it several times a week, vacuuming up cat hair, dust bunnies, Cheerios, spider carcasses, gobs of unidentified deitrus. It worked like a champ; I particularly loved the hepa-filter and bagless cannister - I'd liked to see all the gross stuff being dumped into the garbage can. (I'm weird that way.)

You'll notice I wrote that in past tense. Loved. Used.

See, your piece of shit vacuum broke yesterday. And it wasn't the motor, engine, life-time hepa filter, brush, hose, etc.

It was the plastic foot lever that turns it on. When I stepped on it, the whole piece snapped off like a stale Triscuit.

I swore loudly. Mightily. I examined it. Could I fix it? Nay.... I could not. It broke in such a way that I couldn't even stick a screwdriver down there to flip it on.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that the whole thing was planned that way.

I examined the warranty, which was only for a year. The year had passed. I looked closer - it didn't include "normal wear and tear"

Normal wear and tear?

Now, I'm not some gigantic wildebeest, angrily stomping on my vacuum with cloven hoofs. But I already knew that my breaking your shittily foreign made plastic piece of horse poop you call a vacuum would result in the classification of "normal wear and tear".

Henceforth, I will never buy another Hoover.

I hope Santa takes a poo in your stocking.

Sincerely,

Mindy

Holiday Gift Guide

2010-12-13T08:11:00.000-08:00

Okay, I lied. I'm posting again. Mainly because I just got this email in my inbox. From Pier 1 Imports. Pier 1 Imports? Does anyone shop there anymore? I have bought things there. A few napkin rings I never use (we don't use napkins--we wipe our greasy fingers on our pants), placemats I do use, and two wicker chairs that are not as expensive as they look. (They look like they cost $19.99)

The thing that made Pier 1 famous, I think, were those Papasan chairs. Remember those? They were very popular, oh, about 1994 or so.

So I get this email from Pier 1 that is titled "Great Gifts for Hard to Buy for People". Or something.

And this is the first thing I see.

I don't even know what this is. Metal dogs playing instruments? This is even worse than the glass fishbowl. What do you do with it? Do they also double as bottle openers? Can you make a bong out of it?

I'm going to go with no. That's one of my prerequisites for gifts. If all else fails and you have absolutely no use for the item, if you can make a bong out of it, it probably has some redeeming value.

So I think they should retitle that email and call it, "Horseshit Gifts for People you Hate."

Actually, that is a holiday gift guide we could all use.

snowmaggedon 2010

2010-12-13T07:19:00.000-08:00

In case you haven't already seen it.

The before & after.... and yes, that is exactly what it looks like. Jesus Christ finally gave the Vikings what they deserve.

This is about all I'm going to type today. After all the shoveling I've done in the past 24 hours, I'm surprised my arms are still attached to my body.

For those who want to fly

2010-12-03T07:04:00.000-08:00

Saw this video on Dooce and had to share.

I grew up skiing and quite frankly, if you can ski the Midwestern slopes of sleet and glare ice, you can ski anywhere.

I've also had the great fortune of having skied the mountains of Colorado.

Because as a kid I'd always looked at the birds with great jealously, for their ability to fly. And some days I still look up at them streaking off into the sun and think, "I wish I could do that!"

I think that's why downhill skiing was invented. To not be jealous of the birds.

And this video reminds me I want to go flying again soon.

[scattered flurries] from felt soul media on Vimeo.

Are You Prepared?

2010-12-01T11:33:00.000-08:00

I was having fun cleaning out the closests yesterday. No, I wasn't high, really, I think it's fun.

I needed to finish wrapping presents. Yes, I'm done. How ya like me now, bitches?

Yes, I'm an annoying Virgo.

On a side note, it's easy to get your Christmas shopping done early when you do it at Costco and the liquor store. And at Costco's liquor store. Seriously... Alcoholics love my presents.

Anyway, so I have this giant gift bag where I save all the other gift bags. It's also where I save boxes and other containers I can reuse later. After I found the boxes/bags/bows I needed I reorganize everything into smaller, more compact configurations. And I get rid of any crap I've been saving that I realize I will never use.

I found a hideous goldfish bowl. Not a bowl for goldfish. A bowl in the shape of a goldfish. It has a big gaping open mouth and I set it on my dresser, examining it. I remember exactly where we got it. At a Christmas party last year. And it wasn't a white elephant party, either. No, someone actually picked it out, wrapped it up, and gave it as a gift. Someone who is demented, mean, or thought, "Hey, Finally I can get rid of that uglyass bowl and no one will know who it's from!" It was one of those party games where people exchange gifts and you never know who's going to end up with what.

Matt ended up with the colossal boobie prize. A fucking fish bowl.

At first I thought it might have some potential. Like, maybe we could drink ridiculous fruity booze drinks out of it. But no, it's too awkwardly shaped to hold or use as a glass. Or maybe I could store stuff in it, like change or bags of weed, but I never leave change or bags of weed lying around the house. Duh...

Then I decided to keep it. On purpose. For the Christmas party this year. I would RE-GIFT it! Why? Because I'm a goddamn bunghole, that's why. And no one would know.... Except, then I realized the person who gave it last year would know. And maybe they would get it back!

Which would serve them right.

But as I examined it I realized I couldn't, shouldn't do it. I decided to put Mr. Goldfish in the glass recycling so as not to inflict his tackiness on anyone else. Because Lord knows, Americans really don't need to add to their tackiness.

And that story is a very long segue into something else I found in the closet. No, not Jimmy Hoffa.

It was my Go Bag.

What is a Go Bag, you ask?

It's a bag you grab in case of emergency. Specifically, if you have to evacuate your surroundings due to Tornado, Flood, Fire, Locusts, Zombies, or the Apocalypse due to the Vikings winning a Superbowl.

In that case, I guess a Go Bag wouldn't help much.

For a list of what to put in your Go Bag, Go Here.

I also recommend a bottle of vodka, for medical purposes.

Expanding Vocabulary

2010-11-29T09:02:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning - EARLY
I am reading the paper. Matt is reading the sports page. Sena is sitting on the floor playing with my Santa Russian nesting dolls that I dug out of my ornament box.

Me: Bunghole. (Laughs)

Matt: What?

Me: I was reading this Mark Twain quote about teenagers. He said, "When a child reaches the age of 12, he should be put in a barrel and fed through the bunghole. When he turns 16, plug the bunghole."

I thought bunghole was something COMPLETELY different.

Matt: Yeah, it's that little hole in the barrel.

Me: You didn't know that... you only know that now because I told you.

Matt: Nuh-uh.

Me: I used to say that word all the time. Bunghole. Bunghole. My name is Cornholio and I need t.p. for my bunghole!

Matt: You're a bunghole.

Me: I should bring that word back. Make it popular. Bunghole!

Matt: Stop talking.

After the Fall

2010-11-24T08:12:00.000-08:00

Today we are supposed to get a combination of sleet/snow/freezing rain/insert other hellish weather option here/.

So instead of pictures of what it actually looks like outside (drab gray frozen crud with scabs of icy snow) I will post some pictures of what it looked like only a month ago... the blue and gold splendor that is October.

Also some of our family pictures that were taken down by Lake Nokomis and Minnehaha Creek by our house.

Our photographer, Andrea Rothstein, managed to get great shots of Sena smiling, while also managing to make me and Matt look like normal people. We usually look like our (drunk) idiot selves in photographs, so this is no small feat.

Thanks, Andrea!

Happy Thanksgiving

Shameless Nepotism

2010-11-17T13:35:00.000-08:00

Wherein I post some information about my sister Kelly's Etsy website: Lilah Grace Creations.

If you are going to a baby shower in the near future or looking to pimp your infant's wardrobe, then this is the place for you.

I especially like the cupcake washcloths. For whatever reason, just looking at anything presented underneath the visible film of a bakery box makes me drool. You could probably put dog turds in one and I would think, "Yummy!" Then I would think, "Wait, that's dog shit!" But then I would think, "Oooh! It has sprinkles..."

Luckily, for you, my sister isn't selling dog shit cupcakes!

Instead, if you click this, you can see what she is selling.

See, Kelly? This is what happens when someone asks me to advertise something for them. I talk about poop.

Yeah, you're welcome.

1 year

2010-11-08T10:25:00.000-08:00

Dear Baby Sena,

One year ago, at 7:15 a.m., you made you appearance into the world. Howling and bellering and as pink and round as an Easter ham, you were placed on my chest. I try to remember what it was like, but being stunned and amazed at the whole idea of you, it is difficult to hold onto. Thank goodness for video because it was a blur.

And now instead of an Easter ham, you are a little cow (for Halloween).

You also like pumpkins.

A blur is a good way to describe the past year. Another good way to describe it is riding a roller coaster because when you get done you experience all of the following:

Fear
Relief
Excitement
Nausea
Anticipation
More Fear
Screaming
Laughing
Peeing of Pants
Horror
Pain
Bargaining with God
Hysteria
More Laughing
Shock
Headache
Relief

And then after you roll to a stop, you think dumbly, "What just happened?"
Then you think, "Let's do that AGAIN!"

So Sunday you had your party. And just about everyone showed up, all forty of them. You liked everyone singing to you and you poked at your cake as if it was a fat grub under a rock. You weren't quite sure what to do with it.

You also liked opening presents. Lots of the kids "helped" you open them! You love to play with your new school bus, ride on your new Princess car, play with your Winnie the Pooh walker, and push the buttons on your pink cell phone.

So now we have a shitload of new plastic toys in the house. Surprisingly, this doesn't bother me. If I've learned anything during the past year it's this: This too shall pass. The bad, the good, the tiredness, the screaming and crying, the late nights and early mornings, which is why it doesn't bother me the way I thought it would. You are growing so fast, faster than I would like, so when I have to rock and snuggle you to sleep I am acutely aware of how little time we have and I remind myself to pay attention. To everything. Your snorts and snores, the way you talk and babble to yourself...just this morning your Winnie the Pooh toy said, "Goodbye!"

And from the other room I heard it. A tiny little voice replied, "Goobye..."

Then my heart blew up.

I hope you enjoyed the your first trip around the sun, my little Sena.

Happy Birthday!

I love you.

Love,
Mommy

127 hours

2010-11-05T12:08:00.000-07:00

When I read they were making this movie, I wondered: "How on earth are they going to make a film about a guy who gets his hand stuck while rock climbing and has to cut his own arm off?"

Then I read that Danny Boyle was doing it.

Then I saw the trailer.

Looks incredible and it looks like a movie to see on the big screen.

The Communist Bus

2010-10-29T10:08:00.000-07:00

The last post about drawing dinosaurs got me thinking about a story I had not thought about in a long time. Mainly, because my drawing was a gift in that it made me somewhat worthy and tolerable in the eyes of cooler, older people, i.e. my brother.

My brother Jimmy is 18 months older than me. Not a big difference, but when you're a kid it is huge. Grand Canyon size. A lot of my current sense of justice and equality stems from the fact that as a kid I often couldn't do things that Jimmy could. Either because:

A. I was a girl
B. I was too young

So my righteous indignation grew at this unfair and unjust treatment. Even now when I hear people say, "Life's not fair..." I both want to vomit and bash their head in with a shovel. Simultaneously.

It's not that I don't agree with it. It's true. Life ISN'T fair. But I was sooooo sick of that being the answer that shut down the conversation. There were no appeals.

Where was I?

Oh yes, drawing. Drawing dinosaurs.

This was the one thing I could lord over my older brother. I could draw! Better than him. Better than most kids. Because of that, I had a special power. My brother would let me hang out with him catching bugs, if only because I would carefully render diagrams and drawings and write with perfect penmanship the words, Bumblebee, Wasp, Cricket, Hornet, Daddy long legs, below their preserve corpses, which were stuck to a large piece of cardboard with my mom's thumbtacks.

So I had a use.

Which meant he would let me hang out with him. I was Igor to his Dr. Frankenstein.

So this was around the time that the game, Dungeons & Dragons had gotten popular. My brother had this game. It was complicated, very creative, and I didn't understand it at all. There was a big many sided die, and all these points and weapons and crap. My brother would play this game with his best friend Tim. Tim was a super smart kid yet he wasn't a dork or geek. He was very cute and it is safe to say I had a big crush on him. So I would hang out in the dining room drawing pictures of kickass dragons and trying not to act all moony and dumb around Tim. But I'm sure I did. I think I might have even drawn him a picture of a knight stabbing his sword through a giant orc or something, which was my version of a Valentine card. Nothing says infatuation like a graphic picture of knight-on-orc violence.

So because Tim tolerates his best friend's dorky little sister (me) I decide that I really like him.

Here is where my public humiliation begins.

I don't even remember how the conversation started. But I know how it ended.

We were riding the bus. The god-awful long ass ride to parochial school in Racine. Because we lived out in the boonies our bus ride was probably 45 minutes long. So there was time for heated discussions, arguments, spit-wad fights, and filthy jokes. An aside: all my best filthy jokes I learned on that bus ride to our Lutheran school. I think that would be called irony.

Anyway, I was being a smart ass and probably trying to impress Tim. But, like I said, he was a smart kid, so he could back up his arguments. Anyway, whomever I was arguing with didn't like what I was saying so they said something like, "No, you can't say that!"

My witty response? "Yes, I can! It's a free country!" So there, hah-hah, nanabooboo!

Then Tim yells loudly, "But it's a communist bus!"

I stare, dazed. What? I don't know what communist means. I've heard the word, know it's something not good. I know it's a witty comeback but I have no idea how to respond.

My brother, who has no idea what communist means either, starts laughing hysterically. They're all laughing. At me. The rage is building but I have no outlet. I'm horrified and embarrassed. I think I say something like, "No, it's not..." but already it's too late; I've lost the argument and my dignity. It doesn't matter that no one else knows what the word means, either.

Then I decided I didn't like Tim anymore.

What I should have said, quite calmly, was this: "Actually, that's incorrect to call the school bus system communist. If anything, the idea of busing and the public school system in general should be called socialist. Like it is in the Scandinavian countries, particularly Sweden."

And then added: "But I'm sure you knew that...."

It only took me twenty-five years to come up with my comeback.

Poopasaurus

2010-10-20T11:28:00.000-07:00

So last Sunday I was at my sister-in-laws for dinner. But before dinner there was entertainment. As in, provide the entertainment for my four-year old nephew, Jack.

This I can do.

Mainly because I can draw stuff. And I don't need to draw very well to impress a preschooler. But at first I didn't do so well....

Outside with sidewalk chalk

Jack: Draw a Pterodactyl.

Me: Okay.

I think for a minute, trying to remember what they look like.

Me: Um, do you have a picture of one?

Jack: No. Draw it here. (Points to a small patch of concrete)

Me: Uh, what color?

Jack: Green.

I start drawing. But something is wrong. It looks like a pelican. An ugly pelican.

Me: That doesn't look right.

Jack: It looks like a bird.

Me: Does it have a horn somewhere?

I add a horn on it's head. A horny pelican. Hah!

Jack: No.

I go back in, defeated. But Jack isn't done. He has a dinosaur book, thankfully, so I can look at the pictures, and he brings me a notebook and crayons.

Jack: Draw this one.

Me: Okay.

It's a diceiomimious or something, but I can draw it using the picture. I finish and ask for the black crayon.

Jack: There's no black on it.

He's right. It's yellow, blue, and orange.

Me: I know, but I'll use it for an outline.

Jack: Huh?

Me: So you can see it better. See, the yellow doesn't show up well. That's why you outline it with a darker color.

I try to explain how edges are darker and shadows and depth and shading and I realize that to him I probably sound like a schizo explaining the Kennedy assassination. I make no sense!

Jack: There's not an outline in the picture.

Me: Okay. There.

My dinosaur looks okay. And Jack agrees. Then he turns the page.

Jack: You have to draw six more dinosaurs.

Me: Six?

Jack: Yes, and you have sixteen minutes to finish.

Me: What?

Jack: I'm counting...starting now.

Me (wondering if he knows how long 16 minutes is): Well, these are going to be ugly dinosaurs...

I manage to draw three before he's bored and leaves the room. But then I'm getting into it. I could just sit there and draw dinosaurs for a while with my crayons. But then it's dinnertime.

Role Models

2010-10-11T14:03:00.000-07:00

Dinner conversation a few days ago:

Me: Sena, do you want a cookie?

Sena: Gaaeeepadoogoo!

Me: Okay, here you go.

I break little Crunchin' Graham Honey sticks into bite-sized pieces. I look at the box, by Nature's Best. They're organic (Yeah!) and I examine the ingredients. I start to recite the ingredients to Sena, who couldn't care less.

Me: And look! It has Elmo on it!

I turn the box and point it out to her.

Me: Elmo's a total pussy.

Matt (choking): What?????

Me: Well, he is!

Matt: You can't say that!

Me: Well, now I can. But later I probably shouldn't.

I add this to the increasing list of things I shouldn't do in front of my daughter. Like burping and farting, and generally being a disgusting person.

Matt: Elmo's a pussy?

Me: Yeah, you ever listen to him? Total pussy. We didn't have such pussy Muppets back in the day.

Matt: Ernie was a pussy.

Me: Ernie was annoying. Bert was anal-retentive. Wait, Grover WAS a pussy, though. Yep, Grover.

Matt: You know who the biggest pussy of all was?

Me: Who?

Matt: Big Bird. God, I couldn't stand him.

Me: Yeah, that whole Snuffleapagus thing pissed me off. (He always disappears right when the kids come back and no one believes Big Bird that he's real)

Matt: I mean, he didn't move that fast!

Me: Yeah! He was a woolly mammoth! Huge!

Matt: Stupid.

I look at Sena and realize that we are having one of the dumbest conversations in the history of dumb conversations.

Because that's what we do here in this house.

Potpourri

2010-10-06T06:14:00.000-07:00

Here's a few videos: Jumperoo and Mad Cow

Jumperoo from Melinda Braun on Vimeo.

Untitled from Melinda Braun on Vimeo.

As you can see and hear, Sena is not much impressed with her Halloween costume. I'm still not sure what I'm going as for Halloween. I was thinking a farm animal theme.

I could be an ass and Matt could be a pig. It wouldn't be much of a stretch.

What a lovely family we are.

10 months

2010-09-28T08:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Baby Sena,

So now you are 10 months old, quickly on your way to 11, and I can see how fast you are learning. First it was crawling and now all of a sudden you are pulling yourself up using anything you can get your hands on. A few days ago I heard you babbling in your room and when I went in, there you were, standing up in your crib and grinning at me like a monkey.

Other things you like to do:

Bounce in your jumperoo
Drink your bathwater
Play peekaboo
Eat week-old Cheerios you find on the floor (Mommy needs to vacuum more)
Put expensive electronic devices in your mouth
Smash food in your hair and/or throw it on the floor
Play your new xylophone by turning it upside down and whacking it
Give Bee an ulcer by crawling up behind her, grabbing her tail and screaming like a mentally ill baboon

And some more things that happened last month....

One day before you turned 10 months old, I took you to the hospital.
For a few days you had had a fever, but it didn't go away. Then you wouldn't eat and you cried and cried and looked so pitiful. You couldn't sleep. And we couldn't sleep. The only way you would sleep is if we held you. For the first time in your life you let me snuggle you, which I liked. But I hated that you were sick and I didn't know what to do.

This is you with daddy.

I took you to the ER. They took your temperature. It was 104.7, and I got so scared I started to cry. You had a blood test and a catheter and a chest X-ray. You did so good in the hospital and it turns out you had a virus and the next day you started to get better. I was so relieved and grateful. Relieved you were okay. Grateful I had one of the best hospitals in the state only a mile from my house to take you to. And that I didn't worry how to pay for it. Most people are not so lucky.

Then we went to the doctor for a checkup. You are more than 20 lbs. now, and your head is still ginormous (92%) so me and daddy hope there is a big brain in there too.

This past weekend your cousin Lilah came to visit from Texas and we all went to the apple orchard. It turns out you like apples, and you had fun going on a hayride. Your first one. And mine too!

It's hard to believe that in a few weeks I will be sending out invitations to your first birthday. The past 10 months have gone by fast, even though some of the days have been long. Sometimes very long!

I heard someone say not too long ago about how the world is going to shit and how they wouldn't want to bring children into the world. Not this world. Not now. And in some ways it make sense and I understand. I have thought that myself on more than one occassion.

But then, invariably, I have another thought.

What other world is there?

This is what we have right now, for better and for worse. And I know with you here it is better.

I love you, Baby Sena.

Love,
Mommy

Sweet Dreams

2010-09-24T12:05:00.000-07:00

Here's a tip. Don't drink too much Cabernet on an empty stomach, debate religion and politics with your brother-in-law, and then fall asleep on the couch.

I did that last night and as a result had this dream.

I am lying in a pool on my back. The pool is only about a half foot deep so the water is covering most of my body, but not my face, which is good because otherwise I would drown. (I don't know what happens if you drown in your own dream but I'm betting it's not good).

I fall asleep in the warm relaxing pool of water. There are other people around but no one's paying attention to me.

When I wake up, everyone's paying attention to me. For all of a sudden I realize my swimsuit has shifted itself downward. So now I'm topless. Great.

I'm mortified in my dream. I'm also sunburned. Horribly. I'm actually in pain. I remember the pain like your skin is a few sizes too small. People are pointing at me and making faces. I try to hobble away and cover myself but everyone keeps saying, "Boobie, boobie, boobie..."

Then it gets worse.

Ashton Kutcher shows up, looking like he's on the set of Punk'd or something. I see him and he immediately runs after me like he has to tell me something of great importance. I'm still trying to figure out why I can't pull my swimsuit back on so I turn away. I'm swearing and trying to pull up the nylon straps but then I give up and grab a towel instead. He comes up behind me and gives me a bear hug. I want to scream because of my sunburn. I struggle pathetically. Ashton kisses the side of my head and whispers, "But I LOVE you."

Then I wake up. I feel icky and shameful, like I wet the bed. Actually, I'm sleeping on the couch so I check the cushion for a pee stain. Thankfully, I have not actually pissed my pants.

No more wine for me... Or politics or religion.

Yesterday Afternoon around 3

2010-09-10T13:30:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when pure laziness rams into that good old American ingenuity that they keep telling us about.

What I do know: I can't use the Paint program to save my life. Horrible. I think I'll stick to paper and pencil.

My Life

2010-09-08T07:18:00.001-07:00

I used to draw comics all the time as a kid. I think I'll start doing that again.

Debbie Downer

2010-09-02T08:04:00.001-07:00

I'm sure everyone knows one of these people. And if you don't, well, then you're probably one.

You know how it is with a debbie downer. There is ALWAYS a problem. A problem they must explain to you in great detail, lest you fail to understand the magnitude of their suffering. They will most always begin the conversation, pretending to ask a question about you. But it's really a lie. A ruse. They don't want to know anything about you. You are not important. You don't understand what pain is. Or suffering. They must educate you, they who suffer so.

And if they don't begin the conversation, they tend to do things like sigh. Sighing loudly. In the hopes that you will ask them, "What's wrong?"

Don't ever do this. This is what debbie downer is waiting for. It's what she lives for. There is a reason for this name as well, as it almost always is a woman. This is something I like a lot more about men in general. They could have a two inch spike protruding from their temple and the conversation would go like this.

Me: Hi, G... Holy shit! You have a two-inch spike protruding from your temple!

Guy: Yeah.

Me: Are you okay?

Guy: Oh yeah, sure. It itches a little bit, that's all.

Me: ???

Guy: So, how was your weekend?

End of conversation.

Contrast this with conversation with debbie downer.

Me: Good morning.

DD: Sigh...oh, yeah, morning. SIGH!

Me: Okay. (turns to fill up coffee cup with hot water for tea)

DD: How was your weekend?

Me: Good!

DD: My cat died.

Me: Oh! I'm sorry.

DD: Then we decided to have it cremated, but well, the credit limit on my card was full so the vet wouldn't take it and I didn't have enough money so I had to wrap Mr. Ticklepants in a garbage bag and bury him in my backyard. I feel so bad I could afford a proper funeral.

Me: (awkwardly): Oh, gosh, I'm sorr...

DD: And then if that wasn't bad enough, the raccoons dug him up later that night.

Me: Umm... oh...I...

DD: Some neighbors complained about the mess, like it was my fault, and then they called the cops and gave me a ticket because I guess it's against the law to bury a cat in your backyard or something.

Me: I didn't know...

DD: And the cop was this big brute and didn't care at all that poor Mr. Ticklepants died and he was just RUDE and I was so upset and started to cry... (starts getting ready to cry again).

Me: Geez....

DD: And all that really upset my gout. See... look at my ankle.

Me: That's awful. (Runs away back to my desk).

Here's what I want to say to people who have to bitch and moan about everything.

DD: How was your weekend?

Me: Good, and you?

DD: Oh, terrible. I got a papercut and I think it could get infected. My allergies are acting up, too. I ate some bad pasta salad and had awful diarrhea on Saturday night.

Me: Children are starving to death in Pakistan so why do you shut the fuck up about your allergies and diarrhea.

DD: W-what?

Me: Did I stutter?

DD: But I also only have this gross TV dinner for lunch. Broccoli alfredo. I don't like broccoli; it gives me gas.

Me: So what? Who's fault is that? Did the Taliban make you buy that fucking gross TV dinner? No? So stop your bitching.

DD: But... I...

Me: Shut up. You're a whiny brat.

This is one of many dreams of mine which may never be fulfilled. But oh, what a beautiful dream.

Lemon Elephant

2010-08-30T17:17:00.000-07:00

About a month ago I was contacted by my sister-in-law's (Christy) sister (Tasha)--stay with me now, and she told me that she was starting a home business and would I be interested in doing some artwork for her website.

Does James Brown get down?

Why, yes, I'm interested.

So she described the project and I did my best to deliver.

Here is the artwork. I did it in chalk pastel and india ink.

You can find her website at Lemon Elephant, which specializes in lovely handmade baby clothes and blankets.

Check it out!

9 months

2010-08-25T12:38:00.000-07:00

Dear Baby Sena,

A few weeks ago you turned 9 months, which means you are already 9 and a half months old, which means I need to hurry up and get this written before you turn 10 months old.

So.

You started crawling 2 days before your 9 month birthday. You went from pushing yourself backwards like a drunken crab to finally figuring out how to pick up that chubby knee and put it forward, all the while keeping your arms straight and your head up (sort of) and you just lurched forward.

Daddy and I both saw you do it and we cheered.

Then you fell over.

Now you are getting faster. And more determined. We had to put up the baby gate, much to the disgruntlement of the cats, who must now squeeze underneath if they want to get down to the basement. You love to crawl after Junebug. You'll see her lying on the floor, you squeal and start your fat hands toward her, going, Slap, slap, slap! But right before you get there, Bug will screech pathetically and move away. Then you'll sit up confused and look around. I know what you're thinking: But she was right there!

Then you'll start all over again.

This past weekend we went to visit your Grandma and Grandpa in Wisconsin. You also met your Aunt Kelly and your cousin Lilah (visiting from Texas) for the first time.

You guys have a lot in common.

You also had a lot of fun playing in the pool. In this picture you look exactly like Daddy wearing a sun bonnet. Not that Daddy prances around in a swim diaper and sun bonnet. But if he did, this is what it would look like.

You sure love the water, Baby Sena.

We had so much fun, and Aunt Kelly's friend Kim came over to the house and took some of the most beautiful pictures of you that I have ever seen. You are just too beautiful for words.

You are now exactly as old as it took to create you, Baby Sena. It's hard to believe how fast the time is flying by, and how the summer is almost over. We did so many things and you had so many new experiences.

I hope you are enjoying the world now that you're in it.

I know I am.

I love you.

Love, Mommy