Now there's a way to relax.

Well, are they or aren't they? Do we really sit around, naked? One person taking photos? Are we such sick little monkeys?

One thing's for sure - after all the time out in the sun it's nice to cool down together inside.

My high school reunion is here and gone and feels like some sort of weird nightmare. Not because it was bad but because it resolved in major sleep deprivation. I got to bed about 3 AM (1:30 AM home from the bar, then stayed up with my brother and talked as usual) then was awakened at 5:30 AM by my left breast saying, "Hello! OUCH, mothafucka! Where is that baby? We need to let some pressure off!" Staggered to the bathroom, sleep-fuzzy, and tried to hand-express enough milk to be comfortable. Back to bed for a couple hours, then up at 8:30 to catch my ride home. Another effort at my aching busom: standing in a hot shower massaging my breast, closing my eyes and thinking of my baby. Like a sexual fantasy almost, but to achieve letdown not orgasm.

It used to be I could take that sort of sleep deprivation in stride. Now it's almost like I'm a toy with all the springs sticking out tottering about. However, this afternoon I had a three-hour nap with my daughter and am feeling up to life again.

Back to the reunion. I'm sad to report I have no pictures nor stories of colossal humiliation or sleaziness. I am skipping tonight's dinner-and-dancing soiree so you dear reader will have to sustain yourself on these choice quotes from the "casual night" at the bar:

"If you were wearing a sluttier top you'd be the hottest one here."
Spoken by: my best friend, to me, upon arrival
State: sober, sizing up the crowd on our way to get beer tokens

"Does anyone have any Vicodin?"
Spoken by: me, to my three girlfriends
State: dismayed at wine-and-beer only bar

"Wow... a skirt and everything. Nice!"
Spoken by: an ex-boyfriend - the only one of three that showed up
State: sober and apparently - despite having slept with me - unsure that I was a woman

"You're not happy. I can tell! You're not happy with your life." (repeated throughout the evening)
Spoken by: one of the "spin the bottle" crowd of boys I immediately identified upon walking in
State: on the way to nicely plowed, and somewhat belligerent

"...And then after he left our house my mom found poopy chopsticks in the bathroom!"
Spoken by: my best friend, of one of our classmates when he was 5
State: tipsy, and amongst uproarious laughter

"Yeah... keep sleeping under your blanket of security! You're one of those tree-huggin' freaks!"
Spoken by: divorced-with-two-children Marine who was either A. mean from drink or just B. your garden-variety asshole
State: very drunk and planning to punch me in the face

"Kelly, you're leavin? Aw, it was so nishe to see you... My dad... my dad always said {garble garble garble} that Kelly Fisher... such a nice {garble garble garble}... great to see you... {garble garble}" - big massive hug - "{garble garble}"
Spoken by: ex-football player now working locally in law enforcement, reminiscing on our days in Oceanography class
State: very drunk; stupendously, weavingly, resin-chair bustin' drunk.

My report on 10 year high school reunions? Definitely worth going - but be prepared for surface conversation and bouts of intense existential loneliness.

After the evening of booze, awkwardness, and bravado we were hotfooting it back to PT in the morning. Thanks to favors from family I was pulling in the driveway at 1 PM looking for my children. Said baby and preschooler were so, so, so happy to see Mama - even though she was only gone for 24 hours.

These boots get me the attitude I need.

Today we took the kids uptown to the park with a coupla kiddie pools. I picked up my naked son, his body warm and vital. Suddenly I couldn't leave for a whole night.

Here at my parents. My body feels useless with no shopums to bend down and hold, with no grasping sticky hands. I fill my empty hands with a Red Hook and await the next thing.

Mistress of the Glue Stick.


Dad and Sophie collaborate.

Today we had a pool party at a friends' all morning. OK, those are the kind of days I don't miss working at a paying job. But goddamn, am I the only Mommy who thinks we oughtta have cocktails at these things? The kids had a great time. I told my mother on the phone, "Sophie was the only one who was naked." Her response? "Just like her mom!"

Oh, and speaking of that - tomorrow I head down south to my 10 year high school reunion. Check the site out. It's rad. Misspellings, random capitalizations, and a message board with no one there but a big tumbleweed, like a reunion site should be. So with any luck check back on Saturday and I'll have some pictures of everyone I slept with (I hope they show up, altho' most of them were teachers). I'll put a big black bar over their eyes (and/or crotches) for privacy's sake.

It's funny just when and where the intense satisfactions of family life will pop up.

My kids can be acting cuter than hell, stapling pink fuzzy bows to kittens or holding one another under the bath water while giggling, and chances are I'm mentally off in brain-vacation, thinking about some drug escapade in school or what I need to get for tonight's meatloaf. But then this morning hunched over the downstairs commode spraying the foul poison loaf out of a couple diapers (my son is into a bowel program I like to call the "Four-Course-A-Day Fecal Storm" method) and I am gently overcome with a sense of peace and love for my job in caring for my family. I feel a fullness in my life I had never felt as a singleton.

Funny thing about those diapers. Man, they used to freak me out. Looking back, I think I used birth control not because I didn't want the responsibility of a child, but because the concept of dealing with diapers made me feel physically ill. But now, the idea of *not* handling miscellaneous bodily fluids / solids from everyone under this roof just kind of feels foreign and weird. It would be like asking a cat to stop that thing where it licks itself for no reason. I'm good at cleanup, so why not do it?

In fact, I am a diaper overachiever. I have cloth diapered my kids since Nels was born, including a full year of dual diaper duty (which I like to count as two years, goddammit it!) and not one disposable diaper during vacations or visits. In that year where both were in nappies if you asked, "Hey Kelly, what are you doing?" the answer would somehow have to do with a diaper. I have probably another full year to go, if I'm lucky. And yet the fervor at which I attack the miscellaneous spraying, rinsing, wringing, chemical additions, drying, and folding duties of cloth dipes would indicate I am somehow sure that after this diaper is done I won't have to do any more. That's right, wipe the rim of the toilet and spray a little disinfectant. Shine that porcelain: squeak, squeak. Oh wait, excuse me - what's the fucking point? In about two seconds I will be returning to the toilet and once again dunking, spraying, and flushing.

But the real reward - besides a clean commode and fluffy, white soft terrycloth to pamper the sweet little bums I love so much - is when the kids grow up and systemically avoid the subjects of me handling their waste and touching their genitals. Which is why I've been photographing, labeling, and cataloging every diaper they've ever used. Don't say I'm not thorough.

Summertime means t-shirt surgery time. Buy unfabulous large t-shirts at the Goodwill, take home, and one hour later you've got something inexpensive, comfy, and (usually) sleazy-looking.


Hot pink is the new... hot pink. I am so unused to wearing a skirt that whenever I have one on, I am convinced it is caught up in back somewheres and I'm displaying my fanny off unintentionally. So why not wear one short enough it shows it all off as a matter of course?


Bust darts are my friends. Note sunburn that will turn into crepe-like lizard skin by the time I'm, oh, thirty-two. Thanks, female ancestry!

It's still fresh in my mind the crazy South American circus we went to last Wednesday here in town. It was a circus of the "Yanni music coupled with semi-erotic acrobatics" variety, as opposed to the "sad animals who look like they want to die" type. My first circus ever, incidentally, and my children's as well.


Spandex somehow scares me, even if you have a perfect ass. However, if anyone is entitled to wear it I suppose circus performers have earned that right due to their physical fitness and necessity for freedom of movement. I sniggered as I took this picture (about fifteen minutes before the bigtop show), but I later fell in love with this boy. His name is Agostino and he is a lithe young Venezuelan capable of numerous impressive death-and-fashion-defying moves and yes, I had to scream and hide my eyes as he cavorted atop the Wheel of Destiny. Please note American males on stage left whose apprehensive expressions indicate either A. the white man's perennial distrust of the Latino male; B. a latent homosexual attraction to this nymph-like circus youth; or perhaps C. they are merely looking for a good caramel apple on the midway.


Before the freakish waking coma commenced. My children were calm and excited before the show started, but the minute the fog machine started rolling and the music started blasting and the glittery costumed were-ninjas were flying about, they entered this odd trance-like state and stayed that way for the whole 120 minutes. Their sweet, befuddled expressions seemed to say, "What the fuck is going on?" Ralph joked the next morning they probably remembered the whole thing like some weird nightmare.


We were afraid to use any flash photography as it honestly looked like the cast and crew would kick our asses if they caught us. This hula-hooping boy is the son of Olga, the Russian magician of the circus. He pulled hula hoops out of thin air and looked like one of the Sharks from West Side Story dressed in the Judas costume from his last number in Jesus Christ Superstar (oh come on, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout!).

And speaking of freak shows, on Saturday we took The Girl to the new Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. Funny thing is, I hated the original movie (sad and weird, but not in a way I liked) and didn't care much for the story, either (my love for Johnny Depp, however, continues to stand the test of time). Sophie enjoyed the film but found it hard to follow (and thereby contributed numerous inappropriate out-loud theater comments such as, "Hey, it's chocolate!"). We left the theater and she looked at her daddy as he carried her in his arms and said, "What happened in there?"

He had a rough day. Life ain't all tit-and-naps, you know!

Even though I have been known to "lose it" over seemingly minor issues such as botching a batch of homemade tamales, my husband growing a mustache, and my bad prom 'do in '95, I am actually quite calm when it comes to emergency or near-emergency situations. A typical instance: riding passenger in my friend Jen's van a few months ago and I'm blabbing away (as usual) while Jen is listening attentively (as usual). As I am talking I notice a mere quarter mile ahead of us the line of cars on the highway has come to a sudden halt, a fact my girlfriend is as yet unaware of. "You're driving too fast," I say conversationally to Jen, recrossing my legs and taking a sip of coffee. She is still looking at me and not reacting, in that momentary fog where the import and context of my statement don't match. I observe we are still hurtling along at 55 miles an hour (or rather about 88.5 kph, since she's Canadian) and the SUV immediately ahead of us is rapidly drawing near. "You're going a little too fast," I say again, this time politely raising my voice to just-above-normal. She swivels, gasps, and performs an excellent slowdown that nevertheless requires a turn into the shoulder to avoid collision or locked-up brakes. She is rattled; I am pleased at the lack of car-drama; we are OK. Compare this to a CERTAIN FRIEND OF MINE (let's call her "My Mom" for short) who would have screamed, stomped on her passenger-side "brake", then refused to admit this display could have anything but positive effects on the driver's performance (you freak! Just kidding. I love you!).

Today's non-emergency had nothing to do with automobiles: my three-year-old locked my infant son in a room with no egress. My daughter had engaged the lock unbeknownst to me so that when I closed it, he was shut in. I discover this 20 minutes after he's been crying (I was hoping he'd go down for a nap - no dice) so by the time I try the handle and realize it is locked he is D-O-N-E and wanting his M-A-M-A. I immediately grasp the problem and find a somewhat appropriate tool to jimmy the lock. Meanwhile my son, hearing me on the other side of the door, has escalated his cries. My friend Michelle is hovering as I attempt the lock with no success. I know the windows are impenetrable. I am in a robe and towel but I pop next door to CKs where Spoolie the Handyman is working. I explain the situation and he glibly provides me a slightly-more-appropriate tool. I briefly note to myself that I am ready for the actual Handyman himself to come over, but what the fuck, I'll give it a try.

Spoolie's tool does not provide success. Downstairs for a screwdriver: take the doorknob off. I am in the guts of the apparatus, but can't disengage the latch. Put on clothes, walk outside, check the one window in case it was left partially open. Strike out, again. I don't need to describe the sounds coming from my son at this point - but - they are very, very sad. I walk back over to CK's and ask Spoolie - calmly - if he will come over with either his magic fingers or, barring any elegant solution, a big sonofabitchin sledgehammer (sorry Nels, this may be a loud entry!). Suddenly CK, Spoolie, and Michelle have a slightly higher energy as the knowledge runs through us like an electric current: WE HAVE A CHILD LOCKED IN A ROOM NO ONE CAN BREACH. Spoolie heads over; kneels down; within a few seconds has found the magic trick (commenting that something in the lock assembly is broken, a fact I did not know until then). I walk in and gather up my now-hysterical, bug-eyed, very frightened little guy. He clasps his arms around me. His head smells wonderfully of sweat and sadness. He calms in my arms.

I thank all those who helped (supporting cast, as far as my son is concerned) - I thank my stars we did not need to hammer a door down to get The Boy - I thank God we found out about a faulty doorknob before there was a real emergent need to enter the room. I am praised for my calm by the ladies. I get the feeling I will have a slight cry later on, in the safety of my car or counselor's couch.

All is well that ends well. And now, dear readers, something to lighten the mood, in the aftermath of 2 1/2 foot-tall-terrors: I envision my blog being read by not a few childless, young sophisticates (i.e. people cooler than me who don't bounce checks or wear wifebeaters in public). I pose the question to those of you reading - have you ever driven by some shitty yard - appliances or cars propped up akimbo, "dogs staggering about, looking for a place to die"? Have you ever thought, I would never let my kids run around naked outside! and perhaps even queried yourself, what kind of parent would? I offer you Nels - once again, touching himself. In public. For the commuters heading home tonight.


A majestic sight. ... as Nels toggles Nature's Greatest Plaything.

Tune in tomorrow for chapter 2 in the Nels saga, explaining his new waif-like physique (well come on - waif-hood is relative).

My brother and I share an illicit love - a love which, today, must be forced out into the open due to some weaselly blackmailing on his part ("You know that favor I did? Well, here's how you can repay me."). The sick little monkey. I was happy to have a subtle reference or two on my site - mentions which did not reveal the extent of stalking that mon frere and I have so far employed on our subject: anonymous livejournal entries, server-pinging, and maps with colored tacks and corresponding yarn strings outlining Mr. L's movements. But no, my obsessive compulsive mama's-boy sibling has now decided its time to go public with our love.

To speak briefly of Mr. Levin, there is something so sweet about a comic with burgeoning mainstream success who will take time to reply with small, witty handwritten notes if you send him a letter. Never mind those cordial little missives say, "Quit contacting me or I'm calling the police", or that our emails keep bouncing no matter how often we reregister addresses (currently "toddfannHOTSLUTTXXX@hotmail.com"). No, it's the personal, tenderly devised gestures of our favorite comedian-slash-writer that count. Mr. Levin - or "Toddkins" as my brother and I refer to him at our weekly Croquet Luncheons for the Appreciation of New York Jewish Entertainers - has built a solid and promising career in comedy, comedy writing, and cat-loving essays (which only cat-lovers will appreciate and, hey: guilty!) that are sure to land him briefly in some Todd Phillips film where he plays the uptight roommate who is revealed to enjoy anal play while huffing ether.

One day - soon I hope - the Fisher siblings' love will be recognized by the world and we will finally get our accolades for helping Toddkins to a resounding worldly success. And hopefully this will retroactively nullify the restraining order (and subsequent violation thereof), as well as justify our purchases of the plane tickets, 150 feet of nylon rope, and matching ski masks.

For those of you lacking the Washington state lore coolness factor, our modest burg Sequim is having its Lavender Festival this weekend. Sequim (prounounced "skwim") is a friendly little agricultural town (population 4200) that thanks to the rain-shadow of the Olympic mountains enjoys unusually balmy weather (about 17 inches precipitation a year), a fact which locals (that is, those of us living in about a 50-mile radius) breezily refer to as "the banana belt" and which no one else gives a shit about (we PNW'ers have a chip on our shoulder about our crappy weather). Anyway, Sequim has so much goddamn lavender that even on non-Lavender Festival weekends, I feel a bit lavendar-nauseated driving through the burg, which in most respects is your average small town, if a bit friendlier than most. We took our berry-fetishist daughter and son Sir Pukes-A-Lot (yes, he's still sick) west today with the goals of touring the festival, taking pictures of local freaks, and picking berries at one of the many U-pick farms the area has to offer.


Sequim features fake elk sculpture (although not as much as dad-blasted Raymond), and a few real ones too. confusing and distressing for motorists.


Huckleberry Siouxsie, resplendant in overalls (no shirt) with a cleverly-contrived picking bucket strapped on (yay! child labor!). Notice in her little beak the first of about 4,000 berries she scalped despite our admonishments.


Mama. Interesting how every picture Ralph takes of me includes my cleavage somehow. Note black tank-top and unwashed hair (I am probably featured on some cooler, more sarcastic blog for looking white trash).


I picked like, a million of these. And took a picture of every one. The farm smelled of loganberry wine, ripe raspberries, and lavender. You could hear people talking and laughing in the particular way sound carries over farmland. It was a very nice afternoon.


Imagine four hundred million thousand acres of this. Every shade of purple/blue imagineable. To think most of this stuff goes into stupid candles and overpriced sachets.


Your typical Sequim friendliness. I looked out my window and said, "Smile!", then *click!* Where I grew up, he would have snarled and threw a crescent wrench at my head. I thank you, Young Boy of Sequim.


Fabulous coffee here. Also, eight kinds of ice cream where they've bastardized lavender in the recipe for some reason (Lavender Cream Vanilla, Lavendar Chocolate 'Stache, whatever). A very delicous Pistachio Cherry Chocolate Chip, however.


Our little berry picker, winding down for the day. Nels threw up raspberry/breastmilk slurry about 2 minutes later, interrupting the idyllic atmosphere of the car.

My husband's fear of Japanese restaurants is such that tonight at dinner he somehow fell for any FISH joke I made or any possibility fish would make an appearance at our table. This included, but was not limited to:

• My joke that the unique onion rings were "unique" because they had a big slab of fish on top (he did devour them and enjoy them - they are amazing and entirely fish-less).
  
• Ordering the avacado rolls while assuring him he would like them - he instantly assumed there would be a secret sliver of fish in them, simply because it was some fishy conspiracy we were all complicit in. P.S. he spit one out anyway (seaweed = fish, apparently).
• When my order (tempura prawn roll) was delivered and he saw the "tails" of the prawns. His eyes darted around and he got pale and clammy - again, positive the sushi-ninjas were going to jump on him and shovel slabs of some sludge-feeding aquatic craniate vertebrate down his throat.
  

I don't want to drag him into an establishment that makes him jumpy and, yes, slightly ill. But I think I will have to let the dream die - the dream that I can enjoy my sashimi and pot stickers and dynamite rolls and Red Hook with the man I love.

Other highlights from today:

• Post-date wet t-shirt contest (my son's puke as the "wet", poor little guy)
• Visiting the new Aldrich's. A town of 8,000. A fabled grocery store with - among other things - freshly-rolled sushi, local bagels, and euro chocolate. The price? Uptown snootiness and high prices. Sign me up!
• A wonderful, wonderful bath and mid-afternoon slumber with Nels. When he and I began to surface from Slumberland (Population: 2) he struggled up, leaned in, and gave me a kiss. P.S. for all you childless sad-sack cat-lovers reading this: an episode like this is sort of like when a kitten tries to stick its face in your mouth. But even better. Like, if the kitten then got out of bed and made you a hot fudge sundae.
  

It was pretty awesome today at 6 PM while Nels was happily sitting on The Husband's hip while said Husband bustled about, making dinner. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, Nels threw up. About a gallon, although it's hard to calculate when the material is soaked into pants, t-shirts, socks, shoes, the sink, the floor, and (probably) our dinner. He felt much better after (as a parent you learn not to worry too much at something that looks like demonic possession - at least give it a couple days to see) so we're hoping for the best. Tonight as I put him to bed he was making ominous gurgling noises. This was a specific problem since his favorite snuggle-to-sleep pose is lying on my chest (my supposed fifteen-month-old son stretches from my neck to my knees) with his mouth breathing wetly into my throat. I tried not to visualize the possible outcome of a sudden violent surge of thin-peanut-butter-consistency, bad-cheese-odorous vomitus suddenly flooding my chest and filling my ears. Every move, every hiccup - I felt quite jumpy.

So, what happened? Did he barf all over me or what? Well, dear reader, what do you think? Weigh in and you enter the raffle for a prize.

It's time for a filler post!

Our "happening" friend Brummel (too happening to even update his blog) seems to imply I'm the last person on earth to find thelonelyisland.com. Well, maybe. I deliberately avoid any media except NPR (including our local newspaper) and altho' I miss Comedy Central, I don't miss TV enough to actively search it out (let's not talk about last year's illicit affair with Oz or this year's dabbling in Deadwood). Anyway - speaking of quality TV (or TV spoof) I challenge you not to laugh your ass of at The 'Bu and Stork Patrol (- Billy, if you don't watch this, I am disowning you). P.S. why don't more men have hair like Ardy?

In case you missed the latest addition to my sidebar, I found a cute-'n'-trashy blog by a writer / commediene / tollbooth worker who will probably not ever "make it" in any fiscally rewarding way. Unhealthy, but addictive - kinda like Little Debbie cakes.

And finally - ladies - take yourself to a very special place with this decadent (yet innocent), manly (yet nurturing), romantic intervals to the sexy world of housecleaning sundries. After all, which of us [caucasian] females doesn't have a wee secret, shameful crush on the lumberjack type? Thanks you my latently-homosexual relative for this link (he claims "his girlfriend" showed it to him!)

Last Thursday my children and I attended a combined birthday party (2-year old boy) and weaning party (3-year old girl) at our uptown toddler park. I smoke a cigarette on the drive (yeah, yeah) and once there haul the family into the corralled public area, shaking my leg to dislodge my clinging children onto the urine-soaked woodchips (has anyone else thought about that?) to frolic on the play structure, slides, and baby swings that somehow never lose their appeal to those three feet tall. A picnic table is loaded with brownies and cupcakes decorated like boobs, a combination which facilitates my three-year-old's independence from Mama's proverbial skirts. I hold my son and take a seat on a bench next to my friend Michael. A stay-at-home dad and used to the female majority of these events, he scans the increasing throng of parents arriving. "Okay, there's two other dads here, good." he affirms to himself. "Oh come on, Michael," I tease, "You're man enough to handle all these women. Just think of it as your own personal harem." I pause, then add almost to myself, "Of course it's an undersexed bitchy harem, but what are you gonna do." "You got that right," he mutters under his breath, and both of us laugh, delighted at how much LIFE AS PARENTS OF YOUNG CHILDREN SUCKS.

I categorize Michael as one of our PT "shed boys" - men with more charm and survival talent than "sustainable employment record". Men who keep from starving by using a combination of two of the three following stratagems: 1. simplicity (by that I mean: LIVING IN A SHED and taking a shower at the marina); 2. a well-degreed or well-financed lady (often situated in a groovy uptown Victorian or cottage); or 3. a trust fund / inheritance to nibble at in between knife-sharpening or odd-job carpentry. (Please note I actually don't know what Michael does and how much he works, I'm just generalizing about the shed boys. If any of them are offended, I apologize profusely and ask for them to get off the library computer because someone else needs to use it). So anyway. Michael. He is tall, handsome, charming, and of indeterminate age since he is prematurely white-haired. Still, he's advanced in years to be starting a family and after these months of knowing him I can tell he is still reeling from the shock of a sudden household full of step-children & two kids of his own under 2 years old. A month ago on a field trip he coined the term, "RW" (Relationship Weirdness) which I can relate to due to the painful and familiar history of my own marriage. All the same, he is an intuitive and caring father raising two healthy kids and an enjoyable conversationalist.

I like talking with Michael because I can be myself - as up front about my opinions, as brash and off-color as I like - and there is no, "Who's the June Cleaver of the two of us?" subtle inner duel between us. Understand that even your most brazen and seemingly confident mother of young children, somewhere deep inside, is questioning her worth as a mother. When confronted with another female who may be "higher functioning" than herself she is thinking, See? If I just pulled my shit together I could do better. I am sure amongst males this core self-worth issue is reflected in questions about the role of provider, being an important player at work, etc. (my husband is in the next room but it would be too much work to check with him on this, so let's just say I'm right). Anyway, with this male friend of mine we can drop the insecurity and, since he and I are not partners in a domestic capacity, there is no heat to our accounts of being "in the foxholes" with another of our respective sex. Translation: when I say, "Man, my poor husband is not getting his share of blowjobs!" he can laugh with the maniacal, bitter edge of familiarity; conversely, if he says "My partner is going nuts with the housecleaning obsession!" I can recognize the ridiculousness of my own participation in that role without feeling threatened to change or defend myself.*

Yes, having a few men in our henhouse of child-wranglin' is a good thing. I learn something new from them each and every time. The sad thing is, in these social situations many times the males group together - out of fear or the herd instinct, I do not know. I think this makes for a less exciting potential for community, myself. However, even in that scenario - when they're talking about boring man shit (jobs, stuff with moving parts, and video games)? - at least they're not rehashing the same tired material their XX counterparts are (where we get our coffee fix, our kids' weight / health / poop, why we don't want sex). And in that, there is novelty.

* these are fictional examples: in actuality I am a blowjob Goddess!

I finally - after three years - got to meet Jamila. My brother's smart, beautiful, surprisingly shy - but most of all - actual, real-life girlfriend. We tried our best to be ourselves. Oddly, she left a day earlier than originally planned. I'm sure it was a coincidence!


GRAZDMA. Here is my mom, ambushed into holding still for my efforts at a sneaky non-flash photo in bad indoor light. Ralph is trying to bewilder her by pointing out something. She caught on mere moments later. Anyway, I look just like her, but with worse hair.


Imagine this face your entire childhood: "I'm disappointed in you." My dad. He doesn't like having his picture taken either. I guess I was the asshole taking all the pictures. But I have a blog to think about.


Tony. Talented. Smart. A good friend. I teased him all night and I'm pretty sure he was mentally giving me a cock-punching by the time the birthday cake was cut.


"I am so cute and fat!" On to today - an afternoon walk as Sophie napped. The world is Nels' oyster. This was after his lunch including every kind of sushi at our table. His father is disappointed at his proclivity for eel.


the Hoquiam River: the color of disappointment. Here we can see the paper mill I worked at for two summers. To the right (out of camera view) is an area we all referred to as "the Flats" while growing up. The site of many a bonfire and general grab-assing amongst the combined gangs of my friends and my brothers'. Seven years ago, host to many a grappling match in the back of my Corsica as Ralph tried to wrestle my shirt off. He got his way in the end, I guess.


bart wasn't home, so here is a picture of his hot rod. I wish we could have got him on the hood, preferrably in thong underwear.


This is just a cute puppy I saw. He lives two doors down from my parents' house. This photo is almost life-size, it was that damn small and didn't even have poop-breath, that I could tell.

from my parents' laptop - allow me to treat you to an exhaustive (and rather graphic) photo essay of my day caring for an ill child (sick at both ends), fending off my tit-vulture* child(ren), & roadtripping to Grays Harbor for my brother's birthday.


8:30 AM: pale, wan - but proud. In this photo she is literally saying, "Mom, take a picture of the puke!"


note multi-tiered puke assemblage.


nels, in the morning puking episode aftermath, is visibly impressed. And wearing his sister's pajamas.


"Does this shirt make me look gay?"


please, please, please let me get what i want.


all tuckered out. Sweet slumber for the wee ones after two solid hours including myriad talents of vomitting, screaming, crying, and kicking your sibling in the face.


a sexy ride. The *minute* you get into Aberdeen, the photo ops are abundant. In this case, a white serial killer van with a homemade wooden bumper and a cabful of greasy guys in Stihl-chainsaw hats (who I didn't take a picture of, for fear of having my ass beat). Please note "silhouette lady" in left back window. Classy!

muy bien. If you're reading this, you're probably living in the Great White Northwest and the mere sight of this cart makes you clench your bowels and lock the doors to your SUV. But if you've had the fortune to experience a growth in your Mexican population, you know that unimpressive carts like this can have some top notch grub. Tiny little tacos for a dollar apiece, and always some amazing Satan's Fuck Finger Sauce to to with.


"Does this menu make me look gringo?" Mmm, lengua!

Thank you for tuning in. Tomorrow's installment of my visit to Grays Harbor: Yes, my brother actually has a girlfriend.

* Thanks, Amber!

Actually, I think I love the British - over there. It's when they come to live here I get all bent out of shape, and then it's really only over the ones I suspect hang on to their accents overlong on purpose (as we seem to have a healthy population of here in PT). Or maybe that's just the redneck in me talkin' - you think?

Anyway - I hate, hate, hate writing about anything that really matters. But today listening to the aftermath of the bombings in London I was very moved by what I was hearing from the Londoners, barely ten hours away from a brutal series of attacks, speaking with courage, sadness, and dignity (remember that?). Now on to the American Media and a few of our notable ass-clown leaders, where every bit of potential human nobility will be squeezed out in favor of grisly sensationalism, histrionics, and the supposed moral high ground.

In more relevant news, I am currently having a hard time not OD'ing on a box of Good & Plenty which, like a goldfish, I would probably consume until I grew too big for my glass tank. Somebody save me!

I can't believe he even mentions / cares about our three-year-old's bedwetting. Of all the goddamn things.

Today as I started dinner I felt a repressive, smoldering rage at my son, fifteen months old as of 1 AM this morning. It's a damn good thing he has a father who came home and took custody of his sweet, dimpled little ass so that I could just fantasize about whacking him, instead of actually doing it.

The first indicator of his mood was this morning's walk to the library as he insisted on tearing his hat off, over and over and over, while I was forced to bend over while pushing him one-handed, balancing my mocha (no snide remarks) and swatting at him, "No, Nels!" Goddamn it, he was going to keep his lid on. Hats are one of those things I am proud to say as a Mommy I *always* enforce. Please note, when you are proud of something you enforce as a Mommy you are destined to then immediately give birth to a child who will inevitably pick that particular battle and gradually force you into caving in with a whimper and the realization you are a total loser for even thinking you could make a single, solitary rule for your family.

The list goes on. Throwing magazines at the library. Throwing food at home. Fussy, clingy, won't sleep. Screams when he wants a bite of whatever anyone else is eating. Cries hysterically from a few drops of rain - this from a boy who yesterday fell in the bathtub with a huge THUMP and spent five seconds entirely submerged, without complaint - as I take my daughter to the Farmer's Market outing; my one promise to her today. At the Goodwill, thrashes his sister's book with grubby hands while I'm reading to her. Michelle gives me a backrub and a kiss and tells me to relax, that he will be 20 before I know it, and I know she's right, and I still feel like crying. Finally, at dinner, the coup de grâce: will not eat, and won't stop screeching, unless I hold him in my arms the entire meal.

So today my daughter was my favorite, hands down. She napped when I asked her to, helped feed her brother, took his hand at the library, washed her hands when I asked. Got dressed in rain boots and stomped in the water like a good girl should, bore the abbreviated uptown trip with good humor. In the moments where the Evil One is fitfully napping, I stroke Sophie's hair indulgently, forgetting whatever murderous rage she put me into two days ago. This seeming inconsistency is because you, reader, aren't a parent of >1 children so thusly don't realize the coveted position of "Favorite Child" is a constantly oscillating title that both kids vie for by quickly scoping out the nastiness of the other child and how close Mommy is to drowning them, or herself, in the bathtub. Of course on some days they both seem to say, "Fuck it!" and proceed to bust my balls with all they've got. Those are the days I *really* wish I could embrace alcoholism as a coping mechanism. I still drink, of course. I just feel bad about it later.

An addendum to the "Favorite Child" trap is that years down the road you will hear them complain and go on at length about who was Mom's favorite and who was Dad's and just how disappointed you were in them that they didn't do this or that... meanwhile from about Day 4 they have been playing the game and I swear to God, planning it in whispers from the crib as soon as they share a room!

On a lighter note, this and this are pretty funny. If I wasn't married and didn't have an irrational fear / distrust / disgust of New Yorkers (especially hirsute ones) in general* - I might be in love with Todd Levin.

* Oh yeah, and if my brother hadn't found him first.

Dear "Career Woman",

I can't believe you actually cut me off as we're heading to the church parking lot to drop our children off. Out of all the irritating behaviors my fellow drivers can exhibit, a soccer mom in an SUV who refuses to make eye contact as she darts out in front of me from my left is relatively infuriating. I stare disbelieving, looking to you for the reconciliatory duck of the head and limp wave: "Sorry, I fucked up!" But no. No remorse.

I park about thirty feet away from you and watch as you briskly order your children out of the vehicle. I am not even going to take the time to mock your "wash & wear" 1988 long skirt suit complete with shoulder pads, your ash-blonde highlights in a pre-Friends mullet-y shag, and mid-90's Roxy-esque ho heels, because that would be a low blow and - more to the point - I'm dressed in men's 501s with a dyke-y ponytail and toddler snot on my shirt. You do, despite your fashion handicaps, look sharp, well-groomed, and in charge as you stride purposefully up the steps, your American-fat children scurrying five feet behind you. You stay about thirty seconds and rush off to whatever "important" job you have waiting for you - my guess is either a teller window in a bank or a receptionist's desk in a medical building.

For four days while we pick up and drop off our children, you circle the room avoiding contact with me. The first two days I am seething. Part of me thinks if I have balls I will confront you with, "Excuse me, that really bothered me that you cut me off Tuesday", or more bitchily, "Do you know how right-of-way works?" But I don't. Mostly because I can't figure out why I let your alpha-mom behavior piss me off so much. I keep my silence and, when no recourse is offered by you, vow to blog about your lame ass later.

However, I am probably doing you a disservice. It would probably be best for you to learn one day soon that just because you can drive criminally to get the crucial edge and get your little darlings to day camp fifteen seconds earlier than I did, doesn't mean you should. Maybe if I'd said something you would consider other drivers once in a while. Or at least have the chance to say "I'm sorry" - which is all I'm looking for.

My God, to think people move to this town to escape this kind of suburban aggression and assholian disregard for others.

Labels: L2A

I'm having a hard time thinking of how to explain (or even why I should explain) why I watch zombie movies. 99.9% of them really suck. Not to be confused with the "ironic" enjoyment of films that suck, in which you watch a film precisely because it registers 360 degrees on the Suck-Meter and is therefore, somehow, good (Alferd Packer: The Musical being a great example). No - movies concerning the Living Dead are just plain bad. Ninety or so minutes where you are alternatively bored, grossed out, or feeling awkward by the weird erotic zombie molesting scene (yeah, that usually happens in each and every one of them).

Friends who know me are confused when they hear I've Netflix'd yet another zombie film. "Aren't you afraid of zombies?" they ask. Well, yeah. Actually. It's probably the only supernatural (i.e. phony) phenomena that gives me the heebie-geebies. But asking me why I watch something that freaks me out is akin to another query I get often: "Why did you take such a big bite of wasabi that your nose is bleeding?" Sometimes, we do things that hurt us, because we like the hurt. I think you get my drift. And if you don't, just stick to your Meg Ryan / Tom Hanks romantic comedies or one of those feel-good flicks where someone mentally retarded helps us all feel good about football or America.

I digress. But yeah. Today while the kids napped, instead of doing any dishes or chores I sat on my bedroom windowsill, smoked a cigarette, and tuned into a real swollen turd of an Italian grade B zombie film featuring the following highlights:

• ensemble no-talent international cast (meaning Italians and whomever else they could get) which means no matter what language you view it in, you get to see some awesomely shitty dubbing

• a female lead played by Tisa Farrow (yes, little-known sister of Mia in turn ex-wife to filmmaker and shrivelled pedophile Woody Allen, etc etc)

• male lead played by some Brit with very, very, very bad receding hair made tragic by a John Denver-esque attempt at cover-up
  

• some other bearded 70's stud who I would have sworn went on to porn but instead culminated his career several years later in his role of "Drunken Nazi" in The Ghosts of Sodom (I am not making this stuff up!)
  

• badly done yet gruesome eyeball piercing scene and lotsa neck-biting
  

• probably the only "shark vs. zombie" fight we'll see. And why is that, I ask!?

• a couple good sets of Italian boobs, another superfluous yet steadfast standard of the genre.

By the way, the zombie on the front of the video case - which you will surely recognize if they've ever scanned the badlands of faded VHS covers in the "Horror" section - is just about the best special effect in the film. Well, besides the real shark they hired for the zombie/shark fight scene (who I'm told later played "Foolish Marine Animal" in The Ghosts of Sodom).