Life is Art

So I've been feeling guilty about subjecting my daughter, who occasionally stays up late with me, to such adult entertainment as my recent rented television forays into shows such as "Firefly", "24", and "Oz" (kidding on that last one... HBO humor is the best kind of humor!). Among the many reasons not to let your kids watch this pap, the plot lines are simply too boring to a child of four and with good reason. Yesterday in Safeway under duress of my youngest attempting a standing fit in the shopping cart, I took a chance (even as I felt my stomach sink a bit) and rented this for family viewing:


Now, I could embark on a vitriolic campaign thoroughly trashing the latest in pithy "small Southern village flava" Hollywood installments. But, dear readers, I am simply too uninspired for such easy pickins. If you yourself are considering renting this movie, I simply want to help steer you regarding your criteria for film-viewing. When your precious preschooler says, "Doggie!" and points at the affable canine on the front cover, don't think to yourself: Hmmm, Cicely Tyson - the acclaimed and accomplished actress I loved in "The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman"!; nor, I wonder what Dave Matthews, guitarist and songwriter, could bring to a motion picture role?; nor even, Why, I love Eva Marie Saint! Heck, why not?

No - to get to the real essence of the choice you are making here, what you need to ask yourself is this: Am I interested in another quaint Southern yarn concerning a small town populated by lonely rejects and cast-offs who are miraculously united by a plucky young orphan new to town? - a story with even less flavor and more watered-down spirituality than Fried Green Tomatoes? Have I simply not had enough of the "blubbering Floridian sheriff" roles? Am I in the mood for a film plot revolving around a spirited 'acting dog' made all the more charming by the CGI effect of enhancing the animal's jolly grin? And if, indeed, you can answer in the affirmative to any or all of these queries, then Winn-Dixie is for you.

As for me, I'm taking Suse to see King Kong this week. Fuck it.

This may be the happiest day of my life (besides those couple babies I gave birth to once, and that day I married that guy). My iMac Intel Duo is here. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, just know you should treat me like I'm cool.

This morning after our walk (three miles, six days a week, baby!) a girlfriend tells me about an incident where she was shopping in a thrift store with her young baby and suddenly she realized a couple other patrons were saying cruel things about her. "Why doesn't she change that baby's diaper?" one sneers to the other, "It smells so bad!" In Point of Fact my friend had just changed the diaper - she just had a baby who was particularly stinky that particular day.

My friend is telling this story not consciously looking for empathy from the two of us listening but in response to an Actual Factual Hogaboom Event I had just related, whereby on Tuesday morning my mother was awakened at 7 AM not by the noises of my children or to her own internal clock but when the smell of pee from my son's diaper hit her like a brick wall. Honestly, folks. It woke her up from across the room. I think she thought for a moment a wolverine had climbed through our window and made a nest in the crib.

Oh, wait - I guess I should warn you this is a "bodily functions" post. Is it too late?

My son retains the most lovely fragrances around his neck, his hair, almost every part of his skin. Daytime diaper changes are a non-issue, only smelling slightly of urine which to non-parents may be disgusting but to those of us raising young children I compare it to the nuisance a veteran porn star might feel if asked to flash her boobs on the set to get the lighting angle right. That is to say, a little pee is no problem. However, whatever Foulness the boy brews up in the witching hour, or whether it's a time-release thing that the relatively swift daytime diaper changes thwart, I am here to tell you that both Ralph and I are appalled and slightly saddened by this development nine mornings out of ten. Tears sting our eyes as we lift our son out of his blankets and the scent of Marinating Bear Ass overpowers us. Tears that quickly gather in force as we each realize that one of us must deal with this, because no one else is going to.

No one else.

My husband, upon reviewing my web stats for my blog - which, in a manner most perplexing to me, shows a rapidly increasing readership each month - speaking to my oldest child.

Ralph: "Guess what, Sophie? Mama refuses to have ads. You know what that means? She doesn't want you ever to have dinner again. Mama holds the key to us eating. And she refuses to capitulate."

Sophie [nervously]: "I love you, Daddy."

I'm watching my husband out the window as he soaps down our family van. He has a couple rags, a bucket of hot sudsy water, and our son. Ralph, I suspect unlike many other daddies I know, is not about to make a Big Man Ordeal about doing some errand like this. Sure, he decides he wants to wash the van - something I care far less about, although always appreciate when it's done - and he does it with no fuss and no special fucking Turtlewax or chamois cloth or trip to a carwash. He can get it done in just a few minutes in our driveway and then he'll move on to the next thing and he'll keep moving until he's in bed with me at 11 o'clock trying to stay awake to keep me company.

So I'm doing the dishes, watching him and thinking he will probably wash both cars while out there, inside and out, then do some gardening or take out the garbage or build some piece of furniture in our cave we call Shedland (which I haven't set foot in since summer last year, out of fear). And of course - bless him! - children are no hindrance to Ralph (our kids or anyone else's). If he wants to get something done he can take both our kids and accomplish stuff most veteran Mamas couldn't. Or won't. (more on his most recent film project - the one that involved filming from a moving vehicle, chucking stuff over 100' cliffs, repeated bouts of flame, and a couple of our small children - later). I'm a good Mama and I run this joint right; but I can't lift a couch up on my back and move it into the truck while carrying the kids on top, squealing with laughter.

He's looking good to me these days. Out our kitchen window I'm checking out his ass, always excellent inside clothes or out. I swear to God, if Ralph Hogaboom had come built with twiggy legs and skinny booty my life would have turned out a lot differently. He needs new pants. His are hanging on by a thread. I vow: I will learn to sew pants, with a fly and reinforced crotch and the pockets just the way he likes them. Thank God he doesn't wear the pants he used to - the old man slacks (100% poly and in such colors as Mustard Puke, Sadness Grey, and Ass) you'd find at the Goodwill. This was back in his emo days and of course those kind of trou only work well on rail-thin punks and he was almost too big-boned even in his skinny days. Then came along yours truly and I started cooking for him and I remember one day he came home with a pair that had a 6" thick waistband with the word POLY-FLEX printed around it in giant letters. He was so excited they were so comfortable. I had to giggle.

I don't think he kept those pants.

I finish the last dish, wipe down the counter, start a load of laundry. I go tuck myself in besides Suse who is watching Bambi in our bed. Our house is cozy and warm. I hear Ralph's voice as he and Nels burst through the front door. My husband brings in The Boy and my son's cheeks are rosy and his hair is a golden halo and he says, "Mama!" and reaches for me with delight shining in his face.

This late morning Ralph loaded the kids into the bike trailer and the four of us rode down to the local playground for some runaround time. There I was mostly a spectator to the various contact sports of Daddy-Play which for my husband often involves these factors:

* screeching through the parking lot doing wheelies with the bike trailer
* helping my kids do stuff just beyond their physical ability and enough to make my stomach hurt
* running full-tilt down steep hills with wet grass
* ripping the crotch out of his jeans

By way of example I watched him challenge the kids to a "race" and vault over a cyclone fence in order to "win". I think he was pretty impressed with himself even though his fellow contenders are younger than him even if you add their ages together and multiply by five. I have yet to see him actually push one of my children down for the dubious victory of, in this case, manning the "Captain's Wheel" of the play structure - but I think when Nels grows some little boy legs (instead of the stubby toddler kickers he's got now) Ralph may begin to employ even more dubious methods.

Home; lunch; weekend R&R.

I'm on a high degree of Overwhelm lately. Nothing in particular to justify my lack of cohesion. Included in the muddled fog in my head: some kind of cold / sore throat; my six-days-a-week early morning walk (good for the body, hampering my nighttime frenetic energy); Sophie getting chicken pox (surfaced yesterday); two separate large monetary gifts and one large purchase (welcome soon dear duo-processer G5, predicted henceforth to be my Most Favorite Possession); not especially experiencing marital bliss lately (husband overworked; Mama feeling sick and tired); really slacking on housework and feeling bad about it. On the bright side, my own mother came up for a couple days' company, which was great. She is good to my kids and fun to be with. She also is the tie-breaker in the Sushi Vs. Get That Fish Outta My Face standoff that the four of us have, and she is on the side of Good.

Perhaps due to my waning energy and / or listnessness, my four (normally) fabulous Me-Time activities today (walking group, sewing group, date night with Cyn, and Book Club) did not in fact solve all my problems and I am left feeling inadequate and absent from myself. Oh, and I also went on another hike with Abbi and our four kids. Maybe I'm getting too much Me Time, have you thought of that? I thought not.

Back to scrubbing the kitchen floor with my tears. Tomorrow, I'll be back either bitching about people I know or talking maudlin lovespeak about my snot-nosed (and now Pox-y) brood.


Have I mentioned my oldest rocks? I'll bet you can't tell which one I drew and which one she drew. Thanks to Mia for the picture.

This morning I had this brief fantasy I'd be able to keep my clothes clean all day, thereby forgoing a change of dress for our dinner at the Crecca's this evening. It's 12:25 PM now and a mocha, two children's worth of muddy shoes, and some urine later, I'm somewhat resigned to my fate of a pre-dinner change.

Nels is going through "the twos" more than his older sister did. Part of it is temperamental and a large part of it seems to be circumstantial. As a second-time parent I am much more OK with Nels being a rat-bastard now and then. It gives my day some zest. I mean, face it - when Sophie was about his age she was packing diapers for her younger sibling and that's what I required of her and that's that. I couldn't have tolerated much drama from my older child while hauling around a newborn and having My Secret Roving Anxiety Fits About Housework (that was fun!). If she'd been pulling the shit Nels does these days, I probably would have farmed her out regularly, to keep my sanity and ensure her survival.

But even with my more Zen-Mama approach and confidence in the eventual "falling slightly to the left in the Good / Evil spectrum" trajectory of my children's behavior, I find myself occasionally terrified of The Boy. The simple truth is, Nels has his own agenda which sometimes includes an impressive physical and verbal detonation of sorts. The exciting part is having no idea when the Reign of Terror may erupt. This morning, it turned out to be when I apparently violated him by putting on his socks and shoes. We got through it just fine, but I can still hear the echoes bouncing off my walls. And it makes perfect sense in some twisted way that a few hours later when I took the shoes and socks off (they were soaked from intense puddle-jumping) this should qualify as a similarly offensive violation and the whole screaming / punching match should ensue yet again. He even pulled off a backwards head-butt.

Child #1 is yinning to his yang by being a Very Good Girl. A few minutes ago I put my daughter in my bed with a small selection of her favorite books, including a comic book featuring the X-Men. She points to Wolverine with his skintight blue-and-yellow spandex and extended claws. "Look at all his hair..." she strokes his bulging biceps, pensive. "He's very bad," she finally sums up, brow furrowing in consternation. "No," I say, "He's not bad..." I trail off. The concept of the anti-hero is a bit much for a 3 1/2 year old. "He's aggressive," I finally affirm.

I can literally hear the clicks and whirrs of her little brain filing the word away. I will hear of it again in the next day or so.

It's like living with a creature that's half chimp, half computer.

Despite the recent trend of a stellar exercise regimen and relatively clean-living social life (read: no body shots off Sara or Steph for at least a couple weeks) I am worn down to a "fuck-it, just do whatever the hell you want, kids" kind of Mama the last couple days. By way of example, I literally have no idea what to do with my children this afternoon. Should I take them to the park? Already been there once today. And hey, guess what? The park is boring for adults. Maybe I should attempt to get groceries while plagued with their grabby hands, whiny voices, and intolerance for anything other than observing the lobsters in the tank at the seafood counter? Yes, a favorite interest of theirs. On days like today you will see me in Safeway or the Co-op or QFC and probably be thrown by my mingled aspect of profound boredom, minor coffee-tremors, and desperation.

Incidentally, on the grocery subject, I find it amazing just how much of my time is spent planning, shopping, cooking, thinking about, or cleaning up after food. I wipe down my IKEA kitchen table (on indefinite loan from a friend who skipped town) so many times a day it's a wonder the thing hasn't dissolved. Underneath the table I do my best, but the kids have the advantage there because I don't like scrubbing while on hands and knees, not so much. I get irritated if my husband doesn't clean the floor when he's supervising meals because if you give it even one hour after eating who knows what will breed down there. Now in addition to the planning and cooking and cleaning etc, if you add the whole excretive aspect of my children's digestive systems and the work I get to do there, I think that leaves about ten percent of my waking hours which are then, in general, taken up with laundry. Somehow with all of this I manage to write, sew, knit, return calls, scrub the toilet, cuddle my children, shag my husband, and (occasionally) pet and/or feed the cat.

And with those two paragraphs I have run myself into a temporary state of exhaustion. I think it's time to buy my first pack of cigs of 2006.

Dearest reader, I hope you can forgive the lull in my posts. Over the last week and a half in the mornings, instead of stumbling out of the blankets with bedhead and a slight hangover to sit down at the computer and bang out some trivialities about my life, I've been rising early to get a little action on. Yes, six days of the week I've been in front of an uptown coffee shop at 6:30 AM, huddling against rain or wind, for a three-mile walk up and down PT hills with a group of my ladyfriends. It's been a lot of fun and a good workout, but it's come at the expense of my various more typical patterns including drinking, blogging, and staying up too late. So it really remains to be seen if I want to trade one good habit (that requires discipline and fortitude) for a few bad ones (that I really enjoy).

On yesterday's walk one of the ladies spied my Doc Martens - the best walking gear I have, but woefully lacking in arch support and each weighing about a pound, which contributes in large part to the shooting shin splints so fierce that even as I listen to a girlfriend while nodding, "Yes, yes..." I am also thinking, Holy Mother Of God I Am Going To Kill Myself If The Pain Gets Any Worse. In Fact Ladies, Please Just Leave My Limp Body On The Side Of The Road And Send For Help. Still, I have at this moment not the time, money, or inclination to head "to the city" and get some walking shoes, so... there it is. Well, yesterday afternoon while I was out, the particular gal who had noticed my inappropriate footwear brought by a pair of women's Reeboks, perfectly my size and brand-new - probably an $80 pair of shoes. They were gifted to her and she hadn't found a use for them yet.

My feet feel much better today. This particular woman is on my "You Rock" list and she's getting some homemade candy from me very, very soon.

My kids are giving me hell this week. Yesterday afternoon Mia and I dubbed our three-kid event at her house, "Traumatic Playdate". Much more so for the moms than the babes, I think. Right now I'm sitting here typing as my youngest goes down for his nap, my oldest finishes her lunch, and a combination headache and stomach ulcer drill their separate holes into my major organs. Bad shape. Must eat. But mostly, must be left alone. All I need. Is one hour. One hour of no phone, no kids, no husband, no email, no drop-in guests. And hey housecat, you'd better stay the f*ck away too, if you know what's good for you.

Contrary to what most people think, I don't actually have a son. No, what I have custody of all day long, dressed in tiny Levis and little leather trainers and a hoodie and looking suspiciously close to a human child, is a two foot tall, voracious, petulant dragon. This dragon thinks he has a mighty roar (delivered at top-volume throughout the day and sounding supsiciously like "No! Don't!") and is under random delusions like if, once again, he kicks me in the face while I lay him down on the changing table I will in fact give up changing his diaper for all time and he can live in his own soiled britches (I mean what, is that his life's goal?). His specialties are eating a banana in three bites, procuring several bowel movements a day, and knife-throwing. He can and will chew through anything if he suspects tasty snackage therein.

Also, like many dragons, he hoards. His favorite things to hoard are batteries (AAs fit nicely, one apiece, in his hands as he goes about hours of business), any small electronic device he can push buttons on (he had one Golden Morning where he was entrusted a Treo) and these tiny mints that one of our local coffee drive-in stands hands out. Now, I have learned if it is at all possible, you don't fuck with what he's hoarding. By way of example, last week at the beach I noticed he was still holding his mint o' the day and I took it out of his hand, popped it in his mouth, and said, "Here, Nels!" He immediately screamed in rage, took the mint out of his mouth and put it in my slack, shocked hand, then ran up and down a dock pumping his fists and shrieking and in general delivering the toddler version of, "Fuck you, Mom. I mean seriously. Fuck. You."

Ten minutes later, in the ladies restroom as I assisted his older sister in peeing, he looked at me, smiled, and popped the mint in his mouth. Forty-five minutes of hoarding before consummation. Guess that was the magical timeline for the day.

This particular dragon is a very grumpy dragon in the morning. He awakens with some kind of mysterious Agenda that my husband and I have yet to figure out. Do you want breakfast? Ferocious scream. Can I hold you? "No! no! no! nononono! ..." more screaming, etc. I also notice in the morning this creature has a reek of Man Piss that I honestly find astoundingly fierce. You could bottle that scent and use it as a bioweapon. Please excuse my gross body humor.

Of course, anyone who knows my family probably thinks of Nels in his "pseudo-human" form. I'll admit, his human impersonation is pretty adorable. He makes eye contact, flutters lashes and ladies and gents alike, hugs, kisses, and noserubs. He is, outside the confines of our home, an easy-to-please guy and loves just about any kind of singing, physical activity, or groping session (he gets a lot of those). And truth be told, he does give me a fair dosage of sweetness during the day - I mean, why else am I not tying him in a sack and leaving him in someone else's car in the Safeway parking lot (anyone know where to find a sack that can hold 28 thrashing pounds - hypothetically)?


Feeling all better! "Get the restraints on him anyway, Sophie. Just in case."

I love my small town. Love it, love it. There are quirks, though. One of these quirks that has been on my mind, on and off, over the past couple months, is gossip.

I suppose you're going to find gossip anywhere. And I guess it's heartening to think my friends involve themselves in the local community instead of talking about the goddamn avian flu in tight little clusters of fear. I mean seriously - what kind of stuff do you discuss when your community is larger, more scattered, when you don't even know one another's names and jobs? And who is there keeping track of you, even when you don't want it? Keeping track isn't a bad thing, if it can feel stifling at times. From my experience it can feel a lot worse to think no one is noticing what you're doing, who you are, and what your little (& big!) rituals are.

Not all third-party sharing is gossip, of course. To my way of thinking, a discussion surpasses communal good sense and well-intentioned sharing when it includes at least one of these elements: 1. added drama for drama's sake; 2. a truth that would be expressed differently were one of the involved parties present; and 3. a violation of someone's privacy as they would define it.

Now, hell - I gossip. But rarely. Do I hurt feelings? Probably more often than I know. As pertains to gossip, I have a code that's rather simple. My thought is that with whatever I do or say, if someone, anyone, were to hear what I was saying, I wouldn't be ashamed - I could take responsibility for what I said. By the way, that does not mean forgoing a strong opinion. My ability to express my strong opinions is a feature I like about myself. I don't keep them closed in to fester or become personal dogma; I air my opinions as openly and directly as they exist for me. This works well for me most times, and is either a lovely feature or a total pain in the ass for others - I leave you to decide for yourself.

And God, of course I violate my ideal. The example that comes to mind immediately is this summer when I called a piece of public art "mediocre" while, unbeknownst to me, the artist was coincidentally within earshot (I don't think he heard exactly what I said, but I am pretty sure he knew I was dissing his work). That bugged me for awhile, and I couldn't figure out why. I really didn't care for the work in question, but in my heart I didn't like what I'd done. Finally, I came to where I felt discomfort. The way I spoke about the art piece wasn't entirely respectful, and it didn't have any larger context. I should have said something like, "I don't care for it personally, but man - what balls to put one's work out in public!" (Later I would find out he put it in public without the proper permissions - it has since been removed. Funny.) The concept of being that accountable with one's opinion may seem overwhelming, but I also believe it is within my reach and a worthy method of operation.

I realize as I finish that paragraph that some might say, "Why even express your opinion at all if it isn't nice?" I guess I'd wonder what is so threatening about being honest - as long as you are also curious and humble with your honesty. While in the abovementioned example I really did express myself in a way I later regretted, I don't think it was "wrong" to have this opinion, or even to air it. I trust the artist in question to know that not everyone might enjoy his work. The converse is true for me as well: I don't "need" other people to approve of or enjoy my own art, writings, clothes, and kids. Besides - as I've said, I am open and direct. That's me, in the now at least. For someone who likes to be private, they are welcome to keep their opinions closer to home. It works out. Of course there's nothing wrong with being nice, or exercising some restraint on one's opinion. But I notice the people who pride themselves on being "nice" are, from my personal experience, often ticking time bombs of resentment, rage, and rather narrow expectations on other people's behavior. Seriously. Some of the scariest and most unpleasant people I know are "nice" people.

Now, I know you'd like to read more examples where I've been a Grade A Asshole. But I'm done with those, for now. I guess I'm thinking of gossip and my definition thereof because there is a saga being discussed in a couple of the groups I swim amongst right now. The cool thing is, all the time I spent my thoughts on gossip - the pros, the cons, the pitfalls it presents and the social structure it helps support - I am navigating these fields well. I haven't participated in a way that feels bad later, and I haven't tried to "shut down" the behavior that I don't want to participate in.

The "shut down" is the sin the non-gossiper can fall into if they're not careful. It is an emotional distancing and "saint act" that really stems from the non-gossiper's discomfort and insecurity in the face of behavior they dislike. In light of that theory, these last few months I've been working on not being "uncomfortable" when this saga, or any other, gets aired. As it turns out, this has been one of the most fun aspects of personality to work with. Why should I be "uncomfortable" if someone is oversharing (their own life or others'), or being dramatic, or scare-mongering? I may end up wandering out of the conversation (physically or verbally), but I am OK with witnessing behavior that I, in the moment, am choosing not to partake in.

And back to the big picture of who I want to be and why: I guess when I really think about it, I'd like my friends to think I have their back. I'd like each of them to believe, should I witness someone saying some sneaky or nasty shit about them, that they can trust me not to get caught up in the fun of gossip and do something I'd feel ashamed of later. Not that I will show pseudo-loyalty (blowing where the wind goes) or ass-kissing dogged devotion - I don't need that from friends, either. But I want them to know and have confidence in who I am, and that I can be that woman no matter what other people are saying and how juicy, scary, fun or mean it is in the moment I am brought in to involvement.

I got home at 6 o'clock tonight and due to good fortune my family was out on the tail-end of a grocery errand. I brought in my coffee cup, my overnight bag, and the batch of thrift-store clothes I'd bought with Kelly (all purchased for a miraculous $2 at Mom and Dad's Discount store in some buttfuck-nowheresville around Fife). Changed into PJs. Ignored the computer for a while.

The family arrived about fifteen minutes later and the kids raced through the house to find me, excited the family van was back (and therefore Mama was home). Both children climbed into my arms and held me tight. I heard my husband say, "Welcome back." The sound of his voice is balm to my ears.

It's strange - because I loved my trip, I had a great time, and no discomfort whatsoever, I'll do something similar soon. But holding my family in my arms was like getting gulps of fresh air after being underwater.

Now, it's time to snuggle with kids and husband in thick socks with a glass of red vino. Yeah, I can still bring the rock - and all it entails - but I'm the soul of domesticity the next day.

Yes, the wee man still gets a taste now and then.

Last night at 8 PM, after a deeply satisfying dinner at Tacoma's Southern Kitchen and a rum and coke apiece, Kelly and I pull into a back parking lot at the Emerald Queen Casino. First order of business: claim our will-call tickets. There are tons of people streaming through the parking lot and into the casino complex, which at this hour of the evening is overwhelming to me. We are missing the beginning of the concert, which is no big deal really. Kelly strides ahead, purposeful and in charge. In her black fringed frock coat, knee high high-heeled boots and see-through top she is as tall and fabulous as a drag queen (without the shitty attitude or crazy makeup). I scuttle behind her and we vault over a gate and we grab our tickets and almost before I know it we are entering double-doors and there is rock.

The actual venue itself is almost clinical in its setup. It resembles a small indoor sporting stadium, with a rubberized / outdoor-carpeted floor, good seats, and gigantic digital displays framing the stage. We are only 100 feet or so away from the musicians and everyone is standing, leaving my 5' 5" at a slight disadvantage. Thirty feel behind us at the back of the building two bars frame the opposing corners. Each bar hosts four bartenders with their own accoutrement, pumps, and cash registers. They move through drink orders succinctly, the line hustles along, and the bartenders don't break a sweat. We get a scant pint each of microbrew for a total of $5. Good booze, cheap: Casinos. Back to the concert.

The show is excellent (Mr. B. and any other possible doubters, go here to see all the reasons it is, in fact, very fun to see Joan Jett and the Blackhearts). The performers on stage have been playing rock for thirty years. They know what they're doing. There are no surprises, no one kicks a monitor in manufactured punk rage or says anything stupid. The sound as good as on your home stereo, only turned up to "11". Joan has acquired some jailbait mohawked lead guitarist and he holds his own and they do that sexy cock-off guitar thing only once, and it is excellent. She covers "Light of Day", the Mary Tyler Moore theme song, and in the encore, "Everyday People". The new stuff from her anticipated album "Naked" is fine. Good hooks, steady rock, and you are singing along to the chorus by the second run-through. Of course the favorites are there and I discover it's rather gleeful to sing "I Love Rock and Roll" and "I Hate Myself (For Loving You)" in a stadium crowd.


The people watching is also excellent (this guy had the ferocious Hessian hair, all-black clothes and leather jacket, and big gleaming puffy white shoes - of course). The problem with taking pictures of people you don't know (especially people who may or may not have been drinking) is the chance that you will, in fact, get your ass kicked. Back at our seats, I tried and failed to take a picture of That Guy Who Was Having Way Too Much Fun, flinging beer-sweat and flying the horned hand like this was the last minutes of rock before The Judgment. Everyone at the concert is excited, jumping around, singing, but also oddly courteous. We're done at 9:30 so I'm wondering if for many there it is only a warmup to a casino night. Sure enough, a good portion of the crowd funnels into the main building when the house lights come up.

Kelly and I head to hilltop and hit her favorite bar, Tempest, where her friend bartends. It's a lesbian bar but in a good way (they all seem like polite young boys). A couple of the ladies there remember us from the concert and we compare notes. Kelly and I settle into thrift-store luxury chairs, drink an old fashioned and a manhatten (in tribute to my mother) each and enjoy some good conversation. At 11:30 it's time to hit the homestead and dig into our leftovers.


The rock was good, the food was bombastic. Here we have, clockwise from far right: 2-piece fried chicken entree (my choice for the three sides were collard greens, candied yams, and butter corn), small plate with cornbread, fried green tomatoes in the middle (my personal fave!), two mango lemonades w/whip cream, Kelly's excellent boobs, Kelly's seafood gumbo (loaded with prawns and okra and goo), her sides (collards and yams). Jesus Christ himself couldn't have made a dent in this dinner, but we tried our best.

It's 8:58 AM and already two friends have told me I was in their dream last night. Fortunately, I seem to have been a positive component in their dreams (as opposed to negative or neutral).

I wonder if anyone else dreamed of me last night and I'll never know?

Early this morning we are changing shift for our separate exercise routines - he freshly showered from his five mile run, me zipping up my coat to catch a few friends for a three mile walk. We're in the kitchen and Ralph is frying up sausage and eggs, brewing coffee. This evening I'm heading out of town to catch a concert with a friend, so I have to sort our family details with The Man. As we talk I notice the movie we rented last night is lying on the counter (as yet unwatched). I tell him it's a three-day rental; we can watch it Sunday night when I get back, or he can watch it tonight without me if he wants.

"I won't get time to watch it tonight," he says breezily. "I'm planning on having a few friends over for dinner and video games, making some meatloaf." He nods, casually, as if it is No Big Deal that he's entertaining tonight. I know he will use my famed baked potato preparation and find my recipe on my food blog but take all the credit from his dinner guests.

I further predict I will get a panicky call on my cell at 5:37 PM tonight because the ketchup sauce top is burning.

After I get home from the walk - exhilarating, energizing - I crawl into bed with my warm and sleepy daughter. I hold her close as we talk and she waits for her daddy to finish preparing her breakfast. Her skin is soft and she wears a pink undershirt and smells delightful in so many complicated and child-like ways. I feel overwhelmed with gladness and want to tell her how happy I feel with her. I search my heart for the truth and I know it is still there, so I tell her: "Sophie, you are the most beautiful person I know." She pauses, then looks me in the eye and brushes hair out from my face. She says, "I was a little baby... then I grew up to be a Big Girl, then I'll be a Woman... then I'll be a SKELETON!!"

I can remember very clearly the last time someone called me a "Fucking Bitch" (it was about five minutes ago, har har). Anyway, I think this person thought they were saying something quite shocking. But the truth is, that particular phrase doesn't push my buttons. Having someone call me a "fucking bitch" (or any variation thereof, and even in jest) is like hearing, "Hey, my ass is on fire!" I feel mild surprise and a vague investigative curiosity, but it strikes very little relevance to my feelings.

Now - I will getting around to discussing whether I am, in fact, a bitch or not. But before I go into that, I can't help but think how that word has changed much in the last decade or so. See, when I was growing up, it was a Big Fucking Deal. "Bitch" was a powerful word, and it was the last word. If you got in a fight with your pimply boyfriend (wearing a side-spike) and things escalated to the point where he called you a bitch - well, a breakup was probably in the cards, and you were going to go home and listen to Poison's "Every Rose Has It's Thorns" and call your girlfriends on your Swatch phone and generally feel miserable. What I mean to say is, "bitch" was a dealbreaker, a horrible sin to be accused of. It was powerful, too. You didn't get to retort, "Hey! No, I'm not a bitch." You were, if someone said you were. Those was the rules. If someone, most especially a male, called you a "bitch" - poof! - the Bitch Genie popped out of his lamp and blessed you with your a big, fat PMS-y crown reading, "Bitch and Pariah".

Well, I don't know how 15-year old girls and their boyfriends fight these days, but that word just doesn't ring the way it used to. To quote the bumper sticker: "You say I'm a bitch like it's a bad thing." When I hear a woman describing herself as a bitch I automatically project my meaning onto hers: "I'm speaking my truth / being myself in a way I was taught not to do." (implied is the statement - "and I honestly don't know if it's OK or not!") Now conversely someone who, in anger, tells a woman she's being a bitch is saying (to my mind), "You are making me uncomfortable and I'm going to be mean to you because of it!" (by the way, this is the real statement behind a multitude of insults!).

Of course, the legacy of "bitch" and all it entails surfaces among decidedly non-bitchy women and in patently nonconfrontational examples. For instance, I was just at a holiday gift exchange this evening and six out of seven women in some way apologized for the gift they brought! Six out of seven!

And you know what's fucked up? I was one of them. And this was after I'd noticed, out loud, the trend developing amongst my friends. And not only that, but the woman who pointed out I had violated my own policy said in an undertone, "I know what you mean, though - I have my apologies for my gift [as yet unopened] marshalled." Hey, you know what happened about three minutes later? You guessed it - as her present was opened by her gift-ee, she started in on the apologies and qualifiers! I am not making this up, people!

My point is - as a female, the reason we've given "bitch" an overabundance of power - whether now or in our past - is because we've bought into the ideas that A. we can't exercise the non-saintly aspects of ourselves (brash, confrontational, socially inept); B. what we have isn't good enough (hence the gift apologies); and C. that we value others' opinions (namely, our partners') over our own. It's lame.

And for the record, when I call myself a bitch? I'm saying, "Listen up, people - this is who I am right now. What do you think? I'm genuinely curious."

And by the way - Linda, you rock. Not just for hosting our event of course, but for being the only woman who gave a gift, knew it was cool, and just let it be that and let the recipient enjoy it.

(Man, what a bitch she is).

Sophie's current favorite book is Inside The Body - a lift-the-flap, very informative (and to my mind, slightly creepy) book showing off the various systems of the body in gruesome detail with extremely cleverly-engineered flaps. Sophie's interest in this book excites me because I studied anatomy in school and at one point could name the 29 bones of the skull and that was a fun thing (yes, I was a Knowledge Bowl participant in school, you smarmy asshole).

Today as she and I sat in my bed and passed through each page she was speaking with familiarity over all the body parts she's becoming knowledgable of (she has recently passed ribs and collarbone and is now learning lungs, bladder, tendons, etc) and she slipped into a little monologue about herself.

Sophie (casually flipping aside the facial muscle layers to look inside the skull): "Remember last time when my brain hurt?"

Me [laughing]: "What are you talking about?"

Sophie: "Oh, I think it was a weeks [sic] ago."

(she rearranges the flaps so the brain, instead of being safely tucked away in the braincase, hovers right alongside the forehead of the soulless, eyeless full-page zombie).

Pause...

Me: "Put his brain back in his head, honey."

Passed on by a friend; and here are my answers. I'd love to see yours:

Four jobs you've had in your life: waitress, hardware store clerk, lab tech, chemical engineer.

Four movies you could watch over and over: To Kill A Mockingbird, The Big Lebowski, Jesus Christ Superstar, Anchorman.

Four places you've lived: Roseburg, OR; Huntington Beach, CA; Hoquiam, WA; Seattle, WA.

Four TV shows you love to watch: The Simpsons, Deadwood, Firefly, and CSI. Hmm, I think I am actually a man.

Four places you've been on vacation: Mexico; Mason Lake (family cabin); Cannon Beach, OR (Christmas sojourn); BC (honeymoon).

Four websites you visit daily: Google, Hip Mama blog, Sew-Whats-New forums, Craftster board.

Four of your favorite foods: anything salty and/or pickle-y (olives, jalapeños), sharp cheeses, avacado, Maker's Mark (that's a food group, dammit!).

Four places you'd rather be right now: a summer night with my husband, a roadtrip with Billy & co, a bathtub with my children, knitting with friends.

Here's who I loved in '05:

Cynthia and Abbi. You are my closest friends here in town. I won't embarrass you by saying anything mushy and I promise I will never reveal your deepest secrets in public and I appreciate that you allow me to be my blah-blah-blah, ass-shaking ex-slut persona. I have a lot of fun with you both and I deeply respect your innermost beings, and that's an excellent combo.

Linda, Stephanie, Renee, Tracy, Sarah, Lauren, Michael, Becca, and Lisa. You are the die-hard Friday regulars and you kick ass. Even when we don't have mimosa or Trader Joe truffles, the conversation and good times are the highlight of this particular SAHM's weekday. Janel and Mia, you are welcome additions to our burg and already much loved by all of us and personally you are both so cute I could put you on my lap.

Cyn and Pegs for being the best neighbors we've ever had.

Michelle, for loving up my kids for almost two years. You are the pseudo-grandmother we found quite by happy accident and I have literally cried on your shoulder once which I have done with no one else in ten years except my husband. We respect your wisdom and our children trust you deeply.

I enjoy Shilah, Holley, Sarah P & Courtney for their innate sweetness that is real and always rubs off on me in a good way. Each of you ladies embodies wholesomeness to me and I always smile to see you around town.

BethW, you just have balls. And I really mean that. I'm glad you are building your community here. Your husband is the best host-daddy our playdates have ever had, too (watch now as I am torn apart in a jealous rage by other envious host-daddies).

JB, you remind me of a cat; sleek, self-possessed, infinitely out of reach but the best kind of company. I appreciate the times our children have run together (like wild dogs!) and your family will always be welcome in our home.

Casa Del Fisher for offering us warm beds anytime we need them, Red Hook, and (most valuable to me) time together visiting (we don't have an endless supply, you know). Billy, I know you will never trust me because of the stamp incident years ago. But if you don't learn to love me as much as I love you, I will hunt you down and destroy you. Ah, just kidding. But really. And stop stealing my fucking witticisms for your pseudodictionary addiction!

Jules, blood is thicker than water and we understand eachother on dating / marrying geeks. I don't think I ever told you but the years we were in Seattle together were really great for me.

Roy and Betty, who excel in the grandparent department in terms of openness and love for our babies.

Jodi, Jen A, Anna M, Amy F, and Shernnen: My friends from previous lives who, like me, have embarked on the journey of parenthood (twice each - how cool are we?!). I know you "get" how our lives have changed and I remember days when you were a hell of a lot naughtier than I will go into here! Keep the faith and grow them babies up right.

Amore, we will never grow asunder. We have too many nights of boob-grabbing (long before it was trendy to be bi!), smoking, and sexually harassing man-boys. Even if you won't ever, ever drive up to visit me again. Hey, let's go back to school and take classes together and sit in the front row with our roller suitcase and acrylic nails! I know you're up for it!

Becca, TT, Jen B, and AC for understanding and enabling my obsessions with all things sewing and knitting and creating. Have I mix-taped you all lately?

kellynhank are hands down the sexiest duo I've met this year and I hope you had a wonderful New Year. I am sorry I missed out.

LM and DG for the professional care that has made a hell of a lot of difference to us this last year. Kathy, Laura, Elizabeth and Carol for helping me bring my son into this world (I know that was in '04 but I'm still pretty thrilled about it!).

Chris N, Pam, and Amber Lenore, I miss seeing more of you.

Spoolie for various starchy goodnesses.

Will be missed: Lucy; Craig; Laura (headed south); the one person who this year decided to stop speaking to me (you know who you are); and the White Lady (almost twenty, honey!).

My gratitude extends deeply to Skookum (the job we waited for so we could stay here in PT), and the Lord Jesus Christ, who besides being my true love is a barrel of monkeys in the laugh department.

Thank you most humbly to Ralph for continuing to fight the good fight. I love taking care of you and cooking your meals and folding your clothes, and that's the truth. I wish there was more of me to go around. Sophie and Nels, I only hope that I always like Mamahood as much as I do now. I like myself, in large part because I've liked how I've been raising you.

Happy New Year! This year we rang in the change with friends, babies up too late, mild substance abuse, and fresh scalp lacerations. Oh well. I just can't party as hard as I used to.

^^ Can you guess which one I'm married to now? ^^ The above picture was taken about two minutes before Ralph and I started dating, in his brief stint at Evergreen. Our friend Brummel is center stage and, dear me, those boxers leave little to the imagination. I'm told B's banana-suit from the same days of yore (used for breakdancing, so he says) was simply breathtaking.

< -- Let's get a closer look, people. This was Ralph about 25 pounds ago, before he worked a job requiring khaki pants and before he grew fur all over his body (that is not a shaved chest, people - that was how God made him back then). Before he discovered he was amazing at tinkering with technology and, in fact, before he knew the difference between a Mac and a PC and why Linux is superior in theory but will bore the tits off any non-Linux user should you choose to elaborate on that premise at a party (and he often does choose to do so). This is before he kneeled on my kitchen floor with a ring in hand, before those hands had held my own through birthin' two of his babies, even before he knew me as Bird. Before he could learn to change diapers, read bedtime stories, and mow the lawn with two children strapped to him (true story) and before he felt the crushing power and responsibility of a wife and little ones. This is the boy that exists inside him even today, no matter what he sometimes fears. This is the boy who became the beau who became the man I married.

Enough schmaltz down memory lane. So, last night in our festivities I had a toddler vs. Bloody Mary moment and ended up with a pint of the stuff on my shirt. I stripped down and borrowed my girlfriend's t-shirt ("Mustang Ranch - Where Quality Keeps Them Coming!"). It was one of those fabulous t-shirts worn down to skinlike softness and I am so sad because I own no such loved shirt, so much as the dismal hodge-podge of cast-offs and ill-fitting freebies. One day, in my not-too-distant future, new clothes are in my future ("new" to me, at least). For now, I occasionally steal them from friends, for a few brief hours.