Verde, no Merde

I try to do the right things, but they usually don’t stick unless I do them for frivolous reasons. For example, I quit smoking to prevent wrinkles, not cancer. I drank more water and started taking multivitamins for my hair and skin. I need my sense of vanity to prod me, because I know I wouldn’t do something good for me just for its own sake.

Lately I’ve started “green” cleaning. Basically, I’ve been cleaning the apartment like the old timers did before the Dow Scrubbing Bubbles cast their mustachioed spell over us all. And I could tell you that this newfound attachment to vinegar, baking soda, and lemon juice comes from an altruistic, environmental impulse to please Al Gore and protect Mother Earth. I could tell you that, but I’d be a filthy-foul liar if I did. Really, what’s in it for me? I switched to natural cleaning because it smells good.

Monty and I once stayed at a bed and breakfast that allowed pets and still smelled great. It smelled like lemon, lavender, and clean sheets. It smelled better than every other inn or hotel I’ve stayed in. When I found out that the proprietors basically used science fair volcano ingredients to clean the whole place, I was impressed.

Now add to this my general neurosis about living in a place that reeks of “beef vegetable soup whiff,” as Wayne Campbell (left) would have said in 1991.

This anxiety prompts me to ask Allegra to smell the apartment whenever she visits. I got it from my super clean mother, whose sense of smell rivals most dogs.

I guess it was inevitable that I’d spend a Saturday night whipping up various cleansers and rubbing all the woodwork with salad dressing. Now it smells lemony fresh in here. So up yours, Mr. Clean! I can do this without you!

And if somehow this might help prevent flipper babies, well that’s a bonus.

Barnaby, this is hardly working

Monty and I were out and about the other night. We ended up at the same bar as Barnaby Flapster and some other folks. Towards the end of the night, I had a conversation with another acquaintance about plans for the weekend. He said that he was going home (that is, his childhood home) and that he would probably see a woman he went on one date with as a teenager. He said that his parents drove, so there wasn’t a lot of one-on-one time with her.

I said, “So you didn’t cop a feel?”

Barnaby, who wasn’t really in the conversation but sitting off to the side, muttered, “You always say the right thing, don’t you?”

My mind went in two directions here. On one hand, I wanted to turn to Barnaby and say, with icy, haughty indignation, “you take your doilies and go to bed, old man!”

On the other hand, I wanted to do a victory dance. Maybe the Ray Lewis dance, maybe the Ickey Shuffle. But since I couldn’t find a good enough video demonstration of either, it will have to be the Superbowl Shuffle.

Now I’m as smooth as a chocolate swirl; I dance a little funky so watch me girl…

Hear that, Barnaby?

Match Game PM: Not matzo balls but ______ balls

On the third Tuesday of each month, Monty and I do a “bridge night” with two other couples: Stefi and Andre, and JK and Fun D. When the idea of a monthly game night was proposed, I have to admit I was a little skeptical. The thing is, it always seems like a good idea until you actually play games with other adults.

I went to one slumber party (yes, as a grownup) where charades turned into a hair-pulling cage match. Bunny and I played Trivial Pursuit with a fellow who spent at least 3 minutes agonizing over every question – we actually saw little bits of his self-esteem slough away each time he couldn’t guess the weight of an Oscar statuette or what “radar” stood for.

Then there are the standard issue terrible game players: the shrill ultra competitor who forgets that she’s at a social event in her bid for dominance; the short attention span guy who never remembers whose turn it is or even that he’s playing a game; the bitter misanthrope who thinks that the whole premise is stupid and sulks in a corner; the hippie space cadet who wants everyone to win.

Imagine my relief (surprise, delight) when everyone involved in game night left their neuroses out of game play and just enjoyed themselves. I thought, well with six people, surely someone will take the games too seriously or something. But that hasn’t happened. Even with all the booze we drink. Especially with all the booze we drink. I mean, we’ve had a few “baby fish mouth” moments:

but it’s never ended with controversial decisions or bad blood – just a feeling of goodwill and tipsiness. Anyway, thanks to Monty, Stefi, Andre, JK and Fun D for renewing my faith in the parlor game. ‘Til next month!

What I did on my vacation. By Penelope, Grade 2.

What a sweet post about your fall baby and your calendar daydreams, Buns. My favorite part about autumn is that the mosquitoes die off.

Monty and I just got back from a trip to Asheville. It felt like summer when we left and fall when we returned. We took Brandine with us and met up with Ned and Monty’s mom in Raleigh, then drove to our hotel in Black Mountain. Ned, now in his senior year of college, has matured and mellowed, and Monty’s mom definitely enjoys the company of her adult kids. We tasted wine at a Nascar vineyard, played tennis before a lovely mountain panorama, and drank a lot of beer.

On Saturday, we were scheduled to take a day trip to the Biltmore estate. While we were getting ready, I tried to read the newspaper and then went “Mother Fuck.” I had gone blind. Well, not entirely blind – I could see fairly clearly in my peripheral vision but most of my range of vision was blurred out and I knew that I was going to get a migraine in an hour or so.

I experienced frequent migraines in high school. They all followed the same pattern: I would see stars, then go temporarily blind, and then feel like lots of tiny people were mercilessly stabbing my brain. For hours, without any let-up in severity. This would lead to nausea, vomiting, crying and my mother dabbing my forehead with a warm washcloth. So needless to say, I felt some dread when the blindness happened, and not , as you might assume, because I had suddenly gone blind.

Monty-on-the-spot procured some OTC migraine medication and I attempted to go to lunch with the family, but ended up leaving in tears and apologizing for melting down in public. I spent most of the day in our darkened hotel room, trying not to yell at Brandine for drinking water so loudly.

So in any other circumstance, I would call the day a total wash; however, when the migraine passed, Monty and co. had not yet returned from their trip and I got to watch a little Curb Your Enthusiasm on standard-issue hotel HBO. In this episode, John McEnroe was the guest star. While the expected final confrontation between McEnroe and Larry David was enjoyable and all, the best part was a party scene that had nothing to do with McEnroe — Larry and his best friend Jeff cracked up over a book of freaks that Larry gave Ted Danson as a birthday present. After Danson thanked him rather coolly, Larry immediately took the book back to show Jeff all the photos of elephantitis and goiter.

It was eerily like watching D. and Jimbo at one of the many vegetarian potlucks we went to in college. Surrounded by earnest people with half-contemptuous, half-jealous looks on their faces, they just made an obnoxious fucking scene. It was gorgeous.

Yolanda’s on the Patch

Growing up in Florida, I missed out on this whole “autumn” thing. I saw pictures in books and stuff on television about leaves changing colors and falling off trees, hot apple cider, pumpkins, brisk winds, cornucopias and the like. I used to daydream about living “up north” and wearing scarves, mittens and cute little hats. I remember this calendar that hung on the wall of my second grade classroom. The October page showed a girl in a tweedy coat, holding a black cat, standing next to a pile of colorful leaves. In my daydreams, I was that tweedy-coated girl. Those were my leaves and my cat. The cat’s name was Sparkles. Some girls dreamed about horses; I dreamed about fall and Sparkles the cat. Which is funny, really, because I’ve never been much of a cat person.

S’wanyway, here I am, decidedly up north, and it’s fall. The autumn landscape is totally decent here in the Dakotas and I love it as much as I always knew I would. I’ve experienced the fall season in other places since leaving south Florida, but there is something about fall on the prairie, with all this farmland surrounding us, that makes it seem like the real thing.

And Yolanda is a fall baby! Her birthday was last weekend and to celebrate, the grandparents came to town. We had a little party with food and cake and presents. And on Sunday we made a trip out to the local Pumpkin Patch, easilty the highlight of the weekend. They had pumpkins, a corn maze, halloween “exhibits”, hot chocolate… the whole nine yards. A little cheesy? Yes. But you can’t deny the cuteness factor.

Here is Yolanda in a red wagon playing with two widdle baby punkins:

This is what classroom calendars are made of, Penelope! I feel so complete. Somebody get me a cat named Sparkles.

I can’t stay mad at you, Ira Glass

Well, after getting all riled at This American Life for “Twentieth-Century Man,” they go and produce a vintage episode with just the right proportions of humor and pathos.

This week’s episode is called “How to Talk to Kids,” which is (finally for me) an appropriate topic for Mommy No Mommy.

The prologue and first story were geared to the “No Mommies” among us. How do grownups talk to kids without condescending to them or completely boring them? This is a toughie if you’re not often around kids and don’t know the subtle differences between a 8 year old and a 10 year old. It can be very stressful and neither children nor adults like being trapped in that scenario: “How’s school?” “Fine.” “What’s your favorite subject?” “Science.” “…” “…”

The second and third segments (geared more toward “Mommies”?) were about the difficulties parents experience when it’s time to speak to their kids about awkward subjects (S-E-X) or when it’s time to discipline them. Kudos to Dan Savage for reasserting that children need to adapt to the world of adults and not the other way around.

Sweet Mother of Pearl, that last sentence was rather harsh. I really do like kids. I luv little Yoyo! Gotta put down the Lauren Berlant and pick up a Maker’s Mark. Good night Bunny – and hugs to you for your first year of motherhood.

Kiefer Sutherland Channels Bruce McCulloch

All right, I’m lazy and behind the times. I can’t write about Crafty Bastards or Monty’s band anymore. It’s just not “topical.”

Neither is this post, but what the hey.

Now Bunny, did you know that Kiefer Sutherland is a fantastic drunk? A glorious, kinetic embodiment of a good time. Sadly, he just got pulled over for a DUI and should have a driver or at least a cab service on standby. However, please see the evidence of his personal bacchanalia:

I swear, his mascot has to be the goat.

Here is my favorite picture, because it immediately made me think of Bruce McCulloch, Bunny’s favorite Kid in the Hall. Specifically, it made me think of his song Eraserhead, in which the narrator watches Eraserhead on repeat during a weeklong “black-and-white drunkathon”:

 

Consider the lyrics and just imagine:

By the end of the week, I interact with this majestic little film.

Not so much words as — gesticulations?

I kiss the screen. I rub my buttered belly on the screen…
as I think we all do, sometimes….

Sometimes, and this has got to be an hour before dawn,
I put a rose up my bum. You know, the business end sticking out,

And I sort of improvise a playful dance in my surroundings-
(sings) “la-la-la-la-la-la-la-’L-eeraaaserheeead’.”

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I’m not casting judgment. Lord knows I’ve been there. Bunny’s been there. Monty and Jimbo have been there. And the fun-time-Kiefer drunk is the best kind of drunk. Unlike my personal brand of sleepy drunk — I don’t even remember the first time I “met” Jimbo, since I was slumped over a bar. I also like Jimbo’s “magnanimous” drunk. So cheers to Jimbo for getting all benevolent when he drinks and cheers to Mr. Sutherland for remaining lucid and active.

Well Buns, I know you have some family birthdays to celebrate.
Please give my love to the appropriate folks and keep an eye on your mailbox. *mwah*

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Crafty Bastards 1: The Goings-on

On Sunday I went to the CityPaper’s “Crafty Bastards” Fair. It’s in it’s fourth year and must grow exponentially each year because the lanes were packed with people, dogs and strollers by early afternoon. Each CityPaper staffer that I spoke to was friendly and in good spirits; in turn, those good spirits seemed to transfer to the crowd.

I got there early (at 9:45 or so, 45 minutes before the official start time) because Monty’s band was set to play early on the schedule. I had a chance to walk around and check out all the wares while the vendors were setting up shop.

Crafty Bastards is clearly a fantastic showcase for handmade goods, repurposed materials, and original art, but the first things I saw when we walked up were tables perched atop 4-foot-high Red Bull cans. All I’m saying is that there’s a strange juxtaposition there. I won’t say a single cynical thing about co-optation.

At the Squidfire design booth I did see the coolest kid. While I admired the “sparrow family” t-shirt (it reminds me of Charley Harper’s birds), a boy of about 10 or 11 rolled up on a long skateboard. He was wearing a fedora and carrying a sketchpad. He then copied one of the designs exactly, signed it and gave it to the proprietor. When I told him he was talented, he thanked me politely and rolled away. I kind of marvelled at how some kids obviously have really good parents. (Now Bunny, I’m not biased in any way, but I got the same sort of feeling when I met little Yoyo.) I’m a little chagrined, because that young whippersnapper is more expressive and self-assured than most adults.

Here’s the design the whippersnapper copied and signed:

 

Tomorrow: More Crafty Bastards,

featuring the lovely and delightful Monty!