Lie, lady, lie. Lie across my big, brass bed.

I had a discussion with Phil not so long ago about how to properly use the words lay and lie in conversation. I found Grammar Girl's explanation here, which really helps to bring it all back into confusing focus.

She brings up a good point. Poor Eric Clapton would have been slapped on the face in English class for his song "Lay Down Sally," because the literal meaning of that title is that he wants someone to pick up Sally and then put her down. Same goes for Mr. Zimmerman, aka Bob Dylan. He wrote "Lay, Lady, Lay," which is a great song. However, the proper way to talk his woman into flopping onto his big, brass bed would be to ask her to lie, lady, lie on his large mattress. Interesting, no? The flow is not quite the same.

Many times when I am writing my scathing blogs, I fret over my use of various words, tenses, and punctuation. One thing that tends to vex me is my effort to remember how to punctuate television shows, movies, songs, and albums. Correct me if I'm wrong, but from what I recall in my learnin' days, I was taught that television shows should be presented within quotation marks, while movies should be in italics. Likewise, songs should be in quotation marks, albums in italics. So, if I were to blather on and on about how I love "The Office," I should also gush about my fondness for Knocked Up.

I try to remember the rules of grammar, but I'm not always successful. I did grow up mostly in Texas, you know, so I am sometimes plagued with y'all and ding dang and "I'm fixin' to take a walk." Ah, but did you see what I did just there? I put some words in italics and others in quotation marks. I'm Crazy Mix-Up Grammar Girl! Now give me some candy!

I suppose that as long as a few random readers can get the gist of what I'm trying to say, then I'm not doing too bad (too badly? ARGH!). Besides, one of my fondest "girls' night out" memories is joking with a friend about how cute a female waitress was, and I muttered under my breath, "Lay, lady, lay." And then we all howled and chuckled and snorted. Proper grammar gets in the way of a good joke sometimes.

Ain't that the ding dang truth, y'all.

Lookie here

Just wanted to throw a shout out to my homie Lotus. She is giving away some fantastic shirts on her blog that perhaps a weary soul would like to win. Also, you can go over and ogle her beautiful rack as she models the shirt for you.

I can't stop going over to ogle her cans, so I might as well share them with you.

Love in the time of badgering

Hey, kids. I'm going to try turn my frown upside down and just focus on the things that make me happy. However, I just can't do that today. Maybe tomorrow will be partly sunny and cheery. Whenever I try to type something in this ding dang blog box, it becomes a pity party, table for one. I hear you playing your tiny violins.

So, how about YOU tell me what great things happened to you over Thanksgiving, eh? Tell me your lovely tales of turkey and gravy. I need some cheer.

Also, I have failed to qualify for the NaBloPoMo $5 gift certificate to Chuckie Cheese and 10% off at Jerry's World of Mattresses. If only I had blogged every day!

A mile high never felt so good

Home. Sweet, sweet home. Crosslegged on the couch, typity typing away while a crappy band plays on an old Jay Leno show. Wilbur the Cat can't contain her joy over finally seeing us again, and Amos is sucking down nutrition after his long day of traveling.

Did I mention how great it is to be home?

Amos is the best travelin' hobo ever. People on the plane barely knew he was on board. He was the only baby on the flight, and even though we had some stares of disdain from a few jerks on the plane, Amos proved to be the best traveler. At least he didn't snore loudly with his mouth open like the shuck n' jive business man sitting next to us. Nope. My son has better manners than that. Sure, he'll lean over to stare at you between the seats if you are sitting behind us, but who wouldn't be enchanted by a grinning baby peeping through the seats?

Phil had to nudge the guy next to us a few times to get him to stop snoring, and I'll admit that I flopped heavily in our seats to make him wake up as well. Snoring mouth breathers do not make for a good flight. Smiling babies, however, equal happy fellow passengers.

Really tired. Long day. Can't think. Blah bleah.

Thank

Many thanks to you, my friends. I have a lot to be thankful for. Forgive me for this short post, as I am traveling today. We're excited to see family. Amos is taking his first airplane trip!

Look for my next post to be sent via tin cans on a string. I'll be borrowing computing devices in the next centon.

Happy holidays, folks.

Month 5

Dear Amos,


Today, you are five-months-old. It's really hard to believe that you have been here this long, yet sometimes it feels like you have been in our charge for years. I think I've known your smile as long as I can remember my own, or maybe I've lost so much memory from lack of sleep that I barely remember my own life.

You've made HUGE strides this past month! Instead of sitting calmly for your bath, now you splash like a madman. I come away from your bath completely soaked. Your father and I tend to wrestle over who gets to give you the "spa treatment" after your bath - a baby massage with chamomile hydrosol and organic lotion. You kick and smile and coo during your spa time. Your happiness makes us love you more and more, as if there could actually be room for more love in our hearts.

Your personality is showing more every day. You need to learn a bit about cause and effect, as you talk and complain to your binky because it is in your hand instead of your mouth. If you would put the binky IN your mouth, there would be no need for fuss. Instead, you yell at your hand and the bad, bad binky for not getting into your pie hole where it belongs. Sometimes, stuffing three fingers in your mouth soothes your distress, or perhaps a shard of glass.

We've had a heck of a time trying to get you to eat. For the most part, we have licked this problem by singing to you, flailing your arms around, showing the sign for 'milk', and standing on our heads. Once we have performed the first act of "Our Town," you start eating. You are so cooperative.

Amos, you almost attended the World Series, but the Colorado Rockies didn't believe in letting a baby see possibly the only World Series to ever grace our fair city. We threatened to throw flaming soiled diapers at Coors Field in your honor. Perhaps we'll save that for when your throwing arm is working so well that you can throw the flaming diaper fast enough so that all three of us can run away without getting caught.

You rolled over! You are starting to sit up! And good grief, boy, you are attempting to get your legs under you during tummy time so that you can crawl. We're teaching you baby sign language, and you are already practicing the signs for 'mama' and 'dada.' It's all too much, too soon.

Here is the sign for 'mama'. Sometimes you prefer to put your thumb in your mouth rather than perform the sign properly, but time will allow for more graceful movements.

There is more to say about your accomplishments this month, such as the way you now grab things with such purpose. You are really learning how to pull my hair out with fervor. Your father is less than enthused about your newfound amusement in pulling his chest hair. However, it's time for all of us to go to bed so that we can catch a flight tomorrow to Pennsylvania. You will be seeing your paternal grandparents for the first time. They are SO excited to meet you! Your father is giddy with anticipation, so much so that he fretted over what you should wear tomorrow.

I wish you could remember everything that is happening to you now, but I'll do my best to preserve the memories for you. Keep growing and smiling, my boy. Mommy kisses.

Colors, colors... I am a nightmare walking, psychopath talking...

Yeah. I just quoted the rap song "Colors" from the movie Colors starring Sean Penn. Wanna make something of it?!

Instead of talking about gang signs (which, by the way, is one of the google keywords that leads people to my blog, of all things), I'm going to talk tough about follicles. Curly follicles. Follicles that sometimes cooperate, sometimes not.

I've been in a hair situation for some time now. For a few years, I dyed my hair various tones of red with henna. It was beautiful to behold, my shiny red head.

However, while I was pregnant, I didn't want to deal with the goop of henna anymore. I wanted my old head back. Something a bit more like this, but without the angry stare.

Maybe this one is a little less frightening to behold?

So, I've resorted to using home hair dye kits. It works out very nicely in the end, but the effort to do it feels like I am polluting our house and killing all living things within a two mile radius.

Today, it was about 34 degrees outside. This meant that I would need to buck up, lil' trooper, and suffer through cold winds blowing air on me as I attempted to breathe through the fumes of dye. I put a fan in the bathroom window to give me necessary oxygen as I tried to delicately but QUICKLY apply the goop to my head. Do you know how hard it is to gasp for air while applying toxic stink to your head without dripping it? I'm not sure even Cirque du Soleil could pull it off.

After the necessary amount of time elapsed for proper follicle damage, I rushed to the tub and bent over to keep my head under the tap to rinse the offensive material from my noggin. This, of course, gave me a head rush. Then, I had to leap into the shower and rinse the remaining slop off of my person, only to follow that with a dollop of conditioning creme provided by the manufacturer. I'm always amazed how my hair goes from feeling like a straw bale from the dye to smooth, flaxen goddess tresses from the conditioning creme. Science and toxins are wondrous things.

Now, I have lovely locks that are reminiscent of my angry prom picture from high school. I flip my hair back and forth, sometimes pausing in mid-pose to allow Phil to admire the movement of coif. It's sort of like the ending of every "CHiPs" episode - throw your head back and laugh, perhaps point at each other, then freeze! Perfect! End scene.

Not that any of this matters. Within days, I will have been snatched bald by my young son who is learning how to reach and grab for things. But the hair surrounding those bald spots will look fabulous.

Would you write me? I'd write me so hard...

This is a meme that Lotus got me involved in awhile ago. I am short on time and patience, so here you go. I tag whoever wants to do it, because I am lazy.

I'm supposed to get my freak on with ten literary characters. To point a finger and laugh at the people who have participated in this love-in, please see this and this here situation, and perhaps this thingy right here.

So, without further pomp and circumstance, here are ten literary characters I would like to get nasty with.




1) The Gorilla. Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn.

Somehow, the idea of a telepathic gorilla in a cage telling me all about the history of mankind while encouraging me to save the world is entirely hot. Takers and leavers, indeed.

And, I hear that beastiality is making a big comeback.



2) Dean Moriarty. On the Road, by Jack Kerouac.

Anyone who says the following is someone I would very much like to have gazing upon my dirty pillows:

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a common place thing, but burn burn burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars".

The fact that part of the story is in Denver is also tantalizing. Mmm, hobos.

3) Sissy Hankshaw. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, by Tom Robbins.

So, I'm not a lesbian. But...
Sissy has giant thumbs that allow her to hitchhike across our great lands. Can you imagine what else she can do with those giant digits? Mmmm, boy. Er, girl. She was also a model. Hot chicks with giant opposable thumbs equal good, big fun times in the sack.



4) The Chink. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, by Tom Robbins.

Okay, okay. I know I already picked this book. The Chink is too good to pass up. He's an incredibly intelligent, Yoda-like fellow who is an escapee from a Japanese internment camp. Oh, and he does things to Sissy that involve body parts and yams. Delicious, I tells ya. Hoo hoo hoo! Hee hee hee!



5) Clarice Starling / Buffalo Bill (Jame Gumb) / Hannibal Lector for the trifecta. Silence of the Lambs, by Thomas Harris.

Man, this list is really starting to reveal my inner oddities. But, this is supposed to be a fantasy list of getting it on with people who don't exist, right? So, why not go gangbusters with the freaky?

I would like to have a four-way with these lovely people. I would like to have the following occur, one after the other, while various positions are achieved in the abandoned well in Buffalo Bill's house:

Clarice: must say, "He said he could smell my (&%$^%".

Buffalo Bill:

must do the "tuck dance" while Clarice films it and Hannibal sketches in the background.
must pet Precious and hand me a bottle of lotion.
must threaten me with "the hose." Heheh.

Hannibal Lector:

must discuss lambs.
must say, "Enthrall me with your acumen."
must say to me, "You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube. A well scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste. Good nutrition has given you some length of bone, but you're not more than one generation from poor white trash, are you, Agent Sarah?"

6) Heathcliff. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte.

This entry is entirely predictable, but what the hell. Ah, a swarthy, dirty orphan from Liverpool always warms my innards. Cathy was an idiot.


7) Mr. Darcy. Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.

He's hot! He's cold! He saves damsels in distress! Do me now!



8) Mark Darcy. Bridget Jones's Diary, by Helen Fielding.

I know, I know. You want to pretend I'm well-read. You want to pluck out your eyes and stop up your ears at the thought that I love Bridget Jones. I am just a girl, you know. I'm also sort of cheating by picking the sorta-samey character as number 7, since the story was inspired by that. However, how can I resist a man who is helpful in the kitchen? I would share many alcohol units with him while tearing off his starchy outfits.



9) Daniel Cleaver. Bridget Jones's Diary, by Helen Fielding.

He may be the "fuckwit" scoundrel in this tale, but he is delicious. I would very much like to have done to me the thing that is "outlawed in several countries." Please have him say to me, "Love your tits in that top."



10) Nigger Jim. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain.

Please yell at Phil and Mr. Twain if you are offended by this entry. I couldn't come up with one more character, so Phil suggested this one (and I laughed until it hurt, so of course I must use it). Mr. Twain wrote this book in Southern vernacular, so really, I'm just honoring a literary masterpiece by using that term. If I were to float down the Mississippi with a slave lover, I guarantee I would not yell out passionately, "Give it to me, Nigger Jim." No. Instead, I would say, "Please screw me senseless, my mandingo king."



11) HONORARY MENTION: Jurgis Rudkus. The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair.


I'll try to redeem myself with this one. I get all sweaty and bothered by the idea of getting down with an oppressed Lithuanian immigrant working the Chicago stockyards. The night would be filled with innuendo referring to "show me your man meat - no, not the rotted kind" and "give me the rub".

Okay. Maybe I didn't really save my soul with that one.




Well, now that I've thoroughly dug myself into a giant hole, I dare YOU to complete this list with your own fictional conquests.

I suck you

The Porter Three went shopping yesterday for the lil' man. We traveled to baby consignment shops to find clothing that Amos will wear for approximately two days until he grows out of the britches. It's shocking how fast little kids grow. One day, Amos is wearing pants that fit him and reach past his ankles. The next day, the pants have become capris. Or, as my friend Judy called them, manpris. Amos is so smashing in his manpris.

The most surprising thing to come out of our shopping experience: Phil went nuts over finding clothes for Amos. It is like Amos is Phil's little doll so that he can play dress-up. Someone should have given Phil a doll to play with when he was a boy of yay-high. I giggled and giggled as Phil would find a little outfit for Amos and then coo over "how cute" it is. Egad, people. I married a teenage girl.

I admit that I find dressing Amos to be equally endearing. Quite often, both of us will hover over his crib and declare him to be the most adorable baby ever, only to change him into something else so that he can be even more adorable than the most adorable baby ever. Sometimes we even struggle over which of us will dress Amos.

"Ugh! No, I'll do it."

"Get out of the way, woman! Don't you see that the boy needs these pumpkin socks to compliment that onesie?"

I suppose we are just expressing our undying love for our offspring. It's like the male bird who sits on the egg while the momma bird goes out to forage. Like the gray wolf or the lowly prairie vole, we have mated for life. This made me wonder... what animals do mate for life?

In my never-ending quest for more freaky biology facts, I stumbled upon this little factoid at WonderQuest:



"One species is absolutely monogamous. In the black darkness of the deep sea, the tiny male anglerfish (perhaps one tenth the female’s size) detects and follows the scent trail of a female of his own species. Once found, he bites his chosen one and hangs on. His skin fuses to hers, their bodies grow together (he gets his food through a common blood supply and becomes essentially a sperm producing organ). They mate for life — a short life for the male."



Hmm. This answers many questions for me. We had a fish tank for most of our time together. One of the longest living fish we had was a plecostomus, one of those creepy, algae-eating sucker fish. Every once in a while, Phil would turn to look at me, I'd look at him, and then he'd lean over and attach himself to my arm, my leg, whathaveyou, with his mouth and start sucking. He did so with such a creepy look on his face that I always yelled and pushed him off, saying, "Ewwww!" Because really, if the plecostomus ever attached itself to me, I'd say the same thing. Apparently, Phil puts this under the category of foreplay.

Now I understand. Phil was merely expressing his need to mate for life. He wanted to attach himself to me, allow our skin to fuse together, and then follow along behind me as I went about my day. How lovely that would have been as I dragged my conjoined twin around as I showered or made dinner or went to the ladies' room. That's love, people. That's real love. Oh, how I adore my sperm-producing organ.

In our quest for love, we discover that it's not very easy to find a match. Then, one day, a dame swims by and catches the fella's eye. He is caught. Ensnared by her charms. He MUST attach himself to her flank. They are one. Together forever in the black darkness of the deep sea. No one ever said that nature is kind.

Sauced up and sassy

Woo! This will be a short one, as I'm about to head out for my very first ladies' night out since, well... forever it seems! Me n' m'lady Judy are going to watch wacky improv and do whatever else the heck we want. I guarantee there will be booze, sass, and perhaps a cackle and a gaggle o' chuckles.

Viva la ladies' night!

What to wear... what to wear...

Gotta make myself purty...

Oh, and thanks for all of the comments on yesterday's epic-long meme blog. You kids rock.

More under the category "too much information"

Ding dang, people. I got tagged for this damn meme THREE times. Lotus, Bill, and Salty Miss Jill decided to tag me n' bag me. Cruel, cruel world! This is the longest friggin' meme in the history of man! Get a grip on the memes, people!

*shakes fists in the air*

Whew. Alright. Without further ado, more details about me you would rather not know.

Grumble, grumble...





8 things I'm passionate about:


1. Phil. After 14 years of togetherness and 10 years of marriage, he still makes my loins ache. We met when I was 19 (not a girl, yet still not a woman, or how do those lyrics go?) and he was a deliciously pervy old man of 23. We have one of the best marriages/relationships I've ever witnessed, and I am thankful everyday that I stumbled upon this bearded freak so many years ago. I look forward to growing old and cranky with him. Life just doesn't exist without him.


2. Amos. After two unsuccessful pregnancies, I tried to be nonchalant about Amos in those first weeks of him becoming a tiny person in my body. It didn't work. He kicked me when I least expected it, and he made me laugh before I ever saw his face. Now that I know him, I don't ever want to know life without him. Looking into the face of someone who is half of me and half of Phil is the greatest moment of my life, over and over.


3. Writing. I don't care what it is that I write, I just want to do it. It entertains me and soothes me to spew my thoughts onto paper or the virtual world. I am currently pursuing opportunities to write for dollars. If anyone knows of dollar-making opportunities involving words, please let me know (And no, I do not mean "Strip Tease Poetry Slam.")


4. My family. OH GOD, how predictable! Yes, I know. It's like I'm making an Oscar speech. "I'd like to thank my husband, my son, God, and my family for winning me this piece of plastic..." But seriously, folks. Can I call you "folks"? Let's get real. I came from a shitty family. Not so much that everyone was shitty or that every situation was shitty, but overall, the taste and feel of the meal was pretty darn shitty. I'll spare the details for now, but over time I've learned to love these people more and more, despite our differences. I am about as different from them as night versus day, but I ask you, does night not become day? Oh, there I go with the "thinking" questions...


5. Crafty things. "Oh, jeez. She's Martha Stewart." That's what my beloved friend Nancy said about me one day when she observed my mad skillz as a soapmaker and otherwise crafty mo'fo. I created my own company out of my passion for making natural soaps. My current insanity is based around knitting. I made a great deal of scarves one year for Christmas for Phil's family, and they all graciously smiled and wore them for one day, and then probably tucked them into the "donate to Goodwill" bin. Ah, but it was fun making them. I have a need to create things for Amos, so I'll do that soon. I even made my own purse, which looks like some sort of furry black thing. I call it My Pet.


6. Science. Despite the way I turned my back on it and ran for the hills, I still enjoy the world of science. Did you know that I was once a molecular biologist? Did you? Yeah. I was head-over-heels for splicing genes and creating dwarf plants. I worked in diabetes research for a few years and left before I became completely enslaved by my overlords, only to donate myself to an insane lab where I was the only woman amongst seven men studying plants. I learned a great deal in that span of time. It's strange to think that if I had stayed on that path, right now I would have my PhD and probably be on my way to being a tenured professor at some university with my own research lab. Life is funny.


7. Natural living. This is such a broad topic, but it stems from the days when I was very sick for years and sought help from health food stores, vitamins, etc. I learned about proper nutrition, organic foods, natural and raw foods, herbs, essential oils, and on and on and on. My interest in science and insatiable quest for knowledge fueled this journey. This is how I started my soap company, in a way. I'm very witchy and hippie-ish in some ways with my creepy knowledge of how to heal with natural things, but I am not a witch or a hippie. Why? Because I don't live in Salem, Massachusetts or Woodstock, New York. (But I did see Goody Smith dancing naked with the devil.)


8. Humor/Laughing. This should really be first. I live to laugh. I love to make other people laugh. Sometimes my jokes fall flat (see previous blog), but my intent is good. Laugh, people. It is good for the chicken soup soul.




8 things I want to do before I die:

1. Travel. (Oh, for Pete's sake! Stop being so predictable!) I don't care where, just take me there. I traveled a TON when I was a kid. Not because we were rich and sailing near the Riviera. No. We were vagabonds who moved around the country. It is in my blood. I am gypsy. Do not fear me. Here are my tears.

2. Write a book. It will happen. It WILL happen. (This friggin' meme feels like it's as long as a book... grumble, grumble...)

3. Meet Lotus and Amanda in person. It will happen. It WILL happen.

4. Watch Amos become a handsome, intelligent, giving, and humorous man. Basically, who his father is.

5. Have a basement-level, impressionist show off the strip in Las Vegas. I do the best (worst) impressions of Christopher Walken, William Shatner, George Takei, Kathryn Hepburn, and Arnold the Governator, along with many others. It's the best (worst) show you'll ever see in a basement.

6. Finish this meme. Sigh.

7. Enjoy some truly fine wines. I've had good wine, just not the best. Someday, I'll understand why people save bottles in their cellars for decades.

8. Forgive them.




8 things I say often:


1. "Ding dang" - It's a great replacement for cursing, and it makes me sound like a hick.

2. "Approximately a shitload" - when there is no other form of measurement to be found.

3. "While you're up, can you get me..." - some wine, some cheese, some water, some money, etc.

4. "Jump, Amos, Jump!" - He loves his Jumperoo.

5. "How much has he eaten?" - Will I ever stop saying this now that I'm a mother?

6. "What else?! What else?!" - This started when I worked at UT Austin. Sometimes I would get lunch at the Asian lunch cart on campus. I would order an egg roll, and the little woman would yell "What else!" So, I would order fried rice. "What else!" "Um, change, please." "What else!"
Now I use this phrase when we are making up grocery lists or whathaveyou. "I think we need toilet paper..." "What else!"

7. "Give me the burps!" - Said to Amos, sometimes to Phil.

8. "You are teets." - This started when we moved to Denver. Denver International Airport has a strange circus-like tent top to its structure. White, pointy caps that are supposed to represent the snowy Rocky Mountains. We joked that it looks like the pointy bra that Madonna wore, except made for dog teets (because it has many, many pointy white points). Somehow, this conversation degraded into bad Russian accents, resulting in Phil and I yelling at each other, "You are teets!"
Jeez. Some of our "in jokes" need a lot of explanation.

9. Honorable Mention: "Shitfist" - Sometimes, especially when I was pregnant, I would forget words. It is very frustrating to forget words. I would tell Phil, "And then there was a... um... the, uh... you know, the... oh, damn it." Which would then lead to me becoming angry with myself: "Oh, come on! You know! The shitfist thingy on the dealy. Just stop staring at me!" So, to sum up, "shitfist" is substituted for something you can't remember. "Get me a cup of shitfist." "I gave your mother the shitfist." "Get your feet off of the shitfist!"




8 Books I’ve read recently (or am still reading):

This is one of the reasons I delayed doing this blog. I was pregnant for approximately a shitload of months. During that time, I obsessed with all things baby. So, I read baby books. A LOT of baby books. This skews my otherwise snooty ability to devour a literary classic in two seconds. So, I give you 8 books I have read over some amount of time in the last centon.

1. The Girlfriends' Guide to Pregnancy. Amusing, but not much substance.

2. The Girlfriends' Guide to the First Year. Ditto.

3. Vogue Knitting. I still don't know how to make an I-knot.

4. The New Baby Book. Excellent resource. Thanks, Lois!

5. The New Natural Cat. My cat died despite this book. I should sue.

6. Touch and Feel Farm. It's not what you think, pervs.

7. Your Pregnancy, Week-by-Week. Almost as scary as What to Expect...

8. The Undaunted Garden. One of my favorite gardening books.




8 Songs I Could Listen to Over and Over (And do!)

Holy cow, this is hard. I'll refer to my resources...


1. "Melt with You" - Modern English

2. "Sweet Thing" - Van Morrison

3. "Do You Realize?" - The Flaming Lips

4. "Float On" - Modest Mouse

5. "God Only Knows" - The Beach Boys (Damn you, HBO's "Big Love"!)

6. "Three Is a Magic Number" - Blind Melon version (thank you, "School House Rock"!)

7. "Beans and Cornbread" - Louis Jordan

8. "Dirty Old Town" - The Pogues



8 Things that Attract Me to My Best Friends:


1. Sense of humor. Make me laugh. That's all I ask. Although, I'm jaded from years of watching comedians on stage, mind you. No pressure.

2. Keepin' it real. I don't dig on pretension and putting on airs. Be who you are. Don't tell me about all of your stocks and bonds or how political affiliations define you.

3. Clever, witty, cunning. Make me blush with your intelligence. Tell me something I don't know. Anything.

4. Ability to listen when I'm speaking. I can't even keep track of how many people I know who interrupt me when I speak. I just spent 15 minutes listening to you complain about your boss or your mom. I might have a few... but... wait... I... give up.

5. Appreciate your talents. Don't pretend that you aren't good at something. Don't brag about how great you are, either. If I'm already aware of how loved and admired you are in your field and how you sacrifice yourself so ENDLESSLY for everyone because you are the "only one" with answers, and I only heard this from you, then perhaps all is not what it seems.

6. Skip the passive-aggressive antics. Talk to me when there is something amiss. Don't beat around the bush. I'm not always aware of how you feel. You might be overreacting. I might be overreacting. Speaking to me with honesty and true feelings is what keeps me here with you. When I am overloaded with passive-aggressive actions from someone, I will walk away. It's not worth the aggravation, even if I love you. This is one thing that has been the catalyst for me leaving a friendship, even though I have been guilty of this behavior at times. (Hypocrisy, thy name is Sarah.)

7. Be open to change. Old dogs CAN learn new tricks. We are not set in stone. I'm still learning new things. Aren't you? Learn new things with me. We can both be better people for it.

8. Learn to be there for me, even when I tell you everything is okay. This is a hard one. I've never been good at telling people that I need them. It's something I'm trying to learn (see #7). I can do it with Phil, but it's like pulling teeth to get me to show my needs for other people. I am human. I bleed. So do you. We need each other. That's what friends are for (cue Dionne Warwick).





8 People I Think Should Do Crazy Eights:

Whoever the hell has the stamina to do it. Good grief.

Stow and go

Phil and I will soon need to transport our infant on an airplane across the country. This stresses me a bit. It's stressful enough to arrange one's person and belongings through the juggernaut of check-in, body cavity search(es), and loss of feeling in one's legs after hours of being in cramped quarters. The idea of putting Amos through the same is making me a little queasy.

So, the question is, do we check him or do we put Amos in the overhead bin? Should we stuff him under the seat in a hard-sided carrier or a soft-side?

Seriously though, does anyone have advice about traveling with a 4-month-old? He's a great traveler and has an excellent disposition, so I'm not worried about that. I think I worry about situations such as sick passengers spraying their sputum on my child, ears popping, keeping other passengers from glaring at me because I'm quite evil for bringing a baby on board, whether we should present his birth certificate, and so on.

We'll be checking his car seat, since car rental places charge so much per day to use their car seats. I have questions here as well: do we wrap the car seat somehow, and in what? I don't like the idea of his seat bouncing down the luggage carousel with grit and grime all over it, just like my bags always seem to end up.

I'm sure there are answers to my questions out there on Ye Olde Internet, but I leave it to you, my pretties, to lead me astray... I mean, to the proper way of doing things.

Most inappropriate

I was challenged today by Jon Deal to write a post about a time when I said or did something very inappropriate. This is indeed a challenge, my friends. Not because I am low in examples, but because I am notorious for doing such things. However, lucky for all of us, I was able to narrow it down to one incident many years ago...




Phil and I are great friends with a comedian fellow who lives nearby, and we were starting to get to know his lovely wife. We were staying home for Christmas and had no one nearby to share our festivities, so we invited Comedian and Wife to our home for Christmas dinner.

Now, up to that point, we enjoyed a very silly, jokey relationship with Comedian. He was known in our circle as a practical joker, and I was known to throw a great deal of sass his way whenever we would interact. Comedian is also very generous with his time and volunteers to help out his friends whenever they need it. For instance, in October of that year, Comedian showed up to help me at an open house at my soap studio while Phil was out of town performing some comedy.

Comedian and I had quite a night of joking around and getting smashed on all of the leftover wine at my open house, as only a handful of people showed up to enjoy the free wine and cheese. He asked me, "So, are you and Phil thinking about having kids?"

I thought about it for a moment. "Well, maybe someday. I don't think either of us are mature enough for that just yet."

"Yeah. Me, too." Comedian looked at me seriously and seemed deep in thought. I was too drunk to care or to ask him the same question. We giggled some more through the night, and then we parted ways.



Fast forward to Christmas night:



Comedian and Wife arrive as we are finishing up dinner preparations. We gather in the kitchen to serve up the food.

"Would you like some roast beef? How much?" I ask them.

"I'll take the amount you have there, but Wife needs enough servings for two," Comedian said as he patted her belly.

So, me being me, I blurt out at Comedian, "Oh, yeah. Like YOU can breed."

I laugh to myself. I look up. No one is laughing. Everyone is staring at me.

I suddenly realized my stupidity. "Huh?" I said.

Phil said, "Really?"

Comedian and Wife nod their heads. Wife is staring at me like she is going to cry. I try to recover. "Haha. I mean, of course you can breed. I mean, obviously, there's the belly..."

Good job, Sarah.

We eat our food, engage in small banter, and I try to smooth things over with Wife. Oh. My. God. That was hard to do. I was eating my foot the whole night while the others dined on delicious roast beef. Also, Wife is allergic to cats, so of course she suffered mightily from the three cats in our house. I later realized that Wife must have gotten pregnant right around the time Comedian was asking me about kids at the open house.




Other things I have said to Wife that were very inappropriate:

At another party at our house: "You know what I think is cool about pregnancy? Babies are basically parasites. They burrow into the uterine lining and emit chemicals to prevent the mother from rejecting them. That is parasitic behavior. I'm sure when I have a kid, I'll be amused about my own little parasite..." And of course, she stared at me blankly.

(I was indeed amused by own little parasite when Amos came to be. I have a degree in biology, and my favorite thing to learn was stuff I call "freaky biology." I just assumed everyone else enjoyed facts like that as well.)

At Comedian Baby's first birthday party, I leaned toward the smiling child and said: "You know what, Comedian Baby? You are too cute. When you grow up, I'm going to be your Mrs. Robinson." I looked up to see Wife staring at me in horror.

Yeah, that's right. I just threatened to sleep with your one-year-old when he's 18. Isn't that funny? Heh. Heh?




So, my friends. As you can see, I can be pretty darn inappropriate. I have a somewhat crass sense of humor. In the above situations, I was even more crass given that Wife was married to one of the most crass people I know. I guess that doesn't always translate to understanding the crass sense of humor in someone you aren't married to.

Stay tuned for more inappropriate moments. They are sure to happen...

Germ warfare

Dear Thingy on My Lower Lip,

Hello. I suppose we should start with a proper introduction. I am the person you have decided to invade. Your home, where my chin skin meets my lower lip skin, belongs to me. I am, in a sense, your landlord.

You started as a wee, hard lump, barely detectable by any means other than by feel. I suspected that you were a clogged pore. Then I began to notice you more, like a young girl who suddenly has blossomed. It wasn't that you had grown or become more of a nuisance, it was just that I knew that you were there. Therefore, I had to pick at you.

It started two days ago, this insatiable need to touch you. I suspect it is somewhat like the comfort Phil feels when he strokes his beard. He says it helps him to think. Thingy, for a day or so, you helped me think. I couldn't stop touching you, though, so I must have done a great deal of pondering. After absentmindedly poking and rolling you between my fingers, a new thought emerged.

You annoy me, Thingy.

No one else could see you, but I knew you were there. I knew that whenever I bumped into someone, the first thought bubbling in my head would be, "Oh, man. Can he/she see this?" And then I would cover you up with my hand in embarrassment, therefore drawing even more attention to my insecurities.

I couldn't let you win, Thingy. I picked at you and gnawed at you. Before I went to bed last night, I noticed I had gnawed at a spot on my lip above where you live, rather than attacking your exact location. It's like dropping a bomb in a somewhat accurate manner instead of precisely where the terrorists exist. I suspect you are related to Bin Laden, Thingy. You thwart all of my "shock and awe" attempts to eradicate you by hiding in a hole under a carpet in your cave. You are tricky, Bin Thingy. Very tricky.

I dabbed a bit of lavender essential oil on you last night to help the healing process along. Normally, this is enough to heal any other blemishes I have on my face. You, however, are resistant to such meager attempts to kill you. Like Rasputin, you took the bullets and the attempted drowning, only to show up telling fortunes on a corner in Las Vegas. Or was that Elvis?

This morning, I awoke to find a much larger version of you, Bin Thingy. Today you are angry. You are inflamed with rage. You have puffed yourself up with pus and piss and vinegar, and you're not going to take it anymore. You've had enough of my fondling and pondering, and you're crazy with revenge that I applied floral scents to cover up your presence. You have called jihad on my face.

I realize that you are but one large colony of bacteria on the petri dish that is my body, but you are a collection of bacteria and pus that I can see. That others can see. You must die, Bin Thingy. I didn't invite this party. I'm calling your mom and she's going to be pissed that you were out this late.

So, as soon as you are too big for your britches and my face hurts from the pressure, you are going to be evicted. I think we know how this is going to end, Bin Thingy. I will grasp my fingers in a pincer movement, and, well... there will be an explosion. Your training camp will be blown to bits and possibly land on the mirror.

This will hurt me more than you, Bin Thingy. It really will. Just remember that.

I'm walkin', yes indeed...

I had a few requests for pics of the lil' man attempting to use his Walking Wings. They were sent to me by the lovely Lotus and are guaranteed to save my poor back when Amos really is ready to get a move on. I realize that Amos is a bit young for the wings o' walking, but he loves to be bounced and moved around at his ripe old age of 4 months. I have an occasional bad back situation, and the thought of being hunched over while letting Amos hold my fingers and stumble around is just frightening. Ha. So, I present to you the alternative:


(Apologies for showing Phil's feet over and over - not that they're awful feet, but uh, you know, they're feet.)


Amos and Daddy try out the Walking Wings. Steady... steady...

Amos demonstrates "the sway" and "lean back" maneuvers so popular with the rappers.

Amos doesn't walk so much as just lean and then pull us forward so that we must bounce him to his destination.
"Please, Daddy. Be a sport and bounce me over yonder to the cat. She has fur I must pull."

"Are we done yet? Now? Huh? How about when my dignity has left me?"

Actual conversations, Part Two

"Hard to believe that Jon Bon Jovi has only screwed someone named Dorothea all these years."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, let's consult Metal Sludge."

Moments later...

"Says here, 'Back in the day Jon was a huge slut but he's chilled out a little. Jon has an average size cock and like a lot of guys prefers to receive oral than give it. He has good rhythm though and will even wear 2 condoms if you ask him to.'"

"That's bullshit."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone knows that if you wear two condoms that friction works against you, and they are more likely to break."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Um. No. Where did you get this fact?"

"On the street."

"Which street and what decade?"

"I don't know. It's just a fact."

"Before you knew me?"

"It's just a fact. It's physics. Ask Stephen Hawking."

"Um. Okay."

In Stephen Hawking computer voice: "It is a fact that two condoms create enough friction to break the condoms."

"Well, then."

Can't. Talk. Too. Emotional.

Okay. Deep breath. Everyone warned me about this. Really, they did. Actually, they told me to do it while I was pregnant, but I didn't listen. I'm glad I didn't. If I had, my head would have exploded.

What the hell am I talking about?!

We just watched Knocked Up.

Oh. My. God.

I'm a friggin' mess. If I was ever an easy lay, this is the night. I just want Phil to look at Amos with that loving father look, put Amos to bed, and then do things to me.

Naughty things.

That movie will be the death of me.

Have you SEEN it? HAVE YOU?! I can't imagine how any woman who has been been pregnant, wants to be pregnant, is pregnant, or uh... whatever... could possibly get through this movie without laughing insanely and then crying like she's lost her marbles. I just can't. Also, I challenge that woman to do it after drinking a glass or two (or three) of delicious wine.

Okay. I'm starting to gain composure. I need to go. Phil needs to get, um, "fatherly."

Ain't nobody here but us chickens

Tonight, it's just us chickens. Phil has run away to Nebraska with a tall black man. I knew he'd leave someday, but leave me for a tall black man and the plains of Nebraska? I'm not sure anyone could have predicted that.

Truthfully, Phil is doing his comedy stuff with the always entertaining J Marc, who may or may not be the father of my child. I'll never tell (click on the lil' speaker thingy). They are destined to entertain the Velcro-loving masses of Lexington, Nebraska. Why do they love Velcro so much? Because it was invented there. They even have a museum(*) dedicated to Velcro. Do you understand now why I am so disappointed that I didn't go on this trip? I could have toured a museum dedicated to sticky things with Phil and my Baby Daddy.

So, us being the only chickens around, Amos and I strutted about the hen house and then broke free of the pen and pecked around the neighborhood. He cooed at the ridiculous trees while I huffed and puffed with his body strapped to me. Halfway through the walk, Amos fell asleep. His head was droopy, so I had to hoist it against my chest. People throughout the 'hood adored His Sleepiness as we passed by.

What will we do while Phil is gone? Hmm... We could run wild with scissors. I know Amos likes to do that. I could maybe tape him to the dartboard and practice my mad skillz as a knife thrower. Thing is, the dartboard doesn't spin around, so I may need to put off that activity.

I'm running with scissors! I'm running with scissors!



* I've since discovered that the Velcro museum may be an urban myth perpetuated by some other chick's blog. Argh! Wikipedia has this to say about Velcro.

Siesta

You kids quiet down. Mom has a headache and she's tired. Be a dear and fetch me some booze.

A timeline lacking in arousal

Some nights when I am up with Amos, I play around with the camera. The pics are almost always about him. When you have a new shiny baby, it is virtually impossible to not take pictures of him at every moment. "Here is Amos staring at his hand!" "Here is Amos drooling!" And so on.

I don't take many pictures of myself for various self-esteem reasons. It feels contrived, staged, and a whole lot like putting myself up on a big pedestal for all to admire. Eh. So, I don't do it often, as my pedestal is made of weakened wicker that has been left out in the rain. Apparently, I have always felt this way, so any attempts I've made to be alluring are sabotaged by my own self-loathing.

Observe.

Last night, I was in a sassy mood and thought, "Well, I'll give a pouty, sexy pic to Phil for him to laugh at." The laughing part is a big success, me thinks.



So, here is the first one where I attempt to show you, hey, this is what I look like at 2am while a baby and husband are asleep. I'm so sassy and exhausted in shades of gray. Look how coy I am with my head tilted as if to say, hey, sailor. Where does a lady have to go to get a drink around here?

Also, Phil says this is the new look for everyone: to have both arms sticking straight out as they hold a camera in front of themselves.

And here's the one where I look like an oversexed 9-year-old in 1963 in the back of my dad's Buick.

HAHAHAHA. How the heck did I manage to look like I haven't even entered puberty? That right there is darn sexy, I tell you what. Why is it that I think that "being sexy" means putting your hand up to your head and pouting? Where did I learn this nonsense?


I think I found the cause of this silliness. My disastrous attempts to use the devices of the fairer sex must have started when my cousins insisted that I pose with them at a family reunion. See the cooperation just seething out of my body? I'm not sure why my cousins insisted on hiking up their skirts when they were less than 12-years-old. My grandfather seems confused by it as well. I was too distracted by hating them for making me pose and trying to coordinate the wrong arm in this creepy, one-step-away-from-Jon-Benet portrait. I couldn't even look at the camera, I was so embarrassed.

I guess after my cousins' influence over how to win admiration from the fellas, I managed to get this one into the archives as well. Cute? Sure, but it really looks like my hand is stuck in my curls (which was prone to happen now and then). I may be wrong, but I should have chosen another garment rather than a birdhouse T-shirt. It was hard to be a hoochie in 1979.

After seeing this pictorial expression of my historic descent into having absolutely no sense of erotica, I think I'll stick to writing funny little things about Shane McGowan and Solid Gold dancers. Besides, I've always been more Lucille Ball than Ann Margaret.

Unce, tice... fow tines a meme-ry

Dear people of the Internet,

I was tagged TWICE today for different memes. I'm feeling all kinds of love and it makes my bits feel funny. Lucky for you, Moxie Mom tagged me to do this here thing-thang below, because I had no idea what I was going to write about today. Do you have any inkling how hard it is to come up with fascinating topics every day? DO YOU?!

So, my pretties, I give you many, many four things of little importance.



Four First Names of Crushes I’ve Had

1. David
2. Mike (several)
3. Rene
4. Rhett (no, really, and not the Gone With the Wind dude)



Four Pieces of Clothing I Need to Get Rid Of

1. Neon yellow bike shorts from 1990 - I am no longer a member of Salt N' Pepa
2. That flowery, summer dress that Phil wore for our block party
3. Those bras bought from Wal-Mart in 1987 that smell like rubber
4. About five pairs of black stockings that have more holes than Swiss cheese



Four Names I’ve Been Called at One Time or Another

1. Bool
2. Gus
3. SARIE?!
4. Baby Doll



Four Professions I Secretly Want to Try

1. "Solid Gold" dancer
2. Vaudevillian actress
3. Reclusive billionaire who saves urine in jars
4. Aretha Franklin's backup singer (Sock it to me.)



Four Musicians I’d Most Want to Go on a Date With

1. Wayne Coyne (The Flaming Lips) - He'd be a great conversationalist about Long John Silver's and vibrators. I hope he brings the puppet.

2. Shane McGowan (The Pogues) - I just want to hear that scary laugh over and over, but I can't look at his teeth, or lack thereof.

3. Tom Waits - I adore his gravelly voice, and he's so funny and intelligent in movies/