Comedy is now defined as "morose"

Ugh. UGH. Did I mention ugh?


Just watched "Last Comic Standing." I don't know why we tortured ourselves with that slop. I can't (yet I can) believe that the dopey Iliza Shlesinger won.


I'm floored, America.


Why would you vote for the unfunny? Why is un-comic your choice? How is Dane Cook with tits your candidate? Really, America? REALLY?!


{{ Disclaimer: I am married to a professional stand-up comedian. I have watched stand-up comedy (the good, the bad, the worse, and the nauseating) up close and in person since 1996. Heck, I've been to more comedy shows than many comedians. I am a comedy wallflower, through and through. }}


Interestingly enough, Iliza used the Dat Phan formula for success. Get other comedians to make fun of you and make you a target, therefore getting more camera face time. This elicits sympathy from Americans who do not watch stand-up comedy but like voting for the reality TV beat-up underdog. Neglect to write any funny material (it's in the bag already, so why should you make anyone laugh or come up with something that isn't hacky?). Sit back and watch the votes roll in.


Here's the strangest part of all. Are you ready for it?



Dat Phan is FUNNIER than this woman.



YEAH! I said it! I can't believe I said it, either. It's bizarro world!


I'm tired of seeing incredibly funny female comics thrown under the bus for idiots like this woman. Kathleen Madigan should have won during the season she was on. Yet, America said no. America likes its idiots. America enjoys television reduced to the lowest common denominator. America? You might be a redneck if.


I know a whole lot of incredibly funny comedians who tried out for this show and made it only part way or were cut (after being chosen) because they didn't fit the profile that the show was looking for. This year, they wanted "young." That's right. Young. It was made clear to the contestants.


I've got news for ya, NBC. Young don't always mean funny. You're final two contestants were either Dane Cook with tits or Dane Cook with manscaped eyebrows and bad impressions.


America, you decided that the fake gold on Dane Cook had finally worn off. You started listening (reluctantly) to sensible people who told you that his material is crap. You were starting to impress me, America.


Then, you go and do this.


UGH!!!


That's about all I've got to say about that. Back to happy thoughts...

Shimmy shimmy shrinking doodley-ooo

No, I have no idea what that means.


I have news! News that strikes me as being important! News that you won't care about but should pretend that you do!


I, my friends, have lost 10 pounds. Yes! Ten whole pounds of fat and shame. I'm on a diet, and it is working slowly but surely. Some days have a little loss, others I get a whopper of a drop. I'm encouraged and ready to find the MILF in me. (Not that I want to MILF myself. Yes, I just turned MILF into a verb.)


So, I'll be starting another blog soon to document my journey from Fatty McFatfatterstein to Slim McTinyerton.


Read with me. Feel my pain. Share my joys. Point and laugh at the agony of defeat as I fall off of my skis and a sports network shows the footage over and over again.


Heheh.


I'm ready for the old me to become the new me which will look like the old, old me, except I won't look old. I'll look hot.


And MILFy.

Making love in the butt

I'm on a music kick lately. An odd one, I might add.


Do you remember those days as a kid when you didn't know what the heck some singer was emoting about in a song? What the Chuck Dickens is that dude saying?! Stick my arm in a machete of love? What?!


I found a blog none too recently that discussed the "Wrapped Up Like a Douche" phenomenon. What is that, you ask? Well, many (and I mean MANY) people think that the lyrics to the song "Blinded By the Light" go as follows:

"wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night..." instead of "revved up like a deuce."

Because obviously, when someone is running, they are twisted and contorted the way someone douching would be, or uh, running is for douchebags. Or, uh, well... you tell me.


There are a katrillion comments on that blog that split my sides from too much laughter over how many lyrics people have misheard. I thought long and hard and found that I have a few golden gems of my own. I also quizzed Phil.


Many of these examples come from my childhood when I was forced to tape songs from the radio. Ah, the days of the early mixed tape, when I tried in vain to STOP! REWIND! PLAY! STOP! to cut out the one second of a radio DJ that leaked into my precious tape. I don't care about the weather or your upcoming Thanksgiving turkey drop from a highrise (*wink*), just stop talking over "Sister Christian"!!! (*side note* I would NOT tape "Sister Christian" in my current adult form)


I can't decide whether Phil's misheard lyrics are more due to his ability to rewrite songs in ridiculous ways and then always sing them in that manner, or whether he genuinely misheard the song. My examples, however, sadly, and forlornly, are certainly due to my poor hearing.


So, without further ado, I give you a list of songs that the Porters may have misheard in their time on this planet. Enjoy.





Phil couldn't remember the band who sings this. Is it Fuel? Is it Filter? Perhaps Fuel Filter? I found that it is Fuel with the title "Hemorrhage (In My Hands)".

This is what Phil heard and we still sing it to this day. Try it. You'll hear it, too. It makes the song much better.

"Blee blah blee blah in my hands!"

But the reality is, "And leave love bleeding in my hands..."

Why are most of Phil's entries either sexual or deviant? Observe:







Phil claims that back in the 80s, a few little girls walked by him while singing,

"I'm your penis, I'm your fire!..." from that Bananarama song, "Venus."

I think you can guess which word that SHOULD be. What joy those girls must have gained from that song. It has certainly kept Phil's attention.

Phil also claims that as a child, when watching Olivia Newton-John writhe around on the set of Grease, he heard this song:

"Making love in the butt! Ooh ooh ooh!! Honey!!"

instead of, "You're the one that I want!"

I'm guessing he must have hit puberty right about then.








Listening to KBCO out of Boulder, Colorado can sometimes force one to listen to such people as Sarah McLachlan. Phil is not a Lach-head, but he remembers hearing this every time the song "Fallen" would come on:

"I'm a masturbater, I should know."

What does she really say? "I messed up. Better I should know."

In the Feist song, "Mushaboom," Phil insists on singing:

"Mushy poop, mushy poop, mushy poop..."

And that is exactly what I say now.








I now give you my contributions.






There is a song that always perplexed me. Eric Clapton goes on and on about why you should try "Cocaine". Such as "If you're thing is done and you wanna ride on: cocaine." Ah, I see. The perfect solution. The perfect after dinner mint: cocaine. But, then he turns around and growls:

"She don't like, she don't like, she don't like... cocaine."

I didn't realize until reading that misheard lyrics blog that what he is REALLY saying is

"She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie: cocaine."

AH! The sweet lady cocaine is still on my side! There isn't some skank that Eric was groovin' on that decided to snub her nose at his chosen drug. Now I know everything.










The 80s were rife with bad songs and equally bad lyrics. I can't decide if this is one of them, since I did have giant metal hair back in the day. Big hair definitely clouds judgment. However, I found it an odd choice to say this in Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again":

"Like a twister I was born to walk alone."

Huh? You are like a tornado, roaming the plains? I suppose tornadoes travel on their own and destroy things, but sometimes a storm can spawn multiple tornadoes; therefore, poor Mr. Whitesnake could have a partner. I fully expected him to sing more about twisters and barn destruction. Sadly, he did not. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the actual lyric:

"Like a drifter I was born to walk alone."

Oh. That, um. Yeah.









Toto was equally frustrating. What the heck are you talking about, dude?

"I kiss the rains down in Africa."

or,

"I check the rains"

or

"I check the drains down in Africa."

Why does Africa need only one plumber? How do you kiss the rains? Does a white dude need a rain gauge when going on safari? WHAT THE HELL?!

But, of course, this is what they are actually saying:

"I bless the rains down in Africa."

OH, YEAH. Like THAT makes more sense.









This goes all the way back. ALL the way back. I heard Christopher Cross say,

"Sailing takes me away to where I'm always hurting."

Huh? I'm no captain of the seas, but perhaps you shouldn't be sailing if pain is the end result.

Actual lyric:

"Sailing takes me away to where I've always heard it could be."

All I know is that Michael Jackson should get the mush (and the Jesus Juice) out of his mouth.

"But Jim is not my son."

Song: "Billie Jean"










This is my personal favorite. I love Tracy Chapman. I could stare at her all day while she stares back uncomfortably at me and warbles a tune and strums a guitar. I was a bit perplexed by her first hit "Fast Car", however.

I heard,

"Been working at the Canteen Store"

Canteen store? Is that like an army surplus? I always thought it was strange that Tracy Chapman would be behind the cash register selling camouflage. Maybe that scenario creates good folk music. Who am I to judge?

Ah, but the lyric is actually:

" I been working at the convenience store."

Heheh. Yeah, SURE you were.










Alrighty. Your turn. Slap some silly, misheard lyrics in my general direction.


(And YOU thought this blog would be about sex in the unmentionables. Shame on you!)

I did some Wonder loaf

Oh, buddy. Do I have a treat for you.


The fabulous Suzanne, my sistah from anuthah muthah, shared this ditty with me in a comment way back yonder, and I just can't help but share it with you.


FRIGGIN' HILARIOUS, my peeps!


Almost as funny as this. Maybe.


I loves me some Joe Cocker, I tell you what. He is spastically beautiful... to me (can't you see -ee -eee -eee?). This video is so beautiful and laugh-inducingly side splitting that you must watch it.


Shall we call this form of music video something like "Benny Lava-fied"?


Enjoy.

What about in this turbine?

Indeed, Joe Cocker. Indeed.

Loud and bawdy

A conversation with Phil prompted me to share this ditty with you.


What is the worst song ever made? Really think about this. There are some fantastic crappers out there. Some songs might be catchy, but the lyrics are awful and downright hysterical. Some didn't even try to be catchy. Just awful.


Phil's choice: "Naughty Naughty" by John Parr. Do you remember that one? It's even sillier when Phil sings it. "Naughty naughty, loud and bawdy, t-t-t-t-tease me..."


I can't decide upon just one. Too hard to pick. There are lovely gems like Judas Priest screaming, "I'm your turbo loverrrrrrr. Tell me there's no otherrrrrrrrr."


Then, of course, we have Foreigner. Good ol' Foreigner.


"Are you hot, mama? You sure look that way to me." Followed promptly by, "Are you old enough?"


Is anyone else taken aback that Billy Ray Cyrus was able to eek out a career after this disaster: "Don't tell my heart, my achy break heart..." completely with hideous dance maneuvers and mullet?


Phil is quick to point out this gem, which might be our favorite for most awful song ever:

Don't even get me started on the unknown rap song that Phil and I heard at a gas station in my hometown (another car was blasting it, not the gas station).

"Gonna lick your pussy like a Reese's Pieces."

WHAT? I don't even know how that applies.


So, my pets, what are your votes?

Bang your head

I guess I should start by asking, how the heck are ye? I know I've been absent. I've been concentrating on getting my life under control, and that doesn't always include blogging. Look for updates, perhaps even a side-shoot blog here and there in the future. How exciting!


Anyhoo...


Last night we attended a free concert at Cheesman Park. The concert was a lovely offering from The Colorado Symphony. Those of you in the know may recall that I was a band geek of some magnitude back in the day. Clarinet, to be precise. Every once in awhile, I get the desire to toot my horn again. Sometimes.


Cheesman Park is an odd but beautiful bodkin. It is one of many parks in Denver, but it has a historic claim that may cause a few heebie jeebies. Cheesman Park was once a cemetery. If you read the link provided, you'll see that transferring the burial plots was not completely finished. This link provides a more detailed, gruesome description of the conversion from cemetery to park.


Creepier still, although there are an estimated 2,000 graves remaining in Cheesman Park, there is now a swath of homes over a former section of the cemetery between Cheesman Park and Congress Park. This page talks about more of the gruesome cemetery dealings and confused, wandering spirits around those homes.


Yikes.


*shudder*


Rest assured, we did not get assaulted by any ghosts. The only untoward advances we may have experienced would likely have come from Cheesman's more frequent visitors, who just happen to be gay. That's right. Cheesman Park is and has been one of Denver's cruisin' alleys for lonely fellas.


Ah, Denver. How you amuse me.


I told Phil that if I were single, the area around Cheesman and Capitol Hill would be a great place to live (lots of multi-residential homes with old timey charm). He agreed. I mentioned that he might have a few times where he needed to mention his heterosexual status, however, if he lived there. We were walking back from the concert when this conversation took place, so Phil added,


"I am perfectly secure in my heterosexual manhood while I carry this picnic basket."


Hehehehehehe.



Anyhoo...


The concert was lovely. It was a change of pace from our usual rowdy jazz fests at City Park. Talking was a bit of a no-no at the symphony concert. Amos became a spectacle, as usual, for the people around us. How can anyone resist this face?

Certainly not you.



A family in front of us had a few kids meandering about. A child with an unusually large head approached us as Amos was too much for him to resist. The boy repeated over and over that he is two (while holding up random numbers of fingers), asked me for juice, and then told me he wanted to go bye-bye. It was the most entertaining conversation I've had in years.


Because the mood of the concert was a bit stoic, sounds out of the ordinary from cellos or timpani were very noticeable. At some point, we became aware of a "whooping" sound. I scanned the crowd and found myself staring at the stage. In front of the stage was a young man holding onto the edge while "whooping" and banging his head. A few seconds of this made it apparent that this young man was very enthusiastic and most likely mentally challenged. There was not much else to gawk at, so we watched events unfold as a lady came out from the crowd to calm the fellow down. She didn't ask him to leave the stage. She stayed there with him for a moment and lovingly hugged him while slightly rocking out with him to the sounds of Beethoven. It was a beautiful moment, I thought.


Then, she went back to her picnic. Rocker Boy stayed up there, enjoying the concert and occasionally pumping his fists in the air. How often do you see such an enthusiastic response to a classical concert? Odd as it may have been, I enjoyed his enthusiasm and the casual air it added to the audience of mostly older citizens. As the percussion hit a great solo, Amos began to groove, and so did Rocker Boy. His enthusiasm reached new decibels of whooping. His lady friend began to walk over again, just as someone working with the symphony (a symphony roadie?) approached him as well.


The showdown began.


The lady calmed Rocker Boy down, as she so gently had done before. The roadie seemed pretty miffed that anyone had the audacity to show any appreciation other than clapping. Verbal jousting occurred between them, while Rocker Boy just wanted to get back to his place next to the stage. Roadie must have said something rude, since the lady grabbed Rocker Boy by the hand and purposefully marched away to their picnic spot. Then, Roadie had an animated, hand-flailing discussion with Roadie Number Two.


I wasn't sure how to feel about what we had just witnessed. I was really wanting Rocker Boy to stay in his place at the stage, pumping his fists and punctuating the air with occasional whoops. As a former band geek, I remember plenty of times when people would yell and scream while we were playing during a halftime show. Sure, it's not a symphony, but I learned to deal with interruptions. Is a city or statewide symphony really above having an appreciative fan, even if his method of showing it is a bit more animated?


I dunno.


I do know that Phil is still secure in his ability to carry a picnic basket, no matter what neighborhood we cross.

Dance for me, gypsy

This amuses me. I want to join this ragtag group of misfits and play a scrub board or blow on a jug. Maybe tingle the triangle.

Dance for me. Do not fear me, gypsy. I come for your tears.



Lip Dub - Tambureddu HD from Leonardo Dalessandri on Vimeo.

Monkeys walk upright

I think the title says it all. Or perhaps you require a video?

He walks! from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

YAY, AMOS!!!!!


He took his first steps last night. Just small, tentative steps. Then, today I held his hand and let him go across the room, exactly the way that is shown in the video. Except, I didn't catch it on video. So, technically the video is of Amos' second sashay across the dance floor.

He didn't disappoint me, though. How about that walk, sit, stand up, and walk again maneuver?! Huh?! Woo!!!

Alrighty. You can go on about your day. Did you do anything significant and earth-shattering today?

I think not.

Five stars for Edna Turnblatt

Well, at least that's what Amos thinks. Amos has decided that the greatest movie of all time is the John Travolta version of Hairspray. I watched it one day, and the little man started groovin' and a shakin' to the sounds of Negro Day (that's part of the movie, not me being racist). It's apparent that somewhere deep inside, my boy has soul.

And he gotta let you know.

Groovin' to Hairspray from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

That's actually a subdued version of his rockin' out. Sometimes he has a whole head thrashing thing that goes along with it, maybe with a hop and floor tap for a flourish.

For some reason, John Travolta's man hands and veiny forearms do not prevent Amos from enjoying the movie. *SHUDDER* (and yes, I did just say "veiny")




I'll throw in a little more fun for your Friday pleasure. Here are Phil and Amos demonstrating their own version of getting around the house. Amos does this ALL THE TIME. I think that this particular move is why he refuses to walk. Why walk when you can do this?

Amos and Dada scootin' boogie from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

And then end it with a dance, of course.



In other news, please visit the fine folks at this week's edition of Five Star Friday. What? My blog is included in the superb selections? Really? You don't say.

Toot toot on my horn... toot toot toot toot...

Seeking cold pockets of joy

Ugh. The dog days of summer. The time when I curl up under a single sheet on the bed, flailing this way and that to find a cool spot on the mattress. Bleah. At times like this, I would like to be amphibian. Or reptile.

It hasn't been discussed, but we may have officially given up on watering the lawn. Denver is incredibly dry this year, and our poor pseudo-lawn and xeriscape plants have suffered. Xeriscape plants can suffer, you say? Oh yes, young one. When exposed to sun at this altitude and put under the care of the neglectful Porters, anything is possible. I'm not saying that you shouldn't visit and that we won't water you, but uh... maybe.

Amos' single tooth continues to threaten us with its deadly sharp edges. He delights in having me feel his little calcium nugget and proclaim, "Tooth! Amos has a tooth!"

I told Phil last night that this is the only time in Amos' life that he will have just one tooth. Then we both looked at each other, and I said, "Well, hopefully." Let's not encourage Cletus to neglect his mouth hygiene.

I'm thankful that his teeth are finally making an appearance. We've had Amos on the dental plan since January, thinking that he might be like others his age who had mouths full of teeth that were already covered in gold and diamond encrusted grills. Not so for Amos.

Although Amos has three other teeth threatening to show up on the scene, what does a dentist do for just one tooth? Do we learn how to brush one tooth, and then show Amos how to floss on each side of it? Do we buy whitening stripes and then cut them down to size and wrap that one tooth over and over until it gleams? Do we allow Amos to puncture canned goods like an old-timey can opener? Maybe he could punch decorative holes in a copper sheet so that I can have a pie safe like my grandmammy used to have.

Whatever new uses we find for that tooth, I know which one I am ruling out: chewing on my finger. He has already maimed my index finger with that fang. This might be the first time I am thankful that I stopped breastfeeding him.

Break the skin

Before you all soil yourselves from the rage I spewed the other day, I apologize. It was therapeutic, though. Very helpful. Scream and rant sometime. Quite cleansing.

We've had various family activities to keep us occupied during this holiday. Thursday, we sat in the park and listened to the Colorado Symphony play patriotic songs. I shed a tear or two during the salute to the armed forces. I'm not a big supporter of the war (not a supporter at all, actually), but when an old man stands up to humbly be recognized for service to his country, it makes me proud.

We picnicked and relaxed in the grass while people admired Amos (as usual). It was a lovely evening full of stars and beautiful music. Lovely, lovely.

Last night, we walked toward downtown to watch the fireworks. We found a spot in the grass (dirt and dried twigs) overlooking the highway and with a clear view of Coors Field. The Rockies were in a tight game that went long, so we sat and then sat and then we tried sitting. All kinds of humanity ebbed and flowed around us. Finally, around 10:30, maybe later (maybe sooner - who's counting?), the official fireworks began. Not that we hadn't already been entertained and frightened by the various illegal items popping around us. Balls to the cars that actually drove through a fervent display of sparkles on the street. That was either ballsy or sheer stupidity. Don't even get me started on what I think about the two guys on bicycles who peddled through it.

Anyhoo...

Amos enjoyed (sort of) his second Fourth of July. He was only a few weeks old during '07s July 4th, and a few neighbors popped loud and colorful things on the street. Despite his tiny stature, Amos was not intimidated. That is when we decided that we have a cool kid. This year, Amos was a little shy, but then he warmed up to the sounds and lights. He pointed at the sky and said, "Huwah!" I take that as a sign of approval.

On the way home, we ran through a sprinkler gauntlet that was much like Indiana Jones bookin' it away from that giant boulder. Except, it wasn't like that at all. Imagination and a little wine are great for a late night walk.

Today was full of shopping. Phil delighted himself with picking out little outfits for Amos. I swear, Phil is turning into a teenage girl with the way he coos over Amos' little man britches or how adorable a T-shirt will be on him. I think I'll buy him some Hello Kitty gear. For Phil, I mean.

Tomorrow, God willing and Sleepy Sarah willing, we will trudge through the mountains for our weekly hike. I'm addicted to the mountains again. How is it that we have lived here for so long, yet we only hiked after we moved here and have just suddenly revived the idea? The Porters: not always intelligent.

OH. OH!

And Amos just got his first tooth! We see the little nugget breaking the skin. I look forward to the day when I can feed him food that he will actually chew rather than gumming away at and then packing into his big chipmunk cheeks.

So, I bid you farewell for the evening. Here's a tasty drink that I toast in your general direction:



1 part tequila
1 part triple sec
1-2 parts 100% pomegranate juice



Yum yum.

Primal scream

A therapeutic primal scream to the world at large, referred to hereafter as the informal You.



I'm going to tell you the truth. It might hurt one of us. Get the Band-Aids.

I'm going through a crisis of sorts. It has nothing to do with the topics that normally create a swarm of activity around a blog entry. It has much more to do with being the child of a shitty parent and dealing with the aftermath.

*waits for sounds of crickets*

I have a lot to say and there is no one around who seems to want to listen. Oh, sure. Go ahead and pretend you want to lend me an ear so I'll play you a song, but we both know it will be more out of tune than that 30+ year-old guitar sitting in my basement. I think I've reached the point of stopping the feeling-sorry-for-myself routine to just becoming numb and silent. Is this that "acceptance" stage of grief? Acceptance sounds so nice and calm, when really it is just numb and silent. Silent and numb.

Silent and numb does not create many blog entries. It also doesn't invite one to read about other peoples' lives and then pretend to care. That sounds harsh, I know. Alas, it is true.

I'm tired of people asking me how I am doing and then glazing over and/or changing the subject when I actually give them an answer. How am I doing? The only answer you want is, "Fine. I'm great. How about you?" It isn't true. When I do talk about the difficulty of dealing with my father's death and the horrific aftermath of it -- from somewhere around $300,000 of hospital bills, to caring for my mother, to staving off the vultures who want to rape and pillage my family home -- along with my own inability to digest the emotions of it, that is when you turn away. You've done it, and you know it. Everyone from neighbors, friends, Internet acquaintances, to various family members have done it.

And you know what? You really suck for doing that.

And screw me for knowing that my sadness is big and scary and justifiably frightening to anyone outside of it.

You know what I don't want to hear? I don't want to hear how difficult it is for you to react to my grief. It's not like I'm crying in front of you, begging for a tissue. No, I just matter-of-factly declare what I'm going through, and you still turn away.

I don't care that you aren't able to come up with something to make me feel better. I didn't ask for you to do that.

And fuck you for making me feel like I'm the one who should make YOU feel better. I don't give a shit that my situation is too harsh a reminder that someday you will lose a close family member and deal with the dirty details.

I don't care.

-----------------

Upon reflection, perhaps I am still stuck in the anger stage of grief management.

-----------------

I can imagine it must be one hell of a task to try to ease my burdens over a loss, when the real burdens started decades ago. Poor you.

If you have any ability to read between the lines, past blogs clearly indicated that my dad was a total shit to his family. To his colleagues, however, he was a god amongst men. I have letter after letter from his co-workers, talking about how wonderful he was and how he did this or that for their careers without hesitation. I don't respond. They write to me again to see if I received the first letter because, by God, it is so important that they know that a daughter of the great god of workplace received their touching words.

You know what? I don't have a damn thing to say to that. My version of that person is not the same, and telling me how great he was when he was away from his family does not improve the situation. I didn't see that person. I saw the person who blamed others for his own mistakes. I saw the person who neglected his health, wanted to die, and then yelled at everyone around him to fix the problem and "get involved, God damn it!" I saw the person who admitted that he was "one cold jackass" for most of his life, and then expects me to relish his assessment of my own: "You were always too emotional."

I don't want to hear about how sick people become mean sometimes. Because, you know what? Total shits become even shittier when they are sick, and telling me that does not improve my outlook. I already know that.

Stick this feather in your cap: Fuck everyone who thinks that you should not speak ill of the dead.

The dead left me to clean up the mess.

For a moment, I considered going to a therapist. After all, that person would listen because I'm paying them to listen. Thing is, no therapist is going to tell me what I don't already know. I already know how to deal with this. I already know the process. I already know that it's not my fault and that what I'm going through is a difficult, long, drawn out procedure. I already know that.

I know that I should talk about my feelings. I tell Phil about them all the time. He takes the brunt of the ugliness that you aren't willing to share. I already know who is the real god amongst men.

I still see the images of him dying. I still can hear the long, labored breaths and the hands reaching to the hospital ceiling for unseen things. I can hear my sobs as I recited The Lord's Prayer in his ear, still trying to desperately create a loving end for someone who hadn't shown me much. I still see the bloody bruises on his hands that were covered by makeup for the viewing, which failed and began to show the blood bruises again on the day of his funeral. I see his coffin being lowered unsteadily and on a tilt because the funeral director wanted to hurry up and get to another service. I see my idiot brother smoking a cigarette beside the grave, knowing full well that smoking is what killed his father.

What I can't shake: I still see the emaciated body that one doctor described as a "concentration camp victim."

Victim. Seeing him as a victim is not what I'm capable of at this juncture.

So, you sit there and wonder why I don't write much, answer your calls, read your blog, or leave you witty comments. To tell you the truth, it isn't my job right now to make you feel better. I'm not capable of that. It's my job to pick up the pieces and move on. As much as it sucks, it is taking a lot of time to get there. It would have been nice if you had helped. Don't EVEN start in on me and my inability to accept help. Blah blah blah. I don't want your advice. I just don't, and you've already shown that you don't want to listen to the problem in the first place.

I don't know what the point of this entry is, other than to tell you the real answer to the question you don't want answered. I'm still a happy person. I laugh all the time, albeit less than I did before. I still enjoy life. We've been going hiking every weekend and breathing in the wonders of nature. That, more than anything you could have said to me, has performed miracles on my soul.

In short, I'm learning how to do this without you, Dad. You always wanted to teach us about fierce independence. You've succeeded by a landslide, I'd say.

The Colonel meets bakery items... and likes it.

Just so that you stop with all of this "but she doesn't write so much anymore" whining nonsense (Oh, sure I know it's true, and maybe you're not the voices in my head who are telling me this, but still. You are reading this, and therefore you must take the blame.), here is a spectacular blog full of all kinds of dynamic presentations including:


Words!
Sounds!
Visuals!


Don't tell me I never gave you anything.


So, yes. Last Saturday was Amos' birthday. We decided against a party because, as Phil said, "We were the only ones there when he was born, so why not keep up the tradition?"


Do you remember what I went through to bring that little being into the world? I do. Oh, brother, do I.


We made a delicious cake. It was a yellow cake with pumpkin puree for added goo and deliciousness. The frosting was Neufchatel cheese (lower fat than regular cream cheese), lemon extract, powdered sugar, and the wings of 100 fairies. That's the latest health craze, you know. Fairy wings are so good for your heart.


I have some visuals and ear-pleasing and sometimes not so pleasing sounds for you to enjoy. Yes, I am referring to my cackling laughter in a bona fide cinematic reel. First up, the bedazzled, candled cake.


Oooh. And aaaahhh. Birthday cave baby grunt and like fire!

For your dancing and dining pleasure, I give you my first attempts to post video to the Internetz. Mind you, these videos are only 15 seconds long because they came from my cellphone. I demand that you watch them all, because again, they are only 15 seconds long each, and the story becomes funnier as it goes along.


Or so I say.


Judge for yourself:




In this cinematic presentation, we see an adorable child and hear immense parental regrets.

Take it back (aka Parental regrets on a birthday) from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

No, I have no idea what kind of accent I was using on the word "June." This video is proof that I must embrace my roots and stop claiming that I have no accent. Is it Texan vernacular? Is it backwoods hick? Is there really a difference?

Wherein my accent becomes bizarre (aka Happy Birthday) from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

Amos was entirely too careful throughout this event. We were actively trying to encourage his cake smashing abilities but to no avail. Eventually, he got the message.

Figurin' it out (aka Cake Cipherin') from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

Impatience on the mother's part begins to show. I decided to help Amos along with his cake smashing. Decide for yourself whether or not this is cruelty upon a child.

Cake Monster from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

As is my way, I had to point out who Amos resembles after being attacked by the Cake Monster.

No, I was not trying to be racist. This is a somewhat humorous and poorly-attempted impression of a Kentucky Southern gentleman who happens to enjoy and sell fried items at low prices.

Kentucky fried birthday from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

The Colonel closes out the show with a short oratory on the values of pumpkin/fairy wing cake. Note that Phil's vocabulary has expanded to include impressive sounds.

The Colonel speaks from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

Things that make me say, "GAH!"

I know, I know. I've been absent. I lack excuses.

Various and asunder have occurred, but I haven't told you a darn thing. Shame on me. Did you know that Saturday was Amos' birthday? One whole year, people! Phil and I are floored that this wee being we created has been out and about for a whole year. Eventually, I will share pics and perhaps a few videos of the famous cake-smashing incident that all young toddlers must endure on that special day.

In the meantime, here are some items that I've pondered lately that may or may not get my goat. Enjoy.

• I have a love/hate relationship with my nails. I'm not a girly-girl, so I don't do the salon or the tips or the Lee Press-On Nails. Nope. I just trim and file. Sometimes, they become longer than usual. These are times when I am in the throes of dilemma. Why? Because I have the freak nails. You know, the ones that get all curly and funky when they get longer. Sorta like this guy. When the nails get to the point that they begin to curl around and threaten to become claws, I am enamored and equally disgusted by them. After all, who wouldn't want to strut about town showing off their enormous talons? Instead of painting a tiny American flag or a star on each nail, they would be long enough to cover in an entire mural depicting the Civil War. My personal favorite is the pinky nail depicting the burning of Atlanta.
  
  

• I'm concerned with Bigfoot. I want to know where this smelly skunk ape is hiding. Also, it is very satisfying to call someone a smelly skunk ape. Additionally, I get a kick out of the Bigfoot organization's acronym: BFRO.
  
  

• When cooking something with garlic, it is better to add it to chipotle noodles for extra kick or to the garlic penne for extra garlic pungency and power?
  
  

• If Bigfoot and a rhinoceros were to cross paths, who would win? What if the rhinoceros wore its bfro in a hightop fade?
  
  

Jam on it

Nerds unite!

That is just fun to say.

Last night, we had quizzardry and random knowledge mayhem. Phil's brother and sis-in-law are in town causing a ruckus, so we took them to The Whiskey Bar to tickle their brains.

Despite the quiz lady's overuse of cursing (don't pander to the crowd), we had a ball o' fun. Here is the write up about it at the Geeks Who Drink website.

Yes, that is Amos.

No, he was not drunk.

My boy doesn't drink, so I guess we should stop posing him with bottles of beer. Back off, Child Protective Services!

Yes, that is my new hair. It is medium golden brown. Apparently, that is my natural color. We matched the box to my overgrown roots, and voila!:

I am Foxy Brown.

Or not.

Why were we Skullz N' Monkeyz? Because Amos was wearing his monkey Robeez shoes and a fancy skull hat. Behold his cuteness.

Yes, we did put the answer "cock ring" to the question of "What new accessory did the Ken doll receive in 1993?" Why? Because Phil and I attended a party full of lovely gay men around that year, and we both swear that we saw a Ken doll with a cock ring at that house.

I pinky swear.

Without a certain someone who is neither Phil nor myself, we never would have made it to 3rd place without her awesome knowledge of odd 80s music and rap. We won not one, but TWO passes (for two people each) to a special screening of Get Smart, that new Steve Carrell cinematic presentation. Seeing as Phil, Amos, and my person will be the only ones who can take part in this event on Tuesday out of the four and 1/2 people to attend our quiz...

Any locals want the other pass? Tuesday at 7pm. Lemme know, all y'all yunz.


If you ever find yourself in need of quizzin', Phil hosts a Geeks Who Drink quiz on Monday nights at The Irish Hound in north Cherry Creek (get your snooty on, y'all). Here are his clever blogs about the many past weeks of rowdy quizzin' action.



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Happy Father's Day to the baby daddies in the crowd. I think we are going to nosh on sushi and a wee dram of wine at the City Park Jazz, just like I promised we would do every Sunday. DJ Jazzy Phil and The Fresh Amos need some grooves.

Clean = party

Relatives are in town. Do you know what that means?


Our house is clean.


Yes! I said, "Clean!"

Every time we clean for visitors, I think we should have a party. Maybe I'll invite people over on Saturday, just to show them, "Hey, we are not the dirty hermits you think we are."

Out-of-towners also means:

Zoo fun. Yay! Tours. Yay! Walks in the 'hood. Yay! Mountain excursions. Yay!

So, why haven't you visited us yet?

Did I mention that our house is clean?

Mandingo eats pineapple and lives to tell the tale

Now THAT title should earn me some interesting Google search hits. **

Home again after a fantastic night of pineapple ingestion (and digestion), merriment and such at the Greeblemonkey home. Much delight was had with Inherent Passion, Shoes and Pie, and other ladies whose blogs I can't find at this late hour (boo!).

Bloggers know how to party. Secret: bring a pineapple corer/slicer and a pineapple to each and every party you are invited to. Shoes and Pie is the smartest party attendee ever.

I hope I was more sparkly and lively than I felt. I was feeling down and out, but the party lifted me up. Yay for that.

In addition to tonight's extravaganza, we had a great weekend. Yesterday, we traveled to the zoo and signed up for a year's worth of membership. I think I'll take Amos to the zoo during the weekdays so that he can ogle the monkeys. That boy likes him some monkey, let me tell you what.



Primates and higher primate. Just before this pic, one of the monkeys chattered at Amos then slapped the glass at him.

Learning that Mother Nature has a cruel sense of humor. All around us were older kids saying, "Look at their BUTTS!!"

Hope your weekend was fantastical.



___________________

** The title of this post refers to a moment when I mentioned to Shoes and Pie that one of the many Google searches that leads to my blog is for Frederick Lamont, the well-endowed man who played Mandingo in the porn of the same name. I swell with pride over that little gem. Pun intended. Thankyouverymuch. Here is the offending post (see the comments especially). In a weird switch-'em-up, before the Frederick Lamont searches, people were searching for "mandingo" and hitting my blog because of this post. It's a never-ending revolving door looking into another door kind of kooky world, this Google searching! Wacky!

And yes, if you attend a party where my body is resting, this is exactly the kind of bleeding-of-the-mouth conversation you will hear from me. You've been warned.

Something to smile about

I've been asked for updates on my mom, so here goes:

She is doing great!

YAY!

I just talked to her for a new assessment on how she's doing after being seen by a home health nurse. She was in the hospital for almost three full days. Her sodium levels were brought back up, and she began eating again. It seems that they now think that one of her medications (for seizures) was sapping her sodium. She is now on a different kind of medication.

A month ago, my mom sounded weak, tired, groggy and sad on the phone. I tried to chalk it up to grieving. That was also around the time her meds were increased. So, I think I concur with the diagnosis.

Although she is still very sad and grieving, and admits that she blames herself in many ways for my father's death (although I definitely DO NOT), she sounds so much like her old self. I can't tell you how happy I am to hear my mom's normal voice again.

So, thank you for your thoughts/prayers/good vibes. I guess we caught a lucky break here.

Jazz hands

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or maybe I have other things going on.

Since my posts seem to have years between them and I stink (literally, I need a shower), here is a short but picturesque update from the life of Amos.

Sunday kicked off the inaugural Jazz in the Park, a free concert in City Park every Sunday evening. It is lovely and wonderful and full of rainbows and kittens. Aside from the awkwardness at the end of the concert when I realized that one of the musicians is my neighbor (the one I curse because he likes to smoke and stare into my windows and because his car alarm would go off at the slightest breeze), it was a swell evening enjoyed by every Porter, big and small.



Amos knows how to start a jazz picnic out right: with a nice, cold Fat Tire.

Every few minutes, Amos would boogie and exhibit this crazy-happy expression, which I call Jazz Face. Although I'm sure my son will burn in the fiery pits of hell for dancing and holding a beer (at least, according to my Southern Baptist upbringing), I'm willing to take that chance just to see this gorgeous, goofy smile over and over. I am guessing that the fiery pits of hell have advanced upon Phil's stomach at this point in the picnic. It might have something to do with the alien on his chest (or is the alien IN his chest?!)

(No, I don't know why a grown woman brought a giant Teddy Bear to the picnic. *cue the "Teddy Bear's Picnic" song*)

To further solidify his place in hell, Amos continued to dance and give Jazz Face. He tapped and thumped his cheese stick to the rhythm of the heathen music.

Jazz Face, Jazz Cheese, and Jazzy Phil (not to mention Jazz Alien and Jazz Hat).

Amos puked on his outfit (what's a picnic without a little puke, I ask you?), but that didn't stop him from struttin' and boppin'.

Amos struts over to the pavilion to give Jazz Face to the neighbor whose car wakes him up at night.

Here is photographic evidence that shows that Amos has possibly inherited my curls! YAY!

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The End. I hope you enjoyed our excursion. We'll be there every Sunday. I cannot deny the Face.

The tide is high

Sorry for the absence lately. Things are afoot. Lots of busy things to attend to.

Also, my mother was admitted to the hospital today. She thought she had the flu. Instead, she had dangerously low sodium levels in her blood. She admitted that she has been on a low-salt diet (which might mean "no salt" to her) because of her high blood pressure. I think it has a lot to do with all of the hoopla surrounding the doctors insisting that my dad go on a low-salt diet before he died.

I also think she is severely depressed and blames herself for my father's demise.

Thanks, Dad. You left one hell of a mess.

Did I mention that I've been having a hard time with my own feelings of anger and disappointment?

Yeah.

Say a prayer/send your thoughts for my mom, friends.