The Nut's nine-month birthday! Right now he is napping peacefully, but in an hour he'll be at the doctor's office having needles jabbed into his thigh, all because I'm hippie enough to let him be born at home, but not hippie enough to let him grow up without polio vaccine.

I am so technologically backward sometimes that I want to hit myself in the head with a brick. Then I remind myself that I am old enough to be planning my midlife crisis. So old that when I was in college, no one had a computer, but there were extra typewriters in the library basement. At my first job in New York I had an IBM Selectric and carbon paper for copies, and we sent books to be typeset on big linotype machines in Pennsylvania.

Basically, if it weren't for Blogger, I'd be watching General Hospital and drinking a twelve-pack of Schlitz right now.

Let me speak, for a moment, about Chakra Chips.

Back in the dark ages of my former job, when everyone in the office was far less intelligent than the people who work there today, we were so desperate for advertising dollars that the editor in chief/sales manager (conflict of interest? naahhh) would do anything to sell a page of advertising.

So there was this "doctor" from Brooklyn, NY, (I think he was actually a dentist) who had developed these things called Chakra Chips. They were little bits of colored plastic that looked like the remains of a three-hole-punch party, and the "doctor" had allegedly infused them with magical "biomagnetic" energy that would realign the seven chakra centers of the body. All you had to do was tape them onto yourself at certain points -- as I recall, under the belly button was one power spot, and another was the bottom of your foot.

The thing is, in order to get $2,000 out of these people (for a two-page spread), my editor/sales boss promised that we'd also write a nice big article about them, explaining the benefits of their product and telling readers how they could obtain these magical chips.

I should have quit right then, but I wanted to write the article. I did a brief interview with the dentist's assistant, an extremely paranoid and bombastic woman, and I had Auto Man, one of my boss's friends, wear some of the chips for a day for an objective report. I also taped some on myself.

The effects of the chips were, of course, nonexistent. Auto Man told me that he had worn the green chips on the bottom of his feet for three days (the green chips were supposed to help you heal your relationship with money), but that at the end of 72 hours he was still a poor sonofabitch and if he had actually spent money on these things he would demand a refund. (Maybe that's how you make money with them.)

I had a ball writing the story; I wish I still had a copy of it.

Naturally, part of the ad contract stipulated that the "doctor" and his assistant be able to review the story before we printed it. (Why didn't I quit now? I didn't want to go back to being a professional bookstore cashier.) So I faxed it to them, kind of blithely hoping that they'd take it in the Esquiresque spirit in which I'd written it.

Wrong. I can count on one finger the times that someone has been so absolutely spitting mad at me. It was the assistant who yelled at me; at one point I think she even told me to go sit in a corner and think about what I'd done. It's taken me a while to realize that people who go absolutely mental on you are exactly that: mental. You're not required to take it personally. And anyway, what should I have expected from a nutcase who worked for a guy who'd invent such a goddamned stupid thing?

After my boss calmed her down (I've got to hand it to him, he wasn't mad at me at all), together they came up with a brilliant solution to my inability to write what amounted to ad copy (also known, sickeningly, as "advertorial"). My boss not only agreed to put a picture of the dentist on the cover of the magazine, but he also went and let them write the article! Of course! Since they know so much about the Chakra Chips, only the developer and his unholy bitch of an assistant could give the chips the editorial treatment they deserved.

I still treasure my copy of that issue of the magazine. Here's one of the most brilliant paragraphs in the whole piece:

Any misconceptions about reality will stagnate and deviate the energy flows in issues of money, health, love, etc. Most of the BIOMAGNETIC CHIPS were designed to deal with the conceptual reality of these flows like prosperity and romantic love. They facilitate the change in perception in these areas and the release of erroneous belief systems.

I should have copyedited that better, but I really just didn't feel like it. And that's only half the story, the art department had to design their ad. I don't think they ever got paid for the work, either.

Releasing the story of Chakra Chips after so long is like lancing an infected boil on my soul. Of course, I'm still going to hell for working at that magazine for four and a half years.

I keep thinking about this, so I, too, shall link to it.

When I see design like this (via dooce) I re-realize the crazy creative potential of the Web. Do brilliant design and verbal content (not just pretty pictures) merge anywhere to form some ecstatic Joycean pixel bomb? If anyone can point me in that direction, for God's sake don't be a selfish bastard, share.

I have decided to sell all the books, CDs, and VHS tapes I no longer have any use for on Amazon.com. It is such a rip-off to bring this valuable stuff to my local purveyors of secondhand intellectual laundry. I took probably $300 worth of books down to the Book Den a few weeks ago and the bastard gave me $26. And I took it! Gratefully! I am tired of being an accomplice in my own abuse. A mother needs beer money, after all. Of course, along with all the other fantastically important things I'm trying to do right now, it's going to take me about 3,000 years to get everything in a pile and then get myself organized online. So if anyone wants a used copy of Mary Karr's Cherry in hardcover (originally $24.95 retail!), the price is, oh, how about $5? It's worth at least $3.72.

Bad Mom Moment Number 33
2:12 p.m.: The baby smells like cat food. Why? Because ten minutes ago, as I was doing dishes and had my back turned, the baby was eating cat food, handfuls of Nutro Max Cat Senior triangle-shaped kibble. It gives every little burp the aroma of chickenfishbeef!

There has to be a better caption for this. And why does Jesus look like a cross between Kevin Smith and Jack Black? (via bitterpill)

Oh, the torture I put him through to get that banner picture.
Actually, it was just nap time this morning.

Nicknames for the Nut, Part II

Booger (though his "pincer grip" has improved greatly, Kleenex has yet to be mastered)
Sugar (this is one sweet-ass baby we're talking about here)
Sugarbooger (unlike his father, I neither encourage nor condone the eating of boogers)
Mr. Sleepybiscuits (normally used only when the little bugger is so tired he's crosseyed, but he won't go to sleep)
Skillet Head (used only by his father, after I have inadvertently clonked the baby's head into a doorframe, hanging pot, open refrigerator door, or other such obstacle, and the clonking has given the baby a quizzical expression but not caused an outburst of woe)

I am taking my little bits of free time and teaching myself HTML. You can keep track as my design skills progress from pitiful to laughable by visiting here from time to time. Today I'm experimenting with tables and making a complete mess of it.

I guess I gave up poetry for confession at some point, but here's an interesting little site that caught my eye this morning: The Poem Tag Project.

I put up a few new photos in the Yahoo! albums I've been using, but will soon be forced to find another way to display them as Yahoo is changing their rules and taking the fun out of everything. So enjoy them while you can because it may take me a while to come up with an alternative.

Let me tell you, hellzapoppin' around here now that the Nut's almost nine months old. He wants to eat everything with his hands, for one thing, which creates an ungodly mess. Cheerios everywhere. Then the third tooth starts cutting through. Then last night at 5:00 a.m.: Waaahhh! I climb over Jack and start to put on my robe. Then silence. I sit back on the edge of the bed and wait. Nothing. I take off the robe and climb back in and curl up around Jack. Mmm. Then, Waaahhh! I get up, put on the robe, and go into the Nut's room, and he's just sitting there in his crib, looking at me like, Hey, look! I figured out how to sit up in the dark!

Then, of course, this morning, near the end of the aforementioned raccoon mating ritual: Waaahhh! (You've never seen a woman concentrate until she's forced to choose between an orgasm and a crying baby.) So he's really pissed off after we've let him cry for several minutes, and then we rush in to see what's going on and he's standing there at the side of his crib ready to rip his John Lennon "Imagine" mobile to shreds, but he sees us and he stops cold, and there we are all sticky and disheveled, and he looks at us like, What the hell is so important that -- Mommy, what's that stuff all over your hand?

The Management would like to apologize for the lewd and unsophisticated content of this post. Click on the Comment link if you'd like more of this type of thing in the future.

After thinking about yesterday's post, I realized it was time to come out of mourning. I've literally been sitting around grieving -- for the way the baby has changed my relationship with Jack, for the stupid lost job, for being stuck in this inanely gorgeous little town, for whatever. So I got good and mad last night, and I kept Jack up until 11:30 making him mad at me, and we cursed each other and went to sleep mad and we woke up feeling like two raccoons in heat.

So fuck all that maudlin shit -- ordinary is fine by me. Let's change our socks! Let's sharpen some pencils! Let's go fill up the car with premium for a change! Woo hoo!

Monkey? Cockroach? Second wife? Play the reincarnation game. (link from bfts)

My news has grown simple.

I bought a roll of 100 stamps, instead of two little books, and I paid the bills.

I got the laundry done and took the garbage out.

Your new jacket is hanging in your closet.

The answering machine works again.

The baby can stand up by himself, if he's holding onto something, but won't crawl more than a few inches. He got a new tooth today.

I will pick up the photos at the drugstore, and use that coupon for a nice bottle of wine.

The cat shit on the floor by your desk again, I don't know why.

I dreamed that I had a little girl and I left her in the car while I ran into the grocery store. But then I ran into my old boss and he said, Come in here, we need you, and everyone I used to work with was in a room having a meeting, and they had a list of things they wanted to see if I would do. Then we all had a glass of wine. When we were done I went back to my car, and I found my little girl suffocating inside with all the windows rolled up. I got her out and tried to rush her into the air-conditioned store, but a group of fat hippie witches in a VW bus took her away from me until I learned my lesson.

If the dream is about the dreamer, then the little girl was me, and I've let her suffocate.

And I won't get her back until I learn what lesson?

Jack's Rules
1. No pit bulls -- female yellow or chocolate labs, but not black
2. It is now acceptably manly to wear a helmet while cycling
3. A t-shirt is okay while napping, but not pants
4. Pizza only from Giovanni's
5. Fender basses
6. It is appropriate to greet white half-Irish baby son with the phrase, "What's up, Ne-gro?"
7. Don't come crying to me
8. Fresh herbs -- always
9. Wife must be dissuaded from wanting a black car because she will not wash it more than twice a year and it will look like shit
10. Yankees, Lakers, Raiders, in that order

Back when I was pregnant I found it impossible to imagine what having a baby around all the time would really be like. I hadn't planned on becoming pregnant -- indeed, I'd never imagined myself to be mother material at all -- so I didn't have a lifetime of preparation that some women seem to get, starting with diapering their baby brothers/sisters and moving on through babysitting, baby showers, Pottery Barn catalogs, etc. And having strangers come up to me, pat my belly, and say, "Get your sleep now, while you can!" was irritating, not instructional.

Nobody can really tell you what it's like, but for every child-free person who has ever wondered what's the big deal? I have developed this simple visualization exercise. Find a comfortable seated position, close your eyes, take a deep breath, and we'll begin.

Imagine you have a roommate
A roommate who communicates in cries, grunts, laughter, and blank stares
A roommate who needs you to carry him everywhere
Who grabs the remote out of your hand when you're watching television and then starts randomly selecting channels and volume levels
Who needs to be dressed, sometimes three or four times a day because he pukes on himself
Who swats the cup of hot coffee out of your hand
Who bangs on the keyboard while you're typing
Who pulls your hair
Who falls asleep on your shoulder while you're vacuuming his room
Who cries when you leave him, and ignores you when you come back
Who is so magnetic that relatives will travel thousands of miles of just to ogle him, and then plead for new photographs weekly, saying "It only takes a second, just pop some in the mail!"
Who wakes you up at 3:30 a.m. crying/wanting to play
Who wakes you up at 5:30 a.m. wanting to suck on your nipples
Who would rather be naked than clothed
Who stuffs fistfuls of Cheerios into his mouth, and then coughs until he turns bright red
Who cries when his grandma tries to pick him up, and stops crying when you pick him up, thereby insulting grandma in the most personal way possible
Whom you both love sometimes, secretly, more than each other

Is it a neurosis of modern life or is it my reading list? -- you just don't find truly cruel characters in novels any more. But go back into the nineteenth century and whew! People are torturing kittens and beating horses to death and living lives totally devoted to spite. It's so refreshingly unevolved! If you were feeling as though God had turned his face away from you, you were free to shamelessly follow the path of darkness.

But these days, everyone's trying to be so nice.

Except the guy who used to have my phone number. Jack got me a cell phone so that I can be tracked down to the farthest corners of Babies R Us, but the number I've been assigned used to belong to some guy named Chris who, it seems, is in the process of burning some bridges. I am constantly taking calls from bill collectors, angry men with whiskey voices, tattoo parlors, and video stores trying to reclaim overdue rentals. It's a real hoot.

THANKS 1,000,000 to Chris for the quick, cheerful, and unselfish help with my template problem.

Doesn't everything look better now?

Can you remember what Fussy used to look like? That big ugly striped useless cell on the far right?

It's gone now.

Well, I'm excited about it.

If you haven't read it in a much-forwarded e-mail yet, here's the story of the cat who got its head caught in a garbage disposal.

In case, like me, you need a reminder of when to use "lay" and when to use "lie," go here.

Which reminds me, here's yet another picky, anachronistic but useful entry from Fowler's Modern English Usage, Second Edition (1926):

Parthian shot. It seems to be a coincidence that the popular corruption parting shot, which no doubt owes its origin to the similarity of sound, has a meaning akin to that of the parent phrase. Parthian shot refers to the tactics of the Parthian mounted archers, who would discharge a volley into the enemy while moving smartly out of range of retaliation; parting shot is ordinarily used to describe a 'last word' fired by one of the parties to an argument at the other before breaking off the verbal engagement. Although the Parthian tactics were undoubtedly formidable, it is a MISAPPREHENSION to use Parthian shot to mean merely an attack that strikes home; the essence of it is that the attack is made at the moment of retreat.

I went to the dentist yesterday and it totally freaked me out. First off I will say that I have a great dentist, I'd recommend him to anyone. I had to get a broken crown fixed, so I went to his office a little early for my 4:00 p.m. appointment and was whisked straight in to a chair before I could even take off my jacket. The assistant pinned a bib around my neck and Cooper comes in, says Howyadoin?, sits down, pulls out a drill, says Turn toward me a little, and starts drilling my tooth! No novocaine, no reassurance, no nothing. I was like, Hey! Stop it! Which is hard to do with a whirring drill inside your mouth threatening to turn your tongue into hamburger. So he stops, and looks at me patiently, and finally says, It's a nonvital tooth, you won't feel anything, but that light's pretty bright, here's a pair of sunglasses.

So I sat there wearing old scratched-up sunglasses while he broke up my old crown with what felt like a jackhammer. Every time a new chunk broke off he'd say, Don't swallow! and he'd reach in with little forceps and fish another piece of porcelain out from under my tongue.

But he's fast. I had a temporary tooth in no time, and an appointment for the replacement crown in two weeks (gold this time -- apparently I bite too hard for porcelain). Then I spent fifteen minutes talking to Brooke, a dental assistant who had her baby the day after Jackson came. Whenever I'm swapping birth stories I always try not to get self-righteous about the fact that my labor was relatively quick (six hours) and that we did the whole thing at home, safely and quietly (well, again, relatively quietly). Brooke, on the other hand, was in labor for thirty hours and after all that had a c-section. She's forty pounds overweight and she's ready to do it all over again! Some women just amaze me.

It's time once again for me to ignore the Santa Barbara Film Festival. It's not like I have an attitude about it -- like, ooh, it's so Hollywood. No, it's just that every year the second week of March rolls around and I think, oops, forgot to go to the film festival again. Forgot to even pick up a schedule. It's hard to tell anything special is even going on downtown -- there's still plenty of parking and you can get a dinner reservation for Saturday night -- except that every couple of blocks you see a small group of middle-aged L.A. types with laminated badges strung around their necks. (Badges for unlimited screenings cost $750.) It's certainly not all film-school shorts and other rinky-dink stuff. Last night they were honoring Angelica Huston, and tonight Kevin Spacey is giving an award to Sean Penn -- all people I'd pay to see.

Except that we've hired a babysitter tonight so we can go out to dinner with friends. This will be the second time we've gone out in eight months. Yes, I'm nervous about it.

Here's another bad karma moment. When I was at Connecticut College I had a radio show. I was on Sunday nights from midnight to 3:00 a.m. and I had a minimalist thing going: lots of Brian Eno and Robert Fripp, Steve Reich, Philip Glass, and whatever else I could find that was trance-y back in 1985 (Dead Can Dance, Cocteau Twins).

The art students loved me, I'd get calls from the painting studio at two in the morning thanking me for all the little butterflies I was sending through the airwaves, it was great music to zone out and paint to. I was also used to guys from the submarine base across the river calling up and hooting at me and asking me to play Jimi Hendrix or Deep Purple. I didn't think twice about ignoring their requests -- that kind of thing just didn't fit in with the vibe of the show.

But one night this really tired-sounding woman called the studio. It seemed like it was a real effort for her to even talk to me, and she told me how she'd just finished fourteen hours of work and come home to an empty apartment, and it would really lift her spirits if I'd play John Lennon's "Working Class Hero." I felt sorry for her, but I was also a little annoyed with her -- why was she calling me? Wasn't she listening to the show, couldn't she tell that I wasn't playing stuff like that? John Lennon was just not going to fit into the gestalt of my sacred three hours of airtime. So like the spoiled little weasel I was, I ignored her request.

Now every time I hear that song I cringe inside for what I did.

Other fun things that happened at the radio station:

One night I decided to devote my entire show to playing Philip Glass's epic opera "Einstein On the Beach." About halfway through I got a call from a guy who just started yelling into the phone, "This is shit! This is SHIT! THIS IS SHIT!" The next day at lunch I was in the dining hall of my dorm when I overheard the antisocial nervous guy from my hall at the next table telling one of his pals, ". . . So I called up and yelled into the phone, 'This is shit! This is shit!' It was great!" I didn't say anything, but I smiled on the inside.

Another time I got a call from someone with a really nasal voice telling me how much he liked my show and would I play this song or that song, who kept wanting to talk while I was putting records on and it was freaking me out because I needed to concentrate on what I was doing but I didn't know how to politely hang up. Finally he started getting frustrated because I wasn't getting the joke -- it was my friend Brian calling from Ohio.