Am I the only one to notice that Jackson's bulging-armed, thick-necked, big-booted, bedroom-eyed Fisher Price Rescue Hero toys (they of the screaming fire engine) bear a startling resemblance to a bunch of Tom of Finland drawings?









If you don't believe me, just check out the mustaches.

I'm totally right on this one.

I guess a bunch of you guys went wild on the "Random blog" link over there on the left, and somehow you all ended up at Relapsed Catholic. She got enough hits from Fussy to warrent a polite visit here and a link back to me. Plus, she is funny, which is good. I have noticed some sort of Catholic-Buddhist connection going on for me lately, and whatever it means, I LIKE IT, BABY, SO BRING IT ON.

This morning Jack was inspired to seek revenge on the people who gave Jackson a toy firetruck with real working 100-decibel siren by calling them on the phone at 7:30 a.m. while the aforementioned siren was blaring in the background. "Hear that?" Jack hollered, as though they wouldn't be able to hear him over the rush of emergency vehicles circling our living room. "Morning!" yelled Jack most cheerfully to these formerly sleeping people. It was especially satisfying because the one person who actually answered the phone had been stressed and rude to Jack the day after we had had a very pleasant Christmas morning at their house, and then the day after that this person sincerely apologized for his rudeness. So calling first thing in the morning and filling his ear with a blaring siren was, I think, Jack's interesting mutual-torture male way of injecting glue into the friendship breach. And they both had a good stress-relieving laugh. I hope.

Other man-related observations. I know I said before that I don't have any friends in this town, but what I do have are some really great acquaintances. I ran into one of these acquaintances at the grocery store last week. (Names have been changed.)
Me: Bill!
Bill: Hey, Edie!
Me: How's it going. Cut your hair. Lookin' good.
Bill: Thanks. Gee, Jackson sure is getting big. Oh, let me introduce you (indicating young woman, who now steps forward): this is Helen.
Me: Hi, Helen, I'm Edie.
(Helen shakes my hand, looks at Bill, who suddenly looks ill)
Me: What, is something dripping on your head?
Mike: Uh, Hillary, her name is Hillary, not Helen -- (to her, desperately) I can totally explain why I said that.
Me: Okay, happy holidays! Bye!

Turns out that she is not forgiving him for this. Jack did the same thing to me once, except he called me by his ex's nickname. And I was like, whatever, they're still sorting their shit out, it's cool. But some girls take this as a terrible insult and if Helen/Hillary can't take a harmless work-related mixup (he works with someone whose name is uncannily similar to hers, plus he was nervous shopping with her because he's only known her for a week and he really likes her a lot), then she doesn't really like Bill enough, and she needs to go home and grow up. But then I am known for taking the guy's side in these matters. Mostly because they seem to need so much sympathy, and I am in the position to give it, being a female they haven't fucked up with. After I have created this special status for myself, I am available for miserable-but-funny phone calls and lunches. Score!

"Isn't it time to try something new? Loretta Lynn wants us to 'put the Christ back in Christmas.' I say let's give Jesus a break."
Happy Dean Martin Death Day.

Our Sarah Brown Originals



Perfect for happy hour at the playground! And Jackson's "David Lynch indie tee" is, of course, is perfect for all occasions.

Thanks again, S. B.!

I just had the lamest conversation with a telemarketer.

Telemarketer: "I'd like to help you save money by switching your long distance service to MCI."
Me: (shit) "We're not really interested in switching right now."
Tele.: "Ma'am, our service is only $5 a month and 7 cents a minute. Do you currently make long-distance calls in-state or out-of-state?"
Me: (goddamnit, now what) "Uh, both."
Tele.: "Blah blah blah blah blah . . . "
Me: (putting phone down on table, walking away) "Jackson, where are you?" (pause) "OH MY GOD!"
(Silence)
(Came back two minutes later and hung up phone)

My Recurring Dreams

Interrupted while masturbating. This is a classic. Just can't get the job done. People keep walking in on me, no matter what closet I hide in. (Closet = symbol for something really obvious? Must look into this.) Especially disturbing when person interrupting is my father.

Moving out of my parents' house. This is a new theme, introduced by my subconscious after I got back from Denver last week. I'm either lying around all foggy in my folks' house and then I wake up and go, "Wait a minute, the semester's half over and I have classes to go to, I have my own apartment, I have an amazingly supportive boyfriend, and I'm supposed to be applying to film school! Where the fuck did I park my car?" Either that or I'm already at college and I have an amazingly supportive vegan girlfriend and I'm all confident and driven and focused and grounded. (In short, nothing like I am in real life.)

Dropping the baby. I'm walking along, carrying Jackson, and then whoops! Shit! Right on his head in the middle of the crosswalk! Last night I actually dropped him on a nice sprung wood floor during a dance rehearsal. And the truly awful thing is, I kind of meant to do it. Saving grace: Jackson is never hurt. But I feel tremendously guilty for the whole day after having this dream.

Why do I have an eyebrow growing out of my chin? This is not a dream, this is a fact. I have a long, black hair growing out of my chin, and every time I pluck it it just grows back. I also have one long black hair growing out of each areola (you know, that little halo around your nipple). Jack is fascinated by these nipple hairs. He used to come at me with a razor and swipe them off, but ever since I did all that breastfeeding he just looks at them with a bemused/resigned "I feel strangely at peace when I see that they're still there" expression.

More body hair news: The other day Jack was in a position to examine my leg hair more closely than usual (I'm not saying how, but you should go ahead and think something dirty), and he was struck by the fact that, at the moment, I have more hair on my legs than he does. Yes, if I let the shaving go for a day or two I start to look like Broadway Joe. You have to be a special kind of guy to continue doing what Jack was doing while my hirsute, manly popliteal spaces were gripping his acoustic meatus.

I was checking my stats this morning (which have taken a formidable dip lately, I guess abandoning my post for three weeks didn't do much for my popularity), when I noticed an unfamiliar linker. So I checked out her site, and I really liked it. Partly because, as a former library worker myself, I am in awe of the fact that Robin works in the epicenter of library glamour, at the one of Congress. That, New York, and Chicago, for the library lifer who still lives inside me, are the grails meccas (if there can be three grails meccas, and why not) of my own personal geekdom. Apart from all that she's funny and well-read and she takes marvelous photos, so go visit.

This is me waking up this morning and going, "Well, gee, we're all unpacked, the laundry can be put away, I guess I should glue my desk back together, and HOLY GUACAMOLE WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME CHRISTMAS IS ONLY SIX DAYS AWAY!?

(This is me realizing that it takes a little more effort and creativity not to bail out and say "holy fuck" all the time, and that someone like Sarah who can convey bile without cursing is someone my mother would probably like me to hang around with a little more.)

This is me waking up in the twenty-first century and saying, "Hold the phone! I can still go online and have all my presents delivered by Christmas Eve without paying exhorbitant shipping costs." (I recommend Williams-Sonoma's candy selection and anything you can afford from this place that Jack cannot click on.)

And here I am eating lunch and thinking how pleasantly ordinary/miraculous it is that Jackson has his father's hands. And his chin and his eyes and his hair. And how much biological connection to history and people and sunshine and rocks and Holy Roman dirt those little resemblances give me (as well as reassurance and further proof that Jack, indeed, is the father) (not that there was any question, but still, you know, it helps to have that in your corner) (how much must it suck to be acrimoniously divorced and your kid has a face exactly like someone you hate).

(Kill me before I parenthesize again.)

And how much do I love the fact that Jackson can look up at night and say "moon." And then ten minutes later he can sit strapped into his high chair and shout "dot-dog!" (hot dog) at me until I am compelled to microwave up a Hebrew National, cut it into bite-size bits, blow on it like a billowy Renaissance god until he believes it won't sear his tongue, and watch him inhale it while his father says with satisfaction, "That's my boy." (Not that there was any doubt, but like I said, every bit of confirmation.) (Oh, I guess you have to kill me now.)

Away for Three Weeks

Lilypads of mold
flourish in my coffee pot;
plants, though, are crispy.

One nice thing about new paint on the walls is that all the crap we had previously nailed up is down on the floor -- paintings, posters, photos . . . even the curtains are balled up in garbage bags. (So if you know where we live and would like to get a glimpse of us doing whatever in the altogether, bust out the binoculars, now's your chance.) Some of it may go back up, some of it may just go. The walls are so beautiful right now we're afraid to spoil them.

One nice thing about traveling, being with family, and living out of a suitcase for three weeks* is that I forgot to have any of the symptoms of the deadly disease of which I'm probably dying. It wasn't until I was standing in the shower this morning that I remembered to notice how weak my left arm hasn't been, and how fine my left leg has felt. Which is interesting. Though my (dare I say previous) symptoms were real, I certainly question their source right now (and that ditz of a doctor still hasn't sent me a copy of my lab results). I'm even feeling pretty goddamned cheerful at the moment, and wonder if I'm just neurotic, and if a certain amount of my neurosis isn't just due to dull isolation. I never thought I'd say it, but I miss my stupid family. I spent so long hating them and trying to get out from under their stifling control that I forgot to realize that we'd all grown up and that things had changed. I don't really know why I don't have any friends in this town, maybe I've clung too hard to my old friends who live in other places, maybe it just gets harder to make new friends as you get older, maybe I'm just a social klutz. Whatever my problem is, I need to deal with it, because free-floating anxiety is no substitute for going shoe shopping with your best pal who hates to shop just as much as you do.

I realize that this is just another pathetic post, and that I seem to have a well-developed and strange need to evoke sympathy. If you really care, please write a comment that totally kicks my ass.

*This is a lie, I unpack completely in hotels and other people's houses, I put everything away in drawers, even if I'm only there for one night. I almost never leave things behind, either, although I lost an expensive dental appliance during our three-night luxury hiatus at the Montecito Inn last week and I'm pretty pissed about having to replace it.

It is a caring mother's responsibility never to let her head throb like this. But last night, amidst the chaos that is laughably called our newly-painted apartment, I dug out my leather pants, got Jackson's girlfriend (babysitter) to come over, and went out to dinner with Jack and his business partner and their employees at a fancy, exclusive, charming little mud hut where I guess I drank too much wine. It was hard to tell, my glass was just always miraculously, Jesusly full of local chardonnay. This morning, my child demonstrated a knack for knowing just when to hit me over the head with a bike pump. So he went to work with daddy for a little while. I should be napping, but I'm talking to you. To prove my love. Before I go back to clinging to the life raft that is my king-size, freshly cased pillow.

Phew! We're alive, no worries. Dad's okay, recovering in the hospital from a quintuple bypass. If he manages to shake it off and pee for the nurse, he'll have a new life as a morphine addict, but hey. Somehow in the middle of all this our landlord arranged to have our apartment painted. You know how a three-day job always takes ten days. We're digging out. Love to everyone for the good wishes. More tomorrow.

A few thoughts on Thanksgiving in Palm Springs.

1. Driving past the Betty Ford clinic on the way to buy ice cream can fill you with a slightly darker brand of holiday spirit. Not the Belushi speedball spirit, and not a Bukowski boozy-old-man spirit. Kind of a Carrie Fisher/Robert Downey, Jr. drugs-guns-ammo-and-bleak-self-referential-rehab-comedy spirit. I only know one person who's been to Betty Ford and it sounds a lot better than state-ordered, state-run hospital rehab. If you can stop yourself before you become a dangerous embarrassment who needs to be arrested, I think everyone would agree that private rehab is the way to go. Some places even have scholarships (I love it that they call it that) so you don't have to pay much. This is your Holiday Public Service Announcement: you get to choose between One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest and Postcards From the Edge. Choose wisely. Thank you.

2. Why did they tear out the ice skating rink at the mall in Palm Desert? Was it because they needed their own nuclear reactor power to keep it frozen during the annual 100 Days of 115° Heat Festival?

3. Jack can (and did) cook a bird and four side dishes for eight people without breaking a sweat while also managing to keep track of numerous football and two basketball games. My hero.

4. We also had some problems with our in-room movies. (We settled the Nut with Grandma and cousins and then snuck off to a hotel for five nights so we could remember what it's like to sleep past 6 a.m.) The deal was, you paid $21.99 and got unlimited porn until noon the next day. I'm not a conoisseur or anything, but it was better than usual hotel porn. So it was morning the next day and we switched on the TV expecting to surf through Naughty Neighbor's Wife and Teen Panty Party, or whatever, and the TV tells us we're being charged for the privilege again. So Jack calls the front desk and describes our problem to the girl who answers. And the girl says, "Alright, I'll send a technician right up." And Jack says, "No, you won't. I'm in bed. With my wife. Picture in your mind's eye." Picture in your mind's eye! (Did I say he was my hero yet?) We were just lying around in our robes, but still. What was she was picturing? Angry middle-aged people for whom lingerie and booze just aren't enough anymore. No, and I also want erased from my in-room movie bill the godawful third Austin Powers movie. I didn't much like Road to Perdition either, but Bourne Identity was pretty good.

5. I'm sorry to say that yes, a person can get tired of room service toast.

6. Jackson had an absolute ball with his cousins and Grandma, and he completely fell apart when we drove away. The he fell asleep. Then he woke up and demanded cookies. When I ran out of cookies he cried some more, so I gave him a lemon. He took a bite of it and then threw it at my head and cried some more. Cried/whined for about an hour, until Jack finally just yelled at him HEY! WE'RE ALMOST HOME! RELAX! Which scared him, and the real crying began. Then, two minutes away from home, he fell asleep. The good news is that Grandma inadvertently trained him to sleep for eleven hours, from 8:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., a trend that I hope and pray will continue until at least until the next time change comes along and fucks everything up. But Jackson is a total love dog and seems to have forgiven us for strapping him into a car seat for three tedious hours. Forgiven us with kisses. (After we gave him ice cream.) Oh, I can't wait to put him on a plane tomorrow.

7. Ice cream isn't bribery, it is a vital parenting tool.

I've never indulged in so much recreational eating and, at the end of it all, found that I'd lost weight.

Which, you know, supports the cancer (or any other wasting disease you want to contribute) theory. Except that my bloody HMO doctress left me a bright little message saying that my blood tests were perfect. No details, no numbers, just lots and lots of holiday cheer and a very subtle implication that I am probably mad. Not angry-mad, but more of a John-Barrymore-in-Svengali mad.

While I've been casting around for reasons to undergo blood transfusions, my father took the time to become genuinely ill. He had a heart attack. It was, I'm told, the best kind of heart attack you can have, and did very little damage, but he needs a bypass anyway so I'm packing up the Nut again and tomorrow we're flying to Denver. We will do our best to cheer the old guy up with interesting health facts. Dad, I will say, did you know that your nipples are made of the same type of skin as your penis?

Updates will again be suspended unless I can convince my father that now is the time to get an Internet hookup.