Cookie and Jackson had a big ol’ game of tug the other morning.
Jackson calls those pajamas his “fuzzies.”
Saturday under-eight division soccer games are better than TV.
Last Christmas Jack gave me a bunch of different coffee bowls. Because my reasoning goes something like: I only have one cup of coffee a day, but it needs to be a VERY LARGE CUP OF COFFEE.
On the way to Toys ‘R’ Us in Times Square last summer.
The Rejection Collection, edited by Matthew Diffee
I wish it were 300 pages longer.
The Emperor’s Children, by Claire Messud
Three thirtysomething characters who met in college continue their lives in New York City. Well-observed but uninteresting people.
Out of Sight, by Elmore Leonard
Slick banter and crisp plotting as a criminal and the federal marshal out to catch him try to decide whether or not they should sleep together.
Live From New York: An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live, by James A. Miller and Tom Shales
This ended up being sort of compulsively readable; lots of dirt, good backstage anecdotes from and about many people that I find funny. The book ran aground a couple of times when I wanted it to go deeper than I guess the people they spoke to were willing to go, but that’s the nature of an oral history. Someone probably had to edit the shit out of it just to keep it down to one volume. In the end it was more fun for me to read about the older casts, since that’s when I was really watching the show. I wanted more Gilda and Laraine and Jane, and more about Phil Hartman. And there was no Eddie Murphy at all, he didn’t want to be interviewed. I don’t know much about the latest crew, though I was surprised to find that Jimmy Fallon sounds like such a butthead.
We’ve had Ricky Bobby on pretty much a continuous loop here for the last two weeks. Seriously, I can watch that movie again and again and my appreciation for Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly only deepens. And Molly Shannon is riveting, even passed out on a tabletop. The downside, of course, is Jackson memorizing chunks of wildly inappropriate dialogue. “I’m all jacked up on Mountain Dew!” he says to me when I’m tying his shoes before school. “I gotta lay off the peyote!” he shouts at the man delivering our pizza.
I know you waited all week for this truly meaningful post.
You can click on Cookie there if you want to see some pictures from last weekend’s trip to the beach.
For me the highlight of the description linked above is “left untreated, the spreading bacterial infection may rapidly turn into a life-threatening condition.”
I guess now’s not the time to get all hippie health food with the saline nasal spray and chamomile compresses. My initial response is always just to let things run their course, but when running its course = death, I have only my action-hero husband to thank for the motivation. (“If that thing was on Jackson’s nose you’d have taken him to the doctor three days ago,” said he, and it’s the truth.)
With me it’s a combination of laziness and a morbid curiosity: how bad will it get? What does my face looked like when it’s all fucked up? A similar impulse was behind all the self-portraits I took after I had my bike accident. Did I ever tell you about that? I will, as it serves a classic example of yet another thing you shouldn’t do without the supervision of professional stunt men.
Oh, let’s just take one more look before it goes away:
Now it’s off to the drug store for a heroic dose of antibiotics.