Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Keboad is boken


Friday, May 26, 2006

Ass Pants

Bought myself some pants last night. I love these pants. They are black, lightweight, festooned with thousands of zippers and neat little pockets. Really cute pants. Joyful pants. Pants that should look righteous with my black, silver-beaded tank, or even my new green t-shirt featuring a bunny picking his nose and captioned “I HATE EVERYTHING..” The pants should look wild yet chic with my new obnoxiously huge Italian horn necklace and delicious three-inch-high cork-heeled, bronze-leathered-instep wedges. Those pants should look smashing with my “bug-eye” rose-tinted shades and the awesome silvery, slouchy bag I got for half price.

Notice I used the word “should” throughout.

The pants are not my friend, ladies and gentlemen. The pants hate me and my generous hips. They mock the fact I bore four children, that I am over the age of twenty. They chuckle and twitter when I, refusing to accept the image I see before me in the mirror, suck in my tummy in the hopes that the conspicuous Tony Sopranoesque meatball sub-size roll will simply go away if I stand at the right angle. Oh, and how they laugh when I turn to check the crackage (ladies, you know what I’m talking about), and am horrified that not only is there an all too visible crack, one that would show even if I wore a floor-length sari, but that the whole world, should I wear these pants, would know I am indeed a natural blonde.

The “waistband” sets exactly one inch above my pubic area. One inch.

The zipper is so short, I don’t know why the designer even bothered.

That’ll teach me to buy pants. Silly Ms. Lori, buying pants as if it were still possible in this day and age to find them with a fucking normal waist to crotch ratio.

Still. I really, really love those pants.

Perhaps I will frame them and display the hateful, beautiful bastards on my bedroom wall. I can gaze longingly at them, me in my burka, and dream…

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

I Missed My Tayter for THAT?

***large sigh***

***and another***


I don't want to diss Unca Stephen (King) or anything, but last night's Desperation was so bad, I fell asleep halfway through the three hour-long fiasco and dreamt of a bespecled little being named Stephen who popped up from the heating duct, skittered over to my bed, then crawled onto my head and proceeded to make doo-doo in my hair.

I woke up screaming, of course, but not because of the nightmare -- I realized I'd forgotten to record the American Idol finale.

I forsook my darling Taylor Hicks, my Tay-Tay, my sweet, lumpy, ticcing Tayter, for nothing.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Embarrassing Your Kids 101

I don’t know about you, but one of my greatest pleasures in life is laughing -- at my own self. I enjoy doing or saying asinine things around my children (or Lar, or random folks) and laughing, laughing, laughing while everyone else just stares in horror.

What is it about making others feel uncomfortable that thrills me so? It really is one of the great mysteries of the universe.

Anyway, last night I, along with my friend, Bambi Jo (not her real name), attended our kids’ school chorus recital, and zowie, what a fine night it was. The brand new cafitorium was packed to the rafters, the principal was there, nervously skulking about and rubbing his hands, making sure everything was running smoothly, the stage lights, many of which were not facing the stage, were intermittently blinding me between spurts of complete darkness (I believe a fourth grader may have been in charge of lighting -- either that or a totally drunk adult), and there were two special guests who performed alongside the fourth grade chamber ensemble, one an accomplished harpsichordist who performs worldwide, and the other an accomplished classical guitarist who also instructs at Eastman School of Music. Bambi Jo and I were very impressed with the special guests, and the both of us became enamored of the harpsichord, which we’d never experienced live before. We are now discussing buying a harpsichord and putting it in our adjoining backyards -- she’ll play while I dance on top. But I digress.

After the string concert, it was time for our kids to strut their stuff, and I excitedly searched the crowded stage for my girl, which was difficult, as I am blind as a decapitated bat, yet I skimmed the blurry mass of humanity for any sign of a formal pink dress and funky up-do, stage lights boring holes into my corneas. No Ariel. I looked and looked, Bambi Jo looked and looked, but no sign of my girl. As is the norm, I then began to worry, began imagining horrible things, like what if Ariel slipped and broke her back, and they whisked her off to Emergency? What if some filthy pig kidnapped her and is now eighty miles long gone in his filthy pickup to a filthy pig town full of filthy pigs? What if she disappeared into a wormhole of some sort, and is now halfway across the galaxy?

Then, thankfully, just as my heart was about to explode with grief, Bambi Jo finally pointed to the opposite side of the enormous stage: “There she is!”

Ah. Ariel had said she would be by the piano, and much my chagrin, realized she meant the piano piano, not the harpsichord. As I mentioned, neither I nor Bambi Jo had ever experienced a live harpsichord, so we, of course, had no idea what the hell. No wonder the “piano” was unusually ornate and all Mozart-y. In our defense, however, the actual piano piano was ground-level and hidden by hundreds of large, fat heads, so… Okay, fine, so Bambi Jo and I aren’t the brightest bulbs. Whatever.

I could barely make Ariel out amongst the fat heads and blinding stage lights, and our seats were far, far away from where she expected us to be, so now I worried that my daughter would think I’d left the recital in search of booze or something. I did the only thing I possibly could do to ensure my girl wouldn’t feel abandoned -- I stood up just as the chorus was about to begin and frantically waved my hands. I quickly sat down, a bit embarrassed yet feeling the old giddy goodness of being a spectacle, but for fear my daughter had missed my frantic waving, felt compelled to again stand and not only wave frantically, but give her the peace sign. The peace sign? Even I realize how completely stupid that must’ve looked. Regardless, my girl did see me, as evidenced by her look of pure disdain and short “ohmygod, sit down!” gesture

But just to make double sure, at the end of the first song, I stood yet again and screeched my approval, pumped my fist like an ass, hooted, hollered, did the requisite rock & roll “devil horns“ sign.

I knew I was humiliating my daughter. I knew I was being bad. But I couldn’t stop.

I did not care if I was bothering those around me, did not care if Bambi Jo wanted to crawl into a deep hole, never to return. I was manic with glee, overjoyed, shaking with self-appreciation and lusty laughter. Oh, it was good. So good, so right.

I continued on with my appalling behavior until the very last song, and I do not regret it one bit. Why, even Bambi Jo came around and laughed in spite of herself. My daughter triumphed over the sick sensation of having her mother lose her mind in public, and actually thanked me for being her biggest fan, said I was cool. Her friends thought I was cool.

I am cool.

As sung by Mrs. Baldwin’s Fourth Grade Chorus:

Won't you get hip to this timely tip:
when you make that California trip
Get your kicks on Route Sixty-Six.
(doodly doodly doo doo waa)

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Jonathon Jones

This morning, while styling my daughter’s hair, we noticed an ant on the wall.
My girl is terribly afraid of insects, and as expected, she did her usual “Ew! Moooom! Kill it! Kill it now!” (I’m a pansy when it comes to killing any creature, and am known far and wide as Spider Woman because I allow house spiders to roam freely about my home -- I only kill when coerced by high-pitched shrieks and intolerable whining), and I did my usual lollygagging in the hopes the ant might run off to a safe girl-free place before I would be forced to crush it. But this particular insect was different.

He looked exactly like this:

And as the shadow of death (wadded-up toilet paper) eclipsed his tiny body, he suddenly stood upright, cued an invisible band with a barely audible “a-one and a-two,” then did a little dance, a desperate jig that immediately charmed my daughter into silence. We looked at one another, she and I, our mouths open in disbelief, then turned back to the ant, who had finished his dance with an impressive triple pirouette, then abruptly rolled himself up into a ball. I moved in closer, my face only inches away from the bizarre ball of antness, and whispered “Dude. Dude?” The ant unfurled himself and looked right into my eyes. Neither of us said a word, just stared intently at each other, his weeny thorax trembling with exhaustion, and perhaps, fear. After what seemed minutes, the ant finally spoke: “I am Jonathon Jones.”

That was it. Just “I am Jonathon Jones.” Then he disappeared beneath the baseboard.

The experience so moved me, I wept.

The moral of this story is a simple one: Don’t kill another living creature except in cases of self-defense (serial killer, charging bear, angry hornet) or obvious threat to home and health (termites, cockroaches, rabid bats), or when coerced by high-pitched shrieks and intolerable whining, (preserving one’s mental health is of the utmost importance), because despite our differences, we all dance to the same tune.

Monday, May 15, 2006

90 is the New 60!

My Nana Spinelli, A.K.A. Florence Raphael (Petrillo) Spinelli, turned ninety years old on May 4th, and the woman still has it going on! Case in point: She got hit on during a birthday celebration the family threw for her at Prioetti’s last Saturday.

For those of you who thought you might‘ve read that wrong, I‘ll repeat the above statement: MY NINETY-YEAR-OLD GRANDMOTHER GOT HIT ON.

In a restaurant.

During her ninetieth birthday celebration.

After the Birthday Song was sung and the candles on the rum cake were blown out, a handsome, well-dressed gentleman of around seventy or so approached my grandmother, who was seated at the head of our veeerrrry loooong table, introduced himself, inquired as to which birthday she was celebrating, and nearly had a heart attack when my highly amused Uncle Sammy told him. The gentleman recovered enough to extend his good wishes to Ms. Florence, and exclaim how beautiful she was, how youthful, how amazingly well-preserved! Then, to the shock of everyone present, the man leaned in, planted a wet one on my startled grandmother’s mouth, and proceeded to ask her for a date. And then three miniature Dean Martins flew out of the busboy’s ass and soared above our heads while singing “That’s Amore.” Seriously. I am so not lying.

Well, okay, maybe the part about miniature Dean Martins was a bit of an embellishment.

Now, I’m no stranger to witnessing men hit up my nana -- she was a beautiful woman, a platinum-haired Sophia Loren type sans the throaty accent. She favored black low-cut tops and form-fitting pants. Her nails were always long and painted silver, to match her hair. She was never seen without her three-inch heels. Since I was a little girl, and on into adulthood, men would approach her in grocery stores, restaurants, museums, zoos, circuses (lordy, I’ll never forget the time a clown at the Shrine Circus attempted to get lucky -- the story is legendary, one that will be passed down from generation to generation, I'm sure), but as my grandmother advanced in age, health problems forced her to become less flamboyant; she had to trash her beloved stilettos and begin wearing sensible shoes, which I believe was more difficult to relinquish than her driver’s license. She was eighty-two.

Besides the obvious, other things caused my nana to slow down, things like losing most of her brothers and sisters. They were a close-knit family, she being the oldest of ten. As each sibling passed on or was diagnosed with cancer or debilitated by strokes, I saw my nana become less effervescent, drawn, dazed. She didn’t laugh so much, cried easily, became angry or frustrated at the drop of a hat. She despised the cane she was required to use. By the age of eighty-five, my grandmother finally resigned herself to the fact that she was old.

I think the resignation allowed her to move forward. After a few years of constantly hearing her say, “I can't believe how old I am," and “Oh, don't ever get old,“ and “I’m old, old, old!“ we noticed that she began smiling more and complaining less, noticed a lilt in her voice, the familiar and sorely-missed sweetness and graciousness that was always so much a part of her personality. She discovered an even deeper faith in her God, became devoted to her rosaries, began attending church twice a week. She began mingling with the other residents of her retirement community, venturing by herself to the store via Liftline, going to lunch with friends. She applied her makeup every morning, demure pats of blush on her high cheekbones, a bit of pink rose to her lip, some shadow to her still-mesmerizing amber eyes. She attended family gatherings looking marvelous, silver nails flashing as she spoke, funky yet tasteful jewelry tinkling at her wrists, sparkling around her neck. It was as if she’d found herself again.

And then, at the age of ninety, my grandmother was asked out on a date by a handsome stranger twenty years her junior.

You go, girl.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

I'll Stop the World and Melt With You

What a beautiful day it is already. Woke to freshly brewed coffee and cake, gorgeous flowers, a couple of c-notes tucked into the waistband of my thong, a mountain of homemade cards (one of which was from my boy -- a big flower on the front, nonsense scribbles on the inside, though his name was carefully printed in large block letters, and a stale Teddy Graham taped to the back, which I was forced to eat). I'm looking forward to the steak and chicken and corn on the cob Lar will be preparing for lunch. Lovely, lovely day.

To the special lady in my life….

by your daughter, Ariel

You’re very important, I love you so dear. You’re really nice and the least strict of all. Of course, some chores here and there, like keeping my room clean and cleaning my hamster’s cage, and helping pick up Brandon’s toys, and putting my clean clothes away, but compared to what I would have to do if you weren’t there? That would be awful!

Of course, I love you for more reasons -- that’s not even 2% of why I love you.

I love you because you keep me alive and make me feel good when you hug me and watch TV with me and just say good night with a kiss, even!

You say you love me, I say it right back. I say I love you, you say it right back, too!

You write stories and poems, what a good writer you are!

You cook great food and yum! It tastes like you could be a professional chef!

No one could replace you. No one else cooks like you. No one else looks like you. No one else loves me as much as you do!

A special lady in my life…

Anyone can guess who that is -- my MOM!


HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY to all my mommy friends. Love you all.

Friday, May 12, 2006

Forever Young

When my first two kids were babies, I was terrified that my own instincts would be clouded by unfortunate life experience, and so devoured Dr. Spock, parenting magazines, watched The Learning Channel, and it calmed my insecurities somewhat, gave me courage to forge ahead, to trust myself, but I actually learned very little.

Because I’d not had the luxury of learning by example, each day brought with it challenges and situations foreign to me, yet somehow, deep inside, I knew exactly what to do -- I knew how to rock my babies at just the right speed, knew to speak in soft, gentle tones, to smile and coo and nibble and delight in my babies’ delicious scent. I knew that my babies were human beings who deserved respect, who had marvelous minds and bottomless hearts. I knew they would spill juice or throw food from their highchair, and I knew they would test my patience, make me angry, but I also knew that it was normal for children to do that. I knew that children have delicate skin, that they feel pain more acutely than adults, that their eardrums are sensitive and should be treated as such. I knew that their souls are pure, that they mean no ill will, that they love their mommies and daddies more than anything, that we are their entire world. I knew how hot it burns when a child’s world explodes into violence again and again, how deep the wounds go when the kings and queens of their universe betray them with cruelty. I knew this, all of it, because every time I looked at my children, I saw myself, and that is how I learned to love myself.

When they were infants, I would inexplicably feel sadness while gazing at the back of their necks, the soft, vulnerable folds of flesh dusted with downy hair, and sometimes, a fine rash, a thin line of dried formula. I’d sit and watch them play, their backs to me, and want to weep at the innocence of that flesh, want to put my hand over it and protect it from harm. They’d be happily babbling away, weaving to and fro, unsteady in their newly learned sitting position, banging a rattle or biting a dolly, unsuspecting, trusting, peaceful, and my heart would break. I realize now that my heart broke for the baby that was me, the baby whose ears hurt, whose spirit yearned for peace, whose body and soul and mind were not given respect. I’d see myself, and all the years to come, and it was odd, time-travel-y, like I’d stepped in from the future to comfort myself, to put a hand over the sweet, vulnerable, unsuspecting flesh and shield it from harm.

Either that or I’m just a big nutcase with a flair for the dramatic, but anyway.

I may not know what makes a good mother, a “perfect” mother, but I do know that a truly loving mother is one who is grateful for her children, not just for their gift of legacy, but for what they teach us, what they allow us to see. All the books and television shows and magazines in the world could never teach me what my kids have taught me -- no therapist or psychologist or little white pill has the power to propel me backward in time. No self-help guru could teach empathy or lead me back to where I began and guide me along the right path of self-love and acceptance. But my kids did that and more. They are a part of me, they are me when I was an infant, a toddler, a preteen, a teenager, and they will be as adults. And as each year passes, I will continue to learn from them, breathe their spirit, wrap my arms around them and embrace myself.

“And when you finally fly away
I’ll be hoping that I served you well
For all the wisdom of a lifetime
No one can ever tell”

“But whatever road you choose
I’m right behind you, win or lose
Forever young, forever young”

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Two Assholes Discussing Stuff

George: C’mon, Jebbie! Go for it! Being president is real fun! Sure, it can be hard at times, a little gross, too, like when ya gotta suck it up and pretend your brain don’t hurt during those dang press conferences, and ya gotta imagine Mommy in her nightgown else y’all would laugh and shit, ’cause it’s real funny when those smart alecky reporters get all up in your face real serious-like and ’spect some kinda answers to their stupid, dumb questions, and y’all don’t want to laugh, Jebbie, I’m being real here, ’cause I swear to God, the press will SOOOO ream your ass if you laugh, so, like, just imagine Mommy in her big-ass nightgown, and it’ll be okay, even though you might get sick in your stomach. It‘ll all be worth it, though, kinda like eating wieners offa them sticks when we was kids. ‘Member that? Sure, them sticks was gross, and they prolly had bird poopy on ‘em and whatnot and things, but MAN, them wieners was tasty.

Jeb: I like pie!

Monday, May 08, 2006

Quasimodo Called, and He Wants His Face Back

Well, goodness. Guess what I did on Saturday? That’s right! Hurt my eye so badly, I cannot see out of it, nor stand the pain for one more minute. Seriously. this is bad. It’s now completely closed, puffed up and purple like Mike Tyson gave it all he had, and feels like a tiny electrified squirrel is frantically foraging for nuts within my pupil. Bastard squirrel!

I was playing with my son, and during his laughing fit, he accidentally poked his whole hand into my eye. Unfortunately, I think it went straight to my brain. I saw stars, I felt the universe close up around me, heard nothing but the silence of space, and then I think I passed out for a few seconds.

I haven’t slept a wink since (heh). Tried everything from bathing my eye with saline solution to applying cold compresses, and really, I see no relief unless I take a sterilized spoon and dig my fucking eyeball out of its socket.

Well, that’ll teach me not to nibble on my boy’s pizza dough-like thighs, tempting as they may be.

Anyway, I’ll probably not be posting for the next couple of days. If you don’t hear from me within the next week, then you’ll know I’m swinging from a bell tower somewhere in France. Au revoir!

Saturday, May 06, 2006

It Waits

It’s been brought to my attention that come May 23, “It” will wait no more. This nasty bastard has apparently run out of patience, and I’m giddy as a Japanese school girl, excited as a recently released convict in a whorehouse, happy as a former diva on crack, eager as Jenna Jameson’s beaver, that It is about to unleash Its fury on the world...And It may just rip my face off for using atrocious simile.

From the press release (which, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know, contains no atrocious simile or inappropriate metaphor):

“It Waits”
On DVD May 23
TROY , MI – Anchor Bay Entertainment, an IDT Entertainment Company, presents the terrifying story of a dark legend come to life seeking vengeance on mankind. From acclaimed writer/producer Stephen J. Cannell (“A Team,” “Hunter,” “Profit,” “ 21 Jump Street”) comes… It Waits! Premiering on DVD May 23rd, 2006, consumers won't have to wait any longer to thrill at the extensive bonus features including behind-the-scenes footage and interviews of the cast and writers, in addition to a feature-length audio commentary. SRP is $19.98 and pre-book date is April 12.

Written by Cannell, Thomas E. Szollosi (“Mythquest”) and Richard Christian Matheson (Masters of Horror) and directed by Steven R. Monroe (House of 9), It Waits focuses on a tale taken from Native American folklore of a lost Human Being whose vicious resentments fueled an anger so fierce that its soul was banished from the world of the living. What happens when this malevolent spirit returns -– can anyone stop its relentless and destructive powers?

After her best friend is killed in an auto accident in which she was the driver, Forest Ranger Danielle St. Clair (Cerina Vincent -– “CSI,” Not Another Teen Movie) moves into a secluded watchtower in the mountains to bury herself in her work, unaware that something else is buried in the forest. A spirit of the underworld – a victim of its own evil bitterness long entombed in a cave. For a chance to escape and exact its bloody revenge, it waits…

And when accidentally released, the peaceful forest becomes a killing ground. Only Danielle and her fiancé Justin (Dominic Zamprogna, “Battlestar Galactica”) are left to stand up against this ancient nightmare.

Value-added supplements on the It Waits DVD include:
Widescreen Presentation (1.77:1), enhanced for 16x9 TVs
Dolby Digital 5.1 Surround Sound
“Blood On The Pines” Behind-The-Scenes Featurette
Feature-length audio commentary with director Steven R. Monroe and star Cerina Vincent

Stephen J. Cannell Productions, Inc. owns the worldwide distribution rights to more than 1,000 hours of Cannell produced series and TV movies. DVD releases from the company's broadcast hits include “Hunter Season One & Two,” “The Greatest American Hero Seasons One, Two & Three,” “The Commish Season Three” and “Silk Stalkings Season Four.” For more information on Stephen J. Cannell, visit www.cannell.com.

Anchor Bay Entertainment is a recognized name in home entertainment. The company offers an expansive selection of award-winning, notable theatrical films including “Time Bandits” and “Halloween,” classic television programming such as “Roseanne,” “3 rd Rock from the Sun,” “Three's Company,” “Highlander” and much of the Stephen J. Cannell library, traditional children's fare featuring the ever-popular Thomas & Friends collection and Mister Rogers Neighborhood, the impressive Manga anime line and chart-topping fitness titles including the "Crunch" and "For Dummies" series. Anchor Bay Entertainment is aggressively developing a wide range of original programs and concepts in addition to licensing existing brands and films.
Anchor Bay Entertainment is a subsidiary of IDT Entertainment. IDT Entertainment is a vertically integrated entertainment company that develops, produces, and distributes proprietary and licensed entertainment content.

Creature features make me swoon.

Soon as I view this bad boy (which I'm expecting in the mail soon -- lordy, I love free stuff) I’ll be posting a review, so stay tuned.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Rummy is Crummy

During yesterday’s speech in Atlanta, Donald Rumsfeld’s testicles shriveled up and made tiny peeping noises when confronted with anti-war protesters, one of which was a woman who’d lost her son to the war and is now raising her grandchild. The woman asked Rumsfeld how the government would help, and he told her to visit some online resource sites, that old softie. Another woman flashed a yellow banner that read, “Guilty of War Crimes!” and yet another protester shouted “serial killer!” and yet another yelled “liar!” It was a chorus of truth, a beautiful example of the First Amendment that rang out in perfect harmony, a catchy tune of dissent that had me on my feet and doing a little happy dance. Rumsfeld, as would be expected, laughed and laughed, because jumping Jehosephat, what could be funnier than being called out on your own ineptitude and dishonesty? Well, other than watching baby seals get clubbed to death, of course.

But the truly supreme moment -- I’m talking blissfully sublime and righteous and awesome and, and, GAWD, I’m beginning to tear up, folks, was when a dignified-looking gentleman named Ray McGovern, bless his former CIA analyst heart, stood from his seat and asked this question: "Why did you lie to get us into a war that caused these kind of casualties and was not necessary?"

Who’s your daddy now, Rumsfeld?

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Toddler Eye For the Asinine Guy

My son loves to watch me apply makeup. Soon as I sit at the table and spread out my cosmetics, my boy intuitively knows, comes arunnin’ fast as his fat little legs will carry him, cheeks flushed, eyes dancing with anticipation. He will drop whatever it is he’s doing at the moment, no matter if he’s drawing stick figured, balloon-handed characters on his bedroom walls with indelible marker or making a crushed-Goldfish mosaic on the living room floor, and sit at the kitchen table with me as I do my magic. And that’s exactly what he believes I am doing -- practicing magic.

He oohhhs and ahhhs while I transform my features from tired, plain, spotty-faced Mommy to porcelain-skinned, ruby-lipped Mommy-Goddess, repeatedly exclaims how good my potions smell. I must allow him to sniff each pot of cream, every tube of lipstick, the powders, the perfumes and gloss before I am allowed to play with them myself. He gives his opinions honestly, criticizes when needed, tells me if there’s too much mascara on my bottom lashes (Mommy, your eyes look like poopy) or too much blush on my face (Mommy, you have a boo-boo on your chin), and most importantly, if I haven’t done the best job at covering my premenstrual zits (Mommy, I really don’t like the seeds on your nose).

I quite like having my own personal image consultant. Keeps me looking my best while at the same time keeping me humble. Shame my husband doesn’t share my pride in our son’s excellent eye for beauty. Especially when our little Max Factor remarks that he would very much like his own bag of magical “Nemo makeup.” Yes, my boy would like nothing more than to transform his tiny, ordinary self into a colorful, animated sea creature, and I couldn’t be more tickled. Why is my husband so threatened by that?

I’ll tell you why: asinine machismo, plain and simple. My husband believes that if I encourage the child by giggling, hugging, shrieking how sweet it is that he wants Nemo makeup, letting him revel in the fragrant garden of my cosmetics bag, our son will grow up to be a lipstick-wearing florist if his adorable (I think) interests are not nipped in the bud. Me, I wouldn’t mind if the boy grew up to be a lipstick-wearing florist, as long as he is a happy, healthy adult who continues to advise his mother in all things beauty-related, but the chance of that happening is almost nil. I’ve never met a lipstick wearing florist of the male persuasion, and don’t imagine I ever will, though I know they surely must exist somewhere. And I highly doubt their careers or fashion sense were inspired by visions of Nemo and Dori and all their aquatic friends frolicking amongst the anemone, but I guess it's a possibility.

Anyway, I’m taking what bonding I can get at this stage in the game. One day, far too soon, my makeup-loving, Nemo-wishing angel boy will lose interest in Mommy’s magical, coddling ways and turn his attention elsewhere, to a place few mommies are allowed, where burping contests are regular events, a muddy, smelly place filled with wrestling and spitballs, pocket knives and dirty jokes. The place where Dads proudly clap their sons on the back over a fart well dealt. A place I really don’t even want to go.

I can only hope that when that day finally does arrive, my son will take the time to come visit me once in a while, sit with me while I apply makeup, and talk with me, make me understand his new world, regale me with anecdotes involving his newfound tweenhood, or his first shave, first job -- anything, just as long as he remembers me. And I wouldn’t mind one bit if he were to point out the lipstick on my teeth. It would be our little secret.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Arthritic, Arthurian and Archie Bunkeresque

My boy (upon seeing a picture of a withered crone on some stupid high fantasy site I was visiting): Mommy, is that you?

Me: Why, yes, sweetheart! It certainly is!

My boy: You look ugly and mean on there.

Me: Go to your room, boy.

Okay, that exchange didn’t really happen, but damned if I don’t feel like an ugly old witch. Freaking, frigging rheumatoid arthritis hurts! Makes me very mean indeed. As an example, I’ve been having vivid daydreams in which I take the podium at one of those rally thingies going on lately -- you know, the rally thingies that are laughably being compared by some to the civil rights rallies and marches of the sixties? -- and I look out onto the sea of waving Mexican flags, raise a bullhorn to my curled lip, and say this: In the phrase “illegal immigrant,” what part of “illegal” do you not understand? Ah, that’s right -- you don’t speak English, do you? My bad.

***click-click-click-click-click-click*** (the sound of One Whipped Mother being deleted from bookmarks and blogrolls all over the world)