We’ll miss you, Molly

In high school I was the kid counting down the days, not until I could drive, but until I could vote.

I carried around a battered copy of Molly Ivins’ Nothin’ but Good Times Ahead, and I used it to model a writing style that got me into a lot of trouble then (Too colloquial! Too biased! Your tone is conversational!). She showed me I could write like I wanted to, make an intelligent point, and never have to forsake humor – or emotion.

Losing Ann Richards was tough, but now with Molly gone, where will we get our fair dose of smart, hilarious, liberal diatribes?

She was only 62.

I’m so sad tonight.

Can’t blog. Must de-clutter.

de-cluttering mind
that seems important to do
and it’s not sweaty

I’m de-cluttering my mind with this post.


There is too much shit in this house. Most of it is plastic and intended for children over 3. But a lot of it belongs to me. I just finally threw away the glittery lotion I bought to wear at my wedding. (Yes, I was a faintly glittery bride. Stop laughing.) That glittery lotion has been under my various sinks for 8 years now. And by saying "various sinks" I’m not using a euphemism. I mean actually under my sink. Taking up space. Along with 95,000 maxi pads of varying sizes and shapes, some straightening gel from that one time when I went though the unfortunate stage of wanting to make my hair look "silky and smooth" (aka: caked with hair gel and still curly), some lonely cotton balls, and a very old pack of birth control pills.

I’ve managed to throw a lot of stuff away. But there’s just so much! We’ve only been in this house for four years. Did I pack and move all of this stuff with me when we moved here? How did it fit in my apartment? Have I really accumulated all of this crap since moving here? I know the answer is yes, I mean I’ve accumulated two kids since moving here, so that in and of itself means my crap-level is bordering on epic proportions.

Everyone who’s reading this needs to buy some stock in the parent company of Hefty Bags. Why? Because listen… hear that? It’s a rustling noise. Every now and then there’s a smash and a curse and then the rustling begins again. It is the sound of a shitstorm. A shitstorm of random objects that I’m struggling to avoid any emotional attachment to.

I hope GoodWill needs a lot of shitstormy plastic, cause it’s on the way.

We crazy

seller pays buyer?
hope we don’t have to do that
will it be a wash?

We signed the papers today to put our house on the market. I think this means we’re crazy. I can’t keep the house clean just to keep MYSELF happy. I can’t imagine keeping it clean enough to woo a buyer. Of course the keeping it clean comes after the de-cluttering part, which, excuse me, but, HAHAHAHAHAHA. I’ll have to buy a whole damn extra new house just to declutter this house so we can sell it and buy the actual house we want to live in.

But we’re going to try. And we’re going to try really hard. It sure would be nice for my husband to not have a bitch ass gnarly commute. And it would be nice to move back into the land where independent bookstores and yummy breakfast tacos and university libraries and the children’s museum are all accessible without a 40-minute drive through the hellmouth.

Wow. I don’t even know why we have a Realtor. I’m doing such a good job of selling this place, right now, aren’t I?

My television just said "decreasing semen". Why did the TV just say that? This is why I’ve stopped watching the news. It’s all war, war, war, commercial about some drug with the side effect of decreasing semen, war, war, war, commercial about erectile dysfunction, human interest story so we don’t all get too depressed, commercial about priapism, weather.

I’ve completely forgotten about what I was originally talking about.

Oh yeah. As soon as we declutter the house and call PODS to haul our shit away, a sign is going in the yard and we’re going sell this sucker. It has a very nice backyard and lots of colorful paint. It does not cause a decrease in semen or war. I think I’m going to put that on the flier.

What Nancy Pelosi was communicating via her morse code blinking at the state of the union address last night

*blink blink blink blink blink*

Who’s bringing sexy back to the House? That’s right.

*blink blink blink blink*

Dick Cheney smells like baby powder. And fear.

*blink blink blink*

You know what? In hindsight, going commando wasn’t a great idea.

*blink bliiiiiink bliiiiiink*

Wouldn’t you know it? Now that I’m finally here, I left my piano wire in my desk.

*blink blink blink bliiiiink*

Anyone have any eye drops? Anybody?

*blink blink blink blink blink*

I can’t wait til Obama is up here. He. Is. Smokin.

The afternoon where I briefly consider changing the name of my son to “Power Pole”

if I was famous
I could name my kid Frito
but folks would still laugh

The family was in the car today making our weekly pilgrimage to Target, when the wee one asked if he could have a fishing stick.

"You mean fishing pole," my husband said.

"No, stick. A fishing stick. The thing you catch fish with." The wee one said patiently.

"Right," said my husband. "That’s called a fishing pole, not a fishing stick. But it’s sometimes made from a stick, so I can see why you’d think that."

"Is a stick the same as a pole?" the wee one asked skeptically.

"Sort of. They can both be made of wood. Like that power pole right there. You wouldn’t call that a power stick would you?"

"Power pole????????" the wee one asked excitedly.

*pause* "Uh, yeah. All those poles out the window – they’re power poles."

"Power pole is a great name! Mommy! Why didn’t you name ME Power Pole?" The wee one’s tone was very excited and very accusatory all at once.

"Uh, I guess I just didn’t think of it. That would be a cool name, though, huh? Power Pole Roy."

"You could have your own TV show," my husband offered.

"Yeah," I said, stealing the wee one’s accusatory tone. "On Cinemax."

"Could you please call me Power Pole all day today?" the wee one asked as we parked and unbuckled our seatbelts.

"Sure, Power Pole," I answered. "Now hold my hand while we cross the street."

wanna be startin’ somethin’

where do my hands go
hey look, a pocket built in
so comfy, so warm

When the wee one was tiny and nursing, he used to rub my earlobe or scratch my elbow as he ate. It was very cute at first, and then it drove me bonkers. That scritch-scritch-scritch on my dry elbows would send shivers up and down my spine.

The wee-er one hadn’t really found a place for her hands. She flailed them around, or grabbed my shirt or grabbed her ear – nothing felt right, I guess. Until now. Now that she’s found her crotch, all is good in the world.

Like a tiny Michael Jackson, she holds on to her crotch for dear life as she suckles her dinner. What’s that noise he made as he grabbed his crotch and dipped his chin? "HEEEE HEEEE."

She also grabs at her crotch when I change her diaper. And let me tell you, when you’re in the bathroom at Ikea or Target, and you have five wipes plus a too-small diaper, watching your daughter get poop up to her elbows as she fishes around for treasure "HEEE HEEE"-style… well, that does not a happy mama make. Plus, WHY DOES SHE ONLY POOP EXPLOSIVELY WHEN WE’RE OUT SOMEWHERE AND I FORGOT TO BRING A CHANGE OF CLOTHES? It’s like she has a pack of poop firecrackers that she saves for the car seat. So gross.

Anyway, the crotch grabbing while nursing isn’t so bad. It’s better than elbow scratching, at least. We just have to find an alternative for the poo grabbin.

Hey, now that I think of it, Crotch Grabbing Nurser sounds like a band Russell Crowe would have.

Ah, my life is incredibly glamorous, isn’t it?


The siege continues

am not a yankee
will never be a yankee

It’s Day Three of the Ice Storm That Won’t Effing Go Away ’07. We have plenty of food and heat and entertainment, but still. You know how beyond the event horizon of a black hole you can’t see any matter or light or anything because it’s past the "abandon all hope ye who enter here" sign and it’s all getting sucked into the black hole no matter what (ba dum bum)? Well, I’m rapidly approaching my very own event horizon. Pretty soon, all toys or dishes I pass will be picked up and thrown into a garbage bag or the garage (a suburban dwellers very own black hole).

We’ve endeavored to clean up our messes and have done a fairly reasonable job. But I haven’t left the house since Saturday, so even tiny little pieces of dust and crumbs are starting to suffocate me.

It looks like the world is starting to melt a little, though, so that’s a very nice sign. And my husband has been here all week, so that’s been nice, too. But we’re ready to get out of the house. All of us. We’ve ventured into the cold and ice a few times to play, but even the wee one is over the excitement of the ice now. Of course, when you have a chance to help mom make banana bread and drop batter all over the floor and then step in the batter by accident, why would ice be any more fun than that?

I was lulled into a false sense of security this morning, while listening to the drips of the melting ice, so I decided to go outside to take a picture. I thought, "Hey, it would be cool to post something icy on the blog." I put on my shoes and coat, grabbed the camera, walked out the front door, and wait for it…. promptly slipped on the ice and fell.

It was one of those falls that goes on forever. First you lose your footing, then you try to right yourself, then you keep falling, then your knees hit the ground, then your knees start sliding and your upper body starts falling and you thrust out your hands, then you realize one of your hands is holding your camera, so you thrust out one hand, then that hand slides, so you put the camera hand down too, and finally, there you are, laying on your driveway, wet and cold, with a couple of banged up knees and a goose-egg on your wrist.

So here’s the damn picture I took:


It’s my neighbor’s house. Her palms are depressed by all the ice. Ba dum bum. Funny enough, it turns out MY palms are depressed by the ice, too. They are red and raw from supporting my flailing body as I King-Kong-crashed on the driveway.

I’m going to go eat banana bread now.

Live-blogging the Golden Globes

I totally don’t have time to do this, but what the hell. We’ll see how far I can get before bath times and bed times and a husband anxious to watch 24 interfere with my sad attempts to be funny.

7:10: I’m late starting this, but one note on the previous ten minutes… Justin Timberlake is funny! Who knew?

7:12: Jeremy Irons looks like hell. Maybe it’s because he’s been stabbed a billion times – that’s what his vest looks like anyway.

7:15: Edie Falco is so bronzed and skinny she has scared me into forgetting about my girl crush on Tina Fey (ignoring Tina Fey’s triangular dress and extra-cleavage, which are both freaking me out). Perhaps Jeremy Irons and Edie Falco were shooting some heroin before the show? Damn.

7:20: I’m pretty sure Kyra Sedgewick ran all the way from her house to the ceremony, or else she and The Bacon were getting it on under the table, cause she is sweat-TAY and way more out of breath than one needs to be when accepting an award. Oh, who am I to talk, though? My armpits are like little faucets when I get nervous. Or hot. Or when I win awards from the Leander Foreign Press.

7:26: You know how it’s fashionable to wear those little shrug sweaters right now? The Hollywood Foreign Press dude is wearing on of those on his head.

7:30: "Thank you so much, I’m going to get off" says Emily Blunt, but I’m pretty sure that was Kyra Sedgewick’s line.

7:33: The background behind Hugh Laurie looks like the readout from a crazy military heat signature device.

7:39: BREAKING NEWS, no school in Austin tomorrow. Or Eanes. Or other places I didn’t hear. This means no pre-school either. Hooray! And by "hooray!" I mean "Oh crap!"

7:46: Of course Meryl Streep wins! She is the epitome of everything that is awesome or funny or cool or talented. Also, I wish I could wear glasses like that.

7:56: How did I not know that Sascha Baron Cohen is hott?

7:59: Annette Bening is totally one of those people who’s all, "Oh stop it, you, I’m not as beautiful/talented/skinny as you say!*giggle*" And then when you stop saying it, she gives you devil eyes until you start complimenting her again.

8:01: The wee one just told me that frogs have suction cups on their hands. Indeed. Also, Eddie murphy won for Dreamgirls. Why didn’t he give his speech as Donkey? Sure that wouldn’t really make sense, but it would be funny.

8:04: See? Prince is totally there. He’s just so tiny no one could see him coming to the stage to get his award. That’s OK, though, because it gave J. Tim a chance to show me that he’s funny. And that the sexy he brought back must not include his hair.

8:10: Speaking of girl crushes… Agent Scully is still so cute, even though she isn’t Agent Scully anymore and she’s a Real Actress now. And this is neither here nor there, but don’t you think Gillian Anderson has the tiniest little teeth you’ve ever seen? I bet she uses kid-sized toothbrushes and saves lots of money on toothpaste.

8:17: You know how 7-year-old girls like to try to do their own make-up for dance recitals? Well, someone let one of those girls loose on Cameron Diaz’s face.

8:21: Please have Alec Baldwin win!

8:22: YES. He makes me chortle every week. Here’s to chortling and to funny Alec. I lift my Ozarka to you.

8:26: Donald Trump is such a skeez.

8:30: When is the second season of Weeds going to be downloadable or Netflixable? I LOVED the first season. "Little boxes on the hillside…"

8:33: I really enjoy Ugly Betty, so yay for them! And I love that that dude just said he loves his mama.

8:36: Do you think filmmakers from other countries get pissed when American films are nominated for Best Foreign Language film? I mean, bully for Clint Eastwood and Steven Spielberg and everyone for making a movie about Iwo Jima, but it seems like there’s a director in another country feeling gypped.

8:41: just so you know, I’m going to stop live blogging at 9, in order to watch 24 and preserve my marriage. But I’ll tivo the rest of the awards and blog about them later tonight.

8:45: Those weird set pieces look like giant lobster claws.

8:49: Yay America Ferrerra! I’m sorry I just spelled your name wrong. Aw, she’s weepeing before even getting to the stage. Her dress is a lovely shade of blue, by the way. Annette Bening just looked at her like, "Bitch, why haven’t you told me how talented and beautiful I am? Why didn’t I win this award?" Then someone whispers to her she wasn’t nominated in the category.


8:59: I don’t want to think of Warren Beatty’s balls, Tom Hanks. No. No. No. No. No.

9:05: Well, during the Warren Beatty tribute I have grown a beard and aged 30 years and not thought about what balls he has. 

And now I must take a break to watch Keifer kick some ass. But I’ll be back later with some "live" blogging of the rest of the festivities. Unless the ice storm kills my internet connection. Then I will be sad. And also probably cold.

10:45AM, Tuesday: I just TiVo’d my way through the last of the awards while the wee-er one hollered and the wee one kept saying over and over again, "why was it Chewie’s tummy that got everyone caught in the net? Why? Why was it Chewie’s tummy that got everyone caught in the net?" So forgive me for being brief. I just want to say that I haven’t seen Borat yet, and I’ve already commented on how surprising hot Sascha Baron Cohen is, but seriously? He’s smokin’ and I’m a little afriad to see the movie now that he’s so explicitly described the face-in-taint scene, but I think I’ll see it anyway.

Also, I was hoping Heroes would sneak in and swipe the GG away from Grey’s. Not because I don’t like Grey’s, because I do, but because Heroes is so fun and new and quasi-geeky.  Alas. I’m happy for Shonda Rhimes, though. She’s fabulous.

There’s more to talk about, but of course the wee one is now chasing the dog and trying to beat on him with Matchbox tracks so I have to go save a life and threaten another. I’m like Jack Bauer, only with cramps and a teething baby!

We have a tooth! And ice!

no sleep, much fussing
angry baby knows the truth
while Mom is clueless

Well, I thought the wee-er one would be getting a tooth soon, but last Tuesday, at her 6-month well check (6 months!) the doctor said he didn’t see any signs of teething and that, though the teeth were close to the surface, it would still be a while.

And by a while I guess he meant three days.

On Friday she bit my thumb with tremendous force and I was all, "DAMmit that hurt." because a tiny, gritty piece of new tooth snagged the soft part of my thumb pad. Then I said, "No wonder you’ve been Crankmaster McStinkyPants for the past few weeks." So now I know. In hindsight, I should have figured it out waaaaay before this, but what do I know?

Anyway, as the days have past, the Little Tooth That Could has been pushing farther and farther out, while the wee-er one’s temperament has deteriorated tremendously. I put her toys in the fridge so they’re cold when she gnaws on them and that sort of helps. For about fifteen seconds. And then she wants to nurse for fifteen seconds and chew on my finger for fifteen seconds and chew on HER finger for fifteen seconds and then spend the rest of the day (and night) fussing. She’s not freaking out crying or anything, it’s just a low level irritation/indignation that something sharp would dare try to perforate her gums and/or that I would dare try to put her down for a minute so that I could go to bathroom without anyone on my lap.

In other news, it really did get icy! First we were drowned with like 7 inches of rain and then it got freeeezing, and now there’s ice. My thermometer claims it’s 29 degrees outside, but the ice seems to be melting, so maybe the thermo is a lying bastard. It sure FEELS like 29 degrees, though. Brrrr.

The weather dudes are all predicting more ice for tonight so maybe tomorrow the wee one and I can venture into the backyard for some weed skating. It’s 4 in the afternoon and we’ve already baked cookies, watched two movies, played Lincoln Logs and Legos, frosted cookies, eaten cookies, eaten more cookies, entertained Cranky McPissedOff, staged a rescue effort for some Lego guys stuck under the bed, and created a game wherein I take pictures of a toy in the wee one’s room without him watching, show him the picture, and then command him to go find the object. It’s like Hide & Seek only there’s some accidental picking up of his bedroom. Woo. Anyway, I’m exhausted and if it’s going to be icy tomorrow, too, then we’re just going to go outside play and risk becoming casualties of the ice, rather than stay inside all day and risk becoming casualties of the stir craziness that ensues after spending four days in a row stuck in the house.

Ah, well, maybe if we go outside the wee-er one can chew on the frozen weeds and the wee one can race around like the tazmanian devil and I can get one tiny little sharp, gritty sliver of peace and quiet.

I had something really funny to talk about and now I’ve forgotten. It didn’t have anything to do with having to clean poop out of the wee-er one’s belly button at Ikea the other day, but now that I think of it, that was kind of funny.

Also, what is it about an icy day that makes me NEVER STOP EATING. Sweet baby Jesus, I cannot stop shoveling it in.