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?