Why You Can't Invite Me to Your House
“And maybe one of the days we can make something.”
“Make something?”
“Make something.”
“Make something??”
“Uh…yeah. Make something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something. You think I’m a total geek now, don’t you? And if you could hear Prince playing downstairs, you’d think that Joe is a total geek, too.”
Me telling Joe about the phone call:
“So then I told her that when I get there, maybe one of the days we can make something.”
“Make something?”
“Yes! Make something! And I told her you were a geek, too, because you were listening to Prince.”
“Prince is not geeky. He’s R&B. And her husband is a Steely Dan fan. So, I’m not the only one, which means it’s not geeky, either.”
So, apparently, I’m the only geek.
Stimulating Conversations
As the finale to a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday with the kids, we went to Buca di Beppo for dinner last night. It was crowded and noisy and wonderful. And the conversation was stimulating. Want to know how to get a dining room packed with 80 or so people to stop talking all together and sit in silence? Say things like Cuirass, which is pronounced an awful lot like Queer Ass, and continue to say it over and over in an attempt to make sure that everyone knows you are not in fact saying Queer Ass, but Cuirass, which sounds exactly the same. And then be prepared to get kicked really hard under the table by your wife while the kids, mouths agape, slowly begin to giggle.
Also of note this weekend, I inadvertently increased the knowledge of my 11-year-old son while walking through Target.
‘Mom, does anyone even buy those kind of boots anymore?’
‘You mean those?’ I lean into his ear and whisper, ‘The Rubbers?’
‘Why are you whispering?’
“Well, we aren’t in London, where it is fine to call them rubbers. Here in the States if you say that loud, people are going to think you are talking about sex stuff.’
‘Why?’
- pause -
‘Um, you hadn’t heard the word rubbers before?’
‘Nope. Is it like a bad word?’
‘Uh, no. It’s another word that some people say for condoms. A slang word.’
‘So, if I was going to buy those boots I wouldn’t want to tell everyone I was wearing rubbers?’ - pause - ‘I probably should have whispered that, huh?’
Just a Suggestion
If you’re viewing this in IE you’ll notice a few bugs I’m still working out in the new blog design. How about you download Firefox and view it there where it looks better?
We Are a Family of Geeks
So we drag the kids out of the house and away from their headphones/iTunes, their laptops/email, their video games and Flash programming to spend some quality time and where do we go? To the Apple store. Where they check their email, listen to iTunes, play games and view their Flash programming.
Have you seen these ginormous screens?? I’m still salivating and will build an entire room to house it if only Santa will bring me one.
And here is Tony checking out his own creation in a very large fashion.
When Did I Become the Worst Version of Myself?
Remember the good ol’ days when your kids were little and the worst thing that could happen was that their bad day and your bad day would be the same day and the result would be their tantrum, alternating stiff-as-a-board-body with sloopy-doopy-spagetti-body in tandem with the sucking-in-air-no-noise-open-mouth scream and the blood-curdling-my-head-has-just-popped-off-and-started-
orbiting-the-sun scream during which you would grit your teeth, extricate both your bodies from the public place you were in as best as you could while speaking totally absurd mother-isms that you never thought would come out of your mouth and then burst into tears on the drive home? And sob? And weep? And then pray that they won’t remember most of what you said while you send yourself to Time Out in the form of a long bath or a large glass of wine or both as the next rational step?
I miss that.
Because now I’ve entered a whole new realm of mother-isms that I have no recollection of recording and lining up in my repertoire of Things to Say to Your Child That Will Make Them Hate You and Begin Their Life of Crime and/or Prostitution. I’m supposed to be the cool mom. Not the ‘Cool You Can Drink Rum in my House’ cool, but the ‘Cool You Can Tell me Anything and I’ll Understand’ cool. The ‘I’m Wacky and Let’s do Art Projects Instead of Clean Your Room’ mom. An ‘I’ll Never Make You Repress Your Feelings’ mom.
I’ve hardly raised my voice to my kids in over 4 years. I can’t think of a time that I was sincerely disappointed in anything any of them did which would cause me to yell. It’s not that they are perfect, although, with me as their mom, it’s obviously only a matter of time. It’s that I’m so long-suffering and understanding. Oh yes, I ‘Get. It.’ So, how is it that on the morning of Sunday Last, I uttered the words, ‘Oh, yes you will, Young Lady! Oh. Yes. You. Will. Get. In. This. Car. Right. Now!!’ Did you imagine the gritted teeth and sardonic smile? With the piercing eyes? Like your dad had? That is a very important element. Don’t forget that part.
And so I find myself unable to open my mouth. I can’t speak for fear that something else completely asinine is going to tumble out like, ‘Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?!?’ or ‘You know that this is for your own good and some day you’ll thank me!’ or ‘Short skirts are for hookers!’ Just kidding. Short skirts aren’t just for hookers. Thongs are, though, and I really can’t seem to get my mind to accept that they are just underwear. Not to get too personal, but I don’t even like them. I prefer to at least start the day with my underwear -not- in my crack. When did 10-year-old girls start wearing them under their low-waisted boy cut jeans? When did Wal-Mart start offering them in blister-packs of 17 made out of jersey material? I feel old.
In any case, my beautiful, amazing and talented daughter was in the Miss Ventura Teen Scholarship Pageant last weekend. She sang so beautifully that I almost cried and/or threw up the whole time, every time, she was on the stage. She walked slowly, sashayed, twirled, sang, answered a relevant random question regarding the youth of today and their text-messaging slang all while smiling and never breaking into a sweat. And then she lost with dignity and grace, and I’ve never been so proud of her. Ever.
The New Santa
This is absolutely grand: Christmas letters to Christopher Walken via sweetney.
Crawberts.com :: All Stuff Web
Our web design and development company is now the real deal.
Iron Horse Picks on Modest Mouse
I’m still working through my issues with country music. I can’t hear refrains of Garth Brooks, or his alter ego Chris Gaines, without smelling the wafting aroma of Jack Daniels, which I can’t drink and makes me sick. I hear Willie Nelson and get the urge to scoop out my ears and pack my head with sawdust, it hurts so bad. I know every word of every George Strait song and it haunts me in the wee hours of the night. Brad Paisley and Kenny Chesney are to country music what the Simpson sisters are to pop. (ok, Ashley, Hard and Angry Pop.) The words and melody of Reba McEntire’s Fancy Don’t Let Me Down, while heartwarming, will not vacate the premises once someone lets them loose in my brain. It’s possible that I might be having a strong reaction to country music based on my upbringing which included a small Utah town where we had one radio station in town – country music, and everyone listened to the radio – country music, and concerts that came close were, yes, country music. And as a pre-pubescent teen and a full-fledged one, it was my job, nay, my calling and duty , to be different than those around me. So I listened to Wham, of course. And the Outfield. And INXS. And Def Leppard. Pour Some Sugar On Me, man. Just don’t ask me to be a prostitute so you can eat. And if you would have been there, you would have known that I chose to listen to that type of music solely to let Satan have access to my mind through the backmasting.
Yes, I’d say there are some issues there.
So, imagine my surprise a few years ago when I realized that I could enjoy Blue Grass without having any trickle-down-effect. And I’ve explored around a little and been loving it. This cd I picked up at Amoeba the other day = stellar. Iron Horse rocks.
New York Doll
p.s. This photo is a simulation of this one.
We went to see New York Doll, the story of how Killer Kane found religion. Specifically, the Mormons.
Here is an interview with the film maker, Greg Whiteley.
One of my favorite parts, there were so many, including the sweet senior-aged Sisters at the LA Family History Center who said they wouldn’t mind being his groupies even at their age, was after the entire movie was over, after the credits were done, David Johansen, a.k.a. Buster Poindexter, sang ‘A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.‘
Can’t recommend it highly enough.
Misconceptions
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It's TOO QUIET
We were driving in the car on our way home after viewing ‘Prime’ with Uma Thurman and Meryl Streep. The male lead is played by Bryan Greenberg. Both Alison and I said we didn’t really believe him as the character. There wasn’t anything wrong with him per se, but we just didn’t dive into him the same way we got into Uma and Meryl. Alexandra said that the part she didn’t believe was that Uma’s character was only 37. She thought that she looked around 50. Alex, being 15, might not have the best idea of what 37 and 50 look like, but it opened a great discussion about what real people look like as apposed to people that have had tons of plastic surgery. At some point in the conversation, I slipped away in my mind and started contemplating what I would look like in a few years when I hit 37 and would Alex think I looked 50? How many crows-feet would I have around my eyes? Would I have more laugh wrinkles than I do now? If I keep losing weight will I get all saggy and need one of those surgeries where they cut off huge folds of skin? Would I have scar lines all over my body from surgery? What if I picked a bad surgeon and he killed me while I was under? And what extreme ugliness would I have to look at in the mirror in order for me to ever even think seriously about having plastic surgery? And why does my daughter think that people with wrinkles or slightly saggy skin on their arms or necks are ugly? Where have I failed?
And then suddenly, Alex says really loudly from the back seat: “It’s too QUIET in here!”
I jumped. Alison jumped. And then we both started laughing. Really hard. So I turned on the radio to a station she likes. She started singing, kinda loudly, I hummed along for a minute but then started wondering if Alexandra would age well and if she’d think she needed to get a boob job or liposuction at a young age. Just about the time I got to the part where she was 17 and wanted me to help her ask her dad if she could get fake boobs installed, she yelled: “This is not what I meant! THIS IS TOO QUIET TOO! I need you to talk to me. So – TALK.” But I couldn’t stop laughing. Alex said: “We can even keep talking about wrinkles if you want!”
Feist
I am totally in love with Feist. We went to see her in LA and I almost starting crying when she sang Secret Heart, it was so beautiful.
Slideshow here: Flickr/leahpeah
Ty's Blond Hair
Midstream on the quest for blue hair. It’s a long way from this.
Fast and Testimony Meeting
I went to church with my kids. I try to go when they go since it’s important to them. Most of the time during sacrament meeting, I sit back and write notes with Alexandra or scratch one of the boy’s backs while the people are speaking. But, once a month, when the Mormons have Fast and Testimony Meeting and the members of the congregation take turns getting up and talking about their burning bosoms, it’s impossible not to listen. Yesterday, particularly so.
Usually, by the second speaker, you start to see a theme emerge. A few months ago it was about preparedness. Everyone that got up shared their feelings about the recent natural disasters and how blessed they felt that they had a year’s supply of rice saved in the basement and how they knew someone that lived through the hurricane only because they had those 20 cans of sardines packed in mustard or they would have died and so the church must be true. And Joseph Smith was a true prophet. Always. Must. End. With. JS Tribute.
The theme from last Sunday was ‘My Life Has Been Harder Than Yours and I’m Still a Member of the Church and Still Believe in God So I’m Just a Little Bit Better Than You.’ The first woman got up and talked about her struggle with depression. The next woman had gone through depression, financial problems and a nasty divorce. The next one had those three and raised them a car crash and the loss of two of her children. Then someone put recently diagnosed breast cancer in the pot and the knowledge that if she passed on there would be no one to raise her remaining two children and they would be essentially homeless, tossed to the wolves and live on gov’ment cheese. But, she still had a strong testimony of the gospel. And her love of genealogy, which, during this really stressful and dark time, saved her.
I decided that I had to share, needed to share.
‘Hello everyone. For those of you that don’t know me, I’m the ex-wife of the dad of the Peterson kids. And for those of you that don’t know what an ex-wife is, it means I’m not going to be able to live in the celestial kingdom with you, Gladys Knight and the remaining Osmonds that haven’t also been divorced.
I just wanted to let you all know how sorry I am that your lives suck so much. Mine is really great. I mean, I have my ups and down and health issues and your what-have-you, but that is just all part of the package, right? It’s really just all about your attitude and taking care of yourself and those around you with integrity and Love.
And I have a testimony that every day is a new chance to be the best You you can be. I don’t believe that every sucky thing that happens in my life is sent from God to test my faith or is a punishment for something I’ve done in the past. I really believe that we are heavenly beings having a human experience and that Karma has a lot to do with what comes forward for us to process through. Everything that happens is a blessing if we view it that way. At least, that is the best way for me to go through my life.
And I can tell you that if I just had a kid or two killed in a car crash, I’d probably be really pissed off and angry. And that would feel good, to be angry. And I’d want to talk to God about it and I’d yell at Him and tell Him off before I got to the feeling alright about it part. And I’d still think I was a good person throughout the whole experience.
And if I was just diagnosed with something that was terminal and had kids that were about to be homeless, I’d go join some clubs and make some friends, fast! That’s just a tip. You can use it.
But, good luck with your never being good enough and heaping on the guilt, yet, also feeling slightly superior to every other religion on earth. Just keep on keepin’ on. You are all doing great! Right on and amen. Oh, and your Joseph Smith seems like a pretty nice guy, considering his polygamy and everything. Oh! I almost forgot. I made you all a T-shirt.’
Just kidding. Because I’m not a member in good standing, I’m not allowed to take the trek to the pulpit and say boohaha, let alone how I feel about life and Joseph Smith. But I had a really great time thinking about what I would have said. It would have been fun just to shake things up. Just to see if anyone was paying attention. Dude. Riling up a nest of slightly dozing Mormons sitting in the pews who are feeling a little on the too warm side and waiting for the closing prayer in a meeting that has gone 15 minutes over = Priceless. But not really coming from a place of Love so it’s just as well.
Instead, the meeting ended with a 9-year-old boy sharing that he knew the church was true, that he was so glad he was blessed to be sent to live on earth with a Mormon family, and that he knew Joseph Smith was a True Prophet. If only we could all be so lucky.
I'm sorry, Mr. H.
I’ve been obsessing about something for the past few months/years. It keeps me up at night and reminds me that I’m an idiot on so many levels. It peeks it’s head around the corner and tells me the best idea is to go to bed, tuck the covers around the shape of my body, and lay like a mummy for the next two years because I suck suck SUCK. In order to put it back into perspective and quit giving it so much power, I decided to write about it.
A year and a half or so ago, I did an interview with Matt Haughey. I was so happy that he decided to answer my questions. I was ecstatic that he had even answered my email. About that same time, I took some classes at the local college.
Now, sometimes it takes 2 days to get the answers to my questions back from someone and sometimes it takes weeks or months. It doesn’t really matter to me, as long as they are still having fun. And I don’t remember how long it took for him to send me back his stuff. That part is irrelevant. I do know it coincided with schoolwork. And the part that keeps replaying in my mind is where he offered to rewrite his bio.
Now, he’s a kick-ass kind of guy and it’s not the worst thing to have him write his own bio. When I looked at the email, he had indeed written a fine intro. Mine was incomplete and not anywhere done yet. He knew himself better than I knew him and there it was, already written and pretty. And I had tests to study for and homework to do. And so I just copied and pasted and shut the lid on it. And ever since then, I have hated the fact that I didn’t finish it. That he felt like he needed to write it for me. And that I didn’t take some kind of pro-active role in writing a great bio-intro that used what he sent but was also my own.
This might be just some kind of weird obsessive compulsive thing or I might be being totally a tardhead. Or it might be valid to want all your work to be your own. And it might be mostly about doing a great job instead of a half-assed one even when you have homework.
So, anyway, I’m sorry, Mr. H. It’s possible that you hardly remember this interview, if at all, but the apologizing is always mostly for the sender and not the receiver anyway. I think you are the Rad and thank you for doing the interview with me and next time, I’ll write such a crazy-ass-cool-bio-intro, you won’t even believe it.
lpc
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Ten Little Cannibals by Disney
My sister asked me this morning if I remembered this song from a Disney album we played on Saturday mornings growing up:
Once upon a time there were 10 little cannibals
Swingin’ on a vine.One tried to pet a big wildcat,
And then there were nine.One of the nine drank turpentine,
And then there were eight.Then one more fell dead on the floor
And seven was their fate.One went to politics,
Then there were only six.One took a dive,
Now five we see.One went to Singapore,
Then there were only four.One turned green,
Then there were three.One fell into some glue,
Then there were only two…
They drank from a loving cup.One became a skeleton,
Then there was only one,
And he ate himself all up.
(What a silly thing to do!)
It was one of my favorite songs.
