Sunday, February 19, 2012
American Beauty?
Everyone agrees advertisers seek to place ads for their goods and services where the most likely consumers will find out about them. So what does it say about me* that the radio show I tune into every afternoon while making dinner has ads for viagra, services to help you register an invention you made in your creepy basement, offers FOR A LIMITED TIME to buy special gold coins, and GPS tracking devices so you can "find out the truth." I had no idea I was a paranoid, grandiose, impotent baby boomer. Into this putrid mix of angry man ads as our nation led up to Valentines day was a tantalizing product for the man who really wanted to get his third wife back. At first I couldn't discern these messages from all the other cacophonous enticements that offered this fear-based listening audience opportunities to show this fucked up world how much better and smarter they were than everyone else. But each evening, as I chopped onions, boiled water, and sauteed whatever was getting fuzzy in my fridge, all the noisy messages about Valentines day began to emerge from their urgent, nay frantic advertising brethren and an image started to coalesce. After hearing the ads for the 60th time, it finally hit me, visually: Wait, did they just say you could send a dozen five-foot roses to the special someone victim? And not just that but, oh christ, you can also send a six foot teddy bear? Why can't these misguided lummoxes -- who don't think it's insane to send over a gargantuan stuffed toy and roses the size of corn stalks -- get out of their dim basements and start inventing a way to live that does not involve terrifying those whom they feel deserves their attention? All of January the ads played on, relentlessly urging listeners to send these creepy things "right to her door."
Yeah, right to the address she thought you would never get. But hey, you bought that GPS tracker, and dang if it didn't turn out she's holed up in that dismal apartment complex just a few miles from your condo. Great, maybe I'll drive by a few times tonight after heating up some manwiches for dinner. Just to see if she got my beautiful presents.
And Flapnation, here's the most terrifying news of all: the roses cost $700.00 dollars, the bears around $300.00 and if you thought that was the terrifying news, read on if you dare. When I went to the website to see this crazy shit for myself, I found that most of it had sold out.
Now, I'm no marketing guru, but if you really wanted to target a service effectively, I think it would be VERY elegant to add a link to a service that offers fast-track restraining orders. One-stop shopping for both recipient and sender.
*it says I have a weird reaction to yelling, anger, and invectives. For some reason I can unwind from my day spent with hundreds of children by listening to adults acting more childish than actual kids while they argue about politics. Something so relaxing to me about how bat-shit crazy everyone involved in the show acts.
**Flapdude commented on both items. To the giant teddy bear, he suggested it's a sublimated desire for a blow-up doll on the part of the sender, and he opined that the giant roses were reminiscent of something from Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth. Which might explain their price tag. 700 dollars! I think they really DID get harvested from the center of the earth.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Nuts to You. And You, And You, And You....
Living the dream* this morning, I sit down to a cup of coffee ready to fill my head with the rich comedy and high, high fantasy that is the December issue of Martha Stewart Living magazine. I walk in the living room. Another miracle has occurred: there's a place for me to sit down immediately. No goddamn guitars to remove. Somehow they are already in stands. Oh yeah, because I put them there last night. Because both kids managed to secure social engagements that included not returning home. Sorry to Flap-brag, but oh, the glory of it all. An evening (FRIDAY!) home alone with the Flap-dude! A roaring fire, mussels over french fries (our standard home alone fare. If you see me in Hannafords and I have a bag of mussels in the cart, there you go. Don't ask. I'm kid-free. Case closed.) Can this morning get any better?
Upon opening the magazine (and make no mistake, I closely read it page by page from the first double-spread Lancome ad (typical reaction these days to face wrinkle removers: "holy shit, they tell me this gunk has LR 2412 in it! I don't know what the hell that is, but it sounds like some might-T- fine face spackle to me..I want it!)
Next page, a front of book feature "Martha's Month". I scan the page--this section never fails to make me giggle. The sub-heading reads: Gentle reminders, helpful tips, and important dates." This part of the magazine is probably the least reality-based. And this is a magazine that assumes most readers own grommet drills. I have seen "gentle reminders" to turn your fridge around and vacuum the heavy gray grease/dust shit off the coils. Suggestions to sharpen and oil lawn tools! Rotate your window plants by a quarter turn each day! De-pill your sweater with your comb if you don't have a battery-operated de-piller! Does anyone else realize that most of these "chore suggestions" are usually only performed by relatives (or estate sale companies that smarter relatives hire) in order to get your house ready to sell after you have died? Whoever edits this section is just rehashing the content from some "So Your Great Aunt Has Died"-type booklet. And I think they are howling like hyenas at the idea that some bat-shit crazy housewife in Indianna is following the calendar suggestions to the letter. Not me, I'm in on your joke MSL staffer! I can even help you make crazy suggestions. When was the last time the mag suggested some light bulb dusting? Yes, I did mean the kind of bulb you put in the ground. You wouldn't want to put a dirty bulb in the dirt, would you? Course not. Gives those fuckers a light dusting before planting, fer christsakes. I'm hired, right?
And the "suggestion" this month did not disappoint: she tells us we should all scrape out our bird feeders with a spatula then wash it out with warm soapy water. I've got smeared cup cake frosting on the back seat of my car, but what the hell, the birds deserve a shit-free floor more than my kids, right?
After I wipe the tears from laughing out of my eyes, I see IT. An amazingly consistent suggestion I have seen for years and years that has no basis in reality. I see it every year and every year I do a mental Andy Rooney-meets-Erma Bombeck type rant that I guess I am finally articulating as a Flap Rant. (there is no other kind of Flap).
A suggestion to clean out a damn bird feeder is more grounded in reality than this old chestnut. Anyone who has ever read any so-called Women's Magazine has seen it in every November or December issue. The refrains vary, but it usually goes something like this:
"Keep pantry supplies like olives, nuts, crackers well-stocked so you will be ready if guests stop by unexpectedly." The exact quote from the MSL December issue: "Refresh your supply of cocktail snacks before the holidays re in full swing. Keeping basics on hand, such as mixed nuts, assorted cheeses, olives, and champagne, means you'll be ready if friends and family stop by unexpectedly. "
I ask you, Flap Nation, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME ANYONE STOPPED BY UNEXPECTEDLY? Honestly, if I any one's car pulled up in my drive way, the first thing that would go through my mind isn't "Oh great, so and so's here, let me break out the mixed nuts" it's more "OH SHIT which one of their kids is in the ER and which one will be rotting here all day instead of watching the Discovery Channel on a TV bolted to the ceiling in the ER waiting room?" And further more, what's with all the stress about providing nibbles to someone who just decided to roll on over? . This refrain to "be prepared" is so consistent, I find myself fascinated with its origin. Is it some kind of 1950's hold-over, where suburban families tortured one another with drop-bys and demands for bridge mix? And we know that drop-ins happen. But think of the last time it did: did anyone need food? No, there's just never gonna be a Perfect Storm-scenario where an entire family rolls up, wants to visit, and is hungry. Yet every year millions of readers get this cheerful suggestion. It's almost poignant. If this kind of world ever existed, it's long gone now. Talking it over with a friend this morning, she suggested it's always been some kind of middle class fantasy. It's fun to at least pretend that we are all not so horribly overworked that people have time to visit, and hosts have the wherewithal to lay out a tasty spread within minutes of your arrival.
This fear of not having nuts should "friends" stop by seems to be bordering on the primal. Is it in our race DNA? Do we all carry a fear in our hearts about people coming into our home needing food and there is no food to give? And why the special emphasis during November and December? Why is the publishing industry so convinced that we are more itinerant in early winter? I don't know what you would do, but here is my promise to you, Flap Nation, should any of you drop by unannounced: I will get out of my pajamas if I am in them.
Don't get me wrong, I love friends coming over. I don't even care if you DO show up unannounced. But what's with the expectation that unplanned guests deserve a handful of nuts? Are sane people dropping by truly expecting comestibles? Would anyone of us maintain a relationship with a person who 1. tended to drop by unannounced 2. expected to be waited on when they arrived?
No, we wouldn't maintain relations because those people are clueless assholes who deserve only soft, stale crackers and rancid nuts. And I do think I can provide both at any given time. So I guess I should calm down. I'm ready. C'mon over.
* Sitting down with fresh cup of coffee and a new magazine with no children in sight in the morning, with no pressing engagements pressing is one of my top five Heavenly Things. There are often minor versions of this scenario. Typically I get interrupted every three minutes by Flappette--a child who finds a parent craving solitude a threat to her existence.
Upon opening the magazine (and make no mistake, I closely read it page by page from the first double-spread Lancome ad (typical reaction these days to face wrinkle removers: "holy shit, they tell me this gunk has LR 2412 in it! I don't know what the hell that is, but it sounds like some might-T- fine face spackle to me..I want it!)
Next page, a front of book feature "Martha's Month". I scan the page--this section never fails to make me giggle. The sub-heading reads: Gentle reminders, helpful tips, and important dates." This part of the magazine is probably the least reality-based. And this is a magazine that assumes most readers own grommet drills. I have seen "gentle reminders" to turn your fridge around and vacuum the heavy gray grease/dust shit off the coils. Suggestions to sharpen and oil lawn tools! Rotate your window plants by a quarter turn each day! De-pill your sweater with your comb if you don't have a battery-operated de-piller! Does anyone else realize that most of these "chore suggestions" are usually only performed by relatives (or estate sale companies that smarter relatives hire) in order to get your house ready to sell after you have died? Whoever edits this section is just rehashing the content from some "So Your Great Aunt Has Died"-type booklet. And I think they are howling like hyenas at the idea that some bat-shit crazy housewife in Indianna is following the calendar suggestions to the letter. Not me, I'm in on your joke MSL staffer! I can even help you make crazy suggestions. When was the last time the mag suggested some light bulb dusting? Yes, I did mean the kind of bulb you put in the ground. You wouldn't want to put a dirty bulb in the dirt, would you? Course not. Gives those fuckers a light dusting before planting, fer christsakes. I'm hired, right?
And the "suggestion" this month did not disappoint: she tells us we should all scrape out our bird feeders with a spatula then wash it out with warm soapy water. I've got smeared cup cake frosting on the back seat of my car, but what the hell, the birds deserve a shit-free floor more than my kids, right?
After I wipe the tears from laughing out of my eyes, I see IT. An amazingly consistent suggestion I have seen for years and years that has no basis in reality. I see it every year and every year I do a mental Andy Rooney-meets-Erma Bombeck type rant that I guess I am finally articulating as a Flap Rant. (there is no other kind of Flap).
A suggestion to clean out a damn bird feeder is more grounded in reality than this old chestnut. Anyone who has ever read any so-called Women's Magazine has seen it in every November or December issue. The refrains vary, but it usually goes something like this:
"Keep pantry supplies like olives, nuts, crackers well-stocked so you will be ready if guests stop by unexpectedly." The exact quote from the MSL December issue: "Refresh your supply of cocktail snacks before the holidays re in full swing. Keeping basics on hand, such as mixed nuts, assorted cheeses, olives, and champagne, means you'll be ready if friends and family stop by unexpectedly. "
I ask you, Flap Nation, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME ANYONE STOPPED BY UNEXPECTEDLY? Honestly, if I any one's car pulled up in my drive way, the first thing that would go through my mind isn't "Oh great, so and so's here, let me break out the mixed nuts" it's more "OH SHIT which one of their kids is in the ER and which one will be rotting here all day instead of watching the Discovery Channel on a TV bolted to the ceiling in the ER waiting room?" And further more, what's with all the stress about providing nibbles to someone who just decided to roll on over? . This refrain to "be prepared" is so consistent, I find myself fascinated with its origin. Is it some kind of 1950's hold-over, where suburban families tortured one another with drop-bys and demands for bridge mix? And we know that drop-ins happen. But think of the last time it did: did anyone need food? No, there's just never gonna be a Perfect Storm-scenario where an entire family rolls up, wants to visit, and is hungry. Yet every year millions of readers get this cheerful suggestion. It's almost poignant. If this kind of world ever existed, it's long gone now. Talking it over with a friend this morning, she suggested it's always been some kind of middle class fantasy. It's fun to at least pretend that we are all not so horribly overworked that people have time to visit, and hosts have the wherewithal to lay out a tasty spread within minutes of your arrival.
This fear of not having nuts should "friends" stop by seems to be bordering on the primal. Is it in our race DNA? Do we all carry a fear in our hearts about people coming into our home needing food and there is no food to give? And why the special emphasis during November and December? Why is the publishing industry so convinced that we are more itinerant in early winter? I don't know what you would do, but here is my promise to you, Flap Nation, should any of you drop by unannounced: I will get out of my pajamas if I am in them.
Don't get me wrong, I love friends coming over. I don't even care if you DO show up unannounced. But what's with the expectation that unplanned guests deserve a handful of nuts? Are sane people dropping by truly expecting comestibles? Would anyone of us maintain a relationship with a person who 1. tended to drop by unannounced 2. expected to be waited on when they arrived?
No, we wouldn't maintain relations because those people are clueless assholes who deserve only soft, stale crackers and rancid nuts. And I do think I can provide both at any given time. So I guess I should calm down. I'm ready. C'mon over.
* Sitting down with fresh cup of coffee and a new magazine with no children in sight in the morning, with no pressing engagements pressing is one of my top five Heavenly Things. There are often minor versions of this scenario. Typically I get interrupted every three minutes by Flappette--a child who finds a parent craving solitude a threat to her existence.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Rhode Island is Famous for ...Flu?
From the depths of deep July, I greet you all flap nation. But not from Many Moons, the new Flap Abode, but a charming getaway home in Rhode Island, courtesy of a nifty pal, who has this cool thang called Vermont Performance Lab and she needed Many Moons for this project and I said sure and she said ok, I have this place in Rhode Island and... who cares, just start flapping.
And what affords this flap---on a family vacation of all things? Strangely, I have had more alone time so far on this family vacation than I have in years. Want to know the secret? Sure you do, who doesn't like being alone? On certain family vacations, I imagine solitude would come at quite a premium. Well, I am happy to share it with you, as I just stumbled onto it myself. Here's all you have to do: Just get really, really fucking sick! Have a fever so high your husband is "just in case" googling the nearest hospital. Be so warm that the cat keeps wanting to sleep on you. Also, be unable to hold anything down, or in--food, medicine, liquids, anything ingested is a gamble, a ...crap shoot, if you will. During this illness, if my digestive system had a foley artist, it would be mining the sound scape for the same noises they need for when a giant ship is creaking and about to break apart or maybe whatever noises they use for when irresponsible teenagers are breaking into the local haunted house.
I couldn't help finding myself augmenting my favorite Blossom Dearie song during the earliest stages of this Holiday. Hence the title of this post.
But today I'm in that special zone where I'm on the mend but not quite up to anything more demanding than accompanying my kids to get ice cream. * And now everyone's gone again, because even though the Flap Family's on holiday, it's business as usual in one respect. I realized it was something like this:
Growing up, my family went to church. Very, very churchy. Even on vacations, if it was Sunday and we were on the road somewhere, they found some church and trundled us in there. ( I think it was mostly if I was coming home from Bible Camp. What if I forgot all the shit I learned at bible camp, huh?) I used to think it was kind of a rip-off, this going to church on vacation, and I could kind of see the same logic in my children's eyes when the flap dude came in this afternoon and announced that he had found a local fun run and it started in one hour. Conflict shaded the flappette's face: but ...I'm eating a popsicle and watching iCarly...on a tv...
"C'mon! shoes and socks, now! "
Several weak excuses later, they were all off to the Flap Dudes own Holy Ground--which any part of the earth making contact with a running foot.
* This was the second trip to this fine establishment. The first is all about getting the lay of the land. We had no idea a single/small would be so damn generous. When they handed the cones over I thought they were pulling something on the out of towners and served up jumbos as a default. "Oh god, I did say Small," I thought to myself as I clutched a tenner. But those were indeed a Small. We ambled away, out into some pretty intense heat. Archer lost control of his pistachio top layer, it tumbled to the sidewalk, some 60 yards from the shop. Lucy and I make suitable commiserating sounds. A local old lady was having none of it: Take it back! Tell them they didn't pack it right-put some muscle into this time! She was really outraged for the kid. She had no idea who had just lost this blob of ice cream. Do you even know what a Vermont Small looks like lady? As far as this kid was concerned, he still had enough to throw at his sister, let alone dump on the sidewalk.
And what affords this flap---on a family vacation of all things? Strangely, I have had more alone time so far on this family vacation than I have in years. Want to know the secret? Sure you do, who doesn't like being alone? On certain family vacations, I imagine solitude would come at quite a premium. Well, I am happy to share it with you, as I just stumbled onto it myself. Here's all you have to do: Just get really, really fucking sick! Have a fever so high your husband is "just in case" googling the nearest hospital. Be so warm that the cat keeps wanting to sleep on you. Also, be unable to hold anything down, or in--food, medicine, liquids, anything ingested is a gamble, a ...crap shoot, if you will. During this illness, if my digestive system had a foley artist, it would be mining the sound scape for the same noises they need for when a giant ship is creaking and about to break apart or maybe whatever noises they use for when irresponsible teenagers are breaking into the local haunted house.
I couldn't help finding myself augmenting my favorite Blossom Dearie song during the earliest stages of this Holiday. Hence the title of this post.
But today I'm in that special zone where I'm on the mend but not quite up to anything more demanding than accompanying my kids to get ice cream. * And now everyone's gone again, because even though the Flap Family's on holiday, it's business as usual in one respect. I realized it was something like this:
Growing up, my family went to church. Very, very churchy. Even on vacations, if it was Sunday and we were on the road somewhere, they found some church and trundled us in there. ( I think it was mostly if I was coming home from Bible Camp. What if I forgot all the shit I learned at bible camp, huh?) I used to think it was kind of a rip-off, this going to church on vacation, and I could kind of see the same logic in my children's eyes when the flap dude came in this afternoon and announced that he had found a local fun run and it started in one hour. Conflict shaded the flappette's face: but ...I'm eating a popsicle and watching iCarly...on a tv...
"C'mon! shoes and socks, now! "
Several weak excuses later, they were all off to the Flap Dudes own Holy Ground--which any part of the earth making contact with a running foot.
* This was the second trip to this fine establishment. The first is all about getting the lay of the land. We had no idea a single/small would be so damn generous. When they handed the cones over I thought they were pulling something on the out of towners and served up jumbos as a default. "Oh god, I did say Small," I thought to myself as I clutched a tenner. But those were indeed a Small. We ambled away, out into some pretty intense heat. Archer lost control of his pistachio top layer, it tumbled to the sidewalk, some 60 yards from the shop. Lucy and I make suitable commiserating sounds. A local old lady was having none of it: Take it back! Tell them they didn't pack it right-put some muscle into this time! She was really outraged for the kid. She had no idea who had just lost this blob of ice cream. Do you even know what a Vermont Small looks like lady? As far as this kid was concerned, he still had enough to throw at his sister, let alone dump on the sidewalk.
Monday, May 30, 2011
A Quiescently Frozen Flap
This Contract is made on ___May31______________, 2011____, between
Eileen Parks, of ___4 Moons Manor______________________,
and _____Archer and Lucy Parks_______________, of __________same address_________________,
For valuable consideration, the parties agree as follows:
1. No child will utter the word "Popsicle" before 10am. Similarly, there will be no utterance of any words synonomos with popsicle including frozen confection, pop, ice treat, ice, italian or otherwise ect. ect.
There will be a daily limit on popsicles once the mid-morning phase of the day commences. To be determined by weather and supplier vendor ("Mother"). Once either child meets the limit, then popsicle availability ceases.
This agreement stands even if one or both children of 4 Moons Manor has a subsequent visitor who arrives after the limit has been exceeded.
There will be no howling protests if one sibling eats a popsicle in front of the other who has previously exceeded their daily limit.
2. No modification of this Contract will be effective
unless it is in writing and is signed by both parties. This
Contract binds and benefits both parties and any successors.
Time is of the essence of this contract. This document,
including any attachments, is the entire agreement between
the parties. This Contract is governed by the laws of the
Ad Hoc Parental Organization _______Summer_Frozen Confection Sanity Savers____________.
The parties have signed this Contract on the date specified
at the beginning of this Contract.
Eileen "Don't Ask Me for another fucking popsicle" Parks
______________________
Signature
Lucy "Can I please have a popsicle for breakfast" Parks
Archer "I deserve one more popsicle even though I've had five" Parks______________________
Signature
By:____________________
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Rack'em Up
..And seven months later, I at last figure out how to get this image of two conjoined Spongebob kiddie bath towels up on my blog. God, I really fold easily. But not as easily --or as satisfying-- as these towels fold. Here’s the big reveal, Flap nation: I feel like I’m finally starting to get on top of things (things=terrifying piles of laundry, sacks of junk I’ve painfully sorted and have destined for the dump, my friend’s kids, the thrift store, only to have my kids discover the contents and blow it all over the house AGAIN. Talk about recycling. OK, Let’s not.)
Anyway, this image is the poster child of my insanity about having a clean house. Every time I freak out and think I can’t handle my filthy house for another second I always start the road to a neater house by folding these two towels to make this goofy face complete. There. That’s better. The house will be organized in no time now!
That's how bad it is: I’m so awful at housecleaning that I actually feel like I’m well on my way once I get those towels folded. Yeah, go ahead, put me in your prayer chain, dedicate your next yoga practice to me, run it past your analyst and let me know what they think. It can’t hurt.
No wonder I can’t get this place clean, if my standard for turning this crap-barge around is beginning with matching up two novelty towels “Mad Magazine style”, was there ever any hope?
Ah, the eternal refrain. No, not hope, but my desolate, shit hole of a house. Will it ever end? Actually it will, at least at this current location. I can’t say it’s the main reason, but I’ve often joked this house is so disgusting that I would rather just start over and buy a new one. And that’s what we did. Our new pile started out as a chicken coop and used to belong to a New York Harbor Tug Boat Captain and it looks like the set of Wes Anderson movie that never got made. Gene Hackman would make a great ex-tug boat captain living in land-locked Vermont, right? The hall closet games include Columbo and The Godfather.
Who the hell would play a "The Godfather" board game? “You iced a member of a rival Family, move three spaces.” “If you draw this card, you can help move the Godfather from his hospital room at any time and earn 50 pts.” I requested that the seller leave those games EXACTLY WHERE THEY ARE. Gonna play me some Godfather and Columbo in m’new chicken coop house!
But we haven’t moved in yet, so let’s return to our sub-cellars of crazy tour at the current Flap locale. Now that you've seen the towel rack, let us move to exhibit B, which, if you are up on your anglophile detritus you will correctly ID as a toast rack.
A ratty little toast rack I acquired possibly at our registry, (how did that get past Flap dude, though?) possibly at that pretty big thrift store at 19th and Mission when we lived in The City. I have lugged this pathetic toast rack around for years and years. What kind of world did I think I would be living in where a toast rack would be required? Yet I still cling to all that I believe a toast rack can offer Or rather, the kind of life I suspect I will have for me and my family if I was of the toast racking utilizing sort.
What’s a toast rack for, you wonder. Well, bread gets toasted, cut in half, (diagonally) and the pieces go in the toast rack. Then your butler puts the toast-laden rack, the London Times Literary supplement, a pot of coffee and a fresh daffodil in a Wedgwood vase and brings it to you in your study. You eat the toast, drink the coffee, grab your bowler and bumpershoot
and scoot off to an afternoon at the Reading Room at the British Museum or the Bodleian,
depending.
You see, I have a theory that all this housework we are drowning in can be vanished away if we dial it back to the toast-rack using days. A time when a breakfast table was set the night before. And the children were tucked in bed with hot milk and a biscuit. After reading a chapter of
The Secret Garden to them. Just like you can reconstruct a skeleton with a chip of a femur bone, I suspect that if I just start with one thing--in this case the fucking toast rack--we will be on a road to security, sanity, and sanitary conditions.
And I know that I am referencing a world where maybe this pleasant life was only possible because the household ran on a set schedule. And it was enforced by a Head housekeeper, valet, butler, stable boy, and chauffeur. And I know that all those positions don’t exist anymore. Well, they do, but it’s all rolled into one.
And I know it’s me.
And now we know the feed-back loop is complete, and this rant will never, never end.
Happy New Year.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Prelude to a Flap
There’s a new policy in the Flap Household, effective immediately:
“When you find pulsating mouse, it’s time to clean the house.”
It’s kinda my new mantra. Want some advice, Flap Nation? If you smell something bad, keep searching for the reason. Don’t let the Flap dude tell you," Oh, that’s just your sensitive nose again." Well, yeah it is, and it’s my goddamn super power so why not take advantage. It’s not every time you come flying in at the finish line of a road race I dismiss it with a “Oh, that’s just because you are a gifted runner” So don’t go all Cassandra on me with my uncanny gift of sniffing (and complaining!) about bad odors. My ability to sniff out trouble just might save this Flap family one day. It certainly saved us from having a dead mouse join our household long term.
I keep thinking about how long it must have taken that mouse to rot -- and it was more or less in sight. We have this couch that splits into two pieces. Naturally my kids take full advantage of this fact, always moving the pieces around. One section had found it’s way about ten inches away from the wall. Our dumb cat must have had her shit together one night, or maybe the mouse was drunk or something, because she got a rare notch on her Mouse Kill belt some time in early June, I’m guessing. Left its toyed-with carcass right behind the couch. One glance to the left upon walking in the room would have revealed all. But this family does precious little glancing. It does mostly guitar noodling, face book gazing and repeatedly asking for Popsicles. Leaves precious little time for checking for dead rodents behind couches.
I kept thinking the pee-pee smell was just that sharp twang a house can acquire when the weather’s been damp. Kinda like how a lake house rental smells: a blend of water-logged James Patterson paperbacks, brown-speckled ceramic mugs from the 1970s and lacquered pine paneled walls. It's not without its charms, I find.
But yesterday morning was endgame for the pee pee smell. I got backup on the “lake house effect” funk from the flappette. She walks in the living room and bam, claims she’s smelling something bad. Thank fucking god, someone else smells it, too. I was so sick of sniffing sofa cushions. I was beginning to fall prey to a whole different form of gas-lighting, if you will.
And I was getting really sidetracked with odor detection. Because the living room window had been left open the night before the morning of the big pee pee smell reveal, I had become convinced that the smell was connected to the spilled gallon of paint in the garage that the house painters discovered upon showing up for work that morning. I was envisioning a rampaging family of skunks, trashing the garage then moving on into the living room for a group spray or something. Turns out the Flap dude just slammed the garage door on the bucket and tipped it over. I think he also shattered Occam’s Razor when he pulled the door down. How the hell could I think one event had anything to do with the other?
Here’s why I didn’t just stop at There Must Be a Dead Animal in this Room when the smell wouldn’t go away. Are you ready to find out why? It’s a really sad reason. I thought I already knew what that smelled like because sadly, this isn’t our first PME (pulsating mouse event. )
A few years ago I was trying to finish both grad school AND The Deathly Hallows. A tricky combination of objectives. I would find myself on the couch reading about the final battle instead of say, writing a paper about sexual tension between Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny or whatever the hell it was I did to get my degree. But my Potter joy kept getting disturbed by a smell that made me think the gas was left on the stove. I kept checking, but even though the stove was always fine the smell wouldn’t go away. Cue to my calling Bob and insisting we lift the couch. And now cue The Blowing Curtain.
So now I know, and now everyone in the Flap nation knows: sometimes a rotting mouse smells like propane gas, other times, it kinda has a pee pee twang.
Why the two distinctly different smells of the same dead species? Does this mean there are other possible odors on the rotting mouse odor spectrum? Could be. But I think the Flap household has contributed plenty to this small arena of Rancid Home Science already. We’re all done here.
Which leads me to the positive side of this PME. That is, if you like deep rants. From this an irresistible urge to purge all my Needing a Tidy House demons has surfaced. So this long mouse rant, I can now reveal, was merely a prelude. An instigating event that benefits anyone in the Flap Nation who likes their Flaps in Deep Rant mode. It’s coming. Strap yourselves in and slap on your spelunking lamp and be warned: a little part of you ain’t coming back.
“When you find pulsating mouse, it’s time to clean the house.”
It’s kinda my new mantra. Want some advice, Flap Nation? If you smell something bad, keep searching for the reason. Don’t let the Flap dude tell you," Oh, that’s just your sensitive nose again." Well, yeah it is, and it’s my goddamn super power so why not take advantage. It’s not every time you come flying in at the finish line of a road race I dismiss it with a “Oh, that’s just because you are a gifted runner” So don’t go all Cassandra on me with my uncanny gift of sniffing (and complaining!) about bad odors. My ability to sniff out trouble just might save this Flap family one day. It certainly saved us from having a dead mouse join our household long term.
I keep thinking about how long it must have taken that mouse to rot -- and it was more or less in sight. We have this couch that splits into two pieces. Naturally my kids take full advantage of this fact, always moving the pieces around. One section had found it’s way about ten inches away from the wall. Our dumb cat must have had her shit together one night, or maybe the mouse was drunk or something, because she got a rare notch on her Mouse Kill belt some time in early June, I’m guessing. Left its toyed-with carcass right behind the couch. One glance to the left upon walking in the room would have revealed all. But this family does precious little glancing. It does mostly guitar noodling, face book gazing and repeatedly asking for Popsicles. Leaves precious little time for checking for dead rodents behind couches.
I kept thinking the pee-pee smell was just that sharp twang a house can acquire when the weather’s been damp. Kinda like how a lake house rental smells: a blend of water-logged James Patterson paperbacks, brown-speckled ceramic mugs from the 1970s and lacquered pine paneled walls. It's not without its charms, I find.
But yesterday morning was endgame for the pee pee smell. I got backup on the “lake house effect” funk from the flappette. She walks in the living room and bam, claims she’s smelling something bad. Thank fucking god, someone else smells it, too. I was so sick of sniffing sofa cushions. I was beginning to fall prey to a whole different form of gas-lighting, if you will.
And I was getting really sidetracked with odor detection. Because the living room window had been left open the night before the morning of the big pee pee smell reveal, I had become convinced that the smell was connected to the spilled gallon of paint in the garage that the house painters discovered upon showing up for work that morning. I was envisioning a rampaging family of skunks, trashing the garage then moving on into the living room for a group spray or something. Turns out the Flap dude just slammed the garage door on the bucket and tipped it over. I think he also shattered Occam’s Razor when he pulled the door down. How the hell could I think one event had anything to do with the other?
Here’s why I didn’t just stop at There Must Be a Dead Animal in this Room when the smell wouldn’t go away. Are you ready to find out why? It’s a really sad reason. I thought I already knew what that smelled like because sadly, this isn’t our first PME (pulsating mouse event. )
A few years ago I was trying to finish both grad school AND The Deathly Hallows. A tricky combination of objectives. I would find myself on the couch reading about the final battle instead of say, writing a paper about sexual tension between Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny or whatever the hell it was I did to get my degree. But my Potter joy kept getting disturbed by a smell that made me think the gas was left on the stove. I kept checking, but even though the stove was always fine the smell wouldn’t go away. Cue to my calling Bob and insisting we lift the couch. And now cue The Blowing Curtain.
So now I know, and now everyone in the Flap nation knows: sometimes a rotting mouse smells like propane gas, other times, it kinda has a pee pee twang.
Why the two distinctly different smells of the same dead species? Does this mean there are other possible odors on the rotting mouse odor spectrum? Could be. But I think the Flap household has contributed plenty to this small arena of Rancid Home Science already. We’re all done here.
Which leads me to the positive side of this PME. That is, if you like deep rants. From this an irresistible urge to purge all my Needing a Tidy House demons has surfaced. So this long mouse rant, I can now reveal, was merely a prelude. An instigating event that benefits anyone in the Flap Nation who likes their Flaps in Deep Rant mode. It’s coming. Strap yourselves in and slap on your spelunking lamp and be warned: a little part of you ain’t coming back.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
GET YOUR MONEY BACK! The briefest of Flaps in which I share My Latest Fantasy
GET YOUR MONEY BACK!
That’s the name of my new pretend food column that, if it were real, would be in Sunday Circulars. Right next to those ads of pull-on polyester pants in a range of pastel shades. It would focus on ways to use up all the weird horseradish, mint jelly and plum vinegar's rotting in all our cabinets and fridge doors. It includes ways to combine the questionable condiments with shit like random grains you bought on a health kick. I’m talking Red Curry Quinoa. Every recipe closes with “Eat it and...GET YOUR MONEY BACK! This column was surely borne of my sick game I call “Takin’ it down to the mustard” in which I refuse to buy anything at the store save milk for my kids until I am satisfied I've used up enough foodstuffs in the freezer, fridge and pantry.
The “mustard mood” strikes without warning. It certainly never surfaces as an actual budgeting need. I just get sick of going to the store sometimes. If it keeps up this week, I’ll be serving lasagna pasta shards with dried mango and withered (not on purpose) endive. With radish garnish. Ever wonder who’s buying all the damn radishes in the store? Why they even put them there? Thank the Flap dude. He doesn’t shop much, but when he comes back, there’s always radishes in the sack. WHY??
But anyway, back to GET YOUR MONEY BACK! People will see me in the supermarket and chant the phrase back to me and I will pretend that it’s the first time I’ve heard it. At least that day. Also, if this column were real my photo would show me with my head cocked to one side, can’t figure out if I am looking at the reader accusingly over my glasses, or if my glasses are dangling from my hand, which is resting on my chin.
Also the column would be full of hot food tips like: “Store your flour in the freezer to keep rats from chewing through the bag, because if rats eat your flour they stole from you and you won’t GET YOUR MONEY BACK.
This thing won’t stay a Sunday Circular Column for long. People are tired of rats chewing through their flour bags. And though we may have no one but ourselves to blame for that bottle of white truffle oil, liquid smoke or vegetable biranyi paste, when has that ever stopped an American from ranting? This thing’s gonna take off like it’s got Thai Chili Paste on its ass.
In closing, I would like to offer this food-related anecdote that Flappette just told me: “Whenever I fart I feel like the food inside me is yelling EARTHQUAKE!!!”
Yeah, Red Curry Quinoa will do that to ya.
That’s the name of my new pretend food column that, if it were real, would be in Sunday Circulars. Right next to those ads of pull-on polyester pants in a range of pastel shades. It would focus on ways to use up all the weird horseradish, mint jelly and plum vinegar's rotting in all our cabinets and fridge doors. It includes ways to combine the questionable condiments with shit like random grains you bought on a health kick. I’m talking Red Curry Quinoa. Every recipe closes with “Eat it and...GET YOUR MONEY BACK! This column was surely borne of my sick game I call “Takin’ it down to the mustard” in which I refuse to buy anything at the store save milk for my kids until I am satisfied I've used up enough foodstuffs in the freezer, fridge and pantry.
The “mustard mood” strikes without warning. It certainly never surfaces as an actual budgeting need. I just get sick of going to the store sometimes. If it keeps up this week, I’ll be serving lasagna pasta shards with dried mango and withered (not on purpose) endive. With radish garnish. Ever wonder who’s buying all the damn radishes in the store? Why they even put them there? Thank the Flap dude. He doesn’t shop much, but when he comes back, there’s always radishes in the sack. WHY??
But anyway, back to GET YOUR MONEY BACK! People will see me in the supermarket and chant the phrase back to me and I will pretend that it’s the first time I’ve heard it. At least that day. Also, if this column were real my photo would show me with my head cocked to one side, can’t figure out if I am looking at the reader accusingly over my glasses, or if my glasses are dangling from my hand, which is resting on my chin.
Also the column would be full of hot food tips like: “Store your flour in the freezer to keep rats from chewing through the bag, because if rats eat your flour they stole from you and you won’t GET YOUR MONEY BACK.
This thing won’t stay a Sunday Circular Column for long. People are tired of rats chewing through their flour bags. And though we may have no one but ourselves to blame for that bottle of white truffle oil, liquid smoke or vegetable biranyi paste, when has that ever stopped an American from ranting? This thing’s gonna take off like it’s got Thai Chili Paste on its ass.
In closing, I would like to offer this food-related anecdote that Flappette just told me: “Whenever I fart I feel like the food inside me is yelling EARTHQUAKE!!!”
Yeah, Red Curry Quinoa will do that to ya.
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