An open Flap to Der Blueberry Haus:

What’s the German phrase for go Fuck Yourself?

I’ve heard rumbles from the flap-nation that everyone has had more than enough time to read the tung oil flap. OK, then, let’s focus on intolerant asshole blueberry growers for a change of pace. I’ve been wanting to flap about this since my last visit--and I do mean LAST--to that quaint little Guilford, VT spot, Blueberry Haus. At last, I’m gonna get m’flap on about this irritating event last July.

In my short time living here, this Pick-Your-Own spot has grown into a quite a bustling Crap merchant. Sure, I thought it was schlocky, but I resisted the urge to judge. l worked extra hard at it, because it’s very clear that the family who runs this place is super evangelical christian. They have a giant bible at the cash register to read between sales. They sell these homemade CDs of their family singing gospel music. WHATEVER I would tell myself. They are pleasant enough to their customers and there's no reason to take their goofy (to me) beliefs personally. Go ahead, sing all the damn day about the old rugged cross and read Leviticus 'till yer eyes dry out, makes no difference to me.

How did we end up spending our blueberry dollar at this den of hokum? At first we chose this spot because it was near this cute library where we liked to go for story-time and a picnic. Back in the day when it was just me and the kids trolling around looking for shit to do until bedtime, this story-time/blueberry picking combo was an awesome time filler. Plus, you got blueberries. They grow them under nets which creates a unique pick--not so sweltering. And I really dug the kid containment those nets gave me. I love that rare combo of not having to actually see your kids yet know that they are in the same spot as you.

After the story time era wound down, we still had der Blueberry Haus on our radar. I knew where it was, what the deal was, like where to get the junky bowl for picking and all that jazz. I knew there were classier joints to pick: MacArthur's, Dwight Miller, Green Mountain Orchard. We somehow had a fondness for this place and just kept ending up there every time. But I first got wind of some extreme shifts for this already dangerously kitschy scene when Anne called on day early in the blueberry season this past summer:
“have you been to Blueberry Haus yet?”
“No, why?”
"They have this new sign up at the entrance to the bushes. It says No Samplin’--this is a place of business and No Cussin--this is a family place'. "
Huh.

We both agreed that all this made us want to do was stuff our mouths with blueberries, spit them out and yell SHIT! These blueberries suck!" Don't ever tell the two of us not to cuss. (Reminds me of the time Anne was helping me set my library up summer before last. Her kids don't go to the school where I work so she was unfamiliar with all the different signage. There's one sign that's particularly pervasive that informs you that Kindness is Spoken Here. When she pointed out the sign we made the simultaneous joke that it's too bad we only speak fluent Fuck You.)

And I don't quite recall at what point this family got the impression that once you arrived to pick blueberries you would then be inspired to stock up on CCZ (shorthand for what Bob calls Crazy Crap-a-zola.) And this Blueberry stand was--is--without a doubt the finest purveyor of Crap in the greater Southern Vermont area. It's the Crap Emporium, bar none. It’s gone from just selling U-Pick , to shilling face lotion with religious scripture on the labels, the de riguer jars of jams-n-dilly beans, candy, candy, candy, ice cream and STUPID RACIST PLAQUES.

Yes, Flap Nation, this place shills those horrible wooden signs with slogans that pass for humor in middle class kitchens. Signs that espouse the medicinal power of chocolate for harried mothers, signs that passively aggressively validate gossip, and just generally make jokes about having fat spouses, eating too much, and having a messy house. I've noticed these signs every time I picked at Der Blueberry Haus. It's hard not to, there are maybe a hundred of them hanging all over the place, and I had to have something to do while my kids finished their ice cream. Up till last summer, they have all been unoriginal, stupid, bland, useless, and just generally a dismal way to spend eight dollars. But we've had a general election since the last time I was giving this place my blueberry dollar. And something tells me this family isn't pleased with the result. For there, nestled among the "If you don't have anything nice to say, sit next to me" and Bless this Mess signs was a new addition:

"1.8 Million People Attended the Inauguration and only 14 Missed Work."

At first I didn't get it. Really. It's been so long since I've heard a racist joke. And at first I thought it was a joke about democrats in general. However, my childhood was spent in South Carolina so many things came flooding back to me upon reading this sign. And then my reaction was, "Really, you wanna hang this awful sign in your house, and just read it every day??!

That was enough for me.

KIDS!! C'mon, we're blowing this blueberry stand.

Tung's Will Wag

There are now three people in the Flapdoodle Marriage. Myself, the Flap-dude, and a gallon of Tung Oil. Let me explain. Since 1998 I have been happily married. Just me and the dude, no tung oil, or even the hint of the tung oil interloping to come. But I now fight mightily for Flap-dude’s affections night and day, and will continue to do so until this slightly rusted vixen gets drained to the last drop. And at the rate she’s willing to spread, it shouldn't’ be too long. But I’m gonna win. Tung Oil can’t make tuna salad just the way the FD likes it. (straight from the can into a bowl with tomatoes and avocado DON'T TELL THE TUNG OIL I am barely winning this war. )

It all started, as these things always do,subtly, innocently, frugally. Well, these are the ways into his heart, anyway. He came back from one of his favorite haunts with his usual load of --to me--incomprehensible DIY supplies, trinkets, and baubles. I've stopped even asking what the hell all this junk is for. But even I couldn't help noticing this coy, square jug with the old lady table on the front.

"What's this?"
"Not sure, really but look, it was only a dollar! And! Not only was it only a dollar, look how much it originally cost!"

I peer closely at an old tag from a long-extinct chain of hardware stores: $54. In 1984 prices, that's like, $174 dollars or something. She was valuable, but got at a bargain. And so it began.

As the days went by, I kept noticing odd webpages open on my browser. eHow pages on the uses of Tung Oil. Wikipedia entries as to its origin. (Flap dude confessed that since he wasn't sure how to spell tongue he wanted to find out if maybe it was from some animal's tongue. ) And then I started seeing new odd jobs popping up around the house. He and his little Tung Oil pal were having a ball all over the property. I come home from the store, there's a freshly tung oiled threshold to step over. That kind of thing. Never mind the ripping off the old siding project, or the new screen door on the porch. Oh no, it's all what can I do with my can of tung oil today. Suddenly, the sander's been broken out and there's all kind of action on the floors. Action of a tung oil nature.

Now, before I flap-out, can I just get an accolade or two for not working blue?*

*It would have been an easy course to take, but if you want to let'em fly in the comments section, please do. Show me whatcha got.

Just Letting it all Flap Out

So here I sit Flap-Nation, half-way thru my fantasy- turned-into- reality wherein I came home yesterday from working my last day at school to an EMPTY, freshly professionally cleaned house, since The Flap Dude and petite Flappers had to motor off to Massachusetts for a little ol' Hall of Fame Awards ceremony since my beloved was a hot-shit cross country star back in the day but I couldn't go cos I had to work so he only gets to show off his cute kids and not his hot wife but that's how I got this time to myself and I think this run-on sentence pretty much sums up the state of my racing mind since I cannot find my co-op bo-ho tranks. And if this sentence doesn't personify the bat-shit crazy, this clip of the contents of my handbag should do it:





I don't know if anything sums up these last chaotic weeks more than the contents of this bag. Truly it has been the repository of my nutty-- sometimes fun--but mostly blurry existence. It has kept a running record of every batshitcrazy moment. And up until I let it all explode on the floor, I'm sure there were sedimentary layers that would have told my crazy history in a more ordered fashion. No matter. Before I disperse/dispense this crazy and put it behind me for the summer, let us take a little inventory and let the contents reveal all:

• An almost-empty bottle of advil-no further explanation needed

• An empty pack from shoe laces bought under duress at Sams because just one (?!) of A-man's laces on his sneaks decided to rot off. He was walking around downtown with a partial lace wrapped around his ankle like some kind of waif gladiator. Homies in the 802 know my pain--who wants to unexpectedly herd two kids into Sams via Main St., collecting the free popcorn on the first floor because god forbid you ever walk in there without availing oneself of the free popcorn before cat-herding down to the shoe dept., scattering said free popcorn all the over the goddamn place. It's true: crazy.attracts.more.crazy.

• My last bag of Yogi brand St. John's Wort tea. Should have bought a case. (BTW you know you are overly stressed out when you find yourself arguing with the inspirational quote on the paper thingie attached to the string. So what smug yogi tea employee decided to include "The art of happiness is to serve all" huh? Well, fuck you, yogi tea, the art of happiness is not needing to mainline your goddamn tea because you feel so goddamn fried every second of every day. Are they just making this shit up? There's no attribution on these tags at all. It's just some asshole in Marin who only eats macrobiotic raw food and makes up excuses for their incessant infidelity by claiming they are just "more in touch in with the universe that way."

• Other assorted shit cuz I gotta wrap this up: free samples from a facial Flap Dude won (last September!) in one his many local races that I finally got after exchanging no fewer than seven voicemail with the facialist. One got cancelled within an hour of the apt. b/c she had to rush her old lady neighbor to the ER. And the whole thing wasn't as relaxing as I had hoped because a goddamn eyelash fell in my eye and I couldn't wipe it out because she had dipped my hands in hot paraffin and then wrapped them in plastic bags and I just didn't know how to tell her that I was in agony. Still, she's the best in the area and it was all worth it. There are also samples from a goody bag from yet another race Flapdude won a few weeks ago. I hope all these little tubes of goo don't just kick around the bottom of my bag until they get all softly tattered and then one day gently spooge out and cover over all my pens and hairbands and coupons and tic tacs and flashdrives and nine-dollar chapsticks. There's crazy, and then there's coated crazy, ya know?

There was one Object D'Crazy that didn't make it into my bag, but that's only because it weighed six pounds and part of it was coated in smelly black mystery paste. Believe it or not, I am am talking about my six-year old's shoes. Not these she's wearing in this screen shot, though. These were the ones she had to wear because of the smelly heavy ones:



There we were last Monday evening, suddenly realizing time had melted away and we had less than ten minutes to get to Flappette's Kindergarten Kulmination Celebration or somesuch. Now, we live one mile from the school, but with only ten minutes to get there and not one member of the Flap household wearing shoes, that ceremony might as well have been in the Yukon. This household needs a solid thirteen minutes for shoe location, retrival,and donning. And I knew Flappette had outgrown her fancy shoes we refer to as "click-clacks", and that most of her other shoes had not surfaced in these last weeks. The only thing I could dig up in these tense minutes was a pair of tattered T-straps that she had outgrown. One of them had a detached sole and the fake patent leather had worn away on both shoes.

When I showed them to Bob he said "Oh, I can fix those, no problem!" And I wanted to believe him as he tramped down cellar to his "workshop" but deep down I knew we were all doomed. For when Bob goes downstairs to "fix things" he generally channels his nutty Dad who also has a knack for patching things up in ways that are too complicated and bothersome in proportion to how much that object is actually worth in terms of one's time or money.

As the minutes ticked by, Bob shouted up from the cellar vague, but encouraging things like "This won't take long at all" and "I know what I am doing" and "Just get everyone in the car, I will be ready in ten minutes."

"But we need to be there in four minutes. " I thought to myself in a small, desperate voice.

I dutifully got the kids in the car and got behind the wheel, ready to roll the second Bob sprang from the house. And he did in a shorter time that he originally claimed. He bounced in the car holding the uh, repaired shoes. They were now covered in what I think was some kind of high-VOC roofing tar, and the toe of one was held in a clamp. He tossed them proudly on the dashboard and said, "These just need ten minutes to dry!"

It is my deepest regret that I was unable to record the image of those stinky shoes in a vice riding on the dashboard. Too busy, too late to snap a photo. But somehow we found her good old brown shoes floating somewhere in the car. We made it on time. I watched my child sing cute songs while my heart almost exploded with joy as I let myself realize that this wonderful child was my own daughter. Turns out I don't need a teabag to tell me about happiness.

My Flap Pales in Light of Yours

I don't have too much to flap about these days. At least, nothing new to flap about. I could do a straight-up vanilla flap about tangled knots of laundry and toilet bowls with flies the size of hummingbirds buzzing above them, but why not just pull a guest flap of sorts?

Meaning, I've got friends who have had more flap-worthy moments than me of late. The topper belongs to Anne, who not only chaperoned a trip to six-fucking-flags with a group of middle school band students, they capped the day with nose-bleed seats to a Hartford, CT production of Phantom of the Fucking Opera. That's it, stick a fondue fork in it, because the flap-game is over and won and done by you, Anne. Did I mention the gasket leak that cost her almost two bills? Yeah, that was going on the same weekend. But she's really neck and neck with Hott Mama who just happened to find two inches of shit-water in basement last week. She's got her own blog, so no need for a guest flap. But still, both ladies make my rants about my nasty house (we hit a new low this week, flap nation, when I finally decided to change our sheets and a goddamn ORANGE rolled out of the bedding. How the hell did we co-sleep in a bed with whole produce? ) and my naughty kids who take off with my vacuum cleaner and roll it up and down the street.

And then there's my coworkers. One had put over 30 hours of work into a movie she shot while on holiday in the Dominican Republic. Some asswipe stole the computer from a class room last week and thus stole her finished movie. She was just about to upload it minutes before it was taken. And another one had to festoon the entire school with every damn shred of artwork created by all 370 students for the ever-popular Art Night. She even had to buy the snackies, but she got her own back because she bought some kind of pink drink ("Price Chopper House Brand Pink Lemon Drink with less than 1% Juice") that can also be used for drain cleaner in a pinch. That shit had both corn syrup AND aspartame! The beverage was complimented with the Price Chopper house brand --Always Save--wafer cookies that tasted like little sticks of compressed sawdust layered with joint compound in a choice of two colors: "kitten diarrhea" brown or " based on the contents of this diaper my baby needs to see the pediatrician STAT" pink.

All I've been doing/putting up with/enduring, work-wise is reading/teaching mythology to fourth graders who choose to have burping contests while I'm reading Black Ships Before Troy. I'm thinking maybe we actually need to start practicing some ancient rites in the library. Start reading chicken entrails or something. That should get the burping to stop. Unless we start worshipping Bacchus. Then the burping would get worse. Much worse.

I don't even have Curves Gym to complain about anymore! That's right, I dredged up my courage and faced down the former middle school bullies that run our local curves franchise and told them I was jumping off the curves train. Now, instead of listening to The Chicken Dance and staring at some goofy poster with ridiculous Guessing Game questions while flaccidly pushing on some pole or whatever, I am fucking it up at The Whole Woman. I am now doing some of the sickest crunches (the formerly benign words Penguin and Rainbow now cause beads of sweat at the mere mention) and single-muscle isolating exercises, in front of a large Mandala with Metallica's Enter Sandman throbbing on the stereo. If you scroll down on this page you will see my sorry legs trying to make it through a set of some ungodly crunch.

I have been writing this while alone in the house since the Flap men have been attending the big boy toy show, some horrendous thingy at the park with guns and tractors. I forgot to check with Bob to see if he had enough protein in him before he mingled with other males who sell weapons and heavy equipement. I have not heard the whump whump of helicopters circling the ice rink, nor do I hear the amplified voice of a police officer giving instructions of any kind, so I feel I am safe in concluding that until the next report, the Flap Household is...wait, here comes Bob up the stairs, yes, he did get into one small fight with a biker dude over Momentum v. Inertia.

At least the Flap Household need never fear entropy.

He don't like them Flap-apples

I have often said there's no end to my umbrage. And as we all know, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And of course, since there's no end to the A-Man's umbrage, the fallen apple is likely to piss off the flap dude. Witness his reaction to his poor apple selection after the school's garden dedication:

Favorite line (from Lucy) "I ate my bruises and they tasted like apple pie."

Finally Flapping Florida: Part One

I guess it takes two trips to this over-developed hell hole to get my flap up. I was in Tampa last February, and just got back from Orlando last week. I'm gonna have to give Orlando--(new motto I'm offering their tourism bureau:"A place to come and eat trans fats if you do not live that close to Las Vegas!" ) it's own Flap.

But really, I can't blame Florida for all the irritants and umbrage from the first trip. That all came courtesy of the in-laws. The previous post re the wacky pool rules was just the beginning. What kind of people populate a community with such intricate rules and regs? People who have time to wax the chrome on their side-view mirrors. People who smoke stinky brown cigs and shell out wads of cash to keep their foo-foo dogs alive. People who keep decorating with a shell motif until you start wondering if you are really just staying in an under-utilized banquet room in a local seafood chain restaurant.

I've got pictures, Flap Nation so I can prove that it all really exists. So come with me. Come to land where you are actually not supposed to walk on the floor, where chocolate magically appears from the ice cube maker, where food isn't planned and prepared, so much as beaten and pulverized. The flavorless food is augmented with bizarre condiments like mango rhubarb jelly, wasabi mayonnaise and black cherry horseradish sauce. I lost two pounds that week. A latent benefit with a heavy price.

So, not only are there intense rules throughout the gated community about the exteriors and lots, the in-laws, who clearly thrive in this restricted environment, have brought the spirit of this repressive park regime into their own unit.

Flap-in-law rule # 1:

Do not walk on the floor. We, the occupants of this unit have an inordinate fear of foot fudge. If you insist on walking on the floors in this unit, we will be required to take protective measures. Therefore, all surfaces will be covered with sheets and towels. The occupants would appreciate it if you donned the socks that make everyone look like a bloated Dr. Suess character. We noticed the adult visitors tacitly ignore the aforementioned socks, so pointedly laid out on wooden bench near the entry-way with "Shoes Off Here!" painted in what we feel is a jovial script, but really comes off as irritatingly non-confrontational to our daughter-in-law who refuses to wear the socks because of the Tornado Effect--wherein the sight of the D-in-law wearing the fuzzy, brightly colored socks causes the son's genitals to curl back up into his nether cavity a'la the Wicked Witch of The Wests feet when the ruby slippers get transferred to Dorothy's feet. There will be no wearing of the socks by either adult visitor and the tension will build from day one, and grow as the week wears on and the towels and sheets become jumbled up and expose the actual floor surface.

Rule #2. Relax! Take it easy!

There's loads of time to do whatever you want, especially if you like to get up, read every supermarket circular in the St. Petersburg times,(approx. 45-60 mins.) make a shitload of bacon (approx. 25 mins. when you cannot find the pan which was under the goddamn stove the entire time) under the guise that "the kids like it" but really, you just want to eat it all, bumble in to shower and bathe your withered parts and blow dry what's left of your hair (approx. one hour) and then ignore every activity suggested by your daughter in law because they involve museums that might tax the intellect.

Let's take a break from the rules to allow a mild rant about this stupid fucking clock. It kind of sums up everything about the in-laws phony philosphy on "Taking it Easy." I mean, Who Cares, indeed! The owners of this clock are the ones that care! It's still TELLING TIME. If you really didn't care what time it was, a. the clock would not work or b. not exist. All these people do all day is pretend to be laid-back, when what they are really doing 24/7 is obsessing over ironing their slacks and wondering what the assholes in the units on either side of them think about them.

Thus concludeth part one. Part two resumes when I get back from brunch at Hott Mama's.

Burn While Reading?

The Flap Family turned into Mud Birds and left Vermont for warmer climes last week. We flapped all the way to Florida. It was our annual sojourn to the Flap-in-laws. They are snow birds living in what has to be the fussiest 55-and-and-over retirement community ever. Just how fussy? There are weight limits (22lb. max) on the dogs allowed to live there. And it's enforced. It's really nothing short of one of those country club-style prisons-- it's completely fenced in, there's man in a little hut to wave you in and out, the whole bit. Actually, I'm thinking a minimum security prison has fewer restrictions--have a gander at these pool rules!

Their order makes no sense, but it all kind of builds up in the best "do not taunt happy fun ball" tradition.

The Valentine's Day Flapaccre

Flapnation, I ask you:

When have you ever been able to cut the sexual tension with a knife in Hannafords?
It happened to me. This is my Flap.

Yes, this a post- Valentines day wrap-up--a general session of mild ill will towards this holiday that seems directed at working class folks who have allowed cable TV to "wither their genitals" (always be prepared for Simpsons refs with me). I got my first whiff of recollection that this clumsy holiday had returned last Saturday in the supermarket. And I do mean a literal whiff. Suddenly, right there in front of the citrus, I get a hit of Chaps, or Polo, or some sort of "Designer" fragrance available only at Walgreens. It shot right up my nose;I glance around and see a gruff--dare I say, chapped? working class dude in his Carharts, his maw wrapped around a bundle of hothouse flowers ensconced in cellophane, devoid of all fragrance. But like I said, he already had the fragrance covered.

Then, after noticing him, I pulled back a bit, let my gaze settle over the whole produce section and damn, if the store wasn't a mini-version of the Depot Scene from Gone With the Wind*--you know the one where the camera keeps pulling back, revealing more and more wounded soldiers? But instead of a forlorn Taps solo playing, I think Hannafords was playing "Evil Woman" by ELO.

All around me were gruff Carhart-clad dudes dutifully buying the ten dollar bouquets, some with a side-kick in the form of a teenage son. I realized that my buddy Rebeca would be so tickled if she were with me then. It's her favorite part of V-Day, going to a supermarket and watching the dudes buy the ugly bouquets. And those dudes really threw me off my stride. I normally charge in there on Saturday mornings during the A-man's karate hour, throwing all my junk in the cart just like the other Saturday marketing regulars. We all move about in an orderly fashion, knowing our purpose, navigating with ease. Not so, this V-Day Saturday. The befuddled male masses threw everyone off their game, clogging the aisles with their confusion over what nice things they should be picking up. To quote that fat asshole who runs the railway on the Isle of Sodor: "You are causing confusion and delay!"

And oh god, we all know what it's like when men shop even under non-holiday duress. I had experienced a classic just a few days ago. Flap-man said he would pick up a few items while the A-man was at karate. Even though we were out of milk, and really just needed a few perishables like lettuce, he returned with six cans of tuna, a half gallon of chocolate soy milk, a box of frozen fish stix for dinner and a mini-party pack of fresh shrimp, all clinging to this black plastic wheel thing, under a big plastic dome lid, with a plastic cup of cocktail sauce in the middle.

"Uh, honey, we won't be hosting Bridge Club for another 25 years, why the shrimp ring?"
"I thought we could just start eating it right away while the fish stix cook!"
"OK! Asked and answered!"

All this took place on Thursday, which was also the night that we needed to get our children's Valentines in order. I was getting nervous about creating approximately 40 valentines with the three pieces of pink construction paper I was able to dig up. Plus this household has never met a glue stick that wasn't shriveled up like Napoleon's dessicated penis. Did I mention is was just past 7:30?? No supplies, no energy, no time...I knew making them was never going to work, but I was really feeling for my kiddies. How stressful is it to realize that it's the night before and YOU DON'T HAVE ANY VALENTINES OR VALENTINES FIXIN'S AND SUPPLIES? I knew we were doomed when I showed the A-man the suggested size heart we needed to work with if all the valentines were going to be made with the three pieces of construction paper. He got so pissed! "Who wants a valentine that size? NOBODY!" he says as he dramatically tossed it on the ground. Because he had the true Valentine spirit, which is, make a nice, giant Valentine for your friend. Singular.
Why do we (the societal We) insist on hedging out any risk of our children experiencing emotional pain? I refer to the classroom rule about each child needing to give a valentine to the entire class if they chose to participate. It's so stupid! Kids aren't friends with every classmate at the Valentine level! And it sucks all your energy to pound out all those damn Valentines, when it's natural to just want to make one for the couple-few FRIENDS that you actually have. But it turns out I was destined to fight this one on my own, for not only was Bob fried from the karate/market combo errand, he was having an allergic reaction to that stupid shrimp ring. Witness:
7:45. Thursday evening. The night before the school Valentines exchange/orgy of red dye #2"
"Oh sweetie, it looks like you got pinkeye!"
"Nah, it's just the shrimp--remember, I'm allergic!"
"Christ. You need to take some Benedryl."

So there we were: 7 somethin' going on late, fish sticks in the oven, shrimp ring gone, my husband passed out upstairs, looped out on benedryl. There was only one thing to do:
"Get in the car, kids, we're goin' to th'Choppa."

Price Chopper that is. The "other" supermarket in town. The one I don't frequent because it totally smells like ass in there. But it's the perfect place to head while under duress, somehow.
We pull up, walk through the haze of cig smoke that's always lingering in the entryway, nod to the toothless greeter with the tight ponytail and mascara that makes her eyes look like two pissholes in the snow, and make our way to the now scantily stocked "Seasonal" aisle. They had condensed all the remaining valentines into one small box. Just let this sink in: these were the Valentines that even Choppa-Shoppas had rejected. But my kids were handling it well. A-man pleaded initially to head back to the school and grab a glue stick and a few more pieces of construction paper, but gave up quickly when he saw I wasn't gonna play. Besides, we needed milk!

Littlest flapper picked a Disney Princess trio-themed box. It was either that or the wretched Bratz dolls. It was called a "kit" because it came with stinky red lollipops I could smell through the box. Archie had more choices, cartoon network characters that none of us recognized, Superman, Spiderman, Cars, and Kung Fu Panda. He chose Kung Fu Panda. We trundled off, after grabbing the milk, and running into a woman in the dairy section I tangentially know who always engages me in useless conversation. But she always manages to bring this one subject up every time, so it's kinda fun to see how she's going to introduce it each time we run into each other. Ask me offline if you want to know what it is.

So we make it home, Flap man snoring softly upstairs, floating gently in his antihistamine-induced haze."hey, I think to myself, at least we didn't end up in the emergency room. "There's always something worse than the Choppa, right?



*I could have also used a "The Birds" analogy here, but it just wasn't that sinister.

Flapper-Keeper: The Post Where I Complain About how Unorganized I am

Greetings faithful Flap-Nation!

And I thank you for taking the time to put away your food journals, from sectioning grapefruit, pausing your Learn Spanish/Italian/Japanese language tapes, putting down The Iliad or Dante's Inferno--(or was this Paradise Lost's year?) You know, all the things that keep us middle-class/middle-brow folk occupied in the new year.

I trust your holidays went...?The flap household did the usual: hot chocolate for staying out in the snow for little more than seven minutes, obsessing over candy canes dangling off the tree like the goddamn forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden, and of course, watching classic "Family Holiday" movies together.

This year we curled up around the computer and fired up Meet Me in St. Louis, a movie so plotless and benign it makes any Walt Disney movie look like The Deer Hunter. And still! The littlest Flapper found cause for fear.* I should have known. This is a child who felt frightened at a Pooh-n-pals Halloween video. All Christmas season, she shrieked and left the room every time I sang the stanza from my favorite XMAS radio song, The Most Wonderful Time of the Year: "There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long agooooooo."

So anyway, here's the Flap-Family watching a movie about a family who lives in St. Louis, loves it, never wants to leave St. Louis. Not even when they get the chance to leave and move to New.York.City. God forbid, not with that huge fucking fair that's coming to town. After all, this family reasons, everyone else in the world who comes to the fair has to TRAVEL to St. Louis, and they ALREADY LIVE RIGHT THERE. Works for me, I guess. I hate long trolley rides, ya know?

And even though I've been watching this movie my entire life (I even had the sound track record when I was a kid) this year's viewing really fascinated me with just how over the top its whole Good Ol' Days of America message was. Seriously, if using the porn analogy, with Walt Disney movies being an issue of Playboy circa 1972, "Meet Me..."is a never-ending beaver shot from Hustler--any era. Countless adorable children licking giant lollipops in turn of the century sailor suits, mildly curmudgeonly grandfathers, heart of gold housekeepers, barking fathers who sputter over the top of their newspapers. It's all here, folks. The purest, most distilled example of Americana Pornigraphica. And it works, too. My kids are still singing the Trolley Song.

But wait! I implied, with my entry title, some classic bitching about my messy house! But I don't really feel like it anymore. I'm having one of those Sundays where I swear I'm going to put everything to rights. I'm going to trace my steps back to that pivotal moment when everything started going to shit (it's usually something like the night I didn't unload the dishwasher leaving no where to put the breakfast dishes except the sink and then I had to come home and make dinner with crap all over the counter and then I was too tired after making dinner under those conditions to clean up a double mess so I just started reading a goofy book instead...). Nope, today's not a day for the straight-up where-did-all-this-shit-come-from-and where/how/when-can-I-return it/burn it/abandon it? It's a day for believing in the power of my virtual Flapper-Keeper. That mental state where I persevere among the stacks of old magazines, possibly important papers, random playmobil pieces and finally figure out whether to shit or wind my watch.

In closing, I would like to offer my Erma Bombeck homage joke:

I read somewhere that women with fat asses have smarter kids--something about Omega-3 storage or some such. All I know is, if that's true, it's very possible one of my kids will be able to invert the space/time continuum.


*She got scared when Tootie went trick-or-treating