Flapdoodle

Nuts to You. And You, And You, And You....

2011-11-19T06:55:00.000-08:00

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.

Rhode Island is Famous for ...Flu?

2011-07-19T15:50:00.000-07:00

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.

A Quiescently Frozen Flap

2011-05-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

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:____________________

Rack'em Up

2010-12-30T07:04:00.000-08:00

..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.

Prelude to a Flap

2010-06-24T06:09:00.000-07:00

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.

GET YOUR MONEY BACK! The briefest of Flaps in which I share My Latest Fantasy

2010-01-24T16:24:00.000-08:00

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.

An open Flap to Der Blueberry Haus:

2009-10-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-12T08:36:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-20T06:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-05T09:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-22T05:55:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-03-02T09:48:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-19T04:38:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-25T07:03:00.000-08:00

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

Flapdoodle Yens for Toggle Poncho

2008-12-26T10:10:00.000-08:00

Not really--I was just looking for an opportunity to lay the phrase Toggle Poncho on my beloved Flap nation. It won't be the last time. Stumbled across the item while flipping through through a Land's End sale catalog tucked alongside my L.end bargains I just opened up. A few days earlier Baby sis had thrown a $25 gift card in the Christmas card--I wasted no time in whisking off with it before Bob could get his mind around what $25 bux at Lands End could do for him. Within minutes of receiving it I was trolling for bargains on all the random things I seem to need to make sense of my world.

I scored a pair of badly needed gloves (the only other current options were this skinky, pilled up pair I got at the J.Crew outlet that gave me penguin crotch between my fingers because they were too small, or whatever awful pair of leather, gorilla-black snap-on tool gloves I could find on the mudroom floor. ) These new ones, of course, just barely fit my huge manhands, but at least the penguin crotch-look is gone.

AND I finally scored something from Land's End's On the Counter scheme. I used to think it was all a sham--a sick little game to make you think there were really bargains with your name on them out there in Lands End Land. It's usually just canvas hats in 2T, bed linens with sailboats and forks on them, Men's pants with sailboats and forks on them....but finally, it was endgame for On the Counter. I am proud to report that I procured a bathing suit--of famous Land's End quality, no less, for NINE DOLLARS and FIFTY CENTS. It's one of their tankini models and its color-the only available, of course was the undecipherable "Agave." Sort of had a Mexican print thing going on. It was hard to tell what the print really looked like, but I wouldn't care if it depicted ancient Inca chihuahua sacrifices, it was less than ten dollars and in my size. Sold.

Part Two: Subway also serves Moons over My Hammy
A few weeks ago our family came up against that classic Busy Family of Four time crunch--I had left school late because of Student Council. I had the A-man with me and he was scheduled to try out Karate for the first time that evening. By the time I got home, we needed to jam straight to the Dojo. When was my slender sweet dude gonna eat, I wondered? As we were taking the left by the library and our town's Financial District, I glanced over at the neon glow of Subway. Hey, I said we could eat there after Karate, because I need to head back over to the school to photograph the evening performance of the play. (Sometimes I wonder if it ever ends, I mean, what's next, a goddamn Taffy pull?).

Everyone thought it sounded like a great idea;we don't get out much and this would be a hoot. A kick in the pants. A left to the jaw.

When we stormed in, there wasn't what I would call a crowd there at all. Just a cluster of college-y type dudes and this other guy who sent my former big city dwelling Crazy person alarm on a low buzz. His hair was just a bit too unwashed, he had items in plastic shopping bags that had not been originally purchased in said bags --like softly tattered newspapers and other assorted papers. Possibly a deeply rantful manifesto. Oh sweet smoking jesus, I do not frequent restaurants with those members of our society who have greasy hair and write manifestos.

I did all of this in that Gladwell Blink style, and promptly moved on to other more confusing things, like the backlit menu offering me the titter-worthy choices of six-inch or foot long. I left The Man to order the food so I could corral my overly-excited children who had taken over a booth and were showing it no mercy. Shortly after we entered, time seemed to stand still. At a moment when most Subway patrons would be balling up their sandwich wrappers and putting it in the wispy plastic bag and licking the inside of the chip bag (wait, that's just me) We had still.not.ordered.
Kids kept jumping in the booth.
College-y type dudes were still clustered near the register, having a civil, yet possibly increasingly tense conversation regarding their order.
Crazed loner still looming on the edges, but even he walks out, giving up after Bob gets his order in before he does.

Finally we get our food, and even though it's the ultimate standard order, an Italian and a turkey sub, the counter dude claims he can't find it on the register and requests that we pay after we eat. Okay, fine, we'll just go eat our shitty sandwiches and wonder why we ever came in here.

Meanwhile, the crazed loner has not only come back, he has gotten service. He shuffles over to the seating area and begins fussing with something in his bags with his back to us. I glance over, suddenly my former big city crazy person radar is on def con 4, a-whooo-gaaa a-WHOOOOO GAAAA. Bob hasn't noticed, but I say quietly and firmly, We gotta leave. Now. Leave. Let's leave, now. Finally he sees what I've been seeing, the manifesto-writing nut job has been sending us a little message, a little moon-mail, if you will. His pants were hoisted way down, beyond innocent plumber butt territory. My mom has a phrase she uses when one of us gets mad and throws a fit. She calls it Showing your Ass. Well, I guess some take that as a literal way to express anger.

At the time I just thought it was garden variety nut-job stuff, that his pants were down, his awful hairy ass exposed due to general indifference about his appearance, but by the time we got to the car, laughing and screaming with our kids asking what was going on, we realized he must have been deliberate about his message. Why, we will never know, but as Bob suggested, maybe he's really just from Corporate, paid to make sure Subway patrons get an honest, accurate experience of what it's really like to be in a subway. I'll take that. And from now on, I will not be taking my family to dinner via the Subway or any other way beyond whatever I can throw together in my kitchen.

There's Only One Answer

2008-11-16T12:56:00.000-08:00

My mild irritation with my hokey gym has not abated. It's because I go so damn much. As my ass gets smaller, my negative attitude grows. Plus, I am kind of annoyed with the Great Plan of the Universe in general these days, and since there's nothing I could do about it, ever, I am going to take it out on this bland, corporate entity. Although a few friends have received the verbal rant, allow me to cite the Curves Crimes for posterity:*

1. The culture of relentless greeting and dismissal by name. Quit saying hello to me personally every time I come in. I would much rather get half a glance over a raised newspaper, which is what I get at the Colonial from the sullen desk attendant when I show up to swim and swipe towels. I get the sense that over at Curves Corporate they pride themselves on their training in this. "Make sure every curves member gets greeted by name upon arrival and departure. " It makes the matching gym suit set feel special. I get the feeling the general Curves demographic looks for opportunities to feel special about all kinds of mundane, prosaic functions whenever they feel entitled. I wonder what the overlap is between the gung-ho Curves goer and those who identify with that awful Doves Chocolate ad campaign targeting harried women who are only insured bliss if they eat dove's chocolate pellets every time they manage to rinse out a crock pot or whatever.

All this feeling-good-about-doing-what's-expected-of-you crap leads me to the second Curves Crime...

2. Good-Jobbing the human wrecks who frequent the joint. I get the ol' GJ when I put my RFID tag that tracks my work outs, it's on the door facing me when I leave, and the phrase erupts erratically throughout the duration of my workout as I am exposed to everyone else's inane congratulating of one another over managing to survive half an hour on the curves machine circuit.

3. Infantilizing middle-aged women with goofy games and contests. Since there's no judgement here, I will confess that I actually buy into these. The instructions on the dry-erase board a few days before Halloween instructed us to "wear something orange" to "receive a treat." Since it's a gym, and not a candy store, I participated, thinking maybe I'd score a new hair band or somethin'. But no. It was junky Curves brand snak bars and microwave popcorn. I will conserve the rant about processed diet food for another post.

Now, as we enter the dangerous Holiday Season, with its attendant cookie exchanges and baked bries and ham made with seven-up, the good folks at Curves have initiated the holiday challenge to maintain your weight. It's a sign-up format, they initial your card every time you come in. Every week you are eligible for prizes, prizes, prizes. Stinky candles, ugly hand-knit scarves, it's like a goddamn Methodist Christmas Bazaar in there. Don't get me started on the pot holders. I signed up, sure, but you know, I pray I don't win any of this crazy crappazola. Why do people need prizes to go to the gym? How about avoiding a premature death --when did that stop motivating us?

But I noticed the most galling contest last week. Near this one machine that makes you wave your crotch at all the other gym goers, there's a glossy poster that says Work out Your Brain, too, or somesuch. There are rhyming clues that get revealed over the course of the week. The answers are simple enough for a five year old to figure out: "I hover near flowers and drink nectar, ect. Oh christ, it's a fucking hummingbird, people. There's a cardboard box on a table beneath it, with a pad of answer forms. I have formed a plan, a continuation of my Heh-Heh shoe-switcharoo tactic, only this time I just might cause a stir. Because, you see, flap-readers, I plan to submit one answer, and one answer only for the duration of this imbecilic contest. Sure, the real answer will be random things like Maple Syrup, Hummingbirds or Sewing Machines, but I will only submit one answer each time, because it will always be the correct answer, because this is the answer to all of the ills perpetrated by Curves. The answer, my friend, is Trucknuts.

*Yes, Curves Crimes are so mild, they only deserve to be kicking around void that is my Blogger-brand blog.

SubCURVESive Behaviour*

2008-10-24T06:28:00.000-07:00

*I am an anglophile, if you did not know already.

And let's just acknowledge how NO ONE else could begin a missive with a footnote. 'Cept me, with my new Mavrick-y attitude. And why do I feel like this? Because my life has been hijacked/kidnapped/and just generally occupied by this and this and sweet cracker sandwich would someone save me from this. But is that really true? The begging to be saved? No! It's a Magnificent Obsession, that's what it is. And I am not alone. I've done my own damn polling around town, and I noticed a trend--one half of a couple tends to be in the tight, relentless maw of the Election, while the other half sits on the other side of the room, lips pursed and terse, repeating the same advice to the shell that was once their beloved: There's nothing more you can do. Obsessively monitoring the Web for new information does not affect the ultimate outcome.

Mayhaps there's a bit o'Palin in me, par ce que logic isn't working. I feel like my vigilance, and possibly the vigilance of me compadres is the only thing that's not only keeping this crazy Juggernaut aloft but allowing it to gain altitude. It's like me, Cole, Gail, Mel, and Tine are all sitting in a dark basement rumpus room playing Light as Feather, Stiff as a Board with Barry's body. If we break our concentration, if one of our Mom's (Spouses) clumps down the steps and pops her head in and shouts "Some one's Dad is honking in the drive way, it's time to go home!" the spell will crumble, we will drop his lanky frame and then it's back to only listening to classical VPR because I cannot stand to hear news, or the voices of the asshats who make the news.

But if no one disturbs us--no pesky siblings ("spouses") needle us, poke us, disrupt us or just generally stop us from raising him up on index and second digits, we can hold him up until November 4.

Are we not all asking what the fa-hell we ever did before we started this little endless monitoring? If we put the same energy into our election web info cruising, we might be able to contact alien life forms yet!

But enough of my David Foster Wallace tribute, what about flapping about what I came here to flap about?!?!? It's this: if my giant footnote didn't already reveal my often childish nature, the following confession surely will.

As some of you may know, I've been fucking it up at Curves since early-mid-August. It's the hokiest of gyms, full of granny-fanny church ladies of all denominations half heartedly kicking their legs on the square "recovery stations" when they are not half-heartedly operating one of the many different idiot-proof hydraulic resistance machines on the world famous Curves circuit.

I don't know why I roll my eyeballs so heavily in the Curves Gym's general direction, but I do. It's really bringing a level of eyeball rolling you normally only see in teenage girls who have fat dads who never wear shirts even when they have their friends come over and the fat dad walks in the room full of teenage girls and thinks it funny to solemnly nod and address the group thus: Hello, Men. (yeah, that never happened to me).

But I guess it's been dormant all this time, because not only do I scoff and mock the goofy place that has allowed me to drop enough weight for me to not want to immediately get out of my work pants as soon as I get home, but I am now pulling ridiculous stunts like this:

My local Curves is the only one I know, so maybe this is just the local culture of the place, but there's this fussy, fussy rule that you have to carry in the shoes you are going to wear on the circuit. There's a stringent dedication to clean floors in the joint. It's run by some universal middle class-type mom who nags you to pick up your jacket. So, they want me to change my shoes, huh? They want me to CHECKTHESOLESOFYOURSHOES, so says the nagging signs on the walls. Well, guess what Curves gym? Know what I did the last time I worked out? I stopped at the store and got groceries, walked all over a parking lot in the SAME shoes that I worked out in. Only You don't know that because as soon as I pulled up I removed the shoes, slid on a pair of sandals, walked in holding my still-warm UNCHECKED sneakers and proceeded to put them on twelve seconds later. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

It's sad what passes for entertainment in my world.

Flap-doodle Tent Revival: Still Flapping after all these months

2008-08-22T11:58:00.000-07:00

So, dear readers, Flap-nation if you will, I have, as usual been constantly composing tepid entries in my mind for lo these past months. But there they have stayed, knocking around with other gray matter notables like: My screen play about living in the UK in the early ‘80s and my children’s novel that will be a blend of Homer Price and Swallows and Amazons.

But! Gone is the tension elf/stress monkey/bitch beetle of deep winter that birthed this blog. Here we have Flapdoodle, arrived in the promised land and I have been forced to ask myself, does Flapdoodle belong here in this blessed place that I longed to arrive at for the past two years?

A land free of being graded on my library prowess skills. Free from driving one hour south for three hour classes. Yes, at last I can be in my house and not have to stare at the pile of fetid this, the lump of suspicious that, indeed, everything that I have had to tacitly ignore while in school--things, issues and situations that I actually longed to do, because it would mean that having the time to say, sort my kids toys or actually fold my undies would prove that I no longer had to spend every free moment on obtaining proof that I am a librarian. All I can say is: It is highly unlikely that I will ever find stuff to stop complaining about. So without further ado, let the tirade begin!

IT'S ABOUT TIME

I often think of this phrase from BOC’s “Burnin’ for You:” “Time to play B-sides” That’s what inspired this blog entry--I was thinking about it again, and wondering what the lyrics were that went ‘fore and ‘aft of this apt phrase when, I sh*t you not, it came on the radio! And damn if that whole song isn’t awesome. Here’s the stanza with the B-sides phrase:

Time is the essence
Time is the season
Time ain't no reason
Got no time to slow

Time everlasting
Time to play B-sides
Time ain't on my side
Time I'll never know

Sing it, BOC!!!

It came on the radio just after I turned it on, having settled into a sort-n-root session in the bathroom cabinets. I was holding this stupid can of suede protector propellent and realizing that if I didn’t throw this rusty can away TODAY it was very likely that Archie and Lucy were gonna find it in the medicine cabinet of my old-lady house when they are sorting through crap trying to figure out what was worth running past the estate sale agent.

I was also having my usual baby-sitting quandary at the time, which is, should I be doing this chore, or another errand or what? I get so paralyzed when I have childcare--and hell if I don’t have a chore list that would choke a horse. It’s always the agonizing question, Is this the best use of my time?

To me, the longing for “time to play B-sides has always summed up the way your day just gets sucked up with the basest of basics-- cooking, eating, shoving laundry around, emptying and filling the dishwasher.

Damn, you know what I wish I had the time to do? And I mean, I wish I had the time to do it without sacrificing to time to prep dinner, or vacuum the living room or change my sheets. I just wish I could go downtown, park my car, go into that cute little kitchen store and pick out a funnel. Because I could really use one. And I would like to buy one at that cute little shop. But funnel shopping is officially a B-side, and there it stays. For now.

Full Flap-disclosure, I wrote this entry with UNBELIEVABLE fumes from the roof job coming through the window. So if it’s not up to the usual standards, there’s your clue.

A lotta Dribbles and Drabbles

2008-04-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

Just some Flap-crumbs here. Look out, it goes fast and there's much-o changes in tempo. Mostly a sense of confusion and so many things in my head that I can't hear anything anymore. Oh just shut up and start flapdoodling.

Bob and I enjoy a good deep-from-1970's movie, we do. Recently found a gem that everyone else in our NPR-listening-liberal-arts-school-attending pack already knows, no doubt: Five Easy Pieces. I always thought that was some Nicholson film that had tense bar scenes and mild violence that back in the '70s came off as really horrible violence. No. He plays a drop-out member of an elite musical family. Karen Black sports some classic thick mascara in this one. But when has she not, I ask you? We saw this on the new, wonderful, couldn't have gotten through late winter without it Netflix Instant.

Now we cruise the Instant Plays selections all the time, cruising around for the perfect heady mix of feathered hair, high-waisted slacks, thoughtful, yet somehow plodding, direction, and just a general air of quiet melancholy that only a high-'70s film can provide. Yes, I did use the word cruise...and it inspired us to look up what I thought was a H70' movie. We had had our Sunday night Scrabble game with the M-O gang of four and that movie came up. I made everyone laugh when I said I recalled watching it with my Dad. Was that really possible? We did watch some heavy movies together when I was a kid: Papillion, Cool Hand Luke, The Great Escape...but did we really watch Cruising? A film about a serial murderer stalking the gay subculture of heavy leather men? Somehow, I know I have already seen that movie. You'll never see a hankie the same way again. But Bob says he had not. He had no idea what my hankie jokes were all about. Yet.

So we felt like we were going to have another 70's movie night when we saw it offered as a Netflix instant. Our first clue that we would noooooot be having this experience was the release date: 1980. But I blew that off, because we all know the 70's did not end in 1980. Still plenty of loud rugby shirts and clogs to be had. About 25 minutes later we gave up. There was nothing nostalgic, or comforting about this film. Usually it's fun to see big, green dial phones, typewriters on desks, signs in supermarkets that say 29 cents a pound. And they are referring to like, grapes or something.

But no, this one was nuthin' but guys in dark aviator sunglasses, jock straps and black socks. Dancing together in well-lit underground clubs. Until some crazy guy picked them up and they got stabbed. A movie that opens with a decaying severed arm floating in the Hudson is not the balm we are looking for right before we go to sleep. I can't believe it took us 25 minutes to even realize it.

But much later, I start thinking about the premise for this film. Al Pacino's cop character happens to resemble the victims, so he gets pulled off his rinky-dink beat, finds himself having a conversation with some big chief police officer about his prior experiences with homosexuality. He gets told he's going deep undercover into the world of the heavy leather gay lifestyle. He will not have any contact with anyone from his life--his paychecks will be cash, delivered once a month. He's to show up in a village apartment and begin assuming the role, stat. What kind of fantasy film has a police force that decides that in order to catch a serial killer you have to have anonymous sex in Central Park, underground clubs, and random alleys of the Village?

No wonder this film has achieved cult status in the gay world. I could create a stand-up comedy joke about it. Something like:
Al Pacino's undercover character: "Uh, yeah, sorry this case is taking so long. There are a lot of...suspects! I'm going to need to keep the Village apartment for another few months. I've had a lot of leads, though, Captain! I feel like this thing's gonna break wide open soon! Gotta go, it's Rough Rider night at the Ramrod and I've got to pick up my hankies at the corner laundry. I'll check back in a few weeks!"

We tried to flush out the gritty nastiness of that film with a soothing Columbo with Ray Milland as an arrogant orchid raising schemer who double-crosses his nephew in a fake kidnapping. Every other scene was shot on this greenhouse set. I've come to realize that production values on Columbo were really low. I noticed in one scene they didn't have the ability to film a scene with any dialog. Even though this one guy was in a hurry, he gave directions to the driver OUTSIDE the car, then got in and they sped off.

It didn't flush it all out and we are only just recovering. Presently we are watching the soooothing British classic comedy The Good Life. It's perfect. I love how I don't get the period jokes about politicians.

Final note--all humor credits go to bobbles:

Bob's been doing this consulting gig about homes that are tricked out with all kind of gadgets and fantabulous flaptraptions. During a phone call with the team someone asked him what kind of stuff he used. Expecting an answer like: "Uh, my sub-zero fridge is wired to my home alarm system so no one can swipe champagne at all my swank parties." They got, "Uh, sometimes my cat runs out the door before I can shut it and I'm scared a racoon's gonna eat her. "

The flapdoodle has pfffted. Over and out.

Turbo Turtle

2008-03-15T06:08:00.000-07:00

This one's going to be short-if you are lucky--and definitely sweet. It can't be all poo poo humor people. I'm a Mom with two cute kids who are growing up and doing cute things that makes me want to document the growing and the cuteness. Sure, they poop, but that's not very interesting. **

There's been a shift in the season, we are surrounded by late-season granita snow, for the most part. I have already documented the cabin fever in our house. At this point, most of us have just started to lean into it. You know, rolling instant Neflix after instant netflix-who gives a crap if movies are bad for you. It's fucking MARCH. The A-man's watched the wonderful-but bizarre cult flick The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T about, uh, (wait for it) 5,000 times. Last night we were trolling the instant plays and I nearly lost control of my bowels when I realized we could watch The China Syndrome last night. I have always wanted to see that movie. I was about eleven when it came out. And damn if it didn't get the job done. It opened with an awesome yacht rock song, for the opening credits, even. Oh yeah, what's the job it's supposed to do? Put me to sleep, eventually. We never have any intention of finishing anything we watch on instant Netflix. We just want our eyes to roll back in our heads and the drool to start flowing within twenty minutes. But that's actually a week night thing. I actually wanted to watch TCS and will finish it. Because by the time Jack Lemmon was hunched over that fucked up pump I was goooonne.

You know what really does it for us? BBC productions of obscure mystery writers. Give me an Albert Campion episode anytime--it's better than two valium and a warm beer. Those vintage cars, the characters you can't keep track of, the British countryside. It's a heady mix custom -made to knock us both out.

So we have all managed to self-soothe our way thru this final passage of winter. All of us except our dim-witted tabby cat. She keeps trilling and purring at the door, getting whiffs of the skunks and what-not visiting our compost heap. Girlfriend thinks it's gonna be like last year, with her skipping out to the woods across the street all day then finally coming back around noon the next day. Bob and I are both so sick of reenacting our own version of the touching ending to Breakfast at Tiffany's, with the couple crying and holding their lost cat. Last year it was all kinds of painful craning outside, scanning the woods, calling her name, even though she's never learned it, and finally, catching some movement in the woods, spotting her playing with a twig, completly unaware of our anguish. I run across the street and attempt to lure her while Bob stands on the steps singing "Mooooooon Riiivver." Then we both hug her while she stares around blankly, unsure what's going on. We love our dumb cat!

Anyway, about the title, turbo turtle does have relevancy. With all this thawing going on, the kids have had initial forays on their bikes. Last year Bob -famous for his love of the dump swap, came back with a little blue bike for the boy called a Turbo Turtle. The graphic is hilarious, with a grimacing turtle on a bike. Or did I just make that up? It's so easy to imagine.

I loved that name because it pretty much sums up what we want for our kids.Yes, we want them to grow up, and have all these wonderful experiences, and it does seem to go kind of turbo sometimes. But just how fast can turbo be when paired with turtle? A perfect pace for a busy parent with a growing kid. Kind of like my favorite phrase Jumbo Junior. I just love big defintions that get tempered, I guess. May we always be blessed to move at the turbo turtle pace.

**Unless you count the time the A-man swallowed a damn lego. Yep, the eternal daydreamer was playing alone in his room, running some elaborate fantasy in his head that somehow lead to him putting a six-dot red brick in his mouth, tilting back like a braying seal or something, and allowing it to sliiiide down his throat.

I heard him coming down the stairs, crying in a way that I never had before. I was on the phone, natch, with Anne when he came in saying "Mom I swallowed a lego!" When I realized it was still in his throat I called 911. We went to the emergency room, but by that time, that six-dot was in the boy's tummy. Mr. ER doc said, in dry-doc talk, "He's just going to have to shit it out."

So for the next two weeks or more our fondue forks got a workout like they never imagined when they were being forged by some happy Swedish guy in 1974. What kind of ceramic pot is this, they wondered? What kind of dessert fondue is this, that needs to float in so much liquid? How come it gets stabbed, and not eaten?

I wonder how many takers I will have for my always-a-hit-Christmas Eve fondue party now? I wonder who will believe me when I kick off a blog entry with a solemn promise not to talk about poop and immediately launch into an anecdote about violating fondue forks? I can still hear my boy's sweet, shrill voice calling (weeks after we had given up, mind you) "DADDY! GET THE FONDUE FORKS!" Maybe I should just call it Flapdoodie, then. Just being honest.

Daily Rhubarb-Cabin Fever Edition

2008-03-02T04:48:00.000-08:00

Too many snowstorms later, cabin fever hits the house Saturday evening in all its edgy glory. It started when Bob began rooting in the so-called Liquor Cabinet: The up-to0-high-to-be-useful -over-the-sink place where we stash our random bottles of booze, and also the smelly, rusty lunchboxes (the ThomasTankengine ones have vanished and now Lucy has to use the Shaun Cassidy/Parker Stevenson Hardy Boys lunchbox my sister sent me as a gag gift. It still smells like a 1970s lunch in there. Bologna, mayo,and Kraft Singles on verrrrry white bread, and uh, whiffing deeper, I think there's a sub note of ....let's say a lil'Debbie cake and a bag of Fritos. Thank god the thermos was no longer inside. Can you imagine what Wyler's lemonade would smell like after all these years?) So, back to poor Bob--he's suddenly inspired, in a way that only a parent who's been in the house, all week with two small children who are training mightily for a slot in the qualifying heat of the National Sibling Bickering Olympics would be.

And how's the Bickering Olympics training going? Oh, very well! Thanks for asking! Archie's been honing his Outrage at his sibling for even glancing at, or daring to touch, any of his unassembled Bioncle pieces while he puts his creepy cyborg together using a booklet the size of an unincorporated town's phone directory. Meanwhile, Lucy plans on sweeping the Umbrage event by screeching her sibling's name each and every time he walks past her while she's playing on the floor, or registers his disdain over her slowly shredding sweat pants she insists on wearing all the time. I'm telling you, these two are headed for the cover of Bickering Sibling Monthly: A Magazine for the Ardent Sibling Bickerer. I can see the pull quotes for the cover now--Lucy Parks says "There's nothing that you absolutely CANNOT take umbrage with when it comes to your sibling, I know, because I do." Archie Parks retorts: "LUCY DO NOT TOUCH THOSE BIONCLE PARTS! GET THOSE OUT OF YOUR MOUTH ....MOMLUCY'SCHEWINGONMYBIONCLEPARTS!!!!!!!!!"

So yeah, Bob's pretty much ready for a drink and he's getting very inspired by the bottle of Hennessy that the Moore-Odells so kindly bequeathed us at Christmas tide. I had saved the pretty metallic box that this swanky booze came in for awhile. Not being used to having amber fluid of this caliber in the house, I wasn't sure what kind of cocktails you concocted with it. I recall the back of the box had some geography based drinks;there was a ...Hennessy Miami (add confectioner's sugar?) Damn. Could not think of what kind of drink to make. And let's face it, we have limited mixers here at any given time. So, enter the website --here's where we'll get some information on how to refresh ourselves with this exciting, yet baffling libation. Oh noooo. First of all, when you go there you have to present your bona fides and they have that ridiculous pull-down menu where they want to know what country you are from. Not a big deal except they don't put the US at the top. Oh yeah, hennessy's HUGE in Afghanistan. So, after clearing that hurdle, this crazy make-you-think-you're-shopping-for-v-necks-at-Banana-Republic music kicks in. Fancy photography of Really. Beautiful. People. They are thinking long and hard about their Hennessy cocktails. There's some very small links at the bottom -yay! recipes! Salvation's at hand! But wait! The good folks at Hennessey want to know what kind of mixers you have on hand. Not much, good folks at Hennessy, not much. After awhile the buy merchandise at a mall music starts to wear, so we give up. On the website, I mean. Never on the actual booze. Bob now has another geographical cocktail to submit to Hennessy. What's in a Hennessy Vermont you ask? Maple syrup, lemon juice, the booze, and bitters, of course.

Monkey Brain Flush

2008-02-22T04:14:00.000-08:00

Despite the word flush in the title, I'm moving away from my bowel for the moment. Never fear, tho, to know me is to know my bowel habits. (Just ask Leanne about the ill-fated polish hot dog at a SF Giants game lo these many years past).

I'm just trying to come to grip with my monkey brain. Always with the disjointed flitty thoughts in the predawn hours. The problem is, some of them are pretty good, so I don't want to call my doc and beg for meds. Like, I know I have to reconfigure my library so I can cope next year. It's grand-freaking central in there all the time. What other teacher has to do their lessons with folks coming in to make photocopies, and most of the time they screw up this simple task and I happen to have a photocopier that makes an alarming sound if you even place the paper on the glass in a way that it can't read and it starts making noise like diseased monkeys in the super-secret-sector-seven lab just escaped and are now causing havoc all over the lab and oh god what are the implications for mankind? Or it sorta sounds like the Stazi are tracking someone who's just about to make it to Checkpoint Charlie or something.

Not what you want to hear during Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus. And I just don't have the time or the energy to give the stink-eye all the time. I'm just horrified by what people are willing to inflict on others in the name of getting things done on their schedule. And then there's the kids who have been sent down to the library to make photocopies. Kind of reminds of that tactic Jehovah Witnesses have when canvassing: they show up with a kid so you don't unleash all the vitriol you would like. But talk about brazen. Or clueless. I'm reading away, giving it all I've got and I glance down and whoa, hey, lurking at my right elbow is a kid holding some ratty sheet of paper and they want a photocopy of it. WHY? Why the hell would you need a photocopy of your shitty, illegible handwriting? Because reproducing it is not going to make it look any better. I feel like it's a tactic to just get a kid out of the room for awhile because they finished first, or they are driving the teacher crazy. I have noticed that the kids who wander in to "browse" or "make photocopies" are not the bright, shiny learners. They are usually the shuffling lurking types. One of them even has a bizarre odor that I can only interpret as Unicorn Piss. At first I just thought she was some horsey-type who has to muck out a stall in the morning before school. But that kind of fug tends to settle after a while. No, this is a powerful, magical odor that is not going to relent and fade like the real-life odor of a horse stall. Somehow she has come in contact with a mythical beast and she appears to have angered this normally benign creature for it has condemned her to smell like its pee-pee.

And now my library smells like Unicorn Pee from strange kids and the photocopier makes it sound like Vermont Yankee just hired Homer Simpson. Welcome to my library.

A Serious Flap in my Doodle

2008-02-19T03:51:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had homemade potato leek soup for lunch. Also a piece of cornbread, an orange and way more girl scout thin mints than originally planned. Seriously, those cookies DO NOT fit my profile. I loathe chocolate and mint together. Nothing more disturbing to me than biting into a brownie and discovering vile mint flavoring mingling with the cocoa. But there's always an exception, as in most things.

So, I don't know if it was the circumstances of ingestion--slumping on a stool in the art room, leaning toward a table sized for kids which started a bad round of digestion, but I got some serious shooting-pain gas from that damn soup. Had to hobble my way through two more classes before it was all over. Dare not go to a school toilet lest I toot my horn, or clap my cymbals or play any kind of bottom percussion too loudly or too long. As we all know, the school's huge and there's no way there won't be some midget waiting for me, staring at me silently, when I emerge after my one-woman ass concert. No, I don't give autographs.

Chris and I left for the pool immediately after school. On the way there I was recalling a quote from one of Bob's many track coaches: "Yer bound to pass a little gas when yer exacisin' ya laigs". So that was my plan, grab a kickboard and move those legs. I'll be making so much froth at the back, who will notice a few more bubbles? Well, it worked, but damn if the gas-- which at this time was starting to feel like an entity with consciousness, some kind of internal twin who was tired of living on the inside or whatever. So yeah, it came out, but it STAYED in my suit. The entire back of my tank was filled with air. Just like the gum-chewing kid from Wonka. Then all of the sudden, the gas entity made a decision to be free. It flew up up the back of my suit and became one with the chlorinated air of the indoor pool.

Sadly, that didn't end it for me. But it was the end of the beginning. When I got home I told Bob about my gas and my potato leek soup suspicions. "Oh yeah, he says, that soup gave me bad gas, too."

File this one under Cheap laffs.

The Daily Rhubarb

2008-02-17T13:09:00.000-08:00

IF only I could capture the random ideas that flit in and out of my head while I'm driving down to Mt. Holyoke every Saturday morning and afternoon. I've realized there's a standard collection of themes. EVERY time I cross over a bridge I imagine losing control over the car and crashing over the railing. Would I begin trying to get out of my seatbelt if I was heading for water? I wonder. The weirdest thing I do is take other driver's behavior personally. I get passed a lot, because I am no Joey Chitwood, we all know that. Sometimes I notice a car bearing down on me in my rearview mirror and I start speeding up a little--alright, alright, I'm going, already. I think to myself. I always think I get passed with a "there's no telling about some" shake of the head.

Although I should spend the valuable hour listening to a quality kid lit book--like A Wrinkle in Time, I find I keep scanning commercial radio stations for either Led Zepplin songs or what I call my Secret Shame songs. The newest SSS is the John Mayer song about running through the halls of his high school. The original is Kiss on My List by Hall and Oats. I hear that one almost every drive down. I feel guilty when a good, obscure Beatles song comes on and I choose not to listen to it. I dream of making a song collection full of ELO, Led Zepp and that one John Mayer song for the drive down. And that new Regina Spektor song about making it better or something. SSS's really help with the mind flush reverie I get going during the one-hour drive. Full of flitting thoughts of car crash deaths, dreams of fame and fortune that could be mine if only I could find the wherewithal. Then I pull up to the ol' Ivy-covered brick pile that is one of our Seven Sisters, heave out of my filthy car and head to a three hour class with a random assortment of future librarians with Masters.

Bob and the kids are at a kids party at KidsPlayce. (Kidsplayce: A playce to Scream your head off)'its in the basement of a downtown building. It was a gay bar in the late '70s, so I'm told. It would seem there's been some kind of attrocious behavior occuring in those bathrooms of one kind or another for almost thirty years straight. I realized that listening to kids screaming for two hours is not the kind of thing to get me unwound and ready for a work week that will include not only screaming kids, but yelling kids, whining kids, complaining kids, confused kids, crying kids, and all manner of unpleasant kids. It's the dead of winter. Vermont kids are looking pretty chewed up right now. Pale faces. Chapped lips. Muddy boots. Dirty snowpants.

Instead of the scream fest I am here, initiating a blog because I miss interacting with all of you. I thought Pownce was the answer, and it could be, I suppose. But I'm going to try this, for lots of reasons. Like you, and you, and you and you and you.