Cone of Shame

Apologies for the lack of posts but I have had pink eye. And I know what you're thinking, that pink eye does not necessarily preclude one from writing or the internet. If anything, the www is positively made for those with communicable diseases. Yet if I put my ear up to my computer screen I can hear you there like the ocean spiraled inside a seashell...whhhhhhnnuuu all hollow-like, the rhythmic recoiling with the mere mention of pink eye. I mean, you can feel it right now, can't you? Your eye? It itches a little bit? How good it would feel to rub the inside corner hard. But don't touch it! Whatever you do. Don't touch your eye while reading this post.So yes. Pink eye. It is not cancer or flesh-eating; it does not permanently disfigure. But for a few days you can see how it might be maybe, a sliver. The way people look at you either too hard or away, annoyed, disgusted, curious. Cautious. The way your presence leaves imprints. This is where your wrist touched the counter, fingertips on a pen.

Talking about beauty can be ugly. I am not saying I am beautiful. But I don't disappear either. Normally I am me and I am good, people smile my way, sometimes more. And then my eye crusts over and I am gone. Like that! In public, I look down. At home I avoid the mirror. The only way I exist is inside, what I think, how I feel, which is fine when I forget, if a little itchy. Then at night when I go to bed I wonder what it would be like to never have a mirror again, to never have seen a mirror at all. How might self-esteem change without the concept of reflection? Who would I be if I were only my insides?

Can you see me here again? My ear against the screen? Don't worry--I am not contagious anymore. Wwwwwhhhnn...did you know that if you put your ear up to a stranger's head you can actually hear them say what the fuck? Because I wonder what you think, who you would be if no one saw you.

I am in love with the color in this photo from Frida Kahlo's own personal collection. Through her countless self-portraits, she seemed fascinated with the play between physical and self.

You Dig? I Dig.

I was totally dorking out on Don Draper today, thinking about how this season is supposed to be 1966, how he just turned 40. Which means that if Don Draper were still alive today he would be 86, that is if he didn't die of emphysema first and wasn't a fictional character on the teevee.Anyway, I saw this article titled The Story Behind Don Draper's New Digs, and even though I despise the term "new digs" I quickly got past it when I saw the pics.
Maybe it's because my house was built in 1979, has a butterfly roof and the stone facade around the fireplace reaches the ceiling, but I am "digging" this look. I guess I'm a little grateful that my seriously outdated house might kinda' sorta (but not really) be thought of as cool. Question mark? Yeah, not so much, but I did have that fridge in avocado green and burnt orange shag carpeting when I was little.
So that's that then. Dollars to donuts Don Draper lives in a retirement community in Palm Springs now.
xo,
S

Another One for the Baby Book

Monday, April 9th, 2012. Zoey is officially way cooler than I am.Please no one tell her this until she is 19 years old. Although let's be honest: look at that picture. She totally already knows it.
And yes, she picked out the entire outfit. When I tried to tell her that maybe zebra print didn't go with the pattern on her skirt or the illustration on her shirt, or perhaps it clashed with the sequin tie (?!) and cardigan plus the glitter gladiator sandals, she told me that I don't know modern. Only she pronounces it with 3 syllables: ma-der-ehn. Excuse me whilst I take leave in my comely horse and buggy, verily young sprite.
And yes, I covet her sandals. Target. And no, they don't come in grown up sizes. I checked.

Remind Me Of This Come August 30th

Zoey has discovered my old photo albums. Alternative first sentence of this post: I have slowly been watching my friends turn 40. Which came first, the memory or the fear? Chicken or egg, I turn 40 in 5 months, a fact that has turned me into a liar as I tell everyone I am going to face it without shame. 40, you guys. At least with 30 there was thirtysomething, hanging on to a thread of hip with Hope and Michael Steadman. Remember them? But 40. 40 is clunky, orthopedic, the something now just the story of what has happened.
What happened in this picture? Zoey asks, and so I tell her. This was my birthday. A place called Beauty Bar. 27 or 28, I think, though I don't tell her that one of the guys with us that night died years later in a car accident, or that another of the guys later became addicted to heroin. We ate Moroccan food and belly-danced. It was a great night. I tell her, and it was.
Did you used to have curly hair? she asks me, and I say no, this was Halloween, I think. I hope, the eyebrows as questionable as the wig. This was a Halloween spent with the only couple we knew at the time who were actually married. We were 24, and the couple later divorced, the guy married the girl with whom he had been having an affair, though whom seems too proper in that sentence. They later split up, too, another story of what has happened since.And then this. Kinda hard to explain to Zoey what is happening here. We were 18, our first summer back home after college. A get together with high school friends, probably one of the last times we all hung out seeing as how it had all already started to turn strained, the car accident of my two best friends lurking in the shadows. Fault and blame, guilt, all of us too young to know how to deal with anything but tongues and tight shoulders, the sour taste of beer. I look at this photo and wonder what I am thinking, me with my Stussy hat. God, I loved that stupid hat.Another hat. This time in Costa Rica. I remember the heat of the black sand, how sweet the Fanta tasted, how fat I felt as I sat there which kills me. I was 27. Bryan and I were playing gin rummy. My bikini was pink and red, reversible, and later I accidentally left it at this little place we stayed at with tons of hot Brazilian surfers. I loved that bathing suit, but I felt fat and scared, had panic attacks walking down the street of a small Costa Rican town. I called my mom from a payphone in Playa Hermosa and I wish more than anything I could tell this girl to relax, she's fine. You're fine. I'm fine.
Oh, how we had fun. And if the photo albums are to be trusted, all we ever did was smiled. Laughed. Drank. Ate tapas and smooshed our faces together for pictures. I have made a point of not posting photos of any of my friends (you're welcome, friends), but god, we were all so freaking pretty. Close-ups with no wrinkles, no pores, smooth skin, shiny hair. Blonde, even. Mommy, why do you have blonde hair? And really I have no answer. Because I could, I guess. I shouldn't have--lord knows there was a year or two of blonde I wish I could take back, but there it is. Because I could.
We all could. 18 and 26, 27, 30. Photos of Italy, Greece, Mexico, night after night after night out in the city getting drunk. I am glad we did it, all of it, the stupid hair and mistakes. Not knowing much but most of all not knowing what we had, probably the reason we look so free. Which is why I guess I am reaffirming my lie about turning 40 without shame.* Because this is all I have now, and someday I am sure I will look back at photos of me with my 5 year old girl and 10 month old boy and marvel at how young I was. Am. Now.

*Fine print: I do not turn 40 for 5 months. No shame, but also no sense in speeding this up.

Boo-Yah Motherfuckers! You Had the Chance to Kill Me, But Now It's Gone!

And as much as I'd like to be the kind of person who says Boo-Yah Motherfuckers without an apology or disclaimer, I'm not. So let me just say that I love the feel of saying that. Come on now: say it. Under your breath if you have to, whisper...boo-yah motherfuckers! Feels fantastic, doesn't it?
I'm also not one for exclamation points, but this. ! Bryan has been gone for the past week sailing a regatta in the Caribbean. !!! Dude, I know. I was invited to go but felt that Ozzy was too young to leave, so I stayed here and single-mom'ed it. Can I just say hats off to the single moms? Holy shoosh, people. That shizz is hard. I only showered at night after the kids went to sleep but kept my head outside the shower door almost the whole time so I could hear...I don't know. Have you checked the children? "When a Stranger Calls" apparently played a big role in my formative years along with Bloody Mary and The Patchwork Monkey. I have not allowed myself to mention Bryan's absence either on my blog or on Facebook lest someone terrible comes to kill me, but tonight Bryan is back and Boo-to-the-mother-effin-Yah.
The male pin-ups? Well, they're just rad. Titled Men-Ups by photographer Rion Sabean--I believe the photographer is actually the hunk with the power drill. I am sure there is something to be said here regarding the social commentary of men in Vargas girl pin-up poses and my rather traditional gender role of feeling safer when my husband is home, but I'm too tired/excited/want to eat a bowl of cereal to explore that train of thought. Plus, I have to watch my tivo'ed episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County before Bryan gets here...

xo,
S

THE GOLD CHAIR

Zoey really wants to read in The Gold Chair. Or maybe it should be all uppercase like this: THE GOLD CHAIR. Because apparently THE GOLD CHAIR is THE SHIT in kindergarten, except of course that is potty talk and we don't use that kind of language BUT HOLY FUCK, SHE REALLY WANTS TO READ IN THE GOLD CHAIR.

Truth be told, I would like her to read in THE GOLD CHAIR, too. And yes, I am finding all this willy nilly uppercase annoying, too, but you see, THE GOLD CHAIR is tufted, mustard-gold, stained, but most important of all, it is where you get to sit and read a book to the entire kindergarten class when you are ready.

And Zoey is not ready.

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind...

This is the book Zoey has chosen, so every night we practice. T-hh-ee, she says. What sound does 'th' make, I say. Ch, she says. No, I say. Look at the letters. T-atch-ee, she says. His? No, I say, THE, the the cackling and popping in my throat like this:
The. So we've got the. And then we get to night. She starts to sound it out, enn, iih, guh hhu-? Night, I say, it's night, fast and dark, I don't know how or why but it's night, damnit. ThenightMaxworehiswolfsuitandmademischiefofonekind turn page andanother turn page hismothercalledhim"WILDTHING!"andMaxsaid"I'LLEATYOUUP!"sohewassenttobedwithouteatinganything.. Every page like this, plodding through words feeling tight in the chest and eyes quick, peering through the wrong end of our binoculars at THE GOLD CHAIR so that it looks as if it's even farther away.

Because I suck at teaching my daughter how to read. Night! I say, mischief! Rumpus! And then when she pauses too long, concentrate! A tiger mom who lost her stripes because I honestly don't understand how anyone learns to read when ghoti spells fish. Stay with me here: gh, pronounced /f/ as in tough /tʌf/; o, pronounced /ɪ/ as in women /ˈwɪmɪn/; and ti, pronounced /ʃ/ as in nation /ˈne͡ɪʃən/. Letters, words, sentences, all of it a mystery I don't care much to unravel, the beauty of it almost in its ineffability, itself an illogical thing to say.

When Zoey was a baby she hated the sand. Would curl up her feet like a newt if we so much as tried to sit her down at the beach, and Bryan was in a way almost hurt by this. So what? I said, the sand is kind of dirty if you think about it, but he is a water-man, a surfer and sailor with salt in his veins and sand in his cracks, and now I get it.

I love words. a, e, i, o, u, and all the time y. I want Zoey to love to read, and I know that she won't with me yelling at her night! So I told her I was sorry, that we were both learning here because I have never taught anyone how to read, the words pawing angrily at my teeth. LET THE WILD RUMPUS START! I am going to have to find a way to swallow the words, those wild things. Anyone know why night spells night? Because I don't, and as much as I'd like this post to end with a triumphant seat in THE GOLD CHAIR, it's not. Not yet anyway. It ends with the same thing tomorrow night. Night! Night.

Crawl Fish (Good With Butter and a Bit of Cayenne Pepper)

Is it horrible that I like to put something shiny on one side of the room and Ozzy on the other, only so I can watch him pull himself across the floor like a very determined paraplegic?

Yes, noted. It is horrible and delicious and I only have t-minus a very short time until I will no longer be allowed to relax ever again because he will be walking into doorknobs and off cliffs and onto paths where all I will get to see is his back as he totters and then walks and runs toward a life without me.
Is it just me, or is everything happening fasterfasterlikethis lately?

xo,
S

Who Were (Are) You?

I was the kind of kid that parents liked. Please, thank you. I was not smarmy or sassy or sulky or sad. I never pinched my friends' little brothers or said ew, I won't eat that. I followed the rules, don't, do, so I didn't and I did. You get the picture.

Even later, when we drank. At 15, 16, 19 and beyond. I had (or have) a nice face, a round face, the kind of face that people trust, or at least don't think too much about, so even then, in the kitchen of a friend's house at midnight, drunk or high or both, even then the parents liked me as they wondered if we were drunk, maybe even wished I would rub off on their kid because my eyes did not cut. Even then, drunk or high or both, I followed the rules, ish, the rules being that I had to play the role of a stupid teenager making bad decisions, but also that I had to be good. And I was (or am) good.
A few years ago, three jobs back, everyone had to undergo personality profiling, something like Meyers and Briggs but not. I came out as a Dominant Introvert, which I guess is true, yeah, I can see that, but what I really remember is that you were either a rebel or a follower, and I came out as a follower.

A follower. Nobody wants to be a follower. I mean, no way, right? I'm totally a rebel! I remember thinking, see? I'm rebelling against being told I'm a follower! Fuck that! Only I didn't say that out loud because, well. Yeah.

There are certain things that I love about getting older. I can buy whatever I want at the grocery store. I don't have to pretend to like roller coasters anymore. I enjoy staying home on a Saturday night. Big, white, cotton underwear. And more and more this: I am a follower. There, I said it. I like rules. Balancing my bank account. I like mailing back my Netflix as soon as I'm done and wearing sensible flats so I can actually walk. I am the deer in the coveralls, the bunny with the smocking, and even if I would've had a huge crush on the cat wearing the vest, I still wouldn't date him; the raccoon with the striped shirt is more my style.

Anyway, I love this artwork by Angela Rossi, and I hope you do, too.

Say hi to your parents for me.
xo,
S

I'm Coming Out!

I'm totally having a rainbow moment. Or a mid-life crisis. Whatever, I love rainbows...me, the part of the gay community that embraces bumper stickers, and Mariah Carey circa 1999. In my head I just know I am going to find the perfect rainbow frock that screams gray skies are gonna clear up. And in it, I am fairly sure I will look something like this, sans creepy stare and split ends.Truth be told, though, I'm afraid I may look something more like this:
Because honestly. Type "rainbow dress" into Google or ShopStyle and what you get are either Sequoia Nana hippie tie-dyed numbers which, um--no--or the cutest freaking dresses ever...for kids. I mean, is it wrong that I want her dress, her hair, her boots, and her elbows that could actually be described as insouciant?? God, I really wish my elbows were still insouciant. Or souciant even. Because as a grown up my elbows are just pointy and there.

So yeah, the only perfect rainbow dress I have found for the over 6 set is this vintage number that has already been sold. And had a 26" waist, so, yeah. *sigh*

The only available rainbowish dress still out there is a Kate Spade polka dot thing that, although on sale, is still a leeetle pricey, plus I find it terribly hard to trust pigeon-toed models.

Which leaves me with accessories. I adore this bracelet, but can't quite pull the trigger on an online order for all of $15.99. Which, I know. Damned if you are très cher, damned if you 'aint...

And while we're on the subject of insouciant elbows (I know I'm still thinking about them), why are all kids clothes so much freaking cuter than clothes for grown ups? I've been searching for the perfect leopard flats to replace my thousand year old faves that are getting holes in the toes and I came across these perfect little meows...

I mean seriously? It's everything I ever wanted in a shoe, and only $49 to boot. Or to ballet. Whatevs. Wonder if I could fit into the largest size if I shaved down my heels?

Ugh. You guys, it's raining here. Not even the hard kind of driving rain that makes your tummy feel funny in a good way, but the drizzly spit kind of rain that makes the day something to get through. I don't want to just get through the day. What I want is a rainbow frock. Or a shirt. A skirt? Sandals? Something? Can anyone point me in the general direction of where the sun is refracted through water droplets in the atmosphere, and there is a bevy of beautiful rainbows for me to buy?

xo,
S

Friday Triple Bonus Happy Edition (Better Than Kittens Even)

Don't smile. Remember that game? Or maybe it's cousin Whatever you do, don't laugh? Said with a very small mouth, and then you smile or you laugh and you lose, only how can you lose when you're smiling? Yeah. It's Friday, 70+ degrees in my neck of the woods, a payday at that, and my mouth is wide with happy. So smile, or don't, whichever, but I defy you not to feel pure joy while watching this video because ohmyeverything, this makes my insides curl up like a ribbon.

Apparently this little guy was stuffed up so his nose whistled when he breathed. It made him giggle, which makes me so want to be his friend.

xo,
S

I Like Big Lists (And I Cannot Lie)

Apropos of Wednesday, i.e. nothing, here is a list of things that I hope I don't pass on to Zoey and Ozzy:

1. The little breathy thing I do in place of a laugh. I wish I had a great laugh, a loud laugh, one that people shushed at the movies, but I don't. Instead I do this little exhale thing even though I find most things in life very, very funny.
2. My propensity for a double chin.
3. Intolerance of crowds, people cutting in line, close-talkers, loud voices, people who take up too much air, the bullish among us.
4. My over-active imagination when it comes to germs. The above does not help.
5. The disgust I have for fish, mushrooms, most meat, eggplant, beer, hard alcohol, runny eggs, coffee and hot sauce. It is very hard to be a convincing adult when you don't like these things.

And because this is Hump Day, equal parts the beginning and the end of the week, here is a list of things I hope Zoey and Ozzy get from me:

1. The inclination to find most everything funny. Absurd. To find themselves constantly amused by what is going on around them.
2. Long limbs, pretty toes.
3. The ability to fall asleep anywhere. Seriously. If tired enough I could curl up on the street and snooze (so long as I had a sweatshirt to wad up beneath my head, see #4 above). I am fairly confident that at some point in my life this will become a valuable asset.
4. Comfort in calling children pet names. One time my childhood friend Christine said that she remembers my mom always calling her honey, that she loved the way it made her feel, and now I am pleasantly surprised by how easily these words fall from my mouth with Zoey's friends. Silly chicken, sweetie, love. I hold this as a talent, to naturally call people these names, and mean it.
5. The love of reading. Books, magazines, bumper stickers, billboards, packaging. For all the world to be a story forever unfolding, just waiting to be read.

And now just because. Not that I want this to become a blog about napkins, but this:Zoey drew me a napkin to put in my lunch today. I know. Which just goes to show that what I have already passed down to her is the ability to discern the best nib to use on double-ply Bounty, as well as the knowledge that a surprise fish with eyelashes at noon is like having cupcakes for lunch with a side order of vacuum-fresh cereal marshmallows.
xo,
S

And Then It Was Sunday Night (But That's Okay, Cause I Have a Good Book To Read)

It was the kind of weekend to which all other weekends aspire.Unseasonably hot, chock full of friends and wine, strangely enough a limo, toenails painted tangerine, and children who smell of sunscreen and skipping.

Bring it, Monday.
xo,
S

Occupy Ozzy

Or 99th percentile, whatevs. But yeah. Yesterday Ozzy had his 9 month check up and he is now officially a big boy at 25 lbs, 7 oz, which in mommy circles translates to bigger than 99% of babies his age. Here are some of his nicknames: Bubs. Marlon Brando. Bam Bam. Silly Boy. El Guapo. He likes sweet potato puffs, bananas, his sister and pushing his fingers into my mouth to methodically inspect my teeth. I very much like those things, too.

And now he is going to eat the paper.
Nomnomnom, fiber.
xo,
S

See Also: In This Way, Childbirth is Like KFC

Today was like Kentucky Fried Chicken. Or glitter nail polish. You know, it seems like a good idea before you actually do it, cause damn those biscuits are good. The way that glitter nail polish looks so disco, as if your fingers were out all night somewhere so cool the rest of you couldn't get past the doorman. And then it begins to chip, or maybe you're two biscuits in and boooof, the butter and the honey, something doesn't feel so good, maybe some cole slaw will right things, but no, oh god no, and regular old nail polish never removes the glitter, you know that now, right? Instead you have to pick at it with your fingers for days, and you vow to never again eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, and you don't. At least not for a few years anyway, until one day you forget, and you smell the biscuits from across the street and think god, when was the last time?...

All that to say that today I did not eat KFC or paint my nails, but worse. I went to Chinatown with my mom, Zoey and Ozzy. It had been 3 years since my last visit, and really I only went again because Zoey could no longer squeeze into her silk pajamas. So we loaded ourselves into the car and drove and parked and walked and smelled and smiled tightly, the people, there were so many people, me with the stroller and my mom beginning to feel dizzy. I need to sit down, she said, I need to feed Ozzy, I said, and we pushed and shuffled, my hand tightly holding Zoey's, ducks hanging from bent necks in store windows piled high with dried lotus root and salted turnips, pushed through the people pushing past us, a man blowing his nose into the gutter as I very nearly pushed Ozzy's stroller into the stream of snot. Let's never do this again, I said to my mom later when we finally got back to the car. Agreed, she said. Three years from now, if one of us says hey, let's take the kids to Chinatown, the other one has to remember what a terrible idea it is and say no. And we promised we would, except we won't because biscuits always smell heavenly from across the street, and then there's this:
And even though Ozzy didn't get any pajamas of his own (mostly because the kerosene smell of the fabric scares me just a little), here is a photo of him from last weekend, just because.
Also just because?...When was the last time you had KFC?

Endless Summer

There are things you don’t write about on blogs. Like about how much I love cereal, for instance. I mean god, I fucking love cereal, but that would be boring, writing about cereal. No, you don’t write about cereal or sadness, or about how I can understand those mothers who shake their babies. Not that I would ever shake a baby let alone my baby, but there are those moments when he is crying and crying and crying and my hands grow stiff with fuck! The difference between me and those mothers who shake their babies only in the fact that I don’t.

So what you write about on blogs are cherry blossoms and Cadbury Cream Eggs, the curve of his cheek a mathematical equation plotted on a graph that equals everything, plus the napkin I drew for her lunchbox today.

Happy.

S

So Flippin' Cute Book

I was going to post this on Valentine's Day, but then Bryan made turkey tacos and we watched a bad movie, and, well. Happy belated. This is Zoey's favorite book right now. Mine, too. It's from my office post-holiday party--they had this photo booth thing that wasn't a photo booth at all but took rapid-fire pics and made flip books out of them. I have always adored a good flip book...

I actually went so far as to email the flip book company afterward to find out how much it costs. I was thinking maybe for Zoey's birthday party if it didn't cost a zillion dollars, or even over a hundred? But they never emailed or called me back so I'm thinking if you haven't heard, you've heard, i.e. out of my price range and I'm making my own cupcakes anyway because somehow we owe big time taxes this year.

*sigh*

Mommy and daddy are dancing and dancing and laughing and then they kiss.

Love and turkey tacos,
S

p.s. Contrary to photographic evidence, Bryan does not sport pimp hats at workplace functions. There were props at the flip book station, of which I opted out.

An Early Valentine to My Family

Roses are red, violets are blue, I can't believe how much I fucking love you.
Yesterday we hung out on the sailboat while Bryan worked on it, something involving ropes and water. Or water and cleats? Whatever. My husband is so freaky style-y sexalicious the minute he gets around the ocean I find it hard to concentrate. Like a great big salt lick. Oh, yeah, I went there. And then there's the little chunkalunka he's holding here on the dock. Be still my ovaries...Bryan loves this photo because it looks as if Ozzy's trimming a sail. In reality he was trying to stuff the thick, moldy rope into his mouth, but one day--one day soon--we will have him out sailing.
Zoey's french fisherman outfit was totally coincidental, bee-tee-dubs. Does she not remind you of a 5 year old Jane Birkin?? Mon freaking dieu, she is my everything.
You know how there are words in other languages that don't exist in English? Like "jayus," an Indonesian word that translates to a joke so poorly told and so incredibly unfunny that you cannot help but laugh. Well, I'm thinking there has got to be a word for loving something so much that you want to inhale it in, eat it up, fill your chest and belly whole. That. Certainly there has to be a word for that? Because this photo? I want to fucking eat it, you guys. The toes, the teeth, suck on the gristle of the knobby elbow even.
But I have done my research online and I cannot find such a word, so as with much of life I will have to make it up. Gompumm. How about that? Let's do it with an umlaut, then. Gompümm.
Done. Look it up. Gompümm [gahmpum] verb, transitive and otherwise. This:
Love. Love.

And love,
S