'Til Death, Dammit.

I don't know why they're so tired.  I sleep fine, as long as someone nurses me constantly after dark and puts my binky back in my mouth after each of the 8,000 times I spit it out at night.

Making up from a sleep-deprivation-induced marital skirmish last week, this exchange took place as we read our respective books (his on statistics, mine on hiking - neither of which we practice) and attempted to make up (MULTITASKING!) before going to sleep.

SLB:  (grudgingly) I love you, you know.
Me:  (pain in the assishily)  Say it all romantic.  Say it like Shakespeare.
SLB:  (ghoulishly) WOOOooooOOOOooooOOOOOO!   I looooooove YOOOOOUUUUUUU...

At which point we both laughed, because Shakespeare is dead and the only way he can say anything, even romantic stuff, is like a ghost.  Ha!  Silly dead ghost bard making us stop hating each other!

And that, my friends, is why I can't stay mad at this face for long.

"I'm sorry for all the times I was always wrong and you never, ever were wrong.  Never.  Not once.  Have some flowers"

The Burden of Genetics

Upon reviewing their passport photos, SLB and I concluded that one of these children takes after me.  Can you guess which one?

As a reminder, this is me.

I will NEVER STOP posting this photo, so quit begging.

And now, the children.

Child 1:

Oh, hi, I'm all charming and adorable.  Love me!

Child 2:

WAIT!  WHAT?

No maternity test required.

Happy Blogaversary!

2 years of this thing.  2 WHOLE YEARS.  Who knew I had it in me?

Good lord, I'm not aging well at all.  This picture is starting to look better every time I use it.

And happy blogaversary to you, dear readers!  You're my 4 favorite people EVER, and that includes Mr. Weaver, who insists that he's roughly 90% of my readership logging on from his hundreds of different techie device gizmos every day.

How It Really Went Down

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S NO ROOM AT THE INN?!?!"

The New Hybrids

Here in the Pacific Northwest, we're all about hybrid technology.  And so, in the spirit of all things green, crunchy, and Northwesty, I give you these latest, heretofore unseen hybrids:

Behold!  The Liamoctopus!

Tentacular Spectacular!

And gaze upon the Jeliviafish!

Given her constant desire to be nakey, it's no surprise that she's a moon jelly.

If we could exploit the vast energy potential of these two hybrids we could solve the energy crisis entirely.  Scientists will continue their study of these two powerhouses as soon as naptime and snacktime are over.

Hipster Halloween Ideas

Step 1:  Dress up as Jacqueline Kennedy.  Be iconic, otherwise no one will get it, and you need them to get it for the rest of the costume to work.

Yes, this costume is widely available.  Because you know what's festive?  Having your husband murdered in your lap and then having that image of the worst moment of your life become an international icon.  I know I have no room to talk, but I will anyway.  My talk is like Jell-o; there's always room for it.

Step 2:  Sew or glue a bunch of these to your pink suit and pillbox hat.

Honey badger don't give a shit: The "That's what she said" of 2011.

Step 3:  Glory in your costume interpretation of New Pornographers' "Jackie, Dressed in Cobras."

EXTRA HIPSTER BONUS POINT 1!:

Dress up as Jackee Harry instead.

"Oooooooh Mary!"

EXTRA HIPSTER BONUS POINT 2!:  Cover yourself instead with G.I. Joe Cobra logos.

Knowing all of these references is half the battle.

Buy Me That: Caramel Apple Headband

EAT MY HEAD!

Yummers.

EEEEEEEEEEAT IT!

The Importance of Not Being Earnest

Here.  I'll toss you a cute bone for listening to all of my earnest attempts at personal development and self-improvement.  Here we are on the way to the the-ah-tah.

Our CB nicknames are Hot Mama and Little Biscuit.

Little Biscuit's not really that blurry in real life, but she never did meet a wiggle in which she didn't want to indulge.

So sometimes Hot Mama has to wrestle Little Biscuit still to get a semi-decent photo.  Thanks to Big Poppa Daddy Studmuffin, Esq., for the fine photography.  Hot Mama over and out.

I Need A Date! And A Therapist!

Two things:

1.  Will someone go to "Can't Look Away: The Lure of Horror exhibit at the EMP with me when it opens?

Please don't let it get me, please don't let it get me, please OH, GOD, WHAT'S THAT SOUND?  Please don't let it get me...

2.  And then will someone please sit up with me and hold my hand while I don't sleep for the following 3 days?

Community Property Is A Cruel Mistress

Because SLB can't divorce me without losing a lot of money, I'll be buying this dress for Olivia immediately.

I will, of course, be getting a matching shirt for myself.  And SLB?  Well, there's a bottle of bourbon with his name on it, provided that he's changed his name to "Mark."

House Rules

It's been safely established that, in addition to being a gorgeous genius with a rapier wit, I am also an idiot when it comes to common sense.  But I'm excellent at respecting established rules and guidelines and have been since I was a kid when I worried constantly about breaking the law (Instead of repeating "Why?" like a normal child would, I would repeatedly ask "Is that illegal?  Is that illegal?").  Thus to protect me from myself, we have house rules that I obey religiously.  Such rules include:

1.  NO MORE THAN TWO SERVINGS OF STONE FRUIT A DAY DURING STONE FRUIT SEASON.

DANGER!  DANGER!  OH, GOD, DANGER!

This rule used to simply read "No more than 10 cherries a day" until the great Nectarine Incident of 2010, when it was broadened to the above.  Now one medium peach, nectarine, or plum, or 10 cherries count as a serving.  We are all happier about my adherence to this guideline.  And by "we all," I mean the whole world.

2.  JUST BECAUSE THE SHINING IS ON DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE TO WATCH IT.

Although I love a menaced Shelly Duvall second only to a menaced Gwyneth Paltrow.  It's not misogyny; it's just good sense.

I used to be a film student which, unexpectedly, sometimes makes me feel brave.  It convinces me that I can watch scary movies because of my advanced intellect and appreciation for the cinematic form.  It's not a horror movie, see?  It's Kubrick.  And even if it is a horror movie - excuse me, horror film - I've studied the structure, conventions, and cultural history of the genre and am impervious to the fear it expects to inspire because of these academic endeavors - excuse me, endeavours.  The only problem with this rationale is that it's all a huge stinking lie and I'm a huge stinking weenie - excuse me, weenie.  And the problem with The Shining in particular, aside from how much I love the movie in spite of its spookiness, is that cable programmers delight in torturing me and always seem to run it when SLB is either 1) out of town, or 2) working late every night because he is so Mighty and Important.  So, time and time again I find myself watching those damned ghost girls who want to play with me forever and ever and ever, and time and time again I do not sleep all night because of them.  So, technically I am allowed to watch The Shining, but not after dark or when I'll have to go to bed alone.  Even then it's not such a good idea.  Just writing about it now I had to pause and 1) turn on the lights on the whole first floor of the house, and 2) move so that my chair was against a wall instead of backed toward the whole, open, ghost-ridden living room.  No joke.

3.  NO WATCHING THE "REDEMPTION SONG" TRIBUTE TO JOE STRUMMER* WHILE INTOXICATED.

Because the only thing more embarrassing than watching this and weeping about not being able to see Joe Strummer in this life in front of our closest friends at our going-away-from-NYC party is having subsequently wept about not being able to see Joe Strummer in this life in front of my husband.  Or by myself.  Again and again and again.  Tipsy Christina is drawn to this video like most tipsy people are drawn to contacting their exes.  I know I shouldn't, and I know it'll just make me cry, but WHY DIDN'T HE STAY?  WHY CAN'T I SEE HIM ONE LAST [or first] TIME?  Tragic.  Just tragic.

And, finally, thanks to last weekend's sleepless debacle, we have a new house rule:

4.  NO WATCHING "CELEBRITY GHOST STORIES" ON TV "JUST TO MAKE FUN OF IT."

Because, even though Sharon Angela's rambling and nasally tale of a ghost that held her pinned to a metaphysical shop floor for 5-10 minutes in order to save her from being murdered in central park is hilariously told, it took an additional hour of reading first person accounts of the Great Depression in bed in order to cleanse my palate enough to turn out the light.  And you know it's bad when the destitution and starvation of a nation is considered the "light" bedtime story alternative.

The house rules:  Learn them.  Live them.  Pity my weakness that requires them.

*Seriously?  "Embed removed due to request" AND the video is preceded by a commercial?  That's almost as bad as the "London Calling" Jaguar commercial that used to make me yell, sweat, and lose minor bladder control.  Very minor.

Next Year's Pride Parade Is Going To Be AWESOME!

It is no secret that I am a huge fan of cephalopods, squid in particular.  It is also no secret that I am a friend and fellow traveler of the, how shall we call them?  Gays.  Yes.  The gays.  8 arms; two penises; four boobies:  I like those combinations (and how spectacular would a combination of all three of those be?).

So, this article, which describes a new discovery of homosexual activity among a 5 1/2 inch deep-sea squid tickled my fancy.  Technically, the squid have no sexual orientation, but that does not stop males from mating with both females and males down within the briny deep.  When a squid inseminates a female, it is called reproduction.  When a squid aims its liquid gold at a male, it is called - wait for it - "traumatic insemination."  And, boy howdy, if I ever see the inside of a birthing class again, I'll eagerly use this phrase at least a dozen times before ceasing to find it funny and leaving in search of a large snack.

Here's a description of the process.  Technically, it's safe for work since science knows no impropriety.  But if you don't snicker at this at least a little bit then you're as dead to me as your soul is to you.

"The way the squid mate is something else. Little is known about the details but it seems that the male ejaculates a packet of sperm at the mating partner, and the packet turns inside out, essentially shooting the sperm contained in a membrane into the flesh of the partner, where they stay embedded until the female (if the shooter has been lucky) is ready to fertilize its eggs. If males are the recipient of these rocket sperm, they are just stuck with them. It is the kind of mating that would make a good video game."

Now, I'm not a gamer, but I'd invest in any system for which this game was created.  Also delightful is the name of the scientific article first reporting same-sex squid behavior - "A Shot in the Dark: Same-sex Sexual Behavior in Deep-sea Squid."  Brilliant, I say!  BRILLIANT!

Relatedly, I bought Livy an octopus costume for Halloween.  I wonder how long it would take to dye it rainbow?  Hmmmmmmm...

Thank Goodness Tuition At Small, Liberal Arts Colleges Is Reasonable

Here are two examples of Livy's following in her mother's occupationally impoverished footsteps from today's conversations.  That sobbing you hear is SLB calculating the overall cost of my humanities-laden education plus inflation minus the grants I got for being poor and the 2+ jobs I held at any given time during school to get a rough estimate of Livy's upcoming education expenses.

1.  Olivia Lee (babbling loudly in the back seat of the car):  "DON'T BE RACIST, GOAT!"

Seriously, Goat.  You have to chill on the goat power talk in front of the kid.

Olivia Lee (playing with toy hippos in the bathtub):  Hippo is going for a walk.

Mama:  Where is hippo going?

Olivia Lee:  Hippo walking to the cafe.

Mama:  What is hippo going to do there?

Olivia Lee (gleeful, grinning):  Hippo likes to hang out!  Hang out at the cafe!

Oh, please.  It took them 9 seasons to cast a Black woman.  Like they'd ever let a hippo hang out there.  Goat and Friends: Rivaling one another for racist supremacy since 1994.

So, to encourage her to pursue her dreams, she is definitely wearing this for Halloween:

Bring on the Karo syrup, Elmer's glue, and patchouli.  We've got us another novitiate!

Crap-o-lantern

In The Dialectic of Sex: The Case for Feminist Revolution Shulamith Firestone famously compared giving birth to "shitting a pumpkin."

Well, Ms. Firestone, it looks as if your work's influence has finally trickled down to the sweatshops of Oriental Trading/Terry's Village (Tagline: "Where your child's toys are made by a child his or her own age!).  Congratulations, and behold!

For the most feminist/festive of "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" subjects.

That there is a jack-o-lantern toilet set, and boy is it scary!  Now choose a pumpkin-shaped focal point and get to work!

Don't Tell CPS

Livy likes to play Peek-a-boo a lot.  She's 2, so that's about the extent of her tolerance of anticipation and excitement.  It's thrilling - THRILLING! - every time I act surprised and say "peek-a-boo!," which at this point is about 8,487,999 times a day.  Naturally, my thoughts turn to Siouxsie and the Banshees after about the 8,487,899th repetition, and so she hears me sing the chorus of "Peek-a-Boo" 100 times a day.  It was only a matter of time before she started belting it back to me, which was cute until about 10 minutes ago when, on a lark, I decided to remind myself of what the other lyrics of the song are.

Not good, people.  Not good.



We are now in the market for a new Peek-a-boo song.  Please let me know what else is out there before I get an ominous knock on the door.

Equilibrium

(First, a warning to my readers with delicate sensibilities.  This post is full of lewd jokes and double [even triple!] entendres.  So, if you're made uncomfortable by this kind of talk [DAD], then please look at this instead.  All others please proceed.)

Friends, I have good news and bad news.  The bad first.

The Mariners are trading Doug Fister, whose name has brought me endless joy and jokes, to the Detroit Tigers.

Awww, come on!  Hasn't Detroit been fisted enough?

Now the good news:  In exchange we are picking up Charlie Furbush.  Did you catch that, subtle readers of this subtle blog?  We traded FISTER for FURBUSH.  I guess one in the fist really is worth fur in the bush.

Everyone likes a freshly shaved Furbush.

Buy Me That: Microphone Necklace

Because nothing intoxicates me as much as the amplified sound of my own voice, I must purchase this necklace

"Is this thing on?"

to accompany this shirt, an old favorite that I desperately need to replace now that my outlandish mom bosom has rendered it obscene.

"Oh, yeah.  IT'S ON."

And, as a treat for you readers, here is a picture showing me firmly in my element.  Here I am chaperoning prom in 2008, dominating the stage and soundwaves with my earnest yelling and wearing a totally jackass outfit.  Ah!  The memories!  The years of consistent and endless jackassery!  Beautiful nostalgia, take me away on your ear-splitting wings!

Nothing says "the best night of your high school lives" like this lady right here.  REALLY, REALLY LOUDLY.

Bought Me That

This is usually the first thing I see every morning when I wake up.

It's balanced delicately on the windowsill opposite my side of the bed, and it's such a joy to wake up to it backlit by the morning sun.  Yes, it's goofy, but so am I, and I take my inspiration where I can find it.  Find yours here.

A Few Of My Favorite Things

Among other things, I really appreciate:

1.  Baseball, and
2.  Jokes about body fluids

So you can imagine my delight when I saw this ad in the "ladies'" room at Safeco Field last night.

That there is an ad for tampons that uses a sports metaphor in a spatially appropriate and effluvially hilarious way.  Hurrah, Playtex!   I salute (if not purchase) you!

Hold on! I'm comin'!

I've either had houseguests or been a houseguest out of town for the past 3 weeks.  Give me time, minions.  Mama's returning soon.