Livy had a rough day today and an especially difficult evening. She's sick and running a low-grade fever that just serves to damper any fun she can work up the energy to seek. Her nap was ruined by a sweaty, febrile nightmare. She accidentally misjudged her depth when eating a carrot at dinner and bit her finger, which was so painful and upsetting that it caused her to throw up her last bite. Dinner ended with her curled up under a blanket on the couch, weeping and clutching an ice pack to her finger and a lovey to her chest.
It was tragic. My heart ached for her sick, sad, tired sorrow, and I figured we were headed to an early bedtime. It's hard to come back after a few hours that challenging when you're 3 1/2 and sick, and I wouldn't have begrudged her an evening of limp snuggles on the couch.
Then, weakly and sadly, she asked if she could sit on my lap and watch a video on the computer. I said yes, cuddled her close, brought up YouTube, and asked her what she wanted to watch. I thought it might be The Sweptaways' "Oh My Darlin' Clementine," or maybe Mike Doughty's "Madeline and Nine," but she shocked and delighted me with her completely badass request.
Can you even begin to guess what she asked for, friends, after months of not watching it? Do you know which video called out to her from the wide breadth of her media consumption? Do you know what she said that made me laugh out loud with surprised delight and pride? DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE SAID?
"Rocky." She said "Rocky," and I fell in love anew with my resilient little warrior beast child. So we snuggled, and I stroked her hair while we were reborn with Rocky's every triumphant step.
Good on ya, Rock. Good on ya, Liv. Gonna fly, indeed.
Look at how big Livy's gotten! And, uh, someone else, too!
No, I didn't eat too many doughnuts. Or, rather, the too many doughnuts I ate didn't cause that bloat. THIS little lady did!
Don't bug me; I'm busy sleeping and growing hair.
That there is Miss Madeline (rhymes with "nine") Mae, and she is 4 weeks old today. In that picture she was 1 day old. She is even bigger and hairier and cuter now. She does things like smile at us in her sleep and fart like a dyspeptic longshoreman all day long. We love her a lot and are going to keep her forever and snuggle her and pet her and OH MY GOD, SHE'S SO CUTE SHE MAKES ME TALK LIKE LENNIE FROM OF MICE AND MEN!
Wonder Women!
Luckily, we have an in-house (housemade?) superhero to protect "Baby Sister" from Mama's overzealous snuggles. Livy loves "[her] baby," and we've yet to see any kind of rivalry or jealousy from her. I may have just jinxed it, but the love has held for 4 weeks so far. The jinxy statute of limitations must be up after 4 weeks, yes?
So, to reintroduce myself to blogging and to blog readers, I offer both a postpartum mix tape and a personal cri de coeur.
1. For you nursing ladies in the crowd, let this inspire you to great lactational heights:
Latch on: Kool & The Gang's "Get Down On It."
In flagrante delicto: Nirvana's "Drain You."
Digestif: PJ Harvey's "Dry."
2. Mr. Weaver, please forgive me for exploiting another tiny person for my own entertainment and pleasure. I am a limited woman who needs a hobby, and this is better than making God's eyes out of popsicle sticks and nasty acrylic yarn and then mailing them to you in bulk. What my children lose in privacy, you gain in not having to haul my handiwork to the dump, and now you have to be on my side. Sucka.
Now that Livy is a fully sentient being with the capability of understanding and remembering holiday traditions, I'm trying to be purposeful in determining how we celebrate. Halloween was a huge deal this year, with 2 parties here, 1 at a friend's house, and trick-or-treating with school, friends, and Daddy & Mommy. Livy loved all the excitement, and, because Halloween is my favorite holiday, so did I. It was a great month of spooky fun, and I'm sad to see it go.
So, to replace it, I'm starting to plan our Christmas holidays. I'm usually a grinchy Christmas grump, but if I'm ever going to be Mother of the Year, that's got to change. In spite of my grumpiness I've always wanted to do an Advent calendar, not because I believe in Advent, but just for the opportunity to amp up Christmas anticipation. Because candy makes Livy a crazy beast, though, a traditional Advent calendar is out of the question. Instead, I'm stealing this fine blog's idea instead and doing a Christmas/Winter/Holiday book Advent calendar. Because Livy's school (Owned and run by her Oma - see how awesome that is?) participates in Scholastic book orders, I just put in a mammoth order for 24 holiday books to wrap and clothespin to some red yarn strung garland-style in our living room. Each day after breakfast we'll open a new book, read it together, and add it to our growing stockpile of Christmas goodness. The final book will be "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," of course, because it's that kind of attention to detail that makes you a wonderful parent in the eyes of blog readers everywhere.
I'm also going to steal Mrs. Miller's fine family tradition of watching Christmas movies together and watch at least one ever weekend in December with SLB and, depending on her attention span, Olivia. I already love Elf, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, It's a Wonderful Life, White Christmas, A Christmas Story, and Love, Actually, so that's a great start. And it just wouldn't be Christmas without rereading Mrs. Miller's treatise on whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas classic, which might actually rival "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" for holiday reverence in this household. Alan Rickman, apparently, is the reason for the Christmas cinematic season. Who knew?
That's our preemptive strike against grinchiness, people. What are your holiday plans? Do you have any fine suggestions I can add to those above? I think we can all agree that I need all the help I can get.
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.
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.
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.
Last Tuesday was SLB's and my 8th wedding anniversary. He surprised me with tickets to tonight's Rhett Miller show at the Triple Door, where we were certain to hear our wedding song, "Question." You know, just like you're certain to hear it now.
Happy belated anniversary, SLB. I'd say O.K. all over again every day, all the time, forever.
I love Jason Reid (who does not love me back, but that's probably because of what I did to the roof of his car).
I love Blue Scholars (who do not love me back, but that's just because they haven't met me yet).
I used to love the Sonics (who do not love me back, but that's because they're in Oklahoma). It's a little-known fact about me that I once was unwholesomely obsessed with the 1996-1997 Seattle SuperSonics, to the extent that I 1) saw my grades drop that year during basketball season and, 2) insanely attended the midnight homecoming of the team after they won the Pacific Division title with a long-time boyfriend I had broken up with over the phone only hours earlier. That's right. That level of discomfort was worth it to get a ride to Boeing Field to see my Sonics come home. I had to quit watching basketball cold-turkey at the end of that season so that I could have my life back. I've never returned to basketball fanaticism, and I'm grateful for that.
So, here's what's making me happy this sunny autumn morning: A convergence of Jason Reid, the Blue Scholars, and the Sonics. Enjoy!
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.
Hi there, people! Tomorrow is September - no joke! - which means, meteorological calendars aside, I am declaring an end to summer and the beginning of autumn. I love the fall. As a longtime student and sometime teacher, fall has always meant new beginnings and fresh starts to me. SLB and I got married in early September for this very reason. September is a breath of fresh air and a chance to start anew. It makes me think of newly sharpened pencils and possibilities. In this calendrical and inspirational vein, I'll be starting some new writing projects on and off of this blog soon. Summer's over, and it's time to hunker down and do something good, dammit. But, until midnight when I become all virtuous and productive, let's linger over fine summer memories, shall we?
Like that time I took Livy to the Ballard water park, where she proved that a fleece Viking hat is, in fact, all-weather gear.
Pillaging knows no season.
Or that time I rode a mechanical bull in Las Vegas.
In hindsight, the blouson peasant top wasn't my most flattering bull-riding option. Learn from my example, people.
Or that time I made forty-freaking-eight cupcakes, along with forty-freaking-eight cupcake toppers for Livy's 2nd birthday party.
I'm crafty. I'm just your type.
Because I have an embarrassing tendency to do dumb things like this in the presence of a camera...
... let's let this sweet picture of Liv and her good friend Margaret stand in for the touching one of Liv and me that never manifested.
Or that time we went to the Oregon coast to play and to Sauvie Island to meet some new friends.
Livy LOVED the beach...
...
...
... until she didn't.
Handsome Baby Jake may be Sauvie Island's newest resident...
... but Livy preferred the goats.
Or the time we saw my boyfriend Steve play at the Snoqualmie Casino.
Flawlessly silver. Flawlessly foxy.
Or that time I read 9 horny vampire novels in 6 weeks?
So far #9 was the best.
Or that time that Toddlers & Tiaras started making sense.
Bathing, basking belly.
As you can see, it's been a fantastic summer for frolicking and fun. But my pencils are sharp, the tags are freshly off of my school clothes, and I've got a Trapper Keeper full of fresh college-ruled paper. Summer's been great, but fall is here, and that's time to shine.
We are currently entering a new phase of Earnest Potty Training here at Me Show Central, which is different from our usual Lackadaisical Potty Experimenting in its first and third words only. Basically, we've regularly put Livy on the potty to do her dirty bidness a few times a day ever since she could sit on the seat without toppling over. Sometimes magic happened, and sometimes it didn't. Now that she's older and more communicative she's started asking to use the potty and/or displaying more blatant potty cues, and so we have more magic than not-magic. Thus, the countdown to potty training has begun by small degrees. There is a distant light at the end of the potty tunnel, and we're slowly inching toward that dry, clean, fresh-smelling light.
To aid in this endeavor, we've been collecting potty books for some time. These are 3 of the best.
Happy nakey potty baby! Dang, I want one of my own!
This is an adorable little board book that's very accessible to toddlers just becoming familiar with the potty concept.
Pro: I really appreciate the line about the baby being able to go in her diaper, but choosing not to. I also love the illustrations of her waiting for the magic to manifest.
Con: The final image is of a collection of underwear with the exclamation "Undies!" written above it. Yes, I know that undies are the final goal, but the implication that one successful potty trip leads immediately to undies is misleading and rushed. It's hard work to learn how to use the potty, and I'd rather that work (and setbacks) be acknowledged than glossed over.
I don't care if the spider is a friend in every Mercer Mayer illustration; I will always, ALWAYS want to squish it.
As a kid, I was a huge fan of Mercer Mayer's Little Critter books, and it was with nostalgic glee that I bought this book about Little Critter's little sister learning how to master her pink potty. Overall, it's a great book for all beginning potty-ers: not too long to lose the younger set, and not too simple to bore the big kids. Plus, it has illustrations of pee in it. How can you go wrong?
Pro: There are accidents in this book, and they're handled gently and normalized. Little sis can't make it to the potty a couple of times, Mom cleans her up, and life goes on. Then she gets it, successfully masters the potty and her new undies, and lives happily ever after.
Con: Seriously, is Mrs. Critter a member of a fundamentalist LDS cult? What's with the neo-Little House dresses, and where's Dad in this story? Alas, in the Critter world, as so often among humans, parenting is women's work and moms wear shit fashion. At least Little Critter is learning this early so he can take his rightful place in the Critter patriarchy with no qualms about his gendered entitlement. Also, I hate that Goddamn spider.
I used to have Jolly Roger underpants, too. One time, when I had lost a lot of weight after drinking the water in Mexico, my pants fell down in the esteemed Benaroya Hall and all of Seattle's symphony-goers got to see them, the lucky bastards.
This book is the newest in our potty collection and is a gem of its genre. We bought it during our recent trip to the Oregon coast, and Livy has demanded that we read it before every nap- and bedtime since. It's got adorable illustrations and hilarious text, including two pirate songs about having to go and waiting to go potty. Brilliant!
Pro: The line about the little pirate making "the greatest, grandest pee and poop ever" alone is worth it. The pirate language is adorable, and the author fully commits to it throughout the book. For example, the little pirate yells "anchors away!" as he flushes and "swabs" his hands on a towel after he washes them.
Con: The book comes with and mentions within its story a paper pirate hat and stickers to be used as rewards for successful potty-going. While this is a fun idea, I'd rather that Livy's motivation for going on the potty remain intrinsic for as long as possible. I want her to go because it makes her feel proud and grown-up, not because she'll get a sticker on a paper hat if she does. Research shows that extrinsic motivation for a task can ruin adults' experience of performing it even if it had previously been considered pleasurable. I don't know whether and how this affects toddlers, but I'd rather not play around with it if I don't have to. Praise and pride are enough for now, and stickers will come later if we absolutely need them.
These are clearly not requirements for potty training, but they do make it more fun and open opportunities for talking about going potty throughout the day. But, at this point it's still a no-pressure prospect. After all, as the venerable Captain McCluskey says, "You gotta go, you gotta go." And as long as she keeps going we'll keep practicing getting the location for that going right.
Two movies, both alike in dignity, in fair California where we lay our scene.
O.K. I'll stop that now. But, seriously, which of these two ostensibly heterosexually macho movies is the most homoerotic you've ever seen?
1. 1982's Rocky 3, in which Apollo Creed, played by my real dad Carl Weathers, coaches Rocky Balboa, played by John Rambo, to new sweaty, short-shorted, wet, hugging heights.
Yes, it was worth posting twice.
or,
2. 1986's Top Gun, which, in addition to featuring a sweaty, shirtless beach volleyball scene, includes this little gem in which [Trouser] Viper, played by my real mom's pretend boyfriend Tom Skerritt, offers sage advice to a whitey-tightied Maverick in the men's room. You know, how and where your mentors best coach you.
One a penny, two a penny...
So, which is it, Peeps? If Pat Robertson were to settle in for a fine Saturday afternoon of cinema on TNT, which would he be more likely to preach against on Sunday morning?
I have a love/hate relationship with The Decemberists. Go on. Ask them. They'll totally agree. Currently, with the release of their countrified and folky The King is Dead we are back on solid loving ground. But, being in a love/love relationship with Regina Spektor, I can't help but hear a mashup between The Decemberist's "This Is Why We Fight" and Spektor's "One More Time With Feeling," which also prominently features "this is why we fight" in the lyrics. It's like a mobius mashup; I listen to one, then immediately listen to the other, which makes me crave the first one all over again.
So, here. You listen and decide who made better use of the line, because I can't. They both make me so happy. Smack my ass and call me Sophie, but I just can't choose.
Today while pillaging the library Livy turned a corner and found this book on display for Women's History [Ghettoization] Month.
Even as an infant she had a unibrow? Um. O.K.
To celebrate her excellent taste in literature and art we checked out the book, the first I've ever borrowed on her behalf. And to let you all share in our festivities I give you this, one of the best Halloween/Day of the Dead costumes I've ever created.
It's a natural look for me.
That's my friend Trixie Lane of Seattle Retro Photography, who would have taken my maternity pictures had I had any maternity pictures taken. She's awesome, and no, kittens, she's not in costume. She's just that fabulous every dang day. You're right to be dazzled by her brilliance.
So viva Trixie! Viva Livy! Viva Frida! What a colorless and bland world we'd live in without having been brightened by three such awesome women.
The closer and closer we get to moving into our new house the more and more I've been desperately combing design websites trying to develop a decorative flair. It is one of my greatest fears that I won't be able to do justice to the awesomeness of our new house with my penny pinching, utilitarian ways, that my aesthetic timidity and financial self-denial (self-loathing?) will rear their ugly heads, and that we'll live surrounded by particle board and hotel-grade art FOREVER. So, on The Morah's recommendation, I checked out Design Sponge today and found that site's "Living In" feature that marries design, commerce, and a shocking number of my favorite movies.
People, you have no idea how far up my alley this little feature is. But you're about to.
For example, do you know that my current haircut is loosely based on Jean Seberg's in Breathless, a movie I've seen multiple times but can never remember. Why can't I remember it? Because I'm too busy looking at it to listen to it or pay attention to it properly. My mind can recreate each of Seberg's outfits, gestures, and mannerisms, but I can hardly ever remember a single thread of the plot unless the movie is playing immediately in front of me. So, I literally gasped when I came across the "Living In: Breathless" edition.
No, I'm no Jean Seberg. But neither are you, so we're even there.
But the movie honored by Design Sponge that slapped me silly with a nostalgia that would have made Proust choke on his madelines was the 1995 gem Party Girl starring a then-unknown and -unirritating Parker Posey.
H-h-h-hello!
I had this poster, which I'm almost certain I stole from the video store where I worked, on my wall all through high school. I would "rent" the movie at least once every two weeks from work and watch it after a late night Saturday shift. I tried desperately to layer long-sleeved t-shirts as the poster suggested, but found that my limited elbow-bending capacity made the look too uncomfortable to endure. I wondered what, exactly, falafel and baba ganoush were. And I still to this day crib the line about something or another making "my unborn baby grow gills."
Make no mistake, this is not a great film. But it is about a beautiful and sassy young woman living in New York and pursuing a dream of becoming a fabulous - fabulous! - librarian, which fascinated and delighted my small-town smart-girl imagination.
So, thank you Design Sponge for helping me while away a pleasant morning "living in" some of my favorite movies. I'd call it a time-waster, but it was a true pleasure poking through these archives and reliving my love of these films. And now, unstylishly, uncinematically, I have some boxes to pack.
Livy is at Oma and Opa's having the time of her life (Did you know that she sings Opa's name when we practice singing together? That little girl has a serious case of Opa-love.), I've taken a 2 hour nap and wrapped the final pile of presents, SLB is on his way home from work to take me out to a new gastropub in the neighborhood, and Amelie is going to be on TV in about 5 minutes. Life is good, people.
So, until the holidays are over and we have some time to breathe, let this suffice as a Merry Christmas to you, dear readers. You are the reason for the season! Well, you and these people:
All tuckered out from an exciting holiday show (Yes, those ARE puffed sleeves. You only get one chance to be a little girl in a Christmas dress. Go big or go home.)
I had forgotten how much pure, sweet pleasure this brings me. Aaaaaahhhhh...
And this ends my recent spate of NWA references. I promise to talk like the college-educated, privileged people that Ice Cube and I are. And, Mr. Cube, to answer your question: Yes, we are there yet.
