In My Head Bed

Last night I was reading a book about near death experiences. George was being a bit of a rascal, to put it nicely, and was not getting on board with our usual bedtime routine. So I'd go back and forth to his room trying to get him to stay in bed and fall asleep. George is a peculiar kid because, even though he wants me to lay next to him in bed, he can not control his excitement by all the possible fun that could arise, and this makes him very restless, and unable to fall asleep. Even at a couple months old, he was only able to fall asleep if he was in his crib alone.
So I tried laying with him, and he'd seem like he was drifting off, but then shoot up like a rocket, and look at me with a wide, mischievous grin. Then, I moved to the rocking chair at the foot of the bed, thinking the distance would help him drift off. I continued reading my book, but eventually George sat up, looking at me with giant, darkened eyes, smiling like he is watching an amusing scene. Then I got the chills.
Usually ongoing failed attempts at getting George to bed would be more annoying than scary, but I was reading a book about people who had near death experiences. The book's stories were mainly about how people who had NDEs were confronted by dead relatives. The spookiest of the encounters were when someone met a relative they didn't know they had until they came back to life. Like a young girl who told her parents she met her brother, but was confused because she didn't have a brother, but the parents, brought to tears, said they never told her she did have a brother, but he died three months before she was born. Another story, was a woman who called her doctor to tell him that, even though her daughter was diagnosed with terminal cancer, her daughter was going to live, and she knew this because of a dream her daughter had. Her daughter explained that she dreamed of her recently deceased father, and he told her, "Don't worry, this is not going to be your death, you'll live through this." The mom wasn't convinced by the words, it was when the daughter was explaining how her dad looked, he was young and wearing a yellow shirt and fedora hat, the daughter found this odd, since she'd never seen her dad wearing a fedora. The mother immediately believed her daughter's dream was an encounter with her father because she described what he wore on their honeymoon, and her daughter never knew this.

Needless to say, the stories had the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. The silence of George's room, and his spontaneous bursts of happiness, had my mind reeling. I thought, George was having full blown party with my dead ancestors. I didn't work up the courage to shout, "Hey, Pops! I need to get some rest here, can you let the boy sleep?!"
The creepiness intensified after I'd leave George's room, hoping he'd stay in bed. I walked to my room, laying in bed, returning to my book. I heard a door creak, and knew it was George. Then I'd get up, and look down the hallway where I was greeted with an image that is akin to Hollywood Ghost Movies. George is standing in the crack of the doorway, his head at doorknob level. His eyes are shadowed by the darkness, and his little figure is perfectly still. Although I can't see his eyes, I feel him looking directly at me, with his chin jutted down, and belly sticking out.
I have to pretend to be very pissed, rather than creeped out, and I stomp down there blaring empty threats like, "This is the last time, then I'm locking the door. Lay down, and don't get up!"
I laid next to him. After a couple minutes, he sat up, like he were tanning his back on a beach blanket and looked up to take in the beach surroundings. This time his gigantic smile wasn't directed at me, his eyes were looking over my shoulder. I said, "Lay down, George, and go to sleep."

Then I walked quickly back to my room, and told my husband, "You got to go in there and deal with him because he is freaking me out." After he wrapped up some work, he walked down the hall, and laid in bed with George. I looked at the monitor and watched them, George laying on his stomach, occasionally kicking his legs in a playful swimming motion, and my husband's face lit up by the screen of his phone.
Then I curled up on my bed, and cracked my book open, where I continued reading about people who nearly died, and flew around a new dimension, talking to their dead relatives.

You Ain't Got No Alibi

Yesterday, as we roamed around the backyard, Kiki asked me, "What is ugly?"
I told her I don't know for certain, it's a subjective classification that I've seen used more as a mechanism of violence, a word used to cut someone at the knees, regardless of truth.
Naturally, I thought of Donald Trump, who seems armed with a litany of violent language he uses to silence any woman affronting his ideals, and because this violent talk is targeted towards women, it is most definitely sexist.

Donald's transparent statement, "there was blood coming from her everywhere," equates to, "She was being mean to me because she is on her period," and to anyone who isn't 13 years old, this statement is not a valid reason why he lost a debate. The Fox news anchor Donald accused of menstruating looks like a real life Barbie doll. Her looks probably made Donald assume tossing her a couple compliments will lead way to her allowing him to moronically pontificate, while she giggles in agreement. Backfire. Donald might want all women to look like Miss America, but he shouldn't assume that all women who look like Miss America, are only interested in putting a crystal crown on their head.

Donald is quoted in September's Rolling Stones calling Carly Fiorina ugly, and saying her looks will be the primary reason no one will vote for her. Fiorina, like the Fox news Barbie doll, could hardly conjure up an eye roll in reaction to Trump's childish antics. It's ludicrous that these words are even given the ink to be printed, but sexist hate speech sells magazines and raises TV ratings, so as Trump does the rounds, the media can sell more advertising and feel accomplished in making money, oh, I mean, disseminating relevant political news.

Kiki, remembering another story we read about ugliness, asked, "The ugly duckling is ugly?'
I scrunched up my nose, and said, "But he really wasn't ugly, Kiki. He just didn't know who he was. After seeing himself for who he really is, he learned he is beautiful."
Going To The Sea Park is what sparked Kiki's curiosity on defining "ugly." The book is about a field trip to an aquarium, and a couple of the beginning pages describe how different fish look. I'm grateful Kiki didn't ask about the next page, that says, "Some fish are thin. Some fish are fat." Because even though fat and thin are more easily explained, my daughter will come off as a Donald Trump level asshole if she starts loudly pointing out if someone is fat or thin.

A Blood Moon Pope Weekend

I tried to watch the Pope's mass being broadcast from Philadelphia. Kiki was not having it, and after ten minutes demanded Disney Jr, so I recorded it to watch later.

When we were watching the mass Kiki maintained interest by repeatedly asking me what the Pope, priest, alter servers are wearing under their robes. She kept asking me, "What is under his robe?" I don't know for certain, but I told her my best guess, pants and a shirt.

Kiki's fascination with naked people has me optimistic she will pursue a career as a doctor. One time at a breakfast diner, she had me take her to the bathroom three times until I figured out she was captivated by a poster of Burt Reynolds posing on a bear skin rug, his infamous Centerfold shot, and wanted to chat about it. A relative of ours works at Mattel and brings Kiki a new Barbie every time we meet up. Upon opening the box, Kiki requests all the clothes be stripped off, regardless of if she is a dazzling holiday Barbie queen, or the most adorable sporty lifeguard, she is nude, and Kiki happily runs off examining her naked doll.

Of the Pope's mass, I was able to watch the beginning of the second reading. I found it suited my defeated disposition, and even considered the reading to be serendipitous. I needed to hear that if you have a hand that sins, cut it off, it's better to go to heaven maimed than go to Gehenna with two hands. I'm battling my own personal daemon, and it's humbling to realize that there is a time when, symbolically, cutting off my hand is going to serve a greater purpose, going to allow me to live a meaningful life. There could be a culmination of cosmic energy, the super blood moon and eclipse, that paved the way for a literal punch in the face, wake up call, on how to be a better person.
I don't ever remember hearing about blood moons before this last year, but I find it hard to believe that they are a new phenomena, since celestial settings are pretty much a constant at this point, aside from the misclassification of Pluto. I went on Twitter, and the first fifty tweets were about the blood moon, and the next fifty were about the pope, demonstrating a powerful collective consciousness this weekend. I've been reading a lot on parapsychology lately. Last night I read about proven effects of collective consciousness, one example being how random number generators are not random, showing patterns, at times where there is a strong collection of consciouses, like during the OJ Simpson Trial, 9/11, and Obama's first presidency win. Maybe Blood Moons are a study of collective consciouses, and this is all research conducted on the population and our collected focus, because I find it so peculiar that blood moons have only recently come into existence, and they occur so damn frequently.
My sister Lacey has been on Pope watch all day long. She called me throughout the day to give me Pope updates. She lives in Philly, where the Pope energy is palpable, and she was completely enthralled. First, she told me about how the Pope is rad because he drives a Fiat, and is going to open the world's eyes to environmental issues. Then she called to tell me he is having very bad sciatica, and looks pained. She informed me he prays at least two hours a day, which I think sounds right, since he's the pope. She was laughing as she told me he pulled his Fiat up to the back of the American Airlines plane, a hilariously inappropriate place to park a tiny car. She hung up, and then called me back minutes later. I picked up the phone to her laughing hysterically, telling me that a news reporter just explained how a congressman acted sheepish because he was caught stealing the Pope's water glass as a souvenir. After we stopped laughing, and got back to talking, she took a long drawn out sigh, and asked, "I wonder if the Pope is wearing underwear?"

This Weird Thing That Happened

Back To School Night Day

Over a decade ago, I went to a party with my parents. As I talked to their two friends, a married couple, the husband acted really interested in what I was saying, which I can assure you, was rather uninteresting details about school or work. I soon sensed he was being flirtatious, and his eye contact was unnecessarily strong. I chose to act like I didn't notice. Really, when someone is coming at you, ignoring them only wets their appetite more. I didn't linger in the conversation longer than I had to, but an unspoken communication occurred that stayed with me much longer than whatever was spoken between the three of us.
The wife of the duo gave me a look of disdain after noticing her husband acting like a coquettish tipsy man-harlot. I took the grief she should have directed toward him. I was in a position where I couldn't win. Had I acted rude to the husband in a nod of sisterly camaraderie to the woman, she would have similarly scolded me through dirty looks and negative energy for being presumptuous and cocky, assuming her husband would be openly flirtatious with me. By staying there, remaining polite and acting naive, I came off as relishing in flattery and a little bit of a cock tease.
In the end, it's over, and I feel fine knowing there was nothing I could do to make the situation better.

Unspoken interactions are complex, and not because of an unsureness of what the other person's saying, its as if their feelings come through crystal clear, bizarrely since its communicated almost telepathically through eye contact and body language. Maybe it's "sexual tension" that can be as loud as spoken language, yet,
even in a crowd full of people, only the people entangled in the moment are tuned into the airwaves loaded with lusty messages.

Last night was Kiki's back to school night. As a person who doesn't go out much, I was reminded how bizarre it can be in a room of people who don't know each other. It started out as most social settings, with everyone sizing each other up. I sat in the back row, and asked a couple questions about the reading and writing program goals. After the group Q and A, all the parents moved to their kid's respective classroom.
Moving through the crowd, I followed Kingsley's teacher, a woman who is barely 5 feet tall, and is as maternal as she is cuddly, like a late in life Queen Victoria, but in her early twenties with tattoos up her calves and ankles. I looked up, meeting eyes of people passing by. There were twinkling eyes from people who seem social and happy. I made a mental note, these are the people to approach next time at an uncomfortable social gathering. Then there were eyes I met that looked unkindly on me, shooting darts. Then there were the fuck me eyes, accompanied with a tiny grin, the kind of look that makes me think they'd be easy to entice, or do the enticing, for a fuck in the coat closet. Look away.

Maybe the eye contact is all a figment of my imagination, cooked up from sexual frustration but, regardless, in the end I feel dirty. My interpretations could be a form of paranoia, which seems more likely than the other option, that I'm reading their mind or confidently assessing their thoughts the same way a psychic does a cold reading.
There is no doubt I have paranoid tendencies. Just the other day at the gym I noticed a speck glimmering on the ceiling, and my first thought was that the glimmering speck was a tiny camera, implanted in the ceiling to get a look at me talking to myself while on the treadmill. That day, I was rather anxious, so as I was jogging, I tried to make myself feel better by practicing a confidence building mantra. If the glimmering speck was a camera, then it witnessed me running with headphones, listening to music I'd occasionally sing along to, drop off deep in thought, and then come to, quietly and firmly chanting to myself, "You are a good person."
I use the same treadmill every time I go the gym, and never noticed the glimmering speck in the ceiling, which I found odd since running in the same place for an hour makes memorizing the space unavoidable. The spider webs in the corner of the giant plexiglass window made me skeptical of the worldwide conspiracy that a camera was implanted, since someone would surely tidy up that mess after going through the trouble of climbing a ladder to reach that height. Then again, tidying up the unkept space might call attention to the tiny camera.

Talking to a therapist about this harmless paranoia is fruitless, since the therapist would be in on the conspiracy, throwing fuel on the fire, igniting me to make an even bigger spectacle of myself. Much like seeing a therapist for entertaining bouts of paranoia wouldn't be helpful, reading body language is not really rewarding. Reading body language is as fleeting as reading Twitter. By the time the moment passes, there is an entire new list of messages to review, and the passing moment took along all the feelings perceived earlier, they dissolved the instant the moment moved forward. There is the lingering filth though, it leaves a film like a bathtub thats recently drained, and that residue blends with whatever new thoughts pop in my head.

Better Off Hit By A Car

Don't hit me!! It was a dream from a lifetime ago.

Last night, shortly after falling asleep, I woke up from a nightmare. I dreamt a violent sequence, of which, I mostly remember someone bloody and beaten, tied to a chair, having their brains extracted through their nose with a meat hook. I was scared to fall back to sleep because I didn't want to have another dream like this. I was also scared this awful scene could be a premonition of some sort, making my return to a restful state rather difficult. I checked the time, it was only 9:40.
The other day I watched a dream analyst on The Real Housewives of New York. The gals shared dreams of teeth falling out or feet being stuck when needing to move, the kind of things a Google search would suffice rather than an in-the-flesh dream analyst.
My reoccurring dream is finding myself in a panic, realizing I forgot to attend a class for the entire term, and that day is the final exam that I will undoubtedly fail. I think the dream shows I have post traumatic stress from many years of school. Finals week was always a torturous time, but I managed to pull through, feeling euphoric relief when the tests were over, and always performing better than expected.
The weeks leading up to finals, I'd worry endlessly. I'd be so stricken by stress that I'd often wish I'd be hit by a car. The desire would strike as I marched out of the library to the parking lot. I'd think, "If only I'd get hit by a car, right now. I'd be hospitalized through finals, and my teachers would need to give me a passing score."
My little sister, Becky, went to school in Brownsville, Texas, which is, as she says and many others, the ugliest place on earth. If you Google "Brownsville and Shithole" there are hundreds of links. My sister was walking to her dorm room during finals week, and as she crossed zebra stripes in the road, a car ran right into her, flinging her body onto the hood of the car. The driver jumped out of the car in fear, thinking he just killed someone. Aside from a bruise on her hip, she was fine, but the driver, on the other hand, began unraveling into a stage-5 panic attack. He kept asking Becky, "Are you okay? Are you sure you're alright?" and Becky kept reassuring him she was fine.
She said it came to a point where she found herself comforting him with back-rubbing sympathy. Maybe he thought he was talking to a ghost, but she tired of soothing the man who just ran into her, and realized she needed to get back to studying. After saying goodbye, she limped away from the scene. Hearing her tell me this story is one of those sad times where dreams fall short in reality, since she still had to study and sit for her exam.

I told my mom about my reoccurring dream of finals panic, and she said, "Stress, Alicia. It's stress." My mom should look into being a dream analyst, because that is a pretty spot on interpretation. The dream is like a gun shot to my chest of anxiety, panic and stress, and when I wake up, I feel a million times better knowing I didn't fail to complete my education, waste thousands of dollars and disappoint my watchful family because I simply forgot to go to class.
I think my murderous nightmare from last night is because I'm planning to see Black Mass this Friday. Yesterday, I was watching TV when a preview for the movie came on, and Kiki asked me, "Whats' that?" I threw my hand over her eyes, and said, "Thats scary stuff, Kiki. Don't watch." She moved my hand, and stared at the TV, with the same rubber-neck interest as passing a car accident.

Crackerjack Wilderness Girl

Fallen tree branch

A massive branch fell from a tall tree in the front yard. Luckily it fell street-side, and didn't impale our roof. After looking out my bedroom window, and noticing the monstrosity, I went outside and pulled it completely onto the lawn, where it sat like a beached whale for a couple days. On Sunday I went to Home Depot and bought a hand saw so I could break it down. Bit by bit I deconstructed it, and pushed the branches into the green waste bin like I was piecing together an enormous flower arrangement.

With a long list of things to do before my friends came over, I started ticking things off one at a time; grocery shopping, gym, moving old furniture, showering and cooking. Notice I didn't list cleaning the house, that's because I never made it to that point on the list. So my friends came over to a house that was barely surface clean.
Before I could put the food in the oven, I needed to clean it out with a concoction of vinegar and baking soda because the day before I accidentally spilled bacon fat onto the oven floor, making the house fill with smoke and a bizarre fish odor. With my head in the oven, I chatted with my friends, all the time thinking, "Why do I even bother trying to maintain a social life when it ends up being a pain in the ass?" After that mess was quickly cleaned, the food started to cook.
When we sat down to eat, they asked for napkins. I searched the cabinets, but couldn't find a single one, not even a Starbucks napkin I usually stash in the junk drawer. I told them I meant to buy napkins at the store while grocery shopping, and forgot to, which was a lie. We are dish towel people, and even if we dirty 15 a day, I don't mind. I am not sure how we exist without buying paper towels and napkins, since there is a common unfathomable reaction from people. "You mean you don't buy paper towels?" "No, I don't. I have towels I use to clean, I have towels for cooking, and I have towels to use when eating." It's not a complicated system, but for some reason it has people thinking were back woods.

When my friends decided to pack up and leave, Kiki and I followed them out to give enthusiastic farewell waves, like their black car was the Titanic setting course. I figured our pathetic display of hostessing would get us out of any obligation to hang out for a while, but no such luck, and she mentioned meeting up next weekend.

After Kiki was asleep, I cleaned the house to the state it should have been in before my friends showed up, and called my sister to gab on the phone. I told her how my my dinner party was the worst example of entertaining, a word I've picked up from watching loads of House Hunters, but yet my friend stills wants to hang out next weekend. My sister said, "she was probably happy to see someone who is in a bigger state of chaos then herself. The last thing a mom wants to see after working a 50 hour week is a person who seems to be doing it all, plus some, much better. You're making her feel good about herself."
Maybe if I left the branch, I could have put on a better dinner party for my guests, but I had a call of the wild. Hacking away at the tree felt amazing. I might not have been the perfect Beverly Hills wife, but I was definitely A Cracker Jack Wilderness Girl. I forgot to buy napkins, but it really just added to the ambiance, that were all roughing it.

Another Troop Beverly Hills reference, "He permed me!"

Unexpected Number Two

A blog Sing-along

There is one reason why I don't like rolling out of bed and going on a jog. Its easier, even with 70 pounds of babies in a stroller, to go after I drink water, have coffee, feed the kids breakfast and read books. The reason why I like to wait until my body is fully awake sounds like, "Die Maria," or "Dime Arena," or "Diner Rita."
In my household there is a song one sings after being struck by an immediate urge to rush to the bathroom. After leaving the restroom, in an operatic tone, they sing, "Unexpected Number Twooooo," followed in a lower tone, "Unexpected Number Twoooo."
I am potty training George right now. It is a slow process, but were getting there. He likes to tell me he has to poop (he calls pee and poop, poop) and I prop him on the toilet. He could sit on the toilet, pop off, flush the toilet, and climb back on the potty, for an hour, without a drip of pee coming out of him. He eventually gets bored of this, and wanders away from the bathroom, then he gets struck with the urge to pee, and finds the floor the most suitable place to go.
The other day, we were eating breakfast, and I could tell George was having poop stress, and needed to use the toilet. I cleaned him up, and we went to the bathroom. As he sat on the toilet, I sat on my bed, just outside the open bathroom door, watching Real Housewives of New York Secrets Revealed. I think I was absorbed in Dorinda talking about waitressing when I noticed George walk by me and down the hall. I figured he was going to get a toy, and didn't really have to poop. I stayed sitting, feeling no urgency to follow him and throw super absorbent training pants on him.
Moments later he walked back into my room, and red faced started flexing his body. I immediately knew what he was doing, trying to push out a poop.
I screamed, "Stoooop!!" but it was too late. I lifted him under his armpits, and swung him onto the toilet. When I poked my head out of the bathroom, there it was, his turd, on the floor. Its weird seeing human poop on the floor, but it looks like dog poop, and I treated it as such.
I felt like yelling at George, "Your sister never, NEVER, took a doodoo on the ground George. I am appalled. I would keep you in diapers till your three if I didn't worry about psyche problems. I don't want you having visual memories of me wiping your butt hole while singing, 'I'll get you cleaned up. Wooo Whooo.'"

It actually wasn't super gross, more alarming. I don't have a dog, but it was on par with having to pick up doo out of the yard. I am becoming immune to anything disgusting. George is still fascinated with throwing things in the toilet, and I have to dive my hand in there once a week, and each time I get less grossed out. Hopefully I don't get to a point where I question if antibacterial soap is necessary after fishing a sopping roll of toilet paper out of the toilet. I wouldn't like to get to a point where I simply wipe the toilet water from my arm onto my pants and then pick up my burrito to take a big bite. These kids. They're ruining me. In a good way.

As promised, here is the song:

Trick Answer

New Day, Same Sun

I recently quit drinking because I need to work on positive mental health, and its the easiest way for me to refocus on goals. The problem is, I like to get shit-faced, and I find in the aftermath of binge drinking, I take two steps backwards, loosing motivation, causing my productivity to suffer.
In my early twenties, I went on a booze sabbatical. I was finishing college and booze was an added stress to the list of finding a job, figuring out where to live, and dealing with that early twenties concern of being less a Miranda and more a Charlotte. Getting to mid-thirties, clearly Samantha is the only one who has sense, but like Madonna says, "I think everyone should get married at least once, so you can see what a silly, outdated, archaic institution it is."
Because I am too shy for therapy, I turn to fitness in these times. During my last bout of sobriety I ran ten miles a day. That is fucking ridiculous to any person who has a fulfilling life, but to someone who is trying to bury their head in the sand, and tune out, it is utterly effective.

My parents are always a great support, and they were happy when I told them I am calling it quits for a while. I think they were tired of me drinking all their beer, and finding me asleep, fully clothed, with my phone resting on my stomach. A couple days ago, I was at their house, and my dad called, saying, "Hey, I'm going to the store. Do you want anything to drink?"
"Yes, I do. Get me a bottle of rosé. I like Sofia. You'll recognize the bottle."
He raised his voice a bit, "God dammit, Alicia. That was a trick question. Can't you make it a week?"
I huffed in reply, and said, "Oh, um. Yes... That was a trick answer. Gotcha Papa!"
Then he laughed and hung up before hearing me scream, "Get me a coke!"

I love making my dad laugh. He is a brilliant, solid-gold specimen of a human being, who is a distracted, workaholic, so when I can make him laugh, shaking him from whatever train of thought is coiled around his brain, I feel like I'm adding humor to his complicated and dense life.
I enjoy going to the gym with my dad. He routinely posts up on the treadmill next to whichever woman has the biggest ass and tits, and power walks on a steep incline, sporadically singing loudly to music playing on his iPod. I'd stroll around, roll my eyes after seeing him, then go find a punching bag to pulverize for 30 minutes trying to imagine anyones face but mine.
I did spinning classes a lot, but post kids, I find the classes too early in the morning. Setting an alarm for 5 AM is not going to happen until my kids get into grade school, and there is a guaranteed zero chance I will be up in the middle of the night.
Im missing out on spinning class, but I don't miss the concerns that come along with it. I was always worried I could catch an STD from the bike seat, since it wedges itself right between the ol' baby chute. I imagine the uphill battle convincing someone my STD came from a nonsexual experience.
Here's how I picture explaining this to my General Practitioner. I'd start out by saying, "There is no way I got an STD, unless I picked my nose and dove right into masturbating." Then a lightbulb goes off over my head, and I point a shaking finger at her, saying, "You know what? It has to be from that spinning bike seat! I've always worried about those germ sponges being a thin sheet of cotton from my nether regions."
Skeptically, she shakes her head, marking notes on her clipboard, of course. And, I throw my hands up in a don't shoot position, adding, "I read the reports. I wash all my prison panties before wearing!"
She's not buying it.

Relaxation With Ina

In this heat, pants are not an option.

The other day I went to GAP and tried on a bunch of clothes. I picked out a good pile of stuff to buy, but as I gazed upon the autumn appropriate clothes, I decided to abandon the purchase because of the heavy reality, that there is no end of summer in sight. I realized how ridiculous it is to buy various sweaters, thermals and jeans when the temperature this week is reaching 108 degrees. I wouldn't be able to wear any of these great items till November, and that kind of long-term preparedness, is not me.

I knew this week we'd be laying around in our undies, watching obscene amounts of TV. I set the DVR for The Barefoot Contessa. I used to watch the show daily when Kiki was a newborn. She was a "bad sleeper" and her afternoon nap always had to be in my arms, so I'd watch Ina Garten make delicious food. Ina is a diamond in the rough of Food Network. Her food is healthy, fresh, and easy to make. In fact her catch phrase is, "How easy is that?" Which always makes me smile. Last year Ina was on a talking tour, and I saw her speak in downtown Sacramento. She was interviewed by a woman with the honest-to-god name, Kitty. Kitty drove me mad because it was clear she had not bothered to read Ina's Wikipedia page before writing down questions to ask the chef, caterer, gourmet grocery store owner, writer, and branding genius. I fumed in my seat thinking, "Get this attention whore, Kitty, out of the presence of brilliance." Ina was graceful when faced with Kitty, a women drenched in gaudy clanging jewelry, and Ina didn't slap the hussy for being unprepared and shamelessly overstepping her moderator role.

My mom likes telling me how I was Mr. Rogers's number one fan when I was a kid. I'd sit cross legged in front of the TV and smile at him as he talked to me. My sister came to visit, and we watched Barefoot. She was impressed by Ina's presence, and said, "You know who she reminds me of? Mr. Rogers." I turned my head away, and said, "I don't see it." But afterwards, I realized she is right. Ina Garten and Fred Rogers are the most calming people I know of. Their emotions stay within a very tight range of happy and a little bit happier.

On Monday, in anticipation of being trapped indoors all week, I stocked the kitchen with everything I expected we'd need.  In addition to food for meals, I bought popsicles, ice cream, chips, salsa, yogurts, milk, chocolate milk, cheese and a couple boxes of cereal, like I was preparing for an apocalypse. Boredom and TV watching set the stage for noshing, and Barefoot Contessa makes me even more hungry. I found myself eating a box of cereal a day. The thing with cereal is it is so damn delicious that its easy to keep eating it past the point of being full, but after it's in the belly, soaked in milk, it swells to four times its size, causing painful post-thanksgiving fullness. Each evening I'd lay in bed with Kiki waiting for her to fall asleep (she is still a bad sleeper) feeling like I had cement hardening inside my stomach.

Kiki and I watched Barefoot this afternoon. The episode was called "shake it up" and Ina gave recipes for cocktail snacks and drinks. Kiki watched all week, but today she was really engaged. She started talking to Ina like she was having a conversation. She said, "Wow, lady! That's a lot!" and "Hey little girl! Hey you!" screaming at the TV to get Ina's attention. As Ina explains how tuna tartare is cooked by lime juice, Kiki realized her hollering wasn't getting Ina's attention, and Kiki asked, "Who is she talking to?"
I said, "She is talking to a camera. She knows people are going to watch it, so she is talking to an audience." Then I added, "She is talking to us, baby. She is talking to us." 

The Fat Jewish on Girls

Duck's butt tuft on my head

I follow The Fat Jewish on Instagram. If you haven't heard of him, he's kind of a big deal in the digital world. He was in the press lately because he got a book deal, and this upset people because he's more of a curator rather than a writer. He posts funny pictures that he's pinched from other people. He also manufactures wine, which makes me suspect that he's really a high society bitch, who likens himself a people's person because he dons absurd clothes, looking like a modern day clown.

I started following him a couple weeks ago, and chuckled at some funny posts, but then it became clear most of his posts make fun of "white girls." His wine is called, "white girl rose," so its a marketing schtick, but seriously, if white girls are his demographic, how is degrading them going to boost sales? What kind of woman is willing to buy his wine, aside from his Upper East Side gal pals who feel they're part of an inside joke.
His most common cheap blows at white girls are for taking selfies, but I'm calling bullshit. I follow a wide array of people on Instagram, and there seems to be no difference in who selfies. For example, three women I follow are Jennifer Lopez, Amber Rose, and Taylor Swift, and they all post selfies the same way. There doesn't seem to be a difference in how Taylor Swift, the white girl, does it compared to the non-white girls.
I'd like to see The Fat Jewish start posting jokes on how black girls act, or how Chinese men are, he wouldn't dare because, even though it looks like he has a 17 inch dick growing out of his head, he is really a giant pussy, who foresees the backlash for sounding like a stereotyping racist.

My hair is looking like a FUBAR disaster because I thought I was a fucking hairstylist to the stars and cinged a good portion of my hair into one inch horse hay. I am tempted to cut it off, but the last time I tried to cut my own hair I looked like a mushroom head, complete with a circumcised penis silhouette. Besides, I finally learned from my recent hair fuck up, I need to stop doing my own hair.
While I was bleaching my hair, I had a conversation in my head on how I am a great hair stylist, and how hair is not rocket science, but as I started combing large clumps of hair from my head, I swallowed hard, fearing I was going to end up bald. I took a selfie in celebration of not loosing all my hair. I recently posted another selfie of the short hairs sprouting from the top of my head, looking like I just left jail, with the tagline, "My chemical hair cut gave me a tuft of hair resembling a ducks butt."
Since my hair is starting to look like how I feel on the inside, unhinged, I think it would be best to shave my head. I try very hard to bury my feelings deep inside, and now they're starting to eek through my hair follicles, and it isn't pretty. I guess I'm too narcissistic to laugh with The Fat Jewish, and I can't relate to his over generalizing white girls because, I'm special, damn it. I'd be a bit more impressed if he could hone in on me.
An idea for his next white girl degradation, post a picture of a woman in front of laptop, snapping fingers to music, with a tower of Coors Light stacking up. The tagline will say "An hour of Steve Earle and peeing every five minutes level of hydration; this white girl's ready to break the cyber fourth wall."

Mean Reds

This morning I woke up with the Mean Reds, that's how Truman Capote describes feeling worse than The Blues in Breakfast At Tiffany's. I started my run with dragging feet, trying to think of why I felt like there was sludge in my brain.
Did I listen to really sad music the day before? I didn't think so. I've learned I can only take sad tunes in small doses. If I have Elliot Smith playing all day, as I clean toilets, mop floors and fold laundry, in the moment I feel alive, awakening strong feelings I don't often tap into, however, the next day I feel like I'm recovering from a tequila paved hangover. An epic emotional hangover.
I thought it might be from finally finishing The Liars' Club, and maybe I was sad that the book was over, or that her childhood was so awful. I told my mom I thought she'd like the book, saying, "Mom, you'll like this book. You kind of remind me of Mary Karr." Then I told her the story, and she said, "Alicia, I had a very happy childhood. Why do you think I grew up like that?"
"I don't think you had a shitty childhood, but I think you talk real Southern, like Mary Karr. You say "warsh" for fucks sake. You'd like her tone." My mom acknowledged the commonality.

I settled on my funk being the outcome of greedily attacking a box of ice cream yesterday. In total, from all my back and forth trips to the freezer, I shoveled a gallon of ice cream in my mouth. It's hot as fuck again, so I was feeling bad for myself and turned to eating therapy.

When I wasn't trying to pinpoint the source of my distress, I was shirt-tugging, self conscience that my pants were sheer in the sunlight and I was showing off my bare butt to some lucky morning commuters. I decided to go commando because my undies were too thick rimmed, and I didn't feel like wasting a clean pair on my jog. Aside from not possibly showing off my butt, a nice cotton pair of briefs would have been a great buffer for the coochie equivalent of a 5 o'clock shadow. Hindsight is 20/20.

I think I will feel better if I start cleaning my dirty ass house, getting feng shui in order. After the kids and I got back from music class, I ate the rest of the ice cream because I need it out of my life. I'll offset whatever damage the ice cream will do by eating a pound of kale for dinner. It's already 106 degrees outside, so I'm not rushing to get the cleaning done yet. Were going to be trapped in doors all day, and other than cleaning, all I need to do is make kale, and heat two hot dogs for the kids to eat, with their kale. I'm all about offsetting bad food with kale.

Crack The Champagne

Anxiously awaiting 

It's a day to crack champagne because the new Libertines album is dropping tomorrow. I watched the documentary There Are No Innocent Bystanders a while back, and clearly Carl Barat is madly in love with Pete Doherty, but how could he not be? It seems any band's success usually hinges on one bandmate's magnetism, and when this person figures out they are the draw, the source of success, then corruption ensues, unless they are given clear authority as the leader (see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band or Win Butler and Arcade Fire, oh wait…)

On my drive home from Tahoe today, I listened to Libertines albums and thought about their dynamic relationship. From the documentary, it seemed obvious Pete figured out he is the draw for The Libertines, however, the band was not tolerating his lackadaisical work ethic, in regard to him wasting their time, and they gave him the boot.
Pete does not hide his financial woes when he talks to the camera, claiming money is the reason the group is getting back together. Pete has a power over people, most especially supermodels, which paved way for his offspring. The supermodels looked happy to carry on the Doherty name, and happy to collect their child support checks, which will keep even a rich man working because rich people are accustomed to, as they like to say, "a certain way of living," that a retiring young artist will be unable to provide for.
Pete must have been a work horse coming up in the music world, but then he sort of lost that passion. Maybe he was underwhelmed by wealth and fame, or maybe it is high levels of tolerance people have for reckless behavior when everyone's check is riding on his ass, that allows for someone to get to bad places with drugs and alcohol in a very public space. There is a resentment that comes along with being the money maker, and its a well thought out defiance to make people believe you're always on the brink of a drug induced melt down, therefore they're always on the brink of being out of a job.
Arbeit Macht Frei came on the player and I reminded myself to google what that means. Turns out, it's a German slogan from nazi concentration camps, meaning "work will set you free." Next, I googled the lyrics of Arbeit Macht Frei, which is a perfect length for analyzing, two versus. The message in this song is don't pat yourself on the back for seeing the evil in Nazis because racism and concentration camp equivalents are basically alive and well. Maybe he says "work will set you free" in the modern text because it will distract you from the racism and hate that are very much prevalent in modern times. Boycotting Chick-fil-a doesn't mean you're not a racist hate-monger, it really means you are a slightly less racist hate monger, because the seemingly innocent task of grocery shopping is feeding into a world view where the third world is enslaved. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, or go to work, and work harder, keep yourself distracted from these hard truths.
I don't think Pete wants to live out his days walking cobblestone streets in Spain, feeling as much joy he did while performing by singing little ditties in his head. Anyone who has the drive to make it from the bottom to the top has a burning need inside them to keep producing. Maybe that is brainwashed Americanism speaking. Americans do love to work, but they really love talking about how much more they work than other people. It's a great superiority complex that imprisons its citizens to car payments, house payments and 3,000 square foot homes full of shit.

So basically, kudos for identifying racism in the Nazis, but don't be stupid enough to think that it doesn't exist in other forms today. The best way to deal with it is by distracting yourself through hard work, and then buying stuff that buries your conscious.
Pete's team is going to have to play this song on repeat to get him back to his youthful workaholic self. Then they can work on getting him off the bad shit and addicted to cold-pressed juice; a Winston Smith level transformation.
After googling "gaspers," meaning cheap cigarette, I feel like I am reaching my quota on new information for the day. Looking forward to hitting play on the new Libertines album tomorrow, and keeping my fingers crossed for a US tour. In which case, we know the transformation would be complete. Pete standing at the mic, two gin-scented tears trickling down the side of his nose, happy the struggle is finished as he sings, "I love you, Big Brother."

Right to Bare Arms

Practicing my right to bare arms

Kiki is back to school, so our art gallery is reopening. We also all got a cold, which kicks starts our next year of snot filled, brain flexing glory. My kids are "super smart" as I like to say, and they require so much attention it drives me to the edge of insanity. I find myself recovering mainly based on gratitude, because if I looked to the media I'd probably drown myself.
I read another shooting took place last week, at a Sacramento campus, although they're finding it wasn't a deranged gunman, but rather violence bred from birth. I'm not sure which is worse, although I don't think gang members should get the lead-end because white kids come off as "depressed" and "sad" after shooting off rounds, since their violence was absorbed through video games and abhorrent advertisements for cheap guns, instead of hearing actual war zone violence outside their bedroom windows.
Here is the thing with gun reform, there are people who are equipped to own fire arms, but it should not be a right for every citizen. It's not anti-American to say we don't all have the right to bear arms, especially after those idiots made that lady smother her baby after they shot her son chasing the family dog during the Ruby Ridge Massacre, because things have gotten out of hand. Timothy McVeigh, in his younger days said, "When guns are outlawed, I will become an outlaw," and he ended up the most atrocious US terrorist. What did gun yielding get him? Nothing, but it got us, as in the U.S., a slap in the face, and we stupidly mistook it as government treason.

There are sound reasons why people hate the government, but allowing guns to fall into any one's hands, leading way to murderous violence, is not a way to take a stand with the government. Since the government's inapt, hands-tied attitude toward gun reform doesn't show any sign of stepping in to try and disarm the population, I have an idea for future deranged gunmen. This is going to sound like I should be on anti-psychotics, but instead of gunmen killing innocent, bright-faced people, why not let their rage out on the child molesters and horrific rapists listed, with address and photo, on Megan's Law. It seems so sensible to me, to knock off the bane of our existence. It's unapologetic, and non-liberal, but still, if someone should be killed, take the bottom of the barrel first. The killer can feel like they're accomplishing two goals; mass media coverage, and privately winning the hearts of Americans through their Dexter mercenary missions.

I sound like a whack-a-doo I used to answer phones with during fund raising times at public radio (I'm one of them). Because they have style ironic hipsters can only dream about, and they like to carry 14 memorized books around in a cat adorned tote bag, that they love to share, they get grief for being peculiar, un-kardashian, and it's only because they care and want to talk about how our country can change. Everyone is too distracted clicking heart buttons on their Instagram (I'm one of them too) to care our country is in upheaval. We all need to get schooled, and care about gun reform.

Preschool back in session, art gallery reopening

A Golden Beam to Uranus

New Ride

I bought a car last week. Car buying is a dreadful but also very exciting experience that I can only tolerate every half decade because the emotional roller coaster takes ages to recover from. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, "Could I have gotten a better deal?" Then get a drink of water and pace back and forth in the kitchen while glaring at the shiny new car in my driveway. Other times, I think how fun it is to act like a hard ass, negotiating the price as the sales manager runs back and forth to an office where the dealership's Wizard of Oz gives a nod of approval.

The dealership contacted me because they made a mistake on the paper work and I needed to resign some documents. I consulted my horoscope to make sure Mercury is not in retrograde before I signed the papers because it is a bad idea to buy anything major while Mercury is in retrograde, and signing contracts will cause long term headaches, so says Susan Miller, astrologer to The People. As I read my horoscope, it gave me the usual optimistic outlook on things. My month looks great, and Mercury doesn't go retrograde until September 17. Uranus made an appearance, and that always makes horoscope reading fun. I giggled to myself as I read, "Venus and Mars join forces to send a golden beam to Uranus, bringing an influx of cash, career praise and applause!" My anus has never been so excited. However, the projected date of the golden beam entering my anus was yesterday, so I never noticed my astrological sodomy session.

I love my money, and it concerns me when I am frivolous with it. I'm like Mr. Wonderful on Shark tank, I consider my money familial, and I like to gaze lovingly at my bank statements online, so if I fear I let some go without something better in return then my Scrooge McDuck fantasies of swimming in an enormous vault of gold coins isn't as exciting. I hope the car buying emotional oscillations from pride to doubt begin to shorten and ends at content because I need my sleep. It doesn't matter if I could have negotiated a better price because the papers are signed, and it's a done deal. So if I got it up the ass from the dealership, I didn't feel it. I'm thinking I have a knack for that.

Saved By The Bell Movie Breakdown

Not getting sucked into watching the Dustin Diamond Porno

Last night I watched the Lifetime movie, The Unauthorized Saved By The Bell Story. I am not sure why the film is "unauthorized" since the most interesting discoveries were the pronunciation of Mark Paul Gosselaar, Zach's eyebrows and hair don't match, and Gosselaar is half Paicific Islander (where was this information when Cameron Crowe casted Emma Stone in Aloha?)
The movie boasted scandals, and all we got was a bunch of hand holding. When Screech is the most hard core, you know you're dealing with career minded teenagers who considered themselves serious actors.
Dustin Diamond, who played Screech, was an executive producer, and the film mainly focused on his hardships. Considering Dustin Diamond turns into a broke, porno star who gets in knife fights at bars, I'm surprised how tame his celebrity childhood was. He hung out with an Asian dude who was an extra on Saved By The Bell, and apparently this guy was a bad influence on Dustin, and got him into drinking vodka and smoking weed, but to Dustin's dismay, it was only to get a better part on the show, not because he really liked Dustin. After the hour and half movie, we learn Dustin Diamond has a major complex with being the unattractive geek, no one was nice to him at Saved By The Bell, and his father was aggressive towards him when he'd fuck up. Nothing terrible, especially since he was living his dream of acting on the hottest TV show.
This movie makes me wonder what Dustin's porno is like. I'd have to guzzle 12 Coors Lights to watch it, but I imagine it's him crying on a set of inflatable tits describing how different his life would be if he could have managed to pull Tori Spelling, who dissed him for Mark Paul.

The only thing shocking to me was the use of the word "douchebag." The word reared its head at least twice, and I don't remember this word being around till 2000's. Perhaps "douchebag" was just kicking off, and originated in Hollywood in 1990. The only thing worth fact checking in the entire movie.

The Mark Paul brown brows-yellow hair combo