Momnesia

My life revolves around four things, in this order:

• Emerson - daughter, 12 months old, ferocious and precocious
• Scrabble - mini fox “terrorist”, 18 months old this month, nervous and untrained
• Work - neverending, sometimes household, sometimes writing
• Scott - husband, 34 years old, harried and studious (sorry, Scott, but you can feed and walk yourself)

But most stories do not feature my husband, because he is normal. It is the rest of us who are mad.

Scrabble is a HUGE baby. I took him to get his quarterly cleanings and flea dip (and they do something with his butt that I don’t ever want them to tell me about again), and he refused to go near the nice groomer.

When they took him in the back, I could hear him shrieking at the top of his lungs. His shrieking set off all the other dogs and Emerson, who gets really freaked out when Scrabble howls.* Their nice quiet morning turned into canine mania. Thank you, Scrabble; we didn’t even have an appointment.

He’s lost his mind since we found a home for Halley (a fosterdog we took in from an abusive home). We keep taking in little doggie friends, and then sending them off into the great unknown, but it’s not as though he lacks for stimulation.

Por ejemplo, Emerson views him as her own personal horse-and-carriage. She latches on to his fur and he drags her around the floor trying to get away while she laughs hysterically and I chase after them shouting, “Scrabble! Sit! Stay! Come here! Gah! Emerson, no! Let go of Scrabble’s fur!” none of which either of them acknowledges. This is because Scrabble is 100% deaf, we found out from the vet, unless we’re holding a treat. Then God creates a miracle until we feed him. Amazing.

Inevitably, Emerson loses her grip and slips onto the floor, sometimes smacking her head, or her hand, or nothing, and whether or not she’s landed on or injured some part of her, she freaks out like we just slammed her hand in a door or are playing the harmonica.

FYI: Emerson does not like harmonicas. I do not know why, but I do know that it is funny. She doesn’t mind them being there. It is the playing that upsets her.

Good times.

* Last week a little shi tzu (sp?) wandered into the yard and I took him in until his owner got home. This little dog almost did not survive his stay because Emerson was going to kill him.

Scrabble is a nerd. He has no social skills and thinks Humpfest 2006 is rad. He is wrong. Brownie tried to tell him so, by yipping at him to get him to leave him alone. Then it was yapping, then nipping, then snarling. Y'all, Scrabble does not do subtle. He does not do requests. He only does Scrabble on 10 (but he goes to 11).

After four hours of sexual harassment, Brownie lost his shit and chased Scrabble into the kitchen, snapping at him. Scrabble howled but here wasn’t a scratch on him and, frankly, sometimes lately I want to chase him into the kitchen and bite him, too.

But Emerson, seeing this, let out a mighty roar and tried to kick her way out of my arms to go after Brownie, whom she had previously found highly amusing and super furry. “Now,” Emerson said, “It is ON!” Of course, I did not let go of her until I was sure her combat skillz were until control.

But thereafter, whenever Brownie came near, she would reach out as if to pet him, then shriek “NAH!” and swing at him. My one-year-old was trying to start sumthin'. I had a mental picture of her in a bar at the ripe old age of five, sitting in a fog of cigarette smoke punctuated by tequila shots, scowling at other patrons and inisiting, "Yeah, I was in the shit."

She produced the shit, I can tell you that...

For everyone concerned about my sanity, let me just say that it would ever so much more stable if I could rid myself of the nascent news-siphon that is Brangelina’s baby, henceforth nicknamed “The Christ Child.” I am starved, I tell you, starved for real news, in-depth reporting on Things That Matter but which are not the War in Iraq by which I am embarrassingly bored god save the troops and all that.

I think it is a sign – because my life and thoughts are important enough to be considered omens but not like that Damian horror movie kid who really freaked me out shut up you are giving me nightmares – of a larger American, nay, perhaps global problem of viewing everyone but me as entertainment.

There is a certain disconnectedness that haunts our global connectedness, like maybe we’re so aware of our fellow men and women and their hands across the globe lalala that we’re also conscious of just how dispensable we are. I mean, how sacred can each life be when there are 5 billion of them and counting? And do they really not know it’s Christmas time, ‘cause I think it’s no big secret. Humans are not rare. Oh, sure, in comparison to, say, plankton, we’re losing the procreative race by a couple hundred trillion. But we don’t fit so neatly in whales’ mouths, if you please and thank you very much. So forge ahead, Mr. and Mrs. Plankton, for there is much room at the inn for you.

Which brings me neatly back to the Christ Child because that was a transition.

It goes without saying that this child will lead a life of ridiculous wealth and health, and I hear s/he has already been cast in his/her very first role as “Fetus on Monitor” in Kate Hudson’s next film. But aside from the fact that s/he will inherit the genetic perfection of both her parents, what other talents will s/he have? Will she glow like the suitcase in “Pulp Fiction?” Maybe the child will emerge from the World’s Most Visited Vagina (over 1 million serviced!) and rise, shimmering, into the sky where she will mate with Brahma and bring religious unity, peace and prosperity to the planet. Maybe her power will be to absorb light, thereby rendering paparazzi flashbulbs useless and making her prime breeding stock for other Hollywood offspring who will then create a master race (TomKat? You’re what Willis is talkin’ about).

Whatever. The point is that I think we can all agree that this child will be born an uber. An child who is “other”. Some creature more highly evolved than the rest of the Hollywood mere mortals, and clearly an aeon or two further advanced than the troglodyte mouth-breathers drooling on the tabloids in the supermarket checkout aisle. Newsflash: that’s you, me and anyone else not IN the tabloids. I understand that the child will be more of everything than anyone can ever imagine. But must I be forced to watch the child gestate? Can’t the global domination of the Hollywood elite wait a few more months until we’re sure there will actually be a baby and not some preternatural porn star?

So, resolved:

• Since the child has a few more months to go before blinding us with its glory;
• Since the parents aren’t likely to get to boinking right in front of anyone’s camera;
• Since there is enough cheatin’ and lyin’ in Hollywood to fuel TWO industries (those being tabloids and country music);
• Since the parents of the Christ Child really don’t do anything special besides have him/her;
• And since the second coming of the Christ Child commences the Rapture;

We, residents of Earth, hereby swear off all news of celebrities and their breeding habits. We got some prayin’ to do.

Dear Penny -

I am writing to apologize to you. I feel like I have wronged you horribly. I know that on several occasions, I have made shameless fun of you for your enjoyment of George Michael.

Now I must confess: I love George Michael, too. I have long been too cool to admit it.

But I am here now! I am set free! And I say to the world: I love George Michael! Yes, I paid $40 to see him from very far away at the old Atlanta Stadium. I bought a t-shirt! I watched his ass with great concern in his torn jeans and leather jacket with the pearls hanging off the shoulder. And the stubble! I was ALL ABOUT the stubble! (Well, except for this guy in high school who actually bought one of those electric razors that let you “choose your own stubble” and also styled his hair with the puffy pseudo-wings. I mean, the look was great, and all, but not to the extent of idolization and expensive razor-buying.)

But worse than the transformation of a 15-year-old with unnaturally heavy facial hair into a physical clone of an aging gay pop star is that my favorite Christmas carol is “Last Christmas.” Oh, yeah: I said it. (FYI, my second-favorite Christmas carol is “Christmas Wrapping” by The Waitresses... Which is worse, I know not.)

In the end, I am most disturbed by the fact that I was so turned on by both the song and the video for “Father Figure.” A part of me still is. But I gotta have “Faith” and work through my issues now that I’m "Older." I’m going to give it “One More Try” to prevent any “Careless Whispers.” Perhaps if I had a “Teacher”...

Love,
Stacey

Scott and I have another ongoing argument that goes something like this:
“Where’s the phone?”
“I dunno. You had it last.”
“No, I didn’t. You did. Where did you leave it?”

The phone is in the bedroom and we freaking never hear it ring. So every time we do hear it ring, given that we never know where it is, it unleashes a frantic search for the stupid thing. Tonight, I was playing with the baby and Scott went looking for it by pushing the page button and wandering around triangulating the position. He returned, palms up, in a gesture of bewilderment.

“I can’t find it.”
“Where did you leave it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you check the back porch?”
“I just looked there.”
“The kitchen.”
“Nope.”

He rifles through the couch cushions as I go into the bedroom to see who left a message. The phone is sitting on the base.

“Scott!”
“What?”
“What the fuck is this?”
He stares at it.
“Seriously, Scott, what the fuck is this? Right here? Right here on the base? What is it?”
“I am an idiot.”
“No, really, this rectangular phone-shaped item here: what is it?”
“Come on.”
“I’m just wondering.”
“Oh, shut up.”

One day after she turned 11 months, Emerson stood up without assistance for the first time. She’s done it before, but has almost immediately fallen over. This time, she stood up, wobbled, and crouched down. Then she stood up again! It was awesome! I “yay”ed and clapped for her, and she grinned all huge and did it again - and then again, as I kept clapping and praising her. She did it every once in a while, and then she would look at me with her eyebrows raised as though to say, “See that? I think I have this thing down!”

It’s our first Christmas Day with Emerson, and we’ve already had a month-long argument with Scott’s mom about how we’re going to spend it. She actually was MAD at me because I wouldn’t let her have Emerson Christmas Eve. I was like, “She’s our daughter. Can we have one normal family Christmas morning with her?”

She also was inviting us to go to Christmas Eve candlelight service at [her church]. Oops, I meant to say that she was DEMANDING we go. Scott’s conversion to Hinduism has made her all kinds of religious. Now she claims that she goes to church “EVERY Sunday,” which is bullshit. Anyway, our conversation went like this...

“Chris and Allison and Vivian and Jacob are going with us, so we would LOVE it if you and Scott and Emerson would come.”

“Oh, no, thank you, Patsy. I don’t think Scott’s in a particularly churchy mood right now.”

“Well, it’s going to be beautiful.”

“I’m sure it will. Ya’ll have a good time.”

“Well, can we just take Emerson?”

“We’d like to spend the holiday with her.”

“Why don’t ya’ll bring her with you?”

“No, thank you, Patsy. Ya’ll enjoy the service.”

“I just want you to see the inside of the church. It’s such a beautiful church!”

“I’ve seen it before. It’s lovely.”

“Oh, have you been inside it?”

“Yes, Patsy, I don’t burst into flames on the doorstep!”

But I had on the TV for background noise while I was writing my column, and “The West Wing” was on. I love Janeane Garofalo, so looked up and what the hell is up with her eyebrows?

Before:

http://www.imdb.com/gallery/ss/0246464/Ss/0246464/16-C57-10.jpg
After:
http://us.tv1.yimg.com/tv.yahoo.com/images/he/photo/tv_pix/nbc/the_west_wing_cast_photos/janeane_garofalo/west3.jpg

See? Freakish.

I did a bad thing. I’ve been pining for music that doesn’t rely on a middle-class white boy screaming into the microphone while another middle-class white boy plays power chords with a stop-starty sound. I downloaded Limewire.

I can’t afford to go out and buy CDs whenever I want to. I love Madonna - what child of the 80s doesn’t have a special place in their heart for her? - but I’m not sure her new album is worth the money. So I downloaded “Hung Up.” Glad I didn’t buy it. But it sent me off into an orgy of downloading, which just ruined all my memories of the music I listened to in high school.

I found old Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, Urban Dance Squad, and Kings X. Does anyone remember these bands? I thought they were much better than they actually are. My taste sucked.

I branched out into Joy Division, Bauhaus, and Siouxie and the Banshees. I don’t remember life being quite that bad. I loved them when I was younger, but now they bore me. It was just music to mope to.

The favorite standbys are still solid: Sonic Youth, Husker Du, Nine Inch Nails, The Indigo Girls,

I worked up a sweat searching for Melissa Ferrick, Soul Minor’s Daughter, Johnny Quest, and Jump, Little Children. Not many people are fans, even though Ms. Ferrick won a Ms. Magazine Award; Soul Minor’s Daughter was fronted by Jennifer Nettles of Sugarland Fame; and - well, okay, Johnny Quest never really went anywhere and Jump, Little Children have kind of fizzled out, too. The former I don’t really care about, and the latter is a shame. They had some real talent AND commercial appeal.

Then I looked for some of the more obscure bands I liked in my early twenties: Dead Can Dance, The Drovers, Ednaswap, Sugar, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Velocity Girl, the Connells, Dig, Me Phi Me, Morphine, Ani Difranco - all bands I played while DJ-ing college radio. Some of them are no longer obscure.

That lead me to the college radio staples of my youth: R.E.M., 10,000 Maniacs, B-52s, etc. I realized that I never bought R.E.M. music, that I just listened to tapes that friends made me. So I downloaded as much of their catalog as possible. When I was done, I listened to songs I haven’t heard for years: “Drive,” “Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight,” “Fireplace.” Then I listened to them again... and once again.

I realized something important: I have no freaking idea what they’re talking about. Let me give you an example:

“The cat in the hat came back, wreaked a lot of havoc on the way,
always had a smile and a reason to pretend.
But their world has flat backgrounds and little need to sleep but to dream.
The sidewinder sleeps on his back.”

Clearly that is for “Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight.” But what does it mean? Here, let me give you another example:

I’d studied your cartoons, radio, music, tv, movies, magazines
Richard said, “Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy”
A smile like the cartoon, tooth for a tooth
You said that irony was the shackles of youth
You wore a shirt of violent green, uh-huh
I never understood the frequency, uh-huh

Now, any fan of R.E.M. knows where these lyrics fit, which is right into “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” a song about the attack by a schizophrenic on a news anchor, during which the attacker ran towards the newscaster screaming, “Kenneth! What’s the frequency?” to his partner, who was monitoring to see

I’ll finish this later.... baby calling to the faraway towns. Now war is declared, and battle come down.

Emerson and I just woke up and we're both starving. I grab her a bottle out of the fridge and settle her in.

Kelli, my sister, says, "There's some awesome cinnamin bread in the kitchen."
I take a bite. It IS awesome. I run away with the whole loaf while Kelli laughs.
"I've seen this in the freezer section at the store," I say, while begrudgingly returning the loaf, "but I'd never buy this at home. I think it's called Monkey Bread."
"Yeah," Kelli says. "Made from real monkeys! Fresh monkey flavor in every bite."

One of our cars hasn’t worked in a while, and we only just today were able to get it fixed. But we can’t drive it from the repair lot until we update the tag. The car is not at the house.

Me: “Did we pay the tag last year?”
Scott: “I called them for the VIN.”
Me: “No, but did we pay last year? I think we did.”
Scott: “I don’t think the car was working then.”
Me: “Yeah, but we might have paid it. I’m going to go down and check.”
Scott: “Do you have the tag?”
Me: “What? No, I’m going to go see what the last year was that we paid the taxes.”

There is a moment of silence while Scott looks at me, confused. “Ugh!” I think. “How hard is this to understand?” Then it hits me that the car is not here. I return to my chair, cackling.

Me: Wooooo! That was hella stupid.
Scott’s covering his eyes, laughing at me. Deservedly. I laugh harder.
Me: “That was awesome! It was so dumb!”
Scott: “I’m just enjoying this. You almost never do this.”

Ha. If he only knew.