thorvalson.net : babble ether

Welcome to My World... Part One of a Series

For weeks now, I've been threatening to have Solomon's balls cut off. For those of you who haven't met Solomon, here he is modeling the newest installation of the Mad Gems jewelry line, nestled up to perhaps the only warm object in this house that won't either smack him for getting into the garbage or cause him death by extreme affection.

He is ten months old now, and rapidly approaching the Official End of Kittenhood, at which time he will suddenly realize that his species is not, in fact, 100% domesticated, and commence leaving gifts of pizzo and shizzo all up in my hizzo. Not. Cool. Also, he will be having his front claws removed. For all of you who protest this measure, let me state clearly here that my Actual Child is more important to me than my Feline Child - yes, I do love her more and everyone in this house is aware of it - and because of this, I will have his front claws removed before he joins the Pixies cult this household already is and starts dicing up eyeballs, ah-ha-ha-ho. Not to mention, his impending demasculation is way fun as a threat whenever he's acting, well, feline: "Keep it up, big guy! Yer gettin' yer balls chopped off!"
So over the last week, in the interests of responsible parenting and of preventing sudden shock for my daughter, I have slowly, in snippets here and there, been trying to explain the concept of feline birth control.

"Why?"
"Because Bob Barker wants us to. Hungry?"

Two days ago, on our merry little way to Target ("It's 'TAR-GET,' Mom. Stop saying, 'Tar-ZHAY") today, I explained as best I could the essential business of neutering to a four-year-old who doesn't know the ins and outs (pun intended) of mating. Read: Formal Introduction of the Word "Testicles."

Today, on our second visit to TarZHAY this week (thank you, state and federal governments!), Maddie asked me, "Mommy? Will it hurt when they cut off Solomon's tentacles?"

a) No. Because Solomon doesn't have tentacles.
b) He does have testicles, temporarily, and no, it will not hurt when they hack them off.
c) Since when does my daughter know about testicles?!

Oh yeah. Since I told her about them.

Next week: The Universe in a Nutshell.

How you like dem apples?!

Well, looky here! - the Stephke Collective is in full effect this week. I don't know specifically what karmic angels were involved, but last week's MKE featured an article/interview with Chariots Race, and now I've been selected as one of the top ten Blogs of the Week!
Visit MKEonline to vote for your favorite. And a big thanks to the anonymous person who nominated my site! I'm honored.

Immortal Beloved

"What's that, Spikey my darling? You want a little rubby rub? Hush now, my darling! You know I'm a promised woman...."

"I know, I know - it's almost unbearable. But you must be strong. You must... Spike, now, get a hold of yourself, honey! Greg may seem like a really nice guy - and he is - but he will not hesitate to stick his foot up that little English bum of yours if he catches you lying in my bed. As much as a re-enactment of 'Smashed' from Season Six would appeal to your supernaturally fine-tuned willie, you know how uppity Buffy gets about her vampires... I understand, I do. It's time to go now..... Spike.... Spiiiiike..."

(Thanks, Paul!)

Flickr update!

Just a few.

BAM!

Before: Ecuadorian? Rastafarian? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? (Keep in mind these are "moving in" photos, hence the mess.)

After: Three coats of primer and a coat of paint later... Oh, Happy Day!

Hey. You. Yeah, you.

If you're in Milwaukee, you have no excuse for not going to see Chariots Race, Hoss, and Riddle of Steel at the Cactus Club, 10 p.m., tonight. If you miss it, you will go to hell. Seriously. God called me up last night, and she said to me, "Hey. If any of those motherfuckers miss the show tonight, I'm sending them straight to hell. No exceptions. Pass it on."
So I'm just doing my job.

Erin has a keyboard! Erin has a keyboard!

Yay!

Because she is generous and kind and thoughtful, Tracey has deemed me worthy of receiving one of two free Flickr pro accounts that she had to give out. There are a few new photos up now (attn: Mom: from Sunday), and I'll be sure to let everyone know whenever I post more. It's a pro account, which means I can post a LOT more than before, so expect to see lots of photos in the future!

Resurrection

I am trying to remember you.
your large round eyes
your feminine mouth
all the features so large and no face everything
shrunken now all
ashes, all fall down.
the birds are circling
"for dogs have surrounded you"
I can count all your bones.
they divide your garments among them and for
your clothing do they cast lots.
odds are stacked.
choices line up and wait.
the ten thousand things rise and fall without cease and
will you not surrender?
I am trying
to remember.

my brain is stretched, an overexpanded balloon
your circuitry is down.
disconnected and it's so dark, Eddie.
so dark where you are.

I see myself
tear-shot
swallowing
air
for pressure
in my
gut
to
force
these words.

and you,
cold and alone in the middle of a spiraling circus that
forgot you.

the saddest thing is,
it's already happened.
you're too fucked up to know.

- March 9, 2004

Homeland Security

I didn't know Rockford had SEVEN "health spas." Interesting little-known fact: the Tokyo Oriental Spa on Broadway is/was located across the street from the site of my father's first gas station, and kiddie (kitty? which is it? anyone?)-corner across the street from the Pump Handle Inn, site of a neighbor's extramarital hooplah with a proud extension of the World's Oldest Profession. Dad and I - along with just about everyone else in Rockford - used to speculate, whenever passing by the Tokyo Oriental Spa, that they offered "a little something extra" with their massages. Sidebar: My dad later moved his business down the street, for purely business reasons, although I like to suspect it may have had something to do with the fact that the new location was two doors down from a liquor store and across the street from a donut shop. "Two chocolate long-john-ding-dongs, no filling. And whatever trips yer trigger, there, squirrel. Here - take Lincoln with ya."

Looks like my old friend Eddie is still alive and working toward that overdose... Seriously, it is really sad when I read a headline like this and immediately am drawn to it because there's a good chance I know the perpetrator. Truly fucking sad.

Not that I'm condoning this behavior (I used to be a delivery driver), but, ya know, I can remember when living in that town made me occasionally want to do things like this, too.

But, hey! They're actually adding jobs!

Any questions?

Carpenter, songwriter, gardener, world traveler, reader, snorer, driver, server, draw-er, partner, lover, Lifer.

Before:

(The board was placed across the porch as a guideline for how far you could walk out onto the balcony before your feet would fall through the boards. About three feet.)

After:

Attention!

This Woman Has the Day Off!
Go to her website and congratulate her. Stat.

"beautiful and blue
I could die here with you"

It happens, not terribly often, but often enough to remind me of how precious you are. A little moment, a rock show, a plane ride, you're cleaning your house. Something clicks in the way we perceive things that suddenly snaps everything into focus in a very gentle, very nonintrusive way, and I think to myself, "After this, I could die and be happy. Complete." But I don't, and you don't. We go on, and we go to work, and we smoke and drink too much sometimes and we wake up foggy-headed, and before I get a chance to wrap my brain around all the things I need to do that day, one thought remains floating, without any words. And I smile and remember and put it in my pocket to take with me to the store, and I'm so, so glad that the last time I had that moment, the last time I thought, "I could die," I didn't. And you didn't. And we lived to have another one. And each one keeps getting better.

Thank you.

HHAAAA-LELUJAH!

Guess what I'm watching right now...
Come on, guess!
I'm watching Buffy. And it's not on DVD.
IT'S ON FX. WHICH IS A STATION CARRIED BY CABLE, WHICH IS NOW FULLY INSTALLED IN MY HOME!

Anyone and everyone who knows me personally and lives out of state: I will be calling you within the next week, because my long distance is now unlimited, thanks to DIGITAL PHONE SERVICE, ALSO PROVIDED BY TIME WARNER CABLE.
Normally, I do not support Big Business. But today... Today I sing Time Warner's praises.
Thank you George and the cute little Latino boy who came to my house today and made it possible for me to watch two hours of DIY: Scrapbooking, followed by Oxygen's "Oprah: After the Show."

I know, I know... Yesterday, I was all "fuck television and the fat kids it's creating." While this entry may seem a bit hypocritical, let me point out two things:
1. I am the Mommy; I am not the kid. I can do whatever I want 'cause YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.
2. I could stand to get a little fat on my bones, okay? That's what I thought.

And now, back to our regular scheduled programming...

I've Got to Start Removing the Nicotine Patch Before Bedtime...

Monday night, I had a dream that I was sent to jail because of all of my parking tickets. The tickets had been paid, but for some reason the judge saw it fitting that I be used as an example to others, and sentenced me to a year in a women's prison. My cellmate, although otherwise friendly, was a complete slob and wanted to convert me somehow to being 100% lesbian, and I ended up crying and calling my mother, begging her to appeal the decision so that I could see Maddie on her first day of kindergarten.
Last night, I dreamt that I was at a Braid show, and the guys told Trace that they'd written a new song for us. They were riding skateboards back and forth across the floor, from a refreshments table in the back of the room to the stage in front, and eating MASSIVE - like, as big as my head - chunks of onions that had been soaked in vodka. They had an onion-eating contest, then commenced playing their new song, each member pausing here and there to throw up. The crowd, including Trace and I, loved it.

It is NOT good enough for me! No, it is not!

Okay, most of you have probably heard about this already, but I have to mention it anyway.
WHAT THE...?
(And kudos to the UK for once again making fun of us lazy, fat Americans with such entertaining style - "brought to you by the letters..."? Hilarious.)

C is for Cookie, god dammit, and lemme say one other thing: I am so fucking sick of this "blame it on the media" attitude that has gained popularity in our culture over the last 20 years. I don't care whether Cookie Monster's eating raspberry tarts or a head of lettuce: if your kid is sitting on his or her ass all day watching him, THAT'S YOUR FAULT.

"Lettuce good," thinks Johnny as he absently munches on a bag of Doritos, quietly mesmerized by the flashing colors and pretty lights on the magic talking box...

Okay, I'm done now.

Where does she come up with this stuff? And where can I sell it for profit?

We're at the County Clare this past Sunday night. Instrumental jigs and reels are playing over the speakers in the snug, where Maddie is dancing and playing bongos on the stools, complete with drummer face. She takes a break after a particularly rousing reel, nestling into my lap. We cuddle for a few minutes, I'm breathing in the scent of her freshly washed hair, a total Hallmark moment. I'm proud. My girl is silly. My girl is smart. My girl can count "ONE TWO THREE FOUR" and clap her hands to the music. My girl wants to learn real Irish dancing. Life don't get no better than this.
A few more moments of silent cuddling, and then this, whispered into my ear:

"Psst... Mommy."
"What?"
"I'm a bird, you know."
"You are?"
"Yup. And this bird's gotta FLY!"

Jumps off my lap, saddles up a stool, and starts another reel.

Damn right I do!

I, too, am a Women's Medium. In case you were wondering.

p.s. Mom, cover your eyes. :D

It would seem that my excitement at having "ALL THIS EXTRA MONEY!" from my new job at the Clare is somewhat short-lived, following the realization yesterday that an $8 shirt, an $8 skirt, two $13 pairs of shoes, and a $17 swimsuit (with skirt!) still - although reasonably priced, in my opinion - add up to more than $60 after taxes. My intention was to get Maddie a bit more set for spring/summer than she currently is. Pre-yesterday's trip, she only had about 3 or 4 t-shirts, and no swimsuit (a must-have for this weekend's trip to Mom's). Her feet decided to grow another inch exactly one week after I bought her last pair of shoes, and she also absolutely HAD TO HAVE these shoes:

and this pillow:

Totally worth it, I know. The pillow was the only item of question on our excursion, and my normally strict sense of "needs" vs. "wants" did prevail for, oh, about 45 seconds. The second I started to walk away from the pillows, Maddie burst into tears and said, "MOOOM! THERE'S ONLY TWO PILLOWS! WHAT IF JULI COMES AND BUYS THEM FIRST AND THERE AREN'T ANY MORE PILLOWS FOR ME FOREVER AND EVER??!!" While I tried to explain to her that there are more pillows in the storage area of the store, they just didn't have room to put them all out here, and yes, I'm sure there will be more pillows here the next time we come to Target, and now that I think about it, how 'bout you just ask good ol' Dad to buy you one next time he brings you to Target? (not to mention, since when does Juliana have a job? 'Cause I know her mama ain't buyin' ALL of these damn pillows)..., she simply looked into one of the zebra-striped cosmetic travel mirrors on the shelf and watched her own tear slowly trickle down her cheek to get lost in the creases of her grimacing mouth.

Fine.

We'll get the goddamn pillow.

I don't mind buying my daughter occasional "wants." In fact, I enjoy buying her presents. But my point is this: if it costs over $50 for the shirt, skirt, shoes, and swimsuit alone, how am I expected to purchase an entire spring/summer wardrobe? Something has to change, short of staging a retail revolution this season (although I'm not ruling that one out), and I am totally dreading the conversation I'll need to have.

Paul Westerberg's coming to Milwaukee!

Purrr....
Thursday can't come soon enough. :)

Thursday, April 14th @ The Rave.
Please don't go, especially if you're tall, as you will be in my way.

It's official! Greg booked the tickets to Ireland yesterday, and we are OUTTA HERE! Because the trip isn't until November, it seems a bit foggy right now. Like, "Oh, someday I might go there again. Won't that be nice." The biggest reality check for me right now is reminding myself to brush up on Irish and start learning some Polish. Starting now.

Cheers!
Slainte!
Na zdrownie!

Who's a big girl...

I just got off the phone with MPS, and Maddie is registered for Tippecanoe Elementary School for the Arts and Humanities this fall! I'm really excited about this, because it's a relatively small school, and well, you read the name of it. I looked at a page of the K4 teacher's letter to parents from November, and one of the activities included having a dance instructor from DanceWorks visit several times over the span of a month. Whoo-hoo! The Tippecanoe Public Library (part of Milw's Public Library system) is on the same block as the school, and all the students receive their own library cards for their frequent trips. Here's hoping our experience will be as good in reality as it seems it will be on paper... We're so excited! Too bad the Rhythm Chicken leaves for Poland this month. He'd make an AWESOME show-and-tell. ;)

Somebody essplain to me. Pleasse.

I read about this on someone else's blog (or was it an article?) and had to check it out for myself. Fellow housewives and singletons, you may have seen these at your local grocer.
Okay. Maybe it's just me, but... WHY WOULD YOU NEED A TISSUE THAT KILLS THE GERMS IT COLLECTS? Are you gonna share it?

Why. That's all I wanna know. Thank you.

(No, thank YOU.)

Dum de dum.

I like this picture. The flowers are pretty, and I like the way they printed out Leta's name (Dooce and Jon's daughter). But I always get this icky feeling inside me whenever I see stepping stones like this, or like this, because isn't the real purpose of a stepping stone to provide a sturdy walking space amongst the perennials? And who wants to step on their kid's name? Or on a pretty little innocent fairy?
And who, amongst our generation, can even think the words "stepping stone" without immediately thinking of this?
I'm just sayin'.

Well done, then. Carry on.

"Mom, can I kiss you on the lips, like this?"
(makes kissy face, moving face in a circular motion and humming, "mmmmm...")
"You mean, like Greg and I kiss?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Why?"
"That's inappropriate. That kind of kissing is only for girlfriends and boyfriends. Or husbands and wives. Girlfriends and girlfriends.... It's for lovers."
"But, MOOOom. I AM love."

:)

Smarts? Check. Personality? Check. Attitude? DOUBLE CHECK.

"Mom? Remember this morning when you woke up and I asked you for some grape juice and you said, 'Just gimme a second'?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, you ALWAYS say 'gimme a second', and it's a LONG TIME."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't do that. I should say 'a minute' if it's going to be longer."
"'GIMME A SECOND, GIMME A SECOND.' BLAH BLAH BLAH."

It would seem that the word of the week, according to Maddie, is "boring." Everything we do is booooring. Walks are booooring. Naps are boooring. Having to walk with your own two legs IN THE ZOO, WHERE WE WERE NICE ENOUGH TO TAKE YOU, is booooring. Not sure how I'm liking this latest development in her personality - the one where she begins not to like me so much anymore - but what can ya do. To be expected, of course. I just thought it wouldn't happen until... well, until she was in school most of the day, where she could do all the Not Liking Mom in other people's company, and save all the Loving Mom for me. :D It's not that she doesn't like me. It's just that I'm, well, "boooring." And this is hard for me to take, because if there's one negative adjective that has NEVER been attributed to yours truly (to my knowledge), it's "boring." Selfish? Yep. Blabbermouth? You betcha. Crazy? Duh. But boring? BORING?

You're on, kid. This means war.

What the World Needs Now is Another Folk Singer...

I got off of work Saturday night, feeling completely exhausted and in no mood whatsoever to be around people, music, noise, excessive smoke, and especially young 20somethings doing shotaftershotaftershot while singing along to excessively loud garage music. So where did I go? THE CACTUS CLUB. My rationale was this: I rarely get to go out on nights when I don't have to get up at 6:30 the following morning. Even if I'm feeling a bit like gunning down the human race, I should go out. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Or at least sit and sneer at them. Because if you don't, you're gonna regret it come Wednesday afternoon, at which point you probably will not have left your house in four days."
So I went. And I'm glad I did, because I had the honor of talking with our friend Paul, who will be moving to Poland soon. If there was any doubt in my mind about my choice for the Euro Holiday ( Eur'on Holiday? Yer On? Get it? Sorry...) - and the only one really was the cold - said doubt has been eliminated. If this trip does actually happen, we are going to Poland. Period. Paul's really excited for Greg to come, I'm really excited to be anywhere that's not America (okay, well maybe except Iraq, but only because I might actually get killed there, as opposed to being merely sneered at (sneer! the word of the day!)(end tangent now)), it's cheap, and will actually be a bit warmer than the single digits I had expected. Plus, it gives me another excuse to get in shape, because the Wawel Castle is, "Only a 45-minute walk from my house." !!! Let's race!
Our conversation turned into a comparative America vs. Europe, and I have to say, it's a tough call. Before you get all "I KNOW YOU DIDN'T..." on me, let me first EMPHASIZE that I don't consider myself anti-American at all. There are lots of things I love about this country, including my inalienable right to talk shit about it on the internet. But I also find it ironic that, for all the Bounty of the Homeland, people - especially city-dwellers - just don't seem to be enjoying it, generally speaking. We work too much. Let me rephrase that: We have to work too much. And all it takes is one look out my window to see the rows of SUVs lining the wide streets to know that we haven't exactly maximized the girth of this country, i.e., WE TAKE UP SO MUCH DAMN ROOM. Our "purple mountain's majesty" is covered in a yellow cloud of smog, and half of it is on fire half the time. When I hear "Wild Mountain Thyme", I know that I can go to Ireland and actually see the bloomin' heather. The highways are carved apologetically through the countryside, and in Clare, you can't walk ten feet without tripping over a wall created by someone's extreme effort to simply feed themselves and their family.

Maybe I'm just feeling (apologizing in advance for making up this word) Eurosick, but that's truly how I feel most of the time. I realize it's no more accurate or wise for me to imagine European life as a whole lot of siestas punctuated by brief periods of work at a place in which everyone treats their co-workers like family than it is for Europeans to construe all Americans as fat, capitalist whoremongers, but the truth is, I look around and... WE ARE A BUNCH OF FAT, CAPITALISTIC WHOREMONGERS. And by fat, I don't necessarily mean "obese." Nor do I mean "phat." I mean indulgent. And I'm aware that, if I were to investigate further, I would probably find lots of things to loathe about European countries. Like "allegiance to the Queen" in Britain. Sorry, can't do it. One too many Frank McCourt novels, I guess.
Truth be told, from my experience and through what I've been told by those who've been there, there are a lot of similarities between America and Western Europe, at least in terms of daily life. McDonald's. Lots of shopping. Anyway.
My point, if I have one for this post, is simply that it should be mandatory for all Americans to leave the country at some point in their lives, much like Muslims are required to go to Mecca. Speak Freely, Get Out the Vote, Thou Shalt Not Kill, and Get Thee to Europe to See What We Might Look Like if We Had Preserved Our Land, Not Because It Was Politically Correct, But Because WE DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE. Ever try growing potatoes out of a rock? TRY IT. IT LOOKS LIKE A LOT OF FUN.
I'm going to end this post before I get into the whole Our Culture Has No Culture Because We're All Too Busy Watching TV thing, because I'm aware of the hypocrisy of waxing romantic about heather and coffee breaks whilst sipping coffee and typing on the computer before heading out in my enormous Volvo station wagon to go consume consume consume (side note: I'm not even going to bother telling you where you should go if you think three bucks a gallon is bad...). And now that I think of it, let me strike the above "point," because this is actually the point of this post:
Last night, I had just finished playing Laundry Fairy at Greg's house, and when Maddie and I got out of the elevator in the lobby to go home, Maddie looked into the bar to see Barry Dodd and another gentleman playing guitar and accordion, respectively, and singing. She immediately grabbed me by the hand, yelling, "MOMMY! BARRY'S SINGING! HE HAS HIS GUITAR!" And we spent a few minutes sitting there, listening. A couple of 70something men at the bar were thrilled to see a 4-year-old, and quietly asked her about her baby, what her name is, and how she liked the music. Barry sang "Nowhere Man" by the Beatles, just for Maddie, and she smiled and batted her eyelashes at him whenever he looked her way. We left after that song, and when I got home and got into bed, I could only think one thing: we should have stayed. Bedtime can and should be negotiated for things like that. How often, in this country, does a young girl get to grow up around an intergenerational, multicultural group of people singing impromptu in a bar, laughing, dancing, joking as strangers and friends? There isn't enough of that around here, in this country. We need more Barry Dodds.

Love, Love, and More Love

I was tucking Maddie into bed tonight, standard procedure, when she suddenly asked me what love is. "Mommy, what is love?"

Love is when you blow me kisses.
Love is when we hug each other and say, "SQUEEEEEEEEZE!"
Love is when you send your daddy a card.
Love is when you call your girlfriends, "sister."
Love is when you pet Solomon and he purrs.
Love is speaking the truth.
("What's the truth?" "Nevermind. One vague notion at a time.")
Love is when we dance together.
Love is when Greg smells my hair, or tickles your arm with his scruffyface, or when he gets up in the morning and washes Mommy's nasty dishes even though he's really really tired.

(gives me a big hug)

"Now THAT'S what LOVE is ALL ABOUT!"
"(laughing) Yes, it is."
"It's here in my heart, right Mommy?"
"Yup, right there."
"My wonderful heart."

Update: Okay, I'm changing the title of this one. Although it's a cute story and all, I about gagged when, two sips into my morning tea, I was bombarded with the title "My Wonderful Heart."
Come on. Why don't you people be honest with me when I'm getting all Hallmark-y? Checks and balances, people!

Thoughts

1. The love of my life will soon be in a van on his way home. This is all I will dream of when I go to bed shortly.
2. There is nothing better than losing my digital camera, finding it mysteriously located under the bench by my bedroom window, turning it on, and seeing these: