thorvalson.net : babble ether

Eh. Mah. God. Like, totally.

I have to buy this.

Confessions of a Horrible (and Very Lucky) Mother.

If, once we are living together, even a third of our mornings are like this one has been, I will truly be blissful. Not only did I just witness a rather, shall we say, spirited rendition of "She Works Hard for the Money" (sung for the benefit of Little Miss Smartypants as reasoning why she should ob-ey mah authoritay), but after I had made coffee (for us) and breakfast (for Maddie; explanation for distinction to follow), I was instructed to lie half prone in bed and relax while consuming said caffeinated beverage. Lie down. And relax. 'Cause I'm a busy bee and I should do that.

God bless this man.

AND, when I told him that we should use my current and near-future savings for appliances and furnishings, rather than as additional help with the down payment, he said he had been thinking exactly the same thing yesterday. GREAT MINDS THINK ALIKE.

Speaking of breakfast.... Sunday night was John-Luke's going away party at the Clare. Without getting into all of the mushy details (which I will do next week, when John-Luke actually leaves), Greg and I were a good little boy and girl, respectively, and didn't consume any alcoholic beverages until midnight. Nevermind what happened next. It wasn't madness, but I did play guitar and sing - in front of people - which could only mean one thing: I had to have been at least marginally intoxicated. By the end of the night, which included the presence of not one, but two of my current-and-future's exes, I was feeling relatively confident that OBVIOUSLY he had made the right choice in me because Looooooka me. I am WAY sssmrtr and bet-HICCUP-ter than evvvvrybody... And THAT grrliz DRUNK! I'M! NOT!hiccup DRUNK! I ssooOOOOooo got't'gether... Nonononono, let me TELL you how cool I am...
And then I did this:

The following morning, when I got up - I say "got up" because I want to draw the clear distinction that I had not actually WOKEN UP - Maddie wanted something to drink. So I poured her a glass of milk. And then PROCEEDED TO DUMP NOT ONE, BUT TWO FULL SPOONS OF COFFEE GROUNDS INTO HER MILK. I don't know if I was dreaming of lattes or what, but apparently I did this, handed her the concoction, and went back to bed, at which point my daughter took one sip of her Crack Drink From Hell and poured it right down the sink, into the wasteland, where it belonged.
Coffee grounds. In her milk.
I'm going to have to start preparing myself for Maddie's upcoming school schedule, or none of the kids at school will want to trade lunches with her.
What'didid YER mommy give you today?
My mommy gave me a pencil dipped in peanut butter and half a gram of coke.

Okay, I don't actually have cocaine in my house. It's a stretch, I know, but there are not actually any drugs in my home. So it's impossible that I would accidentally feed my daughter from the stash. However.

Every morning now, when I get up to pour Maddie's milk, she tells me, "AND DON'T PUT ANY COFFEE IN THERE, MOM."

Fair play.

Note from the Editor: As much as it may seem, from this entry, that I am one whacked-out mama, if you are a police officer scouring the internet for possible people to bust/terrorists... The closest thing resembling illicit drugs you will find in my house are a bag full of mugwort, a bottle of Paddy's, and a suspiciously-painted stolen cafeteria tray from Auburn High School. So it would appear that you are - not unlike Mr. Swinson - out of luck.
Just wanted to throw that out there - the residual paranoia from teenage usage has apparently not completely worn off yet.

More of That Chicken Hooshwash!

For any and all who may have been wondering, the Rhythm Chicken is alive and well in Poland. Actually, I haven't heard from him directly, but I have heard from a very reliable source that he's doing just fine in his new abode. The reliable source speaks of an apartment (which I'm assuming means a job as well), and is diving right in to an aggressive exercise regimen of Polish verb conjugations and how do you say "hyperbullocksed" again? Not too much ruckus that I'm aware of just yet, but I'm sure we have nothing to fear: it's only a matter of time before our beloved clucker is rockin' the feathers off of Krakow. Send your best wishes, Frolics-weekend photos, and Pabst-induced hilarity to rhythmchicken@hotmail.com.

Zyczenie was cali lepszy, przyjaciel.

Public Service Announcement

After reading through this month's list of search phrases that lead to my site, I have one thing to say: IT'S "VAGINA", PEOPLE. NOT "VERGINA".
Say it with me: vah-JINE-ah.

Vagina. Maybe if you knew how to spell it, you'd see more of them.
And no, you will never see one here.

For the genuinely interested, you could learn a lot about your friend and mine, The Vagina, here, here, and if you really want to make someone happy, try buying the book reviewed in this article.
This is the closest you will ever get to pictures of vaginas on this site.

Move it along, ya perverts.

Opening for Chariots Race, The Mustn'ts, and Riddle of Steel Aug. 6th: The Purple Tantrums!

Just kidding.

Maybe.

Mix Tape, 1998

Tom Waits/Emotional Weather Forecast
Public Image Ltd./Public Image
Pixies/Letter to Memphis
Madness/Our House
Tones On Tail/Go!
The Replacements/Here Comes a Regular
Soul Asylum/The Judge
Talking Heads/Road to Nowhere
Tori Amos/She's Your Cocaine
Minor Threat/Salad Days
Ani Difranco/Pick Yer Nose
*B Side*
Ani Difranco/Tiptoe
Concrete Blonde/Roses Grow
Cyndi Lauper/All Through the Night
Helmet/Meantime
Big Black/Kerosene
Reverend Horton Heat/Generation Why
Björk/Army of Me
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion/Full Grown
Northern Lad/Tori Amos
Ani Difranco/Cradle and All
Tom Waits/I Don't Wanna Grow Up

Collage Poem, 1999.

Sifting through the rubble...

Scribbled on the back of a Palomino waitress schedule while in Greg's car listening to NPR, maybe six months ago:

"Religion is for people who are afraid of going to Hell. Sprituality is for those who have been there.
Analogy - driving @ night - can't see far ahead, but make whole journey that way."

Found: Two greeting cards stacked chronologically appropriately next to each other, one reading "With Sympathy in the Loss of Your Father," the other, "Best Wishes to the New Mother." I remember both of those cards arriving in my mailbox on the same day.

A photo album from a wedding that now almost seems like it never really happened.

A Rumi poem tucked inside an Irish calendar detailing every hair appointment and milestone for the year 2004.

Pictures of me with really bad hair and looking like I'm one Budweiser away from the trailer park, making me question once again, Why didn't anyone TELL me I looked like that? You people are lucky I don't have a scanner.

And damn I look good now. :)

Today, how many hours are falling
into the well, into the net, into time:
they go slowly but never stopped to rest,
they keep on falling, swarming together
at first like fish,
then like falling bottles or stones.
There below the hours come
to agree with the days,
with the months,
with blurred memories,
with uninhabited nights,
clothes, women, trains, provinces,
and time collects,
hour upon hour
dissolves in silence,
crumbles and falls
into the acid of all ruins,
into the black water
of the inverted night.

- Pablo Neruda

To Do List

(Yeah, uh, about that "Regular Scheduled Progamming" shit? I think I spoke too soon.)

Ahem. Witness:

Note the distinct lack of organization, the photographs mingled with paperwork and vitamins, unused cookbooks, and some kitschy barnwood-framed painting of herbs I haphazardly bought at Target three years ago, mistakenly believing it to be cute and reminiscent of my grandparents' abode. Formerly residing above the kitchen sink in my previous, tiny-as-hell, shoebox apartment, that piece of "artwork" has plagued that unreachable shelf for a year and a half. Why do I still have this.

Egads. Some of those statements date back over a year. Ouch.

Office supplies. Namely, pens. Don't ever pay for them. I like to call this "I Worked at the Palomino For Two and a Half Years and All I Got Was This Lousy Pen Collection." Note the address book, filled with phone numbers of people I have not made contact with in years.

Wha? What is this? Is that a poster rolled up in there?

Note the marked difference between the cabinet and the drawer. Here we have a shining example of proper organization. Ignore the fact that the telephone book is from a city I haven't lived in for nine years.

Behold, the "filing cabinet." Four boxes stuffed with disorganized crap, divorce papers, photographs, and birthday cards from my Mom dating back a good five years. Note: the black box underneath the desk, the bottom one, ISN'T EVEN MINE. While the owner of said box is currently rehabilitating himself after a few years of junkiehood - successfully rehabbing, it should be said, and I'm happy for him - I am here at home, storing his resumes. What is his problem, anyway. What, "being healthy" is more important than driving several hundred miles to come pick up this harmless little box of stuff? Jerk.

Ah, the notebooks. That suitcase, plus the bottom shelf, contain thirteen years of pre-blogging angst. Burn, baby, burn.

Behold, the glory. File boxes, on sale at Target, two for $9.99. Also, two photo boxes. Because that's where old, non-album-worthy photos belong.

Hark, the herald organizational angels are singing. To be continued.

We Now Return to Your Regular Scheduled Programming.

I don't know who that whacko was that posted the last two entries, but this is just to say I'm back, I missed you, and I'll try to give some kind of warning the next time my synapses start smoking. Sheesh.

"Fuck Off: Life Is Puppies and Unicorns" or "Hey Dork, I Love You: The Fuck You're Not a Fixture (and a Welcomed One) in This Life." You pick. I can't decide. They both have the F word, so it's a toss-up.

Here We Go 'Round the Mulberry Bush

Last night was a full moon, a storm has blown into Milwaukee and is currently casting a dark shadow over my happy little abode (Maddie: "It's raining again in MilwaukeeLand"), my daughter is listening to the new Chariots Race cd OVER AND OVER again, which is the aural equivalent of stuffing all of the emotions of the last year and a half of this relationship down my throat and in my ears with a pointy stick, and Tippecanoe/Milwaukee Public Schools just sent me a letter asking me if and when I'd like to take advantage of the "Tippe Camp" after school daycare program. Which means my daughter IS GOING TO SCHOOL. SOON.
Last night after work, Greg spent an hour or four trying to prepare me for preparing Maddie for the inevitable shock that will sink its desperate claws into my sweet innocent child's psyche once she figures out that the world does not, indeed, revolve solely around her.

"She's gonna get a reality check. Big time."
"I know."
"It's gonna kick her ASS."
"I know."
"You know I love her. But she's a bit spoiled."
"I KNOW."
"She's gonna figure out real quick that she can't have everything she wants when she wants it, and she's not going to be able to get by on just her good looks."
"I KNOW! STOP IT!"

Ugh. He has a point. A good one. But this is not a military household, this is not The House of Flying Daggers. This is the Land of Puppies and Unicorns, Left Wing Liberalism, nifty little snack packs with cheddar and cracker sticks, crayons, Solomon, and all of our friends' and loved ones' cds playing over and over and over again: the one place on this planet that I can guarantee my daughter is safe in. AND SHE'S LEAVING.
Yes, the harsh reality of the Real World is about to come crashing down on her poor little head, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Greg kept saying that she needs to be prepared, and all I could think to myself is, She'll be fine. I'm the one you need to worry about.
And how exactly does one go about preparing their child for the sacrifice? Here, Maddie. The lions and wolves are going to tear your flesh apart. But don't worry! I have BandAids! Have a good time!
I don't think it's possible for me to prepare her for the world. Really. I've had some fucked up experiences in life, things I can share with her to help her cope (or at least show that I empathize), but there's a big gaping canyon between Hearing Someone Tell You That Life is Rough and Actually Being Thrown Off the Side of the Cliff. Little boys who pick their noses are going to rub their boogers into her sleeve, little girls with sashes and bows are going to kick her in the shins, and maybe her teacher won't be so cool after all. I can't prepare her for that! All I can do is be there with the BandAids. And furthermore, I don't want to prepare her for that. Because maybe - just maybe - she'll adjust just fine and won't be shocked, and won't be permanently scarred, and MAYBE I've done an okay job thus far and when the fat kid pulls her ponytail, she'll turn around and stick her tongue out at him, come home, and roll her eyes about it. There's a chance that someday my child could look back upon these years of her life and think her childhood was relatively sweet, and who am I to fuck it up simply by telling her, "It's gonna be fucked up." Yes, the world will kick her in the teeth. It is not my job to arm her with boxing gloves; it is my job to arm her with self-assurance, responsiblity, self-esteem, love, humility, compassion, and "the wisdom of my experience." Love conquers all, the good guys don't always win but the important thing is that they stay good. And if you stay good, the world may not bend down to recognize you, but Mommy will give you a cookie.

That is, if she's not curled up in the closet crying into her flowers.

So while my daughter's out there in the great big world getting her face smashed in (or, alternatively, licked with furry sloppy puppy kisses), WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO. I am facing the prospect of an Official Big Change and I have no idea where to steer my little boat. I've gotten to the point in my life where I actually want a day job, and what to do? Whattodowhattodo. It seems like yesterday my third grade teacher asked me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?", and I was all like, "Gimme a minute." And someone hit the fast-forward button and I am grown up and Shit! That's what I forgot to do!

While I go figure out what to do with my life, amuse yourselves with the latest manifestation of my current agitation, a panorama Maddie likes to call "I love it when my mom freaks out, 'cause then she cleans my room." Too bad I don't have Before pictures to better illustrate precisely what the right stress level combined with three hours and four garbage bags can do.

We'll Be Alright, Just You and I

For those of you who haven't seen my daughter recently, let's just say that her hair was getting ridiculous. I had two choices: continue to allow this madness, thereby securing a future resembling something like this, or...

Also, totally unrelated, I love it when Greg steals my camera without telling me.

Reflecting.

Ah, relationships. How strange and strangely comforting it is to know that some things never change. Loving another human being will always be just that; what we choose to do about it is the only variable.

Honesty - with onesself and with others - is always the right decision.

Okay, so maybe it's not all about crying into your flowers in the closet...

I'll be adding this book in the "Reading" sidebar as well, but I have to make mention of it within an entry, for two reasons:
1) it's really well written so far, and
2) without drawing any attention to someone who, as the inspiration behind the book's title, obviously has gotten enough of it on his own, let me just say: Dude. Weird.

And trust me, I'm not slopping off anyone's weiner by promoting this book, because that band only made one album I'm even remotely fond of. I mean that in the most supportive way possible.

p.s. Sidebar/Reason Number Three: Any book which conjures the image of Guy Piccioto in a positive light is one I heartily endorse. Especially if the conjured image excludes a shirt. Rrrrooooowwrrr.

Zoo Trip! 7/11/05

Update

Okay, so out of the four items listed on the To Do List below, only one was actually achieved, and of course, that would be Number 4. Greg and I left Milwaukee with books and blankets last Saturday, and headed for an afternoon of relaxation at Harrington Beach. We didn't come back until Wednesday. 'Nough said.

Animals I have ridden in the last week: Horse (check). Camel (check).
Other: Bump Into Acquaintance of "the Guy With the Bunny Head" in Obscure Door County Bar (check).
Drink Old Style on Tap at Same Bar (check - hi, Dad!).
Drink Pabst Blue Ribbon Out of Cans in VW Parked in Lot of First Drive-In Theatre I've Ever Been To, While Watching Kick Ass Action Flick (check).
Sleep in Makeshift Bed on Beach With True Love, Reading Pablo Neruda and Watching the Gulls (gag, smile, and check).

Maddie's back home again, and much to my surprise, is not insisting on Cocoa Puffs and other forms of kiddie crack for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and "midnight snacks" (MIDNIGHT! YOU WERE UP UNTIL MIDNIGHT?!). As is the common response of most parents who are abandoned by their children for a full ten days (or not, as I could be making this up entirely to justify my own weakness), I was quite worried that my daughter would come home from this particular trip with not only the afore-mentioned yooper accent complete with dead animal trophy to hang on the wall, but at least one or two nasty habits for me to surgically extract from her being, such as Getting Her Way All the Time, or Making Fart Noises With Her Armpit. Luckily for me - and to the credit of her grandparents (thank you, Scott and Nancy!) - none of these horrors resulted from her first vacation away from The Heavies, and my little girl is safely home once more, with no evidence thus far of Christian fanaticism.

Speaking of Christian fanatacism...
Opinions, please. Not that I care, not that your opinions will have any bearing whatsoever on my decision, but because I am a sadist, riddle me this: Maddie's grandparents (one in particular) have been requesting, since Maddie's in utero days, that I/we (Maddie's father) have Maddie baptized. The One Particular Grandparent's beliefs are so firm that, for Maddie's first year of life, all of her holiday cards were addressed to "Baby." Why? Because Maddie had not been baptized, so according to the OPG, without a "Christian name," she apparently had no name at all. "Happy Easter to Baby! Love, OPG." Much speculation could be made as to whether or not OPG was being passive-agressive or just being cutesy in her own way, but I was not amused. Yes, this was a "love child", conceived in about as sinful a situation as you can get, but she was MY baby and SHE HAS A NAME, GOD DAMMIT! And I most certainly did notice, when the first birthday had passed (the date by which Maddie should have been baptized or else suffer eternal damnation), the sudden switch in greeting cards, which were then finally addressed to "Maddie," but included the obligatory Bible quote to remind me how much Jesus loves the little children.
So! A few weeks ago, Maddie's dad, after coming back from a trip north to visit his family, had asked me again: "Could we just get her baptized?" Not because he's gung ho about it, but because he's sick of hearing the complaints.
My view is this:
a) Acccording to the dogma of OPG's church, Maddie has already missed the One Year window of opportunity, and by this standard, it would appear that she is already damned, gosh darn it. Too late! Guess I'll have to do some repenting.
b) I'm not Lutheran! If the idea is to raise your children according to the beliefs of their ancestors, then this family is split and Maddie is a 100% natural-born Unitarian. Or agnostic, or atheist. Not only is the Lutheran church not "my church," it ain't even my grandmaw's. So there.
c) Maddie is four years old, and too young to understand the differences between religious philosophies, knowledge which could help her decide which way her cookie should crumble (or reassemble itself and rise again). I will have her baptized the moment she can tell me, "Mom, I'm a (insert religious affiliation here), because I believe (insert dogma here)." On that day, I will happily march her to the church or synangogue or magick circle of her choice, complete with tithings for the envelope.
d) She's my kid, and YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!
e) Even Jesus is cool with not going to church. Uh, didn't he destroy the temple, and then say some stuff about "turn a leaf and you will find me, lift a stone and I am there"? All about how God is everywhere, and not to be defined by dogma and the laws of men? The next time someone asks why Maddie doesn't go to a Christian church, I swear I'm just gonna tell them that Jesus wrote her an excuse.
"Please excuse Madilyn Larsh from eternal damnation. God is everywhere, and she'll bump into Her eventually. Love, Jesus.
p.s. What the hell is up with Tom Cruise?"

So the dilemma is this: Do I bite my tongue (and my ego, and my belief in freedom of religion) and allow them to get her all gussied up for God for Dad's sake (when Dad doesn't buy into the church, either), and try to ignore the light of the gleaming halo that will henceforth hover over my little heathen's head, or, do I insist that poor Dad be subject to verbal harrassment long after Maddie's painted pentagrams on the wall with the blood of a newborn calf?

It's quite obvious that I've already made a decision in this regard. I'm just interested in hearing what anyone else thinks. WWYD?
Tawk amongst yehselves, comment below if you wish.

Shameless Promotion: The Chariots Race album is officially released today! Go buy it!

A Dramatic Re-Enactment of the Best Debate I've Ever Heard Of

Space or Subspace: Who Whoops Who in a Fight.

CAST

a 9-year-old boy; smart, handsome, and knows it
a 7-year-old girl; smart, cute, and will tattle

Curtain opens on two small children, bent over a coffee table, playing "Risk."

Girl: Subspace would LOSE, 'cause we don't even know what it's MADE of. MATTER, ANTIMATTER. Space would totally kick it's BUTT.

Boy: Yeah, but maybe subspace has all kinds of black holes and stuff that would just SUCK SPACE UP. And then subspace would RULE.

Lights fade to black.

End scene.

(Knock Knock) Is This Thing On?

After deleting the twenty-plus spam comments I found on the website after this relatively lengthy absence, preceded by a few hours of smokin' and jokin' with my editor (can I say that? I mean, she's not solely my editor, and I don't want to sound selfish, but she is an editor, and she is editing my writing... how long does this dating period last before we can consider ourselves an item? does she really want to be in this relationship? questions...)...

...

Okay, let's start again. After doing a whole lot of work this week on non-blog-related writing, followed by the afore-mentioned spam removal, I think I'm just about plum outta creative writing juice. But I'll do my best. We're gonna do this Smartypants style, because, well, she's smart to do it this way.

NEWS

Maddie has left the building. Her father's parents came down yesterday to pick her up for a week of fishing, worm-eating, and dirt-playing in the waywaynorthern woods of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, a week-long vacation which I'm sure will bring, a) a horrible new yooper accent for Maddie, b) assloads of laundry, and c) at least one souvenir of an adventure in taxidermy. Her absence thus far has effected me only minimally, probably due to a disbelief that she's actually gone for an ENTIRE WEEK, coupled with a slight persistent headache that has followed me around all day after one too many last night, a ritual I plan to re-enact this evening, with TEQUILA! Because really, aren't all parents just closet alcoholics whose symptoms have only been suppressed over time - not eliminated - by the presence of innocent eyes? Aren't we all just waiting for the real party to start?
Yeah. Whatever.

I DID IT!

My very first published article, and the words "cock" and "hunt-and-pecker" have made it into the second draft! And she doesn't even mind starting a sentence with "so"!

THINGS I WILL DO WHILE THE KID IS UP NORT GETTIN' ALL SPOILED 'N SHIT:

1. Go through that suitcase over there against the wall, the one filled with angst demons and coffee stains from those years of teenage journal-writing fury, rip out all the whining, thereby eliminating all evidence that I have ever written anything that could be considered shit. In the event of my sudden and untimely death, it would be a god-awful shame if the not-so-famous author of one cover story of one issue of some local paper (oh, and she had some online diary thingy, too, one of those "b" word things) was discovered to possess a whole trunk of, not brilliant essays and tear-jerking love poems, but 3,000 pages of song lyrics from not-so-popular 80s and 90s bands squished between four-page rants about just how bad everyone else in the world truly sucks. And that time (okay, times) I tried to "kill myself" with aspirin and a few sips of Margit Anderson's mom's vodka.

2. Go grocery shopping, all by myself, 'cause I'm a big girl.

3. Shoe shopping, all by myself, because I'm a big girl whose hip and knee joints are going to explode if I don't get some orthopedics up in here.

4. Sleep. A lot. Sleep so much that the neighbors think I've died or moved away and left my belongings behind in a quest for enlightenment.

Over and out.