Heah's yeh topic. The panhandle of Flawh-ida is not actually a pan nor a handle, which really has no relevance because I'll be in Marco Island.
Discuss.
... means being auditory witness to the happenings of your neighbors. Yesterday, it was a full-on sing-a-long version of the disco hit, "Ring My Bell" (followed by "Car Wash" - and no, I am not kidding). Today, it's... well, going on an hour now of moaning and frustrated shouts, presumably of one who has yet to reach climax but is determined that IT WILL HAPPEN. YES, IT WILL.
I think it's time to go shovel. Or stab myself in the eye with a fork.
And if you happen to live in Chicago (or within a ten-hour driving or flying distance from it), you should go see Giants Chair play at the Empty Bottle tonight. They are the best band of all time. And if you can think of a way to sneak my six-year-old into the show and provide space in your vehicle to transport the two of us to said show, we will accompany you and revel in the sound with you. If not, then go ahead and go on your own. Bring some friends. And congratulate Byron on his reproductive skills for me. I'll be here. Shoveling. And stabbing myself in the eye with a fork.
All right, who's with me? That's Mr. "Cult of Personality" Corey Glover himself there, folks, cast as Judas. April 18-19, 2008, at the Milwaukee Theatre.
Yes, I am serious, and I am seriously going to ROCK THAT SHIT. So WHO'S WITH ME?!?
In keeping with the "horrible mother" theme, I neglected to bring a camera to my daughter's last day of dance class. Thankfully, as usual, my best friend was there to cover my ass.
And of course, I didn't realize this until I heard the announcement on the radio en route to school. At first, I thought the cancellation applied only to private schools, because they usually only cancel school for those whose parents are wealthy enough to have one parent at home on a full-time basis and whose automobiles (read: SUVs) have no trouble getting around in this weather anyway. Why is that? In any case, I was wrong, and it would appear that my efforts to raise a geek are at least moderately paying off: Maddie's response to the news was, "Oh, now, that just STINKS."
My school is cancelled, too (my response: "THANK GOD"), so we'll be spending our day eating oatmeal, drinking hot cocoa, crossing our fingers that my Netflix shows up today (we're expecting "A Christmas Story"), and breaking that up with a trip to the laundromat and possibly having the Gessners over.
Dream last night: Tracey and I were back at Auburn High School (a recurring nightmare for me, although this variation was new), and the school had been taken over by NeoNazi-like administrators who were singling out teachers and students of "questionable" lifestyle. Needless to say, I was scared. We were in the auditorium, being forced to watch a horribly biased and inaccurate "documentary" on everything from punk rock to homosexuality, and I was sitting next to my former theatre teacher (who is gay). One of the Neo-Nazi dudes forced us to wear headsets with built-in microphones so that he could eavesdrop on our conversations, and down the aisle, people were being brutally murdered for wearing shirts with anarchy symbols and the like. After the auditorium segment, we went on a field trip to see a ballet (can't remember what it was; only that it featured the music of Wagner - Hitler's favorite, wasn't he?). Back at school, I bumped into Trace en route to her English class and told her, "I HATE high school." I wandered the hallways aimlessly after realizing that I hadn't bothered to check either my schedule or my locker assignment before showing up for the first day of class (go figure). On my way to the office to get my locker assignment, I ran into my elementary school principal, who was leading a covert operation to overthrow the NeoNazis from within the administration, and I told her, "I don't have TIME for this shit. Why am I taking high school classes when I'm in nursing school? The schedules aren't even compatible. And I LIKE gay people AND punk rock music. This is bullshit." And I left.
And I woke up and thought, If only it really had been that easy. And then, Wait. It was. And I smiled.
Maddie isn't feeling well. She had a headache when I dropped her off at school this morning, and when I picked her up, the complaints started before we'd even made it to the car.
"My head hurts, Mom. It hurt all day."
She was almost in tears until I told her we'd be picking up fried chicken for dinner and frozen French toast sticks for breakfast. The same frozen French toast sticks they're serving for breakfast at morning day care tomorrow; the same breakfast her horrible mother won't let her attend because it makes no freaking sense to pay $6 for day care that's not needed at an hour when even God is asleep. So I let her in on a little secret: they have frozen French toast sticks at the grocery store. It's the art of compromise, people. I caved, okay? Yes, life is hard, and when it gets you down, you can always make up for any feelings of loss with yummy sugary carbohydrates. With syrup on top.
So we pick up our frozen-and-fried yellow #9, MSG, and crack, along with some children's ibuprofen for her headache, which by this time she is reminding me (you know, in case I forgot) STILL HURTS. REALLY BAD. AND SHE NEEDS A TISSUE, which I conveniently don't have in my purse, because, again: horrible mother.
After arriving home, I unload our groceries and backpacks and boots and violin and purse and hatchets and chicken wire and keys while Maddie gets her pajamas on to settle in for an early evening movie. She goes to the bathroom, telling me through the closed door that her head still hurts and that it feels warm. Moments pass. Flushing, water running. Silence. The door opens, out comes Maddie in her pajamas, hand to forehead, and she says, grinning,
"Don't you wish your forehead was hot like me?"
"I'd die to get into gross anatomy."
Despite the dissolution of my closest relationship, moving and temporarily having no refrigerator, having my car towed, and being prescribed medication to prevent a complete nervous breakdown, I still have straight A's.
In the words of the great Ron Burgundy, "Go fuck yourselves, San Diego."
Maddie and Juliana are in Maddie's room right now, singing, "Don't You Wish (Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me)". Where did they learn this song? An "Alvin and the Chipmunks" commercial. At the risk of sounding like a conservative..., what the?!
So I asked them if they knew what it means.
Me: "Girls, do you know what that means? The 'don't you wish your girlfriend was hot' thing?"
Juliana: "No."
Maddie: "[Girl from her class, name withheld to protect the not-so-innocent-apparently] told me, but I forgot. I think it means boys are cute when they're naked or something. Or girls? Are girls cuter than boys naked? I dunno."
This is a decision you will make when you are older. Say, 50.
Me: "If you don't know what it means, please don't sing it."
Maddie: "Okay! Let's sing I believe I can fly...."
Help. Me.
Love is... Spending your hard-earned cash on the new "Home Alone: Family Fun Edition" DVD (not that she would know the difference) because your six-year-old cannot resist the open-mouthed, palms-to-face, nauseating "cuteness" of Macauley Culkin, age 10 (or whatever). Telling your six-year-old, "That is, like, so '90s," and then encouraging her to select instead the family holiday package containing the original Grinch movie and the old clay animation Rudolph and Frosty movies, which are like, so '80s (Burl Ives!), is probably not a winning strategy. It certainly will not go unnoticed by your offspring, who will insist upon that Culkin boy. Discerning tastes, these kids these days. None of that claymation crap for them. No, sir.
Macaulay Culkin is in. my. house. Let it never be said that I do not love my child.