Sunday, August 26, 2007

For Spencer

Ask and ye shall receive -- the many moods of Tina Fey:

Friday, August 24, 2007


My Esteemed Husband surprised me with the following, and hell, I'd be stupid not to spread it around.

And I quote:

"Can We Do That Again" is...about how, after 14 years, I'm still just as fascinated and spellbound as ever, on EVERY possible level, by my lovely and talented and brilliant wife..."

Brilliant? Hmmm, I usually prefer the term "evil genius" but I'll take "brilliant," sure.

Seriously, how nice is that? And completely unexpected. He is awfully swell, isn't he?

Previous to reading this, I had considered blogging about how it can sometimes be disquieting to be the inspiration/subject matter for someone's lyrics. Like, it's very romantic in the abstract sense, but in practice it can sometimes...well...piss one off to see things expressed in song that one would rather bury in a very deep trench and then cover with quick-dry cement.

But, being brilliant and all, I'll save that topic for another time.

"Can We Do That Again" isn't one of those "good-but-depressing" (my usual kill-the-muse observation) songs anyway.

So I've "No Right to Complain" (which just happens to be the title of another new Esteemed Husband song. What a co-incidence!)

Anyway -- check 'em out folks!

EXTRA ADDED BONUS: "Can We Do That Again" may be the only pop song to feature the word "prurient" in the bridge. (See, he's brilliant too! Wow!)

Plus, it also marks the first time I've been asked to sing background on any of his songs, after lo-these-many years of not-too-subtle hinting...and he wrote a very nice counterpoint thingie in the bridge for me that's really super-awesomely-cool (as we brainiacs like to say.)

Okay -- the end of the shameless spousal/self-promotion. Until the next time, that is...

Tina Fey's Boobs

Evidently, those three little words in the title will bring me tons of hits on my blog.

So -- come for Tina's cleavage and stay for the whiny humor and occasional thoughtful insight!

I may regret this post. In fact, I think I am already.

Think of it as research, and we'll all be just fine.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

My Suburban Incompetence Becomes Glaringly Apparent (Again)

Subtitle: The Devil's Accessory



Moms sitting in folding chairs waiting for camp talent show to begin...

Mom from my neighborhood (MFMN) sits between me and an unknown mom (UM).

UM (to MFMN)
OOOOOOH, your purse is so cute!

Thanks. I just got it. But it's last years'.

Confused Mom - that would be me - thinks, "Wait? I do not comprehend! Is there some expiration date on pocketbooks ( and does anybody use the term 'pocketbook' anymore?) that I don't know about? Do you have to apologize if you continue to use it past the year it is manufactured? What language are these ladies speaking? HELP!"

Confused Mom scopes out purse from the corner of her eye. It one of those designer prints, with multi-pastel-colored letters or symbols scattered on a light background. CM does not find it cute. CM finds it one of those things other women have convinced each other that they should like because they are status items.

UM & MFMN continue to chat about the purse...MFMN confesses she bought it on eBay (CM gives UM points for knowing how to use the internet, and begins to obsess that someday MFMN and others of her kind will find CM's blog on said internet and come to her house bearing pitchforks and torches. But I digress...)

CM realizes she has no speaking part in this script and places an angry phone call to her agent.

ANYWAY, I actually spent 15 minutes just now trying to figure out exactly what brand of purse it was that was causing all the hoopla so I could put a photo here. But evidently, once such purses reach their expiration date, all evidence of their existence is obliterated from the face of the earth.

All this set-up, just for me to rant (once again)...and (once again) ask the question, "What is wrong with me?!" See, not only do I not give a rodent's heiney about designer purses, I don't even like to carry a purse.

Quick -- someone check me for an errant Y chromosome!

See...somewhere along the line (probably in high school or college) the whole idea of carrying a purse became a symbol of some sort of burden that women are forced to bear --maybe not on the scale of pantyhose, but still an albatross around my neck.

(Although, I just might dig a purse actually shaped like an albatross -- yeah, that would be cool...)

Having a petite frame, a shoulder bag falls off constantly. And any other form of purse just ties up hands better used for...well...anything other than carrying a bag.

For many years, I got by with a wallet jammed into a pocket. Which brings me to another thing to whine about:

Why, oh why, can't women's jackets have pockets on the inside like men's do?
With the exception of my sublimely functional Lands End barn coat (reminder of my temporary preppy affliction of the mid 90's) most women's coats are completely pocket-deprived.

And I'll confess (ashamedly) to have relied heavily on the fanny pack when it first emerged in the early 90's. Feel free to mock me behind my back/fanny.

Pre-children, the only reason I ever carried a handbag was to hide a camera I was trying to sneak into a concert (bad Cyn, bad Cyn...)

But children change everything.

I guess after the indignity of the diaper bag (and the accompanying diaper-changing) carrying a purse doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

So, I've begrudgingly slung one over my shoulder for the past 5 years or so, all the better to carry handiwipes, tissues, and the occasional Ninentdo DS.

But I still resent it.

Now, shoes...that's another matter entirely...

Oh Baby! This is Gucci I could go for.

Anybody want to lend me several hundred dollars? (And maybe a couple thousand more for the ensuing foot surgery?)

Thursday, August 02, 2007

"Are You Ready to Rock?"

...I said (in my best hokey-raspy-rocker voice) to the Eldest Daughter, and got the expected groan in response -- which was exactly the reaction I hoped for, since my mission in life at this point is to annoy my children at least as much as they annoy me. (Disclaimer: They are wonderful young ladies and don't really annoy me terribly much at this point. However, I'm still getting back at them for the whole diaper thing.)

But the other reason for my goofy exclamation, was that she got her Very First Guitar a couple weeks ago, when she turned 11 years old.

An electric guitar!

Shaped like a heart!

I'll admit, I was pushing for the Fender Hello Kitty guitar.

The immature mom's choice -- actually, it's even better in black.

But I guess the kitty doesn't cut it with today's tween. At least not our tween, who rolled her eyes when I suggested it.)

No, the birthday girl wanted a particular pink heart guitar (mom rolls her eyes) and according to my husband, who I defer to on all things instrumental, it is a legitimate (short scale) guitar...even if it looked like a toy to me.

And so, the Eldest Daughter is now the proud owner of a Daisy Rock "Heartbreaker" guitar. (But since I don't put photos of my girls on the internet, you're stuck with pictures of the old folks...)

It's easy to play, anyway, even for the long-past-tween mom. Not that I play it well...but it's easy for me to play badly.

And, at the very least, it proves that the Esteemed Husband is quite secure in his masculinity