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Brokeback to the Future!

(Edited to add a link to this, which is...well, WHAT IS IT? Seriously. I am frightened.)


My GOD, the sun actually came out yesterday.










Monday, February 6, 2006

I often lie in bed at night dreaming up journal entries, and in my half-asleep state I imagine them to be masterfully composed: tender, thought-provoking, and occasionally downright hilarious. I visualize myself waking the next morning to stand before my computer, while my brilliant essays pour forth with ease. Words springing forth Athena-like from the confines of my skull, acerbic wit and snappy dialogue and sublime vernacular, winged monkeys, yeah, and as the letters fill up the screen I pump my fist in the air and shout with jubilation, "FLY, MY PRETTIES, FLY!"

Of course when I actually sit down to write anything all I can think to tell you is that I found the "Little Monsters" Hummer ad that aired during the Super Bowl highly disturbing.

Also, I ate way too much Tostito's Salsa Con Queso yesterday, and I have no doubt that my innards are now permanently coated with a thick glaze of plastic cheese napalmy grossness. I picture this as being sort of like an intestinal sausage casing, resulting in -


Anyway, clearly I live a rich and fulfilling fantasy life where I am somehow able to do anything at all in the morning other than attend to Young Master, whose AM mood starts out chipper enough, but rapidly descends into a lengthy whinefest caused by the fact that he's tired and needs a nap but isn't quite tired enough to fall asleep yet, no sir, and therefore many minutes and sometimes hours are required to present the robust variety of entertainment options necessary to distract him from his woeful state until the little shit darling FINALLY GOES DOWN, jesus, and hey look it's noon.

(I'm typing this now with one foot jiggling his bouncy chair while simultaneously singing a song that I personally wrote, called "All the Babies Go To the Mine", which is comprised of the following lyrics:

All the babies go to the mine
Go to the mine, go to the mine
All the babies go to the mine
Looowered in buuuuckets

I feel I must tell you that I came up with this song before the mining deaths so please don't get offended*, also yes I realize that typically miners are not, in fact, lowered in buckets to their workplace, it is called CREATIVE LICENSE for crying out loud.

*And if you get offended that easily you surely will not enjoy my other song, titled "All the Babies Are Ground Up in the Garbage Disposal".)

I started reading this really annoying book called Seven Steps on the Writer's Path recently; it was already irritating me with its platitudes and over-reliance on quotes from random authors but then I got to the part about how everyone has time for writing, le duh, and if you have children you should write while they nap! Or get up at 4 AM to write, you fucking excuse-monger, just like one of the book's authors did!

The reality is when Riley naps I have about an hour, give or take, to poop/shower/eat something/pick up the house/do laundry/surf porn/contemplate my Great American Novel. Also, at 4 AM I am mentally capable only of staggering to the fridge and removing a bottle, and the notion of conjuring up anything other than a rattling snore at such an hour seems farfetched, to say the least.

Excuses, yes, I know, and if I really really wanted It, at least according to the minds behind Seven Steps, I would make It happen, at 2 AM if need be. Perhaps one day I will set my alarm for a dark and early hour, get out of my warm bed, and sit in front of TextEdit until my literary precocity finally, finally blossoms into fruition.

Then again, maybe those monkeys will fly straight out of my ass.


I decided Riley was ready to kick it up a notch foodwise, so this weekend I fed him Stage 1 organic banana goo. He accepted a mouthful, gummed it thoughtfully, and gave me a look that clearly communicated the message that it was about fucking TIME something tasted halfway decent around this shithole, and what was all that formula business about?

He loooooves the banana goo, and the apple goo, but when I tried some extra-special-made-with-a-mother's-undying-love mashed sweet potato, he issued a verbal complaint. Maybe you heard it? It was the howl on Sunday evening that shattered your collection of carnival glass, and for that I apologize.

In other Riley news, I ordered a Bumbo chair, over JB's protests that it was a stupid purchase because Riley will doubtlessly outgrow it in about five minutes, but what can I say, I'm a sucker for baby gear. I was also experiencing Buy Button-Itis, triggered by a month of being flat-ass broke as we experienced exactly what it would be like if I had no salary (I started work in January but didn't get paid until February) (and when I say "flat-ass broke" I mean "had to take money out of savings multiple times just to buy groceries", so, you know, yay for having a job, and yay for daycare), and while I did not spend cash on myself (guilt!) (although goddamn, I really want a new iTrip) (and how are you liking all these parentheticals, by the way? FLY!) I couldn't help myself with the Bumbo chair.

We have kind of a lot of baby gear, but the one thing I never bought was a diaper disposal system. I was hemming and hawing about the Genie vs. the Champ and then all of a sudden I sort of had a baby to deal with, and you know what we've used ever since Riley was born? Hefty storage bags. The gallon kind with a zipper. There's about 17 bags to a box, a box costs around $2, and depending on the definition of "used", each bag will hold a varying amount of used diapers. When the bag is full, or contains a particularly noxious item, I take it out to the garbage can. In between uses, the bag sits on the shelf inside our changing table - out of sight, out of mind, and confining all odors to its zippered core. Handy!

I don't suppose it's the most environmentally friendly solution, but then again I can't imagine it's any worse than the Genies/Champs/whatevers. Although now that Riley's eating actual food, we may need some other system in place, like say a wormhole through space that drops feces-smeared diapers directly into the Oval Office.


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