Incognito Breeder

Forty Pounds in the Therapy Jar

How my family decorates for the holidays
photo by my cousin-a girl named Nikki

Show me the woman who can get through a visit with her mom without needing copious amounts of whiskey and therapy and I'll show you someone on the verge of taking out the local Pottery Barn with an uzi and a Martha Stewart mask.

I love my mom, I do. It is good that she lives in Florida, though, over 1000 miles away. After my friend had her first child, her parents bought a condo less than 2 miles from her. She seems to handle it fine. I simply imagined the scenario and broke out in one of those, "Me and my brother just stole the election"-style face boils, not pretty.

My mom has a limited understanding of appropriate boundaries. That's a term I learned in therapy. My mom likes to share the intimate details of her marriage to my step-father, Frank. My mom has five sisters, six girls in one family. Four of them have married men named Frank. One St. Patrick's Day, many years ago, my mom groomed her nether regions into the shape of a shamrock and dyed it green. You didn't want to read that. You can imagine how much I didn't want to hear it. Especially while on Frank the Fourth's catamaran, off the coast of the Florida Keys, too far a-sea to make a break for it and swim to shore.

So, I saw my mom at my aunt's house (upon whose lawn the reindeer came) on Christmas Day. She had driven up from Florida for the holidays and it was the first time we had seen each other since last Christmas. In the course of that year I've lost some weight. This is not a secret, mom knew I'd lost weight. There had been photographic evidence from family get-togethers, G-Man events, etc. We had even discussed it on the phone. But when I showed up on the doorstep Saturday afternoon, you would have thought it was a Christmas miracle. Her eyes watered, she marveled and amazed, she made a big to-do. You don't have to know me long to know that the last thing I'm comfortable with is a big to-do. One of my major reasons for being considerably overweight is to be someone who is not looked at. I don't want you looking at me. It takes a lot of work to give up the psychological invisibility cloak that is obesity. I'm still working on it, I was working hard that night. That's when my mom lifted my shirt.

Don't ask why. I don't know. But in the mind of my mom it seemed perfectly acceptable to lift up my top in front of my family. Not past the boobage, of course, that would be crass. Just high enough to rub my belly and call me Buddah. Not since the Christmas when she sat on my boyfriend's lap was I so horrified. (Well there was the "personal electric shaver Christmas", but I just can't go there, yet.) My aunt doesn't stock bourbon in the house, it was box wine or Schlitz. This is when I realized the convenience of a prescription pain-killer addiction.

It couldn't get much worse and really, it didn't. The box wine began to kick-in in time to anethesize me to the gift exchange. It was so good, it was almost funny. What do you get your daughter who has recently lost 40 pounds?

Oh, yeah baby, momma's got herself a Fry Daddy and we're makin' Bloomin Onions tonight!

O Come Let Us Adore Him

Happy Holidays to you all from Me and G and the whole gang!

The New Math

Every year G and I put together a CD of Christmas songs which we distribute in lew of cards. I say “G and I” because one way or another, my son is involved in the development of the CD, be it choosing songs, or designing the package, or the story behind the theme. He may not stay up nights burning and labeling discs, but he has been actively involved in some manner these last five years.

This year, he really out-did himself. The theme of the CD was a punk Christmas, all the songs were by punk or indie rock artists, and the tone was decidedly tongue-in-cheek. The G-Man not only created the cover art, he took an active role in choosing the tunes. One track on the disc is that holiday classic, Santa’s Got a Mullet by Nerf Herder. The lyrics go…

Santa’s got a mullet, keep on looking out for him
Driving in his I-Roc, with the killer rims
Santa’s got a mullet
As he’s streaking through the night
Jamming to Foghat
And drinking Dewar’s Light

Singing Fa la la la la...
Singing Fa la la la la...

Angels up in heaven are plucking on their harps,
Santa’s wearing Oakleys, and he’s looking mighty sharp

It’s very catchy. Of course, I had to explain to my dear boy what a mullet is, and what an I-Roc is, why jamming to Foghat is funny, and why Oakleys are cheesy. That’s my job. I’m the mom.

Yesterday, the G-Man came home from school with a binder in his backpack. The binder contained a book his class published, a collection of math word problems they wrote themselves. Most of them go like this one, from Beverly…

Each flower has 4 petals.
There are 20 petals in all.
How many flowers are there?

…or perhaps this one, from Kevin…

Each football has 5 laces.
There are 100 laces in all.
How many footballs are there?

This is the word problem the G-Man wrote…

Each rockstar dude has one pair of Oakleys.
There are seven unstylish sunglasses in all.
How many rockstars are there?

I know, I reap what I sow. I should probably stop saving to send him to CPA school, huh?

To Do List

This time of year is so hectic. I barely manage my day-to-day responsibilities in August, by December I'm Rumsfeld and my life is Iraq. It’s a nasty-ass cluster fuck, and I have no idea what’s happening, where and to whom. So, I’ve got a To-Do-List.

I’m not really a “list person” per se, so this is new to me. I find that keeping a list is difficult enough, I can’t begin to wrap my head around organization and prioritization. Basically, whenever something pops into my head, I write it down. The life-altering, the important, the timely, the trivial, the petty, the ridiculous, if it needs to get done, it goes on the list. As a result, the list is a strange and often disturbing look into my stream of consciousness.

• mail letter/CD
• panty exchange
• replace G-Man homework folder
• pay electricity bill
• Savin iLL show same night as Gimme Gimme show? check that
• when is Sam back? Haircut
• bread, soda, milk, clementines, tissues, kitty litter
• check w/Dad regarding G gift
• deposit check
• dry clean jacket
• get kitties fixed
• wasabi peanuts, expiration?
• fencing lessons?
• 69 Love Songs
• write letter for Traci
• cookie dough, make poundage?
• inspection
• winter concert-tell Sue
• order replacement Playmobil camel and tassels

It’s the camel and the tassels that made this worth sharing—or maybe the panty exchange…

It's Just Me, Huh?

That new H2 commercial for Hummer... the one with the mom dropping her kid off at the new school... have you seen it?

They're approaching the school, we don't know they're in a Hummer yet, and mom offers to drop the kid off on the corner. He declines. Then we see the kid, kind of nerdy, walk past the cool punks in front of the school. Nerdy kid seems pretty confident, good for him. Cool punk says, "nice ride."

In that moment between "nice ride," and the shot revealing Mom in the H2, am I the only one who thought the cool punk was referring to the new kid's mom?

Yeah, I thought so.

Bite Off More Than I Can Chew

The picture is a close-up of the marzipan snowman I made to sit in front of the gingerbread cake house I made to bring to my family Christmas party. I don’t know why I do these things. It’s so unnecessary. No one ate it. They all thought it was a gingerbread “cookie” house, and no one eats those. You’ll crack your fillings. Then, once everyone was told, by me, individually, as I backed them into corners and leaned into them a bit too close, that it was not cookie, but cake, they all admired it patronizingly from afar. Because, let’s face it, no one is eating carbs anymore. They all claimed not to want to be the first to cut into the beautious thing, so I helped them out by taking a big ol’ carving knife to it and dismantling the right wing. I think I scared a few folks, wielding that big knife, saying over and over again, “It’s buttercream, I made it myself. Try some!” They all walked away, slowly, without ever turning their eyes from me. Is that weird? Do you think I pushed it a bit by biting the head off the snowman in front of my five year old cousin? Maybe next year I’ll just stick to fruitcake.

Eat Papa, Eat!

G and I watched the Rankin Bass animated Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer special the other night and now that he's getting older, he's noticing things in the Christmas classic that he was not aware of before.

"Rudolph's Dad is so mean!" he observed, "So, his kid's nose is different, what's the big deal? Does the mailman have a red nose or something?"

"I don't know, G-Man, I think they're setting up the premise that Rudolph wasn't accepted because he's different."

"But his own father!? And what about his Mom? Would you let anyone talk about me like that?"

"Well, no."

"I think she should give him a piece of her mind, set him straight. I mean, geez, if your Dad treats you like a retard and your Mom stands there and nods her head, how can you expect any better from the rest of the world?"

"I suppose you can't."

"They're lucky Rudolph didn't go all Columbine on their reindeer games. Rudy spoke in class today, ya know?"

"Good thing they have gun control in the North Pole, huh?"

"The guns shoot jelly."

"True."

"And how is that a bad thing?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Isn't Mrs. Claus normally a sweet, chubby, white-haired old lady?"

"Well, except for in Santa Claus is Coming to Town, then we see her as a young school teacher."

"Right, but then she's German."

"True."

"When did Mrs. Claus become a pushy, Italian woman?"

"Couldn't tell you G."

"Ok, so now there's bad weather and Rudolph is supposed to forget his entire childhood, how all these elves, and reindeer, and even Santa treated him so awful. I mean Santa was a real bastard to Rudolph! Come to think of it, he wasn't even nice to the elves when they sang him a song. This Santa's a freakin' crank! And Rudolph is supposed to smile and pull the sleigh and swallow the whole thing?"

"Well forgiveness is a virtue."

"They barely apologized! And how did Santa gain sixty pounds in less than two minutes?"

"I don't know, maybe Barry Bonds and Jason Giambi are on his nice list?"

"What's that mean?"

"Nevermind."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"You know that other special, The Year Without a Santa Claus?"

"Yeah."

"I think that if Santa felt like that today, they'd just give him Prozac and forget the whole thing."

"Probably, G-Man, probably."

Downtime

I have no downtime. I have no social time. I have no time to contemplate, to compose, to sketch to observe, to absorb. I sleep for five hours a night, maybe six. I leave the house running, late, and normally missing some important item like my wallet or my lunch. I put on my headphones at my desk, they are my blinders, they keep me focused. I used to listen to music all the time, but lately, I find that audiobooks and NPR online are conducive to productivity. The constant flow of information into my cranium blocks out all of the random thoughts I'd normally be enjoying and allows me to get my work done. There is a lot of work to be done. Some days, I can listen to an entire book at work. Some days, David Sedaris is the only adult voice I hear. Some days, that is a good thing.

When I get home, normally around 7pm, I have the dinner to make, the homework to check, the laundry to do, the dishes to put away, the bedtime story to read, the G-Man to tuck in, the cats to feed, the litter box to clean, the stuff I brought home from work to tackle before the next day. I try to get to sleep before Conan. That doesn't happen often enough.

I know I am required to keep this pace, to run this marathon, I know everyone has their own marathon route to run. But I'm not wired for long-distance, I'm a sprinter and a lay-about. I do my best work in fits of inspiration followed by lazy days foraging, and chatting, and comparing clouds.

I need more clouds.

Mind in the Gutter

Sorry I haven’t had much to say of late. The holidays and my job are dominating my every waking hour these days. I’ll try and post tomorrow, but until then, here are some photos I took last week. The Christmas Tree lot sign had the G-Man pissing his pants for a good hour and a half. We’ve entered the Beavis Zone, people. It’s all fart jokes and bathroom humor from here on. Makes me grateful I have a boy.