Incognito Breeder

The List

There's this thing in our town—similar to Craigslist—that allows residents to voice their opinions on local contractors, get rid of stuff they don't need, share recipes, complain about power outages. I've nabbed a number of cool things free or cheap off the list. I like free things. And when I see something free, I have  a tendency to claim it first, think about what to do with it later. So, this week I claimed a universal gym.

This is like the gym we had at the YMCA, or at high school when I was a teenager. It's a big ol' thing, with stations around the center and a stack of plates on a rail up the middle. It's way cool, very professional looking, but it takes up 6' square of floor space, not to mention the room you need to walk around it. And once assembled, it is a permanent installation. There's no moving this thing.

But it was free. So I claimed it.

Saturday, G and I went to get it. A woman named Meriweather met us at the door. I was expecting the woman who placed the ad, a woman named Pat. She wasn't home yet. Meriweather pleasantly showed us where the gym was in the basement. They had a semi-finished basement. We have a two bedroom apartment. I had no idea where I was going to put this thing. But it was free, so...

It took about an hour to dismantle the thing. There was no manual, so I'm not sure how I'm going to reassemble it. My friend, Dave, showed up toward the end to load this monstrosity up in his truck and lug it to my little home. Did I mention that this thing is actually bigger than my first apartment?

As we loaded up the last of it, Dave asked Pat—who had since come home—about a calendar poster on the wall in the semi-finished basement. It was a Ms. Universe in full sash and tiara regailia, in a public service poster about AIDS prevention. The poster was in both English and an alphabet we didn't recognize. We had decided it was Cyrillic. It turns out, the alphabet and the Ms. Universe were Thai and the calendar was in both the Western and Thai calendar years. It was also autographed. Pat got it from Ms. Universe while in Thailand. How cool, huh?

"Would you like it?" offered Pat, as she took it down off the wall, "You can hang it by the gym for inspiration."

Dave is choking, trying not to laugh. I cannot think of any way to nicely explain that I don't find Ms. Universe all that inspirational, nor do I think I can hang an AIDS PSA poster in my bedroom where the gym will most likely end up. I stammer awkwardly.

"Aw, come on," says Dave, "it's free."

So, I think I'm going to hang it in the bathroom, next to my Beach Blanket Bingo poster. What do you think?

Ah, Navel, I Knew Ye Well

It's been too long, belly button, friend of mine. I've been so preoccupied with the world-at-large that I've neglected you. I apologize. It seems like only yesterday I would stare at you for hours and contemplate Deep Thoughts. Thoughts, I was certain, the whole world was waiting with anticipation for me to share.

I miss those days.

I rarely see you lately, except to note that you are no longer folded under the weight of my widening belly. In my hiatus from gazing upon you, I've taken to getting some activity, losing some poundage. Perhaps, if I keep it up, someday others will gaze upon you lovingly, as I once did. Perhaps. Although belly buttons do seem a bit passé.

It's a fashion thing, huh? I haven't seen Britney or Beyoncé sporting a midrift-baring, half-top in ages. Maybe that's not due to changing tastes, though. Maybe they've just moved on. Beyoncé is working her classy Hollywood, gold-lamé, French singing, Mrs. Z mogul-action and Brit's been busy parading around the trailerpark with that Blue-Light-Special, Timberlake knock-off, common-law boy-ho of hers. They're no longer engaged in navel research. They've found other things in the world to concentrate their energies on.

Maybe it's my age. I'm well into my 30s now, certainly in 30 years I've learned everything there is to know about you, belly-button. You're pretty much established at this point, got your shape, your size, your general lint-y-ness, your position laterally and longitudinally. You're not bringing much more to this relationship. You can be like a distant cousin to me, or an old college friend, someone I don't have to call everyday, someone I can check-in with occasionally, a little howyadoin', a little letchaknowIwasthinkinaboutcha.

But I can't stare at you everyday. I can't find another interesting thing about you to share with the world. I've got to find important, facinating things to chat about. I need to take off the blinders and open up my peripheral vision.

Do you think I could set up some mirrors to get a decent view of my ear canal?

Letter to My Insurance Company

Acme Ins. Co.
Post Office Square
Boston, MA 02109

This is a letter to request a change in my auto insurance. Our car died over the weekend, it was
sudden and painless, but a tragedy nonetheless. While she cannot be replaced in our hearts, we must replace her in our driveway—quickly and cheaply. The kind of car we can afford on such
short notice will require neither collision or comprehensive coverage. Please remove these from
my insurance policy.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests a notification of the adjusted insurance rate and monthly payment. This can be sent via email to info_at_incognitobreeder.com, or you may fax the information to (number here.)

Gratefully yours,

I.B. Me

Seventeen

The closer the G-Man gets to being a teenager, the more I feel like one. I've been watching all of these movies from my formative years (see last entry,) listening to tons of old-school punk and rap, and I recently bought a pair of pink DM-style boots with black, side zippers and the anarchy symbol in the tread. I'm definitely regressing.

I thought I might look up some friends I haven't talked to in ages, but when I Googled my date from the junior prom I discovered that there is a hot, new actor on a show about housewives that shares his name. Not much chance of sifting through the fansite hits to find a goofy, Monty Python fan, last seen with a UPC symbol tattooed on his shaved head, training to be a fire swallower.

This all may have something to do with this book I just finished, Hairstyles of the Damned by Joe Meno, if you are, or have ever been a teenager you must read this book. If your teen years coincided with the late 80s/early 90s and you don't read this book you are a fool and should be ashamed of yourself. Read this book.

The amazing thing about the book is that it is so real. Reading it, I didn't feel nostalgic and I didn't feel intensely relieved that those years were behind me, I felt seventeen. I was driving around in a crappy Ford Escort, singing along with a mix tape that was jammed in the stereo. I was awkward at someone's basement party, watching couples hook-up and drunk boys fight. I was witnessing the slow disintegration of my parents' marriage. I was strangely relieved when they finally split up. I was missing the cues of someone's crush on me. I was harboring crushes for people I would never have. And the ones I could have, I didn't act on, because I was worrying about what other people might think. It's all still there, barely beneath the surface, all that drama and confusion, all you have to do is scratch. Hairstyles of the Damned is one itchy mother of a book.

Realization

It is virtually impossible to update this site on a regular basis without Internet access at home. About six months ago I canceled my phone/cable/Internet service. I got a cell phone, I signed up for NetFlix, I found a local free Wi-Fi spot. I saved over $100 a month, and that's after paying for the monthly cell phone and NetFlix bills. And I don't really miss the landline, I don't really miss the TV, it's the Internet that's proven to be indispensable.

The NetFlix has some surprising benefits. I've discovered that since the TV is not our constant companion, sitting down to watch a movie has become (God help me) "Quality Time" for me and the G-Man. At the end of the day, I get him to wind down by curling up on the couch with me to eat some popcorn and watch a movie. We quickly exhausted the "New Releases" that we could watch together, so I started thinking back to movies I enjoyed as a kid that I could share with the boy. As a result, my NetFlix queue has become an introductory course to PG movies of the late 70s through mid 80s; lots of John Hughes, lots of John Cusack, some National Lampoon and Mel Brooks, those D&D inspired fantasy films, Willow, Legend, Labyrinth, etc. It's been a stroll down Memory Lane.

It's also a revelation. My son, my sophisticated son, who likes the Ramones, who can articulate the similarities between Eminem and the early career of Elvis Presley, who has read the first eight Series of Unfortunate Events books, has also demonstrated a remarkable lack of black humor and irony. My son! How did this happen?

Last night, we watched A Fish Called Wanda. I knew there were a few sexual situations that would result in his head buried firmly in a pillow, I was prepared for that. But I never expected his reaction to Michael Palin's predicament. If you remember, Michael plays K-K-K-Ken, the animal lover with the stutter who is charged with taking out the old lady who is the only witness to the robbery. The old lady has three, little terriers, and K-K-K-Ken, in the course of trying to snuff her out, manages to k-k-k-kill all three pooches.

The first is torn up by a rabid doberman, G-Man was horrified. I assured him that the pup wasn't real. He calmed down a bit. The second was run over by a car. This time, G buried his head into my shoulder, I heard sniffles. By the time the third terrier was squashed by a piano, my son had run to the kitchen to get some water, successfully missing the whole thing. I thought we were safe. But in the final act of the film, Kevin Kline's sadistic character, Otto, interrogates Ken about the location of the diamonds. To get Ken to give it up, Otto scoops the fish out of Ken's aquarium and eats them one by one as Ken watches helpless, horrified, with two big french fries sticking out of his nostrils. This is a funny scene, most folks think so. Not as funny as when Ken runs Otto down with the steam roller, but close. A good funny scene.

My nine year old boy, who dresses like 50 Cent, who names the agents in his James Bond video game "DumbAss" and "Half-a-Ball" and then designs creative ways to shoot them down while he and his friends just laugh... That boy, you know the one, he is bawling. He is curled up in the fetal position on the other end of the couch and crying like a lonely, single mother at the end of Jerry Maguire, during the "you complete me" scene. (Not that I'd know anything about that.) He's crying for the fish and for the terriers and for poor K-K-K-Ken who loves them so much. His cheeks are glistening in the light from the TV, wet with tears.

When the movie ends, I lead him to his room, tuck him into bed, and give him his Valentine's Day present, a few hours early. It's a big, stuffed gorilla with red boxing gloves and red boxer shorts covered with hearts. It has a fight towel thrown around it's neck and embroidered on the towel, in red letters it reads, "I'm a Lover, Not a Fighter." That's my boy.

With a Nod to Mr. Barker

I don't manage the day-to-day all that well, so you can imagine what a cluster-fuck the big picture stuff can get. For example, in changing jobs this year I found myself with a 401k account that needed to be rolled over. I postponed, I forgot, I made myself notes, it slipped my mind, eventually December 31st came and since I had done nothing, the company that managed the account cut me a check. They deducted the taxes and penalties, so it wasn't a big ol' check, but it was money that was supposed to stay invested for the "big picture" and I had let it slide. Needless to say, I'm less than enthusiastic about the opportunity to invest some of my Social Security money. Some people will do very well with that option, me, I'm looking at a refrigerator box, under a bridge, by the highway.

So, here I am with a couple of bucks I didn't plan on, feeling guilty for screwing up my financial future again, and I decided to make the best of it and use the money to improve my financial present. I paid off a couple of bills and I scheduled my kittens to be spayed. We got the kittens over the summer, two girls from the same litter, Tiki and Ollie. They were a month or two older than I was told and could have been spayed almost immediately, but the vet charges $250 each for spaying and insisted that we do them at the same time. Five hundred dollars while I was paying for G to go to summer camp, it wasn't feasible, so I put it off.

Then it was back-to-school time, then G's birthday, then the holidays loomed ahead, I kept procrastinating, five hundred dollars, Jesus! Finally, a friend told me about a low-income vet clinic that would spay them for less than $100 each. Sold American! With my ill-gotten 401k gains I called the clinic and made an appointment. They took my MasterCard number and told me to look for a package in the mail with instructions for care and feeding and directions to the clinic.

The clinic is located in South Boston. Southie is an old East Coast neighborhood. There are families there who have lived there for over a hundred years and the old aunts and grandmothers who never got their drivers' licenses hardly ever leave the ten blocks that compose their little world. There are new folks who have moved in, the unavoidable gentrification, but they are looked at with distain, they are alien, they are temporary, they are watched with suspicion, like a person with Connecticut plates driving through South Carolina.

The streets in Southie are a maze of narrow one-ways designed before the advent of the automobile and organized to scare away real estate agents and gay yuppies. That morning, as I navigated the directions to the clinic, I was blinded by the rising sun glaring off the snow piles lining the streets. I squinted to make out the street signs, took a right, then a left, down a road that looked more like an alley. Lined with garbage barrels and the back doors of stores and brick apartment buildings, it stretched for three city blocks. I drove slowly, looking for an address, a sign. I half expected to be obstructed by an old Catholic guy wearing a PETA T-shirt and picketing the clinic with garish pictures of tabby testicles, or met at the door by a sadistic vet wielding a butter knife and a clothes hanger. But eventually, I found a modest gray door with a small sign and a sticker advertising that they accept VISA, MasterCard and Discover. I parked illegally, as is the custom in Southie and carried my kitten crates inside.

I was greeted by a red-haired woman, red as in that orange color that happens when brunettes try to go blonde with a box of Loreal from the Walgreens. She had two good teeth and they were in the back, and she was as big as a Mini Cooper.

"You the one got lost?"

"I was in traffic, I called."

"Five more minutes, I would've sent you on your way."

"Sorry about that."

She looked at the two women sharing the reception desk with her. The first a tall, thin woman with a face like cordoroy and hair the color of a Days Inn shag carpet. The other a young, pretty brunette, fresh faced and wearing white scrubs decorated with cavorting puppies. Mini Cooper nodded with the satisfaction of putting me in my place, Cordoroy snickered and Puppy Girl seemed unaware as she reached for my file. I pictured Mini and Cordoroy planning an evening with Puppy involving kitty tranquilizers and one of those collar funnels, I shook my head to clear it of the unholy image and refocused on the file.

They had filled it in with info I had provided over the phone. My kittens, Tiki and "Oily" were scheduled to be neutered and get their rabies shots. Ignoring the unfortunate renaming of Ollie, I pointed out to Puppy Girl that the kittens are female, and should be spayed, not neutered, and that they already have their rabies shots, thankyouverymuch.

"You have a Tiki?" asked a woman standing in line behind me. She too, was holding two kitten crates.

"Yup. You?"

"I've got a Tiki," and she raised the right crate, "and a Baby," raised the left crate. The cats were long-haired, fluffy things, probably a couple of years old.

"Cute," I said, and turned back to Puppy Girl. Who had amended our file and offered it for me to sign. I reached down and picked up the beige crate, "This is Ollie." Puppy Girl took her back into the clinic and returned. I handed her the blue crate, "This is Tiki."

"You have a Tiki?" asked the woman again.

"Yeah, uh huh," I answered.

Again she offered me the two crates, again she introduced her cats, "I've got a Tiki and a Baby."

"That's nice," I assured her and turned back to Puppy Girl, who let me know I was all set. I left the line as the woman behind me stepped up and said, "I've got a Tiki and a Baby," it was time for me to get to work.

Because the clinic only performs sterilizations one day a week, pick-up and drop-off is very hectic and crowded. I made sure I got there on time. I didn't want to take any chances with Tiki/Baby lady picking up my Tiki/Ollie kittens, I was fairly certain she wouldn't notice the difference and half as convinced that Mini Cooper and Cordoroy would mix them up just for shits and giggles.

There were a couple of women in front of me, they were together, they were old, fragile, and hunched and they leaned on each other's arm for support. They were the Olsen Twins, circa 2053. As they waited for their pet, the one with the gray hair (Ashley) kept looking to the cage on the wall containing Kelly, a cat available for adoption. The one with the jet black hair (Mary Kate) slapped at Ashley's hand, "Stop it, you have enough!" Ashley moaned and signed and looked longingly at Kelly. Mini Cooper came out from the clinic to the reception desk with their cat in carrier.

"Do you have a ride, ladies?" They shook their heads. It was 7 degrees, windy and dark out. Mini Cooper shook her head, "If he doesn't die of exposure, you will." She huffed and dragged herself back into the clinic returning with what looked like carpet remnants. She and Cordoroy began duct taping the rug around the cat's carrier. Ashley was oblivious, she had wandered off to play with Kelly through the cage door. Mary Kate rolled her eyes and ignored her sister.

Puppy Girl came up to the reception desk and asked me who I was here for. I told her their names and from behind me I heard, "You have a Tiki?" This time I didn't bother to acknowledge her. My kittens came out in their respective crates, their bellies were clean shaven for the operation giving them a Paris Hilton, baby girl, Brazilian bikini wax look. They were aloof and obviously under the influence of drugs, further emphasizing the Paris Hilton connection. I wrapped them up in a blanket and took them out to my car.

I returned to retrieve my file and invoice in time to see Ashley hugging a squirming Kelly as Mary Kate shaking her head, mumbling angrily, filled out the adoption papers. Puppy Girl was on the phone giving the clinic address as Cordoroy explained that since the sisters were adopting the cat, the least the clinic could do was get them a cab ride home. Ashley nuzzled her new friend, tickled her ears and looked up at her sister, "I think I'll call her 'Tiki.""

Click of Respect

I have this love/hate relationship with going out. I love to get out of the house, love seeing live bands, love having a couple of drinks. I just wish I could borrow someone else's skin for the night. I'm ok with hanging out with people I know, but I don't like standing in the middle of 500 strangers. I love the music, but I don't dance. It can be cool to meet new people, but I'm 10-15 years older than most of the people in the house and I'm starting to feel like that freaky old broad at the end of the bar that me and my friends would joke about in college.

But when I'm the photographer at a show, all that disappears. I don't feel like the 30+ PTO mom, half in a bottle of Knob Creek and looking to score, granted, I am a 30+ PTO mom looking to score, but now I'm official, I've got a higher purpose, I'm not a passive audience member, I'm an active participant. I've got an all access pass, a view from the stage, a job to do. The bouncer has to move the velvet rope to let me by. I love this.

Saturday night, I photographed the Kool G Rap show at the Middle East. I had to share the little closet offstage with the six-plus opening acts. I was setting up my equipment and a young guy came back to drop off his coat.

"Hey, you the photographer?"

"Uh, huh. "

"What paper are you from?"

"I'm freelancing."

"Here's my stuff," hands me a postcard with his band photo and web address, "so you know who I am."

"Thanks. I'm I.B."

"I'm Quite Nyce," and he shook my hand.

That's just something you can't get as one of 200 girls in a club for a show, that nod and acknowlegement, that little bit of respect, and it really is quite nice.

1985 vs. 2005

I was 14 years old in 1985. That's a painful age, a painful time, very 13 Going On 30, if you know what I mean, Duran Duran and the wall of bangs. I thought, back in 1985, that things would change, that I would grow out of the geeky-awkward phase, that some things, social things would come easier with age. They don't really, do they?

Case in point; Me First and the Gimme Gimmes are playing in Boston this weekend. I love them. Love, love, luv them. So, three weeks ago I bought two tickets. They were only $15 and surely I could find someone to go with me to the show. My friend Erin agreed and I was happily looking forward to wearing my Mighty Shirt somewhere other than the Parent/Teacher conference. Then, tragedy struck in the form of oral surgery and I was left with an extra ticket. Don't get me wrong, I have friends, but one just had a baby and another is out of town and this one doesn't like the band, and that one I will not take into Boston anymore because she's completely out of control, and his wife already loaned him out for a recent concert, and his birthday is that day and he's spending it with his boyfriend... you get the picture.

Then I remembered the cookie mom. One of the kids in G's class has a mom who works at the cookie store in town. She's cool. She has a Replacements sticker on the back of her car. She might like Me First and the Gimme Gimmes.

Problem 1: I know her only by her kid's name. Awkward.
Problem 2: I don't know her socially, only through school and the cookie store.

It's hard to make friends when you're a grown-up. It's awkward and weird and goofy when you're young, but you're in such close proximity to your peers all the time that friendships evolve naturally. As an adult, you don't want to be friends with your co-workers most of the time, and you have your circle that you've developed over the years. Adding new people to that circle is kind of strange.

Since I don't know her name or phone number, the only way I could ask cookie mom was to go to the cookie store where she works. There, I explained the oral emergency and how since I know she likes similar music I thought maybe... and I'm feeling really stupid, like it's 1985 and I've just gathered my nerves and deliberately crossed the street to the cemetary in order to have a smoke, and the cool kids, they're looking askance at me--the poser, trying not to gag on her Newport Lights--and they laugh in that mean way that teenagers laugh, just loud enough that you don't know what the joke was, but you know that it was about you.

Cookie mom couldn't go, had plans for Friday. "Oh, that's cool, maybe next time." I got in my car and headed to work. Halfway to the office I remembered that the show is on Saturday, not Friday. I asked about the wrong night. At this point, I was feeling too stupid to follow up, I could go to the show on my own, that could be fun, right?

Later this morning, I was moving my car with SuperHotGuy: Interactive Designer. Every morning, SuperHotGuy: Interactive Designer and I have to move our cars to avoid a ticket. I told SuperHotGuy: Interactive Designer the story, prefacing it with, "I'm such a dork," to which he responded, "What did you do this time?" When I got to the point in my story where I said, "so, I'll probably go alone, that could be fun," SuperHotGuy suddenly interrupted, "I, uh, I'll meet you inside, I've got to stop at the bank," and then he bolted across the street.

Oh, Christ, now SuperHotGuy: Interactive Designer thinks I was trying to ask him out, Cookie Mom probably thinks I have some kind of PTO-Mom-Crush on her, I still don't have anyone to go to the show with, and I think I'm getting a zit.

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!

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…