Incognito Breeder

Conversation at Easter Brunch

(after the cat almost escaped out the front door)

You should get one of those tags, at the PetCo, with the engraving machine, and put your phone number on it—but not their name—in case they escape.

They have those tags, but with their names and our phone number.

Oh, I wouldn't put their names on the tag. Someone could take advantage of that, if he knew the animal's name, he could call it, and the cat would come and someone with bad intentions could just keep your cat.

But if someone would just keep my cat, why would not having the cat’s name deter him?

Well, it would make it more difficult, the cat wouldn’t respond to him.

My cats don’t respond to me unless I’m brandishing a can opener. I don’t think it would matter. If anything, I thought putting a name to a lost animal would make the finder realize that the animal has a pre-existing loving home situation.

It’s like putting a kid’s name on his backpack, it gives an abducter some familiarity with the abductee.

(author’s aside: yes, this did start with a discussion of cat tags)

Yeah, I don’t know. I do that with the G-Man, I don’t put his name on his clothes, but I did tatoo our phone number on his ass.

(pauses for a moment to realize I'm being sarcastic, ignores me ) I just think it’s safer for the animal.

It worked for awhile, but we’ve moved like—what? Six or seven times? The kid is lucky he can sit down. Maybe a microchip would be more effective. My vet offers that.

For the cats?

Cats, kids, anything to keep from having to hang fliers around town.

You’re not right.

Nope. Now have another mimosa, Happy Easter.

Nix the Cool Mom

The G-Man and I are walking that fine line, that tiny, little stretch of DMZ between “Momma, can you wipe my ass?” and “Ma, can I borrow the car?” He’s this cool, little person with his own personality and he’s too young to hate me. So, we get to hang out. We watch movies together, talk about music, go to bookstores. It helps that I’m going through a belated adolescence and share many of his interests. This might not work if I was still in what I like to call my “Natalie Merchant” phase. That’s the time in a young woman’s life when she takes herself and everything in her life waaayyy too seriously. Too much Nina Simone, (and not the Put Some Sugar in My Bowl-Nina) not enough Kylie Minogue. Too much Meryl Streep, not enough Lindsey Lohan. That’s the time when you just can’t appreciate that a song like Baby Got Back is a positive, feminist manifesto. It’s a sad, serious, sensible shoes and Michael Stipe kind of time. No fun at all.

It helps that I’m out of that phase. G’s friends all think that I’m the “cool mom.” Of course, once you label yourself the “cool mom” you become immediately uncool. There’s nothing lamer than a 30+ year old adult trying to impress a bunch of third graders. To take the piss out of myself, I once joked with the G-Man that I almost won “Coolest Mom in New England,” but I lost to a lady from Hartford, Connecticut who was a champion Dance, Dance, Revolution player. “If only we had PlayStation2, instead of GameCube,” I lamented.

The funny thing is, as hip and sarcastic as the G-Man can be, he tends to be a bit literal. Yesterday, he got a pretty good report card, so I took him to the local comic book store. The last time we were there, G asked Comic-Book-Guy-Bob about Silver Surfer—who is he? what’s his story? When we stopped in last night, the CBGB had put aside three, 25 year-old, Silver Surfer issues for my boy—gratis. G was appropriately surprised and grateful, “What’s this for?” he asked.

“Consider it part of your ‘Good Report Card’ comic books,” I offered.

“You get comic books for a good report card?” CBGB asked, “You‘ve got a cool mom, there.”

“Coolest in five states,” stated the G-Man, “Damn that Dance, Dance, Revolution.”

Just a Thought

Are bike racks the gold-plated, spinning rims of the Gap set? Am I getting all “Jetta” when I put my Thule fairing up on my $100 Camry? (That's right, I said $100 Camry, I got a price so nice, I could buy it twice.) Who do I think I’m fooling?

I use my racks a couple of times a year, tops. And that’s not counting moving a love seat for a friend, or bringing home a Christmas tree. The basic purpose of a my Thule rack is to represent the ghost of my early twenties, Me: B.G. (Before G-Man) It’s advertisement. It says, I’m white, I own at least one Dave Matthew’s Band CD, I have a college degree, I shop at Trader Joes. Of course, if I had Yakima racks it would also say, I’m a card-carrying, Subaru-driving, white-water-rafting lesbian. But I’m not, so I’ve got the Thules.

Electric Boogaloo, Who Knew…

…in my 30s I would become a hip-hop photographer? Certainly nothing I predicted. If you've got some downtime, check out the pics from the Kool G. Rap show. Word.

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.

Shaved P^ssy

(title edited due to nasty google hits) -- There's just the G and me in my house, so there's not a lot of random nudity. I figure on any given day I ought to contribute at least $20 to the therapy jar, no need to add brief glimpses of my fat ass to his psychological baggage. Further, the G-Man is particularly modest for a nine year old boy, I haven't seen his tiny hiney hasn't since March of 1998. As a result of the lack of skin at Chez Breeder, when we visit our friends with young children, my son is often horrified by an unabashed three year old streaking through the house. He doesn't have little siblings, he doesn't understand that a post-bath lap around the living room is the most efficient way to dry off. Little boy or little girl, it doesn't matter, when a bare ass gleams in his presence, the G-Man is prone to blushing, averted eyes, and stammering. He's a missionary at the orgy.

In addition to the G and me, in our house there are two kittens, Tiki and Ollie. As felines, they're given to laying about, prone, legs akimbo. Or worse, keeping themselves cleaned and groomed with some thorough licking. I had them fixed last week and the clinic shaved the poor things from tits to tail, leaving their undercarriage quite exposed. Poor G doesn't know where to look when they're in the room, rolling about like a couple of co-eds on oxycontin and E. I brought them home on Tuesday and he's been staring at his shoes ever since.

The Houseless and Spouseless

It was time the change the masthead, eh? Almost a month past Christmas and I was still sporting the candy canes. Besides, it's my birthday (shameless plug) and that's a good day for change.

I did a Google search for "34 years old" hoping to find something clever to inform the new mast head. I found this link, 'Targeting the 25- TO 34-year old Housless and Spouseless.'

The article is old, not all that interesting, but the headline is inspiring. It's the name for a new nighttime soap opera, NBC's response to Desperate Housewives. It's a cruise to St. Barts, no kids, no marrieds, no talk of refinancing the mortgage or juggling the in-laws. It's the curse laid upon your head by your spinster aunt tired of spending her Saturday nights watching Dukes of Hazzard and making Jiffy Pop for you and your siblings so that Mom and Dad could have "date night." It's the freedom of endless adolescence. It's the promise of dying alone. The other thing about the headline that grabbed me was the age range, 18-34. Today I turn 34. I've got one year left in this demographic. Then what? Then I start getting subscription offers from the AARP? Then my friends and family stop assuming that I'll eventually grow up and write me off as a disaster for all eternity? Then Match.com emails me that at a certain point ads without a picture may get more responses? What? What happens then? When I was 23, just out of college, I worked for a woman, a single mom in her 30s named Judi (with an "i") Judi managed a team of six kids like me, young, fresh-faced, our whole world ahead of us. She wore short skirts and high heels and told of us guys she met playing darts at her local. In Boston, we have a radio show called "Leftover Lunch," all request oldies from noon to 1. I started the design team playing a game called "How Old was Judi When..." and we would guess how old she was when the song on the radio was originally released. I was lucky she didn't plant one of those fuck-me-pumps into my left temple.

I'm about the same age now that Judi was then. I'm a single mom. If I met someone while playing darts at my local, I'm sure I'd tell you all about it. But she could pull off those short skirts and high heels, and for that I owe the woman some props. So tonight, when I'm accepting well-wishes for a happy and prosperous new year, I'm going to order a Sugar Daddy From Miami and offer a belated toast to Judi from her sister Houseless and Spouseless, I.B. Me.