December 31, 2010

-image-new year’s resolution

Not to become my own personal Raiders of the Lost Ark, as is clearly evidenced in this accidental self portrait.

Disturbing. But the camera don’t lie.

Must try to keep myself together in 2011.

December 27, 2010

-image-the deep dark middle of nowhere

One mountain range

The other mountain range

Me in the middle between two parallel powers

Hope you’re all having a wonderful Christmas!

Stories to tell, pippa. Stories to tell.

December 21, 2010

-image-“a christmas story” — the musical

How did I miss this? How did I not know this was going on?

“A Christmas Story,” the musical, at the gorgeous 5th Avenue theater in my beloved Seattle.

(Years ago, I saw Katharine Hepburn and Dorothy Loudon in “West Side Waltz” in the 5th Avenue theater. Our seats were in the very back row of the balcony. You could not be farther away and still be in the building. I watched the entire show through binoculars and I thought my arms were going to fall off. Totally worth it, though. Totally worth it.)

But a musical version of Ralphie and Randy? Scott Farkas? The Bumpus hounds? Black Bart? A musical number featuring the “electric sex” lamp? Brilliant! Broadway bound, I’m sure.

The “major award.” Fra-jeel-aay– must be Italian!

The gift from Aunt Clara.

And … the aftermath of the Bumpus hounds. This photo kills me. Defeat.

Can’t wait for it to make its way here!

December 19, 2010

-image-snippets (one rated hard r, but it’s married hard r, so that’s like g, right?)

So I’ve put up a warning before my married hard R snippet. Seriously. I put the post up and some random new person I shall call Slappy emailed me about it, so I took the post down, but now it’s back up with a “warning.” (Happy, Slappy??)

Maybe Slappy — and Slappy’s husband — would be happier if Slappy engaged in said married hard R behavior.

Just a piece of advice from me to you, O Slappy dearest.


BABY BANSHEE: (shaking her little butt for me) Do the bootie dance, Tee Tee!
ME: (shaking my butt with her) Okay.
BABY BANSHEE: (bending over into the perfect number 7) No, Tee Tee! Like this!
ME: (bending over into the perfect number 7) Okay.

I finish describing a really boring dream to MB. There is nothing I can say to make it more thrilling.

HE: (a yawning silence)
ME: I know. I’m literally embarrassed by my subconscious. I woke up and was like, “Seriously? That’s the best you can do??”
HE: It’s like dreaming you were writing a note reminding yourself to buy stamps.
ME: I know. What’s the point? Why bother dreaming?
HE: Really. At least awake there’s TV.
ME: Well, thanks, hon.
HE: Sure.


We are walking out to the car. I suddenly start making huge ridiculous “O’s” with my mouth. MB sees me. I smile and keep going.

HE: What are you doing?
ME: Exercising.
HE: What?
ME: For later. You know.
HE: Oh!
ME: Yeah. Happy birthday, baby.
HE: Better stretch it bigger.
ME: Hahahaha.
HE: I’m serious.
ME: Hahahaha. I know.
HE: I love you, baby.
ME: Oh, I know.

MB and I have strict regulations on whom the other is allowed to marry/not marry in the event one of us cacks it in an untimely fashion. We review these regularly just for, you know, a little bit of threatening fun. There are beyond-the-grave consequences for stupid choices here, you see. Sometimes, there are specific names involved; sometimes just a type.

This, after a long list of women from deep dark middle of nowhere (aka his hometown) who openly pine for MB:

ME: Basically, you have to find yourself a fresh hag. No rehashes.
HE: So no rehags?
ME: Hahaha. Right. No rehags. Get a new hag.

At the bookstore. A dad and little boy — about 5 — who was really exploring his testosterone.

BOY: Whey I grow up, I want my OWN family where I’M the dad!
DAD: Okay.


BOY: Daddy, do you think there are man ladybugs?
DAD: Well, calling them manbugs would sound funny. They’re ladybugs.
(Uh, Dad? You’re not listening.)
BOY: Well, there SHOULD be manbugs! I WANT there to be manbugs!

Me, too. You go, kid. Fight the power. Hooray for men!


ME: We’re gonna have our special date this month, Banshee.
ORIGINAL BANSHEE: Yay! What are we gonna do?
ME: Ohh, let’s see. I think we’ll sit on a wall and spit, how’s that?
OB: Tee Tee!
ME: It’ll be awesome.
OB: TEE TEE! I don’t wanna sit on a wall and spit!
ME: Really?
ME: I’ll bring green beans.
OB: Well, I like green beans.
ME: I know. So do I.
OB: But I still don’t wanna sit on a wall and spit!
ME: I’ll bring broccoli.
OB: I like broccoli.
ME: I know. So do I.
OB: (torn) But …. but …… I STILL don’t wanna sit on a wall and spit!
ME: (heavy dramatic sigh) Okaaaaay.

December 12, 2010

-image-my favorite christmas cd

Phil Driscoll’s Heaven and Nature Swing.

For those who don’t know him, which is probably many to most of you, Phil Driscoll is an amazing trumpet player. I mean, the guy is a virtuoso on that thing. It literally gives me shivers of joy how gifted he is. He also sings, with the raspy world-weary kind of voice that I have such a soft spot for. So put that all together, throw in some traditional Christmas songs, do a bit of a big band/jazzy twist on them, and you have Heaven and Nature Swing.

My favorite Christmas CD.

It’s a tradition now. On December 1st, I whip out the CD and play the first song, “Joy to the World.” I then dance around like a crazy spastic person and that way, the Christmas season is kicked off properly, you see.

Love the bass. Love the trumpet. Love his voice. The whole thing just makes me so happy.

I dare you to listen to this number — loud — and NOT find yourself about to burst from joy.

This is Driscoll’s version of “Winter Wonderland.” Every year, I make MB dance to it with me and every year, he has to put up a bit of a fight until I vanquish him at last. Haha. Such a fun version. I love his little laugh at the end. Gets me every time.

I even forgive him that he gets the lyrics wrong. It’s “love knows no season, love knows no clime,” not “crime.”

Ah, well. I can’t help but love him. He gives me so much Christmas joy year after year.

Thank you, Phil Driscoll!

December 11, 2010

-image-“diva” — aria from “la wally”

This aria from La Wally, “Ebben, ne andro lontana,” is one of my all-time favorites. I’ve listened to so many different divas sing it — Monserrat Caballe, Kiri Te Kanawa, Renee Fleming, Maria Callas — and I actually think this one is my favorite of them all, sung by Wilhelmina Wiggins Fernandez, the diva of the movie “Diva.” I was obsessed with that movie when it came out.

Everything about her in this scene just glows. The dress, her face, her voice. The simple gestures with her hands are pretty. There is just a sheen of perfection around her. She’s liquid to me. I don’t know how else to describe it. Everything about her is liquid, flowing, full, effortless. So so gorgeous.

I find her version of this aria to be the sweetest and the most effortless. It’s decidedly not effortless, but she makes it appear so.

She starts singing at about 1:14. From that point to about 1:47 brings tears to my eyes. There’s such a sweetness to it; it’s almost unbearable. The whole thing is perfect, but that opening is too much for me.

December 6, 2010

-image-the pee fight

A Dom Squab — domestic squabble — we actually had on Friday night. I might have been a tad hormoniacal.

HE: I was getting the pee willies. I had to pull over and pee in a bottle.
ME: Really?
HE: Yes. It was bad.
ME: I’m sorry, babe. (the pause that ruins everything) Where’s the bottle?
HE: In the car.
ME: In the car?
HE: Yeah. I had too much stuff to carry. What was I supposed to do?
ME: Uhm, dump it out somewhere? Bring it up here and dump it in the toilet?
HE: I wasn’t gonna carry it up here with me. Besides, it’s in the car, sealed up.
ME: So there’s a bottle of sealed pee in the car??
HE: Yeah. No big deal.
ME: There is sealed pee in our car!!
HE: I’ll get it tomorrow. I don’t want to go all the way down there.
ME: Well, give me the keys and I’ll go get it.
HE: No, I don’t want you to have to do it. It’s my pee.
ME: But I don’t want it to be in the car!
HE: Why is it such a big deal?
ME: I don’t know! It just is! There’s PEE in our car! What if it spills out?
HE: It won’t.
ME: You don’t know that! It’s just freaking me out! We have bottled PEE in our car! Like we’re officially hobos!
HE: I can’t believe this. This is the dumbest fight ever.
ME: No, it’s not. It’s peeeeeeeeeee!
HE: (after staring at me for a moment in gobsmacked silence) Okay. Fine. I’ll take care of it.
ME: I said I’d do it. I will. I would do it.
HE: You’re not doing it.

(leaves — not happily — and returns a few moments later)

HE: Okay. It’s taken care of.
ME: Thank you. What did you do with it?
HE: Dumped it on the grass.
ME: (drily) Now all the neighborhood dogs are gonna smell that and follow you around when they put two and two together.
HE: This is the stupidest thing ever.
ME: I know. I’m sorry. Thank you for taking care of the pee.
HE: (sighs) You’re welcome.

-image-the otter attack

I’ve been laughing about this for several days now. You know, the kid in Boca attacked by an otter while he was filming him on his cell phone. Look, what can I say? Pea brains are easily amused. Kids being attacked, in particular, seems to amuse me.

It’s the scream, the kid’s scream, that gest me. This is Jimmy Kimmel’s interview of the poor mauled child. A portion of the kid’s video is at the very beginning of the clip.

December 3, 2010

-image-oh, brother

Here’s a snippet from a 2005 blog post written by Baldy, big shiny “head” of the FOC. In part of it, he quotes from an article written by his buddy “Al” — Albert Mohler, president of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. The rest of it is ol’ Baldy himself.

This is the attitude in the FOC, pippa. A lot of insecure men posturing about how to be men. (Italics mine.)

And finally Al’s “President’s Journal” column titled “The Boy Problem, Then and Now” is an insightful summation of Terrence Moore’s essay, “Wimps and Barbarians: The Sons of Murphy Brown.” Here’s a great quote from Al’s column:

“Wimps, on the other hand, look to women for emotional support,

(This is wimpy? Isn’t this …… sorta normal?)

consider girlfriends to be conversational partners

(See the patriarchy rearing its ugly insecure head, pippa? You — the godly and non-wimpy man — cannot “partner” with a woman in conversation. She is subordinate to you in even basic conversation)

and look to women for pity.”

(I cannot think of any guy I’ve known — wimpy and non — who has ever looked to me for pity)

Don’t want to be one of those!

(God forbid! Buncha hellbound nancies!)

Somehow this reminded me of a rule I want us to adopt for our blog. No smiley faces allowed! (No way! That sucks! :-)) Real men do not use smiley faces on e-mails! (Oh, I agree! Emails are not the place for those! My real man only uses emoticons — and exclamation points — during sex! :-)) This is fine for the ladies, (with whom we will not partner in a conversational way! :-)) but not the men. Real men communicate humor :-) effectively without having to use a smiley :-) face and real men can discern the presence of genuine humor :-) without seeing a smiley :-) face. So let our blog be free from all wimp-like communication! ( :-) :-) :-))

You know, Baldy, you seem overly concerned about appearing to be a wimp. Real men — and I’m not one, granted, so I can only base this on razor sharp perception :-) — don’t concern themselves with whether they’re a wimp. They’re too busy being men.

Just a short but piercing shriek of overcompensation here. Not to mention misogyny.


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