Le maudit Mo D.

one of my favorite movie scenes EVER!

I can't embed, so here's the link.

This is Martin Donovan at the peak of his career, for those of you who haven't been personally blessed by his hotness.

Hot fucking tuna!!!

I love you, Bill

Word to the media: SHUT THE FUCK UP. All this chatter about how Bill Clinton, Silver Fox Extraordinaire, the best thing that ever happened to modern American politics, and enjoyer of blow-jobs, is damaging Hill's bid for the presidency is such a crock of shit. Co-presidency? BRING IT ON! Though I'm pretty certain that Obama will get the nomination, the thought of Billy C. gracing the television alongside his lovely wife is an exciting prospect indeed. Anyone who says otherwise is just a hater. A HATER, I say. Hell, give Chelsea a cabinet position while they're at it.

Also, happy 85th birthday, Behemoth, though you are not here to enjoy it in classic cantankerous style! And happy birthday Mrs. Behemoth, too.

It's also the 1st death-aversary of Molly Ivins, who I vastly prefer to Behemoth, even though the old coot gets more Maudit ink.

wasted opportunities in my 20s are ruining my afternoon

That, and Scrabulous isn't working.

I need a job.

narrative of the angry uterus

Now that I'm into my thirties, menstruation has taken on a bit of urgency. I don't remember having a lot of cramps in my twenties, but for some reason my teenage dysmenorrhea has returned. I imagine that my uterus is angry at me for being left barren.

UTERUS: (pounding on my abdomen) Hey! Mo! I want a baby! Why don't you give me a baby, huh?
MO: I don't want a baby.
UTERUS: Sure you do! All women want a baby! It's encoded in your DNA. How do you think the species sustains itself? Go get yourself knocked up.
MO: Bob and I do it all the time.
UTERUS: (rolls equivalent of eyes) THAT guy? He shoots blanks, you dumbass! He is persona non grata to me.
MO: He's my husband.
UTERUS: Well, from an evolutionary perspective, he stinks.
MO: True, but this was a decision we made together.
UTERUS: And I'm here to override it. Here, have some cramps.
MO: OW!
UTERUS: And some more cramps!
MO: OW!!
UTERUS: How about dizziness and nausea? You wanna go lie down?
MO: Yes!
UTERUS: Now how about you lie down and spread your legs and let a fertile man impregnate you?
MO: NO!
UTERUS: COME ON! You held Delia and you thought she was cute, didn't you?
MO: Well, yeah.
UTERUS: Don't you want one of your own?
MO: My aorta will blow up if I get pregnant.
UTERUS: Aorta schmaorta, come on!
(internal telephone ring)
UTERUS: (answers phone) Hello?
AORTA: Hey, uterus.
UTERUS: Ooooh! Aorta, the party fart! We were just talking about you! You fuck-up. You ruined everything. You got me fired from my job! I accumulate blood every month and for what? Nothing. All because you're all enlarged and shit.
AORTA: Yeah. Sorry about that.
UTERUS: I'm gonna come up there and kick your ass.
AORTA: Please don't. Mo has to take beta blockers so I don't get any bigger.
UTERUS: Fucking aorta.
MO: Aorta! Uterus! Please! I'm perfectly happy to not be a mother. It's not for me.
AORTA: I might kill you. Nothing personal, Mo. I'm just not very sturdy.
UTERUS: Why couldn't I be in the body of one of those breeder-ass Christian women? Those uteruses are like workhorses, man.
MO: Well, nice talking to you guys. Uterus, please be nice to me. Don't take any of this personally. There are a lot of reasons for all of this.
UTERUS: Okay Mo. I'm sorry. Though I tend to get a little hostile every month between the 24th and the 28th.
MO: I know.
AORTA: Bye!
UTERUS: Fucking asshole aorta.
(gives Mo's abdomen one last punch)
MO: OW!

showy

I'm currently experiencing menstrual distress. I've actually been dizzy and sleepy and have done shit with my day, save for eat a bowl of "Rice Dumpster" (Bob hates Zen and calls it Rice Dumpster) and experience the joy of being married to a funny dude like Bob. He performs cramp-easing personal dances for me and for that I am eternally grateful. That man can make me laugh like nobody's business. He's also easy on the eyes.

The Geegsters had two successful shows at Fronterafest these last two nights. Friday's show was "Bachelorette Party," in which Kacey played the bride who had recently slept with her fiance's best friend. Shana and Aden got into a fistfight, and in the end, love triumphed. The second show was "Chili Cook-off." Andrea and Kacey tried to class up the Nacogdoches Chili Fest with some traditional snootiness; Mads and I were down-home hicks with a dream of winning the chili fest; Shana busted out of jail during an amazing song. We won the chili fest, Ma and the Bean Delivery Man (Aden) started to get busy just as Shana appeared. Shana and Aden got into their second fistfight of F-fest! In the end, we learned that good chili has three ingredients: meat, beans, and love.

At one point, I mentioned I was obese and then pulled a dog out from under my enormous skin folds.

Gross.

insensitivity training

Oh, my mother. My mother managed to royally piss me off this week, something she rarely does. She is usually pretty reasonable to deal with, although she is currently stressed out because her beneath-contempt Cruella de Vil stepmother is taking her to court again. I understand this and can only hope that she pulls through it and once its over, life will be cupcakes once again. However, she really crossed the line with me the other day, and now I don't even want to call her.

My first novel, pretty much done save for a few tweaks and snips, is sort-of-kind-of based on her family. It is a work of fiction, but the evil stepgrandmother character is based on the evil cunt herself, and it takes place in our hometown. The rest of it is fiction, though. I don't thrift shop, I've never slept with a co-worker, I've never stolen a Chanel dress, never kissed a religious Armenian grape-grower from Reedley, and I've never intervened on behalf of anyone when their grandson was torturing them trying to get into the family safe. I've explained the concept of fiction to my mom, an occasional reader of Oprah-prescribed fiction herself, but she thinks, or at least wants to think, that what I've written is pure fact and that my book is going to offend everyone she knows in F-town.

I've used a few Armenian last names, one of which is the last name of some family she knew way back when. Look, if you're Armenian in F-town, you know everyone with every Armenian last name in the book. I pulled one out of my ass and gave it to Zaven, who is the religious Armenian grape-grower and actually a good guy. Zaven is not based on any person, but on every good quality I could attribute to the Armenian community of F-town. Smart, strong, family and church-oriented, he is in his thirties but is very committed to keeping old traditions alive. He's the kind of guy your parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents would have adored because he was interested in the ways of their generation.

I have explained this to her, but for some reason, she thinks that my using this last name is going to get her put on their shit list. I don't even know this people, I don't care, it's a work of fiction, and last time I checked, I don't owe them a goddamn thing. But my mother actually said to me, "if I disapprove of your book, are you still going to get it published," and my answer to that was, "fuck yes!" To which she responded that she was appalled. She hasn't read it. I told her I was appalled that, after all my hard work on it, she'd expect me to just stick it in a drawer and forget about it just to protect her.

Now, I don't know about you, but writers who work hard to get published aren't spineless, gutless mushballs who allow other people to dictate what they can and can't write about. Mostly, I am upset that she believes her feelings, however misguided, to be of significantly more importance than my hard work and my realizing my lifelong dream of publishing a novel. I did not set out to upset her and make her look bad in writing this novel. Further, I never granted her creative or editorial control over it, and the fact that she can't trust me, or support me, just makes me sick.

I have poured my heart and soul, crapped up my resume, sat at my computer and cried, and cut out meaningful things like improv in order to complete my novel and for her to claim that the off-chance that some old fart not approving is more important than that is unbelievable to me.

I am so angry and hurt right now I want to scream.

my beautiful readers

Amy has inquired about the embarrassing book that I mentioned in the last post. But before I get to that, I am going to write about Amy.

I have been blogging for nearly seven years. In the beautiful, early, nascent days of Diaryland 2001, I managed to earn a fabulous circle of loyal readers/writers who became my invisible Diaryland friends: Amy, Christi, Alastair, some others whose real names I never learned, and of course, the inimitable and much-missed Chad. Most of them have been reading every word I issue here on these internets for years and years, even managing to make the jump when I changed URLs back in 2004. So I just want to say thank you to them and let them know I'm still thinking about them and appreciate their continued interest in my bullshit.

The book is
(oh god, this is EMBARRASSING)
Skinny Bitch

You know, you've read articles about it. Publishing phenom. Diet book written in bitchy tone that is half PETA propaganda, half weight loss advice, wrapped in a pretty "just eat healthy and love yourself" bow. I skimmed through the slaughterhouse bullshit--I don't care, I eat meat, I'm well aware of how gross it is, and I have no intention of stopping. However, I have been packing an extra, worrisome ten pounds for a couple of years now and I endeavor to lose it, and if I can do that by cutting out the animal food and upping my exercise, that seems to be a reasonable, healthy way to do it. I am hitting the big 3-2 in a month or so and my metabolism is only going to get shittier, so I feel I must act now.

God, I am so ashamed. My indie rock snobbery extends to the publishing world. Yikes.

I am heading back to the ATX right now, and am in the mercifully not-awful section of the SD airport. Hallelujah.

nerds?!?

Whilst in L.A. with J-cakes and his b-friend, we happened into one of our nation's top independent bookstores. I was on hot pursuit of a book I am a wee bit embarrassed to admit I wanted (big reveal later) but in my browsing I found a book by a Bennington prof named Dr. D. Anderegg titled "NERDS: Who They Are and Why We Need More of Them."

NERDS! Now there's a topic I can relate to, can sink my teeth into, and can rally around. NERDS! Why we need more of them: because, he posits, the nerd stereotype is so negative and damaging, it causes otherwise smart kids to do poorly in school and avoid excelling in math and science to avoid being marked a nerd. The USA is woefully behind other developed nations in test scores, math/science college grads, and therefore working doctors, engineers, and scientists. He also discusses the recent move to pathologize nerdiness as a mental illness, Asperger's being everyone's favorite armchair diagnosis du jour. My take on that is its a way for parents to dodge culpability when their kid starts acting "weird," i.e. not outgoing/athletic/popular; focused/obsessed/bookish. Rather than nurture their child's talents and let them be who they are, they cling to the possibility that their kid can be "cured" or at least excused, socially, because who wants to dog a kid who's sick?

Anyway, Dr. A goes into a lengthy diatribe about the American cultural tradition of anti-intellectualism (damn, I wish I would have known more about this in college--this would have made a great AmStud thesis topic) and how the USofA is about "men of action, not men of reflection.' Scholars are pussies, and nerdballs like Ichabod Crane have to be spooked out of town so the pretty maiden can marry the strong asshole and no one has to do anymore homework.

I'm enjoying the book immensely and have been considering my own pro-nerd/anti-nerd biases (though I like and respect all forms of scholarship, I tend to dislike gamers and/or men who wear tie-dye shirts tucked into UtiliKilts). Nerds come in different sizes, shapes, and flavors. Bob is a science/computer nerd and I'm a words/literature nerd, but we have come together to form what amounts to a diverse nerd supercouple. Who says nerds can't get laid or fall in love?

Johnnycakes

Today, Little Bro and I are traveling to L.A. to visit nationally acclaimed home composter John Kamp. Johnnycakes, as he is known to myself and Swilkes, is one of my most favorite people. I have not laid eyes on his kind little face in four years, so it will be a pleasure to reunite with him.

We will be taking the train to L.A. and experiencing it Johnnycakes-style (i.e. sans car, on public transpo), which excites me to no end. I might actually LIKE L.A. if I don't have to drive it.

Also, my sexy husband appears as a guest of the fabulous Backpack Picnic in this awesome sketch. He's the doctor at the end. Foxy! He's got the best goofy face! Rrowr!

Clive

This is my new friend Clive. Clive is the Volvo test dummy and has been promoting Swedish safety since 1964. He is now available in plush doll form. He belongs to my mom. Clive and I will be spending a lot of time together this weekend whilst I am in the 'Mar with the fam. Clive is all about safety.x

Hail Bouldin

I, without fail, do good work, meet interesting people, and run into friends at Bouldin Creek. Viva!

weak constitution

Though I love, with all my heart, the daily indulgence that is FOOD, I must say, food sometimes gets the better of me. Or maybe it's a bug, who knows? At any rate, as I entered the very fun and pleasant celebration at Kristin & Bryan's new home last evening (a lovely home if I do say so), I found myself with a stabbing stomachache after the first sip of my Shirley Temple (another reason why that party was so great was that K&B had the good hosting foresight to put out grenadine at the bar. grenadine makes a party.). I had to cut the hostess off mid-sentence to go do unspeakable things in her bathroom (which is a very nice bathroom, btw). In the very nice bathroom I saw a bottle of ferret shampoo that was cucumber-melon scented. You, too, can make your ferret smell like cucumber-melon. As I was stricken by swift-exiting #7s, I wondered to myself if the ferret notices that it smells like shampoo rather than its normal musky self?

This worried me, because Bob and I had spent the better part of the evening preparing dinner for our next-door neighbors M&J, who recently had a baby. Bob likes to provide meals for new parents and so we took two homemade pizzas to them, and then we came home and ate our pizza, and now I'm worried that we committed the HEINOUSLY EMBARRASSING faux pas of giving sickness-inducing pizza to M&J. Bob did not get sick, so this could be an isolated incident. I am not known for having a hearty stomach. It could have been anything, really.

I chugged several capfuls of HEB-brand STOMACH RELIEF (house-brand Pepto) upon our return home (early--the party was just kicking it up a notch when I dragged Bob away from it). I couldn't help but notice, as Bob ferried the car towards out house (deftly running a red light), that a new outfit called A+ BUFFET was advertising its arrival on our shores upon cheesy yellow street signs. "Ew," I thought, trying to keep myself together. That is not how you advertise a restaurant, much less a botulism-and-e.coli-fest with "over a hundred things for you to eat." A+ Buffet gets an F- in my book. It sounds like a front for mob activity.

I don't think that having a buffet of 100+ items has any real place anywhere but Vegas, and certainly the manpower required to prevent foodborne illness, plus all that food that would end up getting tossed at the end of the day anyway, makes little business sense.

I am tired and still a bit sick, so I am going to go crawl into a hole now. Kisses.

i got to hold a baby today

And that was pretty much the high point of the day.

I'm really not maternal, but two-week old wriggling, very alert, adorable girl babies are the bomb-schmiggity.

Hillary Pt. 2

In all this Hillary kerfuffle, I find it astounding that a man wanted to marry me, and even (get this, folks), ENJOYS being married to me. I'm not worried about the love part--I'm very lovable--but it seems that someone of my ilk would be found "intolerable," "intimidating," even "screechy." Being tall and smart ain't worth shit when it's got a pussy. I'm just speaking my truth, here. Thank GOD I married a fellow nerdy, frumpy person or else people would be speculating that I'm "domineering," that Bob doesn't really love me, or that he married me for my money/connections.

Or that he's gay. (He's not gay)

I, like Hillary, will grow older, and probably not as well as Julie L., so if I get too successful, someone will call me "aging," "withered," and "cronish." I also look forward to many comparisons to Bea Arthur. My big nose is going to be grounds for a serious field day in the 2030s.

Also, my vagina will dry up.

I love you, Hillary

In some significant way, I owe a debt of gratitude to Hillary R. Clinton. Many women do, though it seems that most would be loathe to admit it. I count Hillary, along with Sassy Magazine, both contributors to the short but sweet pro-feminist moment that existed in an eyelash bat back in '92, as one of the many forces of good that shaped me into who and what I am today. Unlike what seems like everyone else, I have liked and admired Hillary from the get-go. I don't always agree with what she does or says (that Iraq vote sucked and it would have been nice if she'd have given Bill a bit more of an asshole-ripping over Monica), but the fact that she has been relentless and successful in most arenas of her professional life, married a stone-cold hottie and was a mother to a child who never got busted for underage drinking, all in the face of some serious shit from the Republicans, the media, and even her fellow females, is something that should be lauded.

Of course, it isn't lauded. Why? Because still, in 2008, women still have to work harder than men for respect. At every turn, there will always be a critic who can turn any woman's good deed or misstep into an opportunity for character assassination. This whole "tearing up" episode that the pundits are weighing in on. It's like Howard Dean all over again, only this time instead of questioning her sanity based on a few videotaped seconds of open emotion, they're questioning her sincerity. And of course they'd go after that--Hill's a bitch after all. A stone cold bitch. Of course, if she didn't countenance a steely exterior, they'd be all over her for being too soft. Too (what did Bush's team try to frame Kerry as?) feminine.

I've never understood how countries like Pakistan, Bangladesh, and India could have female prime ministers but the U.S. never could. I admit, I do not know enough about their cultures to understand how, amid such alleged misogyny, a woman could be elected to the highest office. If anyone can explain that, I'm eager to hear it. But casting disrespect towards women, even in such a "casual" or "funny" way, is something that we're so used to, a lot of women don't even notice it or take issue.

Anyway, I'm tired of people hating on Hillary without a decent reason why. Sure, she voted in favor of Iraq, but so did fucking Kay Bailey Hutchison and I don't hear much about about her. Yeah, KBH ain't running for president, but there's something about Hillary that people won't forgive her for. And no one talks about how Obama's got his hand in the health care cookie jar, too. He's too good looking for our scorn.

So what's with Hill? Is it that she got to blaze trails, go down in history, be a frump married to a fox? She got it all, and she's the only one, so people have to gang up on her and publish hateful shit journalism about her "show of emotion." Fuck that. Thank you, Hillary, for having the chutzpah to go after what you wanted, for working hard and staying the course in the face of enormous opposition to everything you do, from the votes you tender in the Senate to what your skin looks like on a Tuesday. Even after you're told that you're wanting to be the first female president of the US of A makes you a bitch who is cunning and purely ambitious. You can't do anything right and so you do what you think is right. And that's all we can reasonably hope for, yes?

They'd never say that about you if you were a man, would they?

gentle beauty

I took my Corolla to the dealership today for a biannual oil change/check-up. When I bought my car, or rather, fought tooth or nail against getting screwed in the cornhole by a pack of hungry, drawling, trickster Toyota dealers, they threw in a lifetime supply of free oil and filter changes. Probably to balance out some other way they were robbing me so blind I couldn't even see that they were robbing me. Can't beat free, so I drove Gilda down to South 1-35 at Stassney, a hood I rarely haunt, and handed her over to the lube goons for some lovin'.

During the three hours that I sat, patient and ladylike, in their holding pen, complete with free gym sock coffee and the latest torture/primary news from CNN issuing its subliminal buzz, I noticed that every car entering and exiting the drop-off bay was a late model Corolla like mine. Their singular, sensible drivers would hand over the keys to the maroon-shirted service personnel and huddle inside for THREE ENTIRE HOURS, not talking, maybe reading the paper.

It was then that I decided to turn my attentions to the gentle beauty of sameness. The Corolla is a boring car. It's faultless, bland, productive, demure, deliberately uncool. It does its job, which is to get you from point A to point B with minimal annoyance. It is trusty and dependable, affordable. It comes in a wide variety of bland, unoffensive colors like white, tan, burgundy, and dark gray. Mine is green, a color they only offered in Model Year 2005. Some drivers jazz it up with a spoiler or faux woodgrain dash paneling.

It is the car driven by so many Americans that it defies a sense of identification. Two people on the polar opposite ends of the coolness spectrum (that would be me and my ex-stepdad) can drive the same car and not be defined by it. You would be smart to buy a Corolla. They are long-lasting, simple, and you never have to think about them. They bring the best parts of marriage to car ownership.

Part of my quest in being a capital-W Writer is finding simple gifts in ordinary and/or irritating circumstances. Being trapped at Shitheel Toyota for over three hours could easily be an occasion for bitching and complaining, but instead I decided to enjoy the multitude of oil-thirsty Corollas (and two Priuses) rolling past, waiting to get raised upon the lift. This is what connects me to other people. Corollas unite.

Making Female Connections

I've been out of sorts lately and I'm wondering if its because my activities--Geegsters, writing group, reunion committee--have been on hiatus for a while. I love feeling like I'm part of something and without my beloved activities (all of which, save for GGG, are all-female, which is weird because you'd thing GGG was all-female but it isn't) I'm like that fish in that early '90s Faith No more video, flopping around out of water to a slow, leading-into-death piano arrangement. I am also prone to seasonal depression this time of year, so there you go. I'm not such a happy Mo these days.

I was reading the bio of a writer/comedian more famous and successful than myself, and in her bio it read that she once did a comedy act at the MICHIGAN WOMYN'S MUSIC FESTIVAL?!?!?!? For those of you who don't understand exactly what that is and why I had to write it out in all caps, the MICHIGAN WOMYN'S MUSIC FESTIVAL is the world's largest convergence of female hippie earth mother touchy-feely lesbian spell-it-with-a-Y feminist-type ladies. I myself have never been and only know it through Alison Bechdel's comic about how much she hates it, its ongoing controversy over their "womyn-born womyn only" policy (meaning NO MTF TRANNIES ALLOWED!), and a few first-person anecdotes that usually end with someone coming down with Hep C. It sounds, at least to my regularly-exposed-to-penis, I-guess-I'm-straight-yawn, Seven-Sister-School-grad ass, fucking ridiculous.

I want to go.

It then occurred to me that the Geegsters could apply to be part of the comedy showcase at the MICHIGAN WOMYN'S MUSIC FESTIVAL!!! Holy SHIT that would make for a story! Exposure to such sexually-charged, down-with-dudes energy would probably split up the troupe. I mean, there would be a lot of boobs to grab. Exposed. I don't think privacy is such a big thing there--open-air public showers, sex au naturel. And we wouldn't be able to bring Brock-tune, owing to his manhood. Maybe we could get Melissa Ferrick to cover?

We could teach a workshop alongside such courses as "breast-casting for womyn of color" and "confronting internalized misogyny." Somehow, our happy-go-lucky approach to girldom, with our pink-and-black couture and string of defunct opening theme songs with lyrics like "snorting cocaine off prostitutes" would have us met with reproach by the dominant paradigm. The Geegsters are in no way enemies of feminist/queer thought, but one could argue that we don't really have Michigan-goers in mind when we do our shows. However, as someone who has spent a lot of time in all-female environments, it seems that I haven't really come full circle on that until I've spent a week in Michigan (which, is conveniently near my in-laws' house--how I'd explain this to them is beyond me, but they don't ask a lot of questions, so...).

Oh, I still want to go! Being there would be as close as I'll ever get to feeling like a Republican!

Sadly, the performer application deadline has passed, so no MICHIGAN WOMYN'S MUSIC FESTIVAL for us this year. I could still go as an attendee, shower in front of other womyn and possibly contract Hep C. Sounds like a good time.

the old ladies, of course

I've been invited to contribute one line to the Smith 2008 Reunion Brochure on "Why I'll be at reunion." It has to be reasonably upbeat, peppy, positive, and somewhat sincere, though as I recall, sincerity was never much of a priority chez Ladycollege.

There are a lot of reasons I'll be at reunion, but I have to think hard since my name will be right next to the quote, so it can't be like this:

"I'll be at reunion because I love seeing all those old lady alums lined up, looking so proud, wearing plastic rain bonnets! CUTE!"

"Because those bitches fucking piss me off, and the only way to reconcile that is to get drunk and sing Karaoke with them at Vets."

"I am a sucker for Northampton in spring. So pretty, so damp."

"Reunion is the only time in my post-collegiate life that I get to sleep in a shitty bed in a Smith house and have tofu sausage scramble hot and ready for me when I get up."

"Cunts are sluts, dawg, and you gotta roll wit it."

"Magic Hat #9, chee-ken brah-lee from T&T, and a shit-ton of BDOCs who have abandoned their faith in poon and are now married to men!"

"Smith owes me a good time after making me suffer through six hours of fucking NCBI."

Any ideas?

giant cinnamon rolls

Sometimes, a person just needs a little comfort. A little hug from the universe. You know it and I know it. Some people are the hug. Some people need the hug more than others. How can I comfort you in your time of need? How about a giant cinnamon roll, dripping with butter and icing? Hand-rolled homemade baked in an industrial oven. It is still warm when I hand it to you. Resting on a napkin. Fresh and gooey like a good day of childhood. Yes. Giant cinnamon roll. You feel better now. Yes.

Today was a day that lights twittered on and off. The light in our living room was demonstrating malfeasance and lack of team spirit and was flickering like our home was a cut-rate disco. At the Thai restaurant where we ate dinner tonight (The Tits, of course) they were having a similar lighting problem. I had placed a $20 bill to cover the tab on the table. I told Bob I would give him $20 if he made the lights go back on and when they did he snatched the $20. Then I told him he had to pay for dinner with it. He scowled. The diners at the adjacent table laughed at our shenanigans, earning them two free AIC tickets.

My hip sockets hurt after a marathon four hours sitting in an inferior wooden chair at Quack's, where I drank coffee and forced myself to read Novel #1 in its entirety, making notes as I went. HOLY SHIT is it hard to read your own writing, especially when you have such high hopes for it. I want it to be in the world, to do good, to be smart and cute and happy-making. I worry about it. This is as close to parenting as I will ever get. And all it is is words on paper. Imagine how it must feel when it's your flesh.

If it were flesh, you know what I'd do? I'd give it a giant cinnamon roll! Then it would feel comforted and loved. Actually, a novel is more like a workhorse than a child. I take everything I said back.

"it just hides your michelines!"

Today at Julie & Chris's New Years party, Shando, an important member of the Maudit Readership, was sharing his amusement at my story about the split-screen ham/phone sex television experience in Barcelona. I recalled that the ham promotion was part of Spain's "as seen on TV" website, which in Spanish is directoacasa.es. Bob was taking a nap during the ham and the phone sex (a pity really) but he did manage to see a similar promotion for a ladies girdle product called "Body Triple Accion."

The ad, much to Bob's amusement, begins with a woman grabbing her tubby midsection, lamenting her "michelines." Michelines sounds like the Michelin Tire Man, known around Europe for having many rolls on the abdominal area. Since then, Bob has been referring to his belly as his "michelines," even though he has denounced the Body Triple Accion as an inadequate product.

See the ad for yourself!

And when your done grabbing your michelines, watch the ham video. (sans phone sex)

two-thousand and eight

At our house, 2008 started with vomiting, and not the good kind of hung-over vomiting that denotes boozy good times. This was sad, sick vomiting, and it was Bob and the nice Italian dinner I made him take me out for because it was New Years Eve and I thought I had scored when he decided to stop eating and I got to eat his last meatball (because I am a meatball-lusting harpy). But it all came up and we had to employ the goodness of Pine Sol and it was bad. We both fell asleep before the clock struck twelve because we are a pair of ill geezers.

2008!

I wish you a nice 2008.

My big goal for the year is to get me some representation for the novel. That's right: agent. I just have to find one nice agent to fall in love with my novel and my 2008 goal will be met. It would be really nice if said agent also found a nice publishing house that wanted to publish my novel. Then two goals would be met. How's that for nice?

I want to say to everyone that it is okay not to have goals, or resolutions, or whatever, because life is to be lived, not planned. I was raised to be so goal-oriented that I've found myself paralyzed with fear of failure. F that!

Again: you should have a happy new year. 2008 should be nice, even if that 8 makes me feel old because I have my first-ever double-digit Ladycollege reunion to attend in four and a half months.