I’ve Written More Serious Posts Than This

Honestly, I have some meaty drafts lying about that will eventually make their way to the screen. But, BUT, I had to pause in that regard to make note of this. Why? Let me unfurl the list (insert flapping/unrolling/unfurling type sounds here):

1.  Seriously? Seriously? They spent time filming and editing this?

2. Seriously?

3. I nearly died watching the whole thing. Not from laughter. From brain overloadedness. I mean, over three minutes? Of that? Time I’ll never get back. I’ll be bemoaning that on my death bed at 120.

4. Am I the only one (no, I didn’t read the four million comments, so it’s likely that I’m not beating anyone to the punch here) who noted that the bag of edamame says, in large letters, “Steamables” on it? In the time it took to watch that video I could’ve popped my own bag of steamable edamame into the microwave and been done with it.

5. Seriously?

6. I really want to put that whiny child in time out. For a month.

7. There is nothing even slightly funny about Mr. Dooce pretending  (I hope) to lick the dog’s spay incision. I have the feeling that going down on a dog on camera is illegal, and particularly illegal in Utah. This is TMI. I don’t want to know what you do in the privacy of your home with your dog, but there’s no way she can give consent. And, put the child in time out first so she doesn’t have to witness your depravity.

Caveat: I’m not a Dooce hater. I read Dooce, I sometimes get a real kick out of it. I have questions about the self-righteous marketing of one’s own child to put money in the Edamame fund (maybe they need a label reading fund, too), I have my own dogs so theirs are less than orgasm-inducing, and I wouldn’t shrivel up and die if I forgot about it forever. I do think she’s had some very important things to say about mental illness and motherhood and de-bunking the “it’s all so lovely” viewpoint of mothering. Sometimes she is laugh-out-loud funny.

But this? Seriously? I cannot imagine the sort of life I would need to lead to have time to produce such things. I guess I could do an Andy Warhol sort of thing and set up a camera in front of the microwave and leave it on for FOUR MINUTES while my food cooked.

 

You know my traffic  would skyrocket. Yeah, man, Twit this.

How to Not Impress Me

About five years ago, we faced the point in life in which we required a new washer/dryer set. We had some money for this purpose, and for much the same reason I own, love, and whisper sweet nothings to a Dyson Animal, we came home with the Maytag Atlantis washer and dryer that have the hood ornaments. Nothing says “I’ve arrived” like hood ornaments on applicances. I am mildly disappointed that they aren’t full-on figurines, but we’re not Rockefellers here, we’re just us.

My argument in favor of this was that washers and dryers are USED and used daily, in intense fashion. We have three children, I said, and three dogs. I wash everything. We should get good ones, good ones that will last. So we did.

A year ago, the dryer broke. I opened up the phone book and found The Appliance Doctor. They sent a guy. This guy, he had a lot of tattoos. Not the artistic kind, the “done some time” kind. He liked my tattoo and we had that conversation that anyone with ink has ten times a day. “Where did you get it done?” “Oh, at Oasis 7, Chuck Chapin did it, he’s awesome.” The guy says, “Oh, I get my work done in El Paso at this great place, they do really sick work.” I say, “What’s it called?” and he says, “Pricks.”

Places I will never seek permanent body work at, number one: Pricks.

So this year, this week, the washer begins to emit a toe-curling scream as it spins. I call The Appliance Doctor.

Are you surprised that the same guy showed up? Me either. He says, “Hey! I remember you, you have a cool tattoo!” Yes I do, thanks, the washer is this way, it makes a noise, please fix it.

He fixes it. As I am writing the check, he says, “Hey, so, a friend of mine, he opened a tattoo joint on the East Side of El Paso, it’s totally cool.”

“Oh really?” I say, being polite, “What’s it called?”

“Uh, wait, I have a card, oh, yeah, here it is. SCUMBAGS.”

“Scumbags?”

“Yeah, yeah, Scumbags.” pause. “It’s REAL classy, REAL nice.”

Entry number two? Your line has been filled in.

Sometimes it IS Fun to be a Mommy…

The smallest of the fries on the way to day camp yesterday:

SoF: Mom?

Me: Yes, sweetie?

SoF: What is this word they keep saying on the radio and TV that I don’t know what it means?

Me: What word is that?

SoF: Uh, Rockobama?

Me: A wrestler, sweetie, from WWF.

SoF: Oh. Cool. Can we meet him?

It’s MeMe Friday

Okay, Ilyka tagged me and I’m coming up with that (Kevin, I am working on your infinitely more complicated tag as well, so this one can be an appetizer) and while I was sitting here not working on purses, I happened on Diary of an Anxious Black Woman and decided that what she is up to looked like fun. So, first, for Ilyka, here are the instructions for the mess she got me into:

List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring summer. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

I don’t tag people much ’cause I don’t know anybody, but if you would like to play along you can leave your seven in comments.

Mine:

1. MIKA Love Today. I could listen to this fifteen times an hour and not get tired of it.

2. Everclear Thrift Store Chair. Possibly the best song they ever recorded.

3. Nelly Furtado I’m Like a Bird. This is a total guilty pleasure, but I love her voice.

4. Tori Amos Ireland. There isn’t a bad song on the whole Beekeeper CD.

5. Plain White Ts Hey There Delilah. Did I already use my guilty pleasure card?

6. Jah Wobbles featuring Sinead O’Connor Visions of You.

7. Missy Elliot Work It. Uncensored version, naturally.

Okay, check that off the list, move to the one I stole from Diary of an Anxious Black Woman:

This really appealed to me on a variety of levels, and now I’m really craving some soft-shell crab sushi. Mmmmm…..

Okay, here’s how this works:

rules:

A. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
B. Pick an image, using only the first page.
C. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s mosaic maker.

These are the questions:

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. What is your favorite drink?
7. What is your dream vacation?
8. What is your favorite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One Word to describe you.
12. Your flickr name. Because I blog under my real name without spaces, it didn’t work, and after trying about thirty ideas I went with “green gypsy” because I was tired of thinking about it and it relates to the costume I’m creating for the local Renaissance Faire in the Fall.

That one was excellent fun, I have to say, and I could waste more than an hour on it, but that’s not making me any money. If you do one and don’t have a blog, upload it to flickr and link in comments.

It Was Between Trixie Belden and Honey Wheeler

And we chose Trixie, since there are a lot of dogs out there named Honey (true fans of those old mysteries will know the origin of both names, however). Our newest family member is obviously mostly Pitt Bull, a breed I happen to adore (nothing says “pinch me” like the muscular thighs of a Pitt Bull). According to the shelter, she is part German Shepherd, but frankly, they’ll say anything to get you to take a dog, so they always bill the Pitts as being of mixed heritage. They also said that she was very quiet at night, and very shy, and that she was eight weeks, no, no, sixteen weeks, no, eight or ten weeks old. She’s a puppy, ma’am, okay?

She’s darn cute, is what she is:

  

And one to demonstrate that I like my dogs big:

 

 

That smallest of the fries is no small kid himself–often ranking with the second graders instead of the kindergarteners, if that gives you an idea.

We adopted Miss Trixie on Thursday, but couldn’t take her home until she had been spayed, which happened Friday night or Saturday morning. We brought her home Saturday afternoon (yesterday), and she’s adjusting to the new digs pretty well. The older dogs hate, hate, hate her, but do so quietly and to themselves, as they know perfectly well who’s in charge. The Chihuahua is indignant that the puppy (who is bigger than he is) thinks he’s her age and wants to -gasp- play with him. He is full of wounded pride, thoroughly insulted by her attempts to spring upon him.

At this point she seems to have decided that I am her mommy and she is my shadow, so that no matter where I go, there she is. She understands the dog door, has gone potty outside several times, and slept all night in her crate. Sadly, she was very quiet when, during the night, she had tremendous diarrhea, which resulted in quite the festive morning. I’ll be setting an alarm to get her up during the night, thanks very much. She has yet to bark, which we like, and when she is having crate time she howls, which we think is hilarious (that may change if she decides to sing all night, but last night, as long as she knew I was nearby, she was quiet–far too quiet, as it turned out). She has learned, TWICE, that if she tries to chew the bars on the crate, her nose gets stuck. It hurt. Both times.

She’s not a watch dog yet, of course, but I picked her in large part because when I walk her as a full grown dog, she will send a “Men Making Kissy Noises Will Be Eaten” sort of message. I like that message. A lot.

A Plea for Votes for Violence

One of my best friends, Evil E of the LA Derby Dolls was kidnapped and forced to watch WE TV (I know, the deprogramming cost a fortune!). During her incarceration, though, she found herself compelled to submit a picture of herself and her cat, Lizzy Borden, for the Perfect Pair contest. Up for grabs is $5000 clams, so if you wouldn’t mind, mosey on over there and give them a rating of 10. She’s the only pet owner who describes her pet as “the world’s most violent cat.” Who doesn’t love that? Go here and vote, vote, vote!

 

Happy Halloween!

Glinda 1

Originally uploaded by gennimcmahon

I hosted Bunco this month (don’t worry, we’re the Anti-Bunco league, no church affiliations, and we call it “Drunko” amongst ourselves) and we all came in costume.

I could barely get through the door, my dress was so big. I’d had the wedding dress for years. I bought it at a thrift store for $7, and it was clear that this was the best future use for it. I dyed it with RIT Rose Pink, two bottles, but one would’ve done it. I tend to go overboard. It didn’t dye entirely evenly, but that didn’t detract from the overall effect. I made the crown myself. All told, the costume cost less than $30.

Not bad, if I do say so myself.

I Lack a Certain Modesty, But Look! Look!

I got up to email from my GBF, Jesser, alerting me to this. This is my second time being featured in the paper, and I had no idea I’d be covering most of page C-1 (you can click on the little photo to see a bigger version). This is probably the most famous I’ll ever be, so I figure I’ll make the most of it.

Must make five hundred lunchbox purses immediately……

Cheese and Rice

Every Saturday my sister and I pack up our respective crafts and schlep them to the Farmer’s Market, where we have paid a whopping $40 to lay claim to our (mostly) shaded space on the downtown mall for an entire quarter. Our possession of our space is important, as if there is a more deadly, more high pressure racket than that of the Farmer’s Market in sunny Las Cruces, NM, I’d like to hear about it.

These are not plush digs; it’s outside, for heaven’s sake, and I, Morticia, am no fan of these things they call “nature” and “sunlight.” Slathered in sunscreen, I hang out my handbags while my sister mounts scrapbooks on little easels and hangs retro fabulous aprons on a mock clothesline (we stage our shit, we don’t just throw it out on a table). When she first thought of attempting to join the vendors at the Farmer’s Market, my sister was shopping for supplies at a local bead shop. The woman at the counter enquired as to what she planned to make with her purchases. My sister revealed her market intentions, and the woman placed a hand on her arm and said, in all seriousness, “Make a friend. It’s like prison.”

There have been minor, petty scuffles; an aged Block Captain, his chest puffed with self-importance, would tattle on her for driving on the wrong way when loading or unloading; silly things that didn’t trouble anyone overly much. Today, however, we saw the ugly under belly of the Farmer’s Market.

Next to us is a retired gentleman from California, whom we call Ernesto Frijoles. He makes charming, primitive benches and shadow boxes, and happens to be a Democrat and a feminist and supports gay rights, so, you know, we would like for him to be our new Daddy. He is an artist, his work is first class and we enjoy hanging out with him and his wife, Señora Frijoles. This morning, as we were chatting, a man approached Ernesto’s booth. Without so much as a how-do-you-do or a howdy, he says, loudly, “I been THINKIN’ about you!”

Mildly, eyebrows raised, Ernesto replies, “Oh really?”

“Yeah!” the man cries, “I been thinkin’ about you and your AIR CONDITIONED SHOP while I sweat in mine and make boxes!”

“Ah. Well,” says Ernesto, hesitantly, “It’s, uh, hot.”

“Yeah! Yeah, but I been makin’ boxes, ya’ll can come see ‘em,” he sweeps his arms to include my sister and I, “up at the other end of the market there.” He pauses here, then says, real low, “But you ain’t gonna Rip Me Off.”

“What?” Ernesto is puzzled, and my sister and I are leaning forward like we’re driving past an accident scene.

“YOU ain’t gonna rip me off! You don’t rip me off, I don’t rip you off. You don’t steal my ideas,” the guy says, with an edge, then stalks away.

“What a dick!” Ernesto laughs, “Hell, we go up there and look, I’ll have five of whatever he’s making by next week!!”

Unable to leave well enough alone, my sister wandered over to take the man up on his invitation to view his wooden boxes. Said boxes turned out to be tall rectangular structures, with a box of tissue in the top and a sliding panel that not-so-cleverly disguised spare rolls of TP inside. There was an outhouse style moon cut out of the panel. Essentially, that shit was so far beneath Señor Frijoles’ work that the big, insecure man was quite safe.

He didn’t see it that way, though, and upon seeing my sister he forgot all about his invitation and flew around the booth shouting, “I KNEW IT! HE SENT YOU TO RIP ME OFF! I KNEW he’d do that, you’re on his team and you’re going to rip me off!!!” My sister went tharn, as she is wont to do when a big, sweaty man starts yelling at her for no reason. She stammered that no, no, this was not the intention at all, and he grabbed hold of her shoulders and started shouting, “Ah’m SORRY! Ah’m sorry, but I’ve been in this market for 23 years and people are always ripping me off, and he’s in his air-conditioned shop and I know, I KNOW he’s gonna steal my ideas!”

A smidge overwhelmed, my sister returned to our booth and recounted the further evidence of the man’s insanity to our little section. A few hours later, the guy came by, all friendly, to show us his toilet paper boxes with outhouse motifs, like he hadn’t nearly assaulted my sister for daring to look upon them. We all smiled and nodded, avoiding making any sudden moves and trying not to startle the nut.

Ten bucks says that next week, the only items Ernesto Frijoles has at his booth are outhouse shaped toilet paper holders. Then I’m thinking there’s going to be fight, and since Ernesto is a Democrat, I’m expecting he won’t be armed. The other guy, though, he might well be.

I’ll be bringing the popcorn and the pepper spray.