These are a few of my favorite things

The new trailer for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is pretty cool; although, what is up with Johnny Depp's goofy smile and hairdo?

Coincidentally, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, which is one of my all-time favorites, came out when I was three; but Mr. Na won't be seeing the new one for a few more years.

Today, The Guardian announced the Live 8 lineup in full detail. Hard to believe the first Live Aid was twenty years ago. I was going to summer school then to make up for the history class I failed because I cut too many classes in my junior year. Where were you?

No surprises as far as the lineup: Madonna, U2, Paul McCartney, Robbie Williams, Duran Duran, Coldplay, Dave Matthews; but there will be no Concorde for anyone to hop the pond in a hurry.

I won't be going, but I'm sure VH-1 or someone will be broadcasting it and re-broadcasting it a million times for all to see. I am, however, looking forward to seeing Chris Isaak, Oasis and Kasabian, Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright, and Tears for Fears this summer.

Some more of my favorite summer things:
The smell of Play-Doh (it's a year-round thing but I just got some for Mr. Na so it stirred up memories of Lollipop Camp);
an afternoon thunderstorm;
cherries;
hearing the ice cream truck outside;
daylight at 9 p.m;
bike rides;
swimming outside;
fireworks;
BBQ ribs;
corn on the cob;
outdoor concerts

Warm in Whistler

You know, when you drive 5 hours up north, up to 2100 feet in elevation, to where you can ski during the summer, you think, "ah, this trip will be all about the cooler weather..." Well, think again. I mean, we were prepared for warm temperatures prior to our trek--but Whistler was ROASTING and HUMID with daytime temperatures in the mid to upper 90s. Nonetheless, aside from Mr. Na's wicked heat rash, we had an awesome time.

I had been to Whistler before, but Na, Pa and FiFi had not. We were immediately thrilled by the fact that we were staying right in Whistler Village and that the entire place was just downright dog friendly. FiFi even got to shop at Lush with me and she helped me pick out Sonic Death Monkey among other tasty treats.

The only bummer about the whole trip was the stupid 5k race I entered on Sunday. It really would have been an awesome race if it had just been better organized. The starting line was not where it was supposed to be--and so 300 of us started in a parking lot. Then, while the trail around Lost Lake was properly marked with cones and friendly people for the first 2k, the remaining 1k was not and so I got LOST. I mean, REALLY LOST. And there's just something dreadfully ironic about getting lost on a trail that loops around Lost Lake; but the irony was lost on me on Sunday. I was just livid and by the time I got back to the Village, I gave the "organizers" an earful. But apparently I wasn't the only one who got lost. They were still on the radio trying to find some other wayward souls. Gadzooks! And to think I was on the trail, hopping over piles of fresh bear poop. It definitely wouldn't have been funny if I saw a runner's bib in one of those piles!

Anyway, one of the highlights of the trip was actually the car ride home. British Columbia has to be, by far, one of the prettiest spots in the world. I love the drive between Whistler and Vancouver, where the snow covered mountains meet the sea. Everything is so green and lush--it almost makes Western Washington look pale.

Well, almost.

Why I live in Seattle

Photo is from Mike Siegel/The Seattle Times

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/home/





And just in time to enjoy this gorgeous weather, Na, Pa and Ma are headed to Whistler for the weekend.  Have a nice holiday!

Things that make me sad

I'm a crier. Not, you know, the average crier watching sad movies like Steel Magnolias or The Notebook; I have been found crying over iMac commercials (I'm such a sucker for Kermit the Frog singing "It Ain't Easy Being Green") and the opening credits of "Winnie the Pooh" among other things.

Last night, we actually braved the crowds and saw Star Wars III (I know, I completely went back on my last blog entry...it's a long story) and halfway through it (I won't spoil it), I was crying. The dialogue SUCKED, the acting SUCKED, but all that yucky murder MADE ME CRY!

I just finished watching the season finale of The OC and it left me bawling like a baby. A lot of it, though, also had to do with the fact that I just read that the voices of Fred Flintstone and Tony the Tiger died. That made me sad, too.

An 11 year-old boy was hit by a car down at the bottom of our street yesterday. He was using a crosswalk. One car had stopped; another car attempted to whiz past in the next lane, oblivious to the stopped car in the other lane. All I kept thinking was: it could have been Na. So I spent this afternoon gently telling Na that he can never, ever, ever, ever cross the street without holding my hand. He wanted to know why I was crying. I told him I didn't ever want him to get a bad owie like the boy.

My naturopath called me a "Pusatilla"-- which is actually a wildflower. Women with "Pulsatilla" tendencies are criers. They also tend to be fair haired, fair skinned and blue eyed. After my sister's death and during our adoption turmoil, she gave me a tincture made of Pulsatilla. I took one or two of the smallest doses and cried for an entire day. I called her (in tears) to tell her it wasn't working. She told me that since homeopathic remedies contain trace amounts of "what ails ya" that I'd be feeling blue for one or two days. A few days later, amazingly, my melancholy lifted. It felt awesome, again, to be alive.

I don't mind being a crier, really. All things considered, I'd rather cry out my feelings than keep them bottled inside. And hey, I've got a personality of a flower!

Film Wars: Revenge of the SIFF

So while everyone and their uncle stands in line or squeezes themselves into the front row to watch Revenge of the Sith this weekend, I'm making my plans to go to The Seattle International Film Festival.

SIFF always happens right around the dreariest part of spring in Seattle, when the weather gets warmer but it stays gray and rainy. It's the perfect time for spending 8 hours (most of them daylight) in a darkened movie theater, munching on popcorn and being transported away to different countries.

I've seen some awesome films at SIFF, including Das Experiment, Dirty Pretty Things, and a short called D.E.B.S. which was later made into a full length feature. I think my all-time favorite screening at SIFF was My Dinner With Jimi. Afterwards, Howard Kaylan stood up on stage and did a very cool Q&A. (Of course, it was also pretty cool when princess kanomanom and I saw The Secret Lives of Dentists and Tom Robbins sat behind us). I also got to see Anthony Michael Hall after the screening of Pirates of the Silicon Valley (but secretly wished Noah Wylie was there).

There used to be a time--Pre-Na--when hubby and I would actually create a spreadsheet in Excel to map out all the movies we wanted to see at SIFF. We'd drop about $300 easily on the Festival and spend entire DAYS inside movie theaters, eating the Clif Bars we brought with us to keep our energy levels up. Sadly, those days are gone and now we must choose around babysitting schedules and Papa's travel schedule, so if we're lucky, we'll be able to catch a handful this year. Here's my (partial) wish list:
The Dying Gaul
4
Absolut
Adam & Steve
and Amazing Grace: Jeff Buckley. Sadly, the first showing of it is already sold out!

The Ultimate Monkey Mix for Spring 2005

The spring music mix currently in my MP3 player:


Club Foot - Kasabian
Feel Good Inc - Gorillaz
Silver Rider - Low
Black and White Town - Doves
I Predict a Riot - Kaiser Chiefs
Losing My Edge - LCD Soundsystem
Let Go - Frou Frou
Somebody Told Me - The Killers
and
The Alphabet Lost and Found - They Might Be Giants


p.s. - Mary, your CD is in the mail although I may never forgive you for telling me who won the Apprentice this evening.

Two Angry Forces

I woke up this morning learning that two poingnant events took place 25 years ago today: Mount St. Helens erupted and Ian Curtis of Joy Division hung himself.

I was only 12 at the time--a seventh grader tucked away in a sleepy northern New Jersey town. Suffice it to say neither of those two events affected me at the time. Although I do remember seeing news reports of the blast, I lived 3,000 miles away from Washington State. And I can only assume Curtis's death barely made any news in the U.S., given the volcano's eruption. Even if it had, I didn't become a Joy Division fan for another four years, when New Order took off.

Today, I live within 100 miles of Mt. St. Helens and I'm listening to "Shadowplay" (although I guess I should be listening to Iggy Pop's The Idiot since that was what was on Curtis's turntable when his wife found him in the kitchen).

What a strange day it was.

Mt. St. Helens Photo from AP




Ian Curtis photo from NME

IF TODAY IS YOUR BIRTHDAY...

Your Horoscope for May 15, 2005

You will find yourself in quite a few situations where you have to fight for what you believe. Fortunately, you are not the sort to let others walk all over you, but there is no need to stomp your opponents into the ground. It might also help if you were not quite so touchy about criticism. Just because someone disagrees with you does not make him your enemy.

To celebrate my 37th birthday, I rolled out of bed at 7 a.m. (on a Sunday, no less) and ran Nordstrom's "Beat The Bridge" 8k during a torrential downpour. It opened my sinuses and alleviated the nasty allergy haze I've been under for the past few weeks. Not a bad way to start the day!

So as of today, I am:

13,514 days old
1,167,609,600 seconds
324,336 hours
1,930 weeks (rounded down)


I'll admit I was dreading adding another candle onto my birthday cake; but today I feel like a million bucks!

Coffee Break!

I just finished reading The Nanny Diaries last night--a breath of fresh air compared to my bleak Holocaust repertoire. It was actually a lot better than I thought it would be and as I read it, I wondered how two people collaborated together to co-write a book. I would imagine it'd be difficult to have the same voice coming from two different writers; unless, of course, one writer writes the protagonist and the other the antagonist.

Hmm, that might actually be fun!

And now back to more somber reading...which is getting me in the mood to do more editing.

Happy Mother's Day...and now, back to work!

If it wasn't for the gloomy weather, Mother's Day would have been perfect. Na and Pa treated me to brunch at Palisade, overlooking Elliot Bay and a misty view of the Space Needle. We enjoyed the banana/macadamia nut pancakes, fresh fruit and pastries until we were stuffed beyond words.

Then Na and Pa gave me a present from my favorite clothing store, tastefully wrapped in paper colored by Mr. Na himself.

But the best Mother's Day present of all was later at home, when Na laid his head on my lap as I stroked his head. I'm nuts about that kid and I couldn't picture my life without him in it. Hard to believe he's been "here" for half his little life already. Time has flown.

Pa's back out on the road again, leaving me and Na to hold down the fort until Friday. I've been editing my second chapter. All I can say is that this process is S-L-O-W. At the rate I'm going, Na will be off to college by the time I'm finished!

One woman's luck is another woman's misfortune

This day started out positively shitty. Actually, let me back up and start from yesterday when I accidentally locked the dog in my husband's office for a few hours; and then forgot to close the garage door.

We live on a fairly busy street in a nice, middle class neighborhood; however, I'd be lying if I didn't mention the prostitutes who conduct business less than a mile from here or the transients who come by late at night and knock on the door, offering to mow our lawn for money. This is a city and that's our reality. We still love it here.

So needless to say, when I discovered my garage door having been left open all night, I panicked. Not only are our bikes stowed there, but my husband has a woodshop with many tools.

It could have been worse--luckily only one bike was stolen; but it was my bike and I was PISSED. I was mad at everyone, including hubby because he wasn't home. And, since I didn't want to take my anger out on my son, I called his father:

PA: Hello?

MA: SOMEONE STOLE MY BIKE!

PA: How?

MA: I LEFT THE GARAGE DOOR OPEN ALL NIGHT, THAT'S HOW.

PA: Oh, shit! Did they take anything else?

MA: HOW SHOULD I KNOW? I DON'T HAVE AN INVENTORY OF YOUR TOOLS!

PA: Ok, well, I need you to calm down and...

MA: DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! YOU...

NA: Mommy? I wanna go bye bye!

MA: Not now, honey, Mommy's yelling at Papa.

NA: Why?

PA: Yeah, why are you yelling at me?

MA: BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT HOME!

PA: This would have happened regardless if I was home or not.

MA: THAT'S BESIDES THE POINT...

I'll spare you the rest of the conversation. Especially because he was right. But after finding out we had a $500 deductible for theft loss, I was livid.

Fast forward to a few hours later, as I'm entering my neighborhood. Less than a block from my house, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a bike laying on the sidewalk. I stepped on the brakes.

NA: Mama, what was that?

MA: Is that my bike?

Sure enough, it was. I got out of the car, picked up the bike and put (as much as I could of) it in my trunk. A woman on her front porch waved to me.

WOMAN: Is that your bike?

MA: Yes, it was stolen from my garage last night, which I accidentally left open.

WOMAN: Oh, well, whoever stole it, stole my car!

MA: You're kidding?

WOMAN: Yep, right in front of my house.

MA: Was it unlocked?

WOMAN (blushing): Well, see, I have a baby...

MA: Say no more, my friend. I completely understand.

Anyway, I'm happy I have my bike but sad for my neighbor. Hopefully, the police can lift some fingerprints off of the bike.

On the plus side, it's nice to know I'm not the only one with "mommy memory".

Alone again, naturally...

I'm feeling incredibly ancient today. Maybe it's the ache in my knees and lower back, along with the sore throat. It's probably also my 2-1/2 year-old sucking the very life out of me. He's different when Papa isn't around. He tests me more and he's clingier--though the funny thing is, he doesn't ask for Papa.

Anyway, have I mentioned before how much it sucks being a single parent? I don't know how people do it, but hats off to them who do!

On top of feeling icky, I'm also tired of being alone. I've been used to being alone for hours on end all my life, but there comes a point in time where having a conversation with yourself in your head gets pretty boring. Oh, sure, sure, I have someone here to talk with 24/7, but my daily dialogue consists of this:

"Eat your food."
"No"
"Do you have to go pee?"
"No"
"Why didn't you tell me you had to go pee pee?"
"I dunno"
"If you don't listen to me, you're getting a time out."
"No."
"Leave the dog alone."
"Tell FiFi to leave my toys alone."
"I'm going to count to three..."
(usually triggers an action, not a verbal response)
"Eat with your spoon."
(is usually followed by picking up the spoon).

I don't have a lot of Mommy friends and come to think of it, I don't have a lot of friends here, period. All of my close friends are really far away--and the funny thing is, if we lived in the same town, we'd all hang out together because we're all parents. So needless to say, my husband is my social stratum. Pretty sad, eh? Well, a lot of my childless friends have kinda disappeared--and probably because my kid is firmly attached to me whenever they see me anymore. So I spend endless hours alone, though not necessarily alone. It's not like I can use this "alone" time to write since my hands are usually filled with wet wipes/food/choo choos--you name it.

At the end of the day, though, I still wouldn't trade my life for anything.

Selling A Vowell

I'm bummed I missed Sarah Vowell at the Elliot Bay Book Company last week. Her acerbic wit, coupled with her voice make for great reading and seeing her live at Bumbershoot with Dave Eggers was a memorable pee-in-your-pants experience.

I rented The Incredibles over the weekend and the bonus disc contains an essay from Vowell who plays Violet in the movie. I thought it was a clever cross promotion for her because she somehow managed to tie her experiences of playing a superhero teenage daughter to her latest book Assasination Vacation. I'll have to remember that little marketing tip for when I star in a film and the DVD release coincides with my book hitting the stands.

In any event, I haven't picked up Assasination Vacation yet, but the historical aspect has got me looking forward to reading it soon.

Jetset Na and His Single Mom

As of today, I'm a single mom for two weeks. Mr. Na's Pa hopped on a plane this morning to go "home" (where he grew up...somewhere in some flyover state), so he could be with his family. His father is having his cancerous bladder removed on Monday. Yuck. Then, after next week, he's off to one of my favorite west coast cities, where the temperature stays 67 degrees all year round (lucky stiff). Thankfully, he'll be home in time for my birthday!

All in all, it's not so bad being spouseless for awhile. I get to see movies hubby won't and I get to spend my evenings catching up on my reading and writing (or more like editing, as the case may be). If anything, I feel worse for him for having to go to the midwest and deal with all that; and moreso for his Dad who is losing a major organ. I don't know what I'd do without my bladder. Sure, it's been a pain in the ass a lot of the time, but I wouldn't go so far as getting rid of it. I'm hoping I'll never have to.

Today, I took Mr. Na to his soccer practice (er, as much as 2-3 year-olds practice soccer) and then we went to the Museum of Flight where we got to board The Concorde. I've always been fascinated by it and I'm pretty sad Mr. Na will never see one in the air. I was around 8 or 9 the first time I saw one in flight, which had to have been around 1976 or '77. Traffic practically went to a dead stop on the Long Island Expressway when one was either taking off or landing out of Kennedy on a muggy summer afternoon. The sonic boom sounded as if the sky cracked wide open.

I'll admit, seeing the inside of the Concorde it's not as impressive as I had imagined. The seats are not much roomier than a coach seat on a 747; but I suppose when the elite absolutely, positively HAD to get across the Atlantic Ocean in half the time for some really super-huge emergency (or, in the case of Phil Collins, who had to be at the Philly Live Aid four hours after playing the Wembledon Live Aid), paying $10k for a seat was worth it.

Hmm... I guess.



Lookit the nose on that thing!
p.s. yes, Mary, he's wearing the Ramones shirt you sent!

Music to my Ears...

And while we're on the subject of Sheer Bliss, I just heard the best sounds a Mother could ever hear while writing on her laptop: a nearly three year-old getting off of the toilet by himself, FLUSHING said toilet, putting the potty seat back on his own potty and closing it, standing on said potty, turning on the water at the sink, grabbing the soap from the soap dish--then PUTTING IT BACK and finally, shutting OFF the water.

All by himself!

(Sigh). I'm taking the rest of the day off! :-)

Rhapsody = Sheer Bliss

I'm really digging our new Real Rhapsody subscription. Despite the fact that it's streaming audio, the sound quality is amazing and they have a database of over a million songs. But what I love best is I can create my own radio station by listing a few of my favorite bands. The player then cross references other bands in that genre and plays them as well. So, like, my radio station (which I named K-MUNK) has artists I listed like: Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, Depeche Mode, The Smiths, The Jesus and Mary Chain, New Order, The Dandy Warhols, Low, and Duran Duran. The database includes music from: Yaz, The Power Station, Erasure, ABC, Pet Shop Boys, Morrissey, Cocteau Twins, Psychadelic Furs, The Church, Robyn Hitchcock, etc.

Of course, like any other music site, Rhapsody has some limitations as well. For instance, there is not ONE Radiohead song in the database (which hubby is actually quite happy about). But brand new releases make their debut immediately--like, for instance, Ben Folds'Songs for Silverman which just came out this week.

One of Hubby's is called Requiem for a Singe. Here's the playlist:
RHAPSODY Link

Monkey - George Michael
Shock the Monkey - Peter Gabriel
Brass Monkey - The Beatie Boys
Bad Monkey - Love and Rockets
Monkey Gone to Heaven - The Pixies
Monkey in the Family - Happy Mondays
Monkey Man - The Specials
Monkey Wrench - Foo Fighters
Monkey Murders - The English Beat
The Monkey Dance - The Wiggles
Me and My Monkey - Robbie Williams
The High Monkey Monk - Cocteau Twins
Welcome to the Monkey House - The Dandy Warhols
and...
The Union of the Snake -- (The Monkey Mix)-- Duran Duran


I'm flattered! He made a playlist for me AND he used awesome songs!

Jonathan Safran Foer at Chop Suey

I have this woman to thank for turning me on to Jonathan Safran Foer. She knew that a) I was writing a novel based on the Holocaust and b) I was about to adopt a child from Ukraine and so as she handed me Everything is Illuminated, she said, "You of all people must absolutely read this."

It's a fabulous book and I'm so excited to read his latest, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close next.

Last night, the author made a special appearance at Chop Suey and he brought along fellow author Charles D'Ambrosio and a band, aptly named "Awesome." Though the smoke was bothersome and the lines for the signings were completely disorganized, it still made for a fun evening. Both of the author readings were fantastic.

Safran Foer read an exerpt from Extremely Loud... which is told by a nine year-old boy named Oskar, who says that somewhere he had heard that there were more people alive on the planet now than all of the people who had died since the world began and that if you stop and think about it, that meant that not everyone could play Hamlet at once because there wouldn't be enough skulls to use (now you can see why I'm looking forward to reading the rest of the novel!)

As a writer who has tackled the Holocaust and has written about historical events including the bombing of Dresden, he inspired me by saying that he didn't get hung up on the facts nor did he rely too heavily on research. And though he had been to Ukraine prior to writing Everything is Illuminated, he wasn't too specific and he felt that since the country was so bland (though I beg to differ), it enabled him to use more imagination.

For my novel, I hope to fall somewhere in between Safran Foer and Alan Furst who tends to bog the reader down with almost TOO much detail, which, personally, bores the crap out of me.

Safran Foer laughed when I told him I had given my copy of Everything is Illuminated to my translator in Ukraine (who facilitated our adoption). I figure now he knows that at least ONE copy of the book is in Ukraine. I'm really looking forward to seeing the movie when it's released in August!

Yummy Mommies or M.I.L.F? Which is worse?

Writer Sprout, my dear friend who recently left the Emerald City for the Big Apple posted this article on her website.

So it got me thinking (and I posted this comment on her blog):
I've never heard of the term "Yummy Mommy" though I have heard of the acronymn "M.I.L.F." (Mothers I'd Like to Fuck). I can't decide which one is more degrading...they're equally moronic and both the product of some cheese-eating demographer who doesn't get enough action on his own (er, uh, maybe too much on his own and not enough with another partner). In any case, so long as there are Mommies on the playground who are stupid enough to wear Jimmy Choos whilst chasing after their toddlers, these labels will continue to exist. Me? I'm quite happy with my Nikes, thank you; but although you won't catch this Mommy dressing frumpy or changing her figure, I'd be the first to put your eye out if you called me either.

Plain ol' "Monkey" will do, thank you!

Phooey!

In case you were wondering where I've been lately, I've been reading one of the worst novels ever written: The House of Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

I know that having been an English major I should bow down to Mr. "Canonized" Hawthorne but, I've been out of school for 15 years and I'm sorry, my time is FAR MORE PRECIOUS now than when I was in school; therefore, I must write, with all due respect: Hawthorne's writing is what it is, and in my opinion, it's garbage.

I decided that since I didn't read The House of Seven Gables in high school or college, I'd read it now. So I did and the only reason why I'm wasting space now in my blog is to vent about some of the garbage English students are required to read. How could anyone, let alone a squirmy teenager, sit through 22 pages of endless, tedious narrative?

If it's one thing I've learned about being a parent, it's that I value what little free time I have. Wasting it on a shitty novel really pisses me off!

Ok, that's the end of my vent. I feel better now, thanks for reading!

Bela Lugosi is dead. Really.

Hubby and I had a date on Saturday night and for the first time in a long while, we decided to go "clubbing." I'm using that term loosely because--for all of you who know my darling life partner, he's Mr. Preppy and owns maybe two or three black articles of clothing: one of which is the sweater he wore on our date. I think after five years of marriage, his preppiness has rubbed off on me, too, as I don't own much "club wear" anymore either.

Quite a contrast given that my previous husband was Mr. "New Romantic" or whatever you want to call it (I can't really call him a Goth since he wasn't into the undead, nor did he invest in white pancake makeup), but he wore his hair much like Robert Smith when we were in college and had more eyeliner in his makeup collection than many of his feminist roommates.

I never really played the part, you know, of Siouxsie to my first husband's Robert Smith--but I loved going out to clubs with him and dancing until all hours and never really thought twice about the weirdos around me. To me, they were actors in a play and dance was their form of expression--even if it was just swaying back and forth while making hand gestures to various lyrics. Besides, I went to high school in Southern California--where we had Goths, Mods and Punks in addition to Burnouts, Surfers and Preppies. It came with the territory.

After feasting on nummy Italian fare at Machiavelli including several glasses of wine, we ventured to The Bad Juju Lounge, passing some friends of hubby's who were also trolling clubs in the vicinity. They looked at us quizzically as if to say "what are you doing here?" (I actually wore khakis on Saturday because clubbing was not premeditated--more like planned after the wine)--to which I replied, "Well, if anyone gives us any shit, we'll just smile and start speaking German." Feigning tourists always throws people off.

We were bored at Bad Juju. The DJ--a small Mexican woman who looked to be about 50--was playing some good stuff--some Jesus and Mary Chain and The Damned; but then she started playing "Fox on the Run" by Sweet and I was ready to bail. That song invokes way too many emotions in me as it was Hubby #1's most favorite as he was going through his Glam phase. Just as the Jack and Coke began to kick-in, I grabbed hubby and we pushed on to The Vogue.

Now, the Vogue has always held a special place in my heart, since it's one of the first clubs I went to when I moved to Seattle. At the time, though, it was Downtown in a much nicer space than it's current address. But after we paid our cover charge and made our way to the bar in the back, I couldn't stop laughing. It wasn't just the cross dresser pole dancing in a skirt and a G-string; nor was it the overweight, middle aged Goths donned in lace-up latex and black lipstick. It was that this place hadn't changed at all, but I had. I suddenly found myself repulsed with everything around me--except maybe the music. UNTIL they played "Pure Energy" from Information Society. I almost spit out the contents of my drink and yelled "WHAT THE FUCK?" when I looked over at my barmate--a guy with a shaved head wearing a Bauhaus t-shirt who was just ROCKIN out to the synth beat and electric drums and I said, "AW, COME ON. ARE YOU FOR REAL? DID YOU ACTUALLY LIKE THIS SONG IN 1988?" To which he replied, "I ACTUALLY SAW THEM IN CONCERT AT DV8--OR WHATEVER IT WAS BACK THEN."

I couldn't believe it. A Goth gone soft? I was shocked. I was appalled.

The DJ then played "She Sells Sanctuary" by the Cult and my ever-so-witty husband turned to me and said, "You know, it's ok to loathe these people." (editor's note: if you haven't seen the movie Singles, please watch it. You'll get the joke, I promise!)

After a few more drinks, I made my way upstairs where people were writing down their song requests for the DJ. I perused the list which looked all too benign for the crowd below: Duran Duran, Portishead, etc. I wasn't really thinking too much (or, too clearly) so I wrote Propaganda (anything...) and left a smiley face on the end of the ellipses. Suddenly, I heard this "YEAH! YEAH!" coming from behind me and when I turned I saw the DJ giving a "Whoop Whoop" and making a mad dash for the record. I guess I made him happy.

As soon as the current song was over, I heard the familiar start of Propaganda's "P-Machinery" and laughed at hubby who stood there with a perpetual smirk on his face as he took in the scenery. I made my way out onto the dance floor and began my sway/hand gesture dance. All I needed was a clove cigarette and I would have been in heaven.

We left right after "P-Machinery" so we could end the night on a good note. The long walk back to the car (parked on Melrose) did us some good. We marveled at the pole dancers (some who brought their own liquid wax with them!) and the others who looked as though they had been regulars since the club began. Me--I'm too old for this shit and I mean that not because I'm 36. Hell, everyone there looked like they were in their mid-thirties. But I just feel as though my life is more enriched than it was when I spent my weekends dancing.

Besides, getting Mr. Na up after an evening of drinking really, really SUCKS!

Springtime ! ? ! ? !

I have a love/hate relationship with spring.

I love it because it's warmer, but here in Seattle, we still have a long way to go before we get several days without rain; I love Daylight Savings so that now it's lighter later but it usually takes me a few weeks to get over the hour I've lost; I love everything in bloom, but I have the worst allergies this time of year; and I love the tulips in my garden though I know it marks the beginning of gardening season for me and mowing my lawn on a regular basis.

Yes, I mow my lawn--and it's a back breaking endeavor. It's not like I live on any sort of acreage or anything (LOL, for those of you who've been to my house) but it takes me over an hour and a half to mow, edge and sweep up.

Mowing the lawn is a great exercise, too, though I never know how many calories I've exerted and I'm really big on counting calories. I've been using Weight Watchers's online journal now for three and a half years even though I lost 30 pounds three years ago and have been at my goal weight ever since. I dunno--I guess I just got into the habit of recording everything I eat and every activity I do and I firmly believe that keeping myself accountable keeps the weight off--so I never quite gave it up. It's really a great way to maintain my weight.

The thing that frustrates me, though, is that the online tool is very limited in terms of searching for various types of activity. If, for instance, I want to keep track of how many points (Weight Watchers term) I earned for mowing my lawn, I can look up gardening, but all that's listed is "hedging," "digging," and "hoeing" neither of which come remotely close to the exhausting task of pushing a mower, in my opinion. So I just figure, "hey, whatever". Given the amount of sweat pouring out of me during this 90 minute exercise, I can safely assume I've earned plenty!

Incidentally, they don't offer activity points for having sex either. Maybe that's what they mean by "hoeing"?

Anyway, back to spring. It's lovely here this time of year. The cherry blossoms have been in bloom for weeks now--even though I hate how the pedals scatter all over my car. See what I mean? Love/hate.

I'm looking forward to summer!

C is for Cookie, but M is for Moderation!

The folks at Sesame Workshop have posted a press release on their site promoting a new initiative on developing "Healthy Habits for Life." During the 2005 season, Sesame Street will incorporate curriculum emphasizing healthy eating, exercise and proper. Addionally, PSAs will be shown on PBS stations featuring Elmo and Rosita who discuss the important of good health.

Bravo, Sesame Street! Now if we can completely revamp our public school lunch program by the time Mr. Na is in first grade, I'll be a happy, happy Mama.

Not much new here. How are you?

Every few weeks when I stop blogging regularly, my friend Mary sends me an e-mail to complain that I haven't been blogging lately. My response to her is usually, "well, I don't have a lot to say lately" and I guess in this instance, that much is true.

Truth be told, life's been on an even-keel, with not a whole hell of a lot going on--at least not anything noteworthy enough to blog (as evidenced by this mundane blather!)

Let's see: I'm helping a friend here locally with her Ukrainian adoption; had dinner with another last night who wanted me to come back to work full time (to which I replied, "fuh-get-about-it"); and I found out my cousin, Jens, is coming to visit me from Germany in September (and I haven't seen him in 24 years!)

My darling husband is enjoying his new job--though they were ready to whisk him off to Dusseldorf next week already! (Gasp! He may be meeting Jens before I get to see him again!) His father is having surgery to remove his cancerous bladder in the beginning of May and so he will be there by his side as only a loving son should be.

I just finished reading "The Art of Raising a Puppy" by the Monks of New Skete because I'm ready for a new puppy! I'd really like to get another American Eskimo, but hubby wonders if I'm trying to hard to replace Aspen. To that I say "Nah! There could be only one!" It's been two years--and while Fifi is still very much a superstar here in our house, you can never have too many pets! There's a local breeder who's whelping a new litter any day now, and maybe--just maybe we'll be the proud parents of a new pup soon!

Mr. Na, of course, is his loveable self! Mommy is very happy that he still LOVES "Here Come The ABCs" by They Might Be Giants, and he and Papa have developed their own little version of Gnip Gnop where every morning they toss Na's stuffed animals back and forth from the crib to the rocking chair.

From my writing desk: I have to say that I haven't done a line of editing since I finished my book two weeks ago. (sigh). I'll get to it. Now that I know Jens is coming, I'm looking at that as a deadline so that I can have him read it (he's German, he's an historian...who else is better qualified?)

Finally, if you're up for a really depressing movie, I highly recommend "Downfall" which we saw last Friday. It chronicles Hitler's last few days in his bunker before commiting suicide--and it's from his secretary's point-of-view. The actors were amazing. In fact, I was haunted by the guy who played Goebbels. Not only did he look exactly like him (same rat face; same dead, black eyes) but he played him spot-on. It just turned my stomach seeing his wife poison each one of their five children before they both walked outside and turned a gun on eachother.

So that's me in a nutshell. Same ol', same ol'!

Tune in next time when I have something really meaningful to write!

Finally, Something Funny!

It's been awhile since McSweeney's published a funny list! This one is definitely one I enjoyed!

Here Come the ABCs!

As a longtime fan of They Might Be Giants, I looked forward to getting Mr. Na their latest DVD, "Here Come the ABCs!" and I was not disappointed. The songs are as catchy as Schoolhouse Rock and the animation is fun to watch. Mr. Na gives the DVD two thumbs up.

Although some of the content is geared for older kids--particularly singing the alphabet backwards (the little guy is still trying to master them in order), that's the beauty of this collection--he'll always be learning from it.

What's even more refreshing is that the songs are as cool as all of the songs from They Might Be Giants; so Mr. Na's Pa and I find ourselves happily singing "Fake-Believe" and "E Eats Everything." It's a nice departure from the Wiggles or having to sing "Old MacDonald" 60 times over!

Finished, but far from done

I finished writing my book yesterday. A total of 418 pages. Phew! That only took, what, like 15 years? (Actually, it took me three years if I just count the current storyline.)

It feels great but now comes the hard part: editing. And after that? More editing. And then, um, more editing. Let's just hope that doesn't take another 15 years.

He's Such a Snot

Things are quiet in the Na household this week--partly because Mr. Na caught a really bad cold. It's nasty. I had forgotten about the amazing amount of snot one child can generate when sick. Mr. Na is no exception. He's got green boogies oozing out of his left eye and his nose is plugged into his little brain.

Of course you know what that means...Pa and Ma to Na are sure to follow with sickness. Great! The thing I hate the most is that my kid gets sick for all of five minutes and I wind up being sick for weeks! It'll suck for Pa, too, since he'll be starting a new job in two weeks.

On the plus side, we all got to play with Dave Matthews and his daughters on the playground this past weekend. I had a chance to tell him about how we adopted Mr. Na from Ukraine and he thought that was pretty cool. You betcha sweet bipee it is! I love this little guy...snot and all!

Duran Duran - Part Two

Shelley and I were among 6,000 Duranies, many of whom never quite made the transition to adulthood, which made for some interesting scenery. It's safe to say that nearly everyone in the crowd was over 30, and those who weren't were the 12 year-old daughters of the New Romantic throwbacks who managed to fit into their black baggy pants and white skinny ties or their Duran Duran "Seven and the Ragged Tiger" tour t-shirt, circa 1984.

Shelley wanted to kill me because I wouldn't stop playing with my phone, which I was using to either take pictures, call Audioblogger, or record some of the concert using my voice memo (all of the audio files sound horrible, so I'll spare you); but other than that, we were immersed in two solid hours of nostalgia. And though we didn't know one another back in 1984 when we both first saw Duran Duran (she at Key Arena me at The LA Forum), our experiences were identical.

I've seen a few of my favorite "old" bands perform recently and I can honestly say that out of all of them, The Cure and Duran Duran have stood the test of time and still sound amazing (and they look great, too--John Taylor somehow managed to lose his middle-aged paunch and Simon LeBon looks as though those Botox treatments are working wonders).

I love music that catapults me back to the first time I'd ever heard it. During the concert, "Planet Earth" was one of those songs--and I can remember, during the summer of 1982 when I saw the video on MTV. For me, it wasn't just about that song, I knew that there was new music out there, just waiting for me to get my little hands on. Sure, my older cousin Lori had already turned me on to Split Enz, Squeeze and the Police--but there was more...much more and at the time MTV was my gateway. That's how I first learned about The Cure, Depeche Mode, Simple Minds, Fun Boy Three, The Specials, The Jam, and The English Beat.

I remember how, during the summer of 1983, I was so nutso over Duran Duran (I was 15), my mom had flown to California to go house hunting and she left me in the care of my neighbors for the weekend with about one hundred dollars for "incidentals". As soon as she left the house, I went to Crazy Eddie's on Route 17 and bought Duran Duran's "video album" for $80. Never mind that I didn't have a VCR, I used my neighbors' instead.

During the show, I enjoyed the anime playing on the large video screen behind the band during "Careless Memories," where the band teamed up to conquer EMI (in this case "Endangered Music Industry"), blowing the building the smithereens.

Of course, the only thing missing at this concert was what I experienced during the '84 show in LA: I didn't get to meet Ricky Schroeder or C. Thomas Howell. After the Forum show, as my cousin Guen and I were waiting for my mom to pick us up, a sea of girls stood around a green Delta 88. Curious, we walked up to the car and said "hi" to the driver and passenger. They smiled and told us to get in the back. We did (again, um, I was 15...didn't say I was exceptionally bright). Upon introductions, we learned we were with "Rick" and "Thom" who proceeded to invite us to a party in LA. My response? "We can't cuz my mom'll be here any second..." (Guen and I had a good long laugh about this two weeks ago when I saw her at brunch in Huntington Beach...she said, "what the fuck were we thinking?")

We blew it. Our fifteen minutes of fame were up before we even knew it.

The (Re-)Union of the Snake

My friend Shelley and I saw Duran Duran last night and, quite frankly, they put on a great show.

Yeah, yeah, yeah...laugh all you want. Roll your eyes at my blog even. I had a great time last night, so the heck with you!

I'll write more about it later.

So who do you think rules supreme?

Today, the Audiophile columnist on Salon.com poses the question, "Who rules supreme?" You can e-mail your answer by clicking on the hotlink within the column.

My answer is Kasabian. They've been on the top of KEXP's charts since their single, "Club Foot" was released in mid-February. The Leicester, England band revives the infectious grooves of the early 90s Manchester scene (think Happy Mondays, Primal Scream, Charlatans UK) and hey...anyone who names themselves after one of Charles Manson's minions is ok by me!

KROQ, the radio station I grew up listening to, lost its luster long ago and for the past few trips back down to Southern California, I never bothered to flip the radio dial in my rental car to 106.7.

I had heard about a new radio station, Indie 103.1, and never really paid much attention to it until our trip last week, and I instantly became a convert. Sure, it's not as "Indie" as KEXP up here, which is entirely commercial free (Indie is also owned by Clear Channel, so explain to me again why it's "Indie"?) but they played some really awesome stuff when I was down there.

Case in point, we drove from Santa Monica back down to Laguna Niguel, where we were staying...easily an hour drive, after spending the day seeing friends, walking to the beach, eating at my all-time favorite, Islands, and we were all dog tired. With Mr. Na and his Pa both passed out, I couldn't believe my ears when I heard "Waterfall" from The Stone Roses--a song I hadn't heard in 15 years. It sent chills down my spine and I was flooded with memories. Of course, the minute I got back to Seattle, I pulled out my Stone Roses CD (and blew the dust off) and listened to "Waterfall". Matter of fact, that whole CD is just amazing and I'm really glad to have rediscovered it.

I'm a loyal listener to KEXP and love the fact that anyone can listen to it online anywhere in the world; but now I have a second favorite that's also available on the 'net. If you haven't done so already, check them out by clicking on the links above!

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, It's Back to Work I Go...

It's a small world, ain't it?

We had a glorious time in So. California and we capped it off by spending our last day in Disneyland. I'm a sucker for the Magic Kingdom and from the moment I set foot inside, I became a geeky kid all over again.

It was fun watching Mr. Na soak everything up and I was kinda glad the park was going through a major renovation. There were fewer crowds which meant shorter lines for everything. Unfortunately, though, Space Mountain and the Enchanted Tiki Room were both closed. And when I looked for Bear Country Jamboree, I was told it had been taken over by Winnie the Pooh and friends. At least Mr. Na and his Pa had fun with the Hefalumps.

My favorite of all favorite rides is the Haunted Mansion. I can remember going there for the first time, at the age of five--and I was scared beyond my wits. Of course, I had forgotten about how scared I was of all the ghosts until I took Mr. Na inside and saw him grabbing on to his Papa's hand. I thought for sure I was going to pay dearly for subjecting him to such spookiness; but he took it all in stride and handled it really well.

As I suspected, my trip back to California was quite different from any time I'd gone before; but I also think it was one of the best times, too. I spent a lot of quality time with my friends and family whom I only see once every few years, if I'm lucky. And even though we had to sit around a lot while our kids slept or played, it was time well spent.


Mr. Na and his Ma

So now we're home and it's time for me to finish my book. I've already told all of my friends I was almost done (with the first draft) and now that I've boasted, I'd better get to it.

Here goes...

Goin' Back to Cali...

Next week we are finally taking Mr. Na to California. I haven't been back since my darling husband whisked me away for my 35th birthday, where my friends threw me a surprise party two years ago. So, needless to say, it's a trip that's long overdue. I'm especially excited that some of my friends will be meeting Mr. Na for the first time.

I'll admit, though, it's gonna be kind of weird toting a kid around in a place where I lived out my suburban teenage angst, and it's not like I'll be able to visit some of my old haunts. But then again, most of my friends also have kids, so we're all in a different place right now in our lives.

So for now, I guess I'll just have to reminisce about some of my favorite watering holes.

My friends and I had a circuit of bars and clubs we frequented, including Boardners, where Mary and I once danced on tables while Slim Jim Phantom (formerly of the Stray Cats) watched from the next booth. Boardners was my neighborhood bar when I lived on Kingsley, above Hollywood Boulevard in 1987. The bartender there had a special concoction called "Lesbian Stewardesses On Mars" and we'd order a pint of it for $10 and it was guaranteed to fuck anyone up.

Long before Swingers, we were regulars at The Dresden Room for martinis and Marty and Elayne, who perform "Muskrat Love" better than the Captain and Tenille. (Elayne does such an amazing and convincing muskrat).

If we were really drunk, we'd go toThe Formosa Cafe, fondly known as "The Toilet". It's just one of those places where you ask yourself, "why did we come here again?"

For an irish coffee nightcap, we'd end up at Tom Bergin's where we once saw Julia Roberts, Kiefer Sutherland, Lou Diamond Philips and Jon Bon Jovi throwing back a few (can you tell which movie they had just made together?)

Since we were creatures of habit, we never quite felt right to deviate from the norm. So we'd try The Cat and the Fiddle (watering hole for every single A&R rep in Hollywood) or The Three of Clubs--but somehow our night would always end early and we'd be left wondering why we dared venture off our tried and true path.

All things change, and that much I've learned -- especially in Los Angeles where nothing is sacred. Even though I won't be bar hopping this trip, I'm looking forward to it in an entirely different way.

Le Freaks Next Door

I really hate our new neighbors.

They moved in last July when our old neighbors, who were actually very nice, decided to move instead of putting in an awful lot of money to add a bathroom upstairs. That's the problem with these old Craftsman bungalows...how a family of four or more manages to survive with one bathroom simply amazes me.

Anyway, when our old neighbors left, they told us that they had put together a little scrapbook about several of our neighbors: things like who has kids, who's single, etc. I thought that was kinda cute. I figured it was a nice ice breaker for the new people and a helpful tool at "pre-introductions".

I'm not the type of person who delivers homemade preserves on my new neighbors' doorstep or anything like that, but I smile and wave to people as I see them. So when I smiled and waved to our new neighbors, the woman simply scowled at me. I thought at first maybe I was mistaken, so I didn't take it personally. I figured, "whatever." It happened again last weekend at Starbucks. I was having coffee with a friend and they sat down at the table next to us. As soon as she saw me, she gave me her death gaze and I was just mortified.

To add insult to injury, the woman works during the day and the man works at night. I now know when the man wakes up (3:00 p.m. or so) because he plays the stereo FULL BLAST, and this is right at the same time Mr. Na goes down for his nap. Thankfully, my kiddo's windows don't face our neighbors' house.

However, this is the same time that I try and write or read. So regardless if I go up to my bedroom, or work in my husband's office or in the den, I can't escape this guy's loud music, and it's agonizing. Right now, he's in a disco groove...so I've heard everything from "You Sexy Thing" to "Freak Out!" and "I Want Your Love". I'm waiting for him to break out his Saturday Night Fever CD and then I'm going to go insane.

There's nothing I can do about this. I mean, it is the middle of the day, so it's not like I can go over there and ask him to turn it down; and honestly, if it was our former neighbors, I wouldn't feel nearly as put out as I am now. But because the woman throws me dirty looks every time I see her, I can't help but think about what horrible people live next to me. There's nothing I can do about the fact that she scowls at me either. I have to remember to give her one of my ultra-cheesy, fake smiles next time she lobs one over my way. "Kill her with kindness," Mr. Na's Pa says. No. I think instead I'll kill her with cheese. And on Monday morning, around 8:45 a.m., I'll be sure and crank up Barney.

The Saga Continues...

Today I learned that, even though the old lady hit my car last week, I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR MY DEDUCTIBLE until her fucking insurance company complies and pays the claim, even though the woman has already admitted guilt.

A witness has already been interviewed by both agencies, saying: "YES, THE OLD BIDDY HIT THIS NICE WOMAN'S BMW WITH HER CLUNKY, OLD TOYOTA CRESSIDA THAT HAS A FUCKING COW CATCHER ON HER FRONT FENDER AND STILL HAS OLD WHITE/GREEN WASHINGTON STATE LICENSE PLATES!" But I guess that doesn't matter.

See, the problem is, her insurance agency, also known as "Good Sam" -- a division of GMAC -- can sit on their asses for 30 days before paying out a claim. They don't have to play nice if they don't want to.

You know, the $250 isn't the issue here--it's the principle of the matter. Why the hell should I fork over the cash?

I'm pissed and secretly plotting revenge. I've already called the nice lady at GMAC who is supposedly working on my claim; but she has yet to return my call. Gee, I wonder why?

Needless to say, the codeine is wearing off and I'm having a hard time writing because I'm just so unnaturally bent right now that I'm ready to snap.

I did, however, finish reading Augusten Burroughs' Magical Thinking and I'm convinced if I use my mind, both the old lady and her insurance company's claims rep will suffer the consequences. I highly recommend the book, by the way. It's good for some page turnin' laughter, I guarantee it.

Time for some more chocolate...

Happy Valentine's Day!

I saw this on Terri the Mama's blog and couldn't resist sharing the love.

Happy Valentine's Day You Worthless Tramp.

The Curse of the Rooster

(Note: this is neither a monkey nor a rooster)


Chinese New Year marked the end of the Year of the Monkey and began the Year of the Rooster. It also marked the day my good fortune ran out and the shit hit the fan.

I really hope that whoever said "things happen in threes" is right; if not, I'm still screwed. I had three nasty things happen to me already, and we're only--what--two days into the new year?

On Wednesday, some old lady decided to plow into my car as she parked hers in the space next to mine, rendering what was left of my rear bumper useless. She took off, too, without leaving any sort of a note.

It wasn't the end of the world--all things considered. Mr. Na and I were out of harm's way, in Safeway. I was also lucky in that a good samaritan came up to me and offered herself as a witness. So, hey, fixing the car won't cost me a dime and my insurance company can hunt down and kill the old lady.

What sucked more was coming home to a crashed hard drive. I have to thank the stars in the universe that my marriage contract includes lifetime technical support. Once my husband pried me off the wall, he assured me he could save my manuscript. The additional problems, including my 3.6 gigabytes of music, 200 photos of Mr. Na (including the ones taken in Ukraine), and ours and my mother's financial files potentially fried forever...well, I suppose life goes on, no? I have only myself to blame for not backing up my files.

Finally--and while I had been dealing with this a few weeks before the Year of the Monkey ended--I had a huge chunk of my left ear removed yesterday and now my husband is calling me Van Gogh, or "Van Goat" to be more precise. (Van Goat is a Baby Einstein character that is currently teaching Mr. Na colors.) I have ten stitches in my heavily-bandaged ear and I'm living on codeine; but thankfully the doctors believe they took all of the melanoma cells so they won't spread to my lymph nodes and kill me. My second biopsy results should leave me "in the clear" next week...at least I hope so (and which is why I hope shit happens in threes). I guess I'm paying dearly for having spent my teenage years in southern California, without putting sunscreen on places like the tops of my ears.

This is going to be a long year, isn't it?

In the pink

So today, I caved in to mass marketing and purchased a new line of Pampers called "Feel 'N Learn". They're "advanced training" diapers designed for children to feel uncomfortable when they go in their diaper. But I've come to realize that diapers for Mr. Na's age set are actually gender specific and I find this little tidbit rather disheartening. The problem is, the diapers for boys are blue and have the Hulk or Spiderman on them, while the diapers for girls are pink and are plastered with one of the most recognizeable children's characters, Dora the Explorer.

Who decided that my child favors The Hulk or Spiderman over Dora the Explorer? And, may I ask, when the hell did my 2.5 year-old son have a chance to watch either superhero? I don't even think the old Hulk or Spiderman cartoons are on the air anymore, yet Dora the Explorer is on five times a day, five days a week on any one of the five channels within the Nickelodeon family.

I can just picture the deciding focus group who informed P&G about what's appropriate for boys and girls: some frigging NASCAR set who are too ashamed to admit their boy likes some girlie cartoon character who speaks Spanish and travels around with a monkey, for God's sake. Pshaw, I say! The girl may not be able to spin webs from her wrists, but she teaches my kid how to say "salta" instead of reinforcing the notion that it's ok to throw a temper tantrum because that's how one turns into a superhero.

I realize that this is all some clever ploy to keep my kids in diapers as long as possible, since that's beneficial to the manufacturer. Mr. Na doesn't care if he pees in his Dora pants (and yes, I got him Dora pants). He barely feels it--and, since it's not soaking his jeans, he'd much rather play with his blocks than tell me he has to go potty. I only got them because we're planning a trip to LA at the end of the month, and I would much rather put him in thinner diapers than have him pee all over himself on the airplane, or take steps backwards from weeks of training and put him back in full-fledged diapers.

So there. Take THAT P&G! And THAT NASCAR people! I'm proud to write that for a limited time only, my son is wearing PINK DORA THE EXPLORER training diapers and he likes it!

So close, and yet so far away...

I wrote an entire chapter for my novel this week. This is a momentous announcement because it's something I haven't done in over a year. 5,044 words and 20 pages is quite an accomplishment for me. The only problem is, when I started writing about liberation, my characters refused to leave the ghetto! So, I'm giving them two weeks to clear out and to help the sick find their way to a Prague hospital before they themselves return to Germany.

I see light at the end of the tunnel. Now, if only my characters would agree.

My husband had a screw loose.

In his head.

Seriously.

But he's all better now.

Back in June, he had jaw surgery to correct his underbite and alleviate his TMJ. I can't help but comment on the fact that in the seven years I've known him, he's had five or six different surgeries; but I digress.

After he extracted a piece of bone from his jaw a few weeks ago (by himself, using the stylis for his phone), he decided to go back to the doctor to make sure nothing else was wrong. Sure enough, they found one of the four screws they used to pin his jaw together, sitting on top of the bone.

So, with Mr. Na in tow, I drove my darling husband to the doctor so that they could extract the screw and he could move on with his life.

I should probably admit the fact that I have a tendency to make my life harder than it actually needs to be. Today was no exception. I've been trying to get Mr. Na completely potty trained and it's been one of the most painful experiences we've had to endure together thus far. Mr. Na is poopie trained, thank God, but he's not yet pee pee trained. And as of late, he's decided that "big potties" scare the living shit out of him and he wants nothing to do with them. You would think I would have just slapped a diaper on his bottom so that I wouldn't have to worry about him peeing in his pants during the two hours we were in the Doctor's office.

But no. I didn't.

Instead, I dressed him in his Thomas the Tank underpants (and clothes on top of that, of course) and grabbed an extra change of clothes, in addition to his three trucks, his sippy cup, a Clif Bar and the six thousand other items I have to carry around whenever we go somewhere.

We had to leave in an hour--and between getting Mr. Na up, letting the dog out, feeding all of us, and taking a shower, I was reasonably confident we'd be late. I just can't move fast enough--especially before I've had any caffeine (though I am only drinking Green Tea now) and so as I climbed into the shower, hubby announced that I had left the dog outside.

By 8:00 a.m. hubby informed me that he had popped his prerequisite Halcyon for his impending surgery--something which would make him about as dopey as I usually am pre-caffeine. From the bathroom mirror, I barked orders for him to feed the dog and pack Mr. Na's "things" (see above list).

At five minutes to nine, I silently cursed myself for not leaving the house earlier, and openly bitched about rush hour on 99. I thought everyone took the 5? Why is 99 backed up? Darling husband was mumbling the words to "Go Ask Alice" while Mr. Na was playing "what's this?" in the back seat.

When we arrived, the first thing Mr. Na spotted was a fish tank. And wouldn't you know it? There were two "Nemos". But of course, in true toddler fashion, Mr. Na said, "Nemo! Poopoo? I hungy, Mama." All in the same breath.
"You have to go poopoo?" I asked.
"Nooooyeaaahhh," he replied (his standard response).
"Well come on, then, let's go," I said, tugging on his hand. A nurse directed us outside and down the hall.

The minute I got him in the stall, he wailed so hard it bounced off the walls and traveled down the elevator shaft behind us. I thought for sure all of Seattle could hear.

I tried everything: going first so that he could see no one was going to be swallowed up by a monster toilet; trying to convince him no one was going to be flushed; I tried bribing him with tootsie rolls in my bag; tried bringing out his trucks; tried begging; tried threatening. Nothing worked. He just screamed and cried and wanted up.

This happened three times during the span of our two-hour visit. I'd ask him if he had to go "poo poo" and he'd say "noooooyyyeaaah" and we'd trek back to the bathroom without success. Despite my darling husband's state of unconsciousness during the surgery, he swears he could hear Mr. Na down the hall.

When my husband came around, one of the nurses took us back to the recovery area to go over instructions. All I kept thinking was, "please, please, PLEASE don't pee now." He didn't, thankfully--as I think he was more intrigued by the ellusive screw they retrieved from my husband's jaw. It was all shiny and clean, and placed in a sterile bag as a memento.

Despite the failures, I have to hand it to him, Mr. Na stayed completely dry until we got home--three hours after we left the house.

And this was just another ordinary day for us!

I (Heart) February

According to the American Heart Association, Cardio Vascular disease, including stroke, claims more women's lives than the next seven causes of death combined--nearly 500,000 a year, nearly twice as many as all forms of cancer.*

February is American Heart Month and it's a great time to remind people to take a CPR/AED course to learn something that could save a life. It holds a special place in my heart (no pun intended) for two reasons:

Before I left the corporate world, I had the honor and privilege of working for an automated external defibrillator (AED) manufacturer. As a member of the marketing team, I met many survivors of cardiac arrest--something that, if untreated, can kill a person within minutes. Unlike a heart attack, there are usually no prior symptoms and a person loses consciousness, stops breathing and has no pulse. These survivors had been saved by good samaritans or trained responders who used an AED. At the time, AEDs were being installed in public locations--from airports like O'Hare International, to airlines, parks, ferries, train stations, ball fields, and schools. Nowadays, AEDs can be purchased by individuals for home use and it's remarkable to see my former company's vision attained: to have AEDs as accessible as fire extinguishers. Speaking with survivors and hearing their stories made me realize that sudden cardiac arrest can strike anyone at any time with little or no warning.

I also learned this first hand, when my sister died in August 2003. She was 40.

February 4 is "Wear Red Day" for women. Several landmarks, including the Space Needle and the Empire State Building will be illuminated in red to raise awareness in women. For more information click here.






Source: American Heart Association (http://www.americanheart.org/presenter.jhtml?identifier=3016992)

Are You a Bibliophil?

One of my goals this year is to read a book a week--except for when I finally dig into Bill Clinton's autobiography. That might take awhile longer!

A few months ago, some friends turned me on to this site -- which is an awesome way to keep track of my personal library and look to see what books other people recommend. If you sign up (it's free), you can request me, LeFemmeMonkita, as a buddy. Plus, I love the "100 Most Frequently Challenged Books" list.

Right now, I'm halfway through The Terezin Diary of Gonda Redlich. I'm so glad I found this book. I think I learned more from this man's journal than I did visiting Terezin last year. It's great information for my book, which the first draft, by the way, is nearly complete!

Knowing When to Say When

I'm mortified by the news of a 66 year-old woman giving birth in Romania. My God, the woman is a year younger than my own mother--who, thankfully, quit having children at 30. As much as I love The Nana being Mr. Na's nana, I couldn't picture her having a baby, for chrissakes.

Apparently the woman went through numerous infertility treatments before having a successful delivery. She delivered twins, however, one was born stillborn.

After I read the story, my first question was why didn't she adopt one of the 84,381 orphans available in her country? Especially since Romania banned foreigners from adoption.

I should have been a boy

It dawned on me today, as I was reading about the Allied air attacks over Germany during WWII, that I should have been born a boy. Girls don't like history--especially World War II history. It's icky. It's boring. It, like, happened so long ago.

I love it. I can't get enough of it. I mean, there's just something so cool about studying that time period. There are still so many lessons to be learned from everything that went down--yet our world leaders choose to ignore it.

I'm one of those weird women who enjoys watching the History channel. Yesterday, I got so completely psyched when I was channel surfing DirectTV and learned that we now have The Military Channel. Cool! Now I'm hoping they'll have a European Theatre Marathon!!!

Keep in mind, I'm not a patriotic war buff or anything like that. I think my love for learning about WWII reaches far deeper than singing about the Halls of Montezuma. It's more about figuring out how some psychopath brought all of Europe to its knees and managed to bring the world to battle. And how the entire world turned a blind eye to the extermination of 11 million people.

I always say that if I ever decide to go back and get my Masters it'll probably be in history...or nutrition! But for the sake of this discussion, I'd love to be an historian!! Maybe I can be both---an historian who eats well!

The Soundtrack of My Mind

Quick. Without thinking too much about it, what song is going through your head right now?*

For me, it's "Some Kind of Wonderful" by Joss Stone.

I don't like Joss Stone, nor do I like "Some Kind of Wonderful" but the song got lodged into my head from my aerobics class abs routine (ok, it's Jazzercise. Shut up.)

All things considered though, it's a pretty palatable song to have in my head compared to half the shit that gets trapped there. 90% of my day is focused on listening to kiddie TV so I'm constantly listening to "I'm the Map" or the Lazytown theme song (at which point I usually meander back into the den to check out Sporticus <---- and I KNOW you Mommies out there are doing the same thing. Ya know how many people come to my site because they Googled "Sporticus"? Try 20 in ONE day!!!!) Anyway, so if it has to be Joss Stone, so be it.

Don't you hate, though, when someone tells you the song that's in their head and then, like some freakin virus, it crawls into yours? My husband does that to me constantly and it pisses me off because they're usually songs that are in heavy rotation only in, oh, Michigan, for example. Just this morning, at breakfast, he told me he had "20th Century Fox" from the Doors stuck in his head; but to make matters worse, he made words up so that instead of the normal version, I had "She's a 20th Century Ots" in my head all day long.

"Ots"? You ask? "Ots" is the nickname of a stuffed Polar Bear named "Wilson". I dunno how Mr. Na got "Ots" out of "Wilson" but there you have it.

The first time I saw Dave Matthews in my gym, he was singing along to Andy Gibb's "I just Wanna Be Your Everything" (just the nauseating Bee Gees falsetto part, though). So when I came home and told the hubby, he broke into his (very good) Dave Matthews impersonation and sang "He's a Seattle-ite". Somehow those two merged together and camped out in my head for almost a full week. It sucked.

It finally went away when we spent the weekend laying new floor tile in the kitchen and had several CDs on in the changer--one of them being Dave Matthews's "Under the Table and Dreaming." My darling husband began to sing along (and I must say he has a fine voice...he even sang to me at our wedding); but of course, in his true fashion, he changed the lyrics to "A Typical Situation." The normal lyrics are:
"It's a typical situation of these typical times...too many choices..."
My husband's version was: "It's a typical installation of these typical tiles. Too many choices..." So of course, I'll never hear that song the right way again.

Which reminds me of one of my very favorite websites that specializes in misheard lyrics. I'll have to add the "Typical Installation" lyrics.

Meanwhile, I'm stuck with Joss Stone in my head...until something better (or worse) comes along.




*If your answer is "nothing," can you kindly tell me how the hell you can turn off your soundtrack?

Poops and Guffaws (aka Shits and Giggles)

If you haven't read Jon Stewart's America (The Book) yet, I strongly urge you to make it one of your "must reads" for 2005. I laughed my heinie off with the turn of every page (which is good because my heinie got a little bit bigger over the holidays...all that food, ya know).

The book is fashioned after any of the lame-ass classroom history books we, the bored out of our minds American students had to suffer through during our young lives, including discussion questions and suggested classroom activities at the end of each chapter. I was particularly fond of the following question from the "Congress: Quagmire of Freedom" chapter:
"Remember that old Schoolhouse Rock cartoon about the bill who sings a song about how he becomes a law? Hey, and what about the Snorks? Remember them?"
Or this suggested classroom activity, in the "Judicial Branch: It Rules!" chapter:
"Make a God's eye from popsicle sticks and yarn, then teach your students about the one true Judge: The Lord!"

Over the weekend, news sources cited two counties in Mississippi (yes, I sing it so I can spell it correctly) banned the book from its libraries because of its offensiveness--specifically the page of the nine Supreme Court Justices--all nude. On the opposite page, there are nine robes which readers can cut out and "Restore [the dignity of the Supreme Court Justices] by matching each justice with his or her respective robe; but on Monday evening, members of the Library Board reversed the ban. You can read this article to get more of the details.

Funny thing is, as Stewart pointed out, there are quite a few more tidbits in the book that could be deemed far more offensive than some cut and paste silly-ass nudies. Things like, oh, the mention of teabagging a prostitute or perhaps the quote from the Third Dutchess of Kent who, in response to the Boston Massacre replied, "Fuck with a motherfuckah's tea and the shit be on."

Either way, I'm sure glad the folks in Mississippi can now enjoy a few good shits and giggles.

A Year Without a Santa Claus

My Christmas was awesome last year. I got an e-mail from our facilitator in Ukraine, who wrote, "Pack your bags. You need to be here next week." I waited for those words for 17 months before I got to read them. No wait, it was more like four years.

This year was even better because I got to spend Christmas with our new son. It was everything I had hoped it would be and then some. The kid spent almost 30 minutes unwrapping his presents on Christmas Eve. Then he tried tearing into ours. Then he took stock of all his loot. He couldn't believe his eyes.

Hard to believe this time last year he was in the hospital in Ukraine. And when you think if "children's ward" what comes to mind? Perhaps some colorful wall murals, stuffed animals, mobiles hanging from the ceiling? You might smell anticeptic, but that's about as "foul" of a smell as it gets, right?

The hospital in Ukraine was a series of two- and three-story buildings on frozen grounds. We parked on the street alongside the hospital, across from a series of high rise apartment buildings built during the reign of communism. If you've ever seen projects or tenements in, oh, maybe the Bronx, Watts, Newark or South Capitol in D.C., the apartments in Ukraine made those look like palaces. There were stray dogs roaming through the streets, picking through various trashcans--at least those that weren't lit with fires for people to warm themselves or cook their food.

Lights weren't on during the day and so when we initially went to the "lobby" of the main building, it was dark. Someone pointed our translator to the "children's ward"-- a building on the far south corner of the hospital grounds.

Getting to that building was treacherous on the icy ground. And even where sections of paved path were dry, they were uneven and bulging from massive tree roots underneath.

One side of the building had a row of doors, almost like a walk-up for each room. The other side was the main entrance and stairwell, leading to the upper floors. The first thing I saw was a huge teddy bear mural painted on top of a Robins Egg Blue background. Then I looked outside the window as three orderlies wheeled someone on a guerney outside. The shapeless body underneath the sheet was more than just cold, it was stiff. I supposed the morgue was next to the children's ward.

Inside was as dark as the lobby of the first building we'd seen. A mixture of urine and feces permeated the corridor.

We were led into a physician's office, which seemed cozy, compared to the rest of the building, but that's not saying much. Everything in the building was as gray as the daylight outside. In fact, when they brought in our little boy, he was the only colorful thing about the place; and I mean that literally because they had dressed him in a bright yellow and red clown outfit that was three sizes too big for him.

Over the next few days, we had a chance to play with Mr. Na in his room because we assured the head physician that both of us had had the chickenpox as kids. His room was quarantined--and he shared it with two other babies and a nine year-old boy who was the pox culprit. There was no way to access his room from the inside of the hospital--we had to make our way outside and around to the other side of the building. The steps leading to the door were treacherous, if anyone could make it that far without sinking in a hole full of ice water.

Access to the room was through the bathroom, which smelled 8,000 times worse than the feces/urine combo in the hallway. It smelled like the entire hospital's sewage system was right there, in that 8'x8' yellow-tiled room with a toilet that was nothing more than a glorified hole in the ground.

Our son-to-be (Mr. Na) barely had the chickenpox, and looked a lot healthier than his roommates who were each covered in spots. To add insult to injury, they looked as though they had just returned from a paintball battle. Their faces were smeared with a blue iodine solution to minimize the pox itching. We nicknamed the little girl roommate "Bluebeard" and found the 9 year-old to be quite handy in terms of trying to quiet down the children. When they cried, he'd get up and rock them; and when the nurses came to change or feed them, he'd help. He was the only one in the room who wasn't an orphan, and his family would come by at least once a day to bring him treats or toys--all of which he'd share with the others.

Mr. Na had just turned 19 months when we met him on that day in January. He had been in the hospital for 21 days--a lifetime for a baby. He was there long before the boy with the pox came--and the staff figured he might as well get those, too, while he was recovering from bronchitis.

Santa managed to miss this little speck of rice on Earth and Christmas didn't come last year for him or for Bluebeard, or for the little baby boy who was always crying because he was always wet because the nurses never changed him. There were no twinkling lights. There wasn't a tree loaded with ornaments and lovingly wrapped presents stuffed underneath. There were no stockings filled with cookies or chocolates. Just a few community pacifiers and rattles that probably hadn't been washed since they were unpacked.

Even though Santa found Mr. Na this year, and more than made up for the two years he spent Christmas-less, I couldn't help but think about Bluebeard or the little baby boy who cried nonstop. I hope that families found them the way we found Mr. Na. I hope someone is showering them with the love that they deserve. And I hope this year, Santa found them too.

Top 10 Books I Read in 2004

When it comes to reading, I'm not the type of person who follows various bestseller lists for recommendations. I used to do that and wound up wasting my time reading a lot of crap. The DaVinci Code comes to mind.

From a reading standpoint, 2004 was a "word of mouth" year for me and I based my selections on recommendations from friends and fellow writers (and some who I consider both!) I hope that if you scan my list and you find yourself wondering, "did I read this?" you'll pick one of the following books up in 2005 because they're all really great and you can tell your friends they were recommended to you by a Seattle Simian.

One of my dear writer friends loaned me Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maas and I appreciated the examples of books Maas used when illustrating a point of character, plot or narrative development--so much so, I wrote down 30 or so titles of books I had either read long ago or missed entirely.

What follows, then, is a list of classics I've enjoyed this past year and some newer selections which I believe are also destined to withstand the test of time:

#1-4
Rabbit, Run
Rabbit Redux
Rabbit is Rich
Rabbit at Rest - John Updike
You can't read one of the above without reading the other three (g'wan, read the first one and you'll agree). Updike delves into the human psyche, creating characters so real, I felt like I knew and really HATED Rabbit. The series spans nearly four decades during Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom's lifetime and Updike used some pretty sharp imagery with was consistent among all four books.

#5
Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut
Easily one of the best books I've read. Vonnegut's matter-of-fact voice is suberb and the story borders on pee-in-your-pants funny to thought-provoking.

#6
1984 - George Orwell
How'd I miss having to read this in high school? Maybe it was assigned in my Junior year, which, quite coincidentally, was 1984--but it was also the year I cut so many classes that my GPA plummeted to a mere 1.8. Either way, I'm glad I somehow skipped it because it's much more meaningful to me now, as a wisened old monkey in a world full of crazy motherfuckers who remind me very much of Winston Smith's comrades. I've seen the movie, of course, with John Hurt (and as a matter of fact, I rented it again after reading the book) and always admired the Apple commercial (that was THE commercial that did it for me in terms of getting my shit together and going to college to study advertising) but none of these things holds a candle to Orwell's descriptions of a world so completely fucked up. Where Vonnegut spelled out the ruins of Dresden (by comparing it to walking on the moon), Orwell's storytelling placed the reader in a war-torn London without having to use one rubble-esque descriptor.

#7
Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
Lolita is beautifully written, to the point where, as sick as it sounds, you (dear reader) start to feel sorry for the perv.
I can't help but read this book now and think of Jeremy Irons, because he brought Humbert Humbert to life, and I'm really turned on by his diction. He was perfect for that role.


#8
Dry - Augusten Burroughs
I loved this book from the get-go as I, too, aspired to be (a female) Darren Stevens from Bewitched. Having spent 16 years in advertising and PR (mostly in agencies, too...my God, how sick is that?) I felt so connected to Burroughs in this novel and I loved his depiction of the agency world; but beyond that, Dry is a great story about staying sane and sober, in a world that's often better lived-in completely sauced.

#9

Running With Scissors - Augusten Burroughs
Contrary to my review of Eggers's book, I found Burroughs's memoir so utterly fantastic, there were times I thought it was fiction. I couldn't believe his incredible story and I'm really looking forward to the movie's release in 2005.

#10
You Shall Know Our Velocity! - Dave Eggers
Eggers's characters and setting are so vivid, I often believed this was memoir, not fiction. I was amazed by his storytelling. I could have done without the cow part, but...hey, that's me. I hated the short story Eggers wrote about the Golden Retriever drowning in a river, too.



Other books I recommend:

Martin Dressler - The Tale of an American Dreamer - Steven Millhauser

Perfume - A Story of Murder - Patrick Suskind


The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner

To The Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf

Merry Chrismukkah

My list is now on McSweeney's, co-authored by yours truly and her sig other. It was his idea--I just made it better.

I haven't had much to say lately, mostly because I've been suffering from sheer exhaustion. I guess this year finally caught up with me.

I hope to come back soon enough with some end-of-year lists. I'm working on the list of Top 10 Books I've Read and a list of Awesome People in 2004. Stay tuned.

Happy Holidays, Friends, and thanks for reading!

Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before

You know, it's kinda funny how, after eight years of living here, I bitch and moan about the weather and how dreary it is. Today was just one of those days where, if I had allowed myself, I would have stayed in pajamas and curled up on the couch to watch endless episodes of Thomas and Friends or Dora the Explorer, but instead, I mustered up everything I could and got myself and Mr. Na bundled up to leave the house for awhile.

I was in such a pissy mood, too. First, Mr. Na insisted on taking THREE Mega-Blok trucks--the kind that come apart in three pieces. So I'm toting my messenger bag, sippy cup, a bottle of water for me, my keys and his three trucks to the car and as I lift him in to the car seat, one of the pieces goes flying underneath. So while it's pouring outside and Mr. Na is demanding I retrieve his beloved truck piece, I'm crawling underneath my car to try and find it.

Then, halfway up the street, I realize I had forgotten my shopping list--something that is a MUST HAVE when you have a 2-1/2 year-old sitting in your shopping cart, playing slapjack with your hands. So I had to turn around, park, run back inside and grab the list.

Finally, I make my way back up the street and turn on my MP3 player. I've got a Phat Noise that holds 2800 songs and I use every single mega-byte of it. As I flip through my 30 or so "Discs" (folders of different bands or genres), I come across The Smiths and I am instantly transformed. There are very few bands who have that sort of seratonin-like effect on me.

The first single I ever bought of The Smiths was a 12" of "What Difference Does it Make?" issued by Rough Trade in January 1984. For the longest time, I thought it was Morrissey on the cover, in blue sepia, holding a glass of milk (and I never made the correlation that Terence Stamp was the head bad guy in Superman 2). Either way, The Smiths alleviated any middle class teenage angst I carried around, though I'm sure Morrissey would be the first to roll his eyes at the mere thought of me. I wasn't some punk living on the Dole in Manchester--I was a 15 year-old Orange County KROQ groupie with a penchant for OP and Vans, not plaid pants and body piercings, though I preferred to run with the best of them (ahem: the best that Burbank could provide, that is).

Morrissey's nonepareil voice was the perfect accompaniment to Johnny Marr's guitar. Marr, who is one of the best 12-string guitarists--bar none (in fact my favorite Talking Heads song is "Nothing But Flowers" where Marr's 12-string kicks ass).

I had the pleasure of seeing The Smiths at the Hollywood Paladium in 1985. It was a hell of a show, only to end abruptly because a skinhead bounded up on to the stage and grabbed Morrissey. Thankfully, it was during the first or second encore. It was still sheer bliss.

While interning at Capitol Records in 1987, my boss stuck out her tongue when I put "Louder Than Bombs" in the tape player we shared. By the time "Oscillating Wildly" came on, she asked if she could borrow the tape.
"Take it," I said. "I'm getting the CD after work."

It's still one of my favorites after all these years, though I will say, my all-time favorite song is "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore." It has always been the song I listened to nonstop when shit went down for me, regardless of what it was: breakups, divorce, death, miscarriage--whatever.

The Smiths--to me--was one of those bands who, whenever I go to England, I stop and reflect, thanking the Queen and all of her country's problems so that a band so amazing as The Smiths could have fodder. It's really no wonder that God chastised Tony Wilson in 24 Hour Party People for never signing them.

Despite their breakup, The Smiths will always be a favorite.

As I drove in traffic this morning, listening to "Stop Me if You Think That You've Heard This One Before" I caught a glimpse of Mr. Na in the review mirror, head bobbing. He was in the zone.

You know, this kid's got good taste.

Whew! One more hurdle down. We survived court and Mr. Na is ours (again!)

What a crazy week--and one I don't want to re-live ever again.

On the plus side, I heard of this site and it's awfully nice to see others getting dumped on for a good cause.

I'm preparing my top 10 list of the best books I've read in 2004. Certainly, Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons won't make the cut; however,they give me hope that I could be, um, a better writer.

C and I saw The Incredibles last weekend. What an awesome flick! I had my doubts going into it, but was very surprised. I loved Edna (but who wouldn't, dahlink).

I'm debating on whether or not I should take Mr. Na to see Polar Express at the IMAX. I'm afraid his little brain will explode.

Well, here's hoping next week will be a lot less stressful.