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.

We have a scheduled hearing tomorrow at our county's courthouse to readopt Mr. Na in the United States. And though, in theory, this should go a lot smoother than our court hearing in Ukraine last January (and even that wasn't so bad), I'm just beside myself with anxiety. I feel like I have so much more at stake right now because I've become so attached to this little guy, and I don't know what I'd do if I lost him.

The reason why we've chosen to readopt Mr. Na here in the states is so we can get a U.S. birth certificate; but more importantly, our only proof that Mr. Na is our child, is a foreign decree from a country that's steeped in crisis right now and if Ukraine had any cause to revoke foreign adoptions, we would be at the mercy of their government if we didn't have a U.S. birth certificate for him. We also live in a state that doesn't recognize foreign adoptions decrees (currently, there are only 26 states that do).

As I mentioned in previous posts, Mr. Na will retain his dual citizenship until he reaches the age of 18; however, Ukraine only recognizes Mr. Na's Ukrainian citizenship. And every year until he's 18, we have to fill out a four-page questionnaire and submit 10 photos of Mr. Na to the Ukrainian Consulate so they can keep tabs on his whereabouts (small price to pay for having the most awesome little guy in the world!)

On the plus side, tomorrow's hearing will be very cool (if all goes well...and I can't vouch that it will because I was too cheap to hire an attorney...so I could have fucked up every single piece of paperwork). Thinking about it reminds me of our hearing in Ukraine in January. The judge (who was a woman, by the way..and I thought that was pretty cool!) turned to me and said,

"Do you promise you will give this child a loving home? That you'll care for him and restore his health?"

My eyes filled with tears as I said yes.

So far, so good--but I'm in this for the long haul!

My Thankfuls

This has been such an awesome year and so it's only right that I list my thankfuls:

I'm thankful for my husband, whom I've nicknamed Buckaroo Banzai. He's handsome, funny, schmart and talented in so many ways. He's also generous, kind and completely unselfish and as I've come to learn this year, he's an awesome Papa!

I'm thankful for my beautiful, sweet and SCHMART Ukrainian prince, Mr. Na. And though I've only known the kid for 10 months, I feel like he's been here with us forever. I feel so damn lucky.

I'm thankful for my friends because without them, I'd have given up on my manuscript many times over; would never have written a smut piece that would be published in a smut anthology (Spring '05!) My friends have shown me unconditional love and overwhelming support--especially now as I'm facing this daunting readoption and am really scared shitless about Ukraine's future (my son will remain a Ukrainian Citizen until age 18).

I'm thankful for my health and though I've faced a lot of perimenopausal challenges this year, my symptoms are easing. Giving up caffeine was definitely a step in the right direction and I've been sleeping like a baby!

More thankfuls:
Valerian Root, lowfat soy nog, presidential term limits, Fifi, naptimes, good books, a kickass running soundtrack, personal trainers that kick your ass, Mother-in-Laws that spoil their grandkids, Ugg Boots, The Emerald City, longtime friends who come to visit, the O.C., occasional freelance jobs, s'mores, the ocean, and re-connecting with high school friends.

There's a Rat in the Basement What Am I Gonna Do?

We have a rodent in our basement and, judging by the size of the shit he leaves behind, it's a rat. This sucks on many different fronts, namely that the basement is where all of our extra food items are stored (luckily in a metal, locked cabinet) and it's a place where I do laundry on a daily basis.

It's pretty gross, too, because I'm finding rat shit on top of the washing machine every day and it makes my skin crawl, wondering where the fucker's hiding. Is he staring at me with his beady little eyes from the rafters? Behind the dryer? What if he curls up in the laundry basket among my socks and underwear? That's just fucking nasty.

This problem just makes me mourn the loss of Aspen all the more. I mean, we still have our sweet Golden (whom Mr. Na rightfully nicknamed Fifi), but she's not Aspen. Aspen was the Mouse King.

When Aspen and I lived in Brentwood, we had a mouse move in from the 405 Freeway. He bore a hole in our sectional couch and made himself nice and comfy. Aspen was the first one to notice, especially because the mouse would sneak out in the middle of the night and poach kibble from his dog dish in the kitchen.

Aspen used to piss me off whenever he'd push something under the couch--which was on a daily basis. Our apartment had hardwood floors and the couch was just high enough off the ground for him to slip dog cookies, bones and toys underneath. He'd sit there and bark at me until I lifted up the couch so he could retrieve his prize. Sometimes I'd look and find absolutely nothing under there, but he'd remain relentless until I'd lift the couch up high enough for him to crawl completely underneath and find a microscopic piece of dog biscuit.

So I started yelling at him for taking his kibble and burying it underneath the couch. He wasn't a messy eater so I wondered why he took on this new habit of dragging kibble out from the kitchen to bury it all the way in the livingroom.

I found the hole when I went to vacuum the floor behind the couch. It was pretty big and I knew right away it came from something other than my dog. A mixture of mouse shit and kibble lay on the floor beside it.

I didn't know what to do at first, so I went to the store and looked at different mousetraps, and settled on glue traps, not really thinking about the consequences.

My bedroom was a loft above the living room and sometime in the middle of the night, Aspen bolted off the bed and ran down the stairs, barking like mad. When I turned on the lights, I saw the mouse--the little bastard--stuck on the glue pad and trying to break loose. Unfortunately, he dragged the glue pad over to the floor lamp and somehow managed to get the cord stuck on to the pad as well.

The three of us looked at each other, not knowing what to do. It was an awkward moment. Finally, I took a broom from out of a closet and I went over to the mouse and said,

"Alright, look, I'll make a deal with you. I'll let you loose outside if you swear to me that you and your homies NEVER come back. Got it?"

The mouse swore at me in his mouse language and I somehow managed to get the electrical cord free from the glue pad with the broom. I then slid the glue pad with the cursing mouse across the room and out on to the patio. The little guy only had one paw stuck on the glue pad, so I figured he still had a fighting chance. He'd either be known in his circle as a hero or a gimp--but either way, he was free.

After that, I never underestimated Aspen's ability to be a good watch dog. If he was still alive today, he'd be cleaning house. As much as I love Fifi, she's a priss and won't go down the basement steps unless we make her. Meantime, we're stuck with the rat snuggling in my gym socks.

He is Sporticus

I'm in love with a children's TV show character...again.

The first time it happened, I was, I think, four--no maybe six. I had to have been a little older because I had a diary and I can remember writing entries about him:



Not the guy on the left. Ew. And no, they weren't lovers. My guy was Butch Cassidy from Hanna Barbera's Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kids. (circa 1973). The dude on the left was his best friend, Harvey who, coincidentally, was voiced by Micky Dolenz. I say "coincidentally" because it was around that same time I was in love with Michael Nesmith from the Monkees, too. (Oh, and another thing...now that I think about it, Butch looks a lot like my ex-husband).

This time, my crush isn't over a cartoon character, but a live action guy named Sportacus on Lazy Town:

Although this Adonis deserves more real estate on my blog than given, I can't seem to find a better photo. But trust me, he's all that and a bag of chips. I'm not the only one who thinks so either. You should get a load of some of the comments I've run across in the Blogosphere. Yep--Sportacus is hot. Funny thing, though, I read the actor's bio on Nick Jr. and in reality...feh...not so hot! Granted, he was a Silver Medalist in something like Aerobics for Iceland (his homeland).

Aside from his yummy physique, Sportacus is teaching Mr. Na (and children around the world) that getting up and being active is important and eating sugary snacks...not so good. So he's perfect in every way.

Lazy Town is pretty bizarre and from the moment I first saw it, I knew it had to have been foreign (it's produced in Iceland). The show is skewed toward 2-5 year-olds yet it has a driving techno soundtrack and the main character, Stephanie, has pink hair. Still, it reminds me of the bizarre crap produced by Sid and Marty Kroft--particularly The Bugaloos and HR Puffinstuff. I would say this was a combination of both, except those shows in the 60s were more about psychadelic head trips and less about promoting a healthy lifestyle.

Honestly, though, Lazy Town is not such a bad little show--providing entertainment for the kid and eye candy for the mom.

Tales of a recovering junkie

I'm a coffee addict, I freely admit it--but I've had to give it up a few weeks ago because I was suffering from insomnia and heart palpitations. My body just couldn't stand the sudden surge of adrenaline that coffee gave me and I began living on Tylenol PM to try and sleep at night, only to repeat the cycle of drinking coffee the next morning when I woke up.

"Isn't that how Elvis died?" my friend Jade asked me last week.

Indeed.

I thought it would be so tough, quitting the "C" -- but actually, I couldn't be happier. I'm sleeping well at night--best I've slept (without a sleep aid) in months and although I still miss the smell of coffee, I don't miss the havoc it wreaked on me. And I still get a small dose of caffeine every morning, either with a 1/2 cup of chai or a cup of green tea.

My husband's a skeptic (and a fellow coffee addict). He doesn't believe that my coffee addiction is what made me wired but tired. He sent me links showing me the amount of caffeine in a 2 oz shot of espresso vs. a serving (4 oz.) of chai. The 2 oz of espresso has 100 mg of caffeine whereas the 4 oz of chai has only 30-35 mg of caffeine (The green tea chai only has 20-25 mg of caffeine). He proposed that I split the difference and make a split shot of coffee, yielding around 55 mg of caffeine per serving.

I love you, honey, but you're an enabler.

Of course, living in the coffee capital of the world, one would think I'd fall off the horse and go back to the "C". But no thanks, not me. I'm happy not to feel my heart thud in my chest at night and for the first time in months, I'm actually having dreams again, although, I can't say they've been all that great. Last night, I dreamt I was fooling around with David Cassidy (actually as the young Keith Partridge) in his dark room (which wasn't really the Partridge Family Home) in a sleeping bag on the floor. We were constantly interrupted by Danny, who, I think, wanted a piece of the action, and then by Tracy who had a flashlight and tried to crawl into the sleeping bag, blinding me with the obnoxious high beam which in reality was my Timex Big Ben Moonbeam Clock flashing at me to get out of bed for my appointment this morning.

No wonder the love of my life wants me to go back to coffee.

Apologies all around

A week has passed and the Internet is chock full o'election post moterm. So I've noted a few things that made me giggle:

Here's a site that allows people to post apologies to the world, for the big mistake the other half of the country made last Tuesday.
Kinda like apologizing to your friend for bringing your drunk boyfriend to the party, who managed to vomit all over your friend's house.

A friend of mine sent me this link today. It's pretty self-explanatory.

And finally, while I've seen various sites that represent that "re-mapping" of America, based on red and blue state divisions, this one cracked me up most:

Mr. Na experienced his first Halloween on Sunday and I'd swear the kid was a natural. Once he learned that he could score a piece of candy by saying "trick or treat" neither my husband or I could keep up with him. Luckily at his age, it was all about the thrill of the hunt and not the feast. I've seen this child on sugar and it's frightening!

The bad news is, we're sitting at home with three large bags of candy and I'm in the throes of PMS. If that isn't bad enough, Bush was re-elected for a second term. Shit happens in threes.

If you've read my earlier posts about Halloween, you'll recall that the hubster and I grew up wearing poorly-designed costumes made from either boxes or something found deep in the back of our moms' closets. We passed our tradition on to Mr. Na, creating a Thomas the Tank costume made entirely of cardboard boxes and styrofoam. I will say, since it was more his sweat and toil than mine, that the outcome was amazing. Not only was Mr. Na the spotlight of attention at our local shopping center, but I was also the envy of all moms when I boasted about my husband's talent. It's one of the reasons why I married a geek engineer.

I need to gloat about something, dammit, my hope for regime change has been shattered!

The Shoes Make The Pope

Last night at a Halloween party, I noticed a millieu of people dressed as religious figures, including the Pope, an archbishop, some wayward clergymen and a few nuns as well as angels, devils and iterations thereof.

It made me think back to a comment I made to my friend the other night as we drove home after seeing The Grudge. To me, it seems like when things are really weird in the world--with wars; presidential administrations gone awry; and a jittery economy, we tend to focus on all things "spiritual"--regardless of what that means to us as individuals and I used this as an example: do you ever notice that some of the best horror movies are made during some of the lowest points in history? When things happening in the world leave people feeling about as insecure as they do when they sit through stories about the supernatural?

To be more specific, The Exorcist came out in 1973--the same year that OPEC hiked oil prices tremendously in retaliation for Western countries' involvement in Yom Kippur War; Nixon resigned after the Watergate scandal; and granted, the Vietnam war ended for U.S. troops--but only after 23 years of wasted involvement and nearly ten years of outrage and derision from Americans. According to "InfoPlease" the Violent Crime Rate in the U.S. was 41.5 per 1,000--which was double the Violent Crime Rate 10 years earlier.

I'm not saying The Grudge was as good asThe Exorcist;but it was definitely one of the better scary movies I'd seen in ages. Forget about the slasher movies like Scream or its lame-ass sequels...I enjoy movies that touch on the supernatural--"spirits" that could quite possibly exist, like ghosts and demons. Both movies did quite well at the box office, too--so it isn't just that filmmakers are picking up on the scary vibe. People are flocking to see movies about things they aren't sure are real.

Maybe watching scary movies helps us deal with all the scary things in the world that are real; but just like the victims in these films, we have no control over who's going to do what to us next.

Please get out and vote tomorrow. It's your right to choose who's in charge!

I've just returned from the Surrey Writers Conference. It was my first time there but my third writers conference and I've come to the conclusion that I need to stop going to these things until I have a finished manuscript. I'm not learning anything new and I can't really make a connection with someone until I've got something to show. Needless to say, it was inspiring in that regard and I've made myself a promise to write new pages EVERY DAY come hell or high water. I've also vowed to have my ms finished by the end of the year--a lofty goal, but one I'm very serious about.

Anne Perry, Michael Slade and Elizabeth George were great keynote speakers. I jumped for joy when Elizabeth George announced that she thought The Davinci Code was one of the worst novels ever written. I was standing in the back of the room when she spoke, and some asswipe turned to me and sighed and said, "Just another jealous writer..."

I couldn't believe all of the groupies who followed Diana Gabaldon, Don Maas and Michael Slade around like puppy dogs. That was just about the silliest thing I'd ever seen.

But the best part of the conference was rooming with two of the loveliest women in the world! Our conversations about writing, ghosts, siblings, parents, significant others, the silly writer groupies, and hormones lasted well into the night and I swear it was the best time I'd spent with two women--ever! We talked about an idea to get all of our writer friends together for a weekend writing retreat somewhere very fun like on a coast or like in Savannah so we could do what we love doing together--writing!

Mad Monster Party

I'm a sucker for the old Rankin/Bass TV specials, but my favorite--which happens to be my favorite Halloween movie--is Mad Monster Party?
The "animagic" in the show is a little clunkier than, say, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or Santa Claus is Coming to Town, but the characters are so awesome and the soundtrack is pure kitsch from the late 60s.

The legendary Boris Karloff lends his voice as Baron von Frankenstein and Phyllis Diller voices "Thang's" wife, who has that unforgettable laugh and is decked out in Go-Go boots.

Someone actually gave me the movie on VHS as a gift several years ago and when I saw that it had been reissued on DVD, I couldn't wait to get it and watch it with Mr. Na--who's fast becoming a fan! The DVD version is amazing, too, which makes watching it even more pleasurable!