.
Somehow I need to knock my husband out. Chloroform? Where do you buy that? Can I order that off ebay? Maybe I can slip Benadryl into a batch of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Irresistible. Then when he's yawning and saying how tired he is, I'll say, "Why don't you hit the hay, honey. Get an early start tomorrow!" He's say that's a good idea and tuck himself in. This is nice because I'd hate to have to drag him across the house while he was sleeping. Dead weight really makes it difficult to pick somebody up!
Next, I'd bring in a well-hidden buttload of hospital equipment: monitors, saline bags, syringes, and tape to secure ubiquitous clear tubing. Now, all that's the easy part. The hard part would be to find a five year-old child resembling our six month-old baby. He'd have to be just a touch exotic, with large green eyes and dark hair. I'd find him, perhaps through a casting call! This is LA after all. Perfect!
With that in mind, we wait...till my husband wakes up--in bed in a hospital gown, tubes are attached to his arms, while the heart monitor beside his bed bleeps, bleeps, and while the Benadryl's still has him slightly discombobulated, the boy says his line:
"Dad, DAD! Mom! He's awake!"
This is where I would say, "Honey, welcome to 2016. You've been in a coma. The doctors told me to pull the plug, but I told them you were strong. You've come back to us!" This is where I'd hand him a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and say, "I made this everyday for 5 years. I figured you'd be hungry when you finally woke up." And if I was really awful..."By the way, the cat ran away..."
Sometime shortly after this of course, the child actor next to me would say, "April Fools!"
.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
primo supremo el cheeso
.
It's 11:11 pm and I'm still not used to the daylight saving's change imposed since last Saturday night. A large part of this is due to the fact that Felix, now 5 1/2 months old, couldn't care less that his usual 7 am awakening is now a new 6 am "let's play" morning party. It doesn't help that my 1 am bedtime is still 1 am, so somehow my nightly sleep consists of a sporadic 5 or so hours. This can't be good for me.
Imagine taking care of a helpless, beautiful and yet very needy miniature human for 12 hours or more, straight, every single day for a year. Longer. Two years, three--forever! I never imagined it'd be harder than going to a 9-5 type "job" but keep in mind, those are either mindless or repetitious, for the most part--with lunch breaks!
I'm not complaining, but I don't even have the energy to read at night anymore. To write. To doodle. All I ever want to do is: lie facedown on the couch, browse fashion and etsy online and read cheesy British tabloids. It's as if I've morphed into a 50's housewife, a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie baking, Sumatra bean grinding--2011 cliche!
It's not bad, but I will say when the most exciting part of my day is wearing my new Houndstooth apron for the first time, it could be a whole hell of a lot worse. Say, if I'd been more ambitious career-wise in my life I might've had to endure eternal guilt for "putting my family second" or on the other end, what if I'd worked my ass off to sculpt a career only to have to give it up to stay at home?
Feminism, right? More than ever women are working while the dads stay at home with their babies. I always thought this gave all the wanna-be musician and artist boytoy types hope to watch more Cartoon Network marathons. More like Yo Gabba Gabba reruns.
But really, seriously, it's nice to be able to take care of Felix myself, in spite of what I pretend to resist as far as being a full-time mommy goes. I'm lucky to have such a smart and hardworking husband. He's a primo babe, too. And we made a primo supremo baby. Plus, Houndstooth IS exciting. If you add a whisk, and a debutante akimbo stance.
It's 11:11 pm and I'm still not used to the daylight saving's change imposed since last Saturday night. A large part of this is due to the fact that Felix, now 5 1/2 months old, couldn't care less that his usual 7 am awakening is now a new 6 am "let's play" morning party. It doesn't help that my 1 am bedtime is still 1 am, so somehow my nightly sleep consists of a sporadic 5 or so hours. This can't be good for me.
Imagine taking care of a helpless, beautiful and yet very needy miniature human for 12 hours or more, straight, every single day for a year. Longer. Two years, three--forever! I never imagined it'd be harder than going to a 9-5 type "job" but keep in mind, those are either mindless or repetitious, for the most part--with lunch breaks!
I'm not complaining, but I don't even have the energy to read at night anymore. To write. To doodle. All I ever want to do is: lie facedown on the couch, browse fashion and etsy online and read cheesy British tabloids. It's as if I've morphed into a 50's housewife, a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie baking, Sumatra bean grinding--2011 cliche!
It's not bad, but I will say when the most exciting part of my day is wearing my new Houndstooth apron for the first time, it could be a whole hell of a lot worse. Say, if I'd been more ambitious career-wise in my life I might've had to endure eternal guilt for "putting my family second" or on the other end, what if I'd worked my ass off to sculpt a career only to have to give it up to stay at home?
Feminism, right? More than ever women are working while the dads stay at home with their babies. I always thought this gave all the wanna-be musician and artist boytoy types hope to watch more Cartoon Network marathons. More like Yo Gabba Gabba reruns.
But really, seriously, it's nice to be able to take care of Felix myself, in spite of what I pretend to resist as far as being a full-time mommy goes. I'm lucky to have such a smart and hardworking husband. He's a primo babe, too. And we made a primo supremo baby. Plus, Houndstooth IS exciting. If you add a whisk, and a debutante akimbo stance.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
went to a wedding in Portland
Just got back from Portland. Ned's father's son got married; his cousin--a Vizzini. The ceremony was nice and quick and the reception was right after. Behind the bridesmaids I was the first person in line, which in hindsight is embarrassing, but someone was all: go, go, our table is first! So I went, grabbed a plate (my mother would've chastised me for this) and then one half Asian looking bridesmaid wearing fake green contacts said: um, wait for (such&such: a bridesmaid's name) before you go, please; then an elderly lady behind me said: why isn't this line moving?! And I was kind of in hell for a long single second, and when I sat down with the food, Ned ate it all, which was fine. He was holding Felix who was three months that day and spitting up formula all over the place. He'd mucked my dress pretty profusely, a brand new emerald green silk number from Barney's, and at first it was a catastrophe, standing there with this smootz running down a beautiful scalloped sleeve, but by the end of the day I'd been baptized by my baby's upchuck so much, being erped on was no longer an issue.
Flying with three month-old Felix was a breeze, aside from his shrill annoyance at being made to stay awake past his bedtime at the airport, but he slept a fine deep sleep on the plane both ways, and stayed asleep while we moved him from plane to escalator to car to bed.
It's hard to tell by way of nature, whose personality quirks he's going to have, if it's going to be all or nothing with Ned's neuroses, or my laid back whatever, but the givens will most likely be high levels of energy and curiosity, a good metabolism, and an obsession with testing and defying mortality.
.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
outside the other night & the next day
.
A few nights ago I was still wide awake around 4, lying in bed internet surfing when I heard sounds similar to cans being sifted from a trash can next door. I went to the window to see, and though I was a story up, standing in the dark, and peering through a screen, I was scared wondering what could see me back from the street.
As my eyes adjusted, I searched in the dark towards the source of the sound, and finally after about a minute I caught a glimpse of a dark figure in my neighbor's driveway digging through their trash as wheels and plastic scraped against inclined concrete.
I tried to make out the figure: raccoon, bear, something on two feet dragging--then a car approached, headlights blaring and turned in the driveway beside it. The figure retreated into the dark corners of unfenced bushes. Minutes later, after the driver was inside, it was back.
I put myself into the feet of a few perspectives: fear of the garbage sifting shadow, of the driver coming home from a) a tryst b) a late night get-together c) geez it was late--was the person even sober enough to notice? I went back to bed and fell asleep to the scraping and clanking noises of the unknown shadow in the street below my window.
The next day, as I walked with my husband to our car parked beside our trash cans, I swerved around a Mexican man in his forties going through our cans and plastics to fill an ever growing bag of cans that he was lugging around like Santa Clause on Christmas eve.
Residue of Southern grace, mixed with the sunshine had me almost say hello, or excuse me, but a second instinct said let him be, avoid eye contact and walk past, into the car; and I did. He's digging through our trash, I said. He's doing us a service, said my husband. Like a vulture, I said. And we drove away without another word about it.
.
A few nights ago I was still wide awake around 4, lying in bed internet surfing when I heard sounds similar to cans being sifted from a trash can next door. I went to the window to see, and though I was a story up, standing in the dark, and peering through a screen, I was scared wondering what could see me back from the street.
As my eyes adjusted, I searched in the dark towards the source of the sound, and finally after about a minute I caught a glimpse of a dark figure in my neighbor's driveway digging through their trash as wheels and plastic scraped against inclined concrete.
I tried to make out the figure: raccoon, bear, something on two feet dragging--then a car approached, headlights blaring and turned in the driveway beside it. The figure retreated into the dark corners of unfenced bushes. Minutes later, after the driver was inside, it was back.
I put myself into the feet of a few perspectives: fear of the garbage sifting shadow, of the driver coming home from a) a tryst b) a late night get-together c) geez it was late--was the person even sober enough to notice? I went back to bed and fell asleep to the scraping and clanking noises of the unknown shadow in the street below my window.
The next day, as I walked with my husband to our car parked beside our trash cans, I swerved around a Mexican man in his forties going through our cans and plastics to fill an ever growing bag of cans that he was lugging around like Santa Clause on Christmas eve.
Residue of Southern grace, mixed with the sunshine had me almost say hello, or excuse me, but a second instinct said let him be, avoid eye contact and walk past, into the car; and I did. He's digging through our trash, I said. He's doing us a service, said my husband. Like a vulture, I said. And we drove away without another word about it.
.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
love in your coffee is a sacred blend of silence & sweet, roasted, ground & boiled brown: a science
.
I've never been so enticed to wrangle dust particles
as I do, for a constant witness to my competency.
This is how I define coupling on a neutered day.
With good days kissing the sun with my skin, when
a nice walk replaces the boozy wasted adrenaline
of battles against no one--to call it the world. As
of late, I cook to create, adjusting to taste; presented
with barely a taste myself. I have a desperate desire
to be useful, to relax, I've escaped the necessity of
self-imposed stress...for now anyway. Can words
have hidden price tags, for every defense of value
put upon us by those words? Everyone, everybody,
the world, all: for those who decimate responsibility,
but take credit for an ounce of praise or acceptance.
Pity for people who are sensitive to judgment, ridicule,
criticism or fawning. Pity to me and my nervous energy
to appease the sensibilities of those who share my home.
I suppose I learned this from my mother whose duty it
was to feed her brothers and father til the day they bled
her skin, she ran away and met my father. And pity to
him for dying so young of disease without a daughter
by his side, though who's to say what I would've done
if he had ever even called me. Even once in a decade.
.
I've never been so enticed to wrangle dust particles
as I do, for a constant witness to my competency.
This is how I define coupling on a neutered day.
With good days kissing the sun with my skin, when
a nice walk replaces the boozy wasted adrenaline
of battles against no one--to call it the world. As
of late, I cook to create, adjusting to taste; presented
with barely a taste myself. I have a desperate desire
to be useful, to relax, I've escaped the necessity of
self-imposed stress...for now anyway. Can words
have hidden price tags, for every defense of value
put upon us by those words? Everyone, everybody,
the world, all: for those who decimate responsibility,
but take credit for an ounce of praise or acceptance.
Pity for people who are sensitive to judgment, ridicule,
criticism or fawning. Pity to me and my nervous energy
to appease the sensibilities of those who share my home.
I suppose I learned this from my mother whose duty it
was to feed her brothers and father til the day they bled
her skin, she ran away and met my father. And pity to
him for dying so young of disease without a daughter
by his side, though who's to say what I would've done
if he had ever even called me. Even once in a decade.
.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
the origami octopus has hiccups again
.
I had a terrible dream the other day, about a man who broke into houses consecutively, a locksmith I assume from glimpses of his interacting with his victims earlier in the day in some sort of house maintenance attire, with assistants, a van, and I could swear he handed them all a new set of keys.
Then I heard him say: do me a favor, would you, and the homeowners would say...sure, almost instinctively. The man asked them to do something small, easily forgettable: turn a porch light on at seven, call a random number at six. When the time came, it seemed ridiculous to everyone to do. Why should I? How would he know?
But somehow he did know, like a supernatural psychopath psychic, and in the late, late evening, he'd let himself in, find his victim in the living room, in a robe with a glass of milk, say: one simple thing I asked you to do, then slice these people to bits, a living sliver at a time.
There's more, but I'm done remembering the details.
***
In other news, I have twelve days to go before I am officially a mother. The long anticipated shower was a success thanks to Ashley and Camille, incredible ladies, jesus, they worked hard to put everything together from the baby back ribs to baby quiches. I think the final headcount tallied forty, and I never stood still for a moment without loving attention and praise for looking beautiful.
Family and friends have been extremely generous. When I registered 70+ items on the Target website, I never imagined they would very thoroughly be purchased for us. In fact, Ned's family, bless their God loving souls, got us most of the big stuff: a crib, dresser, car seat; while the rest of the items: a tub, blankets, carriers, toys, and enough clothes to last a year's worth of growth, were all bought for us by friends.
I tried to get my family into it too, but my mom will not learn how to use the internet to save her life, and my aunt's in Korea with my two cousins having a huge bonding session over fresh kimchi. Ultimately, my mom got her new husband to buy the stroller we had listed, while he was on his work computer. She tried to come to LA on the day Felix is going to be born to stay with us for a couple weeks, but seriously...I don't want to dilute the initial experience of bonding with my baby.
What seems like an unselfish deed on her part, seems extremely selfish to me. It's been nine months and I know everybody wants to see him, but I really don't give a shit about feeding the curiosity of others. Topping off their quota of feeling like a helpful citizen. I have never seen a picture of my mother holding me as a baby.
As far as my body goes, I've been fairly svelte and agile up until this last month when my belly has finally decided to blow up like a watermelon. I can relate to ancestors who worked until they gave birth in a rice field somewhere, strapped the baby to their back and kept on working. And I'm not used to being so debilitated. Walking the equivalent of a mile and being exhausted.
My hands are arthritic. My feet are exposed lungs. All in month nine, and I have imbibed not a drop of alcohol. I've held my breath passing every cigarette waft that came near me. Please be healthy, baby, please. He's crumpled inside me now like an origami octopus. I feel his folded legs beside my ribs, his hiccups near my groin. I'm almost ready, he says, I'm almost ready to have you hold me.
.
I had a terrible dream the other day, about a man who broke into houses consecutively, a locksmith I assume from glimpses of his interacting with his victims earlier in the day in some sort of house maintenance attire, with assistants, a van, and I could swear he handed them all a new set of keys.
Then I heard him say: do me a favor, would you, and the homeowners would say...sure, almost instinctively. The man asked them to do something small, easily forgettable: turn a porch light on at seven, call a random number at six. When the time came, it seemed ridiculous to everyone to do. Why should I? How would he know?
But somehow he did know, like a supernatural psychopath psychic, and in the late, late evening, he'd let himself in, find his victim in the living room, in a robe with a glass of milk, say: one simple thing I asked you to do, then slice these people to bits, a living sliver at a time.
There's more, but I'm done remembering the details.
***
In other news, I have twelve days to go before I am officially a mother. The long anticipated shower was a success thanks to Ashley and Camille, incredible ladies, jesus, they worked hard to put everything together from the baby back ribs to baby quiches. I think the final headcount tallied forty, and I never stood still for a moment without loving attention and praise for looking beautiful.
Family and friends have been extremely generous. When I registered 70+ items on the Target website, I never imagined they would very thoroughly be purchased for us. In fact, Ned's family, bless their God loving souls, got us most of the big stuff: a crib, dresser, car seat; while the rest of the items: a tub, blankets, carriers, toys, and enough clothes to last a year's worth of growth, were all bought for us by friends.
I tried to get my family into it too, but my mom will not learn how to use the internet to save her life, and my aunt's in Korea with my two cousins having a huge bonding session over fresh kimchi. Ultimately, my mom got her new husband to buy the stroller we had listed, while he was on his work computer. She tried to come to LA on the day Felix is going to be born to stay with us for a couple weeks, but seriously...I don't want to dilute the initial experience of bonding with my baby.
What seems like an unselfish deed on her part, seems extremely selfish to me. It's been nine months and I know everybody wants to see him, but I really don't give a shit about feeding the curiosity of others. Topping off their quota of feeling like a helpful citizen. I have never seen a picture of my mother holding me as a baby.
As far as my body goes, I've been fairly svelte and agile up until this last month when my belly has finally decided to blow up like a watermelon. I can relate to ancestors who worked until they gave birth in a rice field somewhere, strapped the baby to their back and kept on working. And I'm not used to being so debilitated. Walking the equivalent of a mile and being exhausted.
My hands are arthritic. My feet are exposed lungs. All in month nine, and I have imbibed not a drop of alcohol. I've held my breath passing every cigarette waft that came near me. Please be healthy, baby, please. He's crumpled inside me now like an origami octopus. I feel his folded legs beside my ribs, his hiccups near my groin. I'm almost ready, he says, I'm almost ready to have you hold me.
.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Thor-a review
Kenneth Branagh, what got into you? You go from being the exclusive representative for modern day Shakespeare, to Frankenstein, a boon of other here and there period pieces--to Thor. I guess I see the connection. For someone into the "classics" the story of Thor's older than weather.
Chris Hemsworth, I remember you from that terrific opening sequence from the beginning JJ Abrams' Star Trek. You were Jim Kirk's dad. You sacrificed yourself by steering the Kelvin on a collision course. That scene made me cry. Nice to see you again. I see you've been working out, too. Who cares about milk--got protein shakes? You blond hunk o beefcake, you.
Natalie Portman, playing a frigid ballerina is one thing, but a brilliant astrophysicist with a thing for Norse gods? I know you've got a pretty face and all, but exuding a hyper intelligent understanding of dynamic processes of celestial objects and phenomena? Come on!
When asked why she took the role, Portman replied, "I just thought it sounded like a weird idea because Kenneth Branagh's directing it, so I was just like, 'Kenneth Branagh doing Thor is super-weird, I've gotta do it."
Like you know?
For it to be even remotely feasible for Thor and Portman to have a believable romantic connection in this comic-based Blockbuster, I had to pretend Thor as a huge movie buff back on Asgard; that The Professional was one of his favorite movies of all time, so when the time came and Thor met Natalie on earth, he didn't care that she was a performing multiple acts of involuntary manslaughter on him with her jeep. He wanted to make out with the girl from Garden State.
And the Portman being used to this by now was all: guess what, you get to kiss me eventually. Aren't you stoked, Chet Hicklesworth, I mean Thor, I mean what-ever!
Less hard to believe and more enjoyable were the great supporting characters: Hopkins, so good, and the superstar who totally stole the heart-shaped pie had to be Heimdall (Idris Elba), gatekeeper of the Bifrost Bridge. Tom Hiddleston was also great as Thor's miserable milquetoast brother Loki.
Overall, the atmospheric effects were fantastic, pacing was quick, the story had substance, and lines mixed with comic timing let the humor take way of the movie taking itself too seriously. Entertainment is where it's at with Thor, a very 2011 film with zeitgeist-saturated thunder strokes galore, and many premeditated sequels to follow.
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