Boi-oi-oi-oi-oing!!!

I am loving kindergarten, living it vicariously through Wee-Man. The kids bring home the most delightfully misspelled love letters, barely-hanging-together crafts and art projects. Every day, my little monkey has some fantastic story about who did what to him on the play yard (usually it’s Olivia, scratching him in her kiss-chase reaching) or who brought what to Show and Tell.

With the approach of Thanksgiving, the kids planned a big classroom feast and a Talent Show. In preparation, each child was supposed to pick a talent to perform and choose an “Indian name.” (Which is actually pretty shocking to me, that this flies in San Francisco without protest. Even I kind of twitched a little, and I grew up thinking PC stood for “Potata Chips.”) Wee-Man refused to let me aid in his choices for name and talent. I asked him if he wanted to sing a song or do a magic trick, but he told me he already had a better idea: He was going to do some gymnastics and tell a joke. Please note that my kidlet does not take gymnastics. I was surprised, but he insisted he already had his act together. So to speak…

He kept telling me I was going to be so surprised. I figured the teacher was helping.

So the big day rolled around, and all of the parents filed in to Wee-Man’s classroom. The kids were acting as “Indians;” the parents were to put on hats signifying Pilgrims. Children trooped around in their paper-bag vests and construction paper headbands with feathers. The kids “taught” the adults how to make popcorn, and everyone ate donated turkey and trimmings. After the feeding frenzy, noise built to fever pitch, and the Talent Show began. Various children shyly presented their adorable-if-less-than-skilled performances (fumble-reading a story, singing a bit of a song, showing some karate or ballet moves learned), and finally Mrs B announced, “And now… with some gymnastics and comedy for us… LIGHTNING THUNDER!”

Lightning Thunder, AKA Wee-Man, BOLTED up out of his chair to run full speed to the front of the room, but in his excitement, he knocked his chair over and fell.

As Mrs B had declared his a comedy performance, most of the parents thought this was part of the act, and they began to laugh.

Lightning Thunder leapt to his feet and struggled. Should he roll with it? As comedy, it killed. But he had a small red mark on his neck, and already Mrs B was asking if he was okay. Should he deny a moment of sympathetic cuddles and attention?! COULD he? When faced with the dilemma of getting attention for being funny, or cuddles for being hurt, a Wee-Man is torn, indeed.

Excuse me. A Lightning Thunder.

In the end, he decided he could achieve both. He requested a cold paper towel for his neck, and Mrs B suggested he sit one out and wait a turn. Lightning Thunder accepted the towel, but he soon realized the harsh chill of the spotlight’s perimeter. He must have its warmth again! Halfway through the next kid’s act, Lightning Thunder declared to the room, “I’m ready now!” He sprang to his feet and usurped the stage. To my delighted shame, he was actually allowed to do this.

Then began his gymnastics. “I’m going to do a handstand!” He flipped twice, grunting, and then announced, “I’ve never tried this before!” After a couple more somersaults, Lightning Thunder bowed to the audience and announced, “Well! Those were flips!” He was going to do more, as the audience of parents was appreciative with their cheers, but Mrs B suggested we move on to the jokes.

“KNOCK KNOCK!” Lightning Thunder prompted.

“Who’s there?” Parents and kids queried.

“Hoo!”

“Hoo Who?”

“Don’t cry, Don’t cry!” This, like gangbusters. Even though personally, I always heard it before as “Boo Hoo.” Those kids loved it!

He told the “Banana, Banana, Orange (You Glad I Didn’t Say Banana)” Joke, and then “Police (Poleese, will you open the door)” joke… and realized he never wanted to leave.

Lightning Thunder began trying to make up Knock Knock jokes on the fly, but sadly, none of them were making sense, and the audience was losing understanding (but not yet the will to live, mercifully.) Some of the kids kept laughing anyway, for… solidarity?

Mrs B stepped in, and Lightning Thunder took a most MAJESTIC bow.

CAN I TELL YOU HOW PROUD I AM?! DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU?! I wish you all could have seen him.

When I was a kid, I was occasionally mean to my little sister, Chen. Please do not be shocked at this.

When I was somewhere around ten or eleven (Chen being two years younger), my sister decided it would be a good idea to suck on her arm and delight at the purple marks she could create. One day, while all of us kids were sneaking up around the neighbor’s trampoline, trying to determine whether or not the owners were home, I remember catching Chen’s attempt to teach our stepsister, Megadeth, how to make the marks before I wisely stepped in to intervene. Our neighborhood friend, Tommy (the crap out of whom we would later kick for shooting baby birds with a pellet gun), hooted and announced, “She’s giving herself hickeys! Those are hickeys!” Big Fat Chris and The Kid Whose Mom Gave Us Popsicles When It Was Hot laughed.

I then commenced calling my sister, and indeed getting the entire neighborhood gang to call her, “Hickey Woman.” Her brave attempts to stop us (sticking her tongue out, trying to show off her tree-climbing skills, and even crying) were to no avail. That was her name for WEEKS. Occasionally, Megadeth still calls her that. Heeee.

This, Chen, is my belated karma.

http://sfbay.craigslist.org/sfc/cas/429656158.html

I will explain later. Probably.

In other news, the Arcade Fire is the best live band I’ve ever seen.

I just want to say that if any one of you guys ever DARES to leave Britney alone, I will hunt you down and eat your face. You don’t put Baby in a corner, and don’t you even pretend to THINK about leaving Britney alone! Is that a way to treat a HUMAN? After all she’s done to get your attention? You’d just turn your back and leave her? Pretend she doesn’t even exist? SHE. IS. A. PERSON! People need! attention! She put a freaking snake on her neck, yall, and wore almost nothing, and danced around lip synching to some of the worst music ever created in the history of mankind! Snakes are dangerous, you know. And think how many times she had to listen to those awful songs– all those practices, all the takes necessary to record them. You think she did that so that nobody would know who she is? so that she could live a life of quiet solitude? DO YOU? What about how she recorded her own life for you? She had a show on national television to play out her daddy issues and hook up with what we all know to be the most vile wannabe hip-hop “artist” of all time. She even MARRIED him, do you UNDERSTAND ME? OH my gawwwd. Don’t you even REMEMBER? Sh-She drove around with a helpless baby on her lap in a moving vehicle, unrestrained! She wore cooter shorts and showed up to all the best parties, drunk off her Cheetos-eating asssss. What in the hell does a person have to do to demand you take notice? She’s done this all for you! And now you’re thinking about leaving her alone? Screw you, Chris Crocker and all your cronies. You cruel, cruel bastards?! DONT YOU DARE LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE! DON’T YOU DARE! *sob*

I had a craptacular summer.

This is strange, because usually summer is my happiest time, but there were serious family traumas coming to a head, and I was a nervous, mostly unhappy, wreck. I say mostly, because despite the terrible anxiety, I had plenty of friends to console me: There’s Pathawi, who is a self-proclaimed “drug dog for tarts,” and helps me hunt pastries; Slugworth, who shares my affinity for Darbar (most awesome Indian restaurant in town); RednFiery, co-consumer of Thai yummery in the Mission; my lovely coworkers who are not merely coworkers, and who all commiserate over bagels and fruit and Entemann’s; the guy who runs Pho Tudo (most awesome Vietnamese restaurant in town) and hugs me every time he sees me; Ben and Jerry, who must have created Oatmeal Cookie Chunk with me in mind… I think you’re getting the picture.

I don’t eat to live. I kind of, you know, live to eat.

That philosophy used to work fine when I was in my late teens and early twenties, because rockets couldn’t keep the speed of my metabolism. They called me Annie Rexic, for crying out loud. It was even okay mid-twenties, because of the black magic of Marlboro Lights. If I got stressed, I always had something to do with my hands. Who wants an extra helping of food you can barely taste, right?  Not so anymore: I quit.

I haven’t learned to knit, but boy oh boy, can I twirl a fork.

Anyway, the result is that I really packed it onto my body over the past four or five months. I’m not exactly doing my duty as a female stereotype, in that it isn’t really bothering me all that much. I know what’s behind it, and I know it will get better eventually. I guess it’s starting to become a concern, because I do find myself thinking about it and wanting to stop the trend, and after all, you’re reading about it right now. I thought that maybe acknowledging this habit would make me feel a little more accountable. I even considered mild vegetarianism. (mild, because I seriously do crave chicken sometimes. apologies, cluckers.)

So last night I made veggie soup, and today I’ve been eating it and drinking lots of water. I had fruit at breakfast.

And right now, I’m eating powdered donuts.

I believe in being healthy. I believe in being happy. I do not, it turns out, believe in deprivation.

When I lived in Texas, during one of the more hellish low points of my life, I decided the best form of escape would be (wait for it…) clicking and pecking around the internet.

That’s not so strange in this age, is it?

I’m sorry, let me elaborate. I decided the best form of escape would be to write various horrid snippets of prose and poetry and share them online with other people who did the same. Discuss verse. Opine somewhat academically, often absurdly. Compare attempts at form and structure. This nerdly idea was actually one of my brighter ones in retrospect, as I ended up “meeting” a wonderfully intelligent (though similarly deluded as regards quality time-wasting) man who was living in Wisconsin. We formed a friendship that has lasted five years so far, through several dramatic life events and moves, and eventually the fates saw fit to plop us down in the same West Coast city. For a little over a year, we’ve lived within three miles of one another, and so we get to join forces to terrorize innocent bystanders with our “charming” “wit” and impromptu performance art. Basically, the seeds of world domination have been sown.

Having him in my life, in my actual, physical, present life has been one of the more pleasant gifts life has bestowed, and yet… Pathawi and I manage to still carry out a good 40% of our communication online. That’s embarrassing, but it helps me out when I’m too lazy (or busy or tired) to type out a big, long snooze-fest blog entry.

For your reading enjoyment, you may witness and then contribute to our very stupid, and yet completely earnest, deliberations on the merits of what is arguably the most awesome British band of all time. No. Not the Beatles.

Pathawi: If anyone asks me, in the next ten minutes, who my major poetic influences were, I’m including Def Leppard…

RadMissRabbit: What has nine arms and sucks.

Pathawi: I’m going to say that I see myself as sort of the Golden Mean between Tupac & Jewl.

RadMissRabbit: haha - Jewel. - Golden Mean sounds like something R Kelly would like.

Pathawi: What’s black & white & gold all over?

RadMissRabbit: (&white?)

Pathawi: (_______) was writing a song about a golden-shower-loving love affair between R. Kelly & Adolf Hitler, as both were into such. He was looking for a title, & I gave him ‘Black & White & Gold All Over’.

RadMissRabbit: ha.

Pathawi: I don’t even know why Def Leppard is allowed to be so fricking awesome.

RadMissRabbit: There was a fanfuckingtastically awful awesome movie about them on mtv. I think it included anthony michael hall, and I’m not kidding. Or maybe it was vh1, whatever. I recall particularly enjoying the dramatic amputation scene.

Pathawi: I love ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ so effing hard.

RadMissRabbit: I love your use of the word “hard” as an adverb right there.

Pathawi: I’m just imagining when Joe Elliott wrote that, & they all gave it a first run-thru. ‘Gentlemen, I do believe we have just awesomed ourselves.’

RadMissRabbit: I effing -hate- that song. — but I find it fun that you love it.

Pathawi: I think it’s hilarious! — Do you take sugar? — One lump or two? — Dude.

RadMissRabbit: It’s really kind of a crappy Ted Nugent impersonation, in a way. but it -is- funny.

Pathawi: Who else could scream that in the middle of a “heavy metal” song?

RadMissRabbit: Yeah, but see, they don’t pull it off, either, to me. It still makes me cringe unless I think of it as spinal tap…

Pathawi: It’s not a matter of pulling it off so much as actually even thinking of it.

RadMissRabbit: No. It’s not even that so much as convincing four other fucking men to go with it. See, now, THAT… I can appreciate. (in the name of love.)

Pathawi: Demolition woman, can I be your man?

RadMissRabbit: (your man.)

Pathawi: Also? It has the most awesome guitar solo EVER.

RadMissRabbit: What is he saying for real when he tells me to Break the Bible Make it Up?

Pathawi: I don’t know, but that’s what I hear, too.

RadMissRabbit: HAHAHA!

Pathawi: You got the peaches, I got the cream / Sweet’s the taste: SACCHARINE

RadMissRabbit: No. Sweet’s the taste: SIDE OF BEEF.

Pathawi: Pour some sugar on me / C’mon fry me up

RadMissRabbit: I thought it was FIRE me up. - sexually. - with the glaze of her shoogarr.

Pathawi: These men clearly do not cook with any frequency. - & then? Lumps? They’re getting lumps of sugar poured on them? & then they get fried? - The Internet says you’re right on that one.

-RadMissRabbit- gloats about her superior lyrical listening skills.

Pathawi: Livin’ like a lover with a radar phone. Break the bubble / Break it up - FYI

RadMissRabbit: oh, a radar phone. of course. Why did I think it was a “RAY GAH LOH!!!!” Maybe it’s because THAT’S WHAT HE SAYS. “a regalo-wah-oh… wah-oh!!!”

~There really is no help for me, is there. I mean all that time, all I could think was, “This song merits no admiration. Stoplights do not even go from red to yellow to green, sheesh!” (Lyrics: Redda-ligh, Yella-ligh, Greena-ligh Go!”)

Like anyone could even know that, Napoleon.

Do you know how weird it is to feel like I should apologize here?

“You guys, I’m sorry. I haven’t been blogging, because I am such a loser. I’ve been doing all kinds of stuff AWAY FROM MY COMPUTAR. I NO RITE?”

This was Teacher Preparation Week at the preschool, and I will be working all weekend, too. First day of school is Monday. My younger kidlet started kindergarten in public school last week, which is a story unto itself, so basically, I will tell you what’s going on just as soon as I catch up to myself. Help! I’m running! And I can’t keep up!

In the meantime, enjoy the meanest video of all time. I just made it:

Before last month, I’d never really considered mice as pets.

When I was about nine years old, my mother got us hamsters. My younger sister and I would stare and squee into the clear plastic cage as our two female fur balls cuddled and darted, nosed at their water bottle, or ran with a desperate fury on a round trip to nowhere. We had long wanted a dog, something to cuddle in bed and chase and tearfully whisper to about how unfairly we were treated. Above all, though, we were realists; we could cheerfully accept the next best thing over nothing. Sometimes, on cold school mornings when my mother was having trouble rousing us from sleep, she would hold a hampster and let it tickle-scratch walk on our arms. After a couple of horrible morning-breath “awws” that really should have killed the small animal, we were wide awake. It was equal parts excitement at the proximity to soft creature and anxious desire not to let sibling have more time with aforementioned creature than you got. Worked like a charm. No matter how much you hate school mornings as a kid, you can’t resist the tiny cute.

“Tiny cute” wore off when the hampsters fought each other, and when we found out they eat their babies. That just seemed a little too close to home. I didn’t want a pet that reminded me of my mom.

You know, I really don’t even remember how we stopped having those hampsters. All I know is that Annie, the grey poodle puppy who would become the sweetest and most beloved member of our family to date, came into our lives soon after, and the hampsters barely warranted a “Smell Ya Lates” in our memories.

So when my friend Slugworth decided, earlier this year, to add a cage of mice to his small apartment zoo, I was surprised but somewhat interested. It seems strange on some level to domesticate and enjoy an animal for which so many homeowners put out death traps. However, I do still recognize a Tiny Cute when I see one, and mouse faces are adorable. It was pretty neat– Slug got to take care of them and risk his own delicate fingertips, and I could take a peek on the occasion that I visited his home, laughing at their antics and appreciating whisker-noses. I went with him last month to buy a couple more mice, but when we arrived at the pet store, we found that they only had feeder mice.

You know. Feeder mice. Snake food. Ohhh, mouse caste systems. So unfair.

Slug bought a couple of these death row inmates anyway, specifying that he needed female mice only, because while he did in fact want a ginormous cage full of mice, he didn’t want an entire San Francisco apartment full of them. (In my opinion, though, this is but a minor distinction. I tease him about the massive colorful Wonka Factory that is his mouse housing contraption. No, you think I’m kidding. Look at this insanity!) The pet store employees assured him they had picked out females, but as you may guess by the fact of my mentioning this, one of them was indeed male. Slug was dismayed to make this realization across town at his home, and he told me with a great weary sigh that he’d have to return the mouse.

Cue music. Mist and soft light. Mouse sobbing.

I looked into the eyes of my children and knew what they were thinking, because I was wondering the same thing. How could we let this poor little creature, so recently rescued from the serpent’s jaw, return to certain death when he had come so close to a life of domestic protection? A life of primary-colored spinning gadgets and little vitamin pellets and corn kernels? Of pure childish admiration for pink nose and paws? So unfair! We couldn’t do it, and unless your heart is made of something charred, you couldn’t either. Check out this face!

First we named him Jermaine, after one of Biz Markie’s shout-outted friends in “You Got What I Need.” (The lyrics go: “Cuz I have friends, and that’s a fact, like Agnes, Agatha, Jermaine and Jack.”) We were supposed to get him and another white male mouse, who would be “Jack.” (Jack White. Though I don’t think that’s who Biz meant in the shout-out. But wouldn’t it rule if he did? Biz Markie was hanging out with Jermaine Jackson and Jack White. That’s a dinner party to which I’d want an invite. Sorry. Tangent, Tangent.) Anyway, we didn’t end up with Jack, and the kids no longer wanted the first one to be called Jermaine when he was alone.

In the end, he was dubbed “Shakespeare” by an eleven year old girl, and she looked so in love when she named him, I kind of twisted up in that weak way you feel when you see something so incredibly beautiful and sincere and earnest in the world, where you would agree to anything just to protect that innocence, and knew it must be. Shakespeare.

Slugworth assured me that his mice never bite, and that they’re pretty easy maintenance, so he helped us set up a cage. It was more of a mouse cottage than the crazy mansion he supplied for his own babies. (I have this hilarious mental image of him hanging over the cage, whispering “Precioussss” and constructing more and more staircases for it now. I’m sorry, Slug. Will you do that for me next time I’m over? I’m going to start calling you Sarah Winchester.) We watched our mouse-ling stuff the doors of his tiny wooden structure with cedar chips and fuzz, run in his wheel, explore his maze of tunnels… We put him in a plastic ball and laughed as he careened around the house and crashed into walls. It was a honeymoon phase that could not last.

(Part Two Later. I’ve been a horrible blogger recently, but I really am exhausted. I would just save this and publish later, but I’ve had a few people grousing at me that I don’t post ANYthing, so I’ll give you this little bit until I summon the strength to stay awake and write more. Adios for now, amigos.)

*My five-year-old son thinks that two characters on the show Friends are named “Tangler” and “Feevee.”

*My five-year-old son thinks that the song I hate from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory is called “Chill Out, Charlie.”

*My five-year-old son crawls in bed and snuggles me when he thinks “dollies” are going to attack him, ever since he saw a full three seconds of one scene of Bride of Chucky.

*My five-year-old son thinks the name of his favorite ride at the Santa Cruz boardwalk is “Sea Surfent.” (Serpent.)

*My five-year-old son thinks I’m the most beautiful mommy in the whole world.

I intend to put a quick end to NONE of these things.

Once, when a few of my friends were over at my apartment late at night, watching tv after we’d finished our beach fire, we popped in the DVD for the first season of the Muppet Show and all kind of stared in comfortable exhaustion. At one point, some strange, two-headed, fuzzy purple muppet creature popped on screen and said something random/bizarre, and my friend Slugworth (without missing a beat) jovially shouted, “See ya in my nightmares!”

It was a triumph of timing, and it still makes me laugh to remember.

I’m not laughing when I see the Olsens, though. They get a sincere one. See ya in my nightmares, ladies.