HALLOWEEN JOY. In case you didn’t get to visit my front porch personally, let me just tell you about it, because it brought me such personal joy (humour me, please). At the last minute my dd and I decided our porch needed some scariness, so after hanging some orange icicle lights that we just happened to have (yes, oh yes) we decide to Build A Witch out of a green velvet goth dress stuffed with our most plentiful natural resource – dirty laundry. We perch her in a chair holding a broom, with a wonderful hat, fringed shawl, pointy witch shoes, gossamer veil and gloves. We give her a floor lamp with an orange light bulb and a red velvety scarf draped around it. We pipe an endless loop of Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue” from a hidden source, but there is something missing. I’ve removed the bike helmets from their hooks on the outside wall by the front door, and I casually ask dear daughter what we could put there instead. What would be creepy to hang here? “Barbies!” she answers, filled with glee, unaware of just how proud I am of her at this moment. “Yeah! We can tie them up like a torture chamber!” And we do. In their best princess attire, upside down, hog-tied at the ankles, our witch’s prisoners. And it is good. So good. So funny. Four Barbies in their finest frilliest dresses upside-down tied at the ankles, arms flailing, spinning in the wind to a loop of Bach as a slopey-shouldered witch sits watching in the dark. And every kid who comes to our door stares sideways, not knowing what the hell is up with that.

kim

MORE MISS AMERICA. Did I mention that the first Miss America Pageant was held in 1921, which was, coincidentally, the very same year that American women won full suffrage? Really? Yes, really.

Ladies, here are your Voter Registration Cards and here your swimsuits…for the swimsuit competition!

PIE IN FACE. So, another public figure got a pie in the face. (Ann Coulter…shudder.) I’m working on a larger piece right now on this whole phenomena, but I want to go on record here and now and say it was the right pie, right place, right time. I’m pro-pie-in-the-face. No matter who gets it. But please, no shaving cream – real pies of the banana/coconut creme variety.

I have a nephew (now a 7th grader) who, in anticipation of turning three, when asked what he wanted for his birthday would answer excitedly to everyone who asked, “A pie in the face! A pie in the face!” So, yes, that’s what he got, and he was so happy. Then again, that might point to my stance being a genetic defect that for some unknown reason runs in my twisted family, but let me say again: Let The Pies Fly!

kim

MISS AMERICA. I read in Wednesday’s paper that the Miss America Pageant lost its network telecast sponsor (ABC) for the first time in 50 years. Happy dance, happy dance. Now, even though I had a fleeting moment of optimism, thinking that maybe the pageant’s demographic, which has always been young women who were lead to believe that being crowned Miss America was the be-all-end-all of a fulfilling post-adolescent,-pre-womanhood, maybe this demographic was finally too educated, too NPR-saturated and high-friggin-falutin to buy into this crap anymore that the contest was finally succumbing to pageantry Darwinism, but, alas, that brief bit of optimism was eventually overtaken by the reality that the REAL reason that Miss America’s tv ratings were dropping so drastically and causing the show to be a money loser (even though they “dropped the talent contest and added skimpier swimsuits”) was that is just wasn’t skanky enough. Maybe if they had re-named it Miss Hot and Nasty America, or Miss America: Under the Sequins they could rope in some viewers, not that I want them to or anything, but I’m a little surprised that they think being Miss America is “all that” anymore. It used to be quite a hot ticket, being 20 and being Miss America. Now it’s like being the Desitin spokes-model or winning the Pillsbury Bake-off (read: Not Hot Ticket.) Although in my household being able to bake AND not having athletes’ foot all at the same time is not only an attainable goal but a respectable one.

In any case, I’m sure the beauties from across this great land of ours will find a home on a cable station somewhere in the ether. It will have no talent contest, which actually did display some modicum of the individual personalities and quirks of these women, but it will have a skimpy swimsuit contest. Could they at least swim? Evening gown competition, I believe, is still intact. The Big Question will be asked be asked (hint: correct answers include world peace, ending world hunger and Calvin Klein.) Wow. How do men get scholarships to college?

FAME AND FORTUNE. Well, online food review anyway. Here’s something I wrote that made it onto my favorite website. Woo and a Hoo!!

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/newfood/

Scroll down till you get to the Hamburger Helper review (yes, that’s right).

Kim

CONFESSION (WARNING: NOT FUNNY.) As certain as I am that I will, after my death (and more certainly before), suffer horrific yet undefined damnation (since at my advanced age I have yet to determine what death and thereafter means to me) due particularly to my abject ambivalence toward family life, I am also certain of one other thing – I will not be alone in said future torture chamber. I have learned many things from mamas, and the most pronounced is that this angry-guilty feeling I get is not unique. Being “not unique” is never something I cherished, but this time it is a relief, little relief, but I’ll take it.

Wordy, wordy, wordy. Can’t I just talk like normal people?

Nope.

Kim

H.G.WELLS & THE PRETTY LADY or LONG RANT ABOUT NOTHING. So I’m watching “Time Machine” (the 1960 version) with my kids yesterday and it’s pretty entertaining, what with my predilection for time travel and all (where/when would you go?), and I’m overlooking Mr. Wells’ main character’s coincidental visits smack dab in the middle of world wars, instead of, say, a totally boring Tuesday afternoon, and then we are taken waaaay into the year 802,701 inhabited by Morlocks (ugly underground cannibals with machinery and some technology) and Eloi (above ground dwelling numbskulls who can’t even feed themselves but are very nice, at least to look at, according to convention). The Morlocks are blue and scary pre-cursers to the Hulk (crazy frayed pants and no shirts – big muscles) and could have been drawn by Hanna-Barbarra. The Eloi are all toe-headed, blue-eyed and dressed in pastel cotton loose fitting slacks and sundresses, quite passive. Apparently the Morlocks feed and house the Eloi, do everything for these helpless minions and then round them up and…eat them.

When the eventual revolution starts and the fighting between the two factions gets scary and my kids start getting freaked out, I distract them by asking “Which Morlock do you figure made those pretty dresses?” This makes them laugh and they’re not scared anymore as they spend the rest of the fight scene yelling, “That one! No, that one!” The battle between “good” and “evil” ends with the Eloi, aided by our time-traveling friend, destroying the Morlocks and their underground world, including all of the machinery that somehow, miraculously whirred and hummed lo these thousands of years in the wild jungles “after the world became un-inhabitable.”

So here’s my question. Um…the Morlocks totally figured out how to stay alive, although they did develop a taste for Eloi along the way, which was unfortunate. The only reason the Eloi were alive was because the Morlocks were feeding them. Now, I’m not saying the Eloi deserved to be slaughtered, but did the Morlocks (and their technology) deserve to be wiped out (baby with the bathwater)? If our “freedom fighter” main character didn’t return to start a new life with the Eloi in the end of the movie (spoiler for a 109 year old book, sorry) wouldn’t they probably die without some trace of what the Morlocks had started?

Sorry, I guess I really don’t like beautiful, stupid people and the way our society caters to them, and relate on a deeper level with the “ugly” and somehow smarter evil Morlocks (setting myself up here for accusations of being neither ugly nor smart).

I guess if I don’t like beautiful stupid people, I have no business watching Hollywood movies, but, alas, I am addicted to the old ones (movies, not people, although I do like my mom, but I could quit her any time I wanted. I just don’t want to).

THEY DRAW HORSES, DON’T THEY? Speaking of movies, I am peeing my pants in anticipation of the new Trey Parker/Matt Stone movie “Team America: World Police.” It’s a musical AND offensive. Both. With marionettes. (Crossing legs tighter.) So excited.

And speaking of animation, does anyone else stay up to watch Sealab before going to bed or is ours the only household that divides all tv viewing between kids’ cartoons and grown-up cartoons? Thank goodness the debates are over so we can get back to business as usual.

“Mommy, who are those guys? They look so…not cartoony?”
“Honey, they are the most cartoony of all.”

Kim

DEMOCRATIC DREAMS. A while ago, before the presidential race got so gosh-darned exciting, say, back before the Democratic National Convention when John Kerry’s official name was still “Not Bush,” I had this dream, and I tell you now this is a real dream I had. I even told my mom about it. It went like this: We (dh and I) are at a political rally where Mr. Kerry is speaking and afterward, while the crowd is cheering and yelling, he looks above the crowd and makes eye contact with me, leans over whispering to his security guard and points me out, rock-star-style, and dh and I immediately understand that I have been chosen as his new “mistress.” I’m the new future White House affair! Well, I am sort of flummoxed by the whole prospect (don’t actually meet him or anything) but am more analytical than anything about his choice of ME, since, not to knock my own inherent hotness or anything, but if I were a presidential candidate seeking extramarital nooky I might just go for less vocabulary and more, uh, stuff. Dh apologizes and agrees. We decide that it was a political move, not a hormonal one, and by picking me, and figuring that our affair will be made public, he will appear to have an open mind in his taste in women, see the “whole woman” and make big fans out of the comfy-dressing/recycling/Volvo-driving/liberal/indie-cinema-mom-voters. I’m the Anti-Monica.

When I wake from this dream and tell dh he tells me that if it comes to pass I can go ahead and “represent” if need be. Thanks, but Mr. K is a little on the equine side for me. He can still have my vote, though.

I have never dreamed of George W. Bush. I have nothing to say on that matter. (Like hell I don’t.)

ANNOYING THING. When a café has an evening open to musicians to come and sing a song, or poets to come and read a piece did you know that they take a person named Michael and open him up? Apparently this is the new trend, as newspapers and magazines are now referring to these events as “open mikes.” It wasn’t that long ago that they were called, correctly, “open mics,” since they are, in fact open microphones, and the first three letters of microphone is…MIC. Maybe there is a dearth of musical equipment across the land and persons named Michael do, in fact, amplify sound better than, say persons named Henry and that’s why we don’t have “open Hanks.” I find this completely annoying and can’t for the life of me figure out why every editor, spell-checker (human) and member of the paid grammar police has let this slip. It’s really awful. Open mike. Open mic. Think about it.

Kim

TO-DO LIST UPDATE. So it appears I may have started something here. But it dawned on me that I should have specifically noted to post your to-do lists here in my comments, not because i’m so lazy and don’t read everyone’s blogs in a timely fashion (well, there is that), but this way they will be in one place for everyone to shop and compare. okay? i think it’s fab. it’s also dangerous, though, because while reading someone else’s list i’ll think, Oh Shit!, I need to do that, too!

So, until the next surprise To-Do List Challenge (which we will all post here in “comments”, right?) (see, told you I like to make rules, hehe), just go about your days singing every Hot song you can think of for The Hot Ticket.

“I’m So Hot For You” the Rolling Stones
“Some Like it Hot” Robert Palmer
“Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot” Buster Poindexter
“Houston is Hot Tonight” Iggy Pop
“Hot in the City” Billy Idol
“Hot Child in the City” Nick Gilder
“Hot Legs” Rod Stewart

Kim

PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE II. What I learned last night during the second Presidential debate: George W. Bush proposed the hydrogen automobile. Did anyone else catch that? I doubt it will be as big as Al Gore inventing the internet (which W. referred to last night as “the internets” immediately removing him from any generation of hipness and depositing him in with my mother’s, who refer to Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore’s band as “The Sonic Youth”), but still, I find it hard to imagine him “proposing” a car that runs on something that isn’t at first glance a huge money-making enterprise for him or his cronies (wait, does he own stock in the Hoover Damn?).

“Kerry*Edwards – The Hot Ticket”
(TM MadameLuke, but John and John can use it if they like )

MORE FUN WITH DICK AND GEORGE. Dick Cheney is the Ethel Mertz to George W’s Lucy in the Bush White House. Ethel was smarter, and frequently exasperated with Lucy, always had to go along with her zany schemes, and was forced to play second fiddle because she wasn’t as big a player in the Big Hollywood Machine. She was also considered not as appealing. Sound familiar? Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge Lucy fan and one of the only nicknames I’ve ever had was Ethel, and it pains me to even compare the two camps, but think about it. It was glaringly obvious during the VP debate that Cheney is smarter than W. Boy, he must hate that guy. Boy, I hate ‘em both.

WHY WE ARE STILL MARRIED. Here’s a little peek into a typical exchange that may help others who are wondering how some couples stay together for soooo long (12 years and counting):

Dh: Should I shave my beard?
Me: But then your head would be back to 90% bald!
Dh: I resent your attack on my being follicle challenged.
Me: Well, maybe I resent your being follicle challenged! (laughing)…Okay, now you can make a fat joke.
Dh: I resent your being a fat ass.

It’s the warm fuzzy moments that bring us together.

Kim

TODDLER SWEARING. (Caution: toddler swearing.) Every mother has her own version of the swearing toddler story, and each thinks hers is the funniest and I am no exception. Anyone not familiar with the genre – imagine an 18-24 month old using words like “fork,” “fake” or “folk music.” My particular 2 year old happens to have met his Waterloo with the popular ogre Shrek, which in his capable hands (mouth) comes out, “f*ck.” Not sort of like it, or something close to it, just exactly it, with a capital F and all the exuberance and heartfelt enunciation that befits a big green charismatic swamp-dweller with a gorgeous, sassy wife.

Today we were in Payless Shoe Source trying to taking advantage of a closeout sale and right next to my size 9-1/2’s was an entire wall display of Shrek slippers. Well, my young son was so elated, so entirely giddy at this discovery that he could not, would not let up in his announcements to me as I tried on shoes a mere eight feet away from him (though you wouldn’t guess our proximity from his volume) “F*uck, mama! F*ck! F*ck shoes!” For the first couple of minutes I tried, at equal volume, to reinforce to the other listening shoppers (and there were many: SALE!) his speech mishap with, “Yes, honey it’s SHREK!” and “Uh-huh, SHREK shoes!” But after I realized that He. Was. Not. Going. To. Stop. Yelling. “F*ck shoes, mama!” over and over, I burst into uncontrollable giggles.

He finally shut up after discovering a pair of Dora sandals that light up (!) when stomped upon. He would then not leave quietly without the Dora sandals that light up, so of course he now owns his first pair of drag queen shoes. He wore them home, to bed for his nap and is now sporting them with only a diaper. (F*uck shoes, ha! Shoes rule.)

Kim

MORE POLITICS!! So dh and I are watching the VP Debate the other night, taking turns flicking each other on the cheek trying to stay awake. (Did anyone else notice that the little black timer boxes placed on the desks in front of the candidates looked like rolodexes, and combined with the incessant note-taking on the parts of both Dick and John, they started to look like a couple of receptionists? Anyone? Just me?) Since we are not learning anything about either running mate or the race in general we bide our time till the after-debate phone-ins begin, figuring these will hold much more entertainment value, and we are not disappointed. Unfortunately, most of the callers are not exactly eloquent, and in order to feel better about the situation we, of course, start to make fun of them. There is a phone line for Cheney, a phone line for Edwards and a phone line for Undecideds, and callers are phoning in with their opinion on who won the debate. We were really hoping to hear this one:

Caller (male): Well, I was undecided before tonight’s debate, but after listening to Mr. Cheney and Mr. Edwards I’ve decided that Edwards is just sooo young and hot that I have to vote for him.

Host: And that is based on the information in tonight’s debate?

Caller: Well, look at him! He’s like, all eager and good-looking and Cheney’s all…not-hot.

Host: Did you hear their discussion on same-sex marriage? They’re both opposed to it.

Caller: Well, yeah, but I’m thinkin’ maybe Edwards might flip-flop, ya know? Ya know?

Host: Were there other issues tonight that might affect your vote?

Caller: Well, hotness is pretty important. A Kerry-Edwards ticket is pretty…

Host: Hot.

Caller: Yeah…hot.

Host: Thank you, caller.

Maybe we should’ve called. We’re soooo voting for Kerry and Edwards, even though I think Edwards just may suffer from ADD or may have had the first person singular pronoun removed from his vocabulary.

Kim