July 10, 2007

reunited

Um, hi. You're cute. What's your name?

Listen, I just can't quit sonofmax. I've tried LORD HOW I'VE TRIED but it seems I really need an outlet for writing about certain things in my life, such as today our babysitter's mom called up two minutes after she got here this morning to tell us that her daughter was EMOTIONALLY FRAGILE because she really wanted to go to the beach with her friends today but had committed to watching our two kids and could we please let her leave a little early? O! The strife-filled life of a rich, blonde teen in our ass-clenchy, neurotic little town. I told her to get gone, don't let the sand fleas bite you on the butt you doomed little brat.

Also, our good old Seattle friends were here last week, which made for beach, sparkler and lobster good times. They also turned us on to the best program ever, and paid me the enormous compliment that the show reminded them of me because I tend to make up songs as I go about my day. Were it that my songs ranked as high in awesomeness as theirs do, my days would be a happy ones indeed.

So there you have it, not much has changed since we've been apart. The same moral outrage, the same love of New Zealand digi-folk paradists. I'm glad we're back together again. It just feels right.

love,
Max

Posted by Max at 08:53 PM | Comments (2)

June 25, 2007

swan swan hummingbird

Back when I started Son of Max, I was a brand new mother to one son. I worked at an oddly (for me) corporate job and thought it would be nice to have an outlet whereby I could yammer on about things and have a couple of my friends yuck it up over my sad little misadventures.

It's been three years and some stuff has changed. I've moved across country to return to my salty New England roots. With my husband and a couple of other folks, I co-founded a software company and now work from home full-time. I'm getting paid to blog, which was one of my semi-serious career goals. Also, we were joined by an unexpected though very sweet baby girl.

Now it seems I'm going to be writing a twice-monthly column about kids and nature for a new Providencian web site. I get to take pictures of things like thimble-sized horseshoe crabs to illustrate my posts. This makes me insanely happy because it is pretty much combining all of the things I'm into right now (besides plastic buckets of frozen, pre-mixed margaritas and Owen Wilson.)

All of this is to say that I am swan-songing Son of Max. I feel enough has changed from when I've started it that I'd like to start anew. If you know me, you'll get links to my new stuff whether you like it or not. If you don't know me, thanks for reading and let me know if you have any interest in either of my new gigs. I can't promise there will be any posts devoted to my crotch or stories about our pagan family's attempt to assign meaning to various holidays, but I will do my very best to keep it real on the EC.

Posted by Max at 09:36 PM

June 12, 2006

joy in repetition

Back in the 70’s, my mom had both a kiln and a wild hair to redecorate my bedroom. I was not a super femme girl but nor was I a tomboy. I think if she had covered my room in sticks and stacked piles of books against the walls, I would have been pretty happy. But she decided I needed a more fitting environment for a blossoming young lady, which in her mind meant a ceramic lamp in the shape of Becky from Tom Sawyer cradling a puppy on her pinafored lap*. The lamp was to match my new canopy bed, pink rose wallpaper and other girly-swirly puffery. I felt largely ambiguous about the redecoration project, but I did have one small request: that Becky's puppy be brown with blue eyes. You would have thought I’d asked for a meth lab filled with hookers the way my mom reacted. “No way,” she said in her most conversation-ending voice, “dogs don’t have blue eyes.” I insisted that some of them did, I had seen them in books! But my mother stuck by her brown-eyes-only canine theory and, since she was the one with the kiln, Becky clutched a brown-eyed pup when she emerged glazed from the fires. Girl and dog stared at me forlornly for a number of years, until I was able to pawn the thing off on my sis as part of her initiation into All Things Pink and Wonderful.

I was recently reminded of the dog lamp when I was planning the Bean’s new “big boy” room.
“We’re painting your room!” I told him a few days before the big event.
“Oh! Green, my favorite color?” he gasped, eyes widening in surprise and excitement.
“Um, no, blue actually! My favorite color!” My smile faltered a bit. Crap. Why wasn’t I painting the room his favorite color? He can’t even say the word green without following it up with the phrase “my favorite color”. But I pressed on, painting the room two lovely shades of blue. I then hung up pictures from the chosen big boy room “theme”, which was…outer space! That meant spaceships and robots! Lots and lots of shiny robots with round robot heads and stretchy robot arms and metallic robot bodies clinking along on robotic wheels. I made a grand to-do about the robot lamp and paintings and aren’t robots cool etc etc. A few nights later, a sobbing Bean recounted his first Bad Dream, a dream filled with the only thing he’s decided he’s afraid of: robots. Down came the paintings, away went the comforter, so long to the futuristic lamps.

Then the other day, the Bean and I were at Michael’s picking out materials for his invitations to Spring Fling 2006. We had already talked about what he wanted on the invitations, which was frogs (because they are green, his favorite color.) As we cruised the stamp aisle, my wandering eye fell upon little birdie stamps of all shapes and sizes.
“Oh look! How cute! Birds!” exclaimed the crazy birds-on-stuff lady.
“I want dolphins,” replied the Bean, spying the Ocean Creatures stamp section.
“But look how cute these guys are! Look at the robin!” I held one up.
“I like a whale.” He reached towards a giant sperm whale stamp. “I wanna whale on der!” As a compromise, I bought him a rubber whale and secretly tossed a couple of stamps in the cart when he wasn’t looking. I’ve been working on the invitations the past few nights, after he’s in bed. So, ahem and ta-da!

Somewhere, a blue-eyed dog is howling.

* For the first time in recorded history, the Internet has let me down. No combination of becky lamp ceramic or puppy could find the lamp of my pre-pubescence. Maybe it wasn't actually Becky, but I just thought of her as such? I used to pretend my Madame Alexander dolls** were the back-up singers for Air Supply, so crazier things have happened. Also, I did stumble across this lamptastic bargain.

** Feck, I kind of want this one now! What the hell is wrong with me?

Posted by Max at 11:00 PM | Comments (1)

April 03, 2006

sentimental case

Even though there is nothing really specifically going on, I feel the need to post a few updates in case anyone is wondering. First: are mine Irish eyes smiling or not? This is the 20,000-euro question. After a frenzy of phone interviews, there was a long period of not hearing anything. So much so that my husband and I decided that rather than making ourselves crazy over any move-related decisions, we’d just start doing home projects.

Spring has arrived to the EC with precious little fanfare. One minute you’re locked outside your house with wet hair freezing to the side of your head and the next there’s daffodils all over the place except in your yard because the previous owners were TOO DAMN LAZY to plant a single bulb. My husband is ripping apart our ghetto sun porch/playroom and tricking it out into a tropical wonderland complete with bamboo floors, taxidermic fishes frozen in eternal pursuit of non-existent bait, and built-in benches just the right size for toddler slumber parties.

You know what comes after spring? Summer. East coast summers, though humid, are what have driven this particular train across the country and pulled it into Suburban Station. We now live four blocks from the beach. There’s rumored to be a clamshack there in summer that sells whole-bellied clams in paper cones. Mean ladies in green and yellow trucks peddle delicious shaved lemon ice to kids on bikes. You can dig holes in the sand here, fill them up with lobsters and corn and coals and clams and a couple hours later, dig everything up and gorge yourself on butter-soaked sweetness. One emerges from the sea sun-browned and salt-stung to rinse off in freezing outdoor showers. And fireflies fill the night sky blinking out phrases like “Aw yeah” and “Bring me another beer, bitches.” It’s the flip side of six months of cold, wet, snow and scowls, loneliness, Republicans.

The thought of leaving now, when all of that is just beginning, to move to an actual foreign (rather than perceived) culture makes me a bit heartsick. I’m hopeful that, if and when I do go to Ireland for the next round of interviews (and it is looking pretty likely), somehow I’ll know one way or another what we should do.

In the meantime, there is a bird here now that sings a particular two-note song: the first note high and quick, the second one note lower and longer. Hearing it the first time, I told the Bean the bird was singing “Good morn-innnng!” On Saturday, he ran into our room yelling “Mommy, Mommy the good morning bird singing to me!” In contrast, this morning, he woke me up by standing next to the bed and projectile vomiting onto my chest. God I love that kid.

Posted by Max at 01:48 PM | Comments (0)

March 24, 2006

recruitment

In my email this morning, in addition to the usual fifteen messages from online pharmaceutical companies (damn that one-time penis pump purchase!), was a message about an upcoming job fair in Seattle. Job hunting in and of itself can be exhaustive and grim. Years ago, having just been brutally laid-off from a job in the high-tech industry, I decided I would check out what this “job fair” concept was all about.

Following the online career advice I had been dutifully reading, I dressed as though for an interview: navy suit, pearl earrings, sensible shoes. I also brought the suggested stack of resumes. I went with a former colleague who’d also had his ass handed to him on a high-tech platter. Once at the fair, we decided that we’d go our separate ways and meet up again in an hour.

I hadn’t been unemployed for all that long and also have a fairly optimistic view on my general employability despite never being able to communicate to my family what it is I do (“something with computers”). So I was in a strange mood, strolling around and observing: the Army recruitment booths; job-seekers wearing hair-sprayed perms and pumps with purple skirts; a sense of hope and desperation as pervasive as the spell-checked resumes printed up on bonded paper.

As I was walking around, a petite young woman in a chocolate brown suit strolled by and gave me a slow, approving smile. She had long auburn hair pulled up in a loose twist and beautiful pale skin. Being in full “I’m so hirable it’s ridiculous!” mode, I smiled back, thinking the exchange was a bit odd but that was about it. I continued to cruise up and down the aisles, wondering if maybe a career in air travel was right for me, or if I should put my communications skills to use in an entry-level position with an up-and-coming real estate company.

As I rounded a corner, there was the woman again. This time, she said “Hi.” We introduced ourselves. Her name was Audrey and she said she worked in the entertainment industry. She asked for a copy of my resume, which I gave her. We chatted for a few minutes and she seemed to like me. I was only half-listening to what she was saying because she was so striking and also because the situation seemed slightly odd. Was it that easy to get a job at a job fair? Someone just walks up to you and you're hired? As I tuned back in, I realized Audrey was talking about needing attractive, intelligent woman to work with high-profile international clients. A little light went off in my not-too-clever noggin. Audrey told me her “father” ran the business and would be in touch. I wrapped up our conversation quickly and rushed off in search of my friend.

So the only resume I gave out at the job fair was to a hooker. In my (admittedly feeble) defense, I was recruited.

Posted by Max at 09:35 AM | Comments (0)

December 29, 2005

christmas cheer

1. take one snowball
2. add whiskey (preferably Maker's Mark)
3. add another snowball. this will absorb all of the whiskey and at first make you irritated and thirsty
4. allow snowball to melt slowly
5. enjoy!
6. repeat as needed

More holiday photos on flickr

Posted by Max at 11:25 AM | Comments (0)

December 20, 2005

streetlights, santa, up and down the boulevard

I don't have much in me right now, but here's a heartfelt warning and then a small story.

HEARTFELT WARNING
If you're like me and you take a billion pictures and movie clips and then keep them all in one place i.e. your computer and your husband tells you almost as an after-thought that hey! he is going to upgrade your operating system tonight, by all means ENSURE THAT YOUR PHOTOS AND MOVIES ARE BACKED UP ELSEWHERE before said "upgrade" takes place. Because that way when your ashen-faced husband comes and tells you he's 90% sure he just deleted your entire hard drive, you won't have to sob into a towel in the bathroom for twenty minutes trying to be quiet so that your two-year old, whose precious moments thus far on Earth have all just (90% potentially) been erased, won't hear you and come in and pat you and ask "Sad, Mommy?" and then start crying himself.

Turns out they weren't erased. But backing up our digital photos rocketed from somewhere on our To Do for 2006 list to Done. Fini. You need a copy?

SMALL STORY
Festivus activity number I've-lost-track-at-this-point was to donate a toy to charity. The Bean had ten dollars that he got in the mail from his Grandpa, so on Saturday we made a great show of putting the money in his own pocket and going to the toy store to pick out a toy. There happened to be a toy drive going on in the parking lot, so we picked out the toy, had Bean pay for it himself, then walked over to give it to the toy drive.

Who was out there waving to the traffic but good old S. Claus himself! We've yet to do the whole Santa-in-a-mall thing, so seizing the chance to score a free Santa picture, I thrust the camera into my mortified husband's hand and basically accosted Santa where he stood. Alas, the Bean got so shy he tried to crawl into my scarf.

So this is the picture of me, my scarf, Santa and my shy, well-documented child.

Posted by Max at 09:34 PM | Comments (1)

December 16, 2005

when good ideas turn sad

The Bean calls construction and highway workers his buddies because at our old house in Seattle, there was some construction going on across the street. Every morning we would wave to the guys working and they would say “Hey, buddy!” to my son. This made quite an impression.

Now, there’s a bridge that we drive over every day on the way to and from the Bean's daycare where they are building a new bridge right next to it. It's pretty much buddy central, which gives us something to focus on other than the fact we are about to drop the Bean off into the sham that is our current childcare situation.

Most days, the buddies are there even when it is bitter cold. If they aren't there, the Bean knows where they are! They are home eating onion soup and salad with their mommies and daddies. The imagined lives of his buddies are quite vibrant, filled with hot meals and love.

In the spirit of festivus, I've been all "Let's make cookies for your buddies! We're going to bring cookies to your buddies for a present!" Finally last night, my husband made some delicious butterscotch and oatmeal cookies. I boxed a bunch of those up along with the lame slice-and-bake sugar ones that Bean and I had made the night before and we drove off this morning to present them.

I pictured the two of us walking into the trailer where there was likely a project foreman and handing the cookies to him. I even brought my camera, thinking it would be a good photo op to get a picture of the Bean with one of his hard-working buddies.

It was pouring rain this morning and at first it didn't look like anyone was around the construction site. Then I spotted a buddy, full safety-orange construction raingear on, walking just off the road. I pulled in behind him and gave a "toot toot!" of my horn. He spun around and squinted at me through the rain like a feral dog. I waved through the windshield: It’s just me! I was freshly showered, I had lipstick on*! And cookies! He came loping toward the car as I lowered the window.

His face was leather-thick and weatherworn, though he couldn’t have been much older than me. His teeth were broken or missing and his lips were split from the cold. He leaned into the car and continued to squint at me then back at the Bean in his car seat while I chirped on about holidays and toddlers and buddies and yum! Cookies!

As I reached across the passenger seat to hand him the box, our hands touched briefly. It was like brushing your fingers across pumice. He took a last slow, puzzled look at me and in his bloodshot eyes there grew a small spark. Finally he said “Are you that girl I been talking to on the computer?”

Happy holidays, buddies. May there be warm soup in all of your homes.

* This is a big deal at 8:30 am for someone who works from home.

Posted by Max at 12:09 PM | Comments (0)

December 11, 2005

snow angel

We tested the Bean's new snowsuit today and it works! Let the angel-making begin.

Also in this weekend's festivus news, my good good friend Lu was in town for the weekend and she and our other good good friend KP hung the bedazzler out. We did a bunch of heart-warmingly fun stuff including checking out the RISD alumni show. I was in the middle of closing a deal on a small painting by this guy when my friends, who had wandered ahead, called to tell me they had spotted Cybil Shepard in the crowd. Wearing a white jumpsuit and weird glasses!

More stuff happened but as I went out two consective nights, which for me is basically the equivalent of a month-long hash and donuts binge, I am too tired and unhealthy to write. In fact, I keep pausing my typing to stare blankly at the computer screen while visions of Ms. Shepard dance in my head.

Posted by Max at 10:12 PM | Comments (0)

December 05, 2005

mug shot

Back when my husband and I were ourselves young pups (well, I was sort of a young pup and he was a canine embryo), we enjoyed going on dates. Our first date was at the formerly-skanky-currently-hip Rendezvous in Seattle where we went to see a mutual friend performing in a drag show. About fifteen minutes into the date, I, who had just ended a rather grueling seven-year relationship, found out that my date was Barely Legal. That is, I was thirty and he was...younger. This news made me positively giddy, as did the gin I was throwing back to prevent myself from running out the door. What was I doing? How could it be? Shouldn't a woman my age be dating like, lawyers and taxmen?

Then came a break in the show and my date/future husband excused himself to go to the restroom. Our friend came gliding over to say hello and I was like "AHHHH! He's an infant! What do I do?!" Our friend raised a well-groomed eyebrow and said who cares? As long as we were having fun.

Our next date was a rodeo, then car crash derby featuring Carzilla, new wave dancing and my favorite date hot spot, the state fair.

Now, seven years later, as part of our Festivus activities, I got to enjoy my festive hot cocoa in a state fair-crafted mug that has my husband's face on one side and the words "Too hot to handle" on the other.

Have fun we surely do.

Posted by Max at 10:21 PM | Comments (0)

December 04, 2005

lights, camera, no action

Tonight we combined our festivus activity (driving around to look at Christmas lights) with returning pans to the caterer. It was kind of half-hearted due to puppy-related parental fatigue (hence the boring picture). That and all the whiskey my husband drank last night.

Too bad I can't include an audioclip of the Bean screaming "Window down! Window down!" over and over again in a devil voice because my window was down to take pictures and of course that meant he wanted his down, too. It really added to the magic of the holiday season.

We got snow, though. That's festive!

Posted by Max at 08:08 PM | Comments (0)

December 03, 2005

mistletoes

Today's festivus activity had to be wedged in between playing with a puppy, cleaning the house so our babysitter won't refuse to come over anymore, and getting ready for FancyLadyFest 2005 a.k.a. the holiday cocktail party. Fortunately, the Bean selected “mistletoes” (painting his toenails red and green), which his dad easily managed while I was out for my umpteenth trip to Target this time to buy dog toys and cocktail napkins.

Thaddeus seems to have a mean case of kennel cough, so we were up most of last night. We're taking him to the vet Monday for a thorough going-over and canine review. He seems much better today and is in fact currently attacking my pant leg. I always knew that brown corduroy really drove the boys wild, now I have my proof.

Posted by Max at 06:15 PM | Comments (1)

December 02, 2005

in our cups

Tonight's activity was...Christmas mugs! I bought some snowmen mugs and we wrote Coco's cousins' names on them with a silver paint pen. We'll give these as presents and hopefully the kids can use them for hot cocoa as they get older.

Also, today we most unexpectedly got a puppy. His name is Thaddeus and he is sweet.

Posted by Max at 12:28 AM | Comments (0)

December 01, 2005

festivus becomes us

Since the Bean is now old enough to know what the heck is going on most of the time, we've decided to try and establish some sort of traditional holiday happenstance. I got the idea of an activity advent from Loobylu, who is a billion times more creative and talented than I am. Still, I managed to come up with twenty-four holiday-related activities, wrote each one a tag, then put them all in a glass jar. Some of the activities have gifties (for instance..."Party bath!" has fizzy bath bombs and sparkle Santa shower gel from the dollar bin at Target.)

Every night, the Bean will pick one card and I will attempt to photograph and post the ensuing activity. That way, perhaps I can stem the tide of bitter hate mail that comes my way about my lack of posting...HUSBAND.

Our first night's activity was building snowmen ornaments to give as gifts. I totally cheated and had him pick that one out of the jar since I was feeling crafty.

After the initial excitement of picking out the card and opening the little present, it was pretty much all me hot gluing beads onto pipe cleaner while the Bean yelled about turning the tee-bee on, but hey. That in and of itself could be the start of a beautiful family tradition.

See you tomorrow!

Posted by Max at 01:23 AM | Comments (1)

November 06, 2005

the spirits of 1776

In Rhode Island, one must purchase one's alcoholic beverages in a separate place from where you get the rest of your provisions. These places are called "package stores" or "packies" for short. The packy closest to us is called 1776 and the employees all dress as revolutionary soldiers. Well, just kidding about the soldiers but not the name. Because it is a bit of a drive for us to go there, we tend to make some fanfare when we arrive if the Bean is with us. The result is that now whenever we drive by it, he gasps and yells "Booze House!" This pleases us.

We took advantage of today's glorious New England weather to drive past the Booze House to one of the fricking coolest beaches ever. The waves were crashing, there were a billion rocks for my wacko kid to throw into the ocean for hours on end, and the water was filled with SURFERS totally ripping it up on some major waves. I grew up in New England and yet until today had no idea that these waters were surfable. The one drag was that my camera was out of batteries so no pictures for you (or me).

I've been walking in the mornings before I barricade myself in the house to work and I still can't quite believe the gorgeousness of this area. The beaches and the leaves and the crumbling stone walls etc. However, we still have yet to meet or even see anyone that is remotely, um, like us. I told my friend (from Seattle, waa waa! Friends, move here!) that I was thinking of starting a tree-hugging, gay-loving drinking club for sardonic atheist commies, you know posting a flyer in the local Starbucks just for a lark. I'm sure that would go over really well with the lock-jawed boating set. Really, lighten up Rhodies! It's a short life and a fun one filled with lots of nice beaches.

The other day I picked the Bean up from daycare and drove home a different way, a route that took us over a bridge that traversed a salt marsh. The sun was setting over a white church at the end of the bridge and the water on both sides was flat and filled with swans. The Bean started yelling "Oh! This! This!", which is what he says when he wants to say something but doesn't yet know the word. He was pointing to the sky, which was shot through with pink and gold. I told him "sunset". He was quiet for a second then said "Pretty."

You're right, little boy. It is pretty.

Posted by Max at 12:58 AM | Comments (1)

September 02, 2005

frogs like to swim in pools, too

But sometimes they can't get out unless you help them. And sometimes they end up in little bits in the filter. Don't tell Bean.

We have frogs! Frogs frogs frogs frogs frogs. And fireflies, too. It's little boy heaven and equally delightful for moms who want to sit out on the porch with their husbands and their beers and be so, so grateful they are all safe and happy. nola.com is a good site to help those who are not so fortunate right now.

We are helping as we can and thinking most especially of all the moms and babies.

Posted by Max at 12:46 AM | Comments (0)

July 24, 2005

Nothing more than feelings

Boy am I glad last week is over. We sold the Seattle house and did some half-assed negotiating with the owners of the Rhode Island house that resulted in them selling it to us. All the real shit was going down simultaneously with offers and counter-offers etc., which meant that my husband and I did nothing at work Tuesday except call each other every five seconds to hyperventilate. This may sound sexy but it was not. Since Wednesday was the big day for decisions, we both took the day off from work, said "See ya" to the Bean at daycare and hung out doing things like normal people who weren't about to keel over from stress. It was a nice, nice day and I recommend to people everywhere to play hooky with yer honey on sunny days when you are feeling crazy.

Today I packed my first two boxes. I'm really going for the tough stuff: spices and small pictures. I wanted to pack the pictures so that the impending move will seem real. With the pictures gone, it really seems we are in transition. I've lived on the West coast for thirteen years and have wanted to move back East for the last five, but couldn't due to husbands and babies and jobs. Then somehow the stars aligned and now it is happening and it is a bit surreal. When I visit the East coast it feels like a foreign country to me, albeit one that I am swoony with love for. I've never been a grown-up there, so moving back to a beachy, sleepy town where people talk funny and loudly and there is snow in the winter and thunderstorms and FIREFLIES!!! at once scares and delights me.

Most of the people I love are there, in one state or another. But some of the people I love are here, and I will miss them much. I met my husband here, got married in the San Juans, had my baby here, all huge things. Seattle is a great city and I love everything about it. I've always said that it is just on the wrong coast.

The one thing I want to do before I leave Seattle is take pictures of the Bean in front of the Space Needle and on the monorail. It's odd and a little sad to me that he is going to be one of those people who were born one place and grew up somewhere else. I think he would like to have pictures as evidence when he is older. I don't really have any pictures from my childhood and sometimes it feels like it never really happened. I think that is why I write, or I used to at any rate. It anchors things.

It's a beautiful summer evening and soon it will be time to meet our friends with twins for cocktails and maybe oysters. As the philosopher Ren once said to his dear friend Stimpy, happy happy joy joy.

Posted by Max at 12:45 AM | Comments (4)

April 08, 2005

Sweet Willie Brown

Even though you were of questionable age that was at least three hundred in dog years, and even though you had one blue eye and one brown eye and an overall look that some would describe as crappy to the point where, after a month of seeing you every Sunday at the shelter, we finally adopted you because we figured no one else was going to, and even though your heritage was such that when people asked us what kind of dog you were we said "brown", and though you were a somewhat pee-pee challenged in the last few months and we've got three ruined rugs in the basement awaiting a dump-haul as well as several dog-sized stains on our hardwood floors to remember you by, you were a sweet old boy who loved to hoover up cherries from our backyard, who didn't mind when I squished your face all up in your star-studded collar just to make us laugh, and most of all who was happiest just to be out walking with us, your people, representing.

Goodbye, Will. We will remember you.

Posted by Max at 10:30 PM

Posted by Max at 12:27 AM | Comments (0)

January 17, 2005

January 17, 2005

Here comes the rain again

If the Bean were a features writer for a toddler-published magazine, his article this month would be entitled "Choosing Not to Nap". I guess the glory days of two naps are behind us and we are uncertainly entering a one-nap lifestyle. The problem is, none of us can sort out when exactly that nap is supposed to be and also what does that mean for bedtime? So there are a lot of frustrated tears and arched bodies being flung dramatically on the floor, mostly by my husband and myself.

We also got to experience the thrill of projectile vomiting this weekend! Until you actually see this phenomenon in action, it is one of those things you think parents just say, like oh my kid just threw up four feet across the room, or my kid is gifted because he spelled "cat" out of his carrot sticks. My carrot sticks would have spelled out "Wow" after I saw the pukestream fly out of the Bean the other night. We were both almost more impressed than upset although by the third day, frankly it was getting a little old.

My foot currently smells like dog pee. I'm not going to go into it, but suffice to say it is because of my dog.

So it's back to work and to daycare tomorrow providing everyone is well. This afternoon, we plan on celebrating MLK's birthday in the form of a simple yet heartfelt memorial activity: fingerpainting. I am hopeful that the good times we have today can sustain me through what promises to be another torrential and soul-grating week at the saltmines.

Posted by Max at 12:37 AM | Comments (0)

December 12, 2004

Stuff it

I am suffering from an unusual form of Christmas anxiety, one that I shall refer to as Christmas Stocking Meltdown. My husband and I never really exchanged stockings as part of our haphazard, pre-child tradition. Stockings were a huge deal in my household as a child, but I am finding that as an adult, they introduce a whole new level of Christmas complexity and pressure: what to put in there, how much to spend, do you drive big nails into your mantel and then have holes there the rest of the year etc.

Not to mention that fact that OH LORD are most stockings ugly. I cannot bear the garish, got-'em-six-for-a-dollar standard issue white and red faux fur stockings. You would think the Christmas "industry", which has helpfully provided me with about ten million alternatives, would have been able to produce something both holiday in spirit and pleasing to the eye. Not true. It seems the vast majority of stockings have been created to uphold one of a few themes: needlepoint snowmen, felt Christmas trees trimmed in gold braid, or weird elvish Santas cavorting on plaid backgrounds. One has to place these items in a prominent location and look at them for weeks. I don't want my stomach to clutch in horror every time I glance over at my fireplace.

However, the introduction of a child into a home requires that new attention be paid to the rituals of gift giving, and to me that translates as buy some stockings or you are not a good mother. So I recently braved the sales rack at my favorite discount stores. Talk about pressure! I had to envision that THIS stocking, whichever one I choose for the Bean, would be the stocking for his entire childhood. Year after year it would be filled with charming gifts and delicious, whimsical candies, setting the stage for a lifetime of warm memories and holiday cheer.

After spending far too much time deciding, I finally purchased a needlepoint stocking for myself, a felt one for my husband, and in an apparently lapse of sanity that I still cannot explain, I selected a blue, sequined stocking for my only beloved son.

Why. This is not Christmas on Ice. Nor is it Vegas. This is just a simple expression of love and good wishes between family members. I've never bought anything with sequins in my life. This thing even had SILVER PUFFY STARS attached to the top of it that I had to cut off. Not only that, but in keeping with the American need to MAKE THINGS BIGGER and BUY MORE, all three stockings were big enough to each hold a brand new Hummer and Arnold Schwarzenegger to drive it.

Last weekend, my mother-in-law had to hear to my whole Meltdown history, philosophy, and current status complete with the unveiling of stockings. I laid them between us on the couch. The light from our Christmas tree glinted softly off the sequins as we gazed down. "Why don't you just return them?" she asked finally.

So I did*. We now have no stockings and no plan to fill anything in our house with sugarplums, walnuts, silver dollars, diamond earrings, candy canes, pocket knives, mini plush toys, card games, sour balls, concert tickets, Pez dispensers, cuff links, holiday-themed toothbrushes or wind-up mice. Nothing. Unless someone can please tell me where I can find stockings that are vaguely vintage looking, with muted stripes in shades of umber, goldenrod and russet, reasonably sized, and crafted to last at least 18 years.

Thank you. I hope you are having a joyous holiday season.

* Yes, I returned the stocking even though I had cut off the puffy stars. Believe me, it was better off without them.

Posted by Max at 12:43 AM | Comments (0)

November 11, 2004

Working it, at work

The photo shoot was rather anti-climatic, Rolling Stone photographer or no Rolling Stone photographer. The lamest part was that we had to pretend to be playing with various balls that are going to be Photoshopped in later. Wacky! Corporate! Grimness!

A woman I work with and I did our photos together, since it was taking a long time and we needed to get back to our office. This other woman is petite, fashionable, and kind of bitchy in a way I find somewhat admirable. At first, the foxy photo assistants were yelling, "You're taking a jump shot! You're passing the ball to each other!" and we had to act it out with our invisible balls. I was getting pretty into it, because the Bean enjoys playing basketball and I was thinking of him. But then the petite fashionable woman, who was NOT getting into it, muttered "Oh my god, you are really cheesy", through her tight-lipped, glossy smile because somehow she had not noticed this before even though she sits right next to me. I cheerfully agreed, "I am! I'm totally cheesy!", which made me laugh and screw everything up.

Thankfully one of the foxy photo assistants rescued us and said that since we were young (!), fashionable (!!) career women, we should do something sexier. Um, like what? I pretended to hold an invisible ball to my belly and turn sideways as though I was pregnant and said "Like this?" but this was not found to be amusing. Dance music was pumped up, invisible balls were re-positioned, and next thing I knew we were attempting to be sexy, in a photo-studio-in-a-conference-room kinda way.

For some, this would have posed a real modeling challenge. But I was lucky to have a secret weapon at my disposal: dance face. My friend Michael says that I have the most stoic face he has ever seen on the dance floor. It is true; I am pretty serious about getting down. When a photographer from Rolling Stone wants attitude, it turns out that I give him dance face.

At one point, they had us turn our backs to the camera and look over our shoulders while holding invisible balls aloft. How this was going to look sexy with my big butt and the fact that I am about twelve feet taller than the other woman, I have no idea. Maybe in the way that Mothra and Mothra's fairies are sexy.

When we were done, one of the foxy photo assistants asked "So did you have fun?" and I told her that I always enjoyed having my ass photographed. Between the physical comedy, dance face, and the ass comments, I'm convinced that they will just Photoshop me out of the pictures altogether.

Posted by Max at 12:47 AM | Comments (0)

November 06, 2004

Fancy music-making

When I was a kid, learning how to make and play music meant sitting in a closet-sized room with a piano and an ancient, pee-smelling teacher whom you were afraid was going to die at any second. So much so, in fact, that you could barely concentrate on your scales and your Fur Elise because you knew you had to be prepared, at the first sign of gakking, throat-clutching, or bug-eyed distress, to climb over the teacher to get to the door. Certain angles of the woman's potential collapse would render escape impossible and THEN YOU WOULD BE TRAPPED with the dead teacher, the pee-smell, the much-feared, standard-issue, upright piano.

So distracting was this concept to my developing brain that, although I logged a number of years taking lessons, now all I can play is "The Rose" and that is because I liked the song and taught myself how to play it. My brother also took piano lessons from Pee Pee Corpse, and his remaining tune is the theme from "The Greatest American Hero", which he still plays with much feeling and fairly decent technique.

Our crowning performance was what would prove to be our swan song: a much-anticipated brother/sister duet to be given at a holiday recitial in our massive, tangerine-shagged living room. The room was so big that it comfortably held a grand piano and about fifty parents of fellow students, curious neighbors, and various other grown-ups who liked to drink with and/or suck up to my mother and father.

My brother and I were the last to play, and as we settled next to each other on the gold-cushioned piano bench, I knew it was not going to go well. As we raised our hands over the keyboard, my brother on the lower section of the piece and I on the upper, I was suddenly struck with a fit of giggles. I couldn't play. My brother started on his own and played resolutely on, bumping out a little chord here and there, playing the bass line for a melody that was locked inside me and buried in ten thousand giggles. I think, when he finished the piece, he even stood and bowed. I was a proud of him in that moment, even though I spent the next two hours sobbing in my canopy bed.

So, although I was exposed with the best intentions to the art of music-making, I can't say I have had a great experience of it. Until now. My new computer has a program on it called Garage Band, and holy freaking jesus you have about a billion sampled instruments to choose from. You can also lay down your own vocal tracks and mix them right on in. It is like I died and went to karaoke heaven.

Last night I spent about four hours working on my first song, which is kind of a dancey alt country piece. I believe I may be inventing a new genre(and perhaps there is a reason it hasn't been invented yet). I'm actually singing a song that a friend of mine wrote, so I guess I better clear it with her before I remix the crap out of it with claves, house beats and cowbell. I prefer to keep my ass-grilling to a minimum, and I'm at my quota.

The Bean has woken from his nap and all I've managed to get done is make another ten seconds of my song and enjoy this little walk down musical memory lane. People of Seattle, prepare to greet slightly surly, unshowered, really frigging hungry beat master Max.

Posted by Max at 12:48 AM | Comments (0)