Eeek! Thank you Anonymous for reminding me that I do, indeed, have a blog! And the blog I have has not been updated since November! I left all three of my readers hanging with that tidbit of a novel and a promise to not only actually write the rest of the story, but also to post snippets of it here. Did I do either of these things? Well...no, no I did not. So you may very well ask, "what the Hell have you been up to, you goofy broad you, during all these postless weeks that was so very time-consuming that you couldn't be buggered to either write a 50,000 word novel OR post a measely little blog update?"
Fair question. What the Hell have I been up to? Surely it must have been exciting, right? I mean, I live a jet-setting rockstar sort of life, after all. I'm a madcap wild woman, a whirlwind of excitment and non-stop antics I tell you! I secretly counsel the top tabloid-fodder starlets of the day on how to live it up with tips from my own wacky adventures with lost undies and drug-addled collapses in various super-elite nightclubs. They are a pale imitation, but they try their best to live up to hard-rockin' example I set. Courtney Love thinks I should slow down - yeah, I roll like that.
Okay, okay, that might be a very slight exaggeration. I have actually worn underwear pretty much the whole time since my last post, and the collapses were actually more like stumbles and pratfalls from not paying enough attention while navigating the gauntlet of legos, wooden trains, stuffed animals, toy drums, and various other obstacles and living room landmines strewn about my house by my toddler.
I did go on a vacation, though. In November Mr. Grammatarian, The Disco Ninja, and I took a little trip down the coast for a week to celebrate my birthday. We stayed in a wonderful place called Costa Noa where Mr. G and I used to go when we were first married. We lounged in bed, had family baths in the deep soaking tub in our room, cooked out on the bbq, sipped wine, went to the beach, and just relaxed the week away. It was heavenly. Having broken our camera in late October, I was only able to get camera phone pictures, but I think a few of these shots will convey the awesomeness of our trip:
After that came the great rush for Thanksgiving. This year, we decided that a turkey was just too, too last year. Instead, there was nothing for it but to get ourselves a turducken. What is a turducken? Glad you asked. A turducken is a mouth-wateringly delicious exercise in excess, Cajun style. It is a boneless chicken shoved inside a boneless duck which is then crammed into a boneless turkey, the spaces lovingly filled with cornbread stuffing and Cajun sausage, frozen solid, and shipped all the way from Florida to our Northern California abode to be baked, basted, carved and devoured in a frenzied orgy of festive gluttony by our friends and family. It was truly awesome, and we'll never go back to plain old turkey, not matter how hip and retro it may become in the future. We've moved on; we're on a higher plane of over-indulgence. One bird is no longer enough. Two birds won't do. No, no we now require three birds, jammed one inside the next, like a set of carnivore's nesting dolls.
Thomas turned one year old and discovered the joys of dulche de leche ice cream cake:
We also went ahead and bought him a new car for his birthday:
Then came Christmas. We survived it with liberal applications of egg nog (straight up for me, and "Dad Nog" style for Mr. G. Dad Nog contains rum, vodka, whiskey, and brandy, and is much like napalm: sticky and surprisingly flammable.), chocolate, and the traditional Grammatarian family holiday movies: A Christmas Story, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, When Harry Met Sally, and Better Off Dead. We had a gorgeous prime rib for dinner, enjoyed the company of dear friends, and wallowed in pie, Tenacious D episodes, and Guitar Hero until bed time.
New Year's Eve, what can I say about New Year's Eve? Just for a giggle, let us compare this last December 31st with the one I celebrated when I was 21. It was 1998. I lived at that time in West Oakland in a warehouse with a group of motorcycle riding, nightclub working, twenty-something hoodlums. I had a coffin in my bedroom, a job as a receptionist, and a wardrobe that was well over 60% fishnet. That night I zipped myself into a black vinyl catsuit, whipped my hair into a complicated construct of chopsticks and glitter, slathered my face with a heavy patina of make-up, and headed off to the club I had once worked at, and spent the night dancing on the bar, downing a variety of vodka based drinks, and in the end making out with an equally inebriated former bar co-worker, since neither of the two men I was dating had come out with me. Fast foward to last week. Now married to one of those two formerly absent boyfriends (the awesome one), for over five years, a mother for just over a year, and a full-time Daly City housewife, we spent the evening in our pajamas, had a sensible dinner, a glass of wine, put the baby to sleep, watched a movie, and went to bed at 12:30 a.m., after I spent a half hour cursing and grumbling and generally being crotchety about the fireworks set off by our neighbors because they could have woken my son. That's me rockin' the hedonistic life, yo!
Fair question. What the Hell have I been up to? Surely it must have been exciting, right? I mean, I live a jet-setting rockstar sort of life, after all. I'm a madcap wild woman, a whirlwind of excitment and non-stop antics I tell you! I secretly counsel the top tabloid-fodder starlets of the day on how to live it up with tips from my own wacky adventures with lost undies and drug-addled collapses in various super-elite nightclubs. They are a pale imitation, but they try their best to live up to hard-rockin' example I set. Courtney Love thinks I should slow down - yeah, I roll like that.
Okay, okay, that might be a very slight exaggeration. I have actually worn underwear pretty much the whole time since my last post, and the collapses were actually more like stumbles and pratfalls from not paying enough attention while navigating the gauntlet of legos, wooden trains, stuffed animals, toy drums, and various other obstacles and living room landmines strewn about my house by my toddler.
I did go on a vacation, though. In November Mr. Grammatarian, The Disco Ninja, and I took a little trip down the coast for a week to celebrate my birthday. We stayed in a wonderful place called Costa Noa where Mr. G and I used to go when we were first married. We lounged in bed, had family baths in the deep soaking tub in our room, cooked out on the bbq, sipped wine, went to the beach, and just relaxed the week away. It was heavenly. Having broken our camera in late October, I was only able to get camera phone pictures, but I think a few of these shots will convey the awesomeness of our trip:
After that came the great rush for Thanksgiving. This year, we decided that a turkey was just too, too last year. Instead, there was nothing for it but to get ourselves a turducken. What is a turducken? Glad you asked. A turducken is a mouth-wateringly delicious exercise in excess, Cajun style. It is a boneless chicken shoved inside a boneless duck which is then crammed into a boneless turkey, the spaces lovingly filled with cornbread stuffing and Cajun sausage, frozen solid, and shipped all the way from Florida to our Northern California abode to be baked, basted, carved and devoured in a frenzied orgy of festive gluttony by our friends and family. It was truly awesome, and we'll never go back to plain old turkey, not matter how hip and retro it may become in the future. We've moved on; we're on a higher plane of over-indulgence. One bird is no longer enough. Two birds won't do. No, no we now require three birds, jammed one inside the next, like a set of carnivore's nesting dolls.
Thomas turned one year old and discovered the joys of dulche de leche ice cream cake:
We also went ahead and bought him a new car for his birthday:
Then came Christmas. We survived it with liberal applications of egg nog (straight up for me, and "Dad Nog" style for Mr. G. Dad Nog contains rum, vodka, whiskey, and brandy, and is much like napalm: sticky and surprisingly flammable.), chocolate, and the traditional Grammatarian family holiday movies: A Christmas Story, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, When Harry Met Sally, and Better Off Dead. We had a gorgeous prime rib for dinner, enjoyed the company of dear friends, and wallowed in pie, Tenacious D episodes, and Guitar Hero until bed time.
New Year's Eve, what can I say about New Year's Eve? Just for a giggle, let us compare this last December 31st with the one I celebrated when I was 21. It was 1998. I lived at that time in West Oakland in a warehouse with a group of motorcycle riding, nightclub working, twenty-something hoodlums. I had a coffin in my bedroom, a job as a receptionist, and a wardrobe that was well over 60% fishnet. That night I zipped myself into a black vinyl catsuit, whipped my hair into a complicated construct of chopsticks and glitter, slathered my face with a heavy patina of make-up, and headed off to the club I had once worked at, and spent the night dancing on the bar, downing a variety of vodka based drinks, and in the end making out with an equally inebriated former bar co-worker, since neither of the two men I was dating had come out with me. Fast foward to last week. Now married to one of those two formerly absent boyfriends (the awesome one), for over five years, a mother for just over a year, and a full-time Daly City housewife, we spent the evening in our pajamas, had a sensible dinner, a glass of wine, put the baby to sleep, watched a movie, and went to bed at 12:30 a.m., after I spent a half hour cursing and grumbling and generally being crotchety about the fireworks set off by our neighbors because they could have woken my son. That's me rockin' the hedonistic life, yo!
3 Comments:
It was 1994 and as a 20 year old I lived with two gay men. Much to the chagrin of my ultra-conservative family. New Years Eve was spent at a leather club that featured men dancing go-go style in cages. By New Years Eve 1995, I was married to a Mormon and had a newborn baby. I became the living version of Adam Ant's song. "Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?"
Ah well, misty water colored memories light the corner of our minds!
Well, we'll always know that there must be something inside! We can be covert agents of wildness, hidden behind our calm suburban exteriors!
Did I tell you how genius your turn of phrase in "Carnivore nesting dolls" is? We use the nesting doll analogies in various contexts too. My oldest daughter and I spotted an entire polyester gaucho family at Mc Donald's last week. There were six of them. A mom of and five girls lined up in descending order. My daughter said that they looked like fashion reject nesting dolls. I countered with, "Yes, with each one more horrifying and camel toed than the previous." We laughed hysterically then. I'm raising the next generation for BNABBT.
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