Thursday, November 30, 2006


My afterprom party

This is Mel's assignment for my blogging. And I guess what happens when you're waiting to be allowed to seek employment and just killing time all day, wiling away the hours express mailing dissertations on 20-24 lb. Acid free paper. After all, Mel says, "I'd be interested in hearing about that. From a purely anthropological perspective."

My afterprom party was a lock-in. No one else had these past the age of 12, or so I'm told. But not in my town. We spent all night at Memorial Hall and our parents did skits and sang spoof songs. We all went, though I have no idea why. All 100 of us. Who had been in school together since kindergarten. A silent, lifelong culmination of quiet coercion. We'd all been led to believe that this was normal, obligatory, and not the complete torture that it turned out to be. There was pizza and pop.

Why? We'd all already had sex, done drugs, and gotten drunk in the hour between the prom itself and the after party. After vomiting and getting off in the valley, we all felt so much better and many of us could even stomach listening to our parents sing "Will you still need us, will you still feed us, class of 94" in straw boater hats and hobo suspenders.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006


32 Weeks

This pregnancy is a lot breezier than the last. What with all the talk of illegal midwives with arrest records, driving to Massachusetts for the birth, and the whole joblessness thing, time flies. I do wonder if I can make it through the newborn stage, however. Are hormones actually related to postpartum, or just in that medicalized research way? I know they've done some research about adoptive moms getting it, and I've never been one to advocate for the biological foundations of anything...but I'm actually hoping that biology has something to do with the sheer over-whelmingness and anxiety of motherhood so t ht I can completely forego it this time around. Sounds easy, doesn't it? Cross fingers.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006


The Family Michael

Are certainly different from my family of origin. I realized it after a raucous game of charades in which my 7-year-old nephew acted out "John making out with his girlfriend."

A few hours before, I'd answered an email from my cousin whose parents see his pet turtle as a hallmark of mental illness: a dorm dweller, it CLEARLY signals he's lost all respect for authority.

Alice will grow up a Michael.

Sunday, November 26, 2006


Gray Market Antibiotics

So after some horse pills of unknown potency, I emerged from the craftmatic adjustable deathbed yesterday in time for several mall temper tanrums (Alice's cousins, not mine).
After crying fits in Children's Place, Old Navy, and the Disney Store, I'd forgotten that my daughter exists. She, however, continued existing and had consumed three sippy cups of juice as a coping mechanism. Soon after, she had managed to pee through her pants and all over her stroller (which still needs to be washed from Charlie's pee, because hey, it jsut wipes right off!). So she's soaked. We get in the subway dirtiest mall bathroom I've ever seen and Mel says, "I'll stand her on the counter and maybe we can change her without touching anything." This is made possible by grandma's stroke of Old Navy genius and a new pair of $3.97 baby yoga pants.
Unfortunately, my upright daughter was undresssed diaper. The diaper machine costs $1. In change. Which I don't have. A nice lady offers us her size 2 diaper for my size 4 child. Ok, I say gladly. Emergency averted. As we wrap her up like a chubby sausage with legs oozing out the sides of this itty bitty Sesame Street (sooo juvenile) diaper, in strolls a child about Alice's age who has just vomited all over herself, her shirt, her pants, her diaper, her stroller, and frankly, the ghetto bathroom walls and floor.
A lesson in "things could be worse" was had by all.

Friday, November 24, 2006



My head the balloon
I take cough syrup all day
It tastes like black death

Wednesday, November 22, 2006


My Sister's Boobs

Thanksgiving at Mel's house: a wrestling match, a jumping down the stairs contest, multiple jokes about violently slapping someone in the face. Nobody mentions Aunt Lisa's new boobs. It is gauche. But we do mention her new Rolling Stones neck tattoo.

The Thanksgiving that Mel endured at my grandparents' house: I am forced to wear a paper Pilgrim hat and read a prayer about beans. Little Jacob is reprimanded for wanting dessert when he has not finished his dinner. He wanders away drunkly, having been dosed up with Benadryl since the family was keeping a stray cat, to which he is allergic, all day. Damn those sick children asking for food!

Monday, November 20, 2006


Butch in House

Yesterday went great. Having spent the morning gazing at our navels and breaking things, our friends ripped in like a blizzard and started fixing them for us. The official conclusion: we are half retarded and shouldn't be living alone. With each other. Without help. Here's the booty:

1. Alice's bed now in cute bedroom cut out where she cannot propel herself off it in the middle of the night anymore.
2. Tethered dresser moved, centered, and re-anchored to wall.
3. Appropriate dosage of cold medicine given to stuffy child (we would've gotten this right on our own, before you go calling CPS).
4. Door which fell on my head...reinstalled in 2 seconds.
5. Squeeky bedroom door...oiled.
6. Router which was annoyingly refusing to have anything to do with a Mac...installed.
7. Bedroom cable...installed.
8. Cable tv a delightful lavender color.

Who knew you could make it purple?!

Friday, November 17, 2006


Heart Attack, Crib, heart attack, crib

The crib has been officially disassembled and reassembled ten feet from its original position in the new nursery. Alice has traded it for a spinny pod chair and a boatload of books, which will hopefully keep her from pushing her sorting rings one by one under the door every morning and then shreiking in pain that she has no toys and wants breakfast N-O-W and oh, god, where are her mommies?

She took it rather well.

I, on the other hand, did not. First off, the infamous Mikells put this thing together after the move with a Mikellesque combination of drilled-til-it-hurts screws and knotted bumper ties. Which took an hour and a half, FOUR screwdrivers, and a moment of scary chest pain to take apart. Putting the whole mess together again in the nursery made me cry twice.

"That's how many times we cried last time," Mel said, as if to say, "What's the problem? That's par for the course."

Oh, and reassembllng not only involved the Philips and regular screwdrivers, electric screwdriver, and drill, but a hammer and a glue gun. Because I split the wood in 2 places. And some sandpaper to make the splintered wood as babyproofed as possible.

Not a moment left to lament Alice's babyhood wiped out forever and all her special stuff, including womb sounds teddy, getting evicted from her bedroom and given away.


Thursday, November 16, 2006


No one's dead and no one's going to grad school...

Mel's gone to the old people food trough with her mom, a good way to cap off their superwalmart (I don't capitalize it for much the same reason as not capitalizing god) trek. They went in search of a bargain priced string of candy canes to pave our neighbors' pathway. Because Alice LOVED their Halloween light-up ghosts. Too much. And decapitated one. Sorry, Lora.

A morning out must mean that Alice isn't screaming or dying. So we'll continue to tweedle our thumbs and wait for Florida healthcare. And assume my bad-ass big kid immune system can foist this bug. There's nothing white in my throat today, in case you cared.

So in the spirit of providing helpful guidance to those who are as floored by the horror of my post-doctoral dissertation submission process as I am, here are Jessica's been-there-killed-that rules of grad school:
1. Activism without critique IS worthwhile.
2. Law school lets in like 50 people per year. So does med school. There will be 50 people in your classes. And they make more money when they're done. What's the problem? Who gives a crap if you don't like law?
3. Consider made-fun-of "professional" options besides law and med school. Yes, you will get bullied with your Ed.D. at academic gatherings, but it's only because everyone else is so embittered. And you will have some smart colleagues. Guess what? I don't. But they're meaner.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006


Please don't have tonsillitis

Because we are Americans and have no health insurance. We can't even afford the walk-in. I DO NOT want to take the baby to the free clinic which will give us 10 more bugs we can't fight. And a day of sitting there, whithering away.
Please send foreign aid. We are so ashamed of what we've done to you. Teach us your values and we'll gladly exchange our hate-mongering/suck-it-up or die of tonsillitis ways in favor of your smooth, populace-friendly social programs.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006


It's "Fierce."

That is, the perfume that Mel sprayed on the dissertations. Just like they spray on Abercrombie clothes at the mall...or one weird way to tell if you bought a knock-off made in China on the internet. Hopefully this will make the whole neverending submission process just a little funnier. No, I didn't change anything but the titles and I inserted at random intervals phrases explaining how I did what you told me to do without actually ever getting around to *doing* it, but i've freshened up the reading experience.

I am no longer paid to think, and I refuse to do so. It has caused nothing but personal anguish. I will not do it.

I wish I'd have behaved 5 years ago like Alice behaved tonight when faced with the possibility of staying up late and playing all night long: nope, I'm done. Watch me scream until I get my way and everyone leaves me the crap alone. Self assertion is beautiful.

Monday, November 13, 2006


The Language in my sleep

My 12-year-old nephew has been falling asleep with the t.v. on. His whole family does it. Whatever.

But now, he's been waking up in the middle of the night and people are typing computer language on his monitor. To one another. Back and forth.

No wonder the kid has nightmares about t.v. snow. That would scare me enough to toss the thing out the window and become Amish.


I'm too stupid to tell you why I'm so stupid

I forgot to uphold my end of the blog-all-month bargain, but in case you didn't think my heart was in it in the first place, here are 2 entries. First: the long-horrendously awaited diss is leaving my house tomorrow forever and this nightmare will be over. It's absolutely cost me my life, and I'll be glad to see the back of it. This time, I won't do it again. They passed the whole thing last May, but then told me to sign up for another semester rather than turn in the final version 2 weeks later.

I told them to shove it up their asses, and they gave me a fellowship for this aforementioned semester. So they continue to call me a "doctor" while simultaneously telling me how bad I suck. It's taken copious amounts of mood-altering substances in order to be bothered by it again, and Mel has done most of the work. It's now in terrible shape, with multiple statements that I was told to include that paint my informants/friends like total assholes and makes some grandiose statement about the world that makes me look...well...stupid.

But perhaps I'm just TOO STUPID to get it. And yes, I refrained from the incredible desire to, instead of adding "why I should be a feminist scholar with unique contributions," include a paragraph on why I'm not a feminist scholar thanks to you people sucking every penny out of my savings as well as my future earning potential, and therefore I'm NOT a feminist scholar; I'm a powerseller.

The whole hoopla hasn't helped the pdd/anxiety AT ALL, let me just tell you.

So off it goes for good, Mel having translated all the revisions desired by the group of people I'll just refer to as "committee," but who in a few weeks will be referred to as "bothered daily by religious crusaders who were sent anonymously to their homes to convert them with glossy magazines about a heaven that resembles a farm."


All about my mother

I hate her. More than is probably healthy for anyone past adolesccence. And I don't want to hear about grandpa's "thing." Ever. Again.

Saturday, November 11, 2006


The accident

No worries. She bit her lip, but 3 minutes and a turn on the swings later and all was good. Damn shoes! Those rubber soles are too sticky.

Friday, November 10, 2006

My wife is watching "the best day ever"" -- a 24-hour Spongebob marathon. My daughter is getting hyped up on cartoons at bedtime, and all I hear is the repetitive mantra "mamamamamamamamamama mom mom" issuing from the family room, where they both lay like lumps, taking in the hijinks at the Krusty Krab.

I think they're eating Ben & Jerry's black and tan ice cream. Cuz becoming fat alcoholics would add to the mystique of their daily little routines.

Thursday, November 09, 2006


Arizona is not fair at heart

But at least they voted that way. How weird of them. It must be the critical mass of former Cook county residents fleeing Chicago winters that have begun to infiltrate the electoral scene. I have no other guess -- Arizonans don't do anything gay friendly. Unless you count shooting us in the back, so as to avoid that inconvenient moment of terror right before they kill you.

Mel's dad congratulated us on the election, and maybe I'm a paranoid, generalized anxiety-ridden adrenaline whore, but I still go to bed scared. I still dream that I could emigrate to a nation with 100% different values. Where they say in cute accents, and drawling anti-death penalty international U.N. tirades, "That nazi cowboy should be killed like Sadaam." Why wasn't I born Swedish, goddamit?

Oh yeah, maybe because of the ludfisk.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006


New undies

Well, this makes up for the vomit in the bed. It's new underwear.

After this excitement (hold your breath, why don't you), I sat home and tried on underwear while Mel went to have a teacher's meeting with a girl who's in the 1rst percentile of both English and math students in the local 3rd grade, in the 40th worst state for education, in the 38th worst country for it. If I were any further along in my own math abilities, I guess I could tell you that the girl is already 10 years behind where Mel's prep school exes were by age 16 months. (Should Alice be learning to tell time?)

I don't normally trash 7-year-olds, and I guess somewhere in the world she could grow up to not be the devil if her mom would stop using her step-siblings as evil step-servants and stop treating said 7-year-old like an heiress when they're a family of 6 living in grandma's trailer...but I digress. Some people like having their kids have nice clothes. And they are not entirely evil. Maybe I am. But this poor child reminds me of Dudley Dursley. With fewer business prospects.

Mel will be teaching her to read a calendar on Wednesdays and Fridays from now on. Well, at least she'll be ready to read her Kash 'n' Kary schedule and possibly even make change by the end of the semester.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006


Good morning, mommy. There's vomit in my bed. And in my hair.

And that's really all you need to know about today. Oh, except maybe you'd be interested to hear about the undigested, whole raisins contained therein. Or Alice's newly dyed pink sheets because I wasahed them with the red comforter. In my defense, it had been washed before and should not have done that!

While piddling around the house while it threatened rain all day, we noticed that FatBoy, the neighbor, was home at 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday playing with a remote controlled dinosaur tank ball (that's really the best I can do for you...use your imagination) in the street. Poor neighbor mommy Michelle. She really is raising three boys, not two. She didn't even care that Alice was a smelly, sickly mess. She still looked over at us longingly from her driveway, as if to say, "Oh, I wish I were a lesbian and got to live in that house of girls next door. They dress so cute."

Monday, November 06, 2006


I'd like you to meet my girlfriend's girlfriend

I'd like you to meet "Giada." She's the long, thin pillow in the middle that Mel refers to as her "girlfriend." When your wife is pregnant, she snuggles Giada at night and not you. It's rather sad, especially when you wake up to her crooning softly in her sleep about parmesiano origiano. To counter this sad estrangement, I've decided that Rachel Ray is MY new girlfriend. And when Rachel takes on Giada at Iron Chef on November 12 I'm confident my girl will take home the trophy. Especially because she's paired with the *real* chef.

I hate you, Giada.

The fact that Mel has put up websites telling me to immediately change my post to read "Parmigiano Reggiano" or else "you won't get any friends" reflects the deep divide in our household that this obsession with Giada's breasts has caused. But I'm not changing it. So there.

Sunday, November 05, 2006


The Daily Count

1 xanax
1 4 -foot bag of cotton candy
1 enormous slide involving mats
2 Sweet tea refills
12 eBay listings while listening to...
Pottercast #18, the one with Christmas parody songs about You-Know-Who
0 pictures because there are *at least*
3 days until the new, non-blurry camera arrives
28 weeks pregnant
1 psuedo-dirty Swiss Miss backrub (with braids)
1 large piece of chocolate cake


one more fight over baby names with my mother. Agnes? No.

Saturday, November 04, 2006


Mel just looked at my blog and said, "That's not a post. It better be real good tomorrow." Knowing I'll have nothing to say tomorrow if the *real* pressure's on like that, I've decided to give you, yes, that's right, a little something extra today. So here it is: the new family room art.

Now, before you tell me that I'm either brilliant or stupid, it's a pastiche. In other words, it's a copy. With no irony, no Weird Al commentary on the original involved at all. A copy. The thing is, I like to do art, but I like the rote brushstrokes of the whole thing. It's zen and it makes me less nervous about the world. What I don't like is the part where you're supposed to think for yourself. It's far too difficult. I've done enough thinking and I'm taking a break for a few years. So I stole this from a real artist and copied like an asshole. I'm not sure that I'm breaking any sort of copyright law, but don't tell on me if I am. Now you've seen my family room. Better?

Uh, I'll still do porn if you think it'll pay. Cuz "famous blogger" is a bit of a pipe dream. Especially if I never leave the house.



How does a stay at home mom make money?? Webcam? Porn site? What do you think?

Friday, November 03, 2006


Heil Master planned community! Uber alles!

At the risk of sounding like those A Baby Story assimilationist lesbian moms, I'd like to say in my defense that I DO believe that I parent differently because I am gay. I am not "just like you" and I don't want to be. Now, that said, I get the feeling that fitting in around our neighborhood is a freakish requirement, along with mocktail parties, red wagons, and block parties featuring covered dishes.

And I was reading a blog that Mel left up for me -- some lesbian moms -- whose 2 1/2 year old recently said, "Mommy, all the kids have a mommy and a daddy except for me." TWO AND A HALF! This means one of two things: I must become the assimilationist asshole, or I must move in the next year, before my daughter gets a completely skewed vision of the reality of the world involving two married parents, their biological kids, and a pug as 100% of the world. Because it IS 100% of our neighborhood. Not somewhere we hoped to raise our child, but safe and fun, with nice neighbors and plenty of kid friendly events. Cars go slowly here because little kids are always in the street. We like it. I like it. You may beat me with a wet rag later for admitting such a thing.

I always thought we'd have to leave by school-age, but now I think we may have to leave as soon as our lease is up in August. I don't want Alice thinking there is no such thing as single moms, gay dads, or extended families. one the plus side, our block does feature one interracial couple. Their son is Ashton. Aiden lives on the other side of us, and Caitlyn and Kevin live in between. Shit, we gotta get out. Or name the next child "Agememnon."

I will NOT be a suburban straight in all but name. I will not be June Cleaver. I will not start vaccuming in heels and pearls. And finally, I will NEVER buy a Bugaboo stroller!

Thursday, November 02, 2006


Auctioneer, my new career

Sellout, you may say. Why am I hocking uninspired Canadian baby crib shoes with all kinds of offensive gender iconography when there are 4 Tibetian ethnic groups sewing brilliant little toesie warmers and who are in need of some serious exposure? Because they sell better. Maybe the bible guys at Walmart are right and I AM going straight to hell.

Need more evidence? Mel is stalking Elmo Tracker to scam innocent parents out of Elmo dolls and sell them at auction for twice the retail price. In our defense, we maintain that this is a PARENT inspired capitalist fad driven in no way by actual children who seriously want that doll. No kid is seriously asking for 10th-anniversary Elmo for Christmas. If they are, well, perhaps their parents should be made a bit poorer and kept a little real.

We moved here to do this flood thingamajig and lo and saw the hurricane seasaon. No lives lost, no floods to be seen. So we're kicking around the house all day. Eventually our savings will run out (we're not heiresses) so we putz around here all day buying up discount Robeez and selling them on eBay for a profit. If I could do this full time, I'd be a happy kid, since I wouldn't technically need to leave bed all day. but the truth is, I'll probably be doing it until we get back from our out-of-state birth, then taking a job as a high school teacher or something for the spring semester until hurricane season starts anew.

Or until my father-in-law snags a sewing machine at a garage sale and I become the world's premiere auction cotton diaper maker.

Come to think of it, that would be good karma for the wrath I'm inflicting upon the world right now by taking advantage of vulnerable parents at Christmas time. But hey, we gotta eat. We got a baby on the way!

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


Secret Alice Man

Today Alice committed her first larceny. She swiped a Yankee candle from the candle store and was only discovered 15 minutes later chomping on a brand new "Carribean Fruit" tealight in her stroller in the parking lot. No, we didn't go back in.

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