The Wordmistress

The Friday Five

1. What was your first Halloween costume?
Probably a hobo. I think when I was a kid, I was always a hobo. What ever happened to the hobos? Are they still around? Hobbling around train tracks with their kerchiefs and stubble? Or do they only exist in old movies and Halloween parties?

2. What was your best costume and why?
A few years ago, I went as my biological clock going off. And last year I had a baby. Need I say more?

3. Did you ever play a trick on someone who didn't give you a treat?
Never was much of a trickster as a kid, but once, and I don't know why, I put a tack on Jordan Beck's chair. And he sat on it. I felt terrible. Never did pull another one after that. Still feel bad.

4. Do you have any Halloween traditions? (ie: Family pumpkin carving, special dinner before trick or treating, etc.)
Eat candy. Throw up. Repeat.

5. Share your favorite scary story...real or legend!
Too scary for this space. Whoo hoo!!

Rotten Eggs in War Time

The egg wars continue. Yolks and shells litter the sidewalks. It's warm weather here in Chicago so the windows are open and every so often I can hear the warring factions screaming. It's over tomorrow, thank goodness. Is it creative or silly? My car got hit with just one so far, but that's all right. Better than bullets.

Fame is Fleeting

I saw the trailer for Will Farrell's new movie Elf and it really looks funny. Unfortunately, many films look funny in the trailer and are total bombs in the theater. It's probably just a one-joke film, but I think it looks good. Not that I get to see too many first-run films.

I did see Will Farrell on a plane once. It's always weird seeing someone famous in real life. For me, I'm always a little freaked out at first cuz I think: oh yeah, there's that friend of mine. Then I'm always a little put off that they don't recognize me. Then I crack myself up: I don't know that famous person. Then I go on my merry way, thinking oh yeah, I saw a famous person, I saw a famous person. Once I spent a whole layover at LAX talking with Shawn Wayans, who is the least famous of all the Wayans Bros. And another time I saw Felicity (Keri Russell) arguing with her then real-life and TV boyfriend Ben (Scott Speedman).

But my favorite celebrity spotting was at the New Orleans Jazz Festival where we saw Dave Pirner of Soul Asylum just walking around. We followed him for a bit. And I must admit I took a picture of his butt. Ah, youth. (Three years ago.)

The Devil Made Me Do It

So it was dress up day at play group. And I forgot. Luckily Kristin watched Mia play while I ran home and got Mia's costume. And so she wore her little devil costume and I must admit, chest a-burstin', she was very cute. Couldn't get a decent photo and pretty much ruined any fun she could have by calling her name constantly trying to get her to look at the camera, but, hey, that's what being a mother is all about isn't it?

And speaking of my stellar mothering skills, I've been so consumed with babyproofing and getting the house ready for walking baby, I haven't been really spending any time with the, er, walking baby. And she is not pleased. I know it's a weird thing for a single mother who does not have day care to say, but I just haven't been spending much time with her at all. We play for a short while, but we run a lot of errands, and when she naps, I work or nap, and when she eats, I must admit that these days I usually work around her, when she plays again, lately I try to get at least some housework done. Then she naps and I work. Up again, eat, work, play, work, and sleep. She's incredibly good natured and always has a smile for mommy but I'd love to spend more time with her. It's just been very very busy. No complaints mind you. Just busy. Which is good.

On another note, there's been an awful lot of discussion in blogville about this guy who lost his job at Microsoft for taking pictures of Macintoshes and posting them on his blog. I'm surprised that it has raised such a fuss for several reasons. One, he worked for MICROSOFT. Now don't get me wrong. I own many, many of Bill's products, but they are a mega-corporation and if you write about your company they are going to be pissed. No matter what you say. I'm guessing he was a young 'un. It's never fair when you get fired, but hello!! He's been out of work like two minutes. I've been out of work two and a half years. Perspective people. It's like those savekaryns and oddtodds. I thought about that kind of thing too, but then decided I didn't want to bug people with my problems in that way. I know that's not what this guy is doing, his situation is just taking off but people are sort of treating him like a martyr. Thing is there's a lot of us in this kind of situation for one reason or another and in one way or another, we'll get out of it. Maybe I'm just jealous because strangers seem to care so much about those people's situations. But I've always believed it was best never to make a big deal about your own situation. Oh well. Perhaps I'm the one who needs perspective. Ah yes, the blogger becomes the blogged.

So I will end on a posting I found on a blog called Loriloo, courtesy of Mightygirl. It cracked me up, hopefully it will you too. It reminded me of my experiences with fortune tellers. And San Francisco. And men ...

Pop Tart

I'm deep into Wilco's AM right now. Great disc. I was over at jodi's I Will Dare tonight and she was wondering what to listen to once she put her Paul Westerberg discs away and it got me to thinking. Used to be that I went to see bands all the time ... The Replacements being my favorite of all of them. Man, I loved the 'Mats. Loved 'em. Dug that reckless abandon. And I still say that Paul W. is one of the best poets ever. I think my favorite solo Paul song is "Things" on 14 Songs. But despite their hard-rockin' rep, I mostly dug their pop sensibility. Cuz down deep I'm a pop girl. I loves my pop. I'm actually drinking pop right now. That's why I love Wilco, even if Jeff Tweedy doesn't like doing it. And I'm unabashed. I still go to Soul Asylum shows, well, at least I did before Mia. Like a couple of summers ago when they'd play at summer festivals. And they'd really rock. "Closer to the Stars" Sure, it'd be rock n' roll, but pop rock. And a few years ago, I was lucky enough to see Big Star play. I've seen Alex Chilton play zillions of times, but never with Big Star. Now that was pure pop for now people. It was power poop pop and I loved it.

But these days I forget to put on CDs. I always head for my books, my magazines, my baby, the phone, even the TV before I put on a CD. In the car, I put on NPR. But it's time for revolt. Back to the lab. Music my friend, it soothes the savage beast. Or breast? Is it breast? I think it's beast. Oh well. I'm making a vow. Music, my friends, music will fill the air!

Walkie Talkie

Mia is moments away from walking. Every so often she takes those three Frankenstein steps and then falls back on her bottom. I'm not sure whether to praise her or act like it's just one of those things. Cuz for her it is. So I say, Great Mia. Great Walking. If I'm too enthusiastic, she will freak out and lose her concentration. But it is so cool. My little Bride of Frankenstein. I don't know what compels her to take those steps. She isn't at all into being led or coaxed. But what a neat thing to watch. That girl is the bomb.

Tuesday!

Yesterday was a bad day. Don't know why. Ranting. Raving. Letting it all get me down. But then I had an interesting dream. I never dream about celebrities. Okay, once I had a dream about Steve Martin. In fact, it was a doozy. I dreamt that I bumped into him on the street and I wanted to say hi, but suddenly I remembered that I had no teeth. Then, in real life, later that day I called my friend who works on films here in Chicago. She told me she was working on a new film. I asked with whom? She said ... Steve Martin! Later that night, I re-broke my front tooth. What was the movie, you ask: Novacaine!! Weird, huh?

But this dream was different. I love Steve Martin. Last night I dreamt about Brad Pitt. I don't hate Brad Pitt, I just don't, er, love him. And what's even stranger is that he was playing a part. A part of a gigolo. Don't get me wrong, he was very cute. I was playing a part too. The part of the 40-year-old single mom who hooked up with him. I didn't want to wake up. But it wasn't Brad Pitt, it was Brad Pitt playing a part. Very strange.

I do like Jennifer Aniston though. That is another of my dirty little TV secrets, I love Friends. I will miss them when they are gone. But like Seinfeld and MASH and I Love Lucy and Our Show of Shows, we all find a way to go on.

The subconscious is a very funny thing. Welcome to Tuesday.

Say Hello To My Lil' Friend

This little tidbit caught my eye and I just had to share it. Apparently the new rage these days is the right-hand ring, a 21st century alternative to the engagement ring. (Initial linkstorm via Memepool) Where do I begin?

First off, most cultures outside of American wear their engagement/wedding bands on their right hand. So your little "right-hand" marketing ploy is only going to work on American women who are being told that they are missing something.

Second, the whole engagement ring thing has always kind of irked me. That's not to say I wouldn't wear one. I've always kind of thought I'd be the kind of gal who'd go for the whole Pamela and Tommy tattooed ring thing if I ever delved into a commitment with a fella, but there was a time I thought I'd never wear lipstick too. I do know I'd never spend $2000 for a right-hand ring. And can anyone tell me what the Alzheimer's Society has to do with it?

Well, at least this rant has gotten me out of my self-imposed funk. A little steam-blowing. I mean it's not like there's anything important going on (like increased hostility in Iraq, increased insanity here ...)

By the way, I read somewhere that some definitive study by ABC News was done that proved Oswald was the lone shooter. Okay, uh, 40-years-old news and, uh, wrong. They say that the reason people doubt the lone-shooter theory is because of government secrecy and the Oliver Stone movie. Ahem, the movie came out in the 80s, people doubted Oswald since he took a bullet to his belly courtesy of Mr. Ruby and his massive connections to the Mob. It's a long story and there's no dearth of information out there. But Marilyn was there and Bobby and Peter Lawford and you Scarecrow, and you ...

And We're in What Grade?

It's always disconcerting to find out there are folks who don't like you. Even when it's someone that you don't particularly like, who doesn't really matter and is probably a little nuts to begin with, I still get fixated. I used to really care, I mean really care what people thought. If I thought they sounded weird on the phone, it'd drive me crazy for hours. Once I found out they had a bona fide reason for acting weird, I'd always feel so much better: "Oh, you're going broke and you're going to lose the house? Then you're not mad at me? Great!!!" I'm not quite so bad now, growing up had a great effect on my insecurity that way. Other things, both tragic and euphoric, shaped my perspective along the way. Still, hearing some guy say, oh yeah so-and-so doesn't really care for you ... well, that still gets me.

And you've got to wonder why the informant tells you. I mean this person of hate is not someone I'm romantically involved with. This is a contractor that works on my apartment. And he doesn't like me because he thinks I'm high maintenance. And I am. When my apartment floods, I ask for it to be fixed. When lead paint is exposed, I require immediate attention. And when he and his co-hort (who incidentally was the one who blabbed) were still working on my bathroom 3 months after a promised completion date and I returned from the hospital, baby in tow and you don't want to know what a-burning in pain, I was not a happy camper. Yeah, I'm high maintenance.

And those old grade-school feelings come back. Funny. That desire to be liked. All the people who care suddenly disappear and the one who doesn't remains. And it really doesn't matter if I like him. He doesn't like me. The cheese stands alone.

Tomorrow I won't care. Yesterday I certainly didn't care and next week, I won't likely care. I may feel a twinge when I see him next, more likely it will be that of indifference. But today, feeling weak, remembering days gone by, I'm irked. Dumb guy. Don't like me, huh? Well, uh, well. Then let me tell you about my sink, I think there's a leak. And you know I feel like the floorboards are kind of squeaky. And I hear a little swoosh everytime ...

Dirty Little Secrets

I'll admit it. There are some things of which I'm ashamed. Namely shitty television. Primarily Seventh Heaven. I don't know why I like that show. First, there's the terrible acting. It's even gotten to the point where the formerly employable go to watch their careers wither and die. But I like it for some reason.

It bugs me when it comes up in casual conversation. I'm not the kind of girl who likes to lie. But Seventh Heaven? Why must I be drawn to such tiresome fluff. Proselytizing, squeaky clean boring tribble. It's so unlike me. What could it be? Oh yeah, I know. Cuz they're good lookin' Good looking people on the WB. Take me to Stars Hollow, Smallville or the Peach Pit, it doesn't really matter what trivial issue is at stake, cuz if you're good looking and Mia is asleep, chance are I'm going to tune in.

I suppose if I have some work to do, or if the phone rings, or if the toilet needed scrubbing, I'd give up my fix of these shows, especially since I found the nifty little recaps at Television Without Pity, though they are merciless and hilarious.

And so now you know the truth about my dirty little secrets and I must admit. Sharing them has made me feel just that much less dirty.