Deb on the Rocks

Fish Called Wanda: {w}rite of passage in the hizzie

2009-12-07T09:23:00.006-05:00

This post is in response to a prompt from the {W}rite-of-Passage group, which issues a weekly challenge to promote a focus on writing for bloggers. This week's assignment is to write about a character observed in public.

As I'm looking at this woman -- who like me is observing a legislative session, taking notes, using one part of her brain to work and the other to be her self -- as I look at her I wish that the Theory of Recapitulation held up. Because science needs to know about her: this lady is a fish. She is in fish stage. Fish iteration. Damn, I bet she has gills. Poor thing, she's not meant for this land, this odd chair, this dry air. She keeps squirting things in her orifices. A whole ritual of moisture is coming out of her laptop bag: chapstick, lotion, nasal spray, eye drops.

What if she desiccates right in front of me?

I would save her, I promise, even though I've taken an immediate dislike to her spongy ways. I recognize the humanity of her fish-on-land self, and I would run to her aid, command the lobbyists on the aisle to pass their Starbucks cups and water bottles to me, and I would douse her flaking, frazzled hair and calcifying brain. Googly-eyed grouper woman, flounder, koi. Poor thing. I bet she squeaks when she talks.

I've decided I like her. Look at her stretching in her hard chair, funny dry yogi, no one is trying to put you in a net. Good lord she tries so hard, she must be tired, like a nervous tetra zipping back and forth. I write a message for her on a yellow sticky note: can I have some of your flaky veggie chips? It's kind of a test to see if she'll share, or if she's swimming upstream all on her own.

Check out some of the other posts writing about a character, and hit it yourself, posting on your blog, Facebook, whatever you got. Get in the swim!

Free Advice for Tiger

2009-11-30T14:09:00.003-05:00

Tiger, Tiger, oh Tiger,

For such a talented strategist on the green, you've been slipping on a mudslide, haven't you, dude? You certainly aren't out in front of this story, and I have to say it looks as though you may have brought some of the media heat on yourself, but who knows. That's the point, no one knows which iron you've been swinging, so everyone wants to talk. Even worse for you, it really sucks to have a major PR mess-up this late in the year, because you are going to appear on all sorts of "best of" and "worst of 2009" lists.

There is always time, though, to make things better.

I know you sports guys like it brief and to the point, so I'm throwing down an action plan for you to save your media face. Here is what you need to do to get yourself out of this sandtrap.

1. Break it off with any illicits and talk to law enforcement. Get those out of the way ASAP. It doesn't work to duck their calls, and pulling a White Bronco move never makes you look good. When the world is watching your phone ring, you've got to pick it up, it's as simple as that.

2. Talk to the press, too. Thank the public for the way they have worried about your health, sent balloons, started prayer rings, all of that. Say that it really moves you and your loving wife and you are paying that kindness forward by giving a million dollars to family charities this holiday season. Ho Ho Ho! Do your best to look like a bumbling millionaire Mr. Magoo on this one, Ace--if Mr. Magoo were a young superstar athlete instead of a short old blind version of Thurston Howell III.

3. Be photographed with a copies of Post-Partum Depression for Incredibly Dumb Daddies, though don't say any of those words (except Daddy) out loud. Maybe even be photographed with your kids! But not with golf clubs. Seriously, NO golf clubs for a few months, even (or perhaps especially) at home. After a month, wean back with miniature golf, see how that goes over before going all big-boy golf.

4. Move out of Florida. Immediately. No one trusts Floridians. Also stay away from California, New York, New Jersey, Rhode Island, Oregon and Louisiana. Arizona is good, people trust Arizona. Ohio would be great. "Golf Ohio" sounds sweet, doesn't it? It has symmetry.

5. Take your family on a convalescence cruise. Doctor's orders. I shouldn't have to say this, but don't bring any other women with you. I'm not kidding, Tiger. Make it a Disney cruise. Wear the damn ears. Listen, no one likes the ears, but you have to wear them. And to help with your kids Sam and Charlie, one word: Manny. Better yet, wear that baby. Not only would a babypack make for a great photo op, but it will help people forget about the golf club elephant in the room.

6. Stop in the Bahamas on your way back and change your name. "Tiger" always sounded like you were up to no good, if you ask me. Which by now you are wishing you had, am I right? Take your grandfather's name, in fact. Or Charlie, after your son. Better yet Sam, to match your daughter. That's a cool story, go with that, Sam Woods.

7. If people persist in asking where you were headed in the wee hours of Friday, just tell them the truth: you went to Jared's. Do NOT mention the BOGO Black Friday deal you were hoping to score.

That's all I've got Big Boy. Hope these free tips help. If you need more advice (and it's looking like you do) just say the word and I'll flip my meter to on.

See you on the back nine,

Deb Rox
Media Advisor to the Stars

I really want to see Fantastic Mr. Fox, if they'll let me

2009-11-25T12:08:00.015-05:00

I may have given Jason Schwartzman the idea that mommybloggers take Ecstacy.

Sorry, y'all.

I was representing on a conference call about his grand new movie, Fantastic Mr. Fox. Now, I know that when a blogger attends something we are representing the COMMUNITY. We're not supposed to be all grabby or freaky or scare away the outside world. And seriously, that was my plan.

I knew sanity might be hard, though, because I love Jason Schwartzman's work with a million of those little ♥ ♥ ♥ (hearts) in the I ♥ Huckabees title. (That link goes to a post I wrote about him and Darjeeling Limited in '07.) And then I went and researched the Foxy film. Roald Dahl's brilliant book. Wes Anderson! George Clooney and Meryl Streep! The story is Dahl-icious. And stop-motion animation? Have you seen the trailer yet? It's beautiful and full of dimension and energy.

Both major themes in the story really resonated with me. This midlife crisis of mine, it's killing me. And that's George's drama in The Fantastic Mr. Fox. He removes himself from the thievery of his wild days when he has a family, but in midlife he is drawn back to the danger and action and messes with a farmer. Loses his tail to a farmer, poor emasculated papa George. It is fantastic, this Mr. Fox midlife crisis story. And his son--Jason's foxy character--breaks through feelings of inadequacy and sibling rivalry (consistently thought-through themes for Wes Anderson) in order to step up to help dad get his groove back--he shows his dad that he's ready to be a man and therefore dad's work is almost done. I'm anxious to see the movie with my boys and talk afterward about what the storyline provokes.

So before the call began, I was whooped up on the Fox.

And then on the conference line with a handful of bloggers, Jason was amazing. He seemed interested and happy to be talking to us as fellow creatives, not just as a tool to use to spread the word about a product. He is smart and charming. And his descriptions of the unique way that Anderson shot the sound for the film, and his deep appreciation for the detailed work of the animators was absolutely inspiring. I was swooning, y'all. I was in deep. It was almost the end of the call and I didn't want this great conversation about art and the importance of digging and bike riding to children's spirits and the fun of books where all the different animals get together to save their towns--all of these cool things Jason was talking about--to go away.

And just at the very end, Vladimir, the call moderator, called on me to ask a question. Here's about a seven minute clip, starting with Jason speaking so eloquently about the art behind the film, followed by the moderator and then my attempt to catch Jason in a jar to keep him forever.

If you don't listen to the audio: oh, man, I cornered that poor boy like a fox in a cellar. I don't dare listen to it again myself, but I remember that I went on and on like I only escape from my laptop once a year to talk to adults about the creative process. I told him I was tweeting about how foxy he is. I said that the fox tail motif was the best phallic image to be worn by an animated farmer since Elmer Fudd's gun. Seriously. I think I sounded like I was on a break from cutting shrooms on the toaster oven pan while folding my kids' soccer jerseys. Mommybloggers represent!

But he didn't hang up. He was so awesome, engaging and earnest. At the end of the call he talked about leaving on his honeymoon that day, and that he looked forward to joining the parental ranks soon. I held back from offering to be their midwife, so I should get some credit there for my newfound discipline.

I ♥ ♥ ♥ (hearts)Jason and look forward to Fabulous Mr. Fox even more now. I seriously can not wait to see it on the big screen. Fabulous Mr. Fox is open is some places already (cheaters) and opens across the land on Thanksgiving Day. And yes, I'll be talking to the boys about midlife crises, rites of passages, phallic motifs in film and literature, Dahl and why mommy doesn't advocate the use of E in public. They are teenagers, and mine. They're used to it.

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Seeing a movie is a wonderful way to spend time away from football on Thursday. And what could be more traditional than popcorn? Diet Coke, maybe. I'm so there.

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Oh oh oh, also! The film's public relations company is letting me give to you one of 3 Fantastic Mr. Fox promo items: furry, fluffy fox tail ties. You have go to my review/contest page, see my list of uses for this baby, and get one for yourself!

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hey, here's Mommy Melee's piece; she was also on the call. And Peeling an Orange with a Screwdriver. And 5 Minutes for Mom.

Wherein I Prove I Know Everthing About Twilight and New Moon Without Any Research Or Authentic Authority

2009-11-19T09:09:00.006-05:00

I talked with a teenaged friend yesterday. She can't believe that I've never read a Twilight book and that I haven't seen the first movie. She is beside herself about the opening of New Moon tomorrow.

Her: You are missing out! The books are awesome. You should read them first, then see the movies in order.

Me: I'm not missing out. I know all about Twilight from the Internet. Plenty of smart grown women are all about James Pattinson. It's pretty revolting, but I've got the gist of the books through their droolings.

Her: It's not the same. The saga is amazing! Romance, adventure, drama, heartbreak....

Me: Seriously, I know. People are all about glittering vampire love on the Internet. Every link I turn on, the Twilight people are. Team Edward. Team Jacob. Plus I saw the werewolf manboy on television. He's proud of his muscles. He grew them for the fans.

Her: So you know everything? But you aren't going to see New Moon?

Me: I totally should get Advanced Placement credit for testing out in Twilight AND New Moon.

Her: Um, sure. Okay, tell me about Twilight. About New Moon.

Me: Okay. So there is this chick Bella. She lives in the Pacific Northwest, because, duh. And she's a player. Everyone want to be her because freaky monsters want her bad and therefore girls want to kill her. She has her pick of vampires and werewolves. Probably also zombies, though I said vampires already and it's been occurring to me lately that vampires ARE zombies.

Her: Edward and Jacob aren't monsters.

Me: Of course they are monstrous sex fiends. Except they aren't, because the books are PG. So the sex is implied. But it is obviously all about who she is going to have the best sex with.

Her: Sort of. No. Not really.

Me: And it's hard to figure out, because obviously the sex would be hotter with the wolfman, but she could live forever with the ice cold vamp which is a pretty good tradeoff. So she's always tortured about her decisions, or her love, or about missing her lover(s). Should she give up hunky Jacob for the emo white fangboy who wants to suck her blood and leave her in the night? Plus side: he offers her ETERNAL LIFE. Only Jesus and vampires can do that. So. That is serious forever-love. Down side: he's pouty and complicated and ultimately narcissistic in that vampire way.

Her: He leaves her because he's putting her in DANGER. It's tragic.

Me: Meh. Vampires are whiners. They always have some "poor me, I have to live forever as a lonely old misunderstood poisonous soul" pity party going on. And they are always single despite this amazing gift they can give people. That's a big red flag of emotional baggage if you ask me. Vampires can't commit because they don't want to hurt you with their forever-love? Who needs it? So maybe Bella should go with what's behind door number 2.

Her: Team Jacob.

Me: Jacob, the loyal dog with biceps of steel. A big hunk of wild animal devoted to her. Who will ravage her like the bad boy she craves, never leaving her side. Hungry like the wolf. Downside: the hair and piles of hidden bones. Plus, after so many dog years, he's dead. She buries him, then goes herself not long after. Bones and bones and bones.

Her: Ew.

Me: So New Moon is the werewolf's chance to nail her while the vampire is sulking in his coffin.

Her: Well, Edward's in Italy. You are forgetting about all kinds of stuff, being attacked, her needing to be saved from Victoria's evil plans, about almost dying for each other...

Me: He's in Italy?! I told you. It's all about him. And then who actually saves her, the European vampire or the American Indian werewolf? Forever Love or Wild Animal Lust?

Her: I guess, both.

Me: A-ha. But she ends up going with Edward, right, and becoming a vampire? Even though it's wrong that the Europeans stole the Native's land? Even though he has an annoying name and no shoulders? Even though he is a self-absorbed, non-committal emo boy who sleeps all day long?

Her: Oh yeah, Team Edward forever.

Me: Well, worse comes to worse, if she ever gets tired of him (because Vampire Forever is a very long time and most couples can't even make it Human Forever) she could always turn Jacob into a vampire and then she'd have the best of both worlds: a vampire werewolf! Rawr!

Her: But that wouldn't work out well for Bella and Edward's daughter, because SHE ends up with Jacob.

Me: What? Bella's daughter gets with the wolf? You're making that part up.

Her: No. In Breaking Dawn. I'm serious. It's so sweet, it's how he gets over the heartbreak of Bella. But it's not, like, sexual. Jacob imprinted on Bella's girl. He will be whatever she needs him to be, best friend, protector, and when she is old enough, they COULD be lovers if she wants. It's pure devotion.

Me: Okay, that's just sick. That's like young girls getting married to old men like in some fundamental Mormon polygamous cult family. Hey, wait a minute...

Her: Huh. Well, Stephenie Meyer is Mormon. She said the idea for the saga came to her in a dream.

Me: So basically she wrote all of this to explain that it's okay that the white men stole America, and now want to steal girl-sister-wives, and it's somehow okay that people of color are meant to be slaves to our babies, and guess what, you should abstain from sex but should give your soul to the entity that promises you eternal life, and a New Dawn is coming? This is subversive and creepy!

Her: Um, I think she wrote it to get rich. Which seems to be working.

Me: I don't think you should go to New Moon tomorrow night. How about 2012 where John Cusack is the dad and it's the end of the world as we know it. We might be better off if we just let this world end. With popcorn. And Diet Coke, of course.

Her: Yeah, no thanks! I'm sticking with New Moon. Although what if you've ruined it for me?

Me: Ruined it? SAVED you, you mean. I've saved you from a Mormon cult. You'll thank me when you aren't fighting with your sister wives over whose turn it is to mash some yams for dinner for y'all's husband.

Her: Um. Thank you?

Free Anissa

2009-11-18T12:33:00.003-05:00

Anissa Mayhew is a rockstar blogger, a loving mother, and a fierce survivor. She recently celebrated the triumphant 1-year cancer-free diagnosis for her dear child.

She needs another type of triumph, now, too. Anissa suffered a major stroke yesterday and is in serious condition. The blogosphere is holding her close at heart, anxious for encouraging news about this amazing young woman.

We've met a few times so far IRL, lucky me, because Anissa gives great hugs and greater insight into this crazy world. My favorite conversation with her has been at BlogHer '09. We talked about humor: hers, mine, and the lowbrow humor of wickedly free children--its power to move, its necessity for life, and the dark comedy that sometimes emerges after deep suffering. She told me I was brilliant--she's generous with everyone like that. I told her she was. I meant it, but she demured "no, I'm just a beyotch!" We laughed, said some "hell ya's", and both made rock-on horn hands and faux badass faces.

Sister Anissa gets it. Of course she does.

Full recovery, blogstar girl. Full on.

(Information about Anissa and ways to help are posted at her fabulous group site Aiming Low.)

A Place for Everything

2009-11-03T20:36:00.005-05:00

I continue to work on the de-hoarding and organizing. I'm having a hard time of it. So far I've accidentally thrown out my keys and a bag that held the day's mail and two Netflix movies, and I am having a hard time getting rid of books, because what if some evening someone visits and needs to take up the study of aromatherapy or the philosophy of Simone Weil? I might need those books. Someday.

I bought some tools to help me get organized, though. In addition to plastic totes and plastic trash bags, I cashed in a gift certificate I won in a contest from Mabel's Labels. One of their product lines is heavy duty labels where you type-in the wording to be used. I hope mine help me get a grip on things over here. I may not get my belongings down to 100 Things Challenge, but maybe I can do 100 Random, Heavy Storage Totes?

What Would Don Do? A Halloween Story

2009-11-02T11:11:00.004-05:00

Salo and I were driving around on Halloween, rubbing my debit card raw with a slew of errands.

Him: Oh, we've got to get candy.

Me: I don't want to give out candy.

Him: Mom, we need candy.

Me: But. We're both going out tonight.

Him: Not until late. The little kids come at 6 or 7, that's like 3 hours of trick-or-treaters. We need candy. For the children.

Me: Let's just turn out all the lights and read under the covers like last year.

Him: Is that what you did last year? That's horrible. I was at Tyler's.

Me: Oh, right! Um, I DID give out candy, the good kind. Okay, no I didn't.

Him: That's so embarrassing, Mom. Oh my God. Just buy some candy. I'll give it out until I leave.

So we bought two bags of fun-sized candy. I went in my room for a little disco nap before getting ready to go out. I woke up hearing him chatting with the little kids, complimenting their tiaras and swords, with him saying "here ya go Builder Bob" and "okay, have fun" and "bu-buy" to the babies. I felt like a mean old leathery creep.

Not enough to actually get up, but kind of bad, inside, where it doesn't show.

And then it was time for him to go do his thing, and it was time for me to get ready for mine. We shared information, and then he paused at the door.

Him: Should I lock it on my way out so you can go hide? Just so you know, there are pirates and an alien of some sort headed up the driveway.

Me: Oh, no, I'll take over, it will be great, I'll make you proud, just leave the door open and have fun!

I gave the pirates their booty as Salo rounded the corner away from the house. As soon as the children turned to leave I threw the door lock and the porchlight off. I heard one kid go "Huh, What?!" but it didn't slow me down.

I moved through the house like Carrie, slamming lights down with my telekinetic power. Snap, snap, thwap! Finally, I was alone in the back of my dark house enjoying a peaceful land free of tiny Tootsie Roll encrusted hands. Perfection! I may have laughed a sinister mean old witch laugh. Bwahhhhaaha. I don't know where it came from, but it felt GOOD. When I'm an old woman I'm laughing like that all the time. Fuck purple.

Anyway, about an hour or so later, after I was dressed as a dapper Don Draper, I could still hear revelers on the street. Trying to avoid being hit up by them, I scrambled out of the house without turning on lights, grabbing my keys and the unopened bag of Snickers (I had to conceal the evidence of my non-generosity).

Safely out of the neighborhood, I realized in my haste, and perhaps punished by my subterfuge, I had forgotten my wallet (Don doesn't carry a purse, but I meant to grab my wallet), a comb (essential to keeping my gelled hair in its masculine place), and my prop cigarettes (plain old essential). Damn trick-or-treater pressure had ruined my costume.

So that is how I found myself in the CVS drugstore on Halloween night, in fine Draper drag, trying to exchange a bag of Snickers for a pack of Pall Malls and a black, fifty cent comb.

Required Writing: Make NaBloPoMo Your Bitch

2009-11-01T13:57:00.005-05:00

When I was completing (damn I feel compelled to use unnecessary quotations there) 5 Ways to {Blank} Your Blog I worked with fab Virtual Assistant Michele Wilcox. I sent her the sections, and she organized, proofed and formatted them for me into her design. In one of her notes to me she said something like "Um, you seem to have two chapters on NaBloPoMo. Which one do you want to use?

I had written about the damned thing twice. Which either means that National Blog Posting Month is traumatic and my brain tried to protect me from remembering that I had remembered it, or that it's a Very Important blog ritual.

The correct answer is B.

Not that I've ever actually Finished NaBloPoMo. In fact, I've only achieved NaBloPoMoFa--with the Fa being failure.

However, do as I say and not how I do. Did. Whatever. I think you should do NaBloPoMo. It's a tradition, a rite of passage, a practice, a nudge towards the freedom that overtakes your censoring brain when you just write. People who agree: James Joyce, Natalie Goldberg, and your eighth grade English teacher. You know, that hot pothead one who became a teacher to avoid the Vietnam War draft and who knew more about sex and art than anyone else in middle school, you were sure of it.

Plus, you are in a prize drawing if you finish. Also, think about this: there is no phrase in the English language containing the word "blow" that is not wildly terrific.

And the number one reason to do NaBloPo, which I said in the book or in the list that didn't make it into the book, is that Eden Kennedy is the most amazing blogger ever in the history of blogging, and she invited you. SHE invited YOU. So you say "yes."

What else are you going to do in November, anyway? Cook, clean and have a holiday? Enjoy the outdoor beauty of autumn? Minor obstacles, grasshopper, minor obstacles on your path to throwdown viper-bitten motherfucking NaBloPoMo blog brickhouse kickass greatness.

NaBloPoMo is a perfect game. Hit it deliriously hard for 4 weeks, then let the bitch go. What possibly would stop you?

Deb vs. Deb: Cage Fight with a Neil Diamond Soundtrack

2009-10-28T14:37:00.004-04:00

Yet another person is pissed at me. At least this time it's not about something I wrote about her in my book. The complainant in this case is mad about my entire website, and she wants to take possession of Deb on the Rocks.

I've been having an email feud about it. Here's where it started.

SUBJECT: Deb Silva
Hello website owner:
I assist musician Deb Silva, and it has come to my attention that some customers are confused by your website On the Rocks. Deb has a CD out called On the Rocks and this is the confused part. If you heard the name of a website "Deb On The Rocks" you would rightfully think that this site was for Deb's On the Rocks CD. This unfortunate confusion is regreted and we would like to resolve it, preferably by having you move your website to a different name/.com that is not related to Deb Silva's music. Something has to be done so that people who know and love or want to Deb Silva can find her and not by confused by your website which is not related at all, I'm sure you can agree and would rather have your own name anyway. We will forward people to you so that is not a concern. Please advise a timeline for completing this.Josh www.myspace.com/debsilva

I didn't answer. I barely answer emails that offer me money, adventure or cheap pharmaceuticals, so someone asking me to do something ridiculous didn't merit a reply. I did click over to the MySpace page listed in the signature block, which felt like traveling back in time. MySpace still exists, y'all! I knew to be careful in case there was autoplay music, but I also should have been warned that Deb Silva's teeth were are so white you will spontaneously duck your eyes as though looking at a solar eclipse. Startling. Wear shades. She does.Go if you must.

So then about a week later the same email was re-sent to me. I looked up her On the Rocks CD (meh) but that's all I did. Then a few days later, this one appeared:

Hello debontherocks.com:
I am dismayed that you have not replied to my bringing your attention to the problem of Deb On the Rocks. I cannot make you rename your website, but I must incist that you place a notice on your site telling people that you are NOT Deb Silva so you can avoid copywrite legal problems. This at least would make me feel better that people are not confused and think that they are at Deb Silva's website when they are on Deb On The Rocks.com, not related to Deb Silva's recording On the Rocks. The notice solution makes it very easy to resolve!! We are only asking you to direct people to Deb's page because if they are coming to your website wrongly that is not you. Isn't this a common courtesy!!! There is nothing alike in what you are writing and she is performing and it is wrong to confuse people and not let them find the real Deb Silva On the Rocks CDs. We will do the same to you...she also will have a full website after Christmas 09. Josh www.myspace.com/debsilva

I relented and replied.

Hey Josh. Sorry there is confusion. I can't say that I've noticed any on my end, certainly not enough to worry about. People probably just search again adding her last name or the word CD or music and find her. Best of luck, Deb (Deb on the Rocks)

He bloomed again like inbox impetigo.

Hello Deb:
That's what I am telling you, know they do not find her. They get deadend on your website and sometimes get offended as to why a Christian woman Deb Silva would have a bizarre website...which she DOES NOT! I can't find your last name, so that makes it intentionally confusing.Please do the notice saying you are not Deb Silva before we seek lawyers because it is the right thing to do. Sincerely, Josh for Deb Silva www.myspace/debsilva

So, are you thinking what I'm thinking? This is all about the fact that Josh, and maybe Deb too, do not like my website. They aren't worried about traffic confusion, because, really? But apparently I am not representing Debs to the high standards of Deb Silva, who basically stole the tagline On the Rocks from me? Oh hell no. I got myself whooped up.

Deb Silva via Josh:
This is a cease and desist request to Deb Silva. If that is your real name. Josh has helped me understand that your 2008 CD entitled "On the Rocks" plagiarizes many elements of my creative work which pre-date 2008 by several years. The plagiarism complaint is based on your unauthorized use of the following phrases of mine:
Deb
On the Rocks
several nouns and interjections in your lyrics, including Baby and Yes
My eyes.
Adored you.
I am giving you/Josh two options. Either purchase a lifetime ad on Deb on the Rocks apologizing for the plagiarism (cost $900, which is a deal because monthly ads are $850) OR remit to me all existing copies of On the Rocks which I will sell as my own music stylings on my blog Deb on the Rocks.Please advise a timeline on completing this. Best, Deb On the Rocks (blogger and singer-songwriter) www.myspace.com/debsilva

As the hours clicked by, I found that I started wishing for Option B. How cool would it be to have a Deb on the Rocks music CD? Totally expands my platform. Though I would rather it be a Eurotrash dance track, free is free.

You are kidding me. Deb Silva is not copying you, you are confusing people about her. How is and ad worth $900? It doesn't cost you a damn thing to put up a little box that says I AM NOT MUSICIAN DEB SILVA> CLICK HERE TO GO TO DEB SILVA 'S MUSIC SITE. That's ALL! www.myspace.com/debsilva

Josh and I weren't seeing eye-to-eye yet.

Oh, it's worth it, Josh, but if Deb doesn't have that kind of money, I'll take the CDs. I think they'll sell better for me. Also FYI, I've already booked studio time to do Deb on the Rocks Chrismastime -- Silva Bells. Sort of in homage to how Deb Silva helped me get my start. I do a Do They Know It's Christmastime At All that will have you crying in your beer, Josh. I think Deb Silva will like it, too. How many On the Rocks CDs does she have left? I tell you what, I'll pay the postage. Also, Josh, as assistant you probably know a lot about the business model of the other Deb. I would be interested to interview you for a position I am creating to manage my On the Rocks CD music enterprises. Please send me your salary requirements and references, and we'll take it from there. Best, Deb on the Rocks www.myspace.com/debsilva

So far it's been a week with no further help from Josh/Deb, so I feel like yet another creative project is in limbo. This is where stress comes from. A month ago I had never heard of Deb Silva, and now I feel all competitive with her and I feel like a slacker for not making a Deb on the Rocks CD sooner. Life in the cloud is so tenuous, and I LEFT THE GATE OPEN for her to steal my gig. But the ball is in Josh's court now. Maybe his delay is because I asked him about the job. People hate sending in salary requirements, don't they? Though I have to think, that in compiling this post maybe I've realized I don't really need them, do I? I've got the music in me. I'm already on the rocks. And I think I can do better than Josh for an assistant. Way better.

The title of this post refers to my real theme song, thanks to the brilliant sparkling mind of Ilina, who blogs at Dirt & Noise among other destinations. She gave me the theme song of "Deb on the Rocks" sung to the tune of Neil Diamonds' "Love on the Rocks." It's catchy!

Hoarders is a Mirror You Want to Give Away on Freecycle

2009-10-25T22:00:00.007-04:00

If I were a media buyer for any type of cleaning product, I would sink my budget big into Hoarders. Nothing--neither Internet searches for parasites nor a bonus dose of steroids nor an impending visit from your mother--will make you grab trash bags and your rubber gloves like Hoarders.

Even if you don't need a team of people to come to your house with shovels and filter masks, I dare you to watch the show and not at least clean out your junk drawer or decide that two chairs in your living room are ENOUGH and the third has to go immediately. So what if it took you forever to find an Eames-ish corner chair you could afford? Do you really need forks AND spoons? Does each child really need her own backpack? Out with the old before you turn into someone who insulates her bathtub with pizza boxes, Altoid tins and Happy Meal toys.

Hoarding is a slippery slope that starts with a pile of school newsletters and unopened 401K statements and ends with strangers dismantling the five purple Christmas trees which may or may not have pushed closed the door of the old dryer/new kitty litter box--which would explain a number of things including the month-long absence of the cat. You have to be vigilant against that shit.

My problems include paper and they way it collects in midden piles on the flat surfaces of my house. Luckily, inspired by a binge run of hoarded Hoarders episodes that I watched while eating black bean soup and canned pineapple (we are eating out of our hoarded Hurricane Evac box now that we're in the clear for another year) I found the solution to my paper problem this weekend:

Start a bonfire in your backyard.

What is better than a fall bonfire? Nothing. Not even your precious stuff. After you have fed all of your wood to the fire, you will want to keep the beautiful, consumptive flames rolling, so you will start looking at all of your belongings as underutilized carbon. Stacks of old bills? Watch that ash fly. Closet shelf full of bad board games? Do not pass GO. Pesky bathroom doors and leaning IKEA Billy bookcase that took five hours to build ? Throw them on the pile, the fire is HUNGRY. Books too! Book burning is only wrong is you are torching them to block children from the joy of learning about dinosaurs or the Karma Sutra. If you are lessening your carbon footprint, go ahead and burn baby burn: yes you are making unholy smoke, but you are NOT A HOARDER and it will even out in the end.

All the embers died and I slept well last night, waking to a house that truly felt lighter. In the firepit I was left with an odd sculpture of melted CD cases, a Connect Four game grid, soccer trophies and swag grocery shopping sacks. The forged glob looks kind of cool. I might save it, and then make some more trash burn art pieces, bigger ones, have an art exhibit someday called "Ma'am, would you like Paper or Plastic?" which would catalyze contemporary discussion about the American rituals of consumption and waste as parallel to ancient fire cleansing sacrifices. Wonder where I should store the works until I find gallery space?

I don't know if I'll ever take the 100 Thing Challenge, but I love reading people's lists on their blogs. They list their socks!

I started mine but it got confusing. For example, I have 98 test tubes (2 broke) from a party where we used them as shot glasses. Does that count as one thing or 98. If it's 98, do I only get a pair of jeans and a hairbrush and everything else goes? Also, does my dog get his OWN 100 Things? Because he's a retriever so he hoards stuffed toy mallards after he has removed their squeakers, and I don't him putting his collection of Kongs on my tote board. You have to be vigilant against that shit.

This Just In: It's Alive Out There!

2009-10-19T14:20:00.003-04:00

Fall has finally arrived in northern Florida, and it has been inspiring some mind blowing activities for me. For example: a willingness to be outdoors more than half and hour at a time. Outside, in real, live NATURE! And I'm not talking about walking the dog around the block and then jumping in the pool. I mean spending time outside where real animals roam around, real animals who are probably thinking much more important things about autumn, including "find food so you don't starve this winter."

It's been so long since I've seen a land creature that this weekend I wanted to alert the media when I saw a snake (and a snakeskin), deer (and deer tracks, do you see one in the photo?) and a low-flying eagle. I was jazzed like a Girl Scout who is one Quick Crete casting away from adding a Tracking badge to her sash. [FYI, if in your next life(s) you are an elementary aged scout, always go with the sash, not the vest. The vests are for dorks.]

It's tragic that on a little day hike one jagged line of hoof prints rocked my soul. What have I become? I used to live outside.

I just adore a penthouse view, but when I was 24 I had a baby, traded my supafine Camaro for a sedan, quit my job and moved what fit inside of my trunk to a decrepit farmhouse near the Devil's Backbone Wilderness. I banged out freelance articles and corporate annual reports on my precious red Selectric and taught myself how to be a mother by reading old Whole Earth Catalogs, Mothering, Walden, La Leche League mimeographed handouts and the Moosewood Cookbook. True, I mildly poisoned myself with mushrooms gathered for carrot loaf; became hallucinogenic for a week another time taking Arsenic as a homeopathic remedy I self-prescribed by reading a laminated chart in the health food store three towns over (is cough worse when drafty and around turmeric, or does it improve when feeling moody in large-dropped rain and when wearing corduroy?); and, had a violent run-in when the matriarch of a fundamental cult family of beekeepers attempted to kidnap A. because she thought I was a hussy once spring came and I started wearing swimsuits to the river. But otherwise, no line-dried cloth diapers were left behind.

I confess that I smelled like jasmine and wore Birkenstocks. Ditched my black clothes and owned 3 broomstick skirts in order to own the neo-hippy mama archetype, though I also attended Baptist fish fry suppers to break the isolation and was courted by a dairy farmer who tried to seduce me with the gift of a deer tenderloin, his aunt's pepper jelly and loads of split firewood. I've never had pepper jelly that transcendent since.

Eventually I left, interviewed a few communes, and ended up living on the edge of the Ocala National forest in a cabin that had no indoor plumbing or air conditioning and was heated only with an oil drum woodstove. With a toddler in a sling in the purple early morning light I can make a bitch of a fire from only three orange embers, a crumpled zine and damp oak, I promise you. Would you like a cup of red raspberry leaf tea? I'm pretty sure I picked red raspberry leaves.

Hawks, baby rattlers, fox, raccoon, mice, skink, rabbits, huge feral cats, opossum, coral snakes, wild turkey, alligators, turtles. Animals would pluck my tomatoes and figs and chomp on the harvest like they were cartoon characters with three-fingered gloves for hands. A mother and a trail of baby snakes once crossed the foot on my bed like ducklings following their mama to the lake.

Even when I became a townie again, for years I camped and portaged canoes on weekends. So a snakeskin on a path? A few deer hoof prints in the dirt? It's lovely to think that I treasured my weekend finds because each feather or marking is special. But the truth? Something shifted in the last few years. I simply don't spend much time with my back against the ground, against river rocks or against the back of a fat oak tree. I don't know if it is the seduction of the Internet, of my work, or just what happens when life changes. Doesn't matter why, really, because the low-flying eagle's message landed and left a print of it's own.

I really need to get out more.

##

Or at least I need to quit thinking "Where the Wild Things Are" will be inside a theater. But did you see the movie yet? Check out my post about where the rumpus is at on BlogHer.

Finally, the Mommy Wars Are Over!

2009-10-14T15:55:00.009-04:00

Performing one of its more valiant corrections, the recession has claimed a wonderful victory: the Mommy Wars are dead.

Submitted for evidence: Dr. Phil's show today on Mom Guilt. He tried to stoke the old pop culture divide by parsing his audience into "Working Mom" and "Stay-at-Home Mom" warcamps at the beginning of the show. Only one woman sent out hate missiles, though, and even the Grand Poobah himself proclaimed the Mommy Wars irrelevant.

Ding Dong, the merry-oh! It's about time.

I heard about the show on Twitter, and I watched it because bloggers were involved and I was concerned. So far, in my experience, Dr. Phil + Heather Armstrong + Jessica Gottlieb = trouble. All three have brands known for stirring up storms, and for cultivating audiences who love to hate them.

Heather has been criticized for being a bully to other bloggers and those who disagree with or disappoint her. She cultivates a brand that is in part defined by being hated, and has a new website Monetizing the Hate where she publishes some of the attacking comments published on other sites about her.

Jessica Gottlieb also builds a brand based in part on attracting attention through self-induced scorn for being hypocritical, incendiary and just plain mean.

So with Dr. Phil pairing them in a cage-match that is supposed to represent the complexity of motherhood, I was worried for the good name of the women of the world. Oddly, both women have big careers but speak about the lives of SAHMs. And further, I had no idea who Phil might book to represent working mothers. Ugh.

The thing is, only Jessica threw down. It seems as though the Mommy War is over, but no one told her.

Jessica threw down hard and ugly. She said she wouldn't outsource loving her husband, so she's not for outsourcing her children--and she wouldn't budge when Dr. Phil pointed out that child care is not outsourcing LOVE. She said "If you don't have time for your kids, you should take a pass." And she likened participating in the workforce as "putting on pantyhose to go hang out with your girlfriends." She is going to get tons more requests for being a schlock show guest after this show. Springer, Glenn Beck, take note. "You are NOT a good baby mama!" she could sneer on Maury.

Dooce's publicist got the memo, and Heather made a peaceful pitch for women to support each other because all mothers' lives are hard. Dr. Phil was very supportive about the choices of women, and even allowed his staff to join the stage to defend their working motherhood against Gottlieb's flames; one told Jessica she sounded sanctimonious and judgmental. The Good Doc himself agreed.

Blogger Suzanne from Twenty-Four at Heart was also there, and she spoke to say that Jessica does NOT speak for all SAHMs, much to the relieve of countless other SAHMs, no doubt.

So no one slammed SAHMs or WAHMs, working parents were defended, and Jessica was trying to fly a kite in July by smashing it against a rock wall, a bit like a Rush Limbaugh with better hair, still fighting a war that was over a long time ago.

Because, seriously, as I said on Twitter, if Dr. Phil and his producers are calling YOU sanctimonious, that's pretty bad. If Paris Hilton calls you a slut, or Joy Behar says you are loud, oh, snap! Mama needs a time out.

Women don't need to tear down each other's choices. We need that energy for more important things, like fighting about whether Glee is too cheesy or why some of us adore Don Draper despite (or because) of his philandering ways. Or, about health care or about French tipped manicures. For your pageant daughter. The important things.

When Kleenex Cries, Will We See Tears? Because Their "Get Mommed" Campaign Blows.

2009-10-07T16:30:00.014-04:00

Poor Kleenex. I've never felt as sorry for a personal paper product as I do right now. Kimberly-Clark is trying so hard (and spending tons of multi-ply tissue) to enter the digital engagement marketing world, but they have fallen flat on their runny noses with the new Get Mommed interactive campaign.

I feel so bad for them that I'm going to give them free advice from a real mom. The advice is: next time pay a little bit of that budget to strategists who will review your campaign to see if it will really translate into the interactive digital space. We strategists like to call that service "The Laugh Test." At least I do.

Because the weaker marketing ideas that wash over us in flatland just won't cut it in the relational sphere. A corny commercial in the background while you are re-icing your drink might still successfully hit you with a thin layer of an old skool brand message. But online where you can poke, prod and decide if you want to let something in your head?

Get Mommed doesn't pass The Laugh Test.

The Get Mommed campaign of video spots and interactive website feature a swarm of stereotypical muthas for you to interview--if interview means regressing into a monstrous Freudian dreamspace where you are being manipulated by archetypes from The Breakfast Club 2: Revenge of the Moms. We've got The Cold WASP. The MILF BFF. The Smothering Tootsie. Oy. Go, listen to them if you can stand it, though you may need an extra therapy appointment this week. See how they each have their own short-cut brand, complete with racial stereotypes. Ana Maria is a wise multi-cultural woman who loves her Familia! Of course she is!

How to Get Mommed

So first you regress, then you take a mommy quiz, or simply pick one if you fall in love with a new mom at first sight. Then you adopt her. Like a stallion in Horseland or some iGoogle Fish. Except you don't have to take care of them. You'll be mommed by your new momatar--i.e. sent text messages about your health, well-being and food scene.

Because that is what every one apparently wants? Spammy intrusive text messages! Oh, lucky me! It's my pretend mommy interrupting me about my nasal hygiene!

Even though the campaign art uses an iPhone and a pink "While You Were Out" office message, busy mothers like me can not be the target audience for this campaign, because if my iPhone blurps a text, I want it to be a project update, a safe kid checking in, for real love and kisses, or an invitation I don't want to refuse. Not a pretend new age beaded mama telling me to try a new yoga move to relieve my congested sinuses. Or a the type of aproned fantasy pie-pushing Southern momma who only exists in Hollywood. These moms suck, and I'm stuck in the sandwich years. Getting Mommed sounds like more work for me.

So who is the target audience? They are certainly pitching to the primal need for nurturing. So are they targeting working men, who are being coaxed into interviewing for a wife? Or are they hoping for engagement with the Harlow Rhesus Monkeys among us. I'll grant that the Get Mommed campaign is good news for hypochondriacs. Freud thought that hypochondria was a narcissistic devotion to attention to our bodies:

A child in its greed for love does not enjoy having to share the affection of its parents with its brothers and sisters; and it notices that the whole of their affection is lavished upon it once more whenever it arouses their anxiety by falling ill. It has now discovered a means of enticing out its parents' love and will make use of that means as soon as it has the necessary psychical material at its disposal for producing an illness.

Freud would certainly want us to consider the other common use for a Kleenex.

But for nurturing purposed, I don't think the Kleenex Moms work any better than a cloth monkey. Unless they are meant to injure us into reflecting that, why, yes, I am horribly under-nurtured! Does developing Munchhausen by Disposable Paper Product increase tissue sales?

So if they had hired someone to Laugh Test it, Kimberly-Clark might have been told to start over from a deeper ground. But if they wanted to fix it as is, they still could have deployed a more emotionally intelligent surrogate system. Actually make it funny, without the stereotypes, that would have been good, if they stretched their view of women. Maybe pick a mom throughout the time of Kleenex's history instead of focusing on "types." Do you want a 50s Betty Draper, a 70s Elizabeth Montgomery or a 2009 Michelle Obama? (Yes, please.)

Or better yet, here's a thought: use some of the actual, powerhouse engaging moms who already blog in the digital sphere. Now those text messages might actually be interesting.

##
I guess Kimberly Clark hasn't heard that the slang "Get Mommed" is a put-down. Being embarrassed by your mom smoothing your hair in public. Or looking in the mirror and noticing that you haven't had time for a haircut since before the baby was born. The baby who is 2. You Got Mommed. Or a drive-by parenting lesson by someone mommier-than-thou.

Although it may well mean getting educated about your old-fashioned view of mothers by a new media mom. Kleenex, you just Got Mommed.

I want my hour back, and it's not even Daylight Saving Time change Sunday

2009-10-04T16:30:00.007-04:00

I feel compelled to let you know it is NOT, I repeat NOT, the end of Daylight Saving Time in North America today.

Which has completely ruined my day.

All evening last night I had it in my head that we would get to FALL BACK in time today. FALL BACK is the good witch to the evil witch of SPRING FORWARD, and I've been waiting months to get my stolen week back.

I blame Twitter for putting it in my head that we were ending Daylight Saving Time. After some research, I have figured out that I misunderstood some tweets from Australians who were mentioning that their DST was starting this weekend. In my defense, there is a lot to pay attention to out there. Like Nestlé, #Glee and racial stereotypes in a Kleenex campaign.

Thinking I was gaining an hour this weekend made me all kinds of happy. I stayed up drinking! Solved a mystery! (Tweetstream, start at the bottom and read up.)

Which is a nice story, not a rumor. Because think about it, Madonna and Sean Penn were so busy back then, but they still had the baby, gave the child to someone to take care of (I don't know, Melanie Griffith? Cyndi Lauper?) but still when the child grew to become Lady Gaga, she pays homage to her mama in the sweetest ways. It's a fairytale, really.

Knowing I had an extra hour I slept in! I was completely unproductive! So basically it was like any other weekend, but I didn't feel bad about it.

But midday I realized my mistake, and the crash chilled my Downunder buzz in no time. Now I somehow feel as though two hours have been stolen from me. Sort of like watching Hannibal. I still want those hours from 2001 back. Also, all of the horrible, intrusive thoughts of that brain frying pan scene.

Maybe when we die we'll be given all of our stolen hours and things back. Not sure what we'll get to do with our lost things. Basically I think I'll get a few weeks with my first girlfriend (stolen by a lying field hockey player, skank), a Nikon FA, a backpack from the train between Amsterdam and Paris, my favorite purple pen from 3rd grade, three wallets and an ungodly amount of Stoli lost to a perpetually sneaky college roommate. Could be a little bit of okay.

###

A good way to spend a few hours: go see Whip It. Whether you've seen it or not, go see my post at BlogHer, and tell me your roller derby name, Bruiser. Mine: Deb U Taunt. Snap!

Is it going to be the end of DST soon? For me?

A Night-Night Story for Nestle's Blogger Junket

2009-10-01T20:04:00.011-04:00

It's been awhile since our last Night-Night story, so you must be very, very tired! This little tale is in honor of a recent blogger junket hosted by the international megalith that Corporate Watch describes as "easily one of the world's most hated companies."

Social media users aware of the long-held boycott against Nestlé interrupted the Twitter stream #nestlefamily. The bloggers attending the event were using it to talk about what they were doing at the sessions and the expo held by Nestlé PR. That type of hashtag on Twitter is common for these events, as planned by the company to spread the good word of their good work. Or um, maybe the truth.

The tag ended up hosting lots of good discussion, but also some cringeworthy junk. And during it all the poor bloggers were stuck being led around Nestlé, which sells under the Wonka brand and hoards of other names. I truly worried that the bloggers might be expelled one-by-one, flattened or puffed up like Violet Blueberry. So I wanted to commemorate the occasion because I'm wondering if it might be the last such blogger junket to be held in the evolution of social media brand-blog relations. It's some kind of history, that's for sure.

If you want the backstory on the event and the issues at hand, you can start with Ph.D in Parenting and Pop Discourse. You can pour into lots of insightful commentary about the event, including at Hoyden about Town, Blacktating, Mother of All Parenting Blogs and Crunchy Domestic Goddess, who is collecting all the blog post links.

Or you can just sit back, make some REAL hot cocoa (geez, just simmer some milk with fair-trade chocolate scrapings, easy-peasy, no packet needed!) and fall into gentle sleep with this Night-Night Story by Deb on the Rocks.

Blog Junket De Do!
(To the tune of the Oompa Loompa Loompa De Do Song)

Twitt-er, Twitt-er, #nestlefamily
A blogger junket, but no one says "Squee!"
Nestlé, Nestlé, your smoke and mirrors slipped
More people see past your lies and bullshit!

What do you do, you exploit the 3rd World
Then glue candy crafts with some mommybloggers?
Your gameplan attracts your detractors with zeal
You look like a creep with those bloggers as shields!

No one likes the #hash of that!

Nestlé Nestlé, we're on to your game
No slick PR will cover your shame!

Social media lets us see the real you
You need to change! Let's start with the WHO!

LIKE THE (offensive racial caricatures) OOMPA LOOMPA DOOMPADEE DO!

Still wide awake? You silly pumpkin! Hmm. Well, you can find more Night-Night Stories by Deb on the Rocks here. Sweet dreams!

Stuntwoman, midwife, game show contestant: I'm in

2009-09-22T10:27:00.006-04:00

I just threw myself out of my car. Opened the door and dove for pavement.

I'm seeing if it's too late to start a new career as a stuntwoman.

It may well be.

The problem is that my midlife crisis is not abating. In fact, it's amping up. I am entirely ready for a complete reboot.

But it's not likely to be stuntwoman, as I found it impossible to make myself eat gravel. A strong survival instinct kicked in (what about my knees, gravity sucks, these are my good jeans), and I more or less did a slither-one-leg-to-the-ground-crouch-down-stretch-out yoga move. Would not be impressive in Fast & the Furious. Would not be impressive if neighbors walked by with frightened children in a Bugaboo.

The stuntwoman idea is because I watched Double Dare this weekend. Watch it, I dare you not to fall in love with the two stuntwomen featured. Very cool profiles of groudbreaker Jeannie Epper, who doubled for Wonder Woman and is having a long distinguished career, and superstar Zoë Bell, who doubled for Lucy Lawless as Xena and for Uma in Kill Bill. Fearless fight scenes! Car spinouts! Window dives! Spinning through the air on fire! In wigs!

That particular career might be lost to me, but I can still shoot for character actress/game show contestant/900 line psychic. It's just a matter of time.

Well, I AM going to Asheville this weekend for the Type A Mom conference, so that's cool because I love me some blogging and new media luminaries, and our time may well be full of daring feats of bravery because I'm carpooling with a very pregnant friend, Megan from Velveteen Mind. Her third baby is due about 20 minutes east of Atlanta. Instead of watching Double Dare I should have been reading Ina May Gaskin and sterilizing towels. I WILL charge my flip camera and I promise video if we need to do a roadside welcome for her precious little girl. I'm sure Megan can hold the camera, as my hands will be full!

###

*Lucy Lawless has the best name ever.

**This was so cool: so I watch the 2004 DVD about Jeannie Epper on Saturday, which includes a discussion about how she donated a kidney to her friend Ken Howard. Then on Sunday he wins an Emmy, and in his speech he expressed gratitude to his friend Jeannie Epper for giving him a kidney. I love it when that randomness happens. It's like I'm dreaming this whole shebang.

***Megan's OB said the baby isn't breach, so, whew, that's good. Thank God for those strong survival insticts!

You are amazing, Susan Mikula, I mean it

2009-09-08T15:07:00.008-04:00

My year-long, wild, passionate, single-minded, virtual-starcrush on Rachel Maddow ended abruptly only a few moments into her recent appearance on Elfman's Late Night Show.

Pfft. With a whimper.

That's how crushes work.

I sort of miss it. That's also how crushes work. Sure, it occupied a very tiny part of my brain (certainly not Frida Kahlo or Hemingway sized, or young Jodie Foster sized, but more than Lauren Hutton-sized), and was probably more a function of the rigors of both being election reporters than anything else, but it was a warm and engaging few dots none-the-less. I don't miss it like a phantom limb; I don't even know where that part of my brain WAS. But it's like waking up one day, looking for your houndstooth jacket, remembering you left it at your old dry-cleaners at the end of spring, and finding out they gave it away to the homeless shelter. You are fine without it, it went to a good cause, but still, you don't have that jacket anymore.

I'm starting to feel annoyed at Rachel Maddow about this. I know I said this whole thing might not be her fault, but now I suspect it might be very much her fault.

In trying to understand what happened, I re-read some of the comments on my posts about her like this one:

Anonymous said...
Howabout her address in NYC. Yes I was there in the wee hours of the am and no Susan Mikula LMAO That Rachel after 3 double Rob Roys and she will be anyones toy.

Eeep! So it occurred to me:

Poor Susan Mikula

I don't want to be one is a string of common Rob Roy throwdowns

Susan has literally been an angel and a saint through all of this

Rachel is always away, soaking up the rockstar (and apparently Rob Roy) attention, and what about Rachel's "girlfriend" Susan?

She's an ARTIST dammit! How can Rachel's shenanigans be good for her? No wonder her photos are blurry. Susan Mikula deserves better than this.

So I've simply found myself thinking of Susan Mikula again and again. All that she's been through. All that she might want in the future. Poor Susan Mikula, how did it come to this? With all of my thinking about this issue, about the bizarre triangle I found myself in when I fell for Rachel Maddow and what happened when that changed, soon a radical new fascination took hold in my temporal lobe and began to throb with the raw power of a silver-painted street performer's foil-covered boombox in an aluminum trashcan in 1986: my new virtual media crush is Susan Mikula.

I don't know how it happened. That's how it works! Don't you think we'll be happy together? For now!

##
Here's a fun use of your time that also in a funding generator for the fight against Ovarian Cancer. Win-Win. See the brilliant Jessica Bern as Aunt Flo at letstalkperiod, and for every three clicks or one minute of your time Seventh Generation will donate one dollar to ovarian cancer research. Yeah, it's awesome. Click on the photo of Jessica in the gold box to see Aunt Flo reading some of her fan mail.

Amy Sedaris FAIL

2009-09-07T23:44:00.007-04:00

I am livid. Live. Id. I am so angry with Amy Sedaris I could just spit. Spit on some fake cake she fake baked. That's how mad I am.

My weekend was lovely and wonderful, with many simple and complicated pleasures. But Amy Sedaris messed up my flow. She tricked me into watching Full Grown Men because I lit upon her name in the description.

Amy Sedaris. FAIL.

Deborah Harry, was listed as appearing too, and in addition to being Debbie Fucking Harry, she rocked in in Spun which received worst reviews than Full Grown Men. Go figure. (Rotten Tomatoes, you are on notice, too!)

It should have been quirky and witty, fun and engaging. But they were lying McLiars, all of the them. The movie was terrible. With no redeeming qualities at all. And we kept watching, thinking Amy and/or Debbie would appear any moment to at least give us a little pleasure for our troubles.

We turned off the sound and made up our own wretched dialogue.

We moaned and repeated again and again "I hate this movie." I became obsessed with how unattractive the lead actor is. He is hideous!

And then, finally, Amy appeared. For three minutes. In a throw-away bit as a bartender.

Oh my god, why did she do this to me?

I'm not sure I know how to forgive her. She stole the best hours of my weekend.

(I'm not really going to spit on Amy Sedaris' cake. I'll probably just hide it from her and tell her I don't know where it went, oh where could it be? Sorry about that, Amy, hope it didn't take you too long to make it. TOO MANY LONG HOURS ON A FRIDAY NIGHT!)

(Don't tell me I should also hold a grudge against Debbie Harry. Not possible. Not in this lifetime. Sure, she was also on for only a few minutes as the most ridiculous mermaid ever. But she's Debbie Harry. She's got money in the bank with me.)

LEARN FROM MY EXPERIENCES. DON'T PUT FULL GROWN MEN IN YOUR QUEUE!

Tim Gunn's Secrets -- It's All in How He Makes His T's Work

2009-09-03T19:22:00.005-04:00

I stumbled on some of Tim Gunn's secrets when I was looking at photos of people wearing lobster bibs.

I wanted to find a photo of an adult wearing a bib with a Bunny on it because of this Japanese restaurant called Usagi Cafe. They steam the bunny you pick from a tank, just like a lobster!

Not really. You pet the bunny you select while you eat, paying by the minute for your bunny prostitute, which people do because it is a luxury to have a rabbit dining companion. To forward that wonderful story to my friend who is always on the lookout for innovative business models, I wanted a lobster bib featuring a bunny. Because that would be funny, bunny. But I didn't find one, but I found a Tim Gunn pic that took me on a sidetrack, so I'm over it.

Still, I saw a lot of photos of people wearing lobster bibs without really have to know those people. Or their lobsters. Or go to their weddings and wear a bib.

More exciting to me was the photo of Tim Gunn signing a bib from Red Lobster. Which is awesome in and of itself. Why was Tim Gun signing this? He isn't in a Red Lobster restaurant, unless he is in some back office? That has a white-board that talks about A-List kids? What is going on here? I've been telling you, that man had secrets. He knows how to make it work because of deep-seated stuff! And despite his sins and secrets, there he was signing an improbable Red Lobster bib. Dang.

What was Internet freaky about finding that photo is that it occurred not long after I had read about JD's Tim Gunn family photo. When I had read her post I studied his inscription (Mister's overworking that Make It Work line), and the way he makes his "T"s. And then there it was, the same expansive, mushroom-capped T right there on the lobster bib.

I took a graphology course back when I was obsessed with Jung, so in addition to being a yellow journalist I am an amateur handwriting analyst. Don't you love seeing people's actual handwriting?

So basically, all of this is to say: Tim Gunn, I've got you pegged you wacky little monkey. But no worries, I'm discreet. The patient/yellow journalist privilege is solid.

This reminds me that I meant to have someone help me collect blogger's handwriting samples while at BlogHer for a some show-and-tell down the road, but I forgot. I can't collect them myself, because of SCIENCE and BLIND METHODS and crap like that, but I was going to have a moderator be in charge of the identities and the revealing reveal. Oh well, the TMI crowd probably isn't hiding any secrets in their descending loops. No big loss.

Now, Tim Gunn would not have forgotten a project midstream. I can tell from his dotted CAPITAL "i's" in "Julia" and "It." If fact, that's a bit overly thorough. Stuck in anal stage, even.

But oh boy, Tim, that capital T!

Ben & Jerry's Hubby Hubby, Rachel Maddow and all the news that's queer to print

2009-09-01T11:42:00.010-04:00

This post is about three very big and important gay marriage stories. It's almost like I'm a real yellow journalist today.

1. Since as a good lefty you aren't shopping at Whole Foods right now, the good news is you won't miss their gelato buffet because you are hereby invited to eat Ben & Jerry's to support their re-branding of Chubby Hubby to Hubby Hubby in celebration of gay marriage Vermont. For the next month (in their stores only) the insanely awesome Hubby Hubby pretzelicious flavor will chill the Antis and will transform all gays into round-bellied bears.

I'm going to use my labelmaker to rebrand some of their other flavors, too:

Mission to Marzipan...IS NOW Mission to Make Everyone Gay! Or at least Bi!

Everything But The... IS NOW Everyone is Gay

Coffee, Coffee, BuzzBuzzBuzz...IS NOW Lesbian, Lesbian BuzzBuzzBuzz

Neopolitan Dynamite...IS NOW Being Queer is Dynamite

Phish Food...IS NOW Freddie Mercury in Leather Pants Food

Cinnamon Buns....IS NOW Cinnamon Buns (that's a pretty drag-queen-name as it is. Maybe change it to Bunz.)

All sorbets will retain their original names because sorbets are already gayer than gay.

Huzzah. It's super cool (heh!) for B&J to continue to go out on the ledge for the queers, it truly is. And I love eating for the common good, I really do. Who says we aren't making progress in our lifetimes?

2. I saw Rachel Maddow on whats-his-name (you know, that elf-looking guy from SNL)'s show last night, and I'm not in love with her. It's nothing she said or did (though she made a repulsive egg-white-laden cocktail and talked about her Swine Flu...but it wasn't that). I still think she's smart and funny and like her work and all. It's just that the old pull, it's not there. Poof, just like that. I'm sure Susan Mikula, poor old gal, will be relieved.

3. Shoot. I forgot the third thing. I hate it when I do that.

Got any news? Planing to eat a scoop or two?

##
I still have a small grudge against Ben & Jerry's for discontinuing Wavy Gravy. Mission to Marzipan is a good second, but Wavy Gravy was stellar. Hubby Hubby helps, though, I admit. I can let it go, let bygones be bygones. Sigh.

(Hat tip to my friend Barbara on the Hubby Hubby news. I owe you a pint!)

Join the Oolong Organicarama Tea Party at Whole Foods for the Right, Y'all!

2009-08-31T10:57:00.006-04:00

I'm worried about Conservatives.

I think they've entered some Inside-Out Warp and are most certainly in some sort of falcon cannot hear the falconer things fall apart slouches toward Bethlehem zone.

The National Tea Party Coalition is holding "Tea Party Buycotts" in support of Whole Foods. Some liberals are boycotting the beloved green foodie mecca following CEO John Mackey's op-ed denouncing Obamacare. So now the Tea Party animals want to fill the void with Conservative support for expensive imports and fancy tempeh burgers.

The centre can not hold!

Rightie blogger and radio host Dana Loesch says she may cringe at buying $5 yogurt, but she wants to take back the store from "hippies." She told St. Louis reporters: "Most tea party supporters are not regular customers of Whole Foods, and we want to show our support for Mr. Mackey's championship of free market health care reforms."

The idea of Rush Limbaugh's minions filling paper recycleable containers with blacked tofu couscous curry salad and gathering en masse to slather Rush's scaly self with Peter Rabbits Organics Garden Fresh Carrot and Pumpkin Intense Therapy Cream to show liberals what's what is making my week.

The movement doesn't seem too successful yet, with only 3 Buycotts listed on the national page. Maybe some granola bi-partisan yuppies should offer to act as Whole Foods guides to help acclimate the poor lost souls looking for Velveeta and Lipton. They might not know, for example, that in Whole Foods Landia there is a lot more to tea than Sweet and Unsweet.

Funny as this is, the dragon is eating its own tale, and Conservatives are losing their conservativeness. Finally, they are dropping their pretense (I knew they were protesting too much!) and the parties will be united over luxury food during this landmark recession! If that doesn't say "American Dream" I don't know what does. Those spend-happy Tea Partiers are gayer than gay, ready to come out of the closet to sip their Un-American imported chai soy lattes with abandon like the rest of us. Bag the old Conservative stereotypes (in your canvas reusuable tote) and let's meet-up in a Tao of Tea Bar with the Formerly Economically Conservative Right for some tea.

It's a Fair-trade Camomile and Honey Party!

It's a Rainforest Light Black with Stevia Party!

It's a Japanese Sencha Green Tea with Agave Nectar Party!

I have no idea what anyone is protesting anymore, but the Whole Foods hazelnut mocha gelato, oh my gawd, heaven. Grab a quarter-pint on your way out.

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Back-to-School Means Wash Your Hands, Especially If You've Been Selling Weed. Money is so Dirty.

2009-08-24T09:53:00.004-04:00

With or without kids, back-to-school is such a deep rut of obedience and rebellion. It's the annual American Dream v. Wild Child deathmatch, and you know who you should put your money on to win that bout.

Dammit, too bad I love the underdog.

But, nonetheless, August ended my son's summer and found us returning to aisles of backpacks (all the better to turn you into a pack mule for the man, my pretty!) and extra bottles of hand sanitizer to send to school to charm the teachers.

I know that teachers love hand sanitizer because so far my son has brought home four fliers during the first week of school describing Swine Flu prevention. Back when my older son was in middle and high school, Drug Prevention was all the rage, but now keeping clean literally means washing your hands. Fliers are prophylactics according to districtlandia. Or maybe they got a prevention grant from the CDC--the CDC loves fliers too. You could decoupage each city a health clinic for the poor out of CDC fliers and unused back-to-school glue sticks--or make us each personal papier machete bubbles to keep us each germ free.

"Free to be Germ Free Me." That will be the slogan for my Individual Health Pinatas. "DARE to Scrub Your Nails."

I'm not sure how these fliers help the children become better capitalists, but I guess that's why they also read Anthem and The Great Gatsby and learn Trig.

For my own back-to-school focus on education, I'm sticking with good old Weeds with its old fashioned "Say No to Blow" and "Entrepreneurialism for Dummies" messages. There is only one more episode in the season, which is just enough time for Nancy Botwin to get herself in a juicy Paulinesque peril for a season cliffhanger.

Season 5 is better than 4 was, but I want Weeds to shake things up to prepare for a stellar next season. Nancy has become a cross between Rosemary-with-the-Devil-Esteban's baby, Lucille Ball (Oh, Nancy, I'm home..) and a La Leche Leaguer, and though I have nothing against a sweet SAHM situation for a new mama on maternity leave from selling dope, I miss the old hard-working, big-bill queen, weed-whacking American Dreamer.

This much I know: after Weeds wraps up next Monday I'm not going to fill the void between now and next season with Dancing with the Stars. Tom Delay is going to be one of the contestants. TOM DELAY? I know. With that announcement a lovely, talented dancer's dream gig has crashed and burned. The poor young woman has to actually TOUCH TOM DELAY while they dance wearing shiny costumes. So disgusting.

I should send her some hand-sanitizer.

(photo credit: Centers for Disease Control.)

Julie and Julia and learning how to blog, cook and reinvent yourself

2009-08-16T23:24:00.011-04:00

Yes, the Julie half of Julie & Julia is tedious and she is a crybaby and takes tons of digs at bloggers for being narcissistic, but you can stand it. The Julia side is worth it. Sort of how Penn makes Teller less creepy. There is always a limp to a pair. But the film is worth seeing. Go, or plunk it in your queue, because it just might inspire you. To start a blog, or another blog, or a screenplay. Or to cook!

The film did to me just what it intended, and Parisian scenes fanned my wanderlust and made me think it would be awesome to travel to Europe and take a food and wine tour, or a course in French cooking. When I came home from the movie--which I saw with the most darling blogger ever, In Due Time, who lives in my very own town, so you big cities with your massive tweetups can now officially #suckit--I searched until I found blogger Kate Hill's program in Gascony which will be offering an immersion French cooking course. If I wasn't completely sold before, Kate had me at "immersion." I love immersion! Take me to the river, drop me in the water, I hate not going to extremes.

So with the website icing the cake of Julie & Julia, I hatched a prefrontal cortex eggbaby. I would do it! I would travel to France and learn to cook and find my Julia soul!

At first glance the Kitchen-in-Camont site is gorgeous. Perfection. But then I looked at the middle photograph. The little piggy. Oh, the little piggy! Some pig! Whereas the chicken on the left seemed safe as an egg-layer, that pig is not going to end well. Hover over the photo to see what the photographer or designer named the photo (that's something blogging geeks do, FYI, and you didn't learn that in Julie & Julia, did you?) and see what the photo is named. Might as well say "pig in a blanket." I admit that the caption beneath the photos sounds ecstatic, except for one word...

Come join our artisan food community. Learn from butchers, bakers, and Armagnac makers. Live France.

I don't want to learn from butchers.

My eggbaby cracked.

In all, my trajectory from aspiring food and travel blogger to immersion French chef and back to microwave-dependent non-foodie yellow journalist took less time than it took Julia to poach herself a creamy, French farm-fresh pair of eggs.

I'm letting go of the idea of finding my Julia soul, despite the inspiration in the film, unless I can find a program where the meat is precooked for me. Maybe near Barcelona, though they are big on pig as well. Perhaps Italy would be better. Pasta-making! Pasta doesn't smile!

The eating part, though, the part where Julia loves eating with gusto and butter? And the part that says that it is never too late to save yourself by throwing yourself, body and prefrontal cortex and soul into a new pursuit? Those parts can stay.

##

One other cool thing about the film is it has people searching for blogging how-to books, so that has been good for me and 5 Ways to {Blank} Your Blog! Sweet cream butter! (And deep thanks to all of you who are recommending it to your friends who want to get into the magic of the blogosphere.)

In addition to meeting In Due Time, other bloggy goodness this weekend included being cited on Five Star Friday, and finding out that ChurchPunkMom, her cute husband Aman and Nic from My Bottle's Up were hosting a new streaming program called Five Star Fridays Live where they lead dialogue about the featured posts. Content is King! So wonderful!

I can't wait to tell you more about the stunningly brilliant Ananda Leeke's series of interviews with bloggers on her new project: Sisterhood, the Blog Radio Show, which is the audio component of Sisterhood, the Blog. Talk about rich and amazing content. You truly NEED to know Ananda. She has her finger on the creative pulse of now. Go and see what I mean.
Photo credit: Vereteno, Deviant Art

When the DSM-IV is the DSM-TV, or, Where did you go, Dick York, you broke my heart!

2009-08-11T13:09:00.007-04:00

I've been looking at the network Fall television schedule with very little excitement. With only a Dollhouse exception or two, it's crap. Even cheap fallbacks are diminishing--reality shows are waning, and producers may be running out of creative ways to watch fat people cry about missing an event on the prom-to-reunion continuum, and then what's left? Nothing, really. More Old Christine.

My generation and those that followed may have been given television as a parental substitute, but when we look up at Thanksgiving dinner we realize that our blue-glow parental unit sucks. It's true that we've failed to launch, but whose fault is that? The state should have take us away from her, she's so neglectful and out-and-out abusive of our precious little minds. There is no food in the house, and she lets losers of all kinds traipse in and out. Why do we put up with this? Why don't we believe that television could consistently be the support we deserve?

The truth is our lack of trust and belief in a healthy relationship with television is because of childhood trauma. The type of trauma that permanently injures development and leads to serious attachment disorders. I know when the trauma happened to me. I can name the date.

The fall of 1969.

I was five.

I had the best TV mom ever, Samantha, beautiful Samantha. I object-relationed myself all over that good-breast of a show. For a short time every week I was Tabitha, my parents were swank and magical, Endora loved me, and everything was possible.

But at the start of the fall of 1969 television season, it all changed. Watching Bewitched, without explanation, it was evident Dick York has disappeared. Without a word. But no one was alarmed, no grief was invited. He had been seamlessly replaced by Dick Sargent. The trauma was never mentioned. The new daddy was supposed to be the old daddy, one daddy actually, and any confusion was sent to denial.

Imagine the psychic toll. Who knows what our little brains had to do to cope with this horrible occurrence. How can these people be trusted if a daddy can be disappeared? Where did he go? Is he still an entity, now that there is a new daddy who is not supposed to be new, but the same? Should we hate Dick York daddy, or is he the victim? Is Dick Sargent like the bear who ate Little Red Riding Hood? If you cut him, would Dick York crawl out of the Dick Sargent shell? Will this happen to Samantha, or Sabrina, or both? HAS IT ALREADY HAPPENED AND I DIDN'T NOTICE? But I love Samantha! Is this what has been happening to Tabitha--it's not just that she's growing older!? What about my non-TV mom? Will she come back from Bunco night, or will another woman smelling of Shalimar and Tab appear, insisting she is Mommy, insisting nothing at all is different?

I think my ability to properly attach to television cracked then and there. Since then, I've thrown myself half-hearted at every Love Boat and Big Brother that has come along, wanting to love, but knowing it's hopeless. Classic Disinhibited Attachment Disorder. (Which ironically is abbreviated DAD. Oh, the developmental humor never ends.)

Good relationships past (Six Feet Under) and present (True Blood) have helped. But still, that primal injury to development remains, and the socio-emotional developmental window may be painted shut tighter than Mrs. Cravitz' witch's broom-holding sphincter. Despite that possibility, I am working on it, every day. I try to trust. I try to watch just a show here or there, and then turn television off without anger, longing or conflict, like a normal person might. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I watch Judge Judy.

I also have my new therapy, the drug of Season 2 Mad Men episodes administered on a constant high-dose drip. Mad Men is such a fitting antidote that it probably was imagined by Dr. Bombay. So pretty and swank, just like Bewitched. The marketing pro dad drinks Scotch in decanters in the office with a white-haired boss, just like the marketing pro dad did in Bewitched. They both have blond wives trying to be good, and daughters as moral compasses, and younger effeminate sons to challenge their grasps on what's what. Mad Men is a perfect patch to the disrupted attachment loop. And the new Darrin, Don Draper, is made of steel, and though he's shaking in his own disillusionment and denial boots, he's not going anywhere. We have a second chance to get it all right.

I mean, he's not going anywhere that I know of. Right? Right???

##

This is what Don said to me via a pep talk to Peggy when she was in THE INSTITUTION:

"Peggy, Do what they say and get out of here. Move forward. This never happened. It will shock you how much this never happened."

Wouldn't that make a great tattoo. Well, maybe it's a little wordy. A plaque, then!

Have you been half asleep, and have you heard voices...

2009-08-08T17:26:00.005-04:00

I've been really bitchy lately, channeling Baroness Else von Freytag-Loringhoven. I just love that bitch. She's my go-to non-acquiescent. When I'm sick, I'm Frida, when I'm pissy, I'm Else. (I am so internally damaged and unfit for the demands of daily American life because of my literary affections it isn't funny and even Zelda Fitzgerald wouldn't laugh, and she apparently laughed at everything. When properly zapped.)

Else didn't drink anyone's stinking Kool-Aid that's for sure.

So Else was the Dadist/Bohemian artist (of this little important piece for one!) who punched and stalked William Carlos Williams to the point of jailtime (she was no stranger to the NYC jails, often arrested for all sorts of disruptive behavior and kleptomania) and whose fashion statements included postage stamps as blush, tin cans as bras and birdcages or boxes as dresses.

Pound called her whacked and aggressive, which, hello pot calling kettle. But if Pound thinks you're aggressive, you may well need an intervention.

"Non-acquiescent." The Baroness. The Dadaists. And me. (Musical cue...best/worst version ever.)

Somehow being Else makes me feel better, as though this non-acquiescence of mine is poetic. Not that it is. But I just prefer thinking of myself as feeling Else on a given day, as opposed to feeling PMS. Or feeling postal. Or just not wanting to work work work for a living.

Yesterday my friend sat me down over lunch to talk about a client I've been flailing with. At. Against. Towards. A deep-pocketed client who wants zero creativity and 150% derivative work on a long, grueling project. A client that has me looking for a big golden birdcage to wear to our next meeting, even though a birdcage dress would be an entirely wasted protest against them because they wouldn't even notice and there I'd be, a big woman in a little birdcage with no idea how to climb out of it, one breast resting on a bird perch and the other reflected back from the little mirror toy wired to the side and no large black cover-up curtain in sight. Debbie wants a cracker!

My friend said I have to suck it up or quit taking their money.

Dammit. I had forgotten that part.

Else died broke. I guess I'm not that committed to the whole Dadaist birdcage thing. Fine. I'm going to stick with Frida, though. I feel as though I might have to take to my bed with sickness and pain soon. I need to take to my bed and be served by my monkey.

But why do I always wait until the Sunday to decide I need a monkey and a van full of Day Laborers to carry me and my bed around town? I might have to stick with the jail-stolen plumbing fixtures-tin can bra plan anyway. I am woman, hear my tin cans jingle-jangle!