Mother's Day- A Day Late and Many Dollars Short

(One of my mother's favorite songs, decided whilst sitting at the kitchen table and listening to the entire Great Rock and Roll Swindle album with my best friend and I in 6th grade.)

You always hear stories about women freaking out over "becoming their mothers"- or at least, this is an old schtick in the same vein as women eating pints of Ben and Jerry's while crying, buying lots of shoes, and freaking out over never getting married. So, being that I'm not Cathy and this particular schema doesn't apply to me, you shouldn't be too surprised to hear that, hell, if I were to turn into my mother, that would be freaking awesome. My mom is pretty bad ass.

Here's a story: Back in elementary school, they had these "Santa's Workshops" during Christmas time and kids were taken down there one group at a time to go buy some crappy sweatshop made gifts for their parents and siblings. Whatever. Anyway, one year my mother got roped into volunteering. It was not long before I had all these kids coming up to me saying "Your mom is so awesome! She taught me how to shoplift!"

Now, let me explain. See, I went to a *really* classy school. Except not. See, at Santa's Sweatshop, the kids who didn't have any money with which to purchase tacky paperweights and compasses had to stand up against the wall while the other kids shopped. Nice, huh? Because that's not anything that could embarass the crap out of a 10 year old or anything. Anyway, my mother, horrified by the situation, goes up to the kids up against the wall and tells them that they're going to be in her group. She then takes them on a tour of Santa's Sweatshop, flamboyantly showing them how to shove the various knicknacks up their sleeves. After that, even the kids that had money pretended they didn't so they could be in her group and learn how to shoplift.

This has always been one of my favorite examples, among many, of "how my mother is." Because it's not just that she's funny and silly and a bit rebellious- it's that she has this innate sense of justice and a talent for making people feel special.

My friends were always way excited to see my mother when they came over to visit, which is something I was always so proud of. She wasn't the cookie baking mom, and she wasn't the "Cool Mom" who wanted to smoke pot with teenagers or anything (thank god). We all just sat at the kitchen table and talked about school, and friends, and boys and politics and other things with her. And she was hilarious, and she made people feel important, and worthwhile, and smart, and funny. Even now, when people are going through a rough patch, I always wish they could talk to her.

Another thing people are supposed to say a lot is that their parents don't understand them. I think I'm pretty easy to understand in general, but if there is one person that always "gets it," it's my mother.

One of her sayings, of which she has many, is that people love you for the way you make them feel about themselves- and she's living proof of that. In my life I've never known anyone else that people loved as exuberantly and automatically as they love her. People just want to be around her- my friends, people on planes, people at CVS, Mormon missionaries... It's an amazing quality, and one that I've always, admittedly, been a bit jealous of.

So, you know, even if it means developing a habit of walking around TJ Maxx for two hours, filling up a shopping carriage and then not buying anything, I couldn't ask for anything more awesome than to turn into my mother someday.

Jigsaw Youth

I got all sorts of nostalgic last night after seeing this posted on Jezebel last night- it's an 11 part documentary on YouTube titled "Riot Grrrl Retrospective," featuring Tobi Vail, Corin Tucker, Allison Wolfe, Sharon Cheslow and other heroines of my youth. I get really gushy about that shit, you should know. It turns me right into a 12 year old fangirl.

When I was in middle school, I lamented the fact that I wasn't quite old enough to really take part in the whole riot grrrl thing- other than reading Sassy and a bunch of west coast zines, buying albums and writing "riot grrl" on my knuckles during study hall. But, you know, upon further thought- I was the exact right age at the exact right time. A couple years later, middle school girls would be fed "girl power" in the form of the Spice Girls and Britney Spears... and Sassy wouldn't even exist anymore. It was an important age to get that message- that feminism was awesome, that you were awesome, and that you shouldn't take any shit. It's a message I got from my mom, of course- but who listens to their mother half the time anyway? Who knows how cool I would have thought feminism was if it weren't for these chicks?

I'm a tough ass broad, ya know. I owe that to my mom, to The Golden Girls, to Jem and to Kathleen Hanna and the whole riot grrrl movement. I still listen to Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, The Gits, Heavens to Betsy, Sleater-Kinney, Babes in Toyland etc. I still have copies of Girl Germs and Rollerderby and Sassy tucked away somewhere, and knee-high black docs in my closet here. I like to think of my show, and of most other things I do as a product of the riot grrrl aesthetic. Things change, ya know, we don't wear baby barettes anymore, but the message is still the same.

/sap.

Overthinking the Shirelles

Ok, when I was like 8 or 9, this was maybe one of my favorite songs ever. It was on one of those cheapo compilation tapes that I think I got from Caldor or someplace, and I actually haven't heard it since. So I'm quite excited, as it is just as awesome as I remember it being.



HOWEVER... I was confused then by the logic of the song, and I remain perplexed. Of course, a lot of these old songs are a little odd- The Duke of Earl still makes no freaking sense to me, and it took me years before I understood that Carole King had written the song "He Hit Me, and it Felt Like a Kiss" as an anthem against domestic violence, and Dion is a total hypocrite (What? He gets to be The Wanderer and at the same time condemn Runaround Sue? What the fuck ever). Still, it makes me a bit uncomfortable. But this song, while lovely, is such a glaring example of weirdly flawed logic, that I feel the need to examine it.

Shirley- seriously, just break up with the other dude. It's that simple. Honestly, what good are you doing him anyway when you're all into the other guy. How is that fair? And is he really all that fragile? Maybe he could find someone who actually likes him and isn't staying with him out of pity. And then everyone could be happy. I mean- what are you going to do? Marry the guy? Spend your life in a loveless relationship because you didn't want to hurt his feelings? Eventually the resentment will pile up and you'll both end up hating eachother- this scenario doesn't end well, I would imagine.

Good song. Flawed logic.

Happy Halloween!

Woohoo!

I heart Halloween so much you don't even know. It's a fact. I'm like Roseanne about it, if you recall the glorious Roseanne Halloween Specials. Right now I'm at work dressed as Sarah Palin and let me tell you, it's pretty sweet. And this evening I will be Zombie Delta Burke, as we are going out dressed as the Zombie Designing women. Glorious no?

Can I just tell you how vastly disappointed I am in the fact that at 12.30pm there were trick or treaters at the store? They don't trick or treat after dark anymore, which is fucking lame. We started at sundown and went until 1am, because we were bad ass. This is what happens when children are raised on stupid unfun playgrounds that are made of plastic instead of metal. It's true.

Bouef Bourguinon

It was recently revealed that during WWII, Julia Child was a spy. I know, not merely because I read it, but because pretty much everyone I know called me to inform me of this. Why?

Because those people who are lucky enough to know me well have heard the tales of my childhood obsession with Julia.

It was kinda weird, I guess. I didn't really watch much TV as a kid- I didn't have the patience for it or something maybe- I was totally ADD and didn't much care for any activity that didn't involve me talking. But when Julia was on... I sat there hyp-mo-tized, wearing my Mister Potatohead glasses, watching her methodically chop onions. And I was not to be interrupted. She was on right after Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. Which I did not much care for, as I found them rather patronizing (Near? Far? Yeah, I think I've got that, thanks.). But Julia didn't talk down to me. She totally assumed my mom let me near knives and the oven. She assumed I knew some French words. She assumed I had dinner parties and drank sherry, or even knew what sherry was.

I tried to be just like her. There is video footage of me at age three making a sandwich involving chopped carrots and cheese and talking about boeuf bourguinon in a Julia Child voice. I really, really liked to say boeuf bourguinon in that voice, and whenever anyone asked me what my favorite food was, I would insist that that was it, even though I had no idea what the hell it was.

I also once made my mother walnut soup. Which consisted entirely of unshelled walnuts in lukewarm water. It serves as a testament to my mother's unyielding devotion that she actually ate it.

At my pre-interview for kindergarten, they asked me what my favorite show was, and, of course I said Julia Child, quickly lapsing into my best impression of her. I forget what else I said, but afterwards they informed my mother that while I was "precocious," I was going to have horrid social problems, and that she should prepare herself for the next few years. They were right, but still- what did they have against Julia?

At the end of the year, they gave us one of those assessment tests. I had one of the highest scores, and my teacher reccomended they send me to a special "camp" called College Gate. College Gate wasn't camp- there were no kayaks or sing-alongs involved. It was like school, except you got to pick your own courses. I picked sign language, paper mache, some sort of English course involving writing haikus, and, of course, cooking. I totally had to fight my mother on this, because she wanted me to take more academic type courses. Which makes sense, because it probably cost a lot of money, whereas I could probably take cooking lessons at the Y for cheap. But I insisted, and I won. And I made fresh spaghetti, and ravioli, and shishkabobs, and pizza, and french fries, and it was awesome.

You should also know that I totally won the "camp's" invention contest! I made a paper dress (with notations on it such as "Spill some Kool-Aid? Cover it up with a paper flower!" and "Add paper ruffles for flair!" It's actually still in my parents basement if you ever want to see it.

As I grew older, I grew out of my Julia obsession I guess. Around third grade I got really conflicted about liking to cook/being a feminist, and sort of stopped it. It sounds stupid now- obviously I can cook and still, you know, want equal rights- but I generally rejected anything vaguely connected with what women were "supposed to do." I was young and strident- what can I say?

I've still never eaten bouef bourguinon, but it kinda warms my heart to know that Julia was such a bad ass.

I love Randy Newman... I don't care what you say.

Most of the time, when I unashamedly tell people that I love love love Mr. Randy Newman (and am totally *in* love with him. Because I'm totally hot for genius), they look at me like I just told them I was way into Michael Bolton, or Kenny G or something. I think those people are retarded. I mean, yeah, he does soundtracks. To Pixar movies. It's true. But um, dude also wrote "You Can Leave Your Hat On." And like 85,000 other songs.

This is actually my favorite song ever. Not just by him, by anyone. It's proof that I have tear ducts, because I totally sob everytime I hear it:




When I was like, 2 or 3 years old- before my sister was born and we had to keep up with her nap schedule- my mom and I would drive all around Plymouth in her silver Chevy Citation with the navy blue pleather seats that stuck to your ass in the summer. We'd get breakfast at "The Mug and Muffin," and afterwards I sometimes got to get a rootbeer flavored hard candy stick (which was a huge deal because I wasn't allowed to have sugar). We'd go to all the little shops, and the old mill that they turned into a sorta-mall, and to the playground, and to the shore where they kept that big ol' rock, which I promise you isn't that interesting to look at. I'd practice counting to one hundred and speaking in a cockney accent. And my mom always, always played music in the car- lots of Lou Reed, Tom Waits, Aretha Franklin, Cat Stevens and Randy Newman. The Randy Newman is what sticks out the most for me, maybe because before I knew that "Sail Away" was about slave traders, it sounded like a lullabye- especially to a girl who was partial to sleeping on sailboats. My mom didn't know any, really- she sang Motown songs to get me to sleep. And this:






Which I think is partially responsible for my world view. It's strange, there's something about listening to the music you listened to as a kid that reminds you who you are. It keeps me from being hardened and cold all the way through, which is something I sometimes am afraid will happen, and something I occasionally wish for. It's difficult when you equate being hurt with not having been smart enough- especially when the thing you're most afraid of is finding out that you're not as clever as you think you are, because being clever is the only thing you were ever good at, besides singing, but you don't do that so often anymore unless you're drunk or alone because it makes you feel like a circus freak...

Gah. Oh, and this is my other favorite song by Mr. Newman. I couldn't find his version of it on the YouTube, so I'll post Bonnie Raitt's...

I like the bad guys (and girls!)

When I was a kid, I wasn't too much into toys or dolls, but I did have a few- and the vast majority of the toys my mom got me were of the evil characters from the show. Like, I had the Peculiar Purple Pieman, and Sour Grapes (from Strawberry Shortcake), and Murky Dismal and Lurky (Rainbow Brite) and The Misfits... I don't know if that's what I wanted, or what my mom thought was cool looking.

My sister had a doll called Baby Alive, that she fed creepy packet food to, who would then shit or piss in it's diaper. I was terrified of that doll. It gave me nightmares. That has no relevence to anything else I'm talking about- just, you know, while we're on the subject. Oh! She also had one that you put water in and then microwaved so it was, um, blisteringly hot. You know, like real babies are?

I was unreasonably irritated by Roadrunner cartoons. I found it really unsatisfying that the coyote never won. Over the years I became frustrated with most cartoons in general for similar reasons. It wasn't hard for me to see how one might be annoyed by Rainbow Brite.

I don't know what this says about me. Probably nothing- it's possibly just the wine (I've had quite a bit) making me think that it might.

As far as "heroines" went, as a kid... I really liked Pippi Longstocking- I think she was my first, like, favorite. I just remember reading that whole bit where she goes into the store, and looks at the sign that says "Do you suffer from freckles?" and then tells the lady "No! I don't suffer from freckles! I enjoy them!" or something like that. And my five year old self thought that was just the most amazing thing ever. I wanted to be just like her. I also really liked Ramona Quimby, and later on I liked Anne of Green Gables and the all chicks from the Judy Blume books. I can't remember who else... Nancy Drew was pretty neat.

I should probably go get my laundry out of the dryer now.

Diary of an unbelievably uninteresting 15 year old...

"Went to BJ's Wholesale club with Mom today..."

Yeah, this sentence existed in my 15 year old diary. There are many like it. It's kind of embarassing, really. There's not much in the way of awesomely juicy, heart-wrenching prose. I kind of wish it were embarassing in that way, but for the most part it's not. Oddly, I think that, in my diary, I was trying to convince my future self that I was super cool in my teen years. Which I wasn't. The most interesting stuff is about the shifting loyalties of my circle of friends. Lot's of "I don't think I'm going to be friends with ____ and ____ anymore, because they've become like, this uniperson, and I feel left out whenever we hang out, and they plan things that they're going to do together that do not include me- while I'm sitting right there! So rude!" and then the next day "___ and ___ are totally my best friends ever!"

I used to occasionally make pathetic stabs at the morose, purple-prose-y poetry that was so much in vogue amongst teenagers in the 90's. But like, I'd get through one stanza and start giggling. It just wasn't something that was ever in me. I actually didn't start writing seriously until I read Metropolitan Life by Fran Leibowitz. I had this awesome "Oh, shit! I can just be funny! And that's ok! I don't have to be morose!" epiphany, and it sort of just freed everything up- because I wasn't trying to be something I wasn't. When I try to take myself seriously, it comes across as disingenuous, I think. In my diaries I was trying to convince myself that I had some sort of awesome social life and went shopping all the time... or something. In my pathetic stabs at 90's poetry, I was trying to be deep. It's weird, because I read lots of books, but for whatever reason at the time, this is what I was sure good writing was about.

Robyn Pennacchia's "A Series of Unfortunate Hair Styles"

So... I totally need to get my hair cut- I have a bad habit of putting it off until the last minute. But I was thinking today about the various retarded phases my hair has been through.

1. I swear to god, when I was like, 3, my mom brought in a picture of Scout from the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, and told the stylist - This! This is what I want! And thus, I looked like this:


Almost exactly, actually.

2. And then I had that hairdo, but with sausage bangs. Sweet!

3. Then, my sister came along. And my sister, unlike me, had pretty pretty princess hair. Long, blondish hair, with perfect little ringlets that formed at the bottom. Totally not fair. I demanded I be allowed to grow my hair long.

4. And it was long. For a ridiculously long time. But I did not have pretty pretty princess hair like my sister. I had hair like this:



5. Around 6th grade I started getting all experimental and shit. The first real damage I ever did, personally, to my own head, involved, of course, Sun-In. And a day spent by my friend and I devoted entirely to dousing our heads with the awful crap, blowdrying it, and doing it again. Over and over again. It didn't work wonders, of course- we both had super dark brown hair- it only got slightly lighter. But then, we figured, in all our genius, that if we each used a whole bottle on just our bangs- we could get them pretty bleached. And it worked! We looked completely retarded, but it worked.

6. But it got better! Oh, it did! It truly did! Because then we discovered food dye! Yup, food dye! We dyed our sun-in bleached bangs blue and red and green with food dye, and my, wasn't that attractive! Then we tried koolaid- which of course only lasted like, 5 days and made my hair smell like raspberries, but not in any kind of good way. Also- kinda sticky.

7. 8th grade was my first foray into the world of permanent (read: not food dye or kool-aid). A bottle of "Purple Haze" Manic Panic purchased from Newbury Comix. Which destroyed my bathroom (to my mother's dismay) and didn't really show up so much in my almost black hair. Still, I thought I was totally bad ass. The use of Manic Panic continued perpetually, and unattractively through my teenage years.

8. When I was about 16, my hair was probably down to my ass- and, really- not so cute looking. However, for whatever imaginable reason, I thought it might be swell to chop it all off. Like, all of it. It looked so terrible that I couldn't bring myself to cut it again for quite some time, and when I let it grow out, I had this hideous Indigo Girls mullet- well before the fashion mullet ever existed.

9. When I was about to turn 22, I came to the realization that this was the last time I could dye my hair bright pink and not look, you know... sad. So I did it. I bleached my hair out, and dyed it pink for the last time. Oh, by the way, you know how you kinda have to wait for a bit before you dye hair after bleaching it? Yeah, well, in case you never guessed it- I look horrifying with blonde hair. Horrifying. I scare children and animals. Oh, and despite my plan to not look sad, I kinda did- because I just wasn't that person anymore. Still, glad I got it out of my system.

Since then, my hair has primarily been either burgundy, or as close to my own shade of almost-black-brown as I can find in bottle (yeah, the red keeps showing up, so I have to dye my hair until it finally all grows back in. I am fine with that. And I keep it at a reasonable length, and really, my only major mistake is going too long without bothering to get it cut. Which I'm totally not going to do this time.