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Showing posts from July, 2009

What's in a Name?

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I have gone from gamely chortling at the silly applications on Facebook to patently ignoring them. This happened sometime after I took the quiz to see which of the fifty states I was. I remember clicking that I like large bodies of water and living near big cities and somehow with Facebook wizardry the state that is most me is Nebraska. So I haven't indulged further in these random quizzes, and truth be told am fascinated that others seem to take them all the time. Which Lost character am I? Really?
But I'm about to whole hog embrace this craziness in the guise of scientific discovery.
A couple of months back, in a moment of whimsy I decided to find out my Vampire name. The gobbledygook that spewed out was, The Great Archives determine you to have gone by the identity Beno Fey, known in some parts of the world as Incubus of The Lamiae, the offspring of a goddess - beautiful, powerful and ruthless. Beautiful, Powerful, Ruthless and Fey? Sounds like a law firm for drag queens.

Head

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I want to be a fireman. I want to drive a garbage truck. I want to be a vampire.
My son has been making those kind of statements for years. They are always presented with infectious enthusiasm. Like many parents I feed into his desires, "that's nice dear," without thinking he will really end up fighting fires, collecting trash or sucking blood.
Last Sunday, our good friends, Carol and Milo, invited us over to their house for potluck and a swim. Hubby was busy, but that did not deter me. I bundled up the kidlets and trundled on over with hot dogs, little cuties, pink lemonade and a bottle of chardonnay.
Going to their house is always a pleasure. Not only do they have an eclectic, bubbly group of friends, but their home with the faintest whiff of oil and varnish is the epitome of an artist's idyll. Milo Reice is a wonderful painter and his vibrant multi media artwork adorn the walls. His works can be small celebrations of life, or they can be huge installation piec…

Chrysalis

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I was in the kitchen trying out a new recipe, something I was beginning to suspect my family wouldn't eat, when my six year old son came in wearing a princess dress and sparkly shoes. For those of you following my blog, you know this is not unique behavior. With a pensive look he inquired, "Papa, when am I going to turn into a girl?"
Having mastered the art of following a question with a question when I have no idea what the fuck else to say, I ricochet asked, "Is that what you think is going to happen?"
"Oh, yes." he pronounced with a certainty I wish I had when facing law enforcement or my mother.
I felt I needed more information before I tackled this one, so I dug deeper, "Sort of like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly?"
That did it. I could see from his reaction I became the out of touch, know nothing, what good are you, Papa. He let out a sigh and exclaimed as if I were mentally incompetent, "Of course. That's called metamor…

Feed Me

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So proud of hubby. Last night, he opened in the Musical Theatre West's production of Little Shop of Horrors. For those of you with your head up your tuchus, Little Shop is about a plant from outer space who eats people. Okay, so it's not folksy Oklahoma!, however it's a fab musical. And even though three puppeteers operate the giant carnivorous plant, Michael provides the voice of this meat eater. (As I said a couple of posts back, Michael knows meat. Type casting.)
When he did this role on Broadway, it was one of the of the easiest gigs going. He sat in a booth with a microphone and five monitors, four with views of the stage and plant, and one of the conductor. Because no one could see him, he could read directly from his script, or drink a pitcher of martinis, or plot the downfall of a third world country.
In my humble wifey opinion, I think his voice is stronger then it was on the Great White Way. His chiding "tough titty" thrilled me to my bones, and his "…

penis

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The other day, my three year old daughter said, "Papa, I like your penis." Lately I've tried to be more gracious when receiving praise, but somehow saying thank you seemed entirely wrong. Likewise, returning the compliment, "And honey, I like your vagina," was completely out of the question. I'm doing my best not to read too much into this statement. Oh, who am I fooling? I'm trying not to freak the fuck out.
But when I slow down and put it in perspective, I realize that yesterday she said, "I like your glasses," followed by "I like your big teeth." So very possibly she's in an I like phase. Even still, "I like boy" was only last month and her progression to "I like your penis" is alarming.

We're pretty free and loose with nudity in our house. We toss off penis and vagina in the same blase manner as if we were saying nose or elbow. We want our children to feel comfortable with their bodies, and yet we remin…

Michael Jackson was only Mortal

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who wore makeup and a wig and had questionable parenting skills
sound familiar?

Out of the Blue

Out of the blue my son asked me, "Papa, are you happy?"
My first thought was that I've got to stop wearing my pissed off, put upon face. But then I was struck by the fact that Sebastian has never asked me about my feelings before. Was this a new phase? A looking outward, away from the me, me, me.
And then the question really hit me. Am I happy?
I thought of my grandmother who died in 1994, after ninety-four years of life. At her memorial service I read from a letter she wrote. Its contents have become one of my foundations. In it she said she strived for contentment. That happiness was momentary, as was sadness. But really, there was nothing wrong with sustaining a pure, almost zenlike (although Grandma would never have used the word zenlike) form of contentment.
Then coming back into my present self, I wondered what level of happiness anyone can really achieve while picking clothes off the floor and contemplating a trip to the grocery store with two kids who hav…

Ode to Pork

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Lately I've distracted myself with so many things: Humphrey Bogart movies, holiday pool parties, chicken pox, unpaid bills, celebrity deaths, vodka. I've been so distracted there hasn't been a blog entry, a Facebook update, nary a tweet. (Shameless plug: follow me on Twitter. I'm mommywithapenis.) Finally yesterday, I posted the following Facebook status update "Hutchins wonders what could be all that bad about frying up pork chops." I had no idea I stumbled upon a hotbed of controversy.
The responses were varied. Someone wished me Happy Monday. Someone else gave me a gentle vegan/vegetarian warning: Don't get me started. A third person wrote out a yummy sounding recipe: Use a couple of spoons of olive oil and cook it on low-med heat for about 12 min each side. Make sure you add your spices first: onion powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper, paprika, crushed chili peppers. lemon optional. Make some white rice, red kidney beans and you will turn PuertoRica…