Category Archives: Franny

Raise Your MF Glasses to Momz Half-Assin It

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1. Franny’s coming back in, like, a half hour. She is six now. Because of my awesome freedom from Seattle Federline, I did not get to see her on the actual day she shot out of my body, which was the ninth. This is okay. There must be sacrifices.

HOWEVER! We are having a family party tonight and a lil’ friendlet party on Saturday, featuring cupcakes from Cupcake Royale that we will decorate ourselves. It should be pretty bomb. I’ll keep you updated.

Because of random scotch tape scarcity, i.e., we could not remember to buy any anytime we set foot out of the house, I was only able to wrap her presents this afternoon. Frankly, I did a terrible job. I think that wrapping presents is maybe something Momz* are supposed to be good at, but I get impatient and start throwing shit. The motto of my presents, as anyone who’s received one from me knows, is “don’t judge a book by its wrinkled, poorly cut cover.” I mean, look at this. I misunderestimated this job so badly that I had to patch underneath.

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Figure 1: Egregiousness.

I should be ashamed, but lo, I am not.

Bonus FAQ !

Q. Will there be unitorns?

A. Do Ann Coulter like to take it up the butt? Alright then. I can’t believe you even asked me that.

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Figure 2: Unitorns!

* Momz: n. What Grrls can grow into if their birth control fails.

2. On Saturday night, I had dinner guests. I made a frickin chicken fricassee and some salad and there was lots of wine. I talked Companion into whipping up a chocolate cake and he used some old Kahlua to flavor the frosting. Yum!

Here is the mannerly Jakums with my sister. I think he got a little squicked when we brought up our usual dinner topics, such as buttsecks and Tara Reid’s boobers. This is how we roll, Jakums. You are welcome to come back.

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And here is Daniel, who is growing out his hair a bit so he can go all Taxi Driver mohawk on us. And Companion, of course.

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3. After Jakums skipped out, begging me to stop feeding him so he could “save room for booze later,” and Daniel left, then we got really crazy. Well, by our standards. Morgan, Companion, and I were arguing about supertasters and whether or not she was one after she did not find the smoked salt caramels I fed her crazy delicious.

Additionally, Morgan and I have long thought that Companion is the opposite of a supertaster. The Jimmy James-taster to Morgan’s supertasting abilities, if you will. So we dropped food color on our tongues to see how our tastebuds are clustered.

It was just as we suspected. Companion had very few tastebuds, which explains why he happily glomps expired leftovers for breakfast and he complains about having a tummyache later. Morgan had many, many tastebuds. I was somewhere in between (a little closer to Morgan), so I can handle hot peppers and weird nouvelle cuisine, but can still tell when I am eating rancid victuals.

I’ll spare you the tongue pics. You are grateful for this small mercy.

Could we be more attractive? No, we could not. At least, not without the inclusion of some goiters.

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Let’s Have Some Privacy For Picklin’s Sake

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THANK YOU everyone for emails and comments. I really appreciate this. I am trying to say that you are not alone, and people are saying, you are not alone either, right back. So thanks for that.

Franny came back with more than stories. She also came back sans toof. She lost her first top tooth a couple of weeks ago, and hot on the heels of that was her other top front tooth, at her dad’s house.

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I was disturbed by how big of a window it left. It just felt naked somehow.

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Denominator, Go Decatur, Go Decatur

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“And in my best behavior
I am really just like him
Look beneath the floorboards
For the secrets I have hid”

–Sufjan Stevens, “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.”

I have a SECRET to tell you. My eleventh high school reunion is coming up, because those jackasses couldn’t get it together to put on a tenth. I thought about going, but then I realized three things: 1) I really just want to visit Illinois, not the people there; 2) I am on the MIA list, and I think I want to stay that way; 3) I hated everyone in high school. How could I forget the most important ingredient? As Seattle Federline or someone just like him would say, “Baby, that’d be like leaving out the baking soda when you’re cookin up booya.” I’m just saying. Hated.

I don’t want them all to see that I have become a successful podiatrist with a Beemer. Plus I used to be a man. Did I mention that? Sometimes I miss my ten-inch whack-a-mole but I don’t want the people I endured every other day and never after lunch for four years to know that I miss my Tiger. And the Tiger’s friends, Siegfried and Roy.

Breasts. Honestly, what a consolation prize.

Anyway, this has been leading me to think about Illinois. I have the urge to see a real fall again, not just some soggy jank-ass mess that you get here. It feels like a real season there. And then when I am done, I can flee away to my own personal leper colony, the PNW. As much as I hate this place, I don’t think I can leave it.

So I have been listening to the Illinois album by Sufjan Stevens, which means I’ve been playing the John Wayne Gacy song, which is possibly the most beautiful song ever written about a serial killer. Franny was closely inspecting the lyrics since I have been listening to it on repeat.

“What is this ABOUT, Mom?” she said, in between bites of macaroni and cheese.

“Well, honey, it’s about a guy named John Gacy who used to kill people. He couldn’t stop himself. It’s a real story.”

“Whoa,” she said.

“Yes,” I continued. “There are people who kill people and they can’t stop. But the government caught him and they killed him.”

“How many?”

“Thirty-three,” I said.

“Well, that’s just RUDE,” Franny concluded.

In Which I CAN’T. CONTROL. MYSELF. Again.

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“A few years ago an ex-girl of mine
Asked me to keep her name out of my rhymes
So I said this rhyme that I’m about to say
It came from the heart and it went this way:
Go to hell girl, you make me sick!
I hope your new boyfriend gets cancer in his dick
What the fuck makes you think I’d put your name on my record?
Yeah, now I feel a lot better”

–Atmosphere, “Guns and Cigarettes”

I am taking this train wreck back to the OOOOOL SKOOO today, in the spirit in which it was conceived. Two things are important to know: 1) Seattle Federline, Esq,. is engaging in unholy matrimony with his second babymama on Saturday, when he will officially become Someone Else’s Problem. Let us have a moment of silence.

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Originally snapped by Squid Rosenberg. Manipplated by Indentured Servants at the Offices of I, Asshole.

Thing two you should know is: refer to title. No, it’s up there. Stop looking at my tits!

Anyway, at breakfast this morning we were all eating eggs and talking about tattoos.

“My dad has a tattoo,” Franny offered. “It’s red and blue.”

“I know,” I said, “but do you know what’s under that tattoo?”

“No. Under? Are you forrealla, Mom?”

“Hells yes, I’m forrealla.”

“What’s under it?”

“My name,” I said.

Franny actually gasped. Apparently she has no recollection of being three. I should have stopped there, but I didn’t.

“You should ask him about that when you see him tomorrow. Before the wedding.”

Perhaps you feel this should be one of those emo posts, where I reflect and lament about life’s changes. No, man. I raise a glass to the woman who MUST keep shit together over there, since I couldn’t work, clean the house, cook, and raise the babies. If her ovaries are that much bigger than mine, then I raise a glass to her. Which I will drink in my quiet house where no such unreasonable demands are made on me.

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Hold Still and I Will Staple Your Ears Back On

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1. I was cleaning cleaning cleaning today. We are going out of town this weekend, and I have discovered that the post-vacation bummer is slightly lessened by returning to a spotless house. A clean house makes your return to the mundane a little harder to hate.

Franny whooshed around after me, and offered to help me clean.

“Okay,” I said. “But I need really good listening ears. You have not been the greatest listener this week.”

“I promise I will listen, Mom.”

“Well, I think I will teach you how to scrub the toilet first,” I said.

“YAY! I get to scrub the TOILET!” Franny said.

Later, I was getting ready to sweep the dust bunnies out of the bedrooms, so I asked her to move stuff off the floor, like the laundry hamper and a couple of Strudel’s toys.

“But don’t move the little rugs,” I finished, “because I’ll vacuum them.”

“Okay, Mom.”

As she went in to the room I could see her pause. The look on her face said What did that lady say?

“What did you say to move, Mom?”

“Everything BUT the rugs.”

A couple of minutes later I peeked in and saw her moving the rugs around.

“What are you doing?” I asked uselessly. I could see what she was doing.

“Moving the rugs,” Franny replied, with a hint of, “Duh, Mom.”

“You know what? I think I will clean by myself today.”

If I said to her, “Don’t go near the edge of that cliff over there,” she’d run towards it going, “What cliff? I don’t see a…AAAAAAAAAHHH!” What a space monkey. It’s like living with her dad all over again, only she has a prayer of growing out of it. It’s probably a good thing we are not visiting the Swiss Alps or a place with shark-infested waters this weekend. “What sharks? AAAAAH!!!”

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Her Nose Is Painted Pepper Sunlight

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Franny’s free, free, free from school, which means she’s free, free, free to get up my butt. Yesterday was a half day and she came home with me–I hadn’t seen her for two weeks. It will be weird to have her completely disappear over at her dad’s house now, because when school’s in the other mothers here on Wisteria Lane keep me informed about how many times she’s ridden in the front seat of her dad’s car, how ill-fitting her shoes are, and if she was out sick. To tell the truth, I kind of don’t want to know these things, because I know he sucks. But now I have the pipeline to That Poor Woman, so I am hoping I’ll be in the loop on important things, like sickness.

She seems pretty happy to be done. Her dad did not tell her that she will be continuing on at her current school, which surprised me a little, so after all my flailing around about it, I got to be the one to tell her. She was happy, and happier still when we came home and made banana nut bread. Franny is an expert banana-masher.

I spoiled her with a beautiful book for finishing kindergarten. I figured she deserved something after getting through the first three-year segment of her program. It’s based on the writings and drawings of Cecily Mary Barker, titled Fairyopolis. It’s one of those books that has little secret pockets and flaps, and it’s based on Barker’s journal that she kept while hunting fairies. It’s a little above her level, but I am reading it to her, and I’m sure she will be able to enjoy it by herself in a few years.

It’s great to have her around now, even if the girls together drive me a little crazy sometimes, with their shrieking and thumping. Now we have days and days that will feel like weekends. No rushing through breakfast. No schedule. Thank god I have memberships to the Zoo and the science center, and the best coffee shop this side of I-5 is right down the street.

Nazi Mama Vs. Cheap Plastic Crap

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Franny’s birthday went well and the little dollhouse was received happily. I did a lot of debating with myself about whether or not to give her the little television that came with the set. We don’t have one at our house and while I miss it sometimes, I’m glad that Strudel isn’t going to be exposed to it all of the time. I tried to limit television when Franny was little, and we suffered through rabbit ears, which naturally cuts down the amount of TV you watch anyway. But I ended up getting cable as a coping technique during the death throes of my marriage, and I have to admit that it was nicer having a drunken lout on the couch next to me if “Trading Spaces” was on.

Now, surprisingly, Franny watches a lot of TV when she’s not with me. When I picked her up from school yesterday she was telling me she was watching a show with That Poor Woman where some guy’s face was being eaten off by a disease. I think little kids will have nightmares no matter what, but I have to think this isn’t helping. Perhaps That Poor Woman will rethink her approach to children and media when she spawns this spring.

Sometimes I think what I do is pointless. I try to get her to eat healthy food, and monitor the media she’s exposed to, but does it matter when she’s with me only half the time? She has small morning chores and evening chores here, and seems surprised every time she comes back because I expect her to flush the toilet and wipe her butt (I am so unreasonable). I don’t even want to speculate why it is not habit for her to do so already. It takes her about a day to adjust and fall back into place here, after which she seems pretty happy and stops with the “Well, my dad lets me have gum” talk.

“I’m thinking about leaving the TV out of this set when I give it to Franny,” I told my sister on Friday, when we were fooling with the dollhouse.

“Why?” she asked me.

I had to really think about it, because it was more of a gut feeling than anything else. I’m glad she asked me that, because it’s caused me to really think about what I’m trying to do for the girls. I have really come to value life without television. In the short amounts of time I let Franny watch PBS as a toddler, she was already becoming an agent for the advertisers, which was freaky and irritating. In the end I decided to leave out the big screen TV that came with the dollhouse. It lurks on the fridge because I haven’t gotten rid of it yet.

Franny, however, thought her dollhouse was incomplete. I had just put the pants back on one of her little people (their feet are huge) and she took him away to put back into the house.

“He’s going to watch television while I eat breakfast,” she said over her shoulder.

“But they don’t have a TV,” I said.

“I’m pretending the birthday card that Evan gave me is a TV,” she replied.

“They could read a book,” I said, pointedly.

“Yes, they do sometimes,” she said.

I thought about just giving her the TV then…about giving in to what she really wants. I know, intellectually, that I cannot control every aspect of her life or how she turns out. I can’t stop her from pretending there’s a TV in the house, but at least I can give her a toy that reflects our values and the way we live.