Update

Jonathan Safran Foer has not accepted my friend request on Facebook.

Now Accepting Applications to the BPP Club

As I'm about to write about Finn's newest passion, I'm concerned. Not about sharing this with you. No. Because you know by now that I'll share just about anything. Want to hear about my boobs? Done. Want the inside scoop on my colonoscopy or other invasive tests? I am your source. Want to hear about the consistency of baby feces? Oh, well, you should really speak up, then.

No, what concerns me are the Google ads that are about to pop up over there when I tell you about Finn's new club:

The Boobie Butt Penis Pee Pee Poopie Club (also known as the Poopie Boobie Penis Club and dba The Funny Words Club)

The club only has three members right now: Finn, its founder; me (I am the inaugural member, score!), and Bear, who was invited yesterday, after much contemplative consideration. (Finn really had to think that through. Do I expand the club so soon? Will that aggressive growth somehow dilute my mission, whatever that mission may be? Will Papi "get it"? Will he be able to truly share in the club's values and vision?)

I suppose the club was born out of Finn's need to somehow formalize his--what's the word? overbearing? relentless?--love of the aforementioned words, words that he deftly, but most of the time just plain awkwardly, places in any sentence, with complete disregard to the original part of speech.

These words appear as adjectives: "Mama, shouldn't we take the boobie turn now?" "Mama, do we need more poopie bread?"

(In case you're wondering, no. We don't need any more poopie bread, thank you. Well-stocked.)

These words appear as nouns: "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Butt." "Butt who?" "Butt penis . . . boob."

These words appear as verbs. Oh, you know they do: "Mama, I butted you." (That really needs a video accompaniment, although if you hang with us long enough, say for more than three minutes, you will see it.)

What they haven't done yet is function as an adverb, but I am truly (sincerely, without irony) looking forward to the day when Finn tells me, "Mama, I love you buttly."

Right butt at you, kid.

The Hunt Continues (Parenthetically Speaking)

Bear, Finn, Sarah, and I (two Sarahs, and yes that is just as confusing as you would imagine) spent Easter afternoon in the bitter cold Missouri crosswinds, hunting for eggs (easy pickins) and milking cows (not so easy pickins) at Shatto Dairy Farm.

(Finn literally milked a cow. It may have been the one that gives rootbeer milk. I'd advise you ask if he has washed his hands before you shake. He's four. The only place you know for sure where his hands have been are on a cow's utters. I can testify that that is not the extent of his daring dexterous feats. I'm just saying . . .)

As Sarah (she looked supercool amid the dairy attendees--and she's single! You heard it here) and I waited for the Egg Hunt to commence, Bear filmed the experience for . . . something.

(I'm never sure where that video ends up. But he does record it in high-def. Because he is a geek. He has a card that corroborates that membership. Ask him to show it to you. Next graf.)

Bear weaved in and out of the crowd, trying to capture the ambiance that is northern Missouri on a cold spring day. (Insert irony.) And as Sarah and I talked about Finn's strategy (which ended up being "Yank the egg from the hands of the young and hesitant), I caught a glimpse of Bear across the crowded egg field.

Black Fink jacket. Green stripped hoodie. Aquaman t-shirt elegantly caressing nearly-40-year-old beer belly. Webby Vans. Half-structured bedhead. (Yes, an overaged, overbellied catalogboy for Urban Outfitters.) All cast against Kansas City Chiefs red, baseball caps, bulbous parkas, and Sunday plaids.

And I realized, right then and there, why I married that man nearly 15 years ago.

Still sizzling after all these years.

How I Spent My Monday

How annoying--I'm just going to send you another link. Pshaw!

My third post is up at Art Motel Radio: Check out the project Bear and I worked on.

I Really Don't Know What I've Been Doing with My Time

Bear and I spent a good portion of Finn's nonwaking hours playing Super Mario Galaxy.

Well, of course, you say. A perfectly acceptable and, dare I say, obvious choice. I mean, what else is there that one would want to spend his/her time doing except trolling through Super Mario Galaxy?

We could have been, uh, you know, like, cleaning. Because it's spring and I've heard tell that people do cleaning in the spring. They even have a special name for it. Something like, Spring Cleaning.

We could have been working on the lawn. Not so much planting, because it Frakkin' Snowed. (Shut up!) But we could have raked last year's leaves. Or pruned something. Because I think you're supposed to do things like that as a home owner and tender of landscape. But really, I am talking out of the ass here because I don't have the slightest idea what or when those things are supposed to be done. AND THAT IS WHAT COMMENTS ARE FOR. Yo.

We could have been working. Yes, we could have. On a Sunday. On Easter. Really. That was a choice. We are that pathetic.

We could have been napping. Or reading. (I have still to finish my Shakespeare bio.) Or rewatching the first 10 minutes of Darjeeling Limited (for the fourth time). Or watching Finn sleep. (Yes, we do that, too.)

Or blogging. (Well, I suppose I actually am wasting valuable game time doing exactly that when I could be conquering the Rolling Green for the Lumas and Peach. But I figure since I'm writing about it . . .)

But instead, I choose Mario over all of the above. And not just because it's so super cool that I tremble and literally drool with the thought of it. (Anyone have a Puffs Plus with Aloe handy? Nevermind. I have one here.) But because it fulfills a lifelong dream of traveling to fantastic planets, much in the vein (here comes my attempt at the rescue--watch me work it) of Petit Prince or Calvino's Cosmicomics.

When Finn was "younger" (the irony is not lost on me, hence the quotage), we used to talk about how we'd meet in our dreams, how we'd slip and slide through the Milky Way and catch a shooting star to meet on some distant planet and play in the sand craters.

Maybe Mario Super Galaxy is a poor substitute to that imaginative play. Or to reading Calvino. Or maybe, just maybe it is just another catalyst to opening up the realm of possibilities.

Or maybe I overreach. (It has been known to happen.)

Uh, ouch.

Finn: Mama, was there a time when I didn't want you to go away?

Me: . . .

An Alternative to eBay

Childhood toys and their drama revisited--with the help of Spike Lee.

Of Course, I May Live to Regret This

Yesterday, Finn decided he wanted to cook. So we pulled out some bowls, spoons, measuring cups, candied sprinkles, glitter, and food coloring and cleared a chunk of real estate on the kitchen floor. And then he stirred sprinkled, and poured for, really, hours. (Or maybe it was just a long series of minutes. But they were consecutively occupied by the brewing.)

He was so involved that I went into the other room and . . . did stuff.

Actual stuff.

Like, on my own.

And then I got worried. Where were the incessant pleas for mama or television? He must have sampled his own concoction and was now quietly flailing on the floor and foaming at the mouth, awash in red-and-blue-makes-purple.

I abandoned my free time--it was a little overwhelming anyway--and peeked into the kitchen to see if I had indirectly poisoned my child with lack of parental supervision.

But there he was, stirring, adding more glitter.

"Whatcha doin'?" That would be me asking.

"Making a transformer." That would be him.

He picked up another bottle, uncapped it, and add it to the brew. What was it? Garlic salt? And what was that beside the garlic salt? Onion powder? Dried basil leaves? Chili powder? Lemon pepper?

Finn had raided the spice rack and was seasoning his little Golem (and our floor) with every salt, pepper, and herby product we had.

It was a complete mess. And I was happy.

Wha?

That can't be.

I am notoriously uptight. And even if that weren't the case (stop laughing, I can hear you), I am genetically disposed to not being happy about situations precisely like this. The Mom would have thrown a righteous and glorious fit. If her spice rack had been within my reach.

So what's with the joy? I don't know. I love to see imagination run wild. I love the independence of my kid. I like glitter and I know how to work a vacuum. But I also love knowing that Finn had an idea and jumped into the spice rack to realize it. I like that my child is not a guest in his own home.

(Of course, that probably means I should lock up the liquor and the porn.)

We Are So Fond of Our Young Prince

"He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter,
Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy,
My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all:
He makes a July's day short as December,
And with his varying childness cures in me
Thoughts that would thick my blood."

--William Shakespeare, A Winter's Tale

How Do You Celebrate the End of a Five-Hour Fast?

Cupcakes!

Bear brought home a four-pack of cupcakes from Baby Cakes. My ration: one lemon cupcake with lemon buttercream icing. (Keyword: buttercream. We don't go in for fluffy icing.)

It feels good to be among the food again. Yes, those five hours did me irreparable harm that I will have to make up with a parade of good eats for the next several days, proving yet again the unhealthy relationship I have with food.

In that, I like to eat it.

Well, It's about Time

I got memed. By my sister. All complaints should be directed accordingly.

Four jobs I have had in my life:
1. Floor pimp at Chess King
2. Teacher
3. All-purpose Girl Everyday to family business
4. Bookclerk

Four movies I would watch over and over:
1. Cinema Paradiso (and I cry every time)
2. Harry Potter
3. Star Wars
4. Lava Girl and Shark Boy (not my choice. Sorry, Mr. Rodriguez)

Four places that I have lived:
1. Houston, Texas
2. Austin, Texas
3. Bloomington, Indiana
4. Kansas City, Missouri (whoop! Let's here it for the Miwest)

Four TV shows that I watch:
1. Pushing Daisies (did that survive the strike?)
2. Battlestar Galactica
3. Lost
4. Charmed (because you'd call me out if I left it off. All hail the Halliwells!)

Four places I have been:
1. Prague during its transition from Czechoslovakia to the Czech Republc, although we were too busy trying to get drunk (trying is the operative word, they diluted the liquor on election weekend) to notice world politics. Ouch. I was smart enough to buy a newspaper, though.
2. Florence, Italy
3. Provence, France
4. The upper levels of Hell!

Four people who e-mail me (regularly, and non-work related):
1. Those who claim that they can enlarge my penis
2. Larry
3. Bear
4. Rosa
(I just noticed. I don't really do e-mails with friends much anymore. Blame it on the Facebook? Huzzah.)

Four of my favorite foods:
1. Mole
2. Pate
3. Ribeye (a new fave)
4. Butterchews

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Almost anywhere warmer than here.
2. On a beach with my sister.
3. In New York for the Whitney Biennial
4. In bed.

Things that I am looking forward to this year:
1. My sister's wedding
2. My nephew's graduation
3. Finn's fifth birthday
4. Any vacation that I can trip on

Putting the "Fast" Back in "Fasting"

I started the Master Cleanse today, also known in more gentle circles as the Lemonade Diet.

You've heard tell: for 10 days you live on laxative tea, brackish water (if the name doesn't sell it . . .), and a maple-syrup-lemon-juice-cayenne-pepper-water concoction. What's supposed to happen: a cleansing (as the title implies), complete with hot eliminations that results in one squeaky clean colon, babies. So clean you could eat off it, if after you opened yourself off to extract the colon you didn't bleed out first.

I started it last night with the laxative tea. I read all the horror stories, but I have a stubborn colon, so I didn't get the party that was promised.

I woke up this morning and promptly skipped the brackish water. If it's going to get buy in from me, it'll need another name. Because brackish by any other name has got to be more appealing.

But I did freshly squeeze my lemons (3 per 32 oz batch) and supercayenne my lemonade. Mama likes it spicy.

I drank that for breakfast, drank it for lunch--and then got desperately hungry, incredibly bored (so soon!) and then grossly irritable and depressed. I wasn't expecting that kind of fun until day 4. But this denial reminded me of the two days before my hysterectomy, reminded me of the 24 hours before my colonscopy, reminded me that I'm permanently scheduled for this kind of fun, and without breaking a sweat, I was out of there and in the kitchen and cooking up some Mahi Mahi Veracruzana.

Yes, my people, your math is right. My 10 day fast lasted a whopping 5 waking hours.

I am weak. But I am happy.

Viva la food.

Mama, What Are "Goals"? (or I Sound So Much More Reasonable in the Morning)

Me: "Well, goals are things you want to do. Like write a book or build a treehouse. Or a goal could be something you want to be when you grow up. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Finn: "A player."