Sunday Nite, Or Day 13 of Blog365 and I Really Can't Think of Anything Else to Write about So You Know This Is Going to Be a Good Post

It's about 8:40 p.m. on Sunday night. I've got my PG Tips steeping and I'm about to settle in for a couple (or several) hours of work to get me prepped for Monday morning.

I drink too much tea.

Bear's about to cue up the DVR because it seems in our full sprint into 2008, we forgot to watch much to any TV. Damn us. (Or, "How committed you are to supporting your fellow writers!") And we had worked so very diligently in 2007 to accumulate as many programs as possible. Heroes. Pushing Daises. The Office. My Name Is Earl. (More Bear than me). Friday Night Lights (more me than Bear). Project Runway. Top Model marathons. (I may have to delete that admission tomorrow. We'll see how I feel about confessing that in the morning.) There was not an episode of Charmed missed.

We filled whole days with TV. It was my white noise while I worked, the blanket that kept my brain warm when it faced the soul-numbing reality of the blank screen.

And now, 13 days into 2008, the programs are dropping off the DVR, unwatched. The Halliwell sisters are, or are not, up to their usual antics with my witness. I have no idea who's leading the investigations on Law and Order. Seriously, I don't even know if the writers' strike is over.

(Is it over?)

Instead, I've been soaking in satellite radio and discovering new voices. (Cold War Kids! Amy Winehouse! I found out I really do like Interpol!)

So the Halliwell's have been abandoned for the Hallowed Swells of Music.

(Yes, I did just write that. And I'm not even going to press that backspace button to make it go away. As much as we both want me to.)

Skip. Tie. And Sliiiddde.

Are you sitting down? I hope you're sitting down. Because if you're not sitting down, you're going to wish you were sitting down and then you'll probably sit down because you're so wanting of the sitting down.

(Can you tell we cleared the whole disc of the Best of the Best of the Electric Company? I would you think you could tell. Tell me. Can you tell?)

So, because of our binge viewing of EC last night and also thanks to the Dora the Explorer workbook I bought Finn yesterday (Verbs! First Action Words!), my child can read.

You read me right, my people. Finn can read.

Okay, so it was just two words--skip and tie--that he sounded out. On his own. Without prompting. (And while I was editing yesterday's post to include EC's Whedon connection.)

But, folks, it's two words. And as we all know, every journey begins with not just one step, but two. Because that first step could've been an accident, or some lucky footwork, or the beginnings of the Electric Slide, which is fun, but is decidedly not a journey.

It's a Word. It's a Plan. It's Letterman.

Hey you guuuuyyyyssss! Today's daily streudel: The Electric Company. On DVD.

And what, as I'm sure you're wondering, did they drop on the disk for the previews? Judd Apatow and Seth Rogen's Undeclared. It's about the beauty of rediscovering something from your childhood and finding that it's being marketed just for you. And it's about finding a kids' show--from 1971--that's way groovier, and socially relevant, than that doof of a purple dinosaur. It's about love of chair.

(But what about Naomi?)

[Addendum: After we finished our five-episode walk down the electrified memory lane, we learned that the Electric Company's head writer was Tom Whedon, who also wrote for the Golden Girls and Benson and bestowed the decisive sperm to the conception of Joss Whedon. And so alas, my fascination with things Whedonesque started so much earlier than I thought.]

Making an Entrance

Bear here.

Mother's Day seems like a good time to put my first post onto the blog. The Smab Mouth herself has been hounding me for months to post. She keep reminding me that SMAB is an acronym for both of us. But hey, I communicate in images not the written word.

Still, here we go with the words...

I woke up early today to begin the prep for the Mom's Day brunch. I was taking my first crack at making scones so I wanted to allow for ample time for screw-ups. I'd like to think that I can get around fairly well in the kitchen. Who am I kidding, I rock the kitchen, as long a it doesn't entail baking. Can you see where this is going?

I didn't feel quite ready for the full-on, from-scratch scones so I went with the box variety. And yes, I screwed the pooch on the first round. Black bottoms, doughy centers. Just as I was about to leave for the grocery for another box, Finn called out from his room.

"Papi...Papi..."

I asked him if he wanted to go with me to the store, but he said he wanted to wake up Momma. It was still quite early, so I reminded him that he should let her sleep in a bit, it being her day and all. It's not always a good idea to wake her up too early anyway. She is known to be a might "unpredictable" in the mornings.

I couldn't convince him to go with me to the grocery, so, being the stellar parent I would like to think I am, I sat him down in front of cartoons. The Perils of Penelope Pitstop to be exact. One of my childhood favorites. I asked him to stay put until I got back.

After buying another box of scones mix, as well as the eggs the I forgot to get the day before for her favorite lox/spinach/cheese/sour cream omelet, I returned home to find Finn dutifully watching the Boomer network.

Here's the impressive thing. This is why I love and respect my child so much.

As soon as I returned, my 3-year old boy got up from the couch to turn off the TV and the surround sound stereo. I asked him if he was done and he replied...

"Yes Papi. I watched cartoons while you were at the store but it's Mother's Day and I have to clean up the toys in my room before Momma wakes up. I told her that would be my present."

He proceed to clean up all of the Legos, Megablocks, Transformers, and Star Wars figures that he literally threw into all corners of his room yesterday will trying to empty boxes to use as his impromptu transportation vehicles.

I really can't stress what a milestone this was. He is a good kid, but like most kids, he always refuses to clean up his toys. I can't say that I really blame him. How can you truly survey the landscape of your imagination with all of your components neatly piled into boxes on shelves. Still, he was willing to make the sacrifice for his Momma.

Of course, as soon as he was done, he went to find his card for her and ran into her bedroom to wake her up. Luckily, our window of "unpredictablity" was over and she was happy to begin her day.

However, Finn didn't allow her to open the card herself because as he clearly informed her...

"I have to open this. I'm a much better opener than you."

Sleepless

It's 2:08 a.m. and I'm still up. That's what having a bowl of tea after midnight will do to you. You know, Keep You Awake.

(Apparently, caffeine has something to do with that.)

So this, in case you were wondering, is the life of a freelancer. Stealing hours in the middle of the night, so I don't have to steal them from my child during the day. And this is also a product of taking the weekend off.

Yes, the whole weekend.

The entire weekend.

And I'm sorry, it felt real good. Even better than this caffeine high I've got going on.

Now, at 2:15 a.m., I'm finished with my project and rather spent. I'm scanning Proof of Life--the movie that ruined families! that broke up the pixie and the smile! the one where I, like Meg, fell in love with Russell Crowe! and the same film where Meg and Russ have no believable onscreen chemistry whatsoever because, well, I suppose because they were so believable offscreen!--all because the other 1,500 channels I have on my digital cable (only like 2 of which are HD) are dedicated to helping me make money off of newspaper ads while I finally get my washboard abs that I've been asking for every Christmas.

Where's my phone?

Because I Get My Literature Off the Boob Tube

From Abraham Lincoln's inaugural address:

"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

And Now for Something Completely Different

It's a sad day when you pull your poetry recommendations from television. But there we go. I'm a mother, a freelance writer, and I accept my poetry however it chooses to get to me.

This is the full version of the poem quoted by Eddie Izzard at the end of the first episode of The Riches.

[This one's for you, sweets, for all the obvious reasons, including the fact that Eddie performed it.]

William Stafford's "A Story That Could Be True"

If you were exchanged in the cradle and
your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.

He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand on the corner shivering.
The people who go by--
you wonder at their calm.

They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
"Who are you really, wanderer?"--
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king."

Frak Me

Sam? The Chief? Colonel Tigh?

2008?