Let the ungodly messes transition to a diaper-free lifestyle begin.

The other day I dropped Jackson off at preschool and got him settled down at the snack table next to his pal Caitlin, who immediately put her wee skinny arm around him and said to me, "Jackson is my best friend." As Caitlin laid her cheek on Jackson's shoulder his eyes magically glazed over and he stared blankly at some ants performing maneuvers on his graham cracker, and I thought, "Ah, this is where it all begins."



Earlier, the mother of a five-year-old boy had told me how she picked him up from a birthday party one afternoon and found him standing calmly and eating some cake while a little girl was yanking on his t-shirt and yelling, "But I LOVE YOU!!"

When I got home I told Jack what I'd seen and concluded, "Boys are clueless."
And Jack replied, "Boys know exactly what's going on."
Said I, "So they absorb the information, they just choose not to respond to it."
Said Jack, "Precisely."
Said I, "I can't decide whether to kill you or myself."
Said Jack, "Would you get me a beer while you're up?"

In the women's room that my office shares with six or seven other offices on the first floor of the building, the other day, right by the trash can, someone left a pair of shoes. Dull black, stack-heeled loafers, about a size seven. They were kind of peeking into one stall, so I took the other stall, because I didn't want the shoes to see me. And as I sat there contemplating the proximity of these empty shoes the first thing that came to mind was that "Seinfeld" episode where George comes out of the bathroom with a newspaper and no shirt. Why? Why no shirt, George? And, does someone in this building need to take off her shoes when she takes a shit? Wouldn't she notice the cold tile floor when she was done and put them back on? Wouldn't her coworkers say, Hey! Beatrice was taking a shit again and forgot to put her shoes back on afterward! I hope at least she remembered to wash her hands! And then the second thing I thought of was that one panel of "Ghost World" where Enid and Whatsherface are coming down the sidewalk and one of them goes, "Hey look! It's the pants!" The Pants! They've been there long enough to establish themselves as a landmark.

Then, when I went into the bathroom the next day, there was a whole outfit hanging on the side of the stall on a wire hanger. But the shoes were gone.

Two years of Fussy yesterday. Two years ago I was sitting at home with a tiny baby and four airplanes were hijacked and two big buildings fell down and one month later, looking for pictures of the event, because it was like a sore tooth that I needed to keep pushing at with my tongue, I found George Weld's Web log. George was in lower Manhattan that day, taking pictures of events as they unfolded, and faster than you can say "Associated Press" he was posting them on his site with simple captions describing his experiences that morning.* I was so amazed at what he'd done that I went back through his archives to see what other disasters he'd covered. Instead I found pictures of a car trip through California, a lot of posts that merely said "test," and a link to a site called Blogger.

And then this morning I got an e-mail with the subject line: "you and your goddamn blog!"

So I'm happy about the way this whole Web journal thing has evolved for me.

Here's a poem!

The Companions

Living close to death
is not just a case of breath after breath.
It is to realize that to fraternize
with the dark prince is possible and wise,
so that in the final weather
when together you quit the room
though tentative and weary
you will have the enormous answer
to the enormous query.

-- Josephine Jacobsen

*He's taken them down, but there are lots of other photographs worth looking at on his site.

You'd think the average, Nemo-loving child would be upset by something like this? Jackson hollered "NEMO SUSHI!" and, "LET'S EAT IT, MOM!"

I had a Revelations-level, I'm-seeing-stars-and-my-butt-feels-like-a Futurama Brain Slug Squishy Toy hip-joint pop the other day, this time doing nothing more complicated than what this awesome bikini-clad yoga babe is aiming at. You know when, if your knuckle feels a little swinky and a crack puts it right? Well, ratchet that up to a chiropractor's-wet-dream, ball-joint-with-the-density-of-osmium*, underground-Nevada-test-site ka-POOMP and you'll come close to imagining the crack heard round the room and the accompanying stupefied stares as ten sweaty yogis held themselves in mid-air to watch me try not to laugh and cry at the same time.

*If you're going to name a heavy metal band, the periodic table is a fantastic place to start. "No one will ever forget Sex Gods From Planet Metal."

I managed to finish my practice and limp to Lucky's for a chilled Stoli gimlet, but for some reason -- and I'm willing to accept that this may be a coincidence -- I haven't been able to shut up since. I mean, I stop talking when I sleep, but otherwise I am a nonstop source of meaningless narrative chatter. I link the two events because it's such a very giddy, yoga-subverts-your-cranky-Western-mind thing to do, to yoke opening your hip to opening your mouth. But last night while we ate dinner Jack tried to stopper his ears with two chicken drumsticks, and later, as I was playing with Jackson and his new Halloween costume (knight's helmet, breastplate, shield, and gleaming plastic saber -- a little green face paint and he'll make a nice Shrek), he lifted the visor on his helmet and said quite evenly, "Mommy, stop talking."

Jack calls him "Mr. Owner of Everything"
-- or --
Some common phrases of the two-year-old boy who keeps showing up at the edge of our bed, demanding cookies


1. "You have to _______."
As in, "Mommy, you have to get me more salami."
To which I reply, "And how do you politely ask me to get you things?"
At which he rolls his eyes and sighs, "Puh-weeeze."

2. "You wanna play wif me?"
Uttered to: anyone who looks as though they can stack blocks, poke dirt with a stick, or run around in circles until they fall down.

3. "You go away!"
Almost always said to: Jack.
When: Jack starts acting like Frankenstein, shuffling toward Jackson with his arms stratched out in front of him and making an "rrRRRrrr" sound.
The rrRRRrrr sound means: "I AM GOING TO EAT YOU!"
Hence the stern directive: "You go away!"

4. "I'm not your little nut!"
As in: the character from Ice Age, Scrat, whose comic pursuit of a simple acorn keeps the film teetering on the brink of tragedy.
Uttered in response to: Jack, who, after his Frankenstein has been rebuffed, metamorphoses into Scrat, complete with bulging eyeball, and clings madly to his squirming little son, whom we have called The Nut since he was an embryo.
Because no matter what he says: He IS our little nut.

I knew I should have voted.

You want to know how to fuck up a vacuum cleaner? Let it suck up an entire spool of thread. Something really strong, like silk buttonhole twist.

So last night Jack had a gig down in Carpinteria with Alastair at the Avocado Festival. It is an event with some adorable posters that appear to advertise an actual state-wide, state-fair size jamboree of high-fat fruit. In fact, the Avocado Festival boldly inhabited three blocks of downtown Carp with guacamole-and-chips booths, and Jack and Alastair's gig had enough of a whiff of "Puppet Show and Spinal Tap" about it to explain Alastair's twitchiness trying to rock out with his Glock out while two ten-year-old girls were doing cartwheels across the empty dance floor and old people were awkwardly trying both to cover their ears and wheel themselves away to The Gay Café for iced lattés. Jackson threw such a fit at the feet of the balloon man (after I'd bought and watched him pop three balloon-inside-a-ballon creations and refused to give him a dollar for another one) that the balloon man finally just gave him one to shut him up. Which he did, but only after he belly flopped into a mud puddle. Whew, that extra pair of socks I brought sure came in handy. So all in all it was quite a successful Friday night for the Kennedy family.