Did I Hear A Carrot Being Sliced?

 Our little pup wants in on whatever I'm chopping. As soon as he hears the Henckel blade against the sharpening stone, he's there hoping it's carrots.

 Whether it's lemons

 Lemonade

 

Yellow Peppers 

Red Peppers

   

Limes

 

Parmesan

 

Or green onions, he's there.

Lego A No Go

My ten-year-old leaned over to me half-way through the Lego movie: "I wish I could touch the bottom of the screen and see how much time is left, because I am really bored."

I had to agree.

Though the movie's problem was more than being boring.

The first problem is a kick-ass, fierce, accomplished female character (Wyldstyle) falls for a unremarkable rule-follower (Emmet) with no particularly original ideas other than a bunk-couch. Female character comes understand her subservient position to the special Emmet character—and to adore and venerate him—because she's realizes that, well, men are awesome.

Second problem is when corporations tell us how to be an original, free thinker: purchase their products! And if you don't follow the directions, they have a special admiration for you, you crazy renegade purchaser! Here's a pat on your free-thinking caucasian head, now go on back to Target to buy the deluxe model.

Just to make sure you understand that you can't think for yourself with the aid of a corporate overlord, a Coke commercial precedes the movie. Various folks at creative pinnacle of their lives—which they face with a Coca-Cola in hand. Free-thinkers take creative risks with can of carbonated chemicals at their side.

Warning: Ear Worms!

Help!! I can't stop listening this slowed-down version of Dolly Parton singing "Jolene."

But at least it's gotten this addictive Gaellic flash mob-esque version of "The Cups Song" (neé "When I'm Gone") out of my head:

For the moment, anyway.

How To Keep Your House Clean: Get Rid of Your Kids

I hate to brag, but when I pee, all of it lands in the bowl. I don't hit the floor, or the back of the water tank, the wall, side of the cabinet, or even the window sill.

Also, I don't drop my toothbrush in festering pools of unhygienic liquid and leave it there until I need to brush my teeth again. I don't spray the mirror when I spit out toothpaste. I don't strew unused Q-tips across the bathroom. When I throw trash in the garbage, it doesn't miss.

Also, I don't leave food in the bathroom.

Or my suitcase on the front porch.

Or chicken on the floor.

Epic, you're thinking, but why this need to gloat?

I learned something these last eight days, when I had the house to myself, while my partner and two kids galivanted across the eastern seaboard:

When you live alone, it is easy to keep your home clean. 

Very easy.

VERY.

Easy.

Ridiculously easy.

The day my family left, the house was uncharacteristically spotless. It was spotless because we had a showing that afternoon. People don't buy homes that appear to be inhabited by unrestrained packs of wildebeests.

Here's what the house looked like eight days later, ten minutes before my family's return:

Clean, clean, clean. 

Those were eight busy days. I went to a movie with one set of friends, out to dinner with another set, had another friend over for dinner, successfully contested a ticket and tow in court, met three different client deadlines. I swam—twice, rode my bike, had dinner with my folks, took a walk, attended four meetings, had someone over for breakfast, two people over for lunch, read two books, prepared the house for two additional showings, watched two seasons of "Weeds." Lots of twos.

One thing that doesn't register in those eight days is cleaning. It was so easy, so effortless, it doesn't count as an activity.

So my friends with kids, if your homes are a mess, your walls look like a Red Line underpass, mildew thrives under your couch cushions, poop lines your bathtub, raccoons rot under your kid's bed, and/or your garden looks like an abandoned lot:

So what?

You don't lack discipline, good habits, or resolve.

You live with unrestrained wildebeests.

Sometimes they're even gorgeous.

Getting the Story Straight

My partner and I ran into a neighbor today, and stopped to chat.

"I was just talking to my friends about you," she said. My perenially-inflated ego puffed audibly. We don't talk with this neighbor often; what could she possibly be telling her friends about us? How hot we are? What amazing children we have? About my writing? Particularly that essay I got published in—

"I told them how the Catholic school across the street wouldn't let your daughter attend because of your two-mom family," she said with a glance toward the villainous edifice.

I looked over at my ten-year-old daughter, who showed no reaction to this news. She had indeed attended pre-school there, came home one night, and dreamt she was being nailed to a cross.

Visions of the Catholic school's principal swam in front of me: her cerulean eyeshadow, her thick hose, the Pomeranian she carries to work, her vanity plates, the night she helped us carry our groceries into our house.

"The Catholic school was lovely," my partner said. "The principal is lovely. The teachers are lovely. There was never an issue about two moms."

We'd pulled our daughter out because of the vitriolic effluvium belching from the Vatican, which declared gay marriage "deviant and immoral," and said that allowing gays to adopt was a form of "violence". 

Around the same time, the Vatican's Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith issued a warning that yoga could "degenerate into a cult of the body.''

Do not fuck with yoga. Or with my family.

"How will I be able to look my daughter in the eye," I'd told the principal, "and explain why I educated her in a religious institution that preaches hatred toward her own family?" (hatred: noun: intense dislike or extreme aversion or hostility)

"We don't," the principal said. "My teachers don't, my staff don't. I wouldn't allow it."

I'm very fond of the principal. I wonder if our neighbor's friends were outraged to hear about this horrible school. How many things have I been outraged over that never happened? But some things do happen. Like our own Cardinal's statement that the "gay liberation movement" could “morph into something like the Ku Klux Klan.” That happened. Which is why my kids aren't attending the lovely school across the street.

Our Morning Rue-Teen

Here's a little comic book detailing a usual morning at our house. Click first image to view an enlarged slide show or click here to view as PDF.

 

Subjects approve of my depictions of them.

 

The Funniest Word In The Universe

(Click on cartoon to enlarge.) We must hear the word butt twenty times a day.

 Ever-reasonable sister does dramatic reading/critique of comic.

 Butt-man responds to dramatic reading.