sarcastic fringehead

This weekend was one for (theoretically) tough questions from the small child. My Facebook peeps may have read one of these already, but not the second one.

“Mommy, marriage is one girl & one guy, right?”

(Why does my 4-year-old know Republican talking points?) “Well… most of the time.”

“Right, or it can be two guys.”

“Or two girls, right. You marry the person you love the most and want as your partner for life.”

“Oh! OK!” (Leaves room to blow bubbles.)

Memo to Prop 8 people: It’s really not that freaking complicated.

The other conversation that began yesterday started out being pretty predictable.

“Mommy, what does ‘black person’ mean?”

“You know [list some people he knows]? They’re black people.”

“What? They’re brown!”

“I know, that’s just a word people use for some reason. Like, they call people who look like us white, and we’re not actually the color white, are we?”

“No, we’re kind of pink.”

Today, we were watching Wow Wow Wubbzy and the Wubb Girls made an appearance.

“Mommy, what kind of people are they?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re blue. So they’re blue… no wait. I can’t think of the word, but it’s a color that’s close to blue.”

“Green? Turquoise? Aqua?”

“Yes! You got it, Mommy – aquamarine. They’re aquamarine folks. Because they’re blue.”

My first thought: “‘Aquamarine folks’? That rules!”

Second thought: Can’t wait to hear about how he’s assigning slightly inaccurate skin colors to all his friends at school.

This evening, Wes and I were talking about one of his school friends, who had told Wes he couldn’t have a certain TV character as a favorite because she was a girl. Wes was pretty clear without my having to offer counsel that that was dumb and you could like anyone you want, but wanted an explanation as to why someone would say that. “He’s a 4-year-old misogynist” seemed harsh, so I stalled for time.

“Isn’t he friends with girls at your school?”

“Yeah! We play with girls every day! We pretend we’re monsters and chase the girls around. Then when we catch them we say [regretful voice] ‘Oh, I put your sister in the lover.’”

“You say WHAT?”

“I put your sister in the lover.”

“In the…”

“…lover.”

“Lover?”

“Lover.”

[World's longest "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."]

“Mommy! The stuff that comes out of volcanoes!”

“OH! That… actually makes sense.”

We never got back to the original question, but I think it’s best that I don’t attempt to speak with authority on any subject for at least 48 hours.

Scott tried to link to this in the comments on the last section, but apparently you can’t put links in my comments, probably because of something I did wrong in a past life. But it’s really funny, so I’m linking it here instead.

I’ve seen this movie a couple times, but was so distracted by David Bowie, and also by all the David Bowie, that I never really noticed parts of it are not very good. And the last time I saw it was like a month ago. So kudos to you, David Bowie, for giving new meaning to carrying a movie.

“Who’s this singing?”

“This is David Bowie. You know David Bowie, right? Oh – maybe you only know him as the Goblin King.”

“Is his goblin castle underneath us right now?”

“Well, he doesn’t really – uh – David Bowie is an actor, so sometimes he makes his hair all big and goes underground to live with goblins, and other times he’s a musician who makes his own records in a studio.”

“Like Uncle Jon?”

“EXACTLY like Uncle Jon.”

Oh, I did. Let’s just cram a few in one post, shall we?

Ta-da!

A few weeks ago, I got the sad news that one of my sister’s dogs, a Doberman named Pepsi, had died suddenly after developing a fast-growing tumor (4 pounds overnight). Since we were going to her house for Easter, I knew I had to break it to Wes. I will admit that the thought crossed my mind that a relative’s pet might be a nice gradual way to introduce death to a preschooler – and I was punished for the selfishness of that thought a few days later.

Had I spoken to my sister about this, you see, I might have known that she had somebody else’s Doberman staying in her dog run. The conversations between Wes and various relatives and party guests that began, “My mommy thought Pepsi died, but look, there she is!” were legion. The relatives and guests explained the truth, but it was not sticking in the face of concrete evidence.

Finally, most of us sitting at the dinner table watching him explain Pepsi’s resurrection to someone else, there was a collective giving up. So I’ll need a redo on this one the next time we visit, I guess.

“Well, it IS Easter.”

“Yeah… wait, did she die three days ago?”

Close enough. I like a little Jesus/Doberman humor at the holidays, don’t you?

—

As those of you with little kids doubtless know, Jack Black recently made an appearance on Noggin series Yo Gabba Gabba. The day it first aired, I picked Wes up at school and told him about this new episode with this really funny guy on it and how much he was going to love it – except I didn’t check that the DVR had picked it up. Which it hadn’t. Are you detecting a theme regarding me being a dumbass?

So naturally, my child was reduced to heaving sobs over not getting to see this awesome person he had not known existed 15 minutes earlier. It was then I remembered someone had sent me – for Wes – a DVD of School of Rock. I remembered, fuzzily, people having mentioned showing this to 4- and 5-year-old kids. Were these smart people? I do not recall.

What I should have realized, though, was that my kid, with his explosive energy, hilarious delivery and intense musicality, was primed to find Mr. Black an excellent role model. And then maybe I should have thought about whether I was ready for him to blossom in quite that way just yet.

First, it was the stage diving. My lord, the stage diving. He engaged me in an intense 20-minute discussion regarding the circumstances under which one would stage dive wearing a shirt, or shirtless (I did not actually know, so I said that maybe you kept your shirt on when wearing a jacket and tie – any stage-divers who can clear this up?). Weeks later, his tiny shirtless form is still propelling itself floorward from various items of furniture.

Then he asked to watch it again, and the quotes started, in flawless Jack-Black delivery. He’ll change them up to fit his circumstances, though. I don’t always recognize them as quotes right away, so you can imagine my WTF expressions when my kid says stuff to me like:

“So, uh, Mommy, you think I could cut out of nap a little EAR-LY?”

Or, after handing me a friend’s Guitar Hero guitar: “OK, Mommy, the blue one right there? That’s G. OK, you’ve got it! Now just keep that G coming all day long.”

I suspect his recent habit of referring to “um [eyes rolled to the side, tongue click], my GIRLFRIEND” (apologies to Zoe’s parents) is related to Mike White’s character in the movie, but will have to watch again to be sure.

Finally a few days later he realized his dream: To see Jack Black on Yo Gabba Gabba. While watching, he said this, which I believe I will leave you with:

“Mommy, he’s going crazy! He’s one of the leaders of going crazy!”

Hey kids – I got buried in spam on that last post, so I’ve installed a plugin that, the theory is, will zap it without making you guys do math or figure out convoluted letters or anything. It claims to do this with no false positives, but I’m not all that trusting – so if you attempt to comment here and it doesn’t work, shoot me a note at elizabeth at this domain name and let me know? Thanks!

I’ve got some stories to tell, such as how W. has discovered a new role model in Jack Black, and how my first parental Conversation About Death backfired, but I’ve also got some editing to do today. So I’m going with responsibility over frivolity. Just this once, though!

1. Self-indulgent. Pretty much any creative endeavor is self-indulgent to some degree, isn’t it? The other option appears to be, “I made this music because I wanted to use my gift to touch others. My goal is just to inspire people.” Next thing you know, you’re on a televised talent competition and you’re singing “I Hope You Dance” and Mariah Carey’s “Hero” and “Jesus Take The Wheel” and you’re bathed in white light and reaching out to the camera all Christlike and a sizable portion of the nation is looking at you and thinking, “Jesus, this guy’s a tool.” You get some people thinking that if you go the other route, sure, but you probably have more fun along the way.

Often, from the words surrounding self-indulgent, I suspect that what the speaker/writer means is, “Yeah, I didn’t get this.” But there are times when an alternate phrase might be valuable. I believe that phrase may be: “Frankly, this artist has his head way up his ass.” Try it – see how it works. (I should note that the offending term has been misappropriated by TV’s own Simon Cowell as “indulgent,” which I take to mean the singer has allowed the performance to eat far too much candy and also bought it a puppy.)

2. Emperor’s New Clothes. When you take your turn in a music discussion and announce that, oh, say the new album by Of Montreal is “a case of the Emperor’s New Clothes,” if I recall my fables correctly, the opinion you’ve introduced is something like: “All of you who’ve been talking about how great this is? You are BLIND. That’s right – BLIND. I ALONE am able to see the truth!”

And really, is that polite?

(This applies to other art forms as well, but I didn’t want to have to use ninety slash marks in every sentence. I’m lazy like that.)

The boy and I were driving to town last night, listening to a mix CD. He wanted to know how his Uncle Jon could play all the instruments and sing on a record all by himself, so I explained. He thought for a minute and said, “Mommy, do you remember when you showed me that guy who could play three horns at once?”

It was a few months ago, but hell yeah I remember.

“Do you think Uncle Jon could do that?”

“No,” he said gravely.

“Probably not.”

“But I could!”

Cool!

Just then his grandma called and I passed the phone back to him.

“Grandma, guess what! When I get bigger I’m going to play three saxophones at the same time! … Yeah!… And if I get good at that, I’m gonna play three basses!”

Ladies and gentlemen, my son. Destined to be either a jazz legend or a one-man tribute to Spinal Tap’s “Big Bottom.”

I have been loving the Internet this week, you guys. Despite the latest hideous Facebook makeover (do they even have a QA process?), it’s continued to be a great tool for finding long-lost people whom I adore, and also for finding out that my friend Scott should totally move to the country. Over on Twitter, an application that would be perfect if it offered a little more control, someone’s engineered a little more control with TwitterSnooze, which allows you to stop following someone for a limited amount of time – an ability whose usefulness may escape you if you don’t, say, follow a person who liveTweets three Wednesday night TV shows that you don’t watch.

Also using the Internet, I was able to track down a store in the greater LA area (Follow Your Heart in Canoga Park) that carried dairy-free chocolate bunnies so I don’t have to order that crap from Portland with dry ice and such to give my allergic child a happy holiday. And yes, my kid DOES have to have a chocolate bunny at Easter; we’re not religious, but we feel very strongly about inexplicable people and animals who show up your house to bring you junk.

But here is where I had the most fun. If you have had the misfortune to be cornered by me on the subject of American Idol this season, you know I kind of like contestant Adam Lambert. Like, to the point where I wish all those other people would quit interrupting The Adam Lambert Show with their singing and whatnot. One of the reasons I like him is that he is a big ol’ record geek; not like I’m short on those people in my world, but I don’t know many who are 27. And what really surprised me was that we share a favorite completely obscure band, Mother’s Finest. Here, watch Adam talk about them with the fevered eyes of the true believer:

Yeah. I was happy to find out about the Germany thing, because I, who could technically be his mom, am too young to know about Mother’s Finest; I spent my youth hanging out with a bunch of musicians about 10 years my senior, some of them from the South. That’s my excuse. And I’d wondered what his was.

Say Rufus Featuring Chaka Khan and Led Zeppelin formed a supergroup. You’re kind of close to what they sound like. You cannot imagine how dynamic they were (I assume still are) live. I have been to approximately one gazillion concerts – most of them by people who are considered great performers – and nobody touches MF. You can’t squeeze that kind of power into the space of a YouTube video, but here’s a track from what I believe is the concert Adam described seeing:

So, back to my point about loving the Internet: People much younger than I, possibly younger than Adam, are seeing that first video on YouTube, looking up something very much like the second video, going, “Hey, this band is great! Why haven’t I heard of them?” I’ve been helping some people out with collections of MP3s available on Amazon that make a good $10 introduction.

So: Because a kid who is a frontrunner on American Idol in 2009 turned on a television in Germany in 2003 and mentioned it on a clip that was only available on iPhones and on YouTube, one of the most underrated bands of the early ’70s gets a new burst of life.

That’s just cool.

I am not, you’ll be fascinated to learn, a brand loyalist when it comes to deodorant. I don’t have any unusual needs in that area, so I buy what’s on sale and doesn’t smell perfumey.

Just a few weeks back, I noticed that Degree was rather nicer than the others, in that it does not feel all pinchy going on. So that’s it, thought I, I am buying Degree from now on.

Wouldn’t you know, within minutes of my making this decision Degree went all gender-segregated. While I’m more sympathetic for the consternation this might cause my acquaintances who aren’t exactly straight down that M/F divide, even I as a clearly delineated woman have problems with this.

You know what Degree Men does? It protects men who takes risks. BAD ASS. If you are human-flying it up the side of a skyscraper and you lose your grip, Degree Men’s Action Fumes(TM) will suck you back to safety like a huge magnet. At some point in that story, I started making shit up, but it was a tiny bit later than one would hope.

At this point, I’m pretty stoked, as you can imagine. What will Degree Women protect me from? Maybe I can have another baby now without all that pesky hyperemesis and Restless Leg Syndrome and whatever that thing that made me itch until I wished I were dead was! Let’s take a look at Degree Women’s tagline – oh my!

Dare to Feel.

DARE. to FEEL.

Dare to feeeeeeeeeeeeeeel.

Yeah. Somewhat ironically, I’m not feelin’ it.

My simple, clear-cut consumer plan now contains a spanner in its works. Because it’s going to be embarrassing going to the drugstore and buying that. And yet – not pinchy.

So I did it the other day. I looked at the array of different Degree for Women varieties and yeah, they were just as sexist and eyeroll-inducing as you’d think. EXCEPT. There was one style that came in the girl-deodorant equivalent of a plain brown wrapper – pale-blue with the word “Women” on it in a discreet light gray. I bought it, naturally, but couldn’t help wondering if it hadn’t been the result of a meeting on how a lot of women were going to find this “Dare to Feel” thing embarrassing, offensive, or both – so let’s throw ‘em a bone. Is it worse if they KNOW they’re being condescending? I’m not sure.

The next day, I saw another deodorant in our bathroom from an angle I usually don’t, and learned this: “If you don’t know whether or not you have an iron, you are a Mitchum Man.”

You guys.

I’m a Mitchum Man.

You know what this means, don’t you?

Had I seen this two days earlier, I could have been protected while I took risks.

Sometimes life’s just not fair.