There's a New President...

This guy told me so, just read it, there's nothing else to say:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28269290/?gt1=43001

Spit take.

I busted loose today, leaving the kids with Dar at a movie, giving me a couple hours alone. I was on Pacific Avenue, in lovely downtown Santa Cruz. I did a little Christmas shopping, going into antique stores for once - something I can't do with the kids. 

I went to this new teahouse called "Asana". Ugh, such a pretentious yogi guru bullshit name. But I wanted a cup of tea to walk around with. I looked at the menu, with so many different varieties and said to the counter hippie, "I'll have the guykiagi green". And he said, "You mean the GEE-OH-KEE-AHHHHHHHH-JEE?" Sure, yes, counter hippie... He rings me up and says, "That'll be ten dollars." And I say, "Oh - no, I just want a cup..." He says yes, that is the price for one cup. (They sell bulk tea leaves and I thought maybe he was trying to sell me a pound or two..). 

Did I buy a ten dollar cup of tea? No, I did not. Instead I looked again at the vast menu and picked the two dollar kimigogo (KEE-MEE-GOGOOOOO). It tasted like green fucking tea. This place is full of raw desserts and food-snacks. Reasonably priced - but not the tea, oh no... As I slowly walked out, I scanned the small crowd of patrons, trying to spot the one drinking the high-end brew. Did anyone there look more satisfied than anyone else? Did anyone have an unusually healthy, robust glow? Was anyone slightly hovering above their seat, levitating from the lift one must get from a ten dollar cup of tea? 

A ten dollar cup of tea should make you hallucinate g-spot orgasms. At least they offer free wi-fi...

I guess I've gotta say something.

It's hard for me to believe that there are people in this country who are still calling themselves "undecided". After eight years of a Republican-ruled bad circus (creepy clowns and sick elephants), who can still be unsure? Either you are a loyal Repub voting McC or you're not.

I think I've been stuck behind one of these people in a fast food line. "I'll have the McTurkey..wait...the McGiblet sounds good too..oh, but there's also the McMutton on whole wheat..Lord, I just can't decide...".

Honestly. I think we're beyond nitpicking little policy disrepancies. We're beyond taxes or abortion rights. It's as simple as red and blue. Either you still want a Republican as your president or you want a Democrat. Pick a fucking side.

This is not a hard decision. Really. If you are still undecided, you shouldn't vote. You're a hazard to society. You're like a drunk-driver. A retarded drunk-driver. A blind, retarded drunk-driver, missing a foot (probably lost it doing something stupid). You need to stay home on November 4th. Stay put - don't even attempt a trip to Starbucks, where ventis and grandes confound you, and do you want whipped cream? I don't know - do you want another warmonger for president, you stupid fucking piece of shit?.....

A lot's been going on...

Ms. Domestrix moved. Took the kids with me, and not much else. At a little bit of a higher elevation, my ears pop on the way in and out of this Topanga-esque Canyon. Sweet apartment, hippie landlords. God Bless Northern California.

A young man I know died, at the violent hands of another young man. The son of friend, the brother of a friend... It's shaken this community of women I live among. Some of them have experienced this kind of pain already. None of us can believe it's true. But, sadly it is. It's made us closer, that's for sure, and opened me up in a way I never knew possible. I'm a hugger now people. I don't quite understand it - but I just want to wrap my arms around my friends and their children, and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze...

Oh, there is some toxic cancer dust that the cement plant, sharing neighbor status with our school for over 100 years, has been poofing on us. Yea... Hexvalant Chromium. Heard of it? Netflix "Erin Brocovich" if you haven't....

But, as the homeless hippie guru , who lived in El Granada harbor, once said, "At least I have my colors to protect me". I don't know what that means, but I plan on polishing my nails, dying my hair, and painting the kids bedroom floor ASAP...

Zealand!

Young lady, you should be studying. Hitting those books. Or shopping for boys. Mmmmmm -Seattle boys, with their post-grunge coolness and coffee breath....

There's a reason I don't get here very often, and you all know what it is. C'mon say it with me, class: 56k.

I wrote a long, interesting entry a few nights ago, and before I could upload it . Explorer crashed. Shit like that makes me die a little every time it happens.

But, things are looking up. Ms. Domestrix has secured herself some new digs - with hi-speed world-wide-woooo hoooooo!

I will blog more, I promise. For the 2.6 of you out there who care: I care about you, too. I do.

I'm telling people I'm moving because I'm seperating from my husband. But the real reason is that I just wanted DSL...

It can't be!

Just because, I clicked on the "Clay Aiken is Gay"headline, you know, silly curiosity. Of course, those of us who've been around the block a few times already knew. And the fact that his son was a prodcut of in vitro - well, if you hadn't done your laps yet - that was a good clue.

And I really couldn't give a flying fuck. I'm on-line, I'm clicking from page to page, I land where I land...

But something about this news tidbit went up my ass sideways. It may not be an actual quote - it is the internet after all - but if it is, god help us:

Meanwhile, the Aiken fan site ClayManiacs was open for viewing. Response in a thread on the site's "ShoutBox" was generally supportive, though at least one fan was shaken by Aiken's public confession.

"This is really shocking news as I had no idea he was gay," read a comment posted by "Sheridansq." "And now I have to deal with this. I am not sure what to say to people who know I was a fan. ... I didn't go to work today and am not answering the telephone."

She didn't go to work. She wasn't answering her telephone. She doesn't know what to say to people who knew she was a fan. I wonder, what would someone say to her, if she did happen to pick up the phone?

"Ha ha! You like that faggot Clay Aiken! You like a fag! He is gay now! You listen to his music and enjoy the sound of his voice! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha..."

The echo of the cruel laughter still resounds deafeningly, haunting her every moment, asleep or awake...

Another life ruined by Clay-fucking-Aiken.

Green Animals (Or 'How Bruce Was Right').

I am not a grudgeholder. I don't walk around remembering past wrongs I've endured. I don't harbor ill feelings towards those who have insulted or affronted me. I get over shit, I 'move on'. (I may completely write some people off, people I choose to never associate with again. But, I don't consider that holding a grudge. I consider that making a fucking decision.)

A long time ago, when I was probably the same age as my kids now, a promise was made to me. I asked my father, Bruce, to take me to "Green Animals". Located in Portsmouth, Rhode Island (on Aquidneck Island, 5 minutes north of legendary Newport). Click on that link there. It'll tell you all about Green Animals.

And here's Wikipedia's glorious description:

The Green Animals Topiary Garden, located in Portsmouth, Rhode Island, is the oldest and most northern topiary garden in the United States. The seven-acre estate overlooks the Narragansett Bay. It contains a large collection of topiaries including eighty sculptured trees. Favorites include teddy bears, a camel, a giraffe, an ostrich, an elephant and two bears made from sculptured California privet, yew, and English boxwood. There are also pineapples, a unicorn, a reindeer, a dog and spot a horse with his rider. There are over 35 formal flowerbeds, geometric pathways, rose arbor, grape arbor, fruit trees, and vegetable and herb gardens. A greenhouse is used extensively to provide seedlings used on the estate. The 1859 Victorian Brayton house museum contains a small display of vintage kids toy and the original family furnishings. Ribbons for prize-winning dahlias and vegetables, dating from about 1915, line the walls of the gift shop. The Preservation Society of Newport County maintains it.

Doesn't it sound just amazing? And as a kid, it was all I wanted to do, the only place I wanted to go. I'd ask Bruce, "Can we please go to Green Animals?" Yup, he'd say. "Promise?" Yup, he'd promise.

But we never went to Green Animals. And although I'm not a grudgeholder, I held on to that.

Which, of course made Green Animals grow bigger and more important in my head.

So on this trip back to my homeland (good, old Rhode Island) what was on my agenda? Green-fucking-Animals, that's what. It was a long, hard road to GA. The first attempt was thwarted by Gannon's low blood sugar. As we were in the lounge, waiting to take a tour of a Newport mansion, followed by maybe another and then to the topiaries (I bought a package deal of tickets!), he decided he'd rather nose-dive into a diabetic coma. So we rushed out to get some lunch, and then ditched the whole idea. What's the hurry? I'd be here all month...

And then it rained for 2 weeks straight.

Finally, today was the day. As if guided by Joseph Carreiro himself, my directional dyslexia banished, I drove straight to it. We parked the car, got out, looked around. It was, of course, Gannon who spoke first:

"Can we go home now?"

Why you little shit...I coaxed him out of the parking lot and towards the garden. With our maps in hand, we matched the little numbers on the page with their garden markers. "Look!", exclaimed Mason, "We're at nine! Whoa...Is this some kind of cat graveyward?" I think it may have been.

Five minutes later, we were done. We'd seen the dahlia garden, the topiary giraffe and teddy bear... the grapes...Maybe I've become accustomed to the amplitude of California...But Green Animals seemed smaller and less exciting than my driveway. I mean, sure I've got a kick-ass driveway, but...I was expecting so much more.

Maybe my expectations were set too damn high. Maybe Green Animals ain't what it used to be. When I got back to the house, I told Bruce what we experienced. He said, "I know. I fuckin' hated that place. That's why I never took you". But...why didn't you just tell me!? "I tried. You wouldn't listen...".

Ah, the politics of parenting: Sometimes it's easier to just give up and lie to your kid. I do it too. Six Flags? Yuck. You don't want to go there...

Why I always look like crap.

I'm an insomniac. I watched the sun rise a few mornings ago. I'd been wide awake all night long. This happens often. I lie in bed, watching the clock move from one hour to the next. And then, I get out of bed, because it is this thing called 'day' and people must be awake then. (People should be asleep at night, of course, but if they aren't it's too fucking bad - because 'day' seems to be the boss of night.)

I have always been, as long as I can remember, an insomniac. I've always taken the night shifts at work - the dreaded closing times, I loved them. I've locked-up-for-the-night downtown bookstores, late-night laundramats, vegetarian restaurants...And then wandered the streets, looking for more non-sleeping souls to keep me company.

Now though, I'm too old or something for this all-night lifestyle. I've got to function like a normal human girl in the daytime. Not for my kids, by the way, they've inherited my fucked-up backwards sleeping habit - for the rest of the goddamn day-light obsessed world we live in. Me and the kids would be fine living in opposite world, going to night school and mooning ourselves by the pool...But I just can't do it like I used to when I was younger.

When Bram Stoker wrote "Dracula", I wonder if he'd been awake a little too long. Only an insomniac could think up un-dead, night dwelling creatures to whom daylight is deadly.

Daylight seems deadly, with the fucking sun shining in the windows - and the noises. Birds? I fuckin' hate birds. The way I feel, when my alarm goes off in the morning is heartbreaking. It's not waking me up, I'm already awake. It's telling me I have no chance, again, of getting any sleep. It's saying, "Fuck you, Robyn, you've got another day of being completely exhausted and useless ahead of you...Oh, and I hate you".

It's almost time for the new school year to start. That means back to work for me. I thought that this summer would be 'the one'. The one where I finally get some sleep, I finally get on that normal schedule...Nope. I'm on the East Coast right now, watching the clock move from one hour to the next THREE HOURS EARLIER than I ususally do in California. Insomnia and math.

But there is hope. My new Cambodian stepmother got a prescription for Ambien. For me! Now you know, anyone who'll share their prescription goodies (or cigarettes) with me is okay in my book. This shit is GREAT. Someone told me to be careful with it, because it might make me, like, drive my car or paint my nails while I'm sleeping. But I honestly don't fucking care. I'll be sleeping. Sleeping!

I just took one. It feels nice when it kicks in, what I think it must've been like in the womb....

The Fist-Bumpin', Jihadin', Superfly Negros.

OK. Barack Obama is black. And his name is eerily sound-alikey to "Osama". And his wife - well, god help us all - she's a fucking black too. Like, black panther black. Like Malcom X, Minister Louis Farrakhan black...Blaaaaaaack.

Fuck.

When I first saw this New Yorker cover, I got it. It's a secret message for super-smart people (like me) aimed at not-so-smart-people (like my sister-in-law). It says, "Hey. Dumbasses. He's NOT a Muslim, you stupid fucks. He's an American Christian. Look at the fucking fist-bump, you useless pieces of troglodite shit. Look at it! Muslim terrorists don't fucking fist-bump. They high-five. Everybody knows that, you goddamn, pathetic morons."

And I was like, "Yeah...Dumbfuckers...". It's satirical. It's sarcastic, even. It's that smart kind of humor for which the New Yorker is known.

However, if the super-smart message the New Yorker was sending was aimed at people too stupid to understand it...Well, they missed their mark. And if they missed their mark - well then, where the fuck did it land? Ought-oh...

So now, all of those stupid people, who already thought Obama was an untrustworthy Muslim with an uppity terrorista for a wife, have this...this family portrait to further wrongly influence them.

Fuck.

Sometimes smart people can be so dumb...

A little smug...Just a little.

Okay. I try to not be *that* mom. You know the one, "Oh, little Tyler is just so smart! He already knows his ABC's and can count to TEN!" Yeah, he's 12...Way to go...

I've never used my kids to boost my own ego (or as little fashion accesories, either...).

But today - well, today I have to just tell all of you out there: IN YOUR FACE! My kids RULE! They fucking rule.

We're at home, for the first time in a while, just relaxing during our heatwave. They're lounging on the couch with me watching a repeat of Oprah. Oprah's guest is Jessica Seinfeld, wife to Jerry and author of a new cookbook called "Deceptively Delicious". In this cookbook, she makes all kinds of kid's favorite foods like mac-n-cheese and chicken nuggets - but sneaks in veggie purees. Spinach puree, carrot puree, caulifower puree...all disguised in other food.

And, it looks good. I mean, it seems kind of crazy, pureeing all of your veggies and then cooking them into brownies - but it works. The wee ones are now getting their vegetables and mommy can lose some of that American "oh-my-god-we-ate-at-McDonald's-again?!" guilt.

So, after a while Mason or Gannon says, "I'm hungry." And the other one says, "Me too". And I say, "What do you want?" And someone says "broccoli". And the other one says, "Yeah, this is making me want broccoli". So, I go in the kitchen, chop up some organic, locally grown broccoli, steam it up, and put in front of them. They eat it.

I didn't have to puree it and sneak it into pudding or something. I didn't have to give them ranch dressing to drown it in. It still looked like little trees. And they loved it.

And I love them. I'm a proud, proud mama....

George Carlin, 1937 - 2008

"Religion has convinced people that there’s an invisible man…living in the sky, who watches everything you do every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a list of ten specific things he doesn’t want you to do. And if you do any of these things, he will send you to a special place, of burning and fire and smoke and torture and anguish for you to live forever, and suffer and burn and scream until the end of time. But he loves you. He loves you and he needs money."

I love comedy, I love comedians - I'll always take funny over serious. One of my favorite comics is George Carlin. He's the reason I started referring to god as an "invisible man in the sky".

George Carlin just died. At the age of 71, which doesn't seem that old - at least he didn't seem that old.

George Carlin is probably most famous for listing the seven words you can't say on tv:

"There are 400,000 words in the English language, and there are seven you can’t say on television. What a ratio that is! 399,993 to 7. They must really be baaaad. They must be OUTRAGEOUS to be separated from a group that large. “All of you words over here, you seven….baaaad words.” That’s what they told us, right? …You know the seven, don’t ya? That you can’t say on TV? Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits."

I love comedy AND profanity. I do, you know I do. His humor was based on the shortcomings of his fellow man, that biggest shortcoming being religious fanaticism. My kind of guy. As an atheist, I am sorely lacking in role models. Here was an outspoken atheist, fearless in his humor, never pandering to the other 90-something percent of the population.

"Atheism is a non-prophet organization."

And I appreciate that. I've been out-numbered my whole life. I need to know I'm not completely alone in my wild disbeliefs. Because it can be scary, being in this minority. Religious fanatics can get crazy mean if you refuse to believe their fairy tales. People like George Carlin challenged them - and we need more people like him speaking up for us. He's one of the reasons I'm speaking up for us...

"You can’t argue with a good blowjob."

He also gave great relationship advice. That little gem always helped me come out on top in domestic disputes...

I suck.

I shouldn't have abandoned my post here. But I've been busy, so busy. The end of the school year just totally took every ounce of my essence, my soul...Most people don't know that Ms. Domestrix holds three different positions at her job. Ms. Domestrix didn't even know until recently ("So THAT'S why I've been so busy..."). As they say, I wear many hats. Luckily, I look adorable in hats.

But that's over now. It's summer vacation - school's out and I'm safe at home. I've been mending my broken soul holistically. Taking my vitamins and drinking lots of water. Today, as I was barreling out of the canyon, drinking my Emergen-C, popping Green Tea pills, sublingually ingesting some vitamin B - all at once - I realized I'm turning into some type of homeopathic Hunter Thompson. Fear and Loathing in Santa Cruz, the organic edition... I'm hooked on health store junk.

Gonna live forever...or overdose on valerian...

Jesus, Mary and Me.

Pope Benedixt was in town. The new German pope. I had my doubts about this guy from the start of his whole popehood. First of all - a German pope? C'mon. A German?

However, I was lucky enough to get a face-to-face with him, which surprisingly changed my skeptical opinion. (If you're wondering how I got a face-to-face, well don't worry about that - that's on a need-to-know, kabish?)

We decided to meet at a quiet little place, close to where I work. I was glad he agreed to this out-of-the-way location because I hate driving around all the time. I feel like half of my life is in the car, y'know?

When he came in, the first thing I noticed was that his robe had gotten tucked into his tightie-whities, and he was practically mooning the entire coffee shop. How long he had been like this and why none of his handlers had caught on, I don't know - but my opening line "It is an honor to meet you, your grace" was replaced with, "Ummm...Your robe is kinda stuck up your butt, your holiness."

This turned out to be a great ice-breaker. The pope has a good sense of humor. I would never have guessed.

I had many, many deep and difficult questions for him. I told him right away I was an orthodox atheist. He nodded but with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, said something in German that sounded like, "Satan's gonna love you, sweetie." Then he looked right at my boobs. This was actually a problem throughout the whole interview. I'll admit, I was wearing a slightly low-cut blouse (I always do) - but shouldn't a man of god have more control?

The subject of sexual abuse in the catholic church had been a big issue during his trip. I asked him to give me his honest answers on this horrible, painful subject: He expressed remorse, apologized for the cover-ups and perpetuation. He seemed sincere. He asked if I had children. I told him, yes, two boys. His eyes lit up. He asked how old, and I told him 8 and 9. He caught his breath sharply, leaned into me and asked, "Do you have any pictures of them?"

This made me feel slightly uncomfortable. I quickly changed the subject. I asked him the one question every person of faith must have to struggle with: There has been so much suffering in the world, why does it seem like god has turned his back on us? He began, in his thickly accented English to explain the complexities of the relationship between god and man, how it is not god's ultimate responsibility to be the keeper of man, that sin is inbred in all of us, etc. etc. I couldn't pay attention to him for very long though - I realized he sounded like Colonel Klink from Hogan's Heroes and I got the giggles. He stopped talking and asked me what was so funny. I told him. I said, "I'm sorry - but you sound like a guy from this old, funny TV show.."

Before I could finish, he put his hand up and said, "HO-O-O-OGAN!"

I practically fell out of my chair AND almost pissed myself at the same time. Obviously, this wasn't the first time he'd heard this comparison. I tried to tell him I was sorry - but we were both laughing so hard, it wasn't neccessary. I squealed, "Do more! Do more Klink!" And he did. He was so on, he did the "Heil Hitler" and the “I hear nothing, I see nothing, I know nothing!” (I didn'thave the heart to tell him that was Sargeant Schulz, not Klink - and who cared?).

When we finally calmed down, I realized our time was up. Before he left, though, I had one more question: What's up with the hat? He said solemnly, "It's where I keep my keys."

I still don't know if he was serious...

Why I listen to loud music in the car.

Here's a conversation between Mason and Gannon yesterday in the car:

M: Gannon, truth or dare.

G: Truth.

M: Would you ever name one of your kids "Fart"?

G: Ummmmmm. No.

M: Gannon, truth or dare.

G: Dare.

M: I dare you to name one of your kids "Fart".