I’m not worthy.

May 30, 2012

Oh — Em — Gee, you guys. I just got an e-mail from Parent Map magazine letting me know that I am a finalist for their 2012 Golden Teddy Award for Best Mom Blog!!

Holy fuckballs, people! I am all panicky and excited! If you voted — THANK YOU!! I did not think I’d get enough mentions to be a finalist! Super fucking bananas, y’all.

Pile of Babies will be in the July print edition of Parent Map, and it will be in their online announcement of the awards.

I need to get another fuck in here — HOLY FUCKITY FUCKNUT!

Thank you!!!

Meredith

The greatest movie about a giant shark ever made.

May 27, 2012

I don’t usually post on the weekends, but it is extremely important that I alert you to the airing of a movie currently on the Sci Fi channel (they now refer to themselves as the “SyFy” channel………but I can’t get there. It’s like when Radio Shack tried to make us call them “The Shack” or when Fred Meyer was calling itself  “Freddie’s.” I object.)

Mike and I were looking for a movie to watch last night, when we came across………………

Available for purchase on Amazon.com, and worth every penny.

This was the description: “A monstrous, bullet-proof shark that walks on land.”

Oh my god, you guys. It had me at “hello.”

This movie was so spectacular,so beyond anything Mike and I could have hoped for. I wrote down some of my favorite quotes.

“Your oil rig was destroyed by a giant shark. A real, giant shark.”

“That’s one big ass shark.”  said John Schneider…….that’s Bo Duke, motherfuckers!

“What are we going to do if we see that thing?” “Pray.”

“It flies!” “That’s bad.”

The giant shark — I missed how it was created — was attracted to radio signals (sure) so they brought a boom box to the beach and played songs to it, all “Say Anything” style. And they had a walking tank to fight it. Because why not. Mike said, “A walking tank? Why can’t it just be a tanking tank?” And I explained to him that if you have a walking shark you must battle it with something else that unusual that walks so that you can have a Godzilla v. Mothra type of battle.

Well, walking tank gets defeated by the shark (too top heavy, as it turns out), the shark also grabs a plane out of the sky (they call that “flying” but let’s be honest– it was a jump. Nice try, giant shark scientists),  so the environmental chick who is trying to defeat the oil companies that killed her brother (YES) runs into a cave with the boom box, throws it into the giant shark’s mouth, and (spoiler alert) blows it up.

People, you owe it yourself to see this movie. Or you can wait till next week, when Sci Fi premieres “Jersey Shore Shark”. I am not even kidding you. These people know how to entertain!

Google auto complete is entrapment.

May 25, 2012

Me: “Man, you would not believe some of the weird, twisted things people search for before ending up at my blog. At the moment I seem to be attracting a large part of the ‘girls in sexy yoga pants’ crowd. Which is odd, because I don’t have a picture of your mom on the site.” (just kidding, Susan!)

Mike: “Well, you know that Google auto finishes search terms. So they might not have started out actually looking for that thing…..”

Me: “But it came up as an option and they were like, ‘why, now that you mention it, I WOULD like to know what Nadia Comaneci’s pussy looks like!'”

Mike: “Exactly.”

So, for those people: I don’t think Nadia Comaneci owns a cat, but I did find a cat named Nadia Comaneci on PetFinder.com:

Nadia Comaneci

Her litter mate, Mary Lou (that is for realsies) is sick, but Nadia is available for adoption in Alabama. I would come up with a different answer for “how did you find out about us” than “I was searching for Olympic pussies on the internet”, though.

********************************************************************************************

My Weekly Round Up!

The Politicus: Nations hold intervention with Iran. It does not go well.

ZuuzSavvy: Mom needs a break!

Imperfect Parent: Did you know that every time you click on one of my articles at Minor Topics, an angel gets its wings? And I make about 1/8 of a penny? But, you know, do it for the angels.

Have an awesome weekend, everyone!!

So we dug up a dead dog the other day…….

May 23, 2012

Well, this was a new one for me. I have never dug up anything dead before. Or anything alive, for that matter, thank goodness. I have buried dead animals before……….pets. All pets. Who died of natural causes. But we always got them cremated and then buried the ashes. No fuss, no maggots, no muss.

I asked Mike how his family used to bury their pets. Here was his answer: “Well, my Dad would dig holes for fence posts, and we’d just drop them in there.” And that is why I never ask Mike questions about his childhood.

Anyway. Back to our corpse. Last weekend we had a plumbing issue………something started leaking water, I guess? That is the extent of my knowledge about the problem because plumbing falls firmly under “Mike stuff.” Something sprung a leak and Mike called the plumber. Cool. Say no more.

It was a Friday morning, so Mike took the morning off to deal with the plumber. I took the kids to preschool and came back home to do some writing. I sat down on my comfy chair in the living room and opened the front window to let in the breeze. Mike was out there helping the plumber dig into the ground above the water pipe. They were just chit chatting, and then I heard Mike say, “Huh! It’s a box!”

Oh no.

“It’s either treasure or this must be where they buried the bodies! Ha ha!”

This will so not be treasure. Oh god. So not treasure.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here……………………………….AW JEEZ.”

“AW JEEZ” is Mike code for something is seriously fucked up. For example, someone breaks their leg and half the bone poking is through the skin. Or he sees a picture of Hitler french kissing a miniature pony.

A slightly lower level of Mike panic is “aw…….DAMNIT.” Generally this means he has either done something supremely stupid, or he’s bleeding (usually the result of the stupid thing) and knows I am going to force him to put on a band-aid. Mike hates band-aids. And I just realized I need to be exploiting this. Someone find me a “print your own band-aid” shop and a picture of Meryl Streep, STAT.

Back to the corpse again.

Mike turned to the plumber and said, “You get one guess. What do you think it is?”

Yup. Dead dog. Or at least, Mike says it was a dead dog. I’m not sure how you can identify a particular kind of animal from looking at a pile of hair and teeth.

When Mike pried the lid off that little wooden coffin, he saw something wrapped in blankets and plastic. The plastic………now, I understand that wrapping the body in plastic is a very practical move (you know, for fluids and rotting and stuff). But it’s kinda Goodfellas, don’t you think? Like putting a steak in the doghouse and then the dog walks in and wonders why it’s standing on a clear plastic tarp.

Once Mike got to the blanket/plastic layer, he moved from using his hands to poking it with a stick. Smart fella. He poked at the blanket till he saw fur, and decided that was enough. But still, he knows “for sure” it was a dog. Meanwhile, I’m left wondering if it was some awesome human/dog hybrid that the previous owner created in their garage/laboratory and then had to kill and bury when they realized it lacked the capacity to feel empathy. Well, I guess we’ll never know now. MIKE.

Later, I asked him what he did with the coffin. He said, “oh, it’s outside by the trash can.” To which I replied in maybe a somewhat panicked voice, “Honey! You need to get rid of that thing immediately or at least find a better hiding spot because our kids are going to come home, see a small box, wonder what is in it and if it is awesome, open it up, and then they will never stop having nightmares!!!”

I guess I should have specified that a better hiding spot would not be on our property, because I just now — A WEEK LATER — asked Mike whatever happened to it, and he said, “It’s in the garage.” Sorry? What was that? Oh yeah. Still in the house. This is not exactly the kind of thing you hang on to, Mike. I know all about being lazy, but “too lazy to dispose of the corpse” is, I believe, a new low.

The plan is to take it to the dump. Sorry “Rover” or “Fluffy” or “Doug” (because that is what I would name my dog/human hybrid). There’s no dignity in death. When I told my friend Jenny this story, she said, “Can you take it to the dump? Is that, like, okay?” It occurred to me that that is an excellent question. So I asked Mike. And he said, “Oh yeah, sure! I’ll send you the link. I’ve actually looked this up before.”

Of course he has.

So here are the rules for disposing of dead animals in Seattle, in case you were wondering. Which — admit it — you kinda were at this point:

• If the animal weighs less than 15 pounds, but can’t fit down the toilet, just chuck it in the trash with your coffee filters and used post its. (I might be paraphrasing, here)
• If it weighs more than 15 pounds, or there is a large number of dead animals, it should be taken to somewhere like a vet clinic or animal shelter, or buried on the owner’s property. (So if for some reason you just happen to have large number of animal corpses to dispose of, or one enormous one, just go ahead and bury them wherever in your backyard. Holy shit, Seattle.)
• And if you want more information on animal carcasses, they give you a link for the Dept. of Natural Resources and Park.

And yes, I did want more information. The resulting link was so fantastic and yet terrifying that I had to share it.

Mm-hm. Just clickety click click. “Hello, thank for calling! Yes sir, I’d be happy to help you get rid of your unwanted dead animals. I just have a few questions. Are the dead animals from your home or business? Ok, and would you say they were killed for business or pleasure? Excellent. And do they come from a smoking or non-smoking home? Wonderful. Ok. Just a moment while the computer sorts through your informa — ah, there it is. What you’re going to want to do here is dig a hole. Yup. Have a great day, now!”

Things I have done as a parent while on the toilet.

May 21, 2012

1. Wiped butts —  and not my own, ironically. There is something about wiping someone else’s butt while you yourself are urinating that makes you feel like you have fallen down some kind of wormhole of buttholes.

2. Shampooed hair. The toilet is right next to the bathtub, and I am an efficient motherfucker.

3. Put on socks.

4. Fixed a toy (I’m sure that when MacGyver had kids, he was fixing things while on the toilet all the time.)

5. Peeled a banana. Sanitary? No. Did the kids complain? Totally no.

6. Screamed across the house and solved an argument.

7. Listened to stories without clear plots that go on forever and been expected to participate.

8. Provided first aid.

In a civilized world, the few minutes when you are relieving your bowels would be totally hands-up, time out, talk amongst yourselves time for parents. I mean, if I am just sitting there passing the time…….as I do sometimes…..then I am happy to answer your question about “why we turn left.” But please. When I am actually pushing, just give a fellow human being a second.

Silver lining: when I update my resume, I can say that I am excellent at multi-tasking in stressful situations.

Strengths: Does not require bathroom breaks. Can do a conference call and type up the minutes while wiping.

I broke myself.

May 15, 2012

Dudes. I am broken.

Last night I was lifting weights — you know, in between my protein shakes and hormone injections — when I bent over to pick up one of my weights and jammed my fingers or wrist or something……then end result being that my left shoulder is more or less immobile today. Which also makes my left hand pretty useless, and that’s the big hand! So the little hand is having all kinds of new experiences today. “What’s that?! You want ME to lift the milk out of the fridge?!! Well, I never thought I’d……..wow……well this is just such an honor…..”

Do you know how much you use your shoulder in everyday activities? A whole lot, as it turns out. I have had shoulder problems for years and I am always amazed at how much it affects everyday activities. Like standing up. And bending over. And turning my head. It is a sad state of affairs. I have to keep everything above my waist so still that I look like one of those people in a horror movie who is brainwashed into killing? Walking slowly, one small step at a time down the hallway, eyes forward, arms not moving….. I’m like the chick from Paranormal Activity. Just standing over my bed not moving for four hours. Because I can’t bend over and tie my shoes.

Camping in hell. Don’t forget your cyanide pills!

May 14, 2012

It’s starting to feel like summer again! Or, out here in Seattle, Summer-ish. Meaning, we can see the sun and there are no puddles. So I think it’s time for my camping story.

Last summer, Mike and I took the kids camping. Along with three other couples. And their twins. That’s eight….EIGHT three-year-olds and their parents. Oh and we also brought beer.

We had never taken the kids camping before. This trip would supposedly be an easy way to start out because we would be “glamping.” Glamour camping. Oh yes, this is a thing. It seemed ideal — nice comfy bed for mom and dad, futon for the kids, and yet still in a tent. Well, a platform tent. More like a yurt.

You’re still peeing in the woods, but it’s “fancy” peeing. By the way, I should note that you aren’t actually supposed to to pee in the woods there. They have a restroom but it was like a 5 minute walk away, which no one wanted to do in pitch black at 3am. Also some of us may have used our toddler’s potty chairs but I will most certainly not name any names. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

This was going to be our grand summer of 2011 adventure (we live big, people). We took the ferry over, which was also a first for the kids. Oh my gosh, do you know how windy it is on the deck of a ferry? VERY. I was sure that a wayward gust was going to pick up one of my kids and toss them into the water, where they would meet a pack of Orcas and be raised as one of their own. It’d be like The Jungle Book only wetter.

We drove out to the campsite, which is just past the llamas and the camel (someone on that island owns a real camel which they MUST rent out for rides, because there is no other reason to own a camel in the San Juan Islands, unless you have an expensive taste for the unusual — “I bought a camel today! Because why not?” and I can respect that), got to the campsite and fun times commenced. The kids had a blast running around between the fancy tents and screaming. The couple that somehow managed to book a tent in the middle of all of us was completely psyched. They probably planned for a romantic, quiet weekend away from the kids, only to discover themselves surrounded by four sets of twins. Son of a whore. Sorry folks.

For our big “cooking over the campfire” dinner that night, we made pizzas and S’mores. Heaven for small children, right? Well, guess who doesn’t like S’mores? Three-year-olds. I know, it is completely counter-intuitive. You would think no one would like a S’more MORE than a three-year-old but you would be mistaken, my friend. Suddenly, these children who pick their noses and lick worms thought S’mores made their hands “too sticky.” Whatever. More S’mores for me. BY THE WAY, (completely off topic) did you know that they make Fluffed Marshmallow flavored vodka now?!!! Is that not the most foul thing you can imagine or at least in your top 20?!! Jeeeeeeez! I’ll bet it would have gone really well with the Smores, though.

“Whipped or fluffed? It’s not just for porn anymore.”

We went to bed somewhere around 9 or 10. The kids had to share a futon so there was a lot of “she’s kicking me” and “he’s on my side” but eventually they fell asleep. Till 2am. Then my darling daughter started screaming. For no goddamn reason at all. Have you got any idea how LOUD it is when a child screams at 2am in the woods? It’s like that old saying, “If a child screams in the forest at night and everyone hears it, does their mother die inside?” Yes. Yes she does.

So Mike and I were up trying to shut her the hell up, and it wasn’t working, and then it worked for about half an hour, and then it stopped working again. We tried calming her, making her laugh, threatening her with marriage to the Kardashian baby — nothing was working. Then Mike and I started bitching at each other because we were all stressed out that our three-year-old was waking up who knows how many people and animals, either of whom might be so annoyed that they could be provoked into attacking us, and then what a mess that would be when they find this family of four murdered in their high-class yurt and all the squirrels are pointing at each other. It was MISERABLE.

The line up. Owl is the sheriff in this scenario.

Finally at about 5am we decided we needed to try something else, and since it was officially early morning we loaded everyone in the car and drove around the island for the next hour or so. The kids were screaming, Mike was all pissed off, and I was crying saying, “Let’s just go home! I simply cannot do another night like this!!” (stress and lack of sleep turn me into Scarlett O’Hara). Did I mention we were supposed to be there for two nights? Yeah. And nooooooooo. When we got back, we waited until one member of our group woke up and said, “Good morning. Last night was one of the worst nights of our lives. We are hopping on the next boat to wherever and getting the hell out of here.” I’m sure it seemed like an over-reaction. Our friends were like, “Are you sure you don’t at least want to spend a few hours exploring the island since you’re here……” and we were like, “Fuck no. We’re out. It is much to difficult to give a child a time out when you are in the woods. For one, ours need to be caged for time outs and two, we might forget which tree we put them under. The risks are too great. Also one of us might drive our car off a cliff. It’s for the children!” And we skipped town.

It was a bad, bad experience. But now the kids are a year older, and here we are contemplating another camping trip this summer. But this time it would be full on “tent on the dirt” camping. I feel more optimistic this time, though. For one thing, we refuse to go to another island so that our means of escape is not blocked by water. For another, I am an idiot.

I’ll let you know how it goes! Just as soon as we actually plan it.

Food, you’re my best friend.

May 9, 2012

I am about to get really real here, people. This is a post I have been trying to write for a while but could never quite sit down and do it. Because it’s embarrassing. And raw. And being vulnerable makes me nauseous. But it’s an important part of my life and one I think is important to write about here. Because I have no filter or sense of personal shame. But don’t worry, this isn’t totally serious and stuff. I am not actually able to function in a “serious” way, which makes me a real treat at funerals. So anyway, here it goes:

I have a little issue with food. It’s very much a BrokeBack Mountain kind of relationship, between me and food. I wish I knew how to quit it, and it lies to its wife about going fishing with me. Except replace “going fishing” with “eating Ben & Jerry’s.”

“Is that the pizza guy?”

When I was a teenager I was diagnosed with Binge Eating Disorder or “BED”, or “the place where you like to eat cookies.” I started bingeing when I changed schools for the first time in eighth grade. I remember sitting down in the kitchen of our home in Brooklyn, and — though not entirely sure why I was doing it — eating a big bowl of vanilla ice cream. And while I have been up and down since then, I have struggled with it ever since.

The reasons why are all very cliche and boring. It fills a hole, it comforts me, it whispers sweet nothings in my ear, it is a tender and considerate lover (I am kidding about at least one of those things). It’s my method of coping and has been for so long that I don’t know how to do without it. And since I am super crazy, I tend to sink into bad feelings. And what makes bad feelings go away? Carbs. That is a fact. I swear. Ask your doctor………or the guy at the bagel store. Same difference.

Take twice a day, or as needed.

Also, fat is safe. Fat is ignored in a crowd. And as someone who does not do well talking to people in social situations, that works well for me. I would say that almost every time I come home from spending time with other people, I find at least one thing I said that was really fucking stupid. So if I can hide quietly in a corner, that would be best. Except that I am just self-destructive enough to start getting all friendly and outgoing and then everything goes to shit. Which is why I need a stiff shot of milkshake when I get home.

I talked to someone about my food issues a few months ago, and they said they had the same problem. They said, “oh yeah — sometimes I get home from work and go to the freezer and get a few scoops of ice cream to feel better.” That’s kinda adorable. A few scoops of ice cream is what I call an “amuse bouche”.

So filling!

Let me give you an idea of what a champion eater I am. You know that guy Kobayashi? The one that wins all of the hot dog eating contests? Well, I wouldn’t be able to beat him at hot dogs, but put us on a couch with hundreds of pints of Ben & Jerrys and a Friday Night Lights marathon and I’d be all, “So Landry just goes to Chicago and that’s it?!! Pass me another Chunky Monkey.” And he’d be all, “I would like a hot dog.”

Now, of course, the issue is more complicated because I have children. And, in particular, because I have a daughter. A feisty, opinionated, adventurous daughter. One that I don’t want to feel trapped by her body, or to have any space in her amazing little head preoccupied with thoughts of weight and shape. And I want to be a good example, but after 20 years, habits are really difficult to change, as it turns out. And the only time I am completely disinterested in food is when I am in mourning. So unless that guy who cheated on me in college has any ideas, or my Dad wants to die again (and I cannot imagine he does), then I am screwed for the time being.

I know I am far far FAR from the only person who struggles with these issues. That is a big part of why I wanted to write about it. I read somewhere — I wish I could remember where — that if there is a personal issue that you are scared to write about, you can be sure that there are people out there who are feeling the exact same thing. And I know that must be true. So there it is. I still have hope that one day I’ll be able to work through it. But I also have hope for a house monkey. So………..hope springs eternal, I guess.

Ancestry dot snooooooooore.

May 7, 2012

A year or so ago, I got really interested in genealogy. I guess because I knew nothing about my family’s history, and to be honest I barely remember most of my own childhood. Then that show “Who Do You Think You Are?” started airing, and I found out that Gwyneth Paltrow’s ancestors are half from Barbados and half jewish Kabbalah scholars (only you, Paltrow). That got me excited to see what I would find out about my ancestors and what amazing stories I would uncover. Turns out the answer is — no offense great grandma Flora Fae — but you know all those events, both big and small, that changed our world? Yeah. My ancestors were too busy plowing to be there. Apparently we are a simple people who marry once (twice if the first one dies), have a million kids, and farm. It’s the periphery of history.

Here are the main discoveries to date:

1. I come from a long line of farmers. Lots and lots of poor farmers. Farmers from Kentucky and Ohio. Farmers from South Dakota. Farmers, farmers, farmers. Every once in a while I’d come across a blacksmith and be all “Oooooooooh………….a blacksmith!”

Our great great great granddaughter does what all day? Can we use your time machine to go beat her with the sharp side of our scythe? Super. But we can’t be gone too long, because we need to get back to do MANUAL LABOR ALL DAY LONG SO THAT WE CAN EAT A BOWL OF DIRT SOUP.

2. Whitley County, Kentucky is my hood. I have ancestors living there and nowhere else as far back as the 1700’s. Whitley, Kentucky, in case you didn’t know, is the birthplace of Kentucky Fried Chicken. YOU’RE WELCOME.

3. There are some magnificent names in my ancestry: Barsheba, Eleazer, Plikard, LittleBerry, and my personal favorite, Ballentine Ransom Creekmore (farmer). It’s very, “danger is my middle name.” Except slightly less awesome.

“Ransom is my middle name.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

4. Not a lot of divorce going on on my side of the family. If people married more than once, it’s because the first spouse died. Or was murdered. Not really sure — not a lot of information there. Could go either way………..Mike.

5. My great grandparents on my Dad’s side (all farmers) came from Hand County, South Dakota. HAND COUNTY, people. If you don’t understand why that is ironic, you should read this. Oh my gosh, you guys, I might never stop:

I must be an outlaw from Hand County.

I tried to become a resident of Hand County, but they washed their “hand” of me.

I was fired from my job in Hand County. As a handy man.

Ok enough.

I have 130 more Likes on Facebook than you do.

6. My middle name is Holt, from Martha Margaret Holt (wife of a farmer), my 3rd great grandmother on my mom’s side. What’s her story? Well, as far as I can tell she lived in Whitley County her whole life and had a butt load of kids. I guess that’d be a “vagina-load” of kids. Well, not even. A “uterus load” would probably be the most accurate. A “uterus load” kind of sounds like some sort of shipping term,doesn’t it?

“Yeah Jim, I got a Uterus Load of shellfish here for pick up.”

“A Uterus Load? How the heck am I going to carry that?!”

“Don’t know, Jim. Maybe you can take it over by the Testicle.”

“Good thinking.”

7. One of my ancestors, Plikard Siler (owned a flour mill……..so sort of related to farming), moved to North Carolina from Germany and settled in what is now Siler City, North Carolina. That means I own that city, right? No? Do I at least get a free breakfast? DAMNIT!

The town motto is “Balanced for Progress.” I can’t try to figure out what that means for too long or I get dizzy and nauseous.

So there you have it. Meredith’s ancestors — the people who laid down manure on the footpath of history. So that they could farm it.

The Big Trip. Bork bork bork.

May 2, 2012

I realize that by now you all are probably tired of hearing about this trip. But I feel that such an epic departure from my usual child wrangling days deserves a recap post. But this is going to be the last one. I super duper pinkie swear. So settle in, kids! It’s vacation slide show time!

The good news is that I am only going to tell you about Stockholm. We weren’t in Helsinki very long and Oslo can go suck a dick. NO, NO, I’m kidding. Oslo was fine. We saw the most amazing castle there. It was gorgeous! And then we found out that the castle was used to hold prisoners awaiting execution by the Nazis during World War II. See? “Come see our beautiful castle! Isn’t it incredible? Hey — guess how many innocent people were executed here? You’ll never guess!! It’s crazy!” You can’t blame present day Oslo for this, of course. But shit like that just kept happening there.

“Welcome to your hotel! Isn’t it fantastic?! Hey — guess how late the club across the street from your window stays open? 2am? NO WAY! You get to enjoy the base beats of DJ Utfart till 3:30 in the morning!” (this happened. every night.)

“Look at all these teenagers wearing red overalls! Isn’t that kinda funny and cute? Yeah. Hey — did you know that this is a high school hazing and they aren’t allowed to wash those overalls for three weeks and they have to do things like kiss each other and stay up for three days straights to earn prizes like pieces of rope and twigs?” (this is a fact.)

So………anyway. Let’s talk about Stockholm.

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN

I am not going to kid you guys. Stockholm is the most beautiful city I have ever seen. And I have lived in central Iowa, so……..you know I’m serious.

I realize this is an alley. But it is a pretty great alley. When I get my illegal back alley abortion, this is where I'm going. For the ambiance.

If I had to pick one thing to tell you about from my time in Stockholm……..and I do, because I care about your time…….it would be this one. Ladies and gentlemen, meet EyeLips.

No. You will never un-see this.

Gosh. Where do I begin to tell you the tale of EyeLips. EyeLips lives at the National Gallery in Stockholm, on the top floor. Which is lucky, because it has no hands to press elevator buttons and I don’t think it handles stairs too well. EyeLips was part of an exhibit called “Passions”, which in addition to a variety of paintings of Jesus also had a video of a man looking into the camera and screaming. So it was a lot like walking the streets of Manhattan: “Good day, Jesus. Oh hello, screaming man. Carry on, carry on.”

We went into one of the rooms and were walking around looking at art when all of a sudden we heard, “Hey you. Hi there. You look fantastic.”  I haven’t heard that shit since I was 23 so I turn around, and there is EyeLips. Three balls, with video of eyes and a mouth projected onto it. It blinks. The mouth makes kissing noises. And it keeps talking to you.

Dudes, it was awful. None of us wanted to go near it. We just politely thanked it for the compliments and moved to the nearest “out” door. But for the rest of the day we could not stop thinking about it, so my sister Stephanie and I went back the next day on reconnaissance. We had to know what this thing was — not just who created it but more importantly, why? And we needed a picture. HERE’S THE THING — not only were we at great peril as security was particularly tight around EyeLips that day, but we could not find any information about it in the room. NONE. Usually these things have the artist’s name (here, it would be something like, “My parents requested I not use my real name”), the name of the piece (“EyeLips”), and what the artist was trying to achieve (“Discomfort. Nightmares. Speculation about what EyeLips did to Nose.”) So we are pretty sure that EyeLips was dropped there by Satan to do his bidding. Because I think sometimes Satan just likes to fuck with people. I mean, after all the genocide and murder and all his other work work work, don’t you think he likes to unwind by just making people uncomfortable? That’s what I would do. I’d be a totally awesome Discomfort Devil. I don’t want to do the other stuff, but maybe I could be his assistant and he can just delegate Discomfort to me. Am I alone in thinking that that might be the best job ever? Fine. Less competition for the job.

Here are some other things I enjoyed in that fine city:

This is what all of the exit signs look like over there. I appreciate that, because you can tell that wherever this guy is, he is getting the hell out of there.

What I really need is something that will accentuate my hips. Do you know where I can find something like that?

Either "slut" means "final" like the books say, or these lizards should give their mothers a call. Have some self-respect, lizards.