I'm entirely sure, you're entirely sure, what I'm suggesting.

Interception!
Yet another of the million reasons I cannot wait to vote again for my President, Barack Obama -- I'll let Mr. Gleemonex take this one:

Which teen would you rather have grow up to be president? A guy who peacefully hangs with his friends hotboxing pakalolo or a dick who pins a guy down and forcefully cuts his hair off cuz he looks different and is probably gay?

On a slightly different but related note: We watched Obama on Fallon (finally), and it was awesome. But I wanna take a moment to discuss the futon that was in the cool-ass photo they discussed on air -- a young Barry, looking cool as shit with a small fro and a nice smile, sitting on a futon covered in (probably) a sheet, with a plant in the background (Fallon was like, "Lookit you, tryna be all grown up, class up the place with a plant!" Heh.). And I'm thinking: I will bet you one hundred dollars, cash American, that Mitt "Entitled Motherfuckin Gay-bashing Asstard" Romney has no fucking idea what a futon is. I mean that if you asked him to define the word, he could not get anywhere close; he would not even know that it belongs in the category "furniture." It works in reverse, too: If you showed him a photo, he absolutely could not come up with the word "futon." Why would he? He's never seen one in his entire life. Futons are for Poors, and he's never even met one of those. 


The craw -- in which this is stuck -- is getting crowded
So also (you'll notice a theme here) we're always like two or three weeks behind on SNL episodes (the fact that we are awakened at the very tippy-top of the asscrack of dawn every morning -- even weekends and holidays! --  by the four-year-old bursting through our door with a book has much to do with this), and we only just watched the one with Kristen Wiig's big send-off a few days ago, and I have not been able to get over it. 


I don't like her much -- at least, not unalloyed. When she's allowed to hog up all the airtime with her awful maybe-funny-the-first-time-but-certainly-not-the-forty-third-time recurring sketches as she's done the last couple of years, it's goddamn near unbearable (not as bad as the dull, stupid horrorshow that is Armisen, but still, not good). (Quick note about Bridesmaids, if I may -- I laughed a LOT more than I thought I would, which is entirely attributable to the Feig/Apatow influence, but both Wiig and Rudolph were about five to seven years too old for their characters; it took me out of the story a little.) 


And but so whatever, I'm only one person. Other people dig her flavor. BUT: Why the big sendoff? Did I miss how she's so deeply, universally beloved and revered as both person and sketch comic that her FINALLY leaving is such a notable event -- the Passing of an Era, the Exit of a True Icon, the worth and weight of her presence so enormous that her departure demands tribute from All Who Came Before Her, to be noted by All Present and All Who Shall Ever Follow? 


Fucking Cocksnacking Shatner, what a load that was. There've been a few sendoffs of note, but nobody who's ever been on that show has ever had anything like this one. Ugh. Well, silver lining: No more Wiig on SNL! Yay! Now -- can we get rid of Armisen? Please? PLEASE. I beg. 

When I am King you will be first against the wall

So I'm looking through the restaurants section of Fodor's Hawaii 2012, for I shall soon have need of it, and I find I am mentally totting up:

Words and Phrases You Must Fucking Stop Using When Writing About Restaurants -- I Don't Care That It's Hard to Come Up With Other Words, Because That's What You Fucking Get Paid For: A Partial List

eatery
     This word is the living devil. 

wash down
     Ugh. Puts one in mind of having stuff stuck in the throat.

save room
     In my stomach, you mean? Bleah. Pleasant image.

flock
     Do the locals really travel there in a pack, moving as one? Really? 

decadent
     So sick of good/bad moral judgements & valuations in re: food.

churning out
     This is supposed to increase my desire to go to this place? They "churn out" food?

melt in your mouth
     Again with the mouth stuff.

gobble
     I believe I have already discoursed 'pon this topic at some length.

veggies
     Ditto.

chow down
     Perhaps you want I should chow down at the place that churns out food? What is this, a barnyard?

addicts
     So you mean people who would sell their own mama's pink housecoat for forty cent to get just one rock of it?

How about a nice warm cup of shut the hell up?

A Partial List of Unreasonable Grudges I Have Held for a Minimum of Twenty-Five Years

--The "bunny-fur coat" my cousin L. got from my grandmother E. This is one of the really stupid ones -- L., four years older than me, was/is a child of the Unfavored Daughter of my grandparents (whereas my siblings and I were from the Most Favored Son), and lived in another state, so only visited once a year at most. When I was about 9 and she 13, my grandmother took her shopping -- like she did us about every damn week -- and bought her a fur jacket. Rabbit fur. Which my cousin wore around ALL GODDAMN WEEK, hugging herself and prattling on about it. I should let it go because: A) who cares, B) I already had one, bought by the very same grandmother, C) those cousins never got anything, because of favoritism and also they lived across the country as opposed to half a mile away, so who is so small as to begrudge a goddamn jacket? I haven't let it go because: SHUT UP ABOUT THE BUNNY-FUR JACKET, L! And go home already! You guys are hogging my grandparents! Length of grudge to date: 29 years.


--The 4th/5th grade music teacher who always told us to "keep it down to a dull thud" during free play. It's dull ROAR you're looking for, dumbass. Dull ROAR. "Dull thud" is a thing, but it isn't THIS thing. Length of grudge to date: 27 years.


--My cousin A., who put the fucking giant rubber spider in his family's swimming pool and wouldn't take it out, so I had to get out of the pool on one of the hottest days all goddamn summer and not go back in. He and I are friends now, and I adore him, but William H. SHATNER, I am never ever going to get over the way that thing undulated in the water. Eeeeeeeeeeeeegh! Length of grudge to date: 29 years. 


--My friend C.'s parents trying to make me call them "sir" and "ma'am" during the entirety of this extremely hot, buggy, terrible week-long trip to some awful lake or other in the height of summer when I was about eight. We didn't do "sir" and "ma'am" in my family, it was really embarrassing and stupid and felt like they were the principal of the school all the time, and it made a rough (allegedly fun) week even worse. Length of grudge to date: 30 years. 


--My cousin S. (sibling of cousin A. and four years older than me) and her bitch friend S.S. ditching me that time I was over there getting babysat by S.'s older sister. I blame S.S. for this; she was the one who came up with the "there are Oreos in the kitchen -- why doncha go get some for all three of us?" ruse. When I came back, after a fruitless search for Oreos, they were gone. Length of grudge to date: 30 years. 


--That bitch who bit my little sister at daycare at Mrs. Book's house. She friended me on Facebook a few months ago. I still might bite her back someday. She should watch out. Length of grudge to date: 31 years.

I've never met a literate stonemason.

Yoicks, I really disappeared on you guys for awhile, huh? I had to go back to the Day Job for awhile, but that's all done with now -- thanks to the twin factors of Mr. Gleemonex is awesome and daycare for two = almost as much as our jumbo Cali mortgage, I have parted ways with that joint forevermore. I am now officially a full-time mom and part-time writer -- which is actually my dream job, no kidding around.

And as happy as I am with this new arrangement, it's weird -- I've never not worked for dollars, not since childhood. I was hustlin my parents and grandparents for cash when I was like four years old (extra chores, what have you), started full-charge babysitting when I was nine, kept the church nursery all through high school, had lemonade stands, pulled a wagon full of soft drinks, ice and candy bars through the Reunion grounds while people were getting their camps ready, yada yada yada. A paycheck makes me feel safe -- I grew up in a freelance household, and y'all -- that life holds no romance to me, at all, and I'm only doing it now because I've run from it all my life and it's time to stop fucking around at stuff I'm NOT good at and get working on what I AM good at. Plus there's the ol' personal history factor, e.g. the fact that my dad was A)a massive sexist who didn't want his wife to work (because apparently it would have made his penis fall off) and B)not actually all that good at the "income generation" part of his self-designated Head of Household role, leading to all sorts of fun games such as "Did they shut the electricity off again today?" and watching my mom have to ask him for money to go to the grocery store -- not good memories, and exactly the baggage that led to me keeping my toxic pointless fuckaround of a day job longer than was good for any of us.

And but so, I am not my mom, Mr. Gleemonex is not my dad, and this is our life -- our kids will never be this age again, everything in my heart wants to be home with them, and now I finally have the time to write -- y'all best dig up your Z.Cavaricci long shorts, put some Violent Femmes in the CD player, and look the fuck out for this book I'm working on. It's gonna be awesome.