Recently in Mildly Entertaining Category

But even as they have both completely let it go for the night, I’m sitting here watching this thing over and over again. Curse the devil that made me buy an iPhone. I will now attempt to embed this little video of love into this blog.

You know the blog where I feel weird about sharing too much about my kids… Yes, that one. Don’t let your heart explode, you know, because of the love.

And it only took me 30 hours to add this clip to my post. What? It’s not like I own a ukulele and post ridiculously cute videos of myself on a weekly basis. That design company I owned came with it’s own PROGRAMMERS. This is all jam and jelly cake to me, YO. Lay the hate down.

But whatever… I hear you. BIG DEAL. The cute kids run and crawl back and forth, laughing, smiling… EMULATING. But…but, but… DON’T YOU SEE IT? They’re both HUGE, and moving around and making noises and attempting to play with each other. It’s called INSANITY, and I am now on the cliffs of thensuch. See you never.

I’ve been busy this and last week with design projects (can I get an AMEN!) and my new passion for becoming a film-maker. Yes. Maker-o-Films. I’m sure all of this excitement will result in mass quantities of manic behavior in the weeks to come, which can only lead to blog abuse. Hold tight.

I was inspired to write this post by another blogger that goes by Finslippy, aka Alice Bradley.
Yeah, her.

Yes — she written for gobs of publications and even authored a few books, and therefore yes, she is relatively famous.

And Yes — I tend to shy away from bloggers that have somehow “made it” in the blogging world, by… you know — BLOGGING and writing books. Not for any real particular reason other than the fact that I am a relatively unheard of blogger… And therein lies some sort of crazy ball of rubber bands.

Because — a few hundred might read this… and I’m quite astounded by that. Whereas Alice Bradley has to worry about … Oh, thousands upon thousands. And I’m not so sure that I could handle that kind of pressure. But here I am. Going against the unwritten rule of bloggers blogging about bloggers… but that’s okay. Because just like my friend Gretchen Rubin, whom I pounced on over the summer of 2010, Finslippy is also unaware that I know her, and she’ll probably never know because I am not that person. Nope. Not me. I’m that other person that reads her blogs and books and whatnot and never comments or makes myself known. Because what she writes is almost too good. Too funny. Too true. And therefore too weird for me to be all HI LOOK AT ME, I LOVE YOU. Because, that would be a little odd, right?

But lately Alice (in my head she asked me to call her that) has been writing posts for a cause — “DonorsChoose.org allows donors to directly fund projects for teachers in struggling schools. Any amount you can donate will make a huge difference for these teachers! To date we’ve helped fund FIVE classroom projects. Donate any amount up to $100 and enter the match code FINSLIPPY at checkout, and your donation will be matched. Thank you!” — In doing so, she has been going over her personal experience for each grade-school year and last week she wrote about fourth grade. And as I read her post from last week, about her teacher Mr. Klein that didn’t like her because she was messy, I found myself transported back to third grade (fourth seems to me missing from my database — must have been a stellar year!) when my teacher was Mrs. Cos.

Mrs. Cos didn’t dislike me, she just didn’t like kids very much and definitely hated my best friend. She would spy on us and if she even caught wind of any after school plans, she would find a reason to keep my friend after school… always staring at me in defiance as she lay the punishment. It left me feeling defeated, like I should have done something to save my friend, but obviously I was weak and powerless. She was mean and picked on people, like a bully — but only so much worse because she was THE TEACHER (echo echo echo). There was crying in her classroom everyday, if my memory serves me right. But that was neither here nor there because, best friend aside, it seemed that I was flying low on her radar.

That is until my family went on a little trip to my Grandma’s house and our luggage flew off the top of our orange Dodge Colt, and into the dark of night while driving on Interstate 287.

And it was scary. My Dad playing chicken with the traffic — IN THE DARK — attempting to retrieve whatever belongings he could…. items that were not worth his risking his life running around on the highway as my Mom, sister and I peered over the backseat. Items, that in retrospect as we laugh at the situation, meant nothing but did include my school books and homework materials. And while I could have been all like “SCORE!!!” to the fact that I was unable to complete any and all assignments — the dread and fear of having to explain this to Mrs. Cos was immediately stifling. But, my Mom wrote a note.

Handing the note to Mrs. Cos, my hand was shaking. It isn’t until now that I can remember this vividly… it was warm out — the windows to the classroom were open and the kids playing outside on their recess made for excess noise that was only fueling my anxiety. I gave her the note and ran back to my desk, hiding my head in my arms. The howl of her laughter burned through my head, setting my ears aflame. She read the note aloud. My classmates were confused — was this funny? They laughed a little, but hesitated probably out of fear since the woman in charge seemed to be spinning off into another dimension. The rage of her antics caught the attention of other teachers in the vicinity as they were called in to partake. Mrs. Cos was in her limelight, what could be funnier? The dog eating the homework, or a brutally honest note from Ryan’s Mom stating that pages 6-12 were laying lifeless on the side of 287. The other teachers reacted with hesitation as well. Why was this woman laughing so hard when, clearly, I didn’t think it was funny. The tears pouring from my eyes as some tried to comfort me.

But it is a sad, sad story. The ability of one homely little woman to create a memory so vivid that the smell of the day remains some twenty eight years later. That day went on — although I can’t remember the rest. And onto the next, yes. I have totally gotten over it, although I’ll never tie a piece of luggage to the top of anything, ever. Reaching back, finding the memories of what is funny now but what was once perceived (i before e except after c) traumatic, is indeed an experience in itself.

I went online this morning to look up how to beat Pneumonia, but apparently it isn’t on the top of Google’s list…

But WHY NOT?  Because, Will is currently moaning after every Pneumonic cough. Josephine is coughing as well, but with only a cold we hope. And I — well let’s just say that I’m attempting to keep my head above the sea of mucus that I’m currently drowning in. Gross, I know… And apparently — Google doesn’t really know anything about priorities, although deleting Facebook might find us a healthier society… you know, one that doesn’t obsess over Superbowl commercials staring Clint Eastwood.

I’d say that I’m going to do something about this… get angry and mad that it always seems to be ME searching for the answers when there are so few. But no. I’m tired… SO VERY TIRED. So, here… while we’re getting better, this is what we looked like last week — when life was fair and noses were simply running and Dirty Harry was, well…. DIRTY.

Currently accepting love and sympathy at an arms distance.

And here we are. A new year.

Fresh. New. Untouched. Unaffected. And oddly — feeling almost exactly like it did last year.

But that’s not reason to worry. Feeling the same as it did less than a week ago isn’t a bad thing, right? We aren’t supposed to run around changing EVERYTHING immediately, right? I mean… I suppose there are freaks people out there that say “I’M CHANGING, DAMMIT” and then, BOOM, everything is different. There’s nothing seemingly wrong with taking our time. Deciding that we want to do something, think about it… patiently… toil over the details while moving in slow motion. Quietly making the necessary adjustments before we LEAP FORWARD into new things. And I know you were picturing a graceful gazelle just now as I said ‘LEAP FORWARD’… because we are talking about the visions in my mind — and you need to see things as I’m seeing them if we are going to embark on anything together — and in no way am I referencing a leap “year”. Because I don’t think I could handle losing one entire day in 2012. No. No empty, invisible, take-away days — because this is going to be the YEAR OF ME. And you’re coming too.

I’m thinking about making some changes, and since these are life long — they do NOT fall into the evil and ever-failing RESOLUTIONS category. And — I’m not just talking about the small stuff, like this is the last Coca Cola I will EVER drink. No. I’m talking about things that would normally fall on a “Life List”, which is something that I have mentioned in “They’re safe easy to clean and do not cause unpleasant buffeting”, (those were the days)… I’m talking about speeding up the process and, for almost the first time ever, TAKING MYSELF SERIOUSLY. Like — No more soda really means NO MORE HIGH FRUCTOSE ANYTHING…. And, while we’re at it, LEARN TO WINDSURF. But there really isn’t a rhyme or reason to any of this. AND I’m going big, at least for me. Way beyond the Ten Its. My attempts to formulate a list of things that I want to accomplish in the next 40-50 years (if I’m lucky) ranges from the absurd — Sleep through the night… to the mundane — Put Christmas away… to the balls out impossible — DO SOMETHING BIGger than before (I’m open for suggestions). So, I’m speeding it up and giving myself 365 days — although I’ve already lost 4 in the planning stage. So, starting NOW. Okay. After I finish this coke.

And I know. YEAR OF ME, sounds kind of selfish and completely unoriginal. And I totally agree. I completely ripped the idea off from The Summer of George on a Seinfeld rerun the other night. Only — as we all know, the Summer of George was a failed endeavor which saw Mr. Costanza in rehabilitation to regain his ability to walk. I know. NOT FUNNY. But it totally was. Even after watching it for the 40,000th time. His only mistake was that he attempted to do it all alone. Of which, I would never do. Because, yes. I love you too.

And so… as I need to get going on a few things. I am starting the list right now. Please note that this list will change — grow and hopefully shrink with cross-outs as I SUCCEED AT EVERYTHING I TRY. Also, please note that from the boring to the laugh your ass off NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN items all fall in no particular order. Because, that, my friends is life.

• Read all the books in my house before buying new ones
• Quit High Fructose Everything
• Breathe while eating and enjoy every bite
• Walks
• Share a picture everyday
• Teach Will to read
• Teach Jo to walk AND talk
• Not so much spending
• Learn to Windsurf
• Redesign this Blog
• Travel with the Kids
• Relearn CPR
• More NYC
• Go fishing
• Will’s Kitchen, the book
• Bronx Zoo
• Write a Screenplay
• Find the right babysitter (and hire her/him)
• Find my Medium
• Garden. For real.
• Go to the Openings
• Turn conversational Spanish into fluent
• Make edible egg free pasta
• Meet Martha
• Get Jo to sleep in her own bed
• Take more pictures
• Find the right, regular, paying gig

I’m alone currently. No really — Mr. Sal is in the city and both of my children are apparently sleeping. I say apparently because, really — who knows. And when my husband complained about having to spend the evening among adults at some fabulous dinner for business, I imagined myself inhaling a self-rolled ciggy, exhaling while speaking in a British accent “I cannot imagine anything more exhilarating (emphasis on the ‘EXXXHHHHIL‘) than a trip to the city”…. which is a scene that I totally ripped from the Virginia Wolf thriller of a movie, The Hours…. Starring Nicole Kidman…. Regarding several decades of women that seem to be going through unbelievable bouts of self-exploration… which is a nicer way of saying ‘depression’. And, although I am not depressed, or anywhere near the idea of going through a ’bout’ of anything — I do have to say that it’s getting harder and harder for me to remember what it was like to not have kids. To be able to just go. Just decide to do something and then do it….ALONE. ALOOOONE… And, considering this is the second time I’ve been alone in 2011, and most likely the last — what better time to run wild with abandon and go — GO — on 2011. On the other hand, it may have been a mistake to leave me alone, and this glass of wine is delicious…. I’ll wait until morning before I publish this.

Because 2011,
CHANGED MY LIFE.
AGAIN.
(sorry, that was loud. and this post is rather long.)

In 2011, we had a 2nd baby. We had a 2nd baby just when the first baby, now 4 years old, seemed well on his way to independence. And when I think about the dramatic and early entrance that Josephine made into our lives, paired with her current ability to get pretty much anything she wants — at 7.5 months old, it’s hard not to predict that we are in it for a lifetime. And again, NOT TO WORRY, when I say ‘in it’, I am of course referring to the bliss and unbridled happiness that comes with being Josephine’s Mom. The smiles. The heart-melting coos and squeals that make up for the refusal to sleep in her own bed. Or how she spits the baby food back out at you and then laughs at your reaction. But that’s okay, as you wipe the spring vegetable surprise from your face, just LOOK at how cute she is covered in puree…. and whatever, you can just forget about your hair — you aren’t going anywhere anyway.

But I know, having just done this for the past 4 years. This time is fleeting. It really is hard to believe that she’s 7.5 months old and that Will just completed his first semester of preschool. I mean… remember back when he was two and he quit napping and I thought my life was over? I mean… it really was over, but the realization was astounding… WHAT DO YOU MEAN I don’t have time to myself anymore? That I had to put my design ‘career’ (I know, don’t laugh) on hold, sit on the floor and PLAY? I mean REALLY. I’M EDUCATED — and LOOK, now I’m playing TRUCKS? But then it stopped. He did what most do and started playing BY HIMSELF. And then I was sad, alone… sitting on the floor with my trucks (not really). And now Jo — as demanding and irresistible a baby as there ever was…. tomorrow she’ll be kicking me out of her room and demanding to pierce something.

And, I know. I’m going to get to all of the other things that happened in 2011 — I’m just taking my time because I’m still alone. That, and I just can’t get over how pleased I am with everything in my life these days. The fun little boy I have. The food allergies that he seems to be growing out of (!) paired with his need to wear a fire helmet to the grocery store. The sweetest little girl I could have ever imagined — it’s even cute when she’s slapping my face and ripping my earrings out. I’ve even been working on a few design projects that seem to be moving along nicely, and I’m happy to report that things are calm both on the friend and family fronts.

All in all, while tooting my own horn from atop the highest pedestal, 2011 was a really good year all-around.

January… My sister Annie was married to her longtime love, Rob… Which led to a reunion of sorts in seeing friends and family that I haven’t seen in years, some of which read this bloggedy blog and therefore knew way more than I did about myself…. Later, I started reading an absurd amount of anything I could get my hands on, books – magazines, newspapers, a MANUSCRIPT written by a brilliantly talented individual that also had a baby in 2011… January was also the month when I started having Braxton Hicks otherwise known as false and not funny contractions even though I wasn’t due until the end of May. Good Times.

February found Mr. Sal and I returning to Portsmouth, NH where I took this picture whist Braxton Hicking all over New England:

I may never understand why I love this picture so much other than the fact that I was a giant pregnant lady salivating over the whole idea behind this window.

Nothing happened in March.
NOTHING.
Oh come on. It’s not like I was sitting on my hands or anything, although I was waiting for something to happen. Really, nothing happened and honestly, your bravado is rather rude.
FINE. Go see for YOURSELF.

April was one of the scariest months of my ENTIRE LIFE, although it started and ended with a blessing. I kicked the month off by opening the front section of the New York Times to see a 1937 picture of my long-passed Grandaddy on page A12 (with the crooked hat). This was a HUGE surprise and one that I will never forget… It made me feel individual and incognito all at the same time…. Here was this image of a man that all but a hand-full of us recognized thus giving the paper that day an entire different meaning than anyone in the world expected it to. And while there are pictures of people in newspapers everyday, this was a once in a hundred million lives, lifetime treat.

April was going to be a great month.

It was, however, only a few weeks into the month that Josephine decided to start her attempts of escaping from my belly — one of which found me in the hospital under the guise of false appendicitis. Her Alcatraz-like plan was foiled however, mostly due in part by the numerous prayers that were heard by the powers that be. But she didn’t hesitate to try again and five weeks before her due date, Josephine Dwyer was born. After a quick incubation, she arrived home healthy and happy — that is just as long as you are doing exactly what she wants you to. April was also the month when I read a book by Sammy Hagar (hangs head in shame) in approximately 2.5 hours — an amount of time that I will always regret losing…

The rest of the year has been a bit of a sleepless/timeless/listless haze filled with the closeness of growing and playtimes. There have been moments when I stop, clear my head and listen to the news or something, but for the most part I have been in an 8 month hibernation as a full time Mom. Two kids, as I am discovering, is intense. Beyond the trip that I thought I was signing up for, but also filled with an extraordinary balance and calm. Trying to make time for myself has proved to be near impossible, but when I feel the pull and struggle to do more, I come back around. This time is precious and I’d rather be here, experiencing the lives of my kids…. A pedicure would be nice though.

And, to just sum up the rest of the year, because OMG – I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE STILL READING THIS!
June – …the must in the air was a really choice herb…
July – …SOYLENT GREEN, SOYLENT GREEN…
August – …They don’t hate you…
September – …EVACUATION...
October – …Allergy kids and Lepers having so much in common…
November – …let’s all damn the man by smelling really bad…
And, December, Well. We’re here, aren’t we?

So, while not everything that happened in 2011 contributed to the life-changing handle that I’ve given it, the few things that did happen were quite large. [abundant, ample, barn door, blimp, booming, broad, bulky, capacious, colossal, comprehensive, considerable, copious, enormous, excessive, exorbitant, extensive, extravagant, full, generous, giant, gigantic, goodly, grand, grandiose, great, gross, hefty, huge, humongous, immeasurable, immense, jumbo, liberal, massive, monumental, mountainous, plentiful, populous, roomy, sizable, spacious, stupendous, substantial, super, sweeping, thumping, tidy, vast, voluminous, whopping, wide]. It’s amazing how two tiny people can pack such a punch.

And in ending, Merry Christmas my Friends — Happy Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice, Bodhi Day, Boxing Day, Hogmanay, Koleda, and Festivus, etc. Happy New Year. I will see you when things are fresh and new, 2012!

So much EFFORT!

And I know. This is NOT a topic that I would usually pay any attention to, much less write a blog post about, but really — I am left with a big empty space where my faith all things underbelly used to just sit and stew in its own filth.

Because people behave badly, most of the time… with the exception of people that I know and/or am related to, right? Because TALK about going through the motions of the extreme while taking advantage of, well — EVERYTHING. While we, because I know I’m not alone, not only ask, WHO is Kim Kardashian? What has she done to be this famous? Who takes the time… I mean, who HAS the time, to be so fake? And even with people, on the whole, being less than well-behaved, apparently even those that are famous — making ungodly amounts of money for doing pretty much nothing — Even they have to reach deep down into the inner core of all things WRONG and RIDICULOUS to achieve — something? Because that is what has happened here, right? Pop culture — our society taken for a celebrity circus ride through things that don’t really exist all for the sake of an enormous dollar amount for a weird little group of people that are obsessed with “reality” television and their own reflections… right? Because the rest of us are so silly to imagine that love and marriage – you know, the BASIS of FAMILY are really all so worth it? Especially when there is a career of doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING on the line.

And it’s just that — the doing of absolutely nothing that makes this all so much more dark. While we really don’t care, we are still being blasted at every turn with details of a planned to be failed marriage, the scandal that doesn’t really exist because it was planned, and the crazy dollar amounts that people are making for nothing short of make-believe. Was it love? No. Was it arranged even before an engagement? Probably. Can the groom in question read? Not likely. Does Kim Kardashian even exist, or did we make her up so that we would have someone to grace the covers of all publications everywhere? Possibly. Will more people than it’s worth go to bank on nothing more than a figment of our imaginations? OBVIOUSLY.

Because, in the light of day, she wasn’t really anyone… That is, until she filed for divorce.

Enter Frank.

Hailing from the archives of unused promotional “Despicable Me”, 2010 movie paraphernalia, Frank entered our lives during one of the sweatier weekends in August. Hanging there — among duplicates of himself in the Carni Whack-a-Mole trailer at the St. Catherine’s Fair. Little did any of us know that he would soon find his way into our lives as a permanent fixture in the arms of our son. The necessity at bedtime – where is FRRAAANNNKKK? And why Frank? Usually when you ask Will what the name of something is, he comes up with something creative like BOKI, CRUD, or TIMBLEBOCHMAN. This one was very decided and definitive. FRANK. I have a few Uncles named Frank, although I don’t think this is an issue of keeping it in the family. We also have a dear friend named Frank, but I fail to see the similarities, although he might be flattered. The attraction? The one eye? The crooked smile? Frank only knows, and having never seen the movie version of this character — we think that FRANK is here to stay.

Frank, who has already required several repairs due to exhaustive play, is an everyday kind of bloak with a serious Boston accent. He practically whispers when he speaks and says things like “balls”, “you gonna eat that”, “he married a girl with ching” and “I’m gonna take him out back and beat the shit out of him” when the mailman makes the dog bark. On more than one occasion I’ve glared back — you know, trying to win the staring contest… but only once have I lost my marbs, screaming “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT”, when faced with the 5 o’clock frenzies of overtired, hungry kids that won’t admit their delirium. I mean whatever — you try having that eye on you all day… silently judging. But then that crooked smile always pulls me back in — a swamp yankee’s charm.

He agrees that saying “Oh my GOSH” or “GOODNESS” is acceptable as a replacement for GOD — but has yet to concur with an alternate to “SUCKS”… Referring to this whole Red Sox Francona mess as a “WICKED SUCK BALL” which isn’t quite appropriate, but not entirely off the mark either. He’s simple, yet diverse — and, what I think I like about him the most is, he doesn’t shed — although he isn’t above stinking the place up. Frank, since we’ve had a few months now to grow into one another, for all that he encompasses, just might last as some other plush toys do. Meanwhile, I’m trying to overlook the overall design of his being — the germ like qualities and semi-failure of his movie career. But at the end of the day, how can you blame Hollywood for it’s misgivings when Will emulates nothing short of love.

At least that’s what I thought Kathie Lee said as I walked past the Today Show on our TV this morning.

What a GRAB! Those marketing geniuses… Just look at the brains on them as the seedier side of America lit up… FINALLY. The answers that we are ALL WAITING FOR. Because marriage isn’t important anymore — That is, unless you’re a reality TV star… As my Dad asks the same thing we are all questioning — Just who the Hell is Kim Kardashian? And WHY, exactly, is she famous? Please note the usage of ‘exactly’ in that question — people have lost serious positions in life for utilizing that word as such. And, no. I didn’t have to use the word ‘Hell’ either, but since we are bringing up the whole “Affair” idea, I thought it was appropriate despite the fact that you might have gone the other way. So there.

And, yes. My fingers are bunny-hopping the quotation marks all over the place with this…. Just like that girl, Sheila.

But no. As it turns out… Because I didn’t actually wait to watch and hear about ‘How to have an affair and get away with it’. Instead I thought, ‘HUH – Isn’t this a NEW WAY TO GO’ and gasped slightly while making some sort of inept bore-hog snorting sound that made the baby cry. I didn’t hang out to hear what the segment was really about, during the drunk section of the Today Show staring Kathie Lee and Hoda, and I was about to write a mad post about humanity, faithfulness and the moral values of media… in society… AS A WHOLE. As Kathie and Hoda threw another few back… IS NOTHING SACRED? But then, I couldn’t stop thinking about it and decided to put the angry away and actually went to find the transcript of the show where I found out that I was wrong. Misled. LIED TO. No. The segment was actually about having an affair with YOUR OWN HUSBAND. Right! Because that is the way to ‘…rediscover passion and romance with your spouse.’ Which is fine. Do it. I’M ALL FOR IT.

However, as I dim the lights and bring my voice to a respectable whisper and let my eyeballs get all scary. Dare I say that I am disappointed in not getting to see how low they all really can go… Right? RIGHT?! Because they were all LET’S TRICK SOCIETY INTO THINKING THAT WE ARE ABOUT TO TELL THEM HOW TO CHEAT SUCCESSFULLY. That will get them to tune in to where, apparently — THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH IT. And, again, no. I’m not interested in finding out how to get away with having an affair, let alone having an affair….Or getting caught. As I giggle about the thought of even thinking about the idea of such a notion. I really do believe in love, trust, honesty and all that jazz… which, apparently NBC does too, maybe — but not without the trailer of SCANDAL — a little test of how people can lean one way and then the other… YOU TOO CAN GET AWAY WITH IT! And then they tricked you into thinking that they were actually going to tell you how. The brains on them.

She turns 19 tomorrow. The birth child of Grunge.

(image via stylecaster)

And NO. Whatever. I’m not some obsessed lunatic or frantic Nirvana fan trying to hold onto something… ANYTHING. No. I’m not. I’M NOT. I actually prefer Foo Fighters. (GASP!)

In fact — I haven’t thought about Frances Bean or her parents, Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love, in a very very long time. It was the New York Times Style Section that so gracefully reminded me… As I gulped my coffee down in an effort to suppress the memories of the day that Kurt took his own life. NOT a laughing matter, but one that makes me cry from giggling too hard—Thinking about my then-on but usually off boyfriend, driving around with his headlights on in some sort of funeralistic recognition, before the days when car manufacturers suggested leaving them on all the time…. Like if he hadn’t been driving he would have been standing somewhere, silent and holding up one of his many lighters in some twisted early 20s grunge angst… while passers by would have been all  — “Dude, this isn’t The Breakfast Club”… Instead everyone was all “Why are your headlights on, the sun is shining”. And I explained, in all seriousness, CAN’T YOU SEE HE’S IN MOURNING, as we hugged and cried together… Friends that weren’t fans looked at us like we were alien…which we TOTALLY WERE. WHY KURT, WHY?! Our CD collections became shrines to what could have been and no one else existed. It was all very Say Anything. The New York Times, by the way, owes me some serious bank on the number of times I’ve linked to their website… But isn’t it fun that I can find humor in even the darkest of caves!

But now Frances is here… and gorgeous. Talented, apparently already an accomplished artist under another name, and I happily suspect — beyond cool in her own right. She looks like Kurt, but has the same kick ass beat as her lovely mother, Courtney. I’d throw her a giant Facebook “HB!”, but really? She’s never even glanced at Facebook and I fear any response would include a giant “FY!”. We can only hope that a life of twisted fame combined with admirable secrecy will see her through to a future filled with smiles and love… We can only hope.

So… this is something different.

But for those of you that don’t know… I was a huge Van Halen fan. And when I say Van Halen, I mean Van Halen, à la Roth… Not to be confused with today’s Van Halen/Roth version that threatens to still exist as a live band. But no. Before I go and get all ahead of myself, I really need to clarify. I was a fan. I had my haircut to fashion Eddie Van Halen’s signature coif. I danced around on my bed … nearly breaking bones attempting perfect split jumps while often times hitting my head on the ceiling. My friend David had a Van Halen tee shirt that his older sister, my babysitter, had scored at an ACTUAL CONCERT. David claimed to have been named after David Lee Roth, which we all know was a huge lie — although how much fun to tell!

I fell in love with the smoking angel on the album cover… scandalous, I know. It was 1984. The album was 1984 — I was a HUGE fan of 1984… and I was eight years old.

The just don’t airbrush ‘em like the used to.

I was a huge 1984 Van Halen fan…. And there wasn’t anything raunchy about this. There weren’t gross things going on in my life. I listened to and memorized every lyric and dance move that I could muster (yeah, I said muster) out of pure enjoyment. They were fun. The music rocked, and admittedly — I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t know what it all meant… big hair, women, angels smoking cigarettes, booze… SYNTHESIZERS. I didn’t know very much ANYTHING about the Van Halen family, the music industry, SEX, drugs…. the whole show. And how could I have — at eight years old, in between outgrowing Barbies and an increasing horse obsession, my version of the 1984 Van Halen fit in PERFECTLY…. no stress, no expectations — and apparently, no glory.

Because I moved on in my life, as often happens — and unfortunately, Van Halen attempted to do the same. 1984 was, by all means popular, the band’s last big album… despite the new lead singers and top selling albums. And as I maneuvered through the 80′s, 90′s and beyond… I continued to label myself as a Roth version Van Halen fan…. not realizing what I really was — a 1984 fan.

AND THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH THIS.

But honestly, it has taken me a few weeks to come to terms with this realization… this befuddlement that started off with me reading excerpts of Sammy Hagar’s new book in Rolling Stone and the New York Post… As my eyes boggled out of my head at accusations of, for lack of a better term, IMPERFECTIONS on the part of the Van Halen brothers. And while I am not one to spew vulgarities, I am not above understanding, hearing and KNOWING them…But how were all of these things actually possible? Well, after reading RED, My Uncensored Life in Rock, by Sammy Hagar, I still have my doubts.

Now… I’m going to tread a little lightly here. Obviously, I am dealing with a very accomplished and self important man. But in my limited opinion, based on this book, Sammy Hagar is a buffoon. Like a real one. One that hangs from trees and takes things from other buffoons because he wants to see how they react. He’s annoying. Really annoying. One of those guys that no one can stand to be around… you can’t quite figure out what it is about him that’s so horrible — but then it becomes obvious… it’s the whole package… The Poser. The Tool. The WANNABE. And I’m sorry if you like him… because, yes. He has been successful to an extent. But with this book, you have to wonder at who’s expense has all this fame sucked dry? Because EW. Really really EW. And no, there isn’t a better way to put it.

But still, I bought the book. I paid actual money for it because our local library was afraid of bursting into flames upon its purchase. I opened the cover and spent, I KID YOU NOT, less that six hours total in reading… some of the time I had to reread paragraphs because of the grammar (and you know what a grammar BUFF I am, not)… while most sentences would have been more articulately spoken from my three year old’s lips. I felt cheated. Dirty. ANGRY EVEN that this fame dog chose to not only blame every other person he’s ever known for anything and everything that has ever happened to him… TELLING ALL while not leaving out the EMBELLISHED… BUT, he also failed to acknowledge those that actually added to his success… the Van Halen brothers, family members, wives, other band members, AND the unsuspecting residents of Cabo San Lucas — of which Mr. Hagar eludes to “discovering” before opening his famed (and smelly — I once allowed my toe to pass the threshold) club, Cabo Wabo.

And who am I to cast an opinion. A fan of 1984… someone that was way too young to understand the music but loved it anyway? I don’t know Sammy Hagar. I don’t know the Van Halen brothers either… but if given the choice of who to hang with… who to appreciate as the “artist” versus listening to someone blather on about the bad times of others while I tooting their own tequila label… I’d take the brothers any day — alcohol, money troubles and all… I bet I could bundle it all up, put a bow on it and make it look pretty, much to Mr. Hagar’s chagrin.

Because, not only do I want my $14.95 back — on top of my six hours of valued reading time. But I’d also like to snuff out the airhead that decided this book was a good idea…. write our own tell all about how annoying it is to waste time on the audacity of whiners who really think they look good in the color red on top of being who they are… because they wrote a book about it… And I read it, dammit.