Saturday, August 16, 2008

The Same 10 Questions I Always Ask Myself, Part the Sixth

1. What are you wearing?
Shorts in a size I STILL don't wanna be. And a shirt that failed to escape the latest Reflux Rage of the Incredible Spittling Infant. There is a big puddle of milk on my left shoulder. I just noticed it.

2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?
This may not qualify, but a fear that the chestnut tree in front of our house will be torn down during a thunderstorm and will crush us like bugs. I think that's a phobia, really. Okay, so...Cancer. That will do.

3. What was today's workout?
The cool skate-y cardio machine at NYSC. While watching a silly movie called Malibu's Most Wanted starring Taye Diggs. Taye Diggs is amazing. Rent Daybreak on Netflix. This is an awesome show that ABC canceled but you can view the whole first season on DVD. Taye Diggs rocks! He can be comedic as well as serious and it's all good!

4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?
The sweet chortles of the Spittling Infant and his madly flailing toes.

5. What's that burning smell?
The smoking remnants of yesterday's 10-hour hypochondriacal weepy wine-sodden Code Red panic attack.

6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
A small, carnivorous whelk.

7. What are you drinking, and why?
The Little Penguin Cabernet Sauvignon, in the big bottle. $10.99. You get what you pay for. They know me at Jay's Wine and Liquors. I go in there after my workouts at NYSC, sweaty or showered. They are polite enough not to say, "You again?"

8. In what ways hast thou offended?
I let the Extremely Overtired Spittling Infant "Cry It Out" for ten solid minutes tonight. He fell asleep. I justify it this way: On a long car trip he cries sometimes for a few minutes in the car seat. And then he falls asleep. What are you going to do, stop every single time he squawks and nurse him for an hour every single time at a truck stop? Up yours, Doctor Sears! (Note that the Infant sleeps in our bed most of the night on most nights and I wear him in a sling when I cook dinner, and I breastfeed like mad, so I get hippy-dippy points.)

9. What's the next big thing?
God will stomple through New Ro, thwapping aside new construction with a flick of His mighty fist. He might tear up a few trees for good measure and then retire to The Tilted Kilt or Juniors for a cold one. He will disobey smoking regulations. He will get in a fight with one of New Ro's less-than-stellar citizens and receive a whack on the head via a pool cue. Mighty thunderstorms, tornados, hail, fire, brimstone, etcetera will be the unfortunate fallout.

10. Music selection?
My husband is playing this awful Portishead: Third. Look, I know this is apparently the music of choice for all the music rags, but it's like being aurally raped by a crack-addicted goat. Look at the photo of these people. They look really depressed, man. After listening to this I feel depressed, too. I want to run amok, wailing and gnashing my teeth, until I drown in the sludgy Long Island Sound.


Anonymous said...

you suck! portishead are amazing artists and rock any troubled soul's soul. you are obviously not a troubled sole like me. you really are a pony party. go listen to your dave matthew's band tripe. see how he's doing in the music rags these days! good luck pony!

--love, your husband

Anonymous said...

Oh dear! Not wishing to offend, but I like and respect all music. It's like ol' Satchmo sez one time to some drunken lout journalist who wouldn't know ragtime from bebop: "Man, there's only two kinds of music--good music and bad music."
Guess I'm all diplomatic tonight...perhaps I should ring up that nice Mr. Putin and play him some Portishead?

Yrs to the north,
Old NH

chris said...

Ah, pony, with thee i must agree, though i have found portishead successful in one area: making a mediocre erotic encounter (she said sort of delicately) seem also, well, pretentious. and, might i add, ON MORE THAN ONE occasion ! eventualy, i kicked the cd (and the boy) aside and felt much better.

and also, can you trust a band with this lyricist:
"Meanwhile, although Ms. Gibbons’s lyrics are wounded public confessions, she is so painfully shy that she dodges interviews. The refrain of the album’s closing song, “Threads,” is “I’m always so unsure.” (In a brief hello at the Munich sound check, she fretted that she might forget lyrics during the concert.)"