muffy bolding

I am doing some television work in Los Angeles this week…and I miss my Sweet Piglet Husband and my babies.

I want to be home in my own cozy bed — watching old “Young Ones” videos and reading the excellent PG Wodehouse collection my father-in-law gave me…with Gregory lying next to me, reading The New Yorker and rubbing my ears. Babies, of course, are traipsing in and out of the room every five seconds asking for Starbucks money, my signature on fieldtrip permission slips, commiseration on the Yankees’ latest loss, boyfriend and hair-dye advice, an audience for their latest cheer routine, and mommy and daddy kisses.

Heaven.

I miss them all so much…that my fuzzy mouse heart almost hurts.

Try as I might, I cannot seem to listen to this song without weeping at its haunting beauty.

I have come to know that in music lies my religion — and listening to it, for me, is like touching the face of god.

Into the West
(sung by Annie Lennox)

Lay Down
Your sweet and weary head.
Night is falling
You have come to journey’s end.

And all will turn to silver glass.
A light on the water
Grey ships pass
Into the west.

So, yesterday, August 19th, 2004…

Google finally went public.

John Kerry FINALLY publically called George W. Bush the fuck OUT on his shit.

Sixteen year old American gymnast Carly Patterson won the individual all-around gold medal at the 2004 Olympic Games in Athens.

Courtney “The Hosebeast” Love made yet another Los Angeles County court appearance this week stemming from both drug and assault charges.

Maoist rebels opened fire on security forces and bombed a government building in the heart of Kathmandu as their blockade of the ancient capital entered a third day.

Tropical storm Megi swept out to sea off the northern Japanese coast, leaving at least 18 dead or missing in Japan and South Korea.

A row between Hungary’s ruling coalition parties was settled with the resignation of Prime Minister Peter Medgyessy.

US forces launched yet another two airstrikes on the troubled Iraqi city of Falluja, killing two.

And I was informed by my doctor…that I am a diabetic.

From amazon.com:

“Brought to the kitchen table by Hip Mama managing director Bee Lavender and editor Maia Rossini, Mamaphonic collects confessions and conversations about the exhilarating, entertaining, and difficult aspects of remaining creative while raising children. Essays range from the hilarious, such as “The Rudest Muse” by Lisa Peet, an illustrator and specialty baker who, by listening to her teenage son, finds new directions for her work; to the heart-wrenching “Childish Things” by Lori Pfeiffer, a writer diagnosed with a terminal illness during her pregnancy, who asks, “If you had only six months to live, what would you write?” Including voices as diverse as a transgendered teenage couple, an academic feminist, a punk rocker, and a poet, this eclectic mix of musings proves that becoming a mother is not the end but the beginning. Contributors include Ingrid Wendt, Ayun Halliday, Phoebe Gloeckner, Jen Thorpe, Gayle Brandeis, and others.”

Oh…and I guess I neglected to mention this before now, Gentle Readers. Those “others” — umm…that’d be me.

You know, kind of like, “…the moviestar — and the rest, are here on Gilligan’s Isle!”

Goddamnit, now that I really think about it, I am SO MaryAnn it is killing me. All tits and ass and apple pie.

Only without the apple pie.

Anyway, enough about my boss hooters and wholesome, corn-fed essence and back to the subject at hand: Bee and Maia’s book is EXTRAORDINARY. I feel so fortunate to be a part of this project and to have had my work chosen to appear in a book as stunning and as vital as this one. So, get thine ass immediately to amazon.com and place your order for an advanced copy NOW.

Bee will love you. Maia will love you. Ayun will love you. Gayle will love you.

But most of all — MaryAnn will love you.

And now, if you’ll excuse me…I’ve got a winsome slab o’ sweet cherry pie to try and serve up to that latent, worthless-in-the-hammock, piece o’ shit Gilligan.

Aloha!

I will be on location in San Francisco for the next few days on a shoot for Disney, immediately followed by the gala screening of our new film in Los Anheles on Thursday night. If I wasn’t such a pathetic piece of motley Sicilian trash, I might feel almost swanky, goddamnit.

I shall, of course, be attending said screening in my salty, faded, 17 year old Chuck Taylors best; those magical green Cinderella slippers have carried this little Fresno working class girl to wondrous places in this life that are beyond anything I could’ve possibly imagined. They are as old as my firstborn child…and very nearly as precious. Sarah Jessica Parker and her size 8 Jimmy Choo’s can kiss my fat ass.

Anyway, email will probably be sketchy at best, so to anyone awaiting correspondence from my NO-talent self, I beg your most indulgent patience…while offering up my most fervent mea culpa until which time that I return.

And now…if you’ll excuse me, Dear Friends, it’s back to The Moveable Feast. There are many confectionary treats these old green shoes and I have yet to taste.

See you on the other side.

Post your favorite picture of your Mommy:

Alexandria, at age 25

One quick question for my homies:

Does anyone have the link to the website that was big a few months ago…the one that had a picture of an American soldier and two Iraqi boys holding a sign whose wordage could be generated to say whatever you wanted it to? I have been desperately digging through my favorites, but cannot seem to find the bastard. Help!

Thanks.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled Friday programming.

PS) And speaking of which…the following is my Friday Confession: Good lord, I want to bang around with Bill Clinton.

Still.

Mother of God. Without fucking question, I just laid eyes on the first African-American president of the United States.

Mark my words, kids. What we just saw…is the future. In years to come, this night — this amazingly eloquent and visionary speech — will mark the very beginning of this man’s sure-to-be extraordinary personal and political mythology.

“The audacity of hope…”, for chrissake???

I smell destiny.

http://www.obamaforillinois.com

PS) And it SHO don’t hoit that he looks like this, goddamnit:

Sing with the family:

“Olympia…
Won’t you hang me from your grapevine?
Buzz my name across your telephone line?
Aren’t I worthy of your rumors?
Didn’t I make the scene?
When I hear you speak of others
I’m filled with jealousy.
Olympia, Olympia…”

— “Olympia”, Damon Houk, 1991