finslippy

Birthday, boy.

I was really sort of hoping something would go wrong.

Okay, not really. But when Henry asked for a sleepover party for his sixth birthday, and I agreed to it, part of me thought, at least it will make a good blog post. This is how I survive the bad days, my friends. I mine my own suffering for content opportunities. This is how I get by.

We invited four boys to his party—that's four sets of parents who all thought I was clinically insane. I know they thought I was insane because they told me. "Good luck, but you're completely nuts," they said, in one form or another. One parent told me (after accepting the invite) that her son was prone to night terrors. Another told me (also, before I could rescind the offer) that her son tended to "wander" in the night. I had some second thoughts. As the night approached, I began to dread, a little, the idea of one child screaming bloody murder at 4 a.m., waking up the other kids, except for the one who had already gone missing. Surely no blog post can be worth this, I thought.

I know, can you imagine? I thought that. I am so sorry.

A few days before the party Scott insisted that he was going to initiate some kind of pumpkin-carving activity with all the kids. He would have them all design jack o' lanterns, and then he would carve the pumpkins. Five pumpkins. I pictured the children designing impossibly complex faces for their jack o'lanterns; Scott surrounded by pumpkin gore and weeping in frustration. Now that's something to write about. "Go for it," I told him. "But don't hack a thumb off, or anything. That wouldn't be funny."

So. Saturday night was the party, and you know what? The whole damn thing went just fine.

There were no night terrors. No one walked anywhere in their sleep. No one soaked their sleeping bags after finishing one juice box too many. No one got hurt, or cried for their parents. No one had to be driven home before dawn. Everyone got along, slept for a decent amount of time, and kept their hands to themselves.

As for Scott's insane pumpkin project, I am sorry to say that it, too, went without a hitch. Apparently Scott has superhuman forearms and can tolerate gutting one pumpkin after another—or maybe he was soaking his arms in ice water and downing black-market oxycontin when I wasn't looking. The children were a little confused about what they had to do. Scott had provided them with each with a template, and they had to draw faces inside the templates, and they couldn't wrap their minds around this. "I'm not allowed to carve pumpkins," they told Scott, "that's too dangerous." No, he explained, you're not carving, you're just going to draw. "How do I draw on a pumpkin?" they asked. No, he explained, you draw on—"When do you give us the knives?" Eventually he repeated himself enough times and they understood, drew their designs, and had their pumpkins carved to order. The End.

The night was not entirely conflict-free. Henry wanted to watch a movie, but it turns out he is the only child in his group capable of sitting and watching something for more than seventeen seconds. Within moments they were all bouncing around, throwing popcorn and loudly discussing the wonderfulness of the movie they weren't watching. Henry kept shushing them, and then finally declared that he was the BIRTHDAY BOY and needed to be OBEYED. He said it so many times that his friends, who still wouldn't shut up, began addressing him as "Birthday Boy." I don't think they were being sarcastic. I was pretty syre he was going to lose it, but then after a while he just gave up, chatted and bounced along with his friends, and peace was restored. And that was that.

I can't say I would have preferred to suffer for your benefit, but surely something could have happened. One episode of puking, SOMETHING. Instead they were all just adorable. Jerks.

Get your Cringe book right here!

Okay, people: Tomato Nation is kicking my ass all over town. This cannot stand. If you want to see me dress as Pat Benatar, you've got to take action. I'm not asking for much. Seriously, if everyone reading this donated five dollars right now, I could pull ahead by the end of the day. And you know what that means! Headbands! Scott dressed up as a sleazy dance-parlor manager! I've already said too much!

Because it seems that love being a battlefield is not incentive enough, here's this:

If you donate in the next three hours (That's 11:30 am EST - 2:30 am EST) and email me with a receipt of your donation, you will be in the running for one of ten copies of Cringe, the hilarious anthology of teen angst edited by Sarah Brown. (Thank you, Sarah and Random House, for the gifts!) I will have a third party choose randomly from the emails I receive.

Important note: in order to be considered, your email must have the subject line CRINGE ME! Thank you in advance, lovely reading people.

P.S.: there's a new Alphamom column up. It's about the vice-presidential debate. I have opinions.

Just a few examples.

I wanted to share with you some of the projects DonorsChoose is helping to fund. Because I am dimly aware that this challenge is about helping teachers in need, and my desire to WIN WIN WIN or your desire to see me shimmying and gyrating in a torn dress and too much eyeliner.

Ms. B, a teacher in Southern California, works with students who deal with gang violence, broken families, and poor healthcare and nutrition. Most of her 7th and 8th graders are reading at a third grade reading level. Right now the only books in her classroom library are those donated to her by retiring teachers, and she wants books that will engage and inspire them. "I want my children to be drawn in by books so that they not only read the books I assign, but also are able to LOVE reading and become life-long readers." All she needs is another $210 to change the lives of her students.

Then there's Ms. G., who wants to make writing less of an intimidating exercise for her challenged first graders. She wants to create an inviting writing center for them, and she needs pencils, markers, erasers—the basic stuff. With these materials, "they will be able to write stories, practice their newly learned words, make journals to use, and write letters to classmates and family members. The possibilities are endless!" She needs another $250 to make this come true.

And here's the final installment in my guilt-inducing campaign: Another Ms. G., this one from Ohio, is an ESL teacher who wants to supply her students, many of whom are Somali refugees, with colorful, kid-friendly magazines. "Your donation will change the lives of our students by providing current, exciting reading material that will enhance and even change the way these kids view learning and reading!" Ms. G needs $718 to fund her project.

The Blogger's Challenge is going to continue for the month of October, but I promise not to preach at you the entire time. Normal self-involved content will resume tomorrow. You've already helped raise over $2,000, and helped to fund over 15 projects! So thank you so much.

Signed Sleep is for the Weak copies--get yours now!

The first ten emails I receive with the subject heading "I've donated--book, please!" will be sent a copy of Sleep is for the Weak, signed by me. I will write whatever you like. (I'll assume you're being honest, because that's how much I trust you.) Just send me your address and detailed instructions on the kind of inscription your heart desires.

UPDATE: All ten copies are spoken for. Thanks, and keep donating! Don't stop now! Love will be a battlefield, if you keep it up!

And so it begins.

The DonorsChoose 2008 Blogger's Challenge has begun. And lo, I am asking you for money.

I must have all kinds of nerve, asking for money at a time like this. The banks are imploding. Our retirement accounts are too depressing to look at. Gas is expensive. Groceries are ridiculous. Buying a nice pair of shoes is, tragically, out of the question. We're all suffering. So! What better time to contribute a little something to the greater good?

Take a look at my challenge page . I've listed a whole bunch of literacy projects, but by no means are those the only projects I want to help fund. If there's a project you want me to include on my challenge page, please speak up, and I'll add it. If there's a topic of interest you want to see represented—science, math, gym, you name it—tell me, and I'll find some projects that fit.

I'm going to give away a whole bunch of copies of "Sleep is for the Weak," and possibly there are some other gifts coming as well. And I have a generous matching offer—if I make it over $25K, the next $12.5K will be matched.

Last year Tomato Nation won the blogger challenge, raising over $100,000 (let us repeat—that's one hundred thousand dollars) and in return, she spent the day dressed as a tomato. She also danced around Rockefeller Center. As a tomato. I bow to her excellence. But now I must destroy her.

If I win the Blogger Challenge, I will reenact Pat Benatar's video "Love is a Battlefield" in its entirety. (EDITED TO ADD: I forgot to thank brilliant reader Jessica Torres for the idea. Thank you, Jessica! I think!)

Imagine this, if you can.

Imagine the costumes. Will there be dancing? You bet your ass. I will use my family as cast members. Yes, that includes Henry. Will he be one of the dancers? Who can say? I can. But I won't, yet. My husband is a talented filmmaker, people. This could be really funny.

But I need to win first. So. You know what you have to do.

Let's get started.

Find out what I would do for a good cause.

Tomorrow, the 2008 Donors Choose Blogger Challenge begins. Donors Choose is an incredible organization that matches teachers in high-needs schools with people who are willing to give. Teachers register with the site and describe what projects they need sponsored, and donors can pick and choose which projects they want to help fund. Donors receive thank-you notes from the teacher and from the students, as well as the satisfaction of knowing they made some teachers' lives that much easier.

So the Blogger Challenge is just a bunch of us bloggers competing over who can raise the most money. I would like to win this thing, of course, but more importantly I want to get a big fat bunch of money raised. So I ask you, the readers: what sort of hoops would you like to see me jump through in order to raise some money? I can and will humiliate myself on video, if it's for a good cause. As long as it doesn't involve anything death-defying, expensive, or nude, I will consider it. Please email me your ideas at finslippy AT gmail DOT com. Be gentle. And hilarious.

My Blogger Challenge link will be up tomorrow morning. I can't wait!

UPDATED TO ADD: There are going to be some gifts given away, in exchange for donations. If you have an item or items you want to give away to a Finslippy reader, now's your chance! Email me.

I am not at all afraid of my cat.

My cat tried to kill me. But I'm sure I had it coming.

It all started when I mocked my cat's ass on Twitter. Izzy the cat is—well, she's become a big girl. She rapidly morphed from an adorable teacup-sized kitten to a hulking mass who causes the house to shake when she jumps off a chair. Here is what she was:

And here's Izzy now!

She actually looks relatively slender here, due no doubt to her slimming black hue. She's way more of a moose than you can tell from the picture. In real life, she causes people to exclaim in surprise when they see her. She's not small.

I don't even know how she fits on this windowsill.

I know that this is partly our fault. Or at least it's our fault for not addressing the issue as soon as we noticed her rapid expansion. It occurred, as these things do, after she was spayed. When she figured there was no reason to keep up her girlish figure. She let herself go, and we let her do it.

Look, now her back-fat is causing her to slip:

So lately it seems that she is too heavy to clean herself. Specifically, she cannot reach her butt. And this is disgusting. I even tried cleaning her myself—out of love, yes, but mostly disgust—but the fur is all matted, and now there's no getting it out. It's clear that we need to take her to the vet and get the whole cat-butt problem worked out. She's also apparently incapable of cleaning her back, now, and let's face it, it's really hard to pet her when she's like this. Our love, apparently, is conditional, and the condition is "must not have pooplets stuck to ass when you rub our legs for a pet."

Oh wait, I just found a picture in which her enormous girth is revealed.

NOW YOU SEE. Quick, look away—I can't be sure what prolonged viewing of her Rasputin-like gaze would do to your brains.

I feel bad for her, but that didn't stop me from writing a Twitter about her ass. And not a few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen, and Izzy dashed in front of the doorway, causing me to fly across the room, landing on both wrists and one knee. I had to lie there for a while. Henry came in and offered to kiss my knee, but I demurred. Over the next few days, my knee turned all kinds of colors. My parts hurt. But it could have been much worse.

I have never almost been killed by a cat before, and it's a humbling experience. I can only conclude that Izzy can read, and that she's following me on Twitter. She's probably reading my blog. So I just want to say here that 1) my cat is beautiful, no matter what condition her ass is in, and 2) I was wrong to publicly mock her. Oh, and 3) I am sure that if we take her to the vet it will be so she can be admired, and not to have her hindquarters shaved and a tasteless diet food prescribed. In conclusion, my cat is beautiful. A big, beautiful beast.

If I don't post in a couple of days, you'll know that she didn't accept my apology.

Welcome, Star-Ledger readers!

For those of you not living in New Jersey or regularly checking the Star-Ledger's site, I was featured today in the paper and the Star-Ledger's Parental Guidance blog. I can't think of a single complaint about this interview, which is unusual for me. I wasn't renamed Alice Brady, and the writer actually made me sound like an intelligent, reasonable being, neither bitter nor narcissistic. I'm not sure how she accomplished this, but I won't question her methods. Thanks, Carrie!

And now I suppose I should prove myself worthy of her kind words by, uh, writing something, or whatever. Hrrrm.

As some of you know, my son is currently enrolled in half-day kindergarten, which is (I'm trying to phrase this delicately) kicking my ass all over town. Half-day translates to two hours and fifty minutes, and factoring in the time it takes to walk him there and back and then answer a few calls and maybe make some lunch for myself before I keel over, I'm left with exactly three minutes to write. (Don't double-check that math.) In general my son is an easygoing sort, the type of kid who can be left alone for hours while he builds deadly Lego constructions, so I thought our mornings would be full of him playing while I, you know, channeled the Muse. But lately he wants quality time. With me. And you've seen those eyes; how can I say no to those? Even if his eyes were squinty and not particularly disarming, how can I turn away my baby when he requests a little face-time? I cannot. And so I have been listening to story after endless story, stories I can't really follow involving superheroes and Star Wars characters involved in multi-tiered conflagrations, and my brain, it is crammed full of five-year-old chatter. Inventive chatter, to be sure, but chatter. General Grievous! Trans-warp systems! Alien nanotechnology! Etc. So now I can no longer put sentences together in a way that sense they make good. Soon, though, the child will tire of me and let me get some work done. And then, crap, I'll have no excuse.

Addendum. And pictures!

I think I made my son sound more obnoxious than I meant to, in yesterday's post. The whole "OF COURSE I" whatever is such a put-on that I find it really amusing. He uses this voice that's not quite his, a sort of a mock-yell, and he quickly reverts to his charming self. It's sort of our schtick, that I ask the questions I'm not supposed to ask and in return he's indignant. In general, I've made it a goal of mine to not complain about my son in this venue—it just doesn't feel fair to him anymore, now that he's growing up (despite my best efforts) and not a baby with the typical baby issues. So. Okay!

On Monday Henry was sick-ish—just unwell enough to spike a fever right before school started, but then well enough to spend the next three hours demanding playground time. I denied him the playground, because I am a Cruel Woman who does not want him to have Fun on the days he is Afflicted with a Malady, but it was a beautiful day and I got stir-crazy so I suggested taking the dog for a walk.

Henry agreed, and took the camera. He took many photos that look just like this one:

But then I suggested he take a picture of Charlie, and he really got some good shots, if I do say so myself.

I like this extreme close-up of Charlie blissed out on whatever godawful substance he located on this tree. .5 seconds later, he peed on it.

Then Henry gave me the camera, and I watched him and Charlie running amok in the park.

Doesn't he look sick?

I would have been more upset about the lost half-day of freedom if my son wasn't such good company. (Most of the time.) Not that I was unhappy to see him off to school the next day. Sorry, kid, but mama's got to have her writing time, else she goes crazy. Thank you for understanding.

The Indignant Kindergartener.

Henry is shocked—SHOCKED!—that I dare move around in space and talk to him and have the gall to ask him questions. He learned from someone (I'm still searching for the source, and I will find it, oh, and how that person will rue the day) to answer every question with the handy phrase "Of course I (fill in the blank)." The above should be stated in weary indignation, as if the questioner should really know better by now. "Did you have a good day at school?" I might ask. "OF COURSE I didn't!" This is usually followed by violent eye-rolling and the occasional drop to the floor. His horror that I would dare ask such a question renders him incapable of bearing his own weight. His legs have simply given out from the shock. And yet here she comes again, with more questions! "Did you have gym today?" The eyes roll around and around. "OF COURSE. And it was BORING. All we did was WALK in CIRCLES."

Even if the response is positive, the affect is the same. "OF COURSE I had a good day at school. I only had the BEST DAY EVER. AAAAAAH." "And what made it the best day ever?" I might ask. "Obviously, that I WAS THE BEST KID," he booms, "And of course I ANSWERED EVERY QUESTION RIGHT." Then he throws himself to the ground because he can't believe he has to WALK with ME. GOD.

On the other hand, he's answering my questions this year. He can act as tough as he likes, but I'm still getting the precious, precious info. I realize that being excited to hear that "Nicholas STEPPED on my FOOT during LINE-UP" is pretty pathetic. But seriously, it's the most he's told me since the day he entered preschool, all those many years ago, when he wanted to marry me but didn't want to tell me what they ate during snack time.