Livingston, I Presume

Is he just not getting enough sweets?

Like all good modern mothers, I strictly limit Connery's consumption of all things sugary, fatty, and otherwise unhealthy. In today's competitive mothering environment, I simply can't allow anyone to know that Connery was once allowed to eat an ice cream cone--just the cone!--before he was 1 and that we laughed heartily when we let him try (and spit out with considerable disgust) parmesan cheese when he was barely eating solid foods. So, shhhhhhhhh! I know that only organic milk, tofu, and fresh organic vegetables are supposed to cross his lips, but I do occasionally get a little crazy and allow him something that doesn't meet the guidelines of GMA (Good  Mothers of America).

I bring this up because, despite my efforts--or maybe because of them--he seems lately to be obsessed with sweets. We passed a semi truck the other day, and I asked him, as I often do, what he thought was in the truck. I've done this for ages, partially because I've always liked to have conversations with him inasmuch as it was possible, and especially now because he comes up with amusing ideas of truck and train contents. The aforementioned semi, for example, was full of "chocolate sandwiches". He then told me he would like to eat a truck full of chocolate sandwiches, especially if the semi in question was as large as that one had been. Then, last night, he and Chip were sitting on the kitchen floor (sometimes a carpeted kitchen is actually a good thing, but not very often) playing "cooking" with measuring cups and other safe-ish kitchen implements. Chip asked what he was cooking, and Connery said, "Soup. Chocolate soup." We later learned in the bathtub that chocolate soup is the favorite food of bath hippos.

To my knowledge, Connery has never had a chocolate soup or sandwich (I say to my knowledge because he did actually learn the word "cookie" while staying with his grandparents), but he clearly thinks both are a good idea. Maybe if I lightened up a little he'd start pining for broccoli.

A ray of hope...from Matt Taibbi?

Usually, when I sit down to get my fill of the day's news, I emerge sputtering, ranting, and generally ready to pack my bags and move to New Zealand. Today, I find myself feeling hopeful, and I have Matt Taibbi to thank.

Here's Matt's recent piece from Rolling Stone about the unraveling of the Republican Party. It's joyous reading. Here's a sample:

On the majority side of the floor, Republicans were huddled in clumps all over the place, screeching like zoo macaques and intermittently whipping their heads up to check the board.

What a visual. This is why, though I have occasionally found Matt's endeavors to be loathesome in the past (see more or less all of the content involving women on eXile.ru in the late 1990s/early 2000s and the horse semen story), I cannot resist his writing. Even as I cringed at the denouement of the Worst Foreign Correspondent in Moscow contest, I eagerly awaited each week's installment of the competition because the man is just an evil genius at the keyboard.

Watching DeLay wade through a crowd of his own party members during a critical vote is an awesome thing, a nature show worthy of Sir David Attenborough. DeLay moves through the aisles like some kind of balding incubus, and as he passes, Republican members instinctively turn their backs on him, not wanting to be caught in the Gorgon's gaze (or, more to the point, be threatened with the loss of a chairmanship or reelection funding).

I wish I could show this kind of simultanously dispassionate passion when I write about politics. When Taibbi writes, it's like a sociologist recording the inner workings of some kind of mysterious phenomenon. When I write (and talk) about politics, I can't help getting hysterical and angry. Ranting only seems to work for Dennis Miller, and look where it landed him. He ended up as a Republican.

The most versatile lyric around

Throughout Connery's babyhood, I have made up a lot of songs. Generally but not always they involve bodily functions and are designed to distract him while I take care of the business end of a diaper. Some past hits include: "Butt Cream!" (sung to the tune of Batman), "Cream and Powder" (sung to the tune of Clementine), "Conneryman" (sung to the tune of Spiderman), and "One Fish, Two Fish" (sung to the tune of Fishheads).

I think this desire to make songs our own stems from my mother's teachings. She made up songs all the time, even into my adolescent years. Over Thanksgiving we were recalling The Period Song, which she made up for me when I was struggling with the early nuisances of womanhood (I won't quote the whole thing, but I will say that the money lyric involves "Sealy Posturepedic-ling").

All of our previous Connery Hit Parade favorites have faded into obscurity, however, now that we have discovered the magical lyrics that fit neatly into the tune of nearly every song: Stinky Booty, Stinky Butt. These words work with "Twinkle, Twinkle", "Clementine", and "Rock Me, Amadeus", among other quality melodic selections. Today, we started a round with the "Frere Jacques" tune. Connery really liked that one, singing along quite competently with both parts. I got some of it on digital recording, footage that I trust will be invaluable when he wants to start dating.

Cold, with continued chance of freezing your ass off

It's cold here in Southwestern Montana today. Not the sort of "Gosh, it's chilly. I think I'll put on a hat today!" cold but the "Will my fingers ever actually get warm? How long is it going to take for my nose hairs to thaw?" kind of cold that takes your breath away when you've gotten soft and spoiled from too many years of global warming winters and time away from Montana. The high for today is forecast at -2 degrees F. For my international readers, that's 254 degrees Kelvin. (Or -19 Celsius.)

There's a sense of moral superiority that goes along with winter cold in Montana, a feeling that only the heartiest, bravest, and strongest will be able to endure such conditions. The wind chill tonight in Livingston is supposed to get to -31, and I can tell you that the prospect is filling many longtime Montanans with a sort of clandestine glee. Oh, you'll hear them complain about it, but secretly they are thinking, "Now THIS is a winter!"

The only bad thing, really, is that it is gorgeously sunny here, with all kinds of pristine snow lying about, waiting to be jumped in. But if I let Connery loose in it, we would be MomNBabyCicles in about 30 seconds, so we're stuck just looking at it and feeling increasingly stir-crazy.

Elk-e-rrific

The fam and I headed south to Yellowstone National Park yesterday, in the hopes of seeing some wildlife and scenery. I can report there was no disappointment on either front. In Mammoth, we saw at least 20 elk grazing in the town, and then as we drove up through the park we saw bison, antelope, and more elk. The Mammoth elk had a certain insouciance about them, and they looked at us blandly as if to say, "We're in a national park! You can't hunt us!" Not that we were looking for that kind of action in any case, but they wanted us to know anyway.

In other news, it's still snowing here, which means that we now have more snow than I remember having in years. Connery thinks it's all for him--he likes to eat it and call it dinner. For three days he has wanted to live in his snowsuit on the off chance that he might get to go out and play. In Yellowstone, Chip got him one of those squished penny things that takes a regular penny and turns it into a souvenir. It has an elk on it and says Yellowstone. Connery thought it was the coolest thing that Chip has done in days.

Unfortunately, the trip interrupted Connery's normal nap, and though we thought we had made it home in time for him to still have a little sleep, he was uncooperative. We decided to let him at least have a rest time in his crib, though he protested. He was quiet for a little bit and then started to yell to get out. We were hoping he might go back to sleep, but after about five minutes, he started singing "Elmo's World" in the saddest little voice. Like he thought maybe we were never going to come. Of course we got him up right away. We regretted it four hours later when he had a hysterical meltdown because he hadn't had a nap.

Our other weekend accomplishment was watching the first four episodes of LOST. Now we are part of the vast majority of Americans hooked on it.

Missed connection, corner of Main and Callendar

You: Irritated dark-haired man driving midnight-blue Mercedes SUV

Me: Leather-clad mommy-type trying to cross the street on foot

I did so enjoy our brief encounter, during which you gestured crossly at me and yelled soundlessly--such good insulation on those German luxury vehicles!--to hurry my ass up and get across the street. I hope you felt the warmth in my response, best described as a single-finger salute.

I apologize for slowing down your passage through downtown Livingston, on your way to what I'm sure was a crucial appointment. I can only imagine the inconvenience I must have caused you, stuck idling in your tastefully appointed leather seats while I stubbornly refused to dart, rabbit-like, across the snowy street in the 9-degree winter air. Looking back, I can't undertand why I didn't just take my life in my hands and run across the road, saving you those valuable 10 seconds. Indeed, those are 10 seconds that neither of us will be able to get back, but judging from what you're driving, your 10 seconds are probably infinitely more valuable than mine.

Let's meet again soon in the streets of Livingston. With any luck, next time you'll be the one on foot, and I can demonstrate a little Montana grace by giving you a friendly wave and a smile to help you across the street. Either that or I could check out the accelerative capabilities of my 1998 Chrysler Town and Country.

But does it burn fat?

The other night at the gym, I got stuck as I often do working out while watching Fox News. Trapped on the treadmill and desperately trying to keep my eye instead on the People magazine I've actually selected for my brainrotting pleasure, Bill O'Reilly keeps popping up in my peripheral vision. He's interviewing Newt Gingrich, which seems to me to be the ultimate in televised mutual masturbation:

"Newt, isn't it true that the Secularists are working day and night to destroy Christmas joy for all the good little Christian boys and girls?" O'Reilly intones.

"Well, Bill, you've hit it spot on there. The more the liberal media promotes that Secularist agenda by running constant stories about the Christmas season, the easier it is to tell how much they hate America. And, Bill, have you managed to figure out yet why it is that they hate the Baby Jesus with such a fiery passion?" Newt asks.

"You're so right, Newt. They do hate the Baby Jesus. And apple pie. And motherhood. And America. And our troops."

Why, oh, why does the captioning work for Fox News and not for The Simpsons?!? Both offer cartoonish figures saying sometimes ridiculous things. How much harder can it be to parse Homer than Bill? My only consolation is that when I do catch sight of these exchanges, it raises my heart rate. Could it be that Fox News is helping get me into better shape? Bill O'Reilly, my ass thanks you.