Messing With The Mayor

Yesterday, I completely messed with Iowa State Head Basketball Coach Fred Hoiberg's head. Honestly, I feel a little bad about it, because he's a good guy, but I still laughed about it as I drove away from the casino hotel where we met.


If you are, or have ever been, an Iowa State fan, you know The Mayor.  He's the epitome of what Iowa State sports is all about - grace, class, hard work, smarts, and a sense of humor.  Pretty much every Iowa State fan is in love with him, but not in a 50 Shades kind of way.  (Well, maybe some of them, but not I.  After all, I have Current Husband.)


I was a Chi Omega with Fred's wife at Iowa State in the late 80's and early 90's, back when I could hold my liquor and only had one chin.  I don't KNOW Carol that well, because she was two years younger than I in school and I was just as self-absorbed then as I am now, but I know her well enough that if I saw her I would give her a hug and think about how gorgeous she is but then be mad about it because I can't get all jealous mad because she happens to be a really NICE person too.  Damn you gorgeous people who are also good people...you make it impossible to begrudge your happiness and good fortune.  Seriously.  Throw us a bone.  Kick a puppy or something.


So yesterday I find out that Iowa State is doing a Tailgate Tour where the coaches show up and you can meet and greet.  I signed The Son up for one of Fred's basketball camps at ISU in June for his birthday, and it's a surprise, so I thought, "COOL!  I can get Fred to autograph something for him, and that's how we tell The Son he is going to the camp!"  The problem is that I work, and the event was in the afternoon at the local casino.  You know, good wholesome fun for the family.


I sort of slip out the back door at work and peal out of the parking lot to the casino.  I walk in and Fred is being interviewed by the local news stations.  I wait my turn, and then I pounce on him.  I walk up, shake his hand, say my name and say I know Carol.  Fred, who is ever the gentleman, says something polite, and I say, "Where is your hot biscuit wife?  Doesn't she get to come on these things?"  He looks a little taken aback.  Hot biscuit?  That's kind of familiar.  I ask him to sign my card - the Iowa State people only brought football stuff, and come on, NOTHING basketball?  So I end up with a Cyclone TV promo postcard that I shove at Fred to sign.  He looks at me like "You want me to sign this promotional postcard for a TV network?"  Um, yes.  Because I came unprepared, and that's the kind of mother I am.  Deal.


As he's signing it, I say something about his brother's band in Omaha, the Southpaw Bluegrass Band, and how he should get me backstage passes.  I say this because I think it's a really funny concept that people probably try to use Steve to get to his more famous brother Fred, so I thought it would be hilarious that I'm trying to press the ISU head basketball coach for tickets to his brother's bluegrass band in Omaha.  For the record, I am the only person out of the two of us who thought that was funny.

Like them on Facebook!  I'm going to try to

catch a show this summer when I'm home.

Then I ask Fred to say Happy Birthday to my son on the card.  He graciously agrees, thinking, "Who the hell is this person?"  I say, "Isn't your son's 13th birthday soon?"  He looks at me cautiously and says "Yes", and I go for broke and say, "Your daughter is a couple of months younger than (OD), and your son and my son (same name) were born close together, but I stopped at twins".  Fred Hoiberg blinks, and smiles.  He is clearly thinking, "Either this woman is a total stalker and I need to call security, or she's my cousin and my mom is going to call me tonight and chastise me for not knowing her.  Shit.  I hate these tailgate tours."


He had a line of people and media waiting, so I left to speed back to work and hope I wasn't missed.  I called CH and told him how I unintentionally messed with The Mayor's head.  I'm sure everyone acts like they know Fred, because they see him on TV, and I've only met him maybe twice in my life when he was either a senior in high school or a freshman in college, so there is no way he would know me.  But in my babble, I dropped enough info that I should have just gone all the way and said, "You really need to cut back on the Lipitor, I found another empty bottle in your trash last week."


This morning, the owner of my company walked in to my office, said "Do a little gambling yesterday afternoon, Julie?" and put THIS on my desk:

Photo courtesy of the Quad-City Times.

I was on the front page of the Sports Section today.  A BIG picture.  A place I truly never thought I would be in my life.  Life section?  Sure.  Police report?  Maybe.  Sports?  Um, no.  Perhaps now my job will be in the Employment section.


So there I am, in all my stalker glory, on the front page of the paper, playing hookie from work on my "secret" mission to get an autograph for The Son.  I got texts all day long about this.  And my son's friends told him all about it at school.  "Um, Mom?  Did you go see Fred Hoiberg without me?"  No.  I was at McDonalds getting a McFlurry.  Doesn't that dude look JUST LIKE Fred?  Weird.


I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor.  I have issues.  Your wife already knows that.  Go Cyclones!

Happy Easter!

Since I'm probably rushing around trying to find my shoes to get to church and figuring out how to cook ham without giving people trichonosis, I'm re-printing an older Easter post from what I can now refer to as "The Early Days" of the blog.  Happy Easter, and I dearly hope you have eaten fewer Reese's peanut butter cups than I on this blessed day.

The Son has started baseball, which means we spent an inordinate amount of time in large, grassy areas.  As we are pulling out of the ballpark, we see a costumed Easter Bunny standing in the middle of a huge field where presumable volunteers were throwing a gazillion eggs and candy all over the place.  I shudder.

ME:  "Did you know I was the Easter Bunny once?"
HIM:  "Really?  Like in a costume and everything?"
ME:  "Yes.  When I was Marketing Director at the mall, we had an Easter Egg Hunt, and my bunny bailed at the last minute, so I had to suit up."
HIM:  "Whoa, cool.  What was that like?"
ME:  "Extremely hot and sweaty and painful.  The kids beat me up.  I've tried to block it."
HIM:  "Did you make them mad?"
ME:  "No.  They were non-believers intent on disproving the whole Easter Bunny thing."

It's true.  I was the Crayola Easter Bunny at the Pentacrest in downtown Iowa City in 1995.  Freshly engaged, I thought perhaps with marriage and potential children in my future I should try to soften up toward kids, since they had always sort of annoyed me.  I donned the fur suit, which was hotter than the pits of Hades, and started sweating it out.  Let me just reassure you now that while some of the minor details may have faded, this is a Hand-To-God true story.


I walked over to the field with the assistance of one of the mall cops, because you can't see a damn thing out of those bunny heads.  You can't hear in the bunny head.  You can't walk in the bunny feet.  The Crayola outfit comes complete with pastel-hued overalls with a huge pocket on the front, and white furry feet that are about two feet long.  It's just a train wreck waiting to happen.

 Photo of actual costume.  But my feet were bigger.  

Now you can feel my pain.

When the kids saw me, they went apeshit crazy.  I was like the Beatles after Ed Sullivan, but with candy instead of sex appeal.  I stumbled over the field, little arms from invisible children hugging my legs and tripping over my enormous feet.  I tried to pat them on the head, but managed to poke more than one kid in the eye or punch them in the face.  I couldn't tell if they were screaming in joy or pain, I just knew I Must.  Keep.  Moving.  

 But at least I wasn't THIS guy, because that looks hot.  

And someone might accidentally shoot you.

After a while, the toddlers made way for the fourth graders, who ganged up on me and kept saying, "I know you're not real".  Since my Crayola Easter Bunny costume didn't have a moving jaw, I opted for Mute bunny so as to not ruin it for the believers, and I was more like Helen Keller in this costume than I thought possible, so I just waved and patted at the hecklers while the mall cop tried to shoo them away.  And kids listen so well to mall cops.

 Now picture every one of these kids 

with a club and a taser gun.  Scary, no?

"You're NOT REAL!  I Don't BELIEVE YOU!"  Then the poking and shoving started (the kids, not me).  Sweat was pouring down my back, and I could swear my overalls were sagging.  I started to hyperventilate.  Is this how I was to die?  By asphyxiation in a full fur body suit with long floppy ears and a cute cotton ball tail with a pack of fourth graders kicking the crap out of me like a bunch of skinheads?


Then, it happened.  A kid actually stuck his hand down my overall pocket and started groping around, saying, "You got any candy in there, bunny?"  

That.  Just.  Did it.

"ENOUGH!"  I growled through my enormously disproportionate head.  "You kids need to move away from the Easter Bunny RIGHT! NOW!"  

 Don't.  F*ck.  With.  My.  Pocket.

I stood in my most threatening costumed fantasy creature pose, pastel overalls trembling, sweat pooling in my pants.  I now looked like the rabid Tourettes bunny who had just wet himself.  "You kids had better move along," the mall security guard said quietly and slowly.  The kids went eerily silent, and walked away.  "Um, are you okay in there Julie?"  

"Just get me back to the mall, Bob.  I need to get back to the mall."


The Easter Bunny left a little early, soaked in her own sweat and feeling violated.  She can't remember much from the rest of the day, except that it involved tequila to dull the burning rage she had toward grade schoolers.  I'm not going to say that's the last time I got into a costume, but I will tell you it's the last time I got in one without a sidearm.

As for those kids who touched me?  Let's just say I still have the costume, and the Easter Bunny makes a visit to their houses every damn year.  Bock bock, Easter Bunny.  Bock, bock.

OD's Mom Has Got It Goin' On

Okay, not really.  But I like to remember a time when I might have had it goin' on. 

After I posted the video for the song "Animal" by Neon Trees last Friday, Current Husband had one of those rare moments when he surprises me.  In a pleasant way, even, which is a double bonus, because the unpleasant surprises exceed the pleasant ones.  I give you his penchant for jalapenos.  Unpleasant surprises.  But I digress.

CH came into our room with his laptop and made an announcement.

CH: "Hey, you know that band you like, Neon Trees? They're playing at Ribco Tuesday night.  Wanna go?" 
ME:  "Um, yeah!  But why do you want to go, CH?  You get annoyed in packed bars."
CH:  "Because it would be a fun date night."
ME:  "Whoa there, padre!  Oldest Daughter would kill me in my sleep if I did this show without her."
CH:  (sighs.) "Okay, get three tickets."
ME:  "You're all full of crazy if you think we can take OD and not take The Son.  They're both into music."
CH:  "I suppose now you're going to say we have to take Youngest Daughter because we can't take the other two and leave her."
ME:  "What's wrong with you?!!?  I'm not taking my 7-year-old to a bar!"
CH:  Walking away shaking head.  "You do what you want."
And this, my friends, is the line that ends most of our conversations.

We found one of those perfect solutions for the night - we have some friends who have three children who are the same gender and general ages, so the mom came with us and her OD and Son, and their dad stayed home with our YD and theirs.  We got to the bar and got our Over-21 bands, bought the girls concert t-shirts, and found our first round of beer for the adults and water for the kids.  The place was pretty packed, and there were two opening acts - one with the word "Giants" in the name, and they were pretty good, and then New Politics, which I have to say I hadn't heard of because I'm 41 and listen to NPR when the kids aren't in the car.  New Politics was like a blend of Nirvana and The Sex Pistols, and I couldn't believe they could get as much sound out of a guitar and drums and a singer as they did. 


The lead singer, David, was very theatrical and animated on stage, and can stand on his head for long periods of time without hands.  The Son was a little fascinated with him.  After their act, The Son and I went to talk to David, and he was super surprisingly nice to my son, considering he's a punk rocker, and then David signed this memento for The Son, which is now hanging in his room:

Violators will not be asked to leave. 

They will be ejected.

Do two wrongs make a right, people?

Our viewing position at the show was toward the back and to the side, against a brick wall.  The two teenagers had already broken away from us and were angling their way up to the stage where all of the other potential groupies were gathering. 

We kept lifting up the two boys so they could see, and then one extremely nice guy in front of us got a barstool so the boys could stand up on a rung to see the bands.  Earlier, I noticed there was a couple in their 50's sitting at the table near us, and there were two unused barstools under their table.  It was between bands, and the boys were sick of standing, so I asked if they could sit on the two barstools.  The woman said, "Sure, but don't move them, and we have people coming so we'll need them back when our people come."  Fine.  I have saved a seat before in my time.  The boys sat, but the SECOND one of them stood up, her husband threw his jacket across the chair.  Um, don't worry, my 11-year-old isn't going to pee on it OR fistfight you for it.

Two hours later, NOT ONE PERSON had sat on those barstools.  It was about 10 p.m., and Neon Trees had just taken the stage.  We had one barstool that the nice man got for one of the boys.  I leaned over and asked the woman, "Can I use one of these barstools?" She looked at me, all exasperated, and said, "I guess, but don't move them from this table."  By this time, Mommy had finished her third Blue Moon, and manners were taking a nosedive on the list of priorities.  So I said, "REALLY!?! Because I haven't seen ANYONE sitting on these barstools, and you've been reserving them all night." And she said, "The people they are for are right there!" and pointed off to the huge sweaty crowd.  I gave her my BITCH look and said, "Whatever. That's pathetic." and walked off.  OOOOHHHH.  I showed her!  "Whatever" is always the best comeback.  However, I did get have CH get a picture of her to humiliate her on my blog, so the three people who read it could get as outraged as I was.

See all of the barstools around her? 

This is during the headlining act,

three hours after they sat down. 

I wish early incontinence and thick

black facial hair upon this woman.

After Neon Trees finished, the other mom, I'll call her Neen, and I decided to use the bathroom while waiting for the band to come out.  We were in the stalls when this group of drunk bottle blondes came stumbling into the bathroom, talking about ass-grabbing Tyler from Neon Trees and singing Animal at each other's weddings.  Then one of them said this:
"Oh.My.Gawd. did you see the KIDS out there?  A couple of those kids are my students! I mean, like, what kind of parents bring their kids to a BAR? Like, why are there KIDS in here?"

Oops.  Perhaps, Ms. Student Teacher, it was the sign that said "ALL AGES WELCOME" on the poster?  Maybe I brought my children because they play piano, cello, and drums, and they are way into music and I thought it would inspire them as musicians?  Nah.  It was totally so the girls could have tequila shooters and the boys could fantasize about the two goth girls making out right next to them, and I could get out of the house.  I also take them to my meth dealer's lab when I'm low on product.  SO, when I walked out of the stall the same time as Neen, and we looked at each other and laughed a little bit, I turned to Blondie and said, "WE are the parents who bring their 11-year-olds to concerts!  We are the bad parents!  Who-hoo!" and fist pumped as we walked out of the bathroom. 

With the guitarist from Neon Trees,

doing our rock star hands. 

See you at conferences, teachers!

(NOTE: The teachers were NOT from our school. 

I love our teachers, really, I do.)

We got home at about 11:30, tired, hoarse, a little hard of hearing, but happy.  It was a great night out at the bars with the kids, stalking musicians.  I'm so proud. The torch has been passed. 



It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 49

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.



Today's topic:  The Ghost of Kisses Past

Of the three children I've birthed, one has been through sex ed at school, one has gleaned the knowledge of the older and wiser sibling, and one doesn't think Barbie and Ken can progress past the kissing stage.  For Youngest Daughter, after Ken and Barbie have kissed long enough, they share a mortagage on the Barbie Dream Home and Ken is crapping in the pink bathroom.  YD's nonchalance aside, here is how I plan to answer my children's sex questions when they finally get the guts to ask:

Q:  "How old were you when you first had sex?"
A:  "I haven't.   Not that there's anything wrong with it."

Q:  "Do you drink?"
A:  "Only for medical reasons."

Q:  "Have you smoked pot?"
A:  "Yes, I've burned a number of pans."

Q:  "What is a blow job?"
A:  "Get Mommy a fresh drink and some roller papers."

The other day Oldest Daughter and I were in the car, and we were singing along to our current favorite song, "Animal" by Neon Trees, video embedded below, (I'm a little obsessed with this song at the moment) and OD looked at me with that smug teen look and decided to get a little ballsy:

OD:  "Do you even know what this song is about?"
ME:  "Yeah.  Do YOU know what this song is about?"
OD:  "It's about sex, Mom."
ME:  "I know."
OD:  "Really? Because I don't think you knew."
ME:  "Really?  Because I've actually had sex, so I think I'd recognize it in a song."
OD:  "AAAHHH!!  I'M DEAF!  I'M DEAF!"

And then I was a little horrified because A) I sort of admitted that I've had sex, and B) I am going to have to go through this whole story again when OD is in therapy and I have to listen to the therapist talk about "filters", which will just go over my head and make me thirsty for coffee. 

One would think this type of conversation wouldn't be a problem in front of one's husband.  I mean, he KNOWS you, Biblically, right?  So nothing will faze him.  Right?

Last weekend, Current Husband and I attended a lovely shindig benefiting the Iowa SIDS Foundation, and let me just take a moment from trying to be funny to say that if you need to find a worthwhile organization to send a donation, find a local SIDS Foundation chapter. Wow.  (Can I just take a moment to say I find it hard to believe that I made a plug for Iowa SIDS Foundation in a Whoreticulture Friday post?  I don't know if they would be grateful or outraged.)

ANYWHOO - here is the picture again, so you know that we occasionally step out of the house without face paint:

Hmm.  I haven't fed this picture for a week

and I still haven't lost any weight in it. 

Frigging Reeses with your irresistable

combination of chocolate and peanut butter.

There was delicious wine and lovely company - we were the table guests of some friends of ours, and they invited us with the full knowledge that CH and I are card-carrying banjo loving white trash, and about three rounds of wine tasting into the event, another couple walks by and our hosts stop to introduce them to us.  I look up, and the man and I give each other one of those, "How do I know you?" looks.  At the same time, we say, "How do I know you?" 

Here we are, three couples, standing in the social circle jerk of 'who talks now?' and you KNOW it's going to be me.  I say, "What was your name again?" and he says, "Baron Mrmrmrmr" and a slide show of three guys flashes through my brain.  They are the ghosts of kisses past.  Or more.  My eyes widen and I say, "Ohhh!" and then I do the reflex "OH SHIT" look at CH.  CH rolls his eyes and takes a drink, because he knows from past experience this could really go any way.  Baron's very lovely wife is looking from him to me like, "Do I need to spread a rumor about this woman and herpes in her PTA group?" and the host couple is smiling like, "Oh yeah, THIS is why we invited Julie."

Here is how I should have handled it:
"Oh yes, Baron!  Remember, we were in youth group together in high school!" and then let him fill in the details.  If pressed about why I looked embarrassed, say, "Baron heard me fart in church."

INSTEAD, I say this:
"Okay Baron, you know me, I dated M., stalked D., and made out with V. at the Haunted House your fraternity had with my sorority and I lost my lavaliere and made everyone look for it so my pledge mom wouldn't murder me. Weirdly enough, V. was the best kisser."

Baron starts laughing and says something along the lines of "How could I forget!?  I knew I knew you from somewhere." and his wife looks really relieved and the host couple looks a little disappointed.  CH already had this information, but it's not something he loves to talk about at cocktail parties and benefits - "Hey, has my wife told you about the time she went through a fraternity like a cop in a box of donuts?"  But he gamely went along and thankfully the next wine flight came along before I could go on any longer.

All class, all the time, people.

Here is that video I promised.  Love this song.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday and have a great weekend!

Marble Poundcake Mullet, Part 2

If you are new to the blog, I'm sorry.  My mom thinks I'm funny, but she's a functioning alcoholic, and they think everyone is funny.  I'm kidding.  My mom is a meth addict.

I am a low maintenance person.  I don't wear much makeup, or shower every day, or even shave my legs during the coldest winter months.  This makes me sound more "clinically depressed" than "low-maintenance", but really, I would rather get another chapter read in my book than apply makeup.  And I'm married, so the farce is over.

The one thing I do get a little uptight about is my hair.  I'm not even talking about MY maintenance of my hair, I'm talking about the quarterly upkeep of my hair by a paid professional.  Left to my own devices, I would just put my salt and pepper mane into a clip or a ponytail and be done with it, but I have children to embarrass with my need to look younger and listen to their music and throw gang signs at them when I kick them to the curb at middle school in the mornings.

So spring, summer, fall and winter, I fork over about $150 for the ability to convince myself that I look less gray and more tragically hip.  I also have my Frida Kahlo lip waxed so I can walk around town with a swollen pink mustache, convenient when I want people to avoid me.  As I explained in too much detail yesterday, my hair ended up with drastic layers cut into it, with the end result looking like a Marble Poundcake Mullet.  Like Billy Ray Cyrus and Rachel Green from Friends had a baby they didn't like very much.  But how do you tell the sweet gal who just did this to you that you don't like it?  What exactly is she going to to about it?  The hair is gone.  You just think, "It will grow back, and I can wear a wig or some Jessica Simpson hair extensions."

But when Oldest Daughter got home, she called me Two Tone, and that is when I lost my shit.  I called my stylist and asked for a mulligan.  She told me to come in today at 11:30 a.m.

Tell me you see it -

Blondie on the top, Brownie on the bottom.

(And I notice the shower curtain rod is getting rusty.)

It was awkward, and she couldn't have been sweeter about it.  I said, "Hi!  I bet you think I'm completely psychotic!" and she gave me a nice smile and patted my arm and said "Come on back".  We went to the back room where the women are incrementally blonder or redder or caramel-er and everyone talks smack about Dancing With the Stars or That Asshole Jesse James/Tiger Woods or the Hawaii/Florida/Scottsdale/Mexico Trip from which they've just returned.  I read a book called "Stuff White People Like" and thought about my upcoming vacation extravaganza to Dayton, Ohio.

As she foiled my hair, I read my book.  I realized I'd read about 50 pages and she wasn't done.  I started to panic.  Was she going to turn me into Pam Anderson just to make a point?  How angry was she?  How much Reynolds Wrap was going to die because I have an aversion to two-tone hair, Bump-its, and Jersey Shore?  I tried to start talking in apologetic tones about what a pain in the ass I am, and she shushed me, smiling.  Oh no.  This was going to be bad.

As she was rinsing my hair out, I thought, "What do I pay for this?  I've taken up her time.  Do I compensate?  Was it her mistake in the first place, or mine for not saying anything yesterday when I was here?  Was it my turn to drive for orchestra this morning?  I have to get out of here."

I said "Don't blow me out, okay?" and then thought it sounded sexual, and while I don't actually want her to blow me, I don't want her to think I'm rejecting her color AND her sexuality.  "Um, I mean, I don't need it dried, you don't need to style it..." and she looked at me incredulously.  "Really?  You just want to walk out with it wet?"  I didn't want to be a bigger pain than I already was, and if the color was off this time, too bad for me, because another roll of Reynolds Wrap and chemicals would make my hair fall out.  "Yep!  I brought a clip!"  I'm sure she thinks I'm the biggest soccer mom in history - I'm leaving this nice salon and spa, and insisting on walking out with wet hair in a clip.  Fashion Don't.

All day in my fancy clip -

zig zag fuzzy hair, but it's uniform in color!

Vogue Hands automatically give me style.

She fixed my hair, but not my mental issues.  She just smiled and said, "You're done, you can go!" and I said, "Can I at least pay you for a Drive By?" which is actually called a Drive Thru and means you get your color touched up for a low price in between appointments, but she probably really thought I wanted her to drive past my house and shoot at me because I was so clearly freaking out about making her re-do my do.  And I had made it apparent I wasn't one of her "Easy" or "Stable" or "Coherent" clients.  "Nope!  You're fine!"  I left her a $20 tip and the sense she should make herself look booked before my next appointment in July.

But I still have my hot clip, and my mojo.

And you can't take that away from me.

I am also wearing my Jen Lancaster pearls - not an appropriate topic for Whoreticulture Friday, so I'll address which authors I will be stalking next week in Monday's post, and tell you about the THREE e-mails I've received from The Governor of Jennsylvania in the past few months! 

Thanks for your support during this difficult time.  And Mom, I'm sorry.  You are not a meth addict either.  I'm an entertainer, not an historian.

Deadline on Good Has Passed

He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness' sake!

My kids were always afraid of Santa. They refused to sit on his lap, much less look at him, in a mall, and really? Isn't this what we taught them from birth? Strangers, lunatics in costume, people with candy, Hos, men who want you to sit on their laps, adults who try to make you keep secrets - ALL on the verboten list. But for one day a year, forget about all of that, kids, the danger is gone! Same deal with the Easter Bunny or other costumed characters. They just knew something wasn't right about that creature, and I never pushed them to form a relationship with these LSD-inspired maniacs. When you look at song lyrics like the above, you know why kids might fear St. Nick. Santa, according to Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town, is a bona fide stalker. I'm thinking this is where Sting got the inspiration for Every Breath You Take...it's the same concept, just a little more detailed.

Did I say ALL of my kids are afraid of Santa? Because our precious sweet baby, Youngest Daughter, is not. To her, this is a business negotiation. She met the minimum requirement for good this year, and it is payoff time. She will approach Santa with her list of demands, and a little bit of "You're going to make good on your end, capiche?"

The other day, YD is sitting at the table eating her after school snack when she started in with her daily "Can I have a friend over?" and I started in with my daily "Not tonight" and she did her usual "Why?" and I did my normal "Because I have things to do" and she said "All of my friends have people over" and I started yelling "You don't get to have friends over every night!" At this point, she got a little belligerent about it, and I threw down with my seasonal, "You shouldn't argue with me, Santa is watching." Because it's important to frighten the children with the idea that a magical creature is watching them at all times. That's just good parenting.

But YD had other ideas. She took another bite of her bar, nonplussed, and engaged me.

YD: "No Mom, Santa already knows I've been good, I'm okay."
ME: "What do you mean? Christmas is still over a week away."
YD: "Santa is done. Our teacher said we had to have our lists in last Friday, and he's already sent back a note saying I've been a good girl."
ME: "That doesn't mean he can't change his mind. You still have to be good."
YD: "What's he gonna do, Mom? "X" me off of his list? Santa doesn't have time. I'm already on the good list."

And she finished her snack.

My power was over. As far as she was concerned, this was a done deal, and to hell with that "being good" business, her work here was done. No coal for her.

Being good for goodness' sake? Fuggeddaboutit.

Santa Claus is comin' to town. And to YD, he's already halfway here.

I am Julie, Author Stalker

We interrupt Laura Ingalls Wilder month for a new random posting series:

Julie, Author Stalker

It is much like Walker, Texas Ranger, in that Walker, Texas Ranger is an American television police drama/action show known for its moral values and use of martial arts. Julie, Author Stalker, is an American wife drama/action sideshow known for her depravity and use of domestic arts. And she frightens authors at book signings.

Chuck Norris Facts:
*The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.
*Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
*In conversation, Chuck Norris often quotes himself, and then laughs about it.

Julie, Author Stalker Facts:
* The chief export of the Author Stalker is awkwardness and fear.
* Author Stalker not only finds authors, she stares them down until she gets the information she wants.
* In conversation, Author Stalker often quotes herself, and then laughs about it.

The big difference? Chuck Norris IS security, while Author Stalker is usually led out by security.

TODAY'S STALKED AUTHOR: Marilynne Robinson

The following information was shamelessly lifted from Wikipedia:
Marilynne Robinson (born November 26, 1943) is an American author. Her 1980 novel Housekeeping (see 1980 in literature) won a Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award for best first novel and was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Her second novel, Gilead (see 2004 in literature), was acclaimed by critics and received the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, the 2004 National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction, and the 2005 Ambassador Book Award. Her third novel, Home, published in 2008, was a finalist for the 2008 National Book Award, and won the 2009 Orange Prize for Fiction. Also in 2009, she held a Dwight H. Terry Lectureship at Yale University, giving a series of talks entitled Absence of Mind: The Dispelling of Inwardness from the Modern Myth of the Self.

Tonight I attended a reading by Marilynne Robinson. She was lovely, as was the book "Gilead", which I read and had her sign. She is an instructor at the University of Iowa Writer's Workshop and well respected in her field. During the Q&A segment of her reading, I asked her about her process in writing, and if winning a Pulitzer put any undue pressure on her. I sounded sane. She seemed okay with me, until I got in front of her.

Again, when I have too much time in line, I start thinking of weird things to say to people. Anyone who has lived with me for any length of time, which at this point would include my family of origin, my Chi Omega sorority sisters, and Current Husband and children, know that if I have too much time on my hands and am in the right mood, people could end up wrapped like a mummy in toilet paper (sorry Jen), or written on (sorry, CH), outlined like a dead body (sorry Tina), or covered in maxi pads (that was actually Barb, but I helped). Because I am THAT mature.

MR: "Hello."
ME: "Hi. I sure wish I could secret you away from here for 30 minutes and pick your brain."
MR: (Looks up, a little alarmed.)
ME: (Nervous laughter, like 'did I just say that out loud?') "But I'm sure Borders wouldn't let me take you away unwillingly, huh?"
MR: (Making mental note to have Borders employee walk her to car) "Make this out to Julie?"
ME: "SO, I thought about applying at the Iowa Writer's Workshop, but my work is more Erma Bombeck and David Sedaris's love child, if she weren't dead and he weren't gay. But I'm thinking the workshop is more literary...."
MR: "Yes. Yes, the workshop does tend to be more literary."
(Awkward silence. Fifty people in line behind me collectively grumble and sigh.)
ME: "Well, thanks! I really enjoy your books!"
MR: "Thank you." (Smiles relieved smile and turns to next person.)

Authors with restraining orders against Julie, Author Stalker in October: THREE!

1) Jen Lancaster, whom I e-mailed about missing her book signing because of David Sedaris, and actually asked her if she ever let complete strangers take her out for drinks. She sent a lovely reply saying, "Um, thanks for being a fan, but back the f**k off." Well, not exactly like that, but I have printed it, enlarged it, and put it in the Jen Lancaster shrine in my basement.

2) David Sedaris, whom my friend Judy and I insulted and then tried to make him read my blog with the eventual goal of him "discovering" me. I lost my favorite Jesus oilcloth coin purse over that. Why must I be so impulsive? After drinking just a little, tiny bit? I am enlarging his signature page, which read, "Julie, I look forward to reading your book" and putting it in the David Sedaris shrine in my basement.

3) Marilynne Robinson, who is a totally dignified Pulitzer Prize winning novelist, and is walking with a can of Mace to her car right about now. But I won't enlarge anything of hers, because I'm feeling a little guilty about threatening to kidnap her.

Stay tuned! My next scheduled author stalking is Nov. 4, when I meet Alexandra Fuller, author of "Don't Let's Go To The Dogs Tonight". I'm going with my book club, and drinks will be served.