“How ‘bout a kiss, buddy?”

When I picked Jaxson up from school yesterday, I asked how he did that day. I always ask and then I hold my breath and hope for the best.

“Great. He was a little squirrelly for a while. Anytime we change something up he gets tense. Oh, there is something…”

Then his teacher walked over and told me Jax was chasing boys around the playground and when he caught them, he kissed them. “Yeah, we may want to figure out a way to get him to stop doing that.”

I had to laugh. Social story, perhaps? I love social stories. The teacher prints up these one page ‘stories’ that involve pictures and symbols to explain a teaching moment to the child that might not otherwise understand the lesson if given verbally without visual cues.

I know where the behavior comes from. Jax loves Popeye. We have DirecTV and he records episodes and watches them over and over. Popeye says it to Olive Oyl all the time and Jax has taken to saying it. Sometimes he grabs my face and says, “How ‘bout a kiss, buddy?” and then lays one on me. I think it’s cute. If chasing boys and kissing them is the worst faux pas he commits at school, I’m fine with that.

His father wasn’t as charmed as I after I relayed the story to him. Bread Winner said to Jaxson, “Don’t kiss boys, kiss girls.”

“Don’t tell him that!” I chastised. “He’s not supposed to be kissing ANYBODY. Kids pass around germs! Plus it’s not socially appropriate to be kissing his peers in a school setting. He needs to respect personal space.”

Bread Winner leaned in again and whispered to Jax, who was wriggling in his arms because he was being tickled. “Only kiss girls.”

I groaned. “You know, sometimes you’re not very smart. I could care less if he’s kissing boys or girls.” Bread Winner gave me an upward eyebrow and I silently said my standard prayer for at least one homosexual child.

You gasp?

Well the thing is, in his young life, my elder son, Jake, has done, said and asked more than a few questions that leave his not-yet-burgeoning-sexual-preferences up in the air. I want to make sure I’m open to all options so he knows that he, too, can be open to all options.

When he was five Jake asked me, “Mom, can a man and a man get married?”

I’d been cleaning up the back porch while he played on his swing set and I stopped sweeping, resting my chin on the end of the broom handle.

“Well, yes they can.” Because I knew he wasn’t asking if two men could go down to the county courthouse and obtain a marriage license or civil ceremony certificate, or move to Canada and marry without the Jesus freaks stoning them on the way in. He wanted to know if two men could live together, love together, and have a family. So I believe I gave the appropriate response.

“Is that weird?” he asked, sitting in the swing, using a toe to dig in the dirt.

“No, nothing’s weird if you don’t think it is, honey.”

“But is it normal?”

“What’s normal?” I asked, wondering how he defined the word.

“Mom! You know what normal means!” He’d become irritated, because Jake only likes to deal in facts. Black or white, right or wrong, his mind left no room for the possibility of fluidity in any circumstance. Yes or no answers should be given whenever possible, and as far as he was concerned, the world would be a much easier place to navigate if everyone conformed to that notion.

I can’t even remember now how I’d defined normal. With Jake, there were always these discussions that left me feeling anxious and slightly nauseous. Not because of the content, but because I was always afraid I might say something that would come back to bite me or him in the ass later in life. I wanted him to make his own choices; about sexuality, about politics, about religion, about people in general.

But his most recent questioning on the topic, at age twelve, now led me to believe that I couldn’t win for losing.

“Mom, can I read your book when it gets published?”

We were en route to school, and damn if I didn’t already have to deal with a hot topic.

“No, honey. It’s for adults.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about a young boy who leaves home when he’s seventeen and lives in New York for twenty years before he returns home.” The book in question was Far From Happy, a novel I’d recently signed a contract for publication on. My first published work.

The protagonist was a male hustler.

“Is it like your Macy movie? With the boys kissing?”

Yes, in fact. Macy’s Wait was a short film my mother and I had recently completed, and apparently he’d seen me editing the video, though this was the first time he’d mentioned it.

“Well, sort of. The boy is gay. Remember when I told you what gay means?”

“Yeah, that’s gross Mom.”

I had exactly nine minutes before I dropped him off in front of his middle school and I used every second of it explaining the facets of the word tolerance and how I didn’t actually like the word, because it presumed that there was something that needed to be tolerated about another individual and I preferred to believe that we are all equal and beautiful because of our differences and no matter who someone is, or what they believe, love was never wrong and it was nobody’s place to judge someone else for who they loved.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I finished with this, “Now, you understand that some men love men, and some men love women, and some women love men, and some women love women, right? And any of those combinations is perfectly acceptable. It’s okay that you would rather kiss a girl, but—”

“—eeeew, Mom! That’s even more gross!” he hissed as he opened the car door, grabbed his backpack and looked around to make sure none of his classmates had heard the end of the conversation.

When the car door slammed and I pulled around the circle, I was shaking my head; no closer to an answer about my own child’s sexual preferences. It seemed, at the moment, kissing anyone was gross.

And that was just fine with me.

At any rate, a gal can dream. In my version of future paradise, Jake will be the eccentric, homosexual Dog Groomer to the Stars, and take me with him on his international travels.

Jax—because he’s just recently become verbal—traipses around in my dreams, multi-lingually. He not only speaks perfect English, but goes on to master Spanish, French and whatever they speak in Yemen, Kosovo and Afghanistan.

Yes, my dreams include one kid escorting me to Broadway shows when I’m seventy, and the other, my personal translator while I experience a bit of long overdue globetrotting. I’m not saying they have to do these things, just that it would be a nice repayment for my maternal efforts.

But, as someone very smart once told me, hope in one hand and crap in the other—see which one fills up first.

Ten Minutes to Wapner

You’ve all probably seen Rain Man. Dustin Hoffman’s character was inspired by real-life autistic Kim Peek who could read eight books a day, taking ten seconds to read each page, devouring two pages simultaneously, his left eye reading the left page and his right eye reading the right one. He had an unbelievable memory and knowledge of rote facts. But, here’s the interesting conundrum: throughout his life he still needed 24-hour care. Despite his amazing mental agility, his motor skills were limited and he needed help with things like dressing himself and combing his hair.

The movie wasn’t necessarily a bad depiction of someone with autism, although neither of my kids can count toothpicks if they’re dropped on the floor, or perform other entertaining party tricks. And I’m here to tell you if they could count cards, I’d be the first one to hop on a plane to Vegas and figure out a way to exploit the situation to my financial advantage. But my kids aren’t savants. Most autistic people aren’t - only about 10% of people on the autism spectrum have savant skills.

So for that reason, the Hollywood portrait painted wasn’t entirely realistic with regard to most people on the autism spectrum. But it told an engaging story and illustrated some things rather well:

The Ten Minutes to Wapner thing was very realistic. I can hear Jake saying that, only it wouldn’t be about The People’s Court, it would probably involve Pokemon or Mario or some cartoon character on one of his shows. “Mom, it’s coming on in five minutes. Mom…only three more minutes, HURRY!”

Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

The movie also hit the nail on the head about things like having to eat specific foods a certain way, or requiring a certain brand of underwear, lest the wearer might, say, lose their shit (pun intended). Jake is a boxer kind of kid and he’ll go commando before putting on tightie-whities. If it’s a school day and I haven’t gotten to the laundry fast enough, obviously commando wouldn’t be an appropriate option. So, yeah - that would be a bad start to what presumably would be a bad day. Needless to say, I try and stay on top of the laundry situation in my house.

People on the autism spectrum are often restricted, rigid, and even obsessive in their behaviors, activities, and interests. When this rigidity is challenged, in the form of making changes to their rituals and structure, challenging behaviors (AKA: tantrums) may arise.

The thing to remember with autistic children is that the behavior is not on a vindictive or malicious level. They are not trying to blackmail you emotionally because what’s happening - from their perspective - has to do with them, not you. Autistic children are completely without guile. They have no understanding of concepts such as passive-aggression or manipulation. Autistic persons’ reactions are simply their reactions to whatever stimuli they’re being confronted with. Unlike some neuro-typical children, their actions are not a conscious way of getting something they want. In fact, they’re probably not even aware how their actions are affecting you. That’s something they often need to be taught along the way, rather than simply ‘getting it’ from your behavior, facial expression or body language.

For this reason alone, I wish everyone had a touch of autism.

Jake can’t lie. Seriously, he can’t tell a lie. It’s like a tic for him. He’ll get right in the car after school and give me a laundry list of every bad thing that he might have said, done, or encountered that day. He’s unable to move forward until he’s sure I’m completely aware of anything that might have been considered inappropriate. Then he feels better. If I ask him a direct question, even though he MIGHT try to keep something from me, he’s got absolutely no poker face, and the moment of silence is quickly followed by him coughing up the truth, however uncomfortable it makes him. This might very well be the coolest thing about him, from a parenting perspective. Well, that, and the fact that he can’t abide cursing, which he regularly calls me on, as well as fellow students. Yeah, I imagine that goes over really well with the ‘normal’ kids. (Actually I know it doesn’t because he was recently bullied for it.)

Just interacting socially can be draining for someone who can’t read facial expressions, isn’t verbal and doesn’t understand many things involved in social interaction, like reading body language. It’s like trying to get something from someone who is speaking another language. So pile that on top of any changes in the structure of their life and you should expect the guano to hit the oscillator, my friends.

Although their routines might seem strange to us, they serve a purpose to the autistic person. After all, routine itself isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I go grocery shopping on the same day of the week each week, simply because it’s convenient. If I wait longer I will run out of something. If I go earlier, I may have too much of certain items and then they go bad before I can use them. Ritual and routine help us feel secure and safe within our environment and makes the world around us more predictable. Too much unpredictability and uncertainty can lead to stress, more so with autistic people.

When these rituals and routines are interrupted or changed, the reaction you might get could well seem to be disproportionate, but you must remember that the autistic person who you are interacting with may have communication problems and doesn’t understand the reason for the disruption of their routine. Even Jake, who is a teenager and very verbal, is extremely literal. Try using things like sarcasm, irony, metaphor or pun on him and what you’ll get in return is a blank stare.

Jaxson and Jake both have issues with change. Jaxson, for instance, is unable to come into school and unpack his backpack and put his items into his locker like the other six children in his class, until his teacher comes out of the classroom and greets him in the hallway. He won’t let me leave until this happens. As soon as his teacher comes out and Jax sees her, I can leave. But if I try to leave him with his fellow students to unpack his backpack, he whines and pulls at me. It is how things went on the first day of kindergarten, so now if I try to change it up, he freaks out. This doesn’t bode well for the day - which is swiftly approaching - when he has a substitute teacher.

The ASD teachers want children to become more independent, thus tending to certain chores at school by themselves, without the aid of a paraprofessional or teacher. They need to be able to do things, like walk down the hall without holding the para-pro’s hand or change from their snow boots into sneakers in the winter, all by themselves.

This is all grand, but when something ‘new’ comes up - something out of their normal routine - this can throw an autistic child off, terribly. The way to try and change this is to regularly change-up their routine, at home and school. To toss them something unexpected and get them used to navigating change. Needless to say this isn’t always fun and so far I haven’t seen it actually work. You’re bucking their internal sense of order and it doesn’t go well. But as a parent, I still need to try, because life is messy and full of changes. The need for a detour often arises.

Shit happens.

But, try relating that concept to an autistic child and see how far you get.

Would the Devil Get a Publishing Deal?

Sigh. There are at least three things wrong with the photo above and their names are Conrad, Palin and Beck, in order of appearance from left to right.

Sigh, again. Really? I had to google the Conrad chick, because although I recognized her face, I didn’t even know from what show she’d been spewed forth, I only knew where she’d ended up. Published. I suppose I should be happy it was her and not that Heidi Montag Living Barbie, because had I seen her face while walking down the aisle at Wal-Mart, I might have had a spontaneous cranial bleed.

For a writer it’s difficult to see faces like the faces above and know that some of them hit the NYT Best Seller List. For the love of God, Katie Couric couldn’t even nail down whether Sara Palin reads newspapers on a regular basis, and now she’s a New York Times Bestselling author?

Then there’s Glen Beck and his book Arguing With Idiots. Reading between the lines, I assume he’s had lots of practice arguing with himself.

Who the hell is reading this shit? Seriously. I get it. Publishers will publish what sells. That’s not what concerns me. Publishing is a business, just like television. If we gobble it up, they're gonna serve it up hand over fist.

So, I’ll ask again: who is reading this shit? The same people, I presume, who are watching all that reality TV, buying Snuggies ™ and eating sugar-free foods laced with aspartame. We can not complain about the offerings on TV, movies and books if we're the same people following Snookie's every move or watching Glenn Beck's show and believing everything (or anything, really) that comes out of his wacky mouth.

We're the problem. And why do we watch/read this stuff? Is it the whole 'train wreck' thing? (READ: Mid-term elections have caused everyone to lose their minds because some REAL TURDS are running for office - homophobic turds, turds who dabbled in witchcraft, etc.) I see too comfortable a correlation here and it disturbs me. The loudest wackadoo in politics - do we support them just to ensure an entertaining news cycle once they're elected?

Is it just fun to watch someone humiliate themselves, watch someone's marriage disintigrate before our eyes (Jon & Kate + 8 - 1), or watch some young person's hopes and dreams become shattered (American Idol try outs). Does anyone else find this whole disturbing trend...yucky? OR is it just me?

So as I’m preparing this blog, I google Heidi, praying, I mean really PRAYING that she didn’t have—

Oh, you’ve got to be f-ing kidding me with this! She and Spencer wrote (I am playing fast and loose with the word ‘wrote’ here, clearly):

How to Be Famous: Our Guide to Looking the Part, Playing the Press, and Becoming a Tabloid Fixture

So, it appears the surefire way to get a publishing deal (or get elected to a Senate or House of Reps. seat) is to say something stupid, do something stupid, or be someone stupid. And yes, I am bitter. A bitter ,bitter girl. But I did find a way to purge the pent-up bitterness threatening to overtake me. I rearranged the bookshelf at Wal-Mart. With a bit of quick work, I was able to move every copy of the above books to the bottom shelf and put other books in front of them.

I considered it a public service. My way of paying it forward to the shoppers who would follow me down the aisle that day. Grocery shopping is a daunting enough task without having to ponder the pervasive absurdity of whether the Devil Himself would get a publishing deal.

Come November, we might have an even more frightening 'reality' show going on in America. I predict a high number of new CSPAN viewers.

Sensory Stew

Picture this:

You’re locked in a speeding car at night, racing down the highway at breakneck speed. It’s the middle of summer; you’re hot, uncomfortable and sweaty. There are sirens wailing outside, and there’s a baby with a stinky diaper next to you, screaming. The interior car lights flash on and off, blinding your senses. The radio is turned up full blast to heavy metal music. Nobody is driving; you have no control.

Now you might have an idea of what it’s like to be autistic on any given day.

You are expected to deal with this, and get through your normal daily routine without exploding. You are expected to listen and follow directions; you are expected to thrive. One after the other, sensory arrows are being shot at you, only your mind is unable to process them in any meaningful way. All noises are translated at the same level, none being relegated to background noise.

Every sense is heightened, over-stimulated.

What must it feel like for them, all of these bothersome things festering in the mind of the autistic child, clouding anything brighter from shining through? Jake, my 13 year old, can’t stand the way paper feels and at school this just has to be nerve-racking. Book pages turning, graded papers being passed out, notes shuffling between hands at every desk; the sensory minefield he has to wade through daily is something most people can’t even remotely relate to. Jaxson, my 9 year old, doesn’t like loud noises or clothing. Yeah, I said clothing. As soon as his feet hit the front doormat, he’s pulling off his clothes. He’ll wear them when we go out and all day at school, but at home he’s a little guy runnin’ around in his skivvies. I have no idea what it is about them that bothers him, but he just doesn’t like being dressed. I buy all cotton, everything loose and breathable, cut out all the tags—still, he prefers life sans clothing. Who am I to begrudge him?

His home is his castle just as it is mine and I want him to be comfy there.

Children with sensory issues must do what other children do throughout their day at school and in daily life, but they’ve got the added burden of wading through an often debilitating sensory assault as they do it.

In my opinion, that’s what makes them a little stronger than you and I.

Below is an example of a Sensory Stew and how Jaxson dealt with it. (READ: His 2007 School Christmas Pageant. Damn my kid is cute! )

A Few of My (Least) Favorite Things

1. Reality TV.

Seriously, do we have an ETA on when that stupid trend is going to peter out? Because I think America’s been dumbed-down to the point of reckless abandon at this point. It’s been scientifically proven that for every 30 minutes of reality TV you watch, you lose 5 IQ points, so some of you people should be in a cage with the apes at the Bronx Zoo, tossing excrement and sniffing your fellow inmates’ asses.

The only two network shows I watch are The Office and Glee*. (*Wouldn’t life would be wonderful if we all occasionally broke into song with an accompanying perfectly choreographed dance number and flawless costuming? And Jane Lynch is so yummy I could dip her in couscous and wash her down with a glass of chardonnay. )

2. Donald Rumsfeld, Karl Rove, Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly.

I probably don’t need to elaborate here. This also goes for FOX News. I prefer my propaganda with a big Nazi flag in the corner of the screen, accompanied by grainy black-and-white pictures of soldiers screaming ‘Heil Hitler’.

3. Seeing your underwear in public.

This applies to persons of the male and female persuasions. Guys, if you think it’s so important for me to see your Joe Boxers, just wear them over your jeans. It’ll look less stupid than having the crotch of your pants dangling somewhere around your knees.

And gals, (I’m talking to you if your jeans only cover half your ass and I can see your thong), if you’re under 25 and wear obnoxiously low-riding pants, you might want to re-assess your fashion sense. If you’re over 25 and embracing tween-fashion, you might need to re-assess your common sense.

AND NOW FOR YOUR MOMENT OF ZEN:

Ladies, have you ever wanted a bejeweled beaver? Well then, get in on the new fad that’s sweeping the nation. Everyone from Jennifer Love Hewitt to Kathy Griffin have gone the way of the shimmering snatch, so don’t be the last one on your block with a festooned frontage. Start Vajazzling*!

(*va-jazzle - to decorate your ‘down there’ area with shiny, glittery gems.)

My Va-Jay-Jay Bling sung to the tune of A Few of My Favorite Things.

80 Year Old Chick

I’ve been posting videos of my octogenarian Nanna on YouTube for a few years and the video CHICK ON GAY PEOPLE has over 50 thousand hits and was taken from an interview I did with her a few years ago. I simply sat her down and asked questions, to which she responded in her very Nanna-like way: without guile and completely honest.




CHICK ON VIBRATORS



I don’t know what is so funny about senior citizens and ‘dicey’ subject matter, but here’s another short film I made called VD IS FOR EVERYBODY. The doctor in the film was my actual doctor at the time, and the actress in the stirrups is a lovely woman named Regina Mancino.




For more of my Nanna, check out the 80 Year Old Chick page of this website. I’ve included interviews with her, as well as some short films she’s acted in.

'Roid Rage!

Most of my writer friends know of my troubles down under because I’ve regaled them with stories about my little anal hitchhikers. I’m slightly obsessed with my hemorrhoids, I'll be the first one to admit.

But mostly, I figure if you’ve got an issue that once almost caused you to shove the ice blocks in your freezer - normally reserved for your children’s lunchboxes - into your lower orifice, you might as well get some literary mileage out of it.

If you can’t laugh at your own put-upon-pooper, what can you laugh at…I ask you?

As anyone with a similarly disenfranchised ass can attest, when those little buggers are angry, the pain they can cause is beyond the ability to comprehend. I have been awakened from a sound sleep, suddenly feeling like something untoward happened to my rear orifice while I slumbered - like a brutal ménage à many. Vicious waves of angst filtered up through my innards as I crawled to the kitchen for ice because I’d let the literal tube run dry.

That’s a mistake a ’roid sufferer only makes once. What follows is an early morning jaunt to the nearest drug store, whereby you avail yourself of every tube on the shelf and are only moderately embarrassed as the clerk rings up your seventeen boxes of Prep-H. (generic of course, I’m nobody’s fool.) After you’ve experienced that kind of pain, you could care less who sees you spending $94.76 on off-brand ass cream. You just want to make sure you never run out again.

To this day, even though I’ve got a butt-load (pun intended) of overstock under my bathroom cabinet, I still grab another box every time I’m in the Wal-Mart Supercenter. There can never be too much emergency preparedness in this situation, and I promise you FEMA hasn’t got your back.

I’ve been lucky as of late. I’ve had no flare ups, but it hasn’t been long enough that I’ve forgotten the brutality. I remember praying for death in between suppressing dry heaves and mopping the sweat from my clammy brow. It is a memory that haunts me to this day.

Because he gets a kick out of shit like this, my amazing writer friend Mitch Geller wrote a song about my affliction and I’ll share it with you now. Notice the personal elements he added. A reference to flies (a Jake obsession) and a lighter (Oh, have I not told you that Jaxson recently set fire to his bedroom? I guess a Fire Blog is in order, huh? Stay tuned!)

Jeni is a Gal With Hemorrhoids
(sung to the tune of Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds by The Beatles)
*song raped and pillaged by Mitch Geller*

Picture yourself on a smoking hot poker
With cottage-like cheese and watery eyes
Somebody tells you your face is all chalky
To you that’s not quite a surprise
Big hangin’ berries the color of spleen
Flowering like tulip beds
Sat on the one that brought tears to her eyes
And it’s wrong

Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
Ow-w-w-w-w.....

As big around as an Austrian mountain
And rocking on bar stools is very unwise
Everyone smirks as she swells by the hour
To grapes in the blink of an eye
Flatulence sounding much more like a snore
Splashing it with her iced tea
Climb in the sack with her butt in a bowl
And it’s wrong

Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
Gonna have to get some Venapro
Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
Ow-w-w-w-w.....

Tinctures herself in the hopes of salvation
With fermented spirits and big blocks of ice
Suddenly someone is there in the bathroom
A kid with a lighter and flies

Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
One of them looks just like Dan Akroyd
Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
Ow-w-w-w-w.....

Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
Even took a couple-a Polaroids
Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids
Ow-w-w-w-w.....

Jeni is a gal with hemorrhoids

Hit the Road, Rick. And Don’t Come Back No More, No More…

There I was with Monday’s blog about my hemorrhoids primed and ready, set up on auto-schedule to post itself at 8:am.

But, then it happened:

Late Friday afternoon Rick Sanchez shoved his oversized loafer into his babbling maw for the last time on CNN. Adios, Rick. The Cubano has left the building.

It’s a shame, really. I watched Rick’s List occasionally— okay, watched might be playing it fast and loose with the word. Often my TV was tuned in to CNN while his show was on. As I tended to a myriad of chores around the house, I was able to listen in and wait for his next gaffe. He was entertaining, our Mr. Sanchez. Kind of like the bumbling uncle we all have - not the alcoholic one, or the one that’s a bit too grabby-hands. I’m talking about the affable one prone to inadvertently tossing in a malapropism or two while telling you an inappropriate story, usually involving a fart or boob joke.

So now Uncle Sanchez is no longer with us. I am sad to see him go - but seriously, it’s not like this is the first time he’s said something that either made me cringe or do a double take, causing me to turn toward the television with a duster in one hand and a pile of dirty laundry in the other.

Remember that ‘he’s the cotton pickin’President!’ thing? Yeah, classy. I had a feeling he'd been waiting a long time to work that one in, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and presume it was a slip of the tongue.

How about the time he had a bit of trouble locating Hawaii on the large studio map? That was painful to watch.

And let's not forget the stun gun incident. Really, Rick? You did that of your own volition AND thought there was even the remotest of possibilities Jon Stewart, Colbert and the rest of the mainstream media WOULDN’T play it on a loop for the better part of a week?

Even my nine year old autistic kid who’s barely verbal probably saw that one coming.

Rick, it’s kind of hard to feel sorry for someone who went on live radio and basically bent over and shat on the hand that signs his paycheck. Thinking those kinds of things - well that’s one thing. Saying them aloud - that’s your one way ticket to tool-ville, my friend, where you’ll be walking the buffet-line of shame along with the likes of the Huckabees, Becks and Limbaughs of the world.

One good thing came out of this whole mess, Rick. At least it happened late on Friday afternoon. You didn’t have to wake up the next morning to every media outlet splashing your face all over the screen while you tried to get your morning java down. No, you had a couple of days to hide out and lick your wounds before this kind of stuff started -

(behold, my song parody. Yes, that is my voice. I've got a cold. Don't judge me. PS: The blog about my hemorrhoids will be up tomorrow.)

Action!

I’m perfectly aware that I’ve put my family through the ringer when it comes to my elementary filmmaking endeavors. Forget about the mountain of footage I have of my kids. The adults in the family have not been safe either. I had no problem tossing my octogenarian Nanna into the mix.

There was The Happy Tongue Incident - a story involving death by hot-pink dildo. And once I had her on her arthritic knees in her front yard - which is a 10 X 10 patch of grass, complete with garden spinnaker because she lives in a mobile home retirement community where the neighbors regularly vie for the top spot in the tacky yard accoutrement category. 
She kept saying: “Hurry up, the neighbors will see!”

But tricking Nanna into thinking we’d just tossed the box formerly known as her husband into the gator-filled lake behind my Mom’s house was probably the one that would make most people cringe. Not me. Nothing is sacred in our family, and to her credit, when our little plan didn’t go as we’d hoped, Nanna manned up like a good actress and did take two.

Here’s part four, but for parts one through three, you can check out her YouTube page:

http://www.youtube.com/80yearoldchick



My sister Resi has played everything from a gun-toting redneck in a horrible Godzilla spoof, to a blushing bride marrying a homosexual groom twice her age, while decked in Pepto-Bismol puke pink. She’s actually the only real actress in the family, or at least the one that does it well.

But, when Mom and I get together, and it’s the middle of winter with nothing to do, we eventually pull out the HD cameras. The Bait Pile was mostly improvised when we realized neither of us could remember our lines or stick to the script. We wrote, directed, acted, ran the cameras and edited it ourselves, and it's the only one of our films that managed to make it into a film festival - though to be fair, their motto that year was: “The films nobody else will show.” But hell, it premiered in NYC at a small venue on 42nd Street so we were pleased as punch.

Below, find my mother and I together in all our glory - a montage of madness from various things we’ve done together, including The Bait Pile.

WARNING: The Barbie-Porn discussed in a previous blog post is featured -selectively - but as far as I’m concerned, if a little doll on doll action offends you, you probably aren’t my target audience, anyway. (in which case I'd say to you:)

For God's sake, lighten up. We could all die tomorrow if some crazy dictator in China or Iran decided to push the button - get some perspective and a sense of humor. I promise, it'll do you good.

Are You Sure I'm Not an Alien?

Jake popped his head out of his bedroom with an inquiry. “Mom, you’re sure I’m not an alien, right?”

“Pardon?” Oh, here we go...

“I mean…you remember seeing me come out of your vagina, right?” he asked, scratching the little furrow in his brow.

“Honey, it’s not something I’m likely to forget anytime soon.” I was trying to concentrate on The Rachel Maddow Show and knew if this little tête à tête went on for much longer, I might as well forget about enjoying her take on the wackadoo mid-term election campaign ads. Since Ms. Maddow is one of my few guiltless pleasures, I don’t like missing her show.

“What does that mean?” His brow wrinkled further as he tried to process my last statement.

“That means I was in labor for eleven hours with you - three of which was actual pushing. And the experience left me with the gift of little hitchhikers in my butt.” I know when I say things like this it will only serve to drag the conversation out further, but for some reason I can’t stifle the urge to shut the hell up.

“What?!?!” I’m pretty sure it was the ‘little hitchhikers in my butt’ that now had his attention.

“Never mind. Suffice it to say I have a very vivid recollection of pushing your melon head out of my who-ha and leave it at that.”

“What’s in your butt?”

“Forget it. Nothing…” Bad Mommy, Bad!

“What about Jaxson?”

“What about him?” What were we talking about, again?

“Do you remember Jaxson being born - because he’s kind of weird.” This from the kid who regularly bathes in anti-bacterial hand sanitizer.

“Yes, I remember it, though he was a month premature so he slithered out like a lizard. You paved the way for the little guy so he didn’t have as much work to do on the way out.”

“So you remember us both being born?

“Yes, Jake. Now go finish watching your show. It’s almost bedtime.”

...and Rachel is back from commercial break.

“Okay, thank’s Mom.”

“You bet.” Possible OCD crisis averted.

~*~*~*~*~

>TODAY’S VIDEO ENTRY:

Jaxson's Developmental Evaluation and First Day of School

Dissecting Jake

My son Jake has OCD. In fact, since hitting his teens, he’s practically teeming with hormones and his obsessions have multiplied; like the explosive acne that is sure to follow. For Jake, it materializes in the form of rapid-fire questions that he simply must get answered before he’s able to move on to the next thing.

If he can’t wrap his head around something, he will be asking about it all day.

Well, last week he spent an entire school day obsessing about a frog.

When he plopped into the passenger seat and I pulled out of the school parking lot one afternoon, this was the first thing he said to me:

“I lost a square today because of a frog.”

Losing a square, in the context of his world and classroom, means he got a warning. Squares on the whiteboard, used as visual cues, keep track of how many warnings each student in his ASD classroom has, and once they loose three, they get lunch detention.

“Okay, tell me about the frog.” This ought to be good, I thought. I immediately conjured that Looney Tunes episode where Michigan J. Frog kept making a fool out of his owner. Every time they were alone, the frog would hop out of its box and sing, “Hello my baby, hello my darlin’, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaal…” But whenever the guy tried to show someone his singing/dancing frog, it would just sit like a lump and croak.

“I saw these two high-school kids kicking a frog and I wanted to go rescue it but Chris said that we should just tell Mrs. D. and—”

First I needed to acquire some context. Frog? Where? Inside the building? So I interrupted - which he hates - and found out this happened immediately after I’d dropped him off, earlier that morning. The high school and middle school are attached by a library, so the middle school kids have to pass the roughhousing high-schoolers in order to get inside the building. Apparently the little amphibian hopped too close to the wrong crowd.

“Well I think Chris made the first appropriate choice this morning,” I said.

“But I wanted to hit those stupid kids and rescue the frog and bring him inside.”

“First, we do not hit. And messing with high school boys is asking for trouble. Second, we do not bring any animals of any kind into the school building. Ever. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts. Your friend Chris did a good job giving you advice this morning. What would you have done with the frog if you brought it inside? Where would you have put it?”

“I was gonna take it to my science teacher.”

A giggle started to bubble up from somewhere inside me. The sadistic giggle of a mother about to shine the ugly light of reality across the face of her innocent autistic child. “Uh, Jake… What do science teachers typically do with frogs?”

He looked at me but hadn’t put two and two together to equal formaldehyde… yet. That would require a bit more prodding on my part.

“Do you know what dissect means?” I asked.

Jake’s eyes widened considerably. “Oh no! I wouldn’t want him to dissect the poor frog! I dissected one once and now I have guilt about it.”

“I didn’t know you dissected frogs last year.”

“I didn’t. I dissected one by myself. In the basement. When I was ten.”

The LOUD RECORD SCRATCH in my head was immediately followed by a laughing jag that was so boisterous, Jaxson - who was sitting in the back seat playing his DS - raised both hands and yelled, “Guys, guys…CALM DOWN.” (Yes, very clearly. His speech is coming along quite nicely!)

Because I’m getting over bronchitis, I coughed up half a lung, grabbed the antibacterial from Jake - who is on constant on germ patrol - and managed to swerve back into my lane.

“Oh Jake. I love you. But why did you dissect a frog? And how did you kill it, or was it dead when you found it?” I didn’t even want to ponder what implements of torture he’d used.

“I dissected it while it was alive.” Jake mumbled. “I won’t go to hell, right?”

The other half of my lung came up, and out came the hand sanitizer, again.

“No, honey. You won’t go to hell. But you won’t be dissecting any animals outside of science class anymore, right?”

“I’m NEVER dissecting ANYTHING again! I have a passion for animals now.” Jake yelled.

I sighed and wondered how that would go over when the fetal pigs came out in science class in a few years. I remember them being particularly gnarly.

The morning after what will now be referred to as The Frog Incident, I had a meeting with the school psychologist, speech therapist, behavioral specialist and a few other regulars - just for a check-up on Jaxson‘s progress. (Which is rolling along splendidly, I might add!)

But, the first thing on the agenda - because the same staff treats both of my kids - was, “Did you hear about the frog episode yesterday with Jake?”

We had a nice chuckle and I learned a bit more about the story. Like, as soon as he’d entered the building and rushed to his ASD room, he relayed the frog story to his teacher, who promptly took him outside in order to see if they could locate the frog and put Jake’s fears to rest. I think she hoped they’d find the little bugger alive and well and that would be that. I can only imagine what would have happened if they’d encountered a pile of frog pulp.

The school psychologist arrived soon after to head up the ‘social interaction’ class. This is where Jake and his fellow socially inept brethren learn about conversing with others, discuss personal space and facial expressions, and other things that you and I might take for granted. As she exited her car, she saw Jake pacing up and down the sidewalk, watching his teacher look for the frog that would remain on his mind for the rest of the day because the frog would never be found.

And that’s the story of how a frog caused Jake to lose a square.

Today's video--The beginning of our journey...Moving to Michigan and all the changes for the kids.

STAY TUNED! for the next blog post which will include a video showing Jaxson's first developmental evaluation and first day of pre-school in the Early Intervention program.

Not Just a Mama: My Pen is My Sword and it is Rarely Sheathed

My mother tells me when I was a shy little girl in kindergarten, I wrote a story about a gumball machine, comparing the little round balls of varying colors to people in the world. I'd share the poem with you, but Susan isn’t exactly the scrapbooking kind of Mama - no hoarding of precious little memories for her. I'm guessing she read it, smiled, then rolled something into the tiny piece of paper and smoked it.

It was the 70's, after all.

I should note, my mother is the type of mother who would, years later, wake me with a three a.m. phone call: "I just had the best idea for a porn movie!!" What followed was a three hour trip to a local store the next day, where I was horrified to find the toy dolls made for young girls looking suspiciously like whores. Out of that shopping adventure came a three page script for a movie that could only be described as Barbie-Porn, and would years later come back to bite me in the ass.

Mom and I were working on a film project with learning disabled students at the local elementary school when the school administration became aware of Making Porn With Mom. (catchy title, right?) Well, apparently someone thought to look up our production company name and not only found my blog, but also my Internet Movie Database Listing and my cache of YouTube videos. The whole thing left me with a raging case of the runs, but frankly a simple Google search before we spent a year working with the kids might have been a good idea. Alas, they dropped the ball, not I. I was merely doing what I always do.

I have spent almost forty years reading and writing and I've learned to speak out when I have something to say. As a ten year old Catholic School girl I checked out The Diary of Anne Frank and it made a huge impact on me because I related to her. I was about her age. I could be her. I could rage against the horrors of a life lived in secret. I, too, could be remembered long after I was gone.

I asked for and was given a diary to record my own juvenile thoughts. My entries were decidedly less awe-inspiring than Anne's.

July 9, 1978

Dear Diary,

We went on vacation and it was nice, except there was a strange smell in the VW van the entire trip from something Mom and Dad were smoking. She said they were ‘herbs‘.

(note to self: look up the definition of herbs)

At the Grand Canyon I was surprised that the railing to keep you from falling was so small. Resi ran right up and swung from it, but I stayed back. I don't know why but suddenly I thought one of my family members might push me over the edge. Could that happen? I don't think any of them are THAT crazy, but the idea would not leave my head, so I stayed back while they all looked.

(p.s. I do not trust them.)

Then we went back to the campground and while Mom and Dad took a nap, Resi and I played with two brothers named Nick and Roger. Roger asked me if I knew what a ‘blow job' was.

(note to self: Ask Mom what a blow job is.)

~*~

July 12, 1978

Dear Diary,

My parents are horrible, horrible people. I must be adopted!!! Resi asked Dad what a blow job was and he said "What the hell?" and his face got all red and he pulled the VW van over and got out. I hid under my pillow in the back seat and cried, so Mom told me and Resi what it was. My parents are GROSS!! She said when two people love each other, they do certain things. I said "Gross things..." and she said, "Come back and tell me how you feel about it when you're thirty." I told her she was going to hell and so was Dad. Resi just asked if she brushed her teeth after. My sister is so stupid. I hate my family!!!!!!!!!!! ...And I am stuck in this van with them for three more days.

At that point in my writing life, what I was regurgitating was a plethora of unmemorable material which could only qualify as melodrama. Sappy, unrequited love story type of stuff that even now causes my lunch to take a sudden u-turn, heading back from whence it came. (READ: Kind of like anything that appears on Lifetime Television for Women.)

Next came my dark period. I cannot recall what these stories were about either, except to say that after reading some of them, my father had one comment: "Jennifer, must everything you write be so maudlin?"

I had to look up maudlin and thus began another unfortunate chapter in my writing life: my obsession with the dictionary and thesaurus. ...which spawned my poetry phase. It was not pretty, but in my defense, I thought everything was supposed to rhyme.

Today, as a writer, often my job is to put a spotlight on life’s sores. So, if I have something to say about how today’s dolls look suspiciously like streetwalkers - and choose to do that through a satiric Barbie Porn - I’m going to do it.

Just like I’m gonna write raunchy song parodies with two writer friends and assume people get that I’m not singing them to my thirteen and nine year olds.

If I have something to say about former President Reagan and his treatment of AIDS in the 1980's, I’m going to shout it from the rooftops in the form of a short film entitled Macy’s Wait.

If I don’t like what my government is doing, I’m gonna have something to say about that as well, hopefully providing a little entertainment in the process. (READ: Waiting for Karl Rove--Come on publishers, you KNOW you want it!)

And if I want to volunteer my time to help a class of learning disabled children on a project that helps them not only learn the art and fun of writing, but help them gain self-confidence, I’m going to do that too. Until such time as I’m told I’m no longer able to because somehow what I write about or film is unseemly when juxtaposed against working with special needs kids.

Bump that, my friends. I’m not just a Mom. I think there’s an inherent danger in being all autism, all the time. Or all Mommy, 24/7. I’m a woman, a writer, a mother, a sister, a wife, a daughter, a citizen of the world - and so much more. I refuse to make my life all about the one thing in my life (autism) that takes more effort and attention than the rest of those other areas. That would not only be unfair to me, but would be extremely unfair to my kids.

They’re more than their autism. They’re amazing, profound, funny, delicious little creatures that deserve better than to be summed up by a medical diagnosis, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be the person who shoves them into a box.

By all means, stay in your box if that’s where you feel most comfortable. But don’t concern yourself if someone else jumps out of theirs, bends over and takes a crap on it, douses it with lighter fluid and watches it illuminate the sky.

To each his own.

I am one person with many facets, each one as important as the other. I don’t believe one facet negates another. For me, it’s as simple as that.

If this is the one thing I manage to pass on to my kids, then my job here is done.

Tales of a First Grade Drama King

Today’s offering: Five minutes of film shot by Jaxson Lopez. (*compiled and edited by Mommy)

Watch carefully and at times you’ll find the little director wanna-be has purpose, intent and motive written all over his face.

My job: I’m just the gal who fishes cameras out of the toilet and waits for the next shoe to drop, because one always does—and they’re never Prada or Manolo Blahnik, they’re Ked’s, Crocs, and Dollar Store flip-flops.

I'm Ready for My Close-Up!

It should come as no surprise to anyone, given my filmmaking proclivities, that I’ve had a camera in the faces of my children from the moment they sloshed out of my who-ha on a tidal wave of amniotic fluid. (Well, Jake anyway. Jax didn’t slosh, he sort of slithered out.)

At some point, I fully expect Jaxson to take over in the filmmaking arena, given he’s now prone to carrying his little video camera wherever he goes. He's presently got three cameras, but I'm sad to report at least a dozen have previously lost their digital lives due to his early experimentation with the toilet and running water. (It's a pricey hobby, but when my kids show an interest in something, I do my best to support them.) Thankfully, Jax has finally come to understand that SD cards and cameras do NOT mix well with liquids.

Now the little guy spends his time putting together movies with his Buzz Lightyear and Woody action figures. Let me just say, as a director he's quite the little task-master. If I don't get a line right, he lets me know it. And I can't tell you the surge of joy I got the first time he said 'ACTION!'

Today, I’m posting a 14 minute short film from the longer version of Every Journey is Unique, a documentary about autism that I continue to work on.




My hope is that one day I’ll have footage showing their progress from toddlers to adults and since I have a mini-filmmaker in my midst, hopefully Jax will add some of his own footage one day.


He already uploads his masterpieces into the editing software on my laptop and even tries to make rolling credits at the end. I say tries, because he’s got the words CAST and THE END down, but everything else in between those words is written in his own language. But I give the kid credit, he can even score his films with music from my own personal files. Willie Nelson’s version of Sunny Side of the Street and Ringo Starr’s Oh My My are among his favorites.


Jake, being the thirteen year old that he is, scoffs every time I pull out the camera, but that’s to be expected. He’s had his fill of my cinematic endeavors by this point. He did star with his cousin Max in an early movie (a really BAD early movie) entitled Toyzilla, though. He was seven at the time.


UPDATE: By the way, as of this writing, the boys will have successfully completed their first week of school and I’m ecstatic to report they’ve both done extremely well.

Won’t you join me in doing a little happy dance? VICTORY IS OURS!

I Hate School

(This is the back to school face.)

T-minus six days until my boys go back to school.

Next Tuesday is going to be rough. When you know there’s a good chance you’ll be physically dragging your 77 lb. child into school on the first day, and probably for many days thereafter, it makes it hard to rise to that giddy level of ‘Back To School’ elation that plagues the Wal-Mart and Staples commercials for two months every year.

In fact, those commercials aren’t even advertising the products I need.

“Now, for a limited time, when you order your HoverRound-Up™ - invented for the little second grade cherubs in our midst who have to be rolled into school like Hannibal Lecter - you’ll get the Mommy-Nerf®, squishy full body armor, available in sizes up to XXL. If your Lil Tyke punches, bites and kicks when they’re anxious, this product is for you!”

Perhaps I should start drawing up some prototype schematics.

Thing One and Thing Two hate school. (Try and look at that like a Seussical reference, not a totally inappropriate one.)

I’d like to say I’m one of those parents who is relieved when my kids go back to school - happy to enjoy a quiet house and do my chores before partaking of a few hours of uninterrupted writing time. This is not the case. I worry when they’re not with me. As soon as the alarm goes off on day one, up and until the last day of school, I spend most of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop in the form of a call from school. Either Thing Two is acting out and three para-pros have him pinned to the floor, or Thing One is obsessing about one of the fifty-two thousand things he obsesses about on a daily basis - like his penis falling off - and they can’t get him into class.

It’s heart-breaking, gut wrenching, toilet hugging stuff. The ‘I Just Dropped My Two Autistic Kids off at School Diet’ consists of lots of coffee and a fair amount of time on the john.

Yesterday, we (Mom and I) went to register the boys for school and Thing Two lost it before I could get him out of the car. He doesn’t even want to look at the elementary school building, never mind go in for five minutes while I fill out his forms. Because Thing Two is not very verbal, (but making great strides!) he can’t say: “Mom, I’m frightened and I don’t know how to deal with this.”

There is no ‘talking him thorough it.’

After the parking lot meltdown, the hallway meltdown and the library-slash-registration-holding area-meltdown, we got back into the car fairly unscathed, only to have Thing Two melt down while we waited in line at the middle school for Thing One to get his picture taken for his school ID card.

Mom remained with Thing One (who was also over-stimulated and stressed) while I cajoled Thing Two out to the car, a guerilla maneuver that ended with two sweaty, slightly mauled and out of breath people - one adult, one child.

God bless my little Thing Two. He’s terrified. And it’s not like I can say, “Okay, honey, just stay home with Mommy.” Man, that would make things easier. But, kids have to go to school and I fear if he can’t pull it together, there’s no telling where he’s going to end up. I want to make something better for him that is out of my control. So I round up the troops, talk to the psychologist and pediatrician, make a plan, and hope everything comes out in the wash.

Till then, my ass spends plenty of quality time on the toilet. Luckily I’m reading a good book.

But, then, there are other moments. These truly sweet gifts that make everything a little more okay than they were fifteen minutes earlier. In the evening, after the chaotic day, Thing Two had settled down and was giggling as he made his Buzz Lightyear fart on his Woody action figure - and, of course, filming the process with his video camera.

Thing One looked at his brother and said:

“Mom, he’s just trying to find his place in the world, isn’t he?” Sometimes Thing One says something so profound, I want to cry. And these little gems stand out because most of the time he’s saying things like:

“Mom, say stupid monkey butt fart.”

“No.”

“Say it!”

“Honey, please…”

“Mom, please, just say it!”

“Stupid monkey butt fart.”

Farts are the great equalizer in my house.

Thong, thong, thong, thong, WRONG!

It’s not often that I am stopped short as I amble down the feminine hygiene aisle at my local Wal-Mart, but I was this weekend.

Yes. Someone, somewhere, thought a thong pantiliner was an appropriate idea. That someone was an idiot. Here’s the thing: there are only two reasons why a woman would need a pantiliner in the first place.

One: It’s that time of month.

Two: Leakage issues.

I never thought this was something I’d have to publicly address, but here we are. If you are someone who falls into Category One, why are you wearing a thong? Your trendy, polka-dot Hanes Hip-Hugger Cotton Briefs were all in the laundry?

If you happen to fall into Category Two and you’ve got leaky pipes, let me be the first to inform you that you have passed the thong stage.

Yes…there is a thong stage. If you cannot cough, laugh, sneeze or fart without dribbling a little in your skivvies, your thong days are over. While I can sympathize with the Gotta-Go, Gotta-Go, Gotta-Go Right Now! phenomenon, I cannot sympathize if you continue to wear a thong.

That’s just stupid and, frankly, unhygienic.

…now back to your regularly scheduled blog.

The Colonoscopy Theory

I’ve been thinking about terrorism a lot lately. (Probably because I just finished Nick Flynn’s The Ticking is the Bomb ) What to do with presumed terrorists when we find them? How do we get vital information out of someone without our American Moral Compass plunging into dangerous territory? And I’m not talking about someone like Dick Cheney’s moral compass. I’m talking about the average forward-thinking NORMAL American who isn’t psychotic.

We all know that America doesn’t torture, or at least we’ve been told that, ad nauseam. We all also know that’s complete bullshit. (SEE: Extraordinary rendition, meaning state-sponsored-kidnapping, or outsourcing torture.)

I’m personally against torture because I’m not so sure we ever get any kind of reliable information from it. I mean, if I was being water-boarded or made to stand on my feet with my arms out at my sides for days on end, I’d toss my eighty-four year old Nanna under the bus to make it stop.

And beyond that...it's just icky, isn't it? Aren't we supposed to be better than that? People in general, I mean. The Human Race.

But then it came to me. Epiphany!

The Dreaded Colonoscopy. First, you’re forced to drink a gallon of vile-tasting swill, 8 ounces at a time - one every ten minutes - until you’re ready to puke.


Then you wait while your tummy-tum-tum begins to gurgle and grumble, after which you spend the rest of the day on the john. You can’t eat anything until after your appointment with the sadist who will blather on about the latest shenanigans on Jersey Shore as he rummages around in your pa-dunk-a-dunk with a tube that has a camera on the end.

There’s not a person alive that wants to be subjected to this fresh hell, but since it’s something four out of five proctologists recommend to their patients when they turn fifty, it can’t be considered cruel and unusual punishment, can it?

And because here in America we’re givers, if it turns out the person being 'tortured' is innocent, they can go ahead and remove any pre-cancerous polyps for them as a parting ‘sorry for the inconvenience.’

What’s a Girl to Do?

…while awaiting query responses ?

I could write a poem:

~Proem~

a stir
a flurry
a cascade of echoes

all prologue to the epilogue
frenzied fingers en route to denouement
beat a stiff meringue of phrases and voice

words like ripe plums
drop to the ground beneath the tree
waiting to be harvested

adjectives, like Lawrence’s lover with a pilgrim’s soul
meander among verbs and prepositions
yearn to nail down a simple truth, an alluring oeuvre

present perfect tense delights in its slow, sultry dance
so sit with me in my fin de siècle
and, breathless, I will share my story…


~.~

Courage and Consequence

TO: The Architect of Guano: Karl Rove
FROM: A Satisfied Customer

Dear Mr. Rove,

I just returned from one of my thrice-daily bathroom sabbaticals where I read portions of your book, Courage and Consequence, one ‘sitting’ at a time. (I eat a lot of roughage, hence the 3x a day thing.)

Thank goodness I have a hearty septic system because I find your book serves dual purposes: laugh out loud satirical reading material, (it’s satire, right?) and I won’t have to buy toilet paper for a good long while. (that’s what I call recycling!)

Thanks again!
Jeni


“The next time they give you all that civic bullshit about voting, keep in mind that Hitler was elected in a full, free democratic election.”
--George Carlin


"The great masses of people will more easily fall victim to a big lie than a small one."
--Adolf Hitler


"[T]he people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country."
-- Karl Rove

Waiting for Karl Rove--TEASER

Well, here it is. Our one minute Waiting for Karl Rove trailer.

I want to thank a couple of agents and a publisher who responded to our query with a sense of humor. It's refreshing to know there are some out there who haven't become too precious about themselves. Frankly, that's a real turn off. If you can't summon up a quip or two now and again, I don't want you representing me.

We get that taking swipes at the publishing world might not endear us to everyone, but it's a sure-fire way to weed out the undesirables--and all part of our master plan.

Consider us Snarky Gardeners...

Below are a few of the better responses, with portions redacted to protect the writer's anonymity,

Chris (you know who you are!) had this to say:

Hi Jeni and Kat,

I read the first 40 pages of Waiting for Karl Rove – what a ride. The email exchanges between Kat and Tense are a perfect jab at the publishing industry – if you can’t laugh at yourself… While I have no doubt that the book will – should - be picked up for publication, I’m afraid that it is off-target for our (BLANK) fiction catalog. I ran the manuscript by one of our senior editors, and her comment was, “nice and snarky - and I hate Karl Rove – but it’s going to miss (OUR TARGET AUDIENCE).”

Thanks for thinking about (SO AND SO) Books, and good luck on your trip up the New York Times Bestseller List. I’m sure you will make it. Cheers.

*****

...and Ann...

...Thank you for thinking of me, Kat and Jeni, but the subject matter of Waiting for (that a**hole) Karl Rove didn't grab me the way I would need it to in order to consider representation, so unfortunately I've decided to pass. (I'm more of a thrillers, mystery, & suspense agent now.)

(the ‘that a**hole’ was her addition!) How cool is that?!


*****

An agent that I really, really would like to be MY agent rejected it — but responded with good humor:

1 agent
2 words "no thanks"
1 wish "that you find your ideal agent as quickly & painlessly as possible"

…and in another time and another place, I might have been YOUR agent. But I am overwhelmed. My overwhelmingness appears to be long term.

*****

Thanks M. I'm still holding out hopes for this one. He'd be my dream agent, and if I get an offer on another book at some point, I'm running (not walking) back to him and begging him to rep me.

We’d hoped for some snarky query responses so we could add them to the book, but alas, none yet.

Have no fear--if they do arrive, we'll post 'em!

WANTED: A brilliant LITERARY AGENT with size XXL cajones.

Serious inquiries need only apply:

jlcallmejeni@aol.com

NOTE: Please put Waiting for Karl Rove--Agent Query in the subject line. Queries sent with attachments will not be opened (unless it’s a contract) and any e-mail sent without the above subject heading will be deleted unread.

Please allow 2-4 weeks for reply, as our offices are inundated with agents querying us. Patience is a virtue. No calls, FAX’s or singing telegrams will be accepted—unless the singing telegram in question involves a scantily clad male or large quantities of chocolate —in which case, contact us with the scheduled delivery time at: jlcallmejeni@aol.com

Kat Nove & Jeni Decker

The Human Centipede

Excerpt from Waiting for Karl Rove
(FOOTNOTES BELOW)

“Jeni, this is the worst idea since I rolled over in bed that night and said to South-of-the-Border. 'Are you gonna marry me or what?'” (1)

Jeni turned on the blinker—about thirty seconds too late in my opinion—and eased off the highway into the rest area. “You are such a chicken-shit. Consider this another adventure.”

“Another adventure? Sure why not? It’s not as if anything exciting has happened to us so far on this trip. I still have most of my motor functions and my spleen.(2)

“Listen, Kat. I can drive in my sleep, but you’re such a whiner about making sure nothing happens to your car, (3) it’s best we stop for the night.”

“I’m not arguing that point. I’m arguing about where you’ve decided to stop.” I looked around at the rest area on the side of the highway where we sat parked next to a large horse trailer hitched to the back of a double-cab pickup. I lit a cigarette off the one I’d been smoking, looked out my window and squinted in the light provided by the squalid mercury vapor lamp attached to a twenty-two foot metal pole. The driver’s side door of the pickup read BAR-NONE QUARTER HORSE RANCH.

“We’re surrounded by truckers, Kat. What could be safer?”

“Gee, let me think. A mall Santa Clause’s lap? (4) My bed at home? A public library? The back seat of a police car?” (5)

She laughed. “You’re funny, Nove.”

“Yeah, I’m funny. And my corpse will be funny-looking once the cops piece it back together. If they ever do,” I added darkly. “Do you watch horror films, Jeni?”

“Not usually. I’m not about to let my kids watch them and by the time I wrestle them to bed, I’m usually too tired to take a shit.”

I winced and ignored her three hundred and twenty-fourth scatological reference.

I rolled my eyes at her and said, “Fine. Let me fish my pepper spray out of my purse. No way we’re entering that restroom this late unless we have a way of defending ourselves.” (6)

“Go on with your delusions, Kat. I find them fascinating.”

“My point is, that no victim expects to be murdered, just as none of the characters in those movies expected to be stabbed, bitten, run over, chain sawed, decapitated, or torn in half. Otherwise they’d have stayed at home. But the film characters’ misfortune began because they took to the road. And spending the night here with a broken car window, without a sawed-off shotgun and a S.W.A.T. team in the backseat is a terrible idea.”

“You’re overreacting to a hypothetical and highly improbable situation,” Jeni said, trying to fake me out into thinking she’s a rational human being. “There’s no way we’re getting killed by a serial killer because we’re spending the night here.”

“Not just killed. Turned into a human centipede.”

“You keep saying that,” Jeni said, right at the moment the trucker exited the restroom. “What the fuck is a human centipede?”

“A human centipede is three people sewn together. There’s a Dutch director named Tom Six who wrote and directed the most revolting horror film ever made. The Human Centipede. Six is an AK-47 enthusiast who once said he gets a rash from too much political correctness.”

“So do I. What’s wrong with that?”

“You own an AK-47?” I asked.

“No, doofus. I get a rash from too much political correctness.”

“Jeni, you’d get a rash from a baby’s diaper rash cream.(7) Anyway, can we get back to The Human Centipede?”

“Why not?”

“Many horror fans loved the movie.(8) But Roger Ebert didn’t even give it a star rating. Do you know what he did?”

“How could I?” she replied, smirking.

“He told his readers the review was not only a spoiler alert, but a public service announcement. Then he revealed the entire plot AND drew a diagram of the human centipede.”

“Oh, come on. I doubt it’s that bad.”

“Really? He said what happened to the victims is the worst thing he’s ever seen done to human beings.” (9)

“Worse than Hostel?”

“Jeni, the victims in this movie saw Hostel and begged the killer to do the disgusting things in that movie rather than turn them into a human centipede.”

I pulled my notebook and a pen out of my purse and began to sketch a crude drawing. After I finished, I shoved it in Jeni’s face. “There! There’s what’s going to happen to us if we spend the night here.”

She said, “What the fuck is that?”

“That’s what the insane German doctor in the movie created. He kidnapped two young American women and a Japanese man. He was a retired surgeon who specialized in separating co-joined twins. In the demented mind of Tom Six, this doctor had a hankering to attach people.(10)

Jeni peered intently at my sketch. “Am I understanding this correctly?”

“If you think each person is attached by sewing mouths to anuses all in a row, the answer is yes. But it’s worse than that.”

“How could it get any worse?” Jeni said, clearly horrified.

“The psycho doctor also attached their digestive tracts.”

“No!”

“Yes! So that means the first person eats, then the digested food passes from his asshole into the mouth of the second person, then the third who eventually evacuates.” (11)

“You saw this movie?”

“Hell, no! But I heard it from my corner while playing Peggle on the computer. The Remote Control Terrorist watched it.”

“And you live with this guy?”

“I did ask him after it ended if he got emotionally involved with the characters.” (12)

“What did he say?”

“He scoffed at me and said of course not, it’s only a movie.” (13)

“Why are you telling me this? I might have nightmares,” Jeni whined.

“Because I can’t believe a writer could come up with something so vile out of his own imagination unless he’s creating human centipedes in his garage or attic. Tom Six is douche bag who must be destroyed for thinking up such crap. When a movie is made of our adventures,(14) I shall insist that in this scene he is played by Steven Seagal.” (15)

“Well, that’s a relief. I thought you were really worried about being turned into a human centipede.”

“Of course I’m worried about it. My luck, you’d be in the front and I’d be in the middle. With your ass situation, I’d rather go skinny dipping with Freddy Krueger.” (16)

__________________________________________________

1. My ex-husband’s family came from Monterrey, Mexico and are millionaires. Know what I got in the divorce? Can you spell J-A-C-K-S-H-I-T?

2. I didn’t expect that to last long the way Jeni drove.

3. Not to mention the aforementioned motor skills and spleen.

4. Unless he happened to be a pedophile and even then what’s he going to do with all those elves as witnesses?

5. Where I predicted I’d soon be sitting because three years ago I made the mistake of joining a writer’s website – thenextbigwriter.com. It’s frequented by a high number of crazies, Jeni being the Crazy Queen of the Forums.

6. My spur-of-the-moment plan didn’t really include wasting my expensive pepper spray on a rapist or serial killer, but rather shoving Jeni into him and running like Marion Jones on steroids while he bounced off Jeni’s tits into the cinderblock walls. I call this the Trampoline Defense.

7. But I wouldn’t put it past her to mug the Gerber baby if she thought his diaper rash cream might be the solution to her ass issues.

8. I picture anyone who loves this movie never leaving his room in his parents’ basement and looking like Jabba the Hut existing on a diet of maggots and pizza.

9. And he watched Hannah Montana: The Movie so he should know.

10. A little hobby to pass the time in his retirement. More creative than crossword puzzles and less tedious than gardening.

11. Who knows where. Under these circumstances, it seems a toilet would be difficult to manage.

12. Keeping my fingers crossed he wouldn’t tell me he wished he could be more like Dr. Crazytown.

13. Same thing he says about romantic comedies.

14. Alternative title – Waiting for a Plot.

15. Check out my Steven Seagal rant on katnovian.com.

16. Not-so-thinly-veiled reference to Jeni's 'roids, which she talks about ad nauseum.


________________________________________________________________

As it turned out, we did run into some trouble that night, in the form of Gollum the rest-stop masturbator yanking his way to crazy-town on the hood of Kat's car. But we got the upper hand. The police later found him bound with duct tape and a little message written across his chest in lipstick.

I MAY BE A SERIAL KILLER
I MAY BE A RAPIST
I HAVE A PUNY PENIS
ARREST ME!

Don't screw with a menopausal woman and her erratic sidekick... Just sayin'.

Waiting for Karl Rove (and for Kathy Griffin)

Today a Special Treat--guest blogger: Kat Nove



I wrote a scene for Kathy Griffin in Waiting for Karl Rove because she’s my role model. When the movie comes out, I won’t sign any contract that doesn’t include Kathy Griffin playing herself in that scene.



A couple of years ago I went with Moses (my own personal gay) to watch her show in San Antonio. She was fantastic – what I could hear of her. For weeks before the show, I’d fantasized about sitting next to a hot gay MALE Kathy Griffin fan. Imagine my distress when my seat mates turned out to be two chatty lesbians instead. These women wouldn’t shut the fuck up so I could hear Kathy.

Then I ended up falling asleep for a few minutes due to the fact I suffer from sleep apnea and never get more than four hours sleep a night. I’m certain drooling and snoring were involved and I’m so grateful Jeni Decker, my co-author of Waiting for Karl Rove wasn’t’ there to film it. Other than those two incidents, it was a wonderful evening.


On August 6, I’m going back to see her with my two gays, Moses and his boyfriend High IQ. I’ve only met High IQ once, but I get to claim him as my very own gay because at that time he gushed about what a wonderful human being I am. He’s right. It’s strange how evangelical Christians, Tea Party members and/or wealthy white Republicans don’t get that about me.

I only have two gays, while Kathy Griffin has millions, but someday I hope my gays will number in the double digits! All you gays out there can help make this happen by getting on Twitter and twatting about Waiting for Karl Rove and how much you want to see Kathy Griffin playing herself in the movie. Bless your hearts!

For more about Waiting for Karl Rove go to the website.

http://waitingforkarlrove.wordpress.com/


Visit Kathy at her website.

http://www.kathygriffin.net/

You can find out more about Moses by clicking the link. He’s really cute!

http://katnovian.com/?p=49

And if you’re the type who likes to mock computer end users – mock away. While trying to imbed the links, my monitor shouted – FORBIDDEN! Then it spit rattlesnake venom in my eye. I’m finishing this post while wearing an eyepatch. I’m certain that’s what Kathy would do.

Waiting for Karl Rove

It was an inspired idea. All I had to do was convince Kat.

“So, what do you think about packing up and heading out to visit Karl Rove?”

Thus began a road trip that started with two separate terrorist incidents at the San Antonio Airport—both attributed to us—and ended with an FBI interrogation.

Most of what happened in between is a hazy horror-show that we’d both sooner forget. Unfortunately, my predilection for always having a camera handy assured every humiliating detail would forever be captured on film.

When I dreamed up this little scheme to find Karl Rove and throttle an apology out of him, I did not count on being accosted by Junior Hillbilly in an outhouse, chased by Geraldo Rivera, ...or witnessing Gollum the rest stop masturbator jerking his way to crazy town. Kat got tasered (twice!) and humped a Teabaggers leg at the Alamo, I stripped at La Teta Pequeña, and one of us woke up in bed next to an Elvis impersonator after a long night of drinking on the Vegas strip.



Then we wrote a book about it. And now we’re ready to publish.

Our ultimate goal: Appear on The Daily Show and make ridiculous sums of money after selling the movie rights to Harvey Weinstein.

Oh shit…I think this means I have to compose a query letter.

Yuck.

I don’t suppose the following will suffice?

Waiting for Karl Rove is…

75,461 words
629 footnotes
351 pages
2 authors
1 good fucking book

If you become befuddled by the first person perspective told from the point of view of dual-protagonists, you’re probably just stupid. That’s a personal problem as far as we can see; yours, not ours.

We are two writers on a wild road trip to the top of the New York Times Bestseller List and this book is blatant self-promotion.

And what is this titillating tome about, you ask?

Think Thelma and Louise—only Thelma’s menopausal, Louise is an erratic big-mouth with a penchant for discussing her hemorrhoids, and they’re on a road trip to wrestle an apology from Karl Rove by any means necessary.

That’s really all you need to know.

Mike Huckabee is a Tool.

I cannot for the life of me believe some of the utter windbags that managed to fly so close to the Presidential Flame.

Can you say John Edwards? Ugh, the guy had me fooled. I would probably have voted for him and his ridiculously overpriced haircut—only to later learn that he not only cheated on his wife with a woman who proved to be a tool in her own right, but did so while his wife dealt with terminal cancer.



Tool.

Then there’s Mike Huckabee.



Ah, Mr. Huckabee, who came off so folksy and sweet—until he started saying shit like this:

“It is now difficult to keep track of the vast array of publicly endorsed and institutionally supported aberrations—from homosexuality and pedophilia to sadomasochism and necrophilia.”

“I think there’s been a real level of being disingenuous on the part of the gay and lesbian community with their goal of civil unions. You don’t go ahead and accommodate every behavioral pattern that is against the ideal. That would be like saying, well, there are a lot of people who like to use drugs, so let’s go ahead and accommodate those who want who use drugs. There are some people who believe in incest, so we should accommodate them. There are people who believe in polygamy, so we should accommodate them. Children are not puppies. This is not a time to see if we can experiment and find out, how does this work?”

LOUD RECORD SCRATCH

Now, according to an article in the Advocate, we learn the former Presidential Candidate cites an ‘ick factor’ as part of his reasoning for being against gay marriage.

In an e-mail exchange with the author of the article, he ‘joked’:

‘The only thing worse than a torrid affair with sweet, sweet Nancy(Pelosi) would be a torrid affair with Helen Thomas. If those were my only options, I'd probably be FOR same-sex marriage!’”





Ick factor, huh? Mike, I’m glad you didn’t become president. Because you’re icky. Really icky. (Not that I’m particularly fond of Nancy or Helen. Both have managed to tickle the sensitive gag-reflex of my personal ‘ick factor’ as of late.)

People like Huckabee and Leon Kass, former member of George Bush’s counsel on bioethics, became the ‘stimulating factors’ for my desire to write The Wisdom of Repugnance. (My as yet unpublished dark comedy exploring this 'internal shudder' we all supposedly have.)

Let’s explore this ‘ick’ factor. The term wisdom of repugnance, or the ‘yuck factor’ basically describes the belief that an inherent negative response to some thing, idea or practice should be interpreted as evidence that the thing in question is harmful…evil. Supposedly this ‘wisdom’ brings on feelings of disgust that should intuitively tell the person that the object of said disgust is morally wrong.

Mr. Kass’s comments against cloning-- “we intuit and feel, immediately and without argument, the violation of things that we rightfully hold dear.... Shallow are the souls that have forgotten how to shudder.”

Oh, I’m shuddering, Leon. I’m shuddering. According to your ‘theory’ if I’m repulsed by leaders of the free world who are unable to pronounce the word nuclear, George Dubya Bush MUST, then, be deemed amoral.

Okey dokey, works for me, Mr. Kass.

What this ‘theory’ fails to address is that my sense of repugnance at something might not equal or even mirror your sense of repugnance. Too many of our talking heads, politicians and religious zealots (SEE: Pat Robertson) with microphones and a pulpit from which to blather, seem to think that their personal sense of repugnance should be the standard the rest of us must adhere to. Unfortunately, these same folks all end up filtering over to Fox News, where they’re given a national stage from which to preach. (I guess the separation of church and state has gone by the wayside.)

Sigh. I long for the heady days when the only thing of import I was being ‘icked-out’ about was a Presidential blow job.

Mr. Huckabee, you are a tool. I find you repugnant. You and others like you cause me to shudder. Riddle me this: What remedy, then, am I to expect with regard to stupid comments that fly out of your mouth? (Water-boarding would work for me.)

Perhaps you should just shut up and worry about your own ‘ick factor’.

I think the Marquis de Sade said it most eloquently --

There is nothing either fundamentally good, nor anything fundamentally evil: Everything is relative, relative to ones own point of view. …something perfectly indifferent in itself may be indeed distasteful in your eyes, but most delicious in mine: and immediately I find it pleasing… amusing. Regardless of our inability to agree… would I not be a fool to deprive myself of it merely Because you condemn it?

--The Marquis de Sade, The 120 Days of Sodom

BP Spills Coffee

Lazy blogger here again. Okay so I have an excuse. I’m in the middle of writing another book and there aren’t enough hours in the day to write, edit, Photoshop, deal with two children who are off for summer break and get in at least a bit of reading so I don’t totally lose my mind.

Now, first thing’s first. There’s nothing funny about the recent BP OIL F$%KTASTROPHY.

Truly, lives are being ruined as we speak due to a one/two punch to the Louisiana area that nobody deserves (With the possible exception of Karl Rove) and the eco-system is being damaged beyond repair. Let’s be realistic, there’s not a thing in the world that I, you, BP, Obama or Kevin Costner is going to be able to do to fix this thing. It’s not fixable. We’re at the damage control stage and even that seems an oxymoron at this point.

That said, being a writer, I believe there’s no topic that can’t be used to comedic advantage — or at least as a band-aid to keep us from slitting our wrists in angst for another day.

If you don't believe me, ask any stand-up comedian. They'll tell you that the marriage of any truly horrifying incident with the ability to make said incident palatable, or even entertaining to someone else, is a rare gift.

This is why I watch Jon Stewart regularly. I still get the bullet points, but I also get to laugh while Mr. Stewart rips someone a new one in the pithy way only he can do. Sometimes it’s too painful to tune in to CNN or MSNB, and I think every forward-thinking person in the free world knows it’s always painful to tune in to FOX News.

Today I offer up a video from the good folks at UCB comedy.com, who felt like taking a stab at the Oil Spill Crisis.

Enjoy!

Born to be Alive

What does a lazy blogger do when she's busy writing the next chapter of her newest tome (in this case a co-written adventure with Ms. Kat Nove) and has little time to blog?

Well, how about a blast from the past, sure to tickle your funny bone or provoke your gag reflex. Either way, good stuff.

Thanks to John Hamler, wackadoo writer extraordinaire, for supplying me with the link.

Enjoy!


Patrick Hernandez - Born To Be Alive

What are These Two Women Up To?

I think my phone is being tapped.

I’m pretty sure an unmarked FBI car has been making regular trips back and forth in front of my driveway and the cows in the pasture across from my house have become suspicious.

Both of which has led to twice-daily usage of my Preparation-H.™

I believe this is what happens when writers without agents embark upon blatant self-promotion. I could probably use some legal advice. How could collaborating on a book get two gals into so much trouble?

Should Kat and I end up in the pokey, I can only hope I make some new friends.

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