Zoe vs. the Blog Tour

Zoe here today. My mom was invited on a blog tour, and since I've earned a much-needed vacation I decided I should be the one to go on this tour.

This is how Mommy sees herself. I just know it.

Mommy was invited by a perfectly delightful woman named Susan who blogs at Pecked to Death by Chickens. I have a few things to say about this. First of all, can that really happen? Can chickens kill you with their beaks? Cause I don't need any more nightmare fodder. There's already the Shadow by the Closet and the Sound That Has No Source and colors like black with black spots. Plus, I only recently made the connection between those dinosaur-shaped breaded meat nuggets I've been eating and the denizen of Old MacDonald's farm who used to cluck, cluck here and there but now clucks nowhere at all unless in my stomach so I can see why they might want revenge.

On Fridays Mommy Susan also blogs about this guy named Craig and his list, which seems to comprise Chewbacca-themed miscellany and dirty stuff from some old guy's garage. I'm not sure why anyone has this stuff let alone is trying to sell it to other people. Money does not grow on trees. (Allegedly.)

So, the blog tour . . . Turns out this is less like a vacation and more like a game, like Hot Potato, where someone answers four questions about their writing process and then hands the potato off to two other people, so I guess that means they have two potatoes? Mommies have a tendency to complicate things that are simple. "Candy" comes before "dinner" alphabetically, am I right?

As for the four questions, I will now answer them as I think Mommy a) would answer them b) should answer them.

What is she working on?

If Mommy was answering this regarding me, she'd say, "her last nerve." This is because she thinks she's funny. I don't know why. Most of her so-called jokes aren't even about poop. 

Besides being a blogger she fancies herself a novelist and is trying to write the Great American Novel. Poor thing. She likes to write about people uncomfortable in their own skin and is a fan of Nancy Drew. I don't get it. I mean, big deal, the chick can drive. And as far as I can see, her investigative abilities consist of "finding" clues that ne'er-do-wells drop as they're running away. Elsa shoots ice from her fingers and is my best friend ever. 

So Mommy wrote this one novel and I think she should go ahead and put it in that drawer she keeps mentioning, the one where she should also put that inappropriate midriff shirt she needs to admit she will never wear again.

Now she's working on another novel. She probably thinks it will be funny. What's funny to me is how she thinks she's gonna have time for that since she wrote the first one before I'd graced her with my presence.

Mommy started this blog to have a platform for her other writing but is having such a good time because it's about me and I'm entertaining. Sometimes this makes me self-conscious, like when she watches me with a notebook in her hand and smirk on her face, like some ungodly mix of Jane Goodall and Tina Fey.

How does her work differ from others?

I'm not sure it does. I know she likes to get all meta. Have lots of reference that she thinks are artsy but are really more fartsy. She's like Ezra Pound but without the anti-Semiticism. She also likes to reference pop culture, especially sci-fi and eighties (her heyday) music and film. And she often says "humorous" things at my expense that she thinks I won't get. I do. Like when I was little, and I quite rightly, and vociferously, expressed alarm at being confined to that wheeled death trap in which I'd be propelled headlong through the streets, deprived of any autonomy, she'd roll her eyes in front of the other mommies and say, "You must chill, you must chill; I have hidden your Firebird keys." Recognizing her I'm-making-a-dated-reference tone I rifled through her DVD collection and found Say Anything. I get it, Mother, I really do.

Mommy had a crush on John Cusack in high school.
How original of her. (c) Twentieth Century Fox.

Why does she write what she does?

She feels she needs an outlet is my guess. She seems so stressed. I have no idea why. She's even used the pretentious phrase "self-actualization." I'd be embarrassed for her if I did empathy. (I'll let you in on a secret: I will never do empathy. Let her think it's because that's normal for my developmental stage.)

Basically I think she's trying to grasp on to having some sort of life outside of me, God bless her. She wants to make people laugh or move them. Cause let's keep up the charade that she doesn't like talking about herself. 

How does her writing process work?

She might answer this differently, a mix of mad rush vs. planning and note-taking. From what I've observed, she needs to be under the gun to work. And so I help her out by interrupting as often as possible and hanging on to her arm. Writers need to suffer. Also, they need to want it. My role as muse is to focus her; otherwise she has a tendency to ramble and go on tangents. I'll stop there cause the worst thing is to be accused of being your mother. At least that's my understanding.

A cautionary tale for
Mommy bloggers.

That's it. Now to pass the potato on---or cut the potato in half? I don't know---to two other funny writer mommies who will present their answers next week. 

First, we have Carrie from Ponies and Martinis, who also has one little girl. She's a funny lady who's barreling through life trying to make sense of being a wife and mother while bringing a little bit of humor to her day. She also takes care of three dogs, one cat, and a dwindling number of fish. (I'd say her cat is a feline of interest.) Here's Mommy's favorite post of hers: "Delivery Room Drama: My Daughter Fell Out of Me." She also often appears on BLUNTmoms.

Then Steph from We Don't Chew Glass, which is a title to ponder from several different angles. Here's Mommy's favorite post of hers: "10 Tips on How to Be a Person." Much-needed advice for our troubled times. She's an inconsistent perfectionist, a writer of rubbish, a mother of three, and wife of one. She says that if you find brutal honesty, foul language, or bathroom humor offensive, you should stay away because she's contagious. I can confirm because my mommy's infected. 

Be sure to check them out next week!

Zoe: 52; Universe: 0

Zoe vs. "Let It Go" from Frozen

Desperate to escape hearing "Let It Go"
for the umpteenth time, Doug jumps,
hoping the cord will mercifully break.

Hey, parents, you know that song "Let It Go" from Disney's Frozen? You may have heard it once or twice. And by "once or twice" I mean a bajillion times. And by "may have heard" I mean your ears are bleeding, and the only way you can rid your mind of Idina Menzel's constantly cresting power ballad is to replace it with whatever comes to mind first, even if it's 2 Live Crew's "Me So Horny."

What? Isn't that song always jumping the turnstile in everyone's brain?

Using popular search engine Ask Jeeves, I plugged in "My toddler is obsessed with 'Let It Go' from Frozen. Send help." And even without phrasing it in the form of a question---a style Ask Jeeves co-opted from Jeopardy! (bad Jeeves!)---my search yielded, well, lots of hits. So I know this is well-covered ground.

But you'll have to excuse me. You see, for many weeks I didn't know she was singing "Let It Go" since she'd only been scream-singing one line, and it was not "Let it go." It was "I don't care," which occurs in the song only once but which Zoe had fastened on for obvious reasons. (She don't care.)

So I figured she'd taken to belting out her apathy, aka, slapping new style on the same old substance. Like New Coke. I hadn't even taken her to see the movie, figuring she'd never sit through it. Her grandmother and aunt though, being both braver than me and more successful at Zoe-wrangling, took her.

And, prepare to be blown away: She behaved! I'd wager my cat's soul that if I had taken her there is no way she would've sat still. But anyway, my point is, that was why I didn't know what she was singing until she finally started adding other lines.

They all are willing to build a snowman with you
and then sit, gently holding your hand, till it melts.

Zoe sings "Let It Go" while lining up her toys. While taking a bath. While lying in bed at night before going to sleep.

Her other grandmother bought the DVD. And so now, 24/7, Idina Menzel's voice is in my head, dramatically rendering Elsa's pivotal moment in the otherwise icy silence of my mind.

You may be thinking, Wait a minute. This is not Zoe vs. "Let It Go." The little Evil Genius clearly loves the song. True. What Zoe really opposes is the meaning behind the song. That is, letting go as general policy. And I'm not referring to potty training here. At least not just that.

I'm talking about Everything. Objects. Ideas. Emotions.

For example, Objects: In order to clean her face each evening I must wait till she's distracted, both hands occupied, before I swoop in from behind with the washcloth, and I usually only get one swipe in before she yanks the cloth away and then won't let go.

Other objects she won't let go of: books (when I say we're done reading), my umbrella (open, pointy end advancing toward the cat), inappropriate attire (she wanted to wear shorts in a blizzard, probably under the mistaken belief the cold wouldn't bother her anyway). I've bellowed out a few "let it gos" myself while trying to wrest these items from her grip.

Next there are Ideas Zoe can't let go of. E.g.: She doesn't need sleep. It's reasonable for her to have dessert before, during, and instead of dinner. Or wear her favorite shirt every day even if it's covered in dirt, snot, and tomato sauce.

Tio Pepe's movie theater was known
for its understated marquee.

Finally, Emotions.

Sometimes it's like there's a storm inside her and she can't handle it. (Paging Elsa!) Tears will overcome her when she has every reason to be happy.

The other day we were getting ready to go to the park when I told her she'd get a surprise when we came back. Two exciting things! One of which she would not get immediately! Result: nervous breakdown.

She threw herself on the floor and cried. Refused to get dressed. Said she didn't want to go to the park. She just wanted to lie down on her bed. I lay down with her and through tears she told me a boy at school had pushed her.

Now, she often tells me, apropos of nothing, that this same boy pushed her. All she ever means is that she's overcome with emotions she doesn't understand and has to pin the blame on someone. And this boy at day care is her poor patsy.

In this case it was the excitement of going to the park combined with anxiety about going to the park, plus having to wait for a surprise she'd get in some uncertain future because, if we're going to the park, that's what we're doing, and later, what's that? Does anyone really know!? But anyway, it's not Now, which is The Time for Getting the Things!

I sympathized, saying that if someone pushes me I feel sad and I feel mad, and I don't like feeling that way. She mulled this over while playing with her hair. Then said she was ready to go to the park.

She gets similar emotional flooding from watching Elsa sing "Let It Go." Apparently the scene elicits such a powerful thrill within her that The Husband and I are not allowed to look at her when she's watching it. She needs to be alone with her experience (just like Elsa believed!). So clearly, no matter how much she loves the song and how much she sings it, she hasn't really absorbed the message.

Will she ever get it? I'm letting that go.

Zoe: 41; Universe: 0