I have nothing to say tonight. I'm with Jordan for the first time in over a month and apparently I knocked her out with my immense wit and charm. I'm so witty and charming.
Speaking of wit and charm, have I told you lately what a god damned rock star Monty is? He literally makes people gasp with shock at how friendly and loving he is. I don't know what the hell we're doing, but whatever it is, this kid is so filled with joy and enthusiasm it doesn't make any sense. I could never have a second kid because he'd be a Damian child.
Kurt had a job interview today for something that would be pretty great. Everybody send him good thoughts.
Also, if you're enjoying these posts (Not this one, obviously. This one is pretty subpar), please be so kind as to share them on your various social medias.
(Due to technical issues with Weebly's mobile app, I wasn't able to publish this last night. Weebly, get your shit together, PLEASE.)
I accidentally took a sleeping pill last night. I didn't realize it til halfway through dinner when I began to wonder why the walls were starting to bend. Incidentally, I had a great night's sleep.
Kurt seems poised to get a job soon. That will be a welcome relief on any fronts. As for Monty and school, I guess I'll just keep reading him the Sesame Street Dictionary Letters O through P that I got at a local thrift shop and just kind of hope it's intellectually stimulating enough to earn him a spot at Harvard or whatever I'm supposed to be striving for. I read in the "papers" today that the pope said he agrees with Kim Davis and feels for the priests who raped children. So, I'm guessing the big sociopolitical apocalypse is just around the corner and once that happens pre-school will be the least of our worries.
Before the world falls apart be sure to buy your tickets for
Daisy and Jordan: Rejected Bond Girls
on November 15th at 9:30 pm at Feinstein's/54 Below. So far the line up includes Eric Anderson, Cady Huffman, Beth Malone, The Skivvies, and a super special surprise guest were not allowed to advertise...
If you haven't already, be sure to sign up for my newsletter (which I rarely put out). I will be sending out a special discount code to my newsletter readers in the next few days! Don't miss it.
I've been thinking about this kid I went to elementary school with. I don't remember his name. He was super smart. The kind of kid who knew how to spell the word "people" way before anyone else. Nerd. So, one year on our last day of after-school we were going around the circle saying what we were going to do over the summer. We were all saying reasonable things for a bunch of 8-year-olds, like, "I'm going to summer camp." or "I'm going to eat Popsicles til my insides freeze." or "I'll be spending most of my days rubbing elbows with the heroin addicts of Coney Island while my father runs a dark ride there." You know. The usual. But this kid said, "I plan on reading all of Webster's Dictionary." Seriously. That's what he said. Come on. That's not a thing ANYONE does. Let alone an 8-year-old. Just knock it off, Whatsyername.
About seven years later I ran into him at Washington Square Park during the pot parade or whatever it's called. I hated smoking pot because it made my brain end up in a foetal position inside itself. Within a few minutes of smoking pot no matter where I am or who I'm with I'm convinced that I'll end up homeless in the gutter by the end of the day. But all my friends smoked and I was so desperate for friendship that I would have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge if they did. Or, even if they had just told me to. It wasn't a time I look back on with any fondness. So, there I was in Washington Square Park, stoned out of my mind, trying to make it look like I didn't feel like my body was covered in ants, and Mr. Dictionary points at my shoes and says, "Haha. You double-knot your laces." I said, "Yeah," because I did. It was an accurate observation. I generally find double-knotting my shoelaces preferable to having to re-tie them all the time. It was less a fashion choice and more a decision of convenience and efficiency. I had missed the memo about shoelaces. Apparently the less they are tied the cooler you are. Mr. Dictionary had deduced that I was a nerd because I didn't want to deal with the annoyance of repeatedly re-tying my shoelaces. Like I said, he was SUPER smart.
For years I was embarrassed that I had double-knotted my laces that day. I just wanted to be cool. I could never get it right. And here was this really cool guy calling me out. I mean, he didnt look cool or anything but he knew the exact definition of the word, so he must have been cool. He read the dictionary. Even if he didn't make it all the way through, it's likely he at least got to "cool".
So, that's something about me. I let a kid whose summer activity when he was eight was reading a dictionary make me feel like a nerd because of an arbitrary fashion preference. I think about it almost every time I tie my shoes.
I have a troll that lives in my head. I'd like to think that it's male, but I keep thinking of it as a she. It's not that I like thinking there's a dude living in me. Monty is the only guy I'd ever let live inside me. And I evicted him over two years ago. But a male troll seems more likely than a female because people who have trolled me online have mostly been men (except for that one chick who was angry at me when I was angry at her for trolling me because, you know, that makes sense.) Plus, I'd hate to think there's some shithead woman in there just being shitty. I'd like to think that if there were a lady living in my head she would be an awesome, bad ass chick with great hair who knew about metaphysics and could explain black holes and where the universe is and stuff. Not some crusty twat who tells me I suck.
So, anyway, there's a troll of indeterminate gender that lives in my head. It tells me all kinds of awful shit. Mostly it's versions of trolling nonsense I've read about myself online. Which I shouldn't admit because isn't that what a troll's goal is? To get in your head and knock you down? But there it is. So, good job, trolls. You won.
When I was in the deep throes of postpartum depression and I would sing to Monty the troll would whisper in my ear (I realize I said it lives in my head, so it shouldn't have to whisper in my ear, but that's what I'm going with.). I would be singing "I Will" and I would hear, "I feel bad for Daisy Eagan's kid, having to listen to her awful voice all the time." Isn't that amazing? Alone with Monty and some schmuck is poisoning my brains. It's also completely the opposite of things I actually have read online. Which is not to say I haven't read really mean things about my voice online. Just in regards to singing to Monty I've read nothing but lovely things. It's basically like my brain troll crossbreeds various quotes and creates new versions that I can use to feel shitty about in specific moments.
The troll also tells me that everyone in New York hates me, which I KNOW for a fact isn't true. First of all not everyone in New York even knows me. But even if everyone in New York did know me, why would they all hate me? I'm not that bad. I'm sure there are one or two people here who hate me. And that's cool. I hate a few people myself, so, you know, it all comes out in the wash. But also, the main thing is, people are not thinking about me nearly as much as I think they're thinking about me. And that's a huge relief. Relative anonymity.is a comforting thing.
Except when my troll takes my relative anonymity and turns it into "No one knows who you are and no one cares and no one's reading your blog anyway. Nana nana doody."
It would appear that my brain isn't equipped with a block button. I'll be all, "Block. Block. BLOCK. Blockblockblockblockblockblockblock!" and the troll is still prattling on some nonsense. But, if I'm very quiet and wait for it to shut the fuck up, sometimes I hear another troll. A smaller, awesomer troll. That troll is going, "Hey, hey! I think you're scared. It's okay. I get it. Guess what. We're all scared. You're doing great! Some people love you! Some people don't! Some people like you! Some people tolerate you! Some people don't even know who you are! Isn't that great?! Sing louder! Write more!"
And then, if I'm really, really quiet, she says, "We are all just energy. Black holes have something to do with gravity. And the universe is everywhere and nowhere! Isn't my hair awesome?"
I'm waiting for a download from my sister to post today's blog. We're at 50% right now and there's l7 minutes left in the day. So, this is what I have for now. Please hold.
Hey! Guess who woke us up three times between 5:30 a.m. and 8 a.m.? Can you guess? Can you?
Did you guess right?
You're so smart!
But did you guess that he also diarrheaed all over the bathroom?
Not so smart now, huh? Huh? Huh?!
I'm really sorry. I didn't get much sleep.
I'm drinking tiny bottles of Dewer's like some kind of... person who drinks tiny bottles of Dewer's.
I did the Keith and The Girl show today. It was slightly unsettling. One of the first questions he asked me was about my #ShoutYourAbortion tweet. I wasn't expecting it and it turns out he's Catholic and he said something about not respecting the first heartbeat and I just didn't know I was going to be having that conversation. And then we got into it about Kim Davis and the pope. So that was fun.
Also, it was in Astoria which I haven't been to since I slept with the guy I cheated on my husband with and I am literally the worst person on the planet. Anyway, Astoria has gotten pretty tony. There's, like, microbrewery places and some such nonsense. Back when I was wearing my scarlet letter Astoria was old Greek ladies with opaque panty hose. And it all smelled like goat.
I'm watching Scream Queens and TV just confuses me and makes me feel old. Speaking of which, does anyone know how anyone listens to music these days? Like, when people are on the subway listening to music where is it coming from? I have an Android and I literally have no idea where music is supposed to be on it. How do I put music on it? Also, I somehow managed to fuck up downloading all my cds and now I have no Beastie Boys. But even if I did have Beastie Boys I wouldn't know where they were. I'd be like, "Okay Google, play Paul's Boutique." "Hello, Google?" "Okay, phone." "Hello? Go!" "OKAY! GO!" And then my phone would start playing sweater rock from the mid-2000s. Do you see? That being said, Scream Queens is pretty good.
My parents' dog, Sparky (whom Monty has taken to calling Skarpy) is somewhere between 9 and 13 years old which in dog years is, like a thousand. He's a sweet boy, but getting super batty. He eats whatever paper he can find, including from the toilet (If it's yellow let it mellow...) and the other day he tried to eat Monty's socks. Last night just after we turned the light out to go to sleep, Skarpy fell down the stairs. He wasn't hurt, but I'll bet he was pretty embarrassed. Then around 2 a.m. he started whining aggressively, so we had to get up and let him out to pee. I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, worrying that the dog is going to die while my parents are away. And then, of course, I'm going over the conversation with Monty.
"Where Skarpy go?"
"He died, honey."
"Oh!" Pause. "Huh?"
"It's when you're not alive anymore."
"I no like not alive anymore."
Five minutes later: "Where Skarpy go?"
"He died, honey."
"He went to live on a farm upstate."
I believe in being honest with children. But two might be a little young to introduce the concept of mortality. Anyway, I didn't get a lot of sleep last night.
It's worth mentioning that I signed with a literary agent. I'm tremendously excited about it. But of course that means I have to, you know, write. Boohoohoo.
Tomorrow is a busy day and I'm exhausted, so I'm about to turn my brain off for the day.
To make up for my lack of exciting content tonight, I present unto you the tragic (or is it hilarious?) story of how my sister lost her virginity. I promise it's a great read.
I'm at the 9th Street playground watching Monty weigh the pros and cons of eating sand. I grew up going to this playground. Back then it had one swing set, a sandbox, a small jungle gym, and a large dome shaped monkey bar thing. My best friend Carrie and I used to climb the dome, hook our knees around a bar and hang upside down. We came with a big group, so I guess it must have been pre-school. I'm surprised I remember that far back. Carrie went on to learn special effects makeup and built monsters and stuff for a couple outfits in Los Angeles. She lives in San Antonio now with a husband she adores and her first baby on the way. I went on to do a few things, too. And now I live somewhere in New York (not quite sure where, yet) with a great guy and a two-and-a-half year old. Weird.
Anyway, the playground is all redone and has a music theme. Because playgrounds now have themes, I guess? Monty loves it but there's something about the whole thing that makes me sad. I know I run the risk of sounding like one of those old guys who say, "Why, in the seventies people got raped and murdered about a million times more on the streets of New York City, and we liked it!" I understand that New York is safer now, and that the streets of South Park Slope aren't littered with crack viles, and that you can walk to the 4th Avenue subway stop without stepping over people who have stumbled out of the methadone clinic, and that no kids have been shot on the corner of the street I grew up on since the mid-90s, and that these are all improvements. And I know it's kind of mentally ill of me to still consider stores that opened 20 years ago interlopers. But I'm angry that I've been completely priced out of the neighborhood I grew up in. This playground is a reflection of the extreme affluence the neighborhood houses now and I guess it makes me nostalgic. Homesick for a place that no longer exists. And resentful. And I wish I could wear a sign that says, "I grew up here!"
Monty is clearly the oldest kid here because most kids his age are in school already. I'm getting increasingly worried about where and when we're going to settle because Monty really needs to be in school. He doesn't know how to play with other kids. He's a bright kid and I am not equipped with the tools to keep him challenged. I don't know how kids work.
Also he needs to go to school because I'm about to jump of the roof. I love him to pieces, but I need a break. I have, like, things I need to do. If I catch my mind wandering to things I need to get done while I'm playing with Monty I instantly feel guilty that I'm not "relishing each moment" because "it all goes so fast and next thing you know, you'll turn around and he'll be going off to college." And then I'm angry at the idiots who say shit like that. There's no way you can relish every moment. Especially when the moment is singing the 75th verse of She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain When She Comes or trying to get your kid to "wave bye-bye to the poopy and wash hands!", and you have a deadline you have to meet and you really just need to get back to your writing. I KNOW I'll be sad some day when he won't cuddle on my lap anymore, but mommy has to get grown-up things done. Mommy has to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. Mommy needs to figure out where we're going to live that is out of the city, highly commutable to the city, affordable, and has good schools. And mommy needs a nap. Mommy is exhausted. And no, Monty, don't eat the sand, it has rat pee in it. No, don't do it. I'm not kidding. Monty, this isn't a game. Put the sand down. No, don't throw the sand. Just put it down. Thank you. I relish you. I relish this moment. LOOK AT ME! I'M RELISHING!!!!
Here's where I spout my brilliance.