Eden M. Kennedy

mission accomplished, pal

Eden M. Kennedy is the co-author (with Alice Bradley) of the book Let's Panic About Babies! (St. Martin's Press, 2011).

A former college-radio DJ, Mrs. Kennedy has driven cross-country six times in a 1973 Volkswagen Bug and enjoys standing on her head.

Currently she works a straight job and is just about finished writing her first novel.

I insist

Good God! I've posted something!

Last Thursday, Jack came home with a lovely box for me:

He insisted I open it right then. I want to wait for Christmas! I shouted. He insisted yet again, and more insistently. I resisted. But he insisted so consistently that he silenced my resistance.

The only way to get back at him at this point was to open the box really slowly and take pictures every step of the way.

God, he hated me so much right then. And my blog. My fucking blog and the things I blog about.

And yet, I have to say, Jack has finally figured out my taste. It only took ten years. This is perfect.

He had been confident enough that I'd like the candlestick that he had gone ahead ordered another one, and so the next day we went to the Upper Village in Montecito to get it. Imagine a strip mall that sells silk granny panties . . .

. . . and second-hand Cartier tiaras, and there you go: you're in Oprah's neighborhood now, baby. Did I tell you that when Jack's mom was up in September we took her to lunch at the Garden Cafe on Santa Claus Lane and Stedman Graham was at the next table, having lunch by himself? I bet he spends a lot of time eating alone, because god knows if your girlfriend is Oprah you can't just drag her over to Spudnuts and spread out with the Sunday paper.

Anyway, the store where we got the candlesticks had this in the window:

It's the pumpkin witch of winter solstice! Take that, you Christmas-loving bastards, it's a pagan holiday anyway! I don't know, that's what The Patriarch told me, and I believe everything he tells me because if I don't he'll kick my ass. In a strange and wonderful confluence of Web linkage I am now linking both him and I Blame The Patriarchy. Maybe we can arrange a head-to-head blogging bash-up just to see who comes out looking the prettiest. And I mean "prettiest" in the Muhammed Ali sense of the word.

So, we shelled out for the second candlestick and then walked up to the Montecito Village Grocery for some dinner stuff. This place is like a little mom-and-pop time capsule. It's a thousand years old, they still deliver, and they know what their customers are looking for:

PORK AND BEANS.

Also, this:

See that six dollar box of pasta? Know why we bought it? Besides the fact that it's fucking great pasta? Because they're strozzapreti -- "priest stranglers." Legend has it some Italian nuns used this particular shape of pasta to fill up a particularly gluttonous priest so there's be some roast beef left for everyone else, or there's another story about the priest eating so much of them that he choked. Either way, those nuns, huh? What a bunch of kidders! I wonder if they made any Pope stranglers? I'd buy a box of that.

Then, Friday was Katie's first birthday! Hooray, Katie! So when Jack got home he made himself a mojito and took her for a stroll.

They were looking for Tyson, who's another bulldog on our block.

Tyson used to have some big swinging balls on him until his owner neutered him a couple of months ago. Now Tyson seems a wee bit depressed. Katie always cheers him up by gnawing on his face for awhile, and Jackson had tried to arrange a playdate with him for Katie's birthday. But Tyson stood her up! Now we're thinking about leaving a flaming bag of Katie's poo on his doorstep. Because Katie doesn't get played like that.

Anyway, I forgot to take a picture of it but Jack made a bitchin' cheesecake using the Carnegie Deli recipe. We decided to call it Katie's birthday cake, and Jackson blew out the candle for her. After we sang to her and showed her her card from Grandma:

Check out the inside:

Can you see that? She wrote, Katie, now you are 1 on it. HILARIOUS. Gee, do you think my family subconsciously wants me to burp out another child? I have a very special message for them: Until Satan starts serving ice water in Hell we'll just keep treating our dog like a silent, fur-covered human being. Or until the dear Blue Fairy flutters through our window and makes it so.

Saturday, we heard about this, and we thought it would be a good time to watch this:

Sunday, I put up some lights in Jackson's room:

Monday, Leah posted an interview with me over at her site, so you can go over there and read some astounding facts about me! Or not, by this point you've probably had enough of me. But besides the fact that Leah is awfully nice, she lets you do interviews by e-mail and then take your own picture.

I wish I had some satisfying way to tie this all together but I've been trying to put this goddamned post together for SIX DAYS NOW. I am fresh out of breezy conclusions! Have a nice weekend.