No. Not Art Clokey, Dammit.

Gumby creator Art Clokey dies at 88

LOS OSOS, Calif. (AP) — Animator Art Clokey, whose bendable creation Gumby became a pop culture phenomenon through decades of toys, revivals and satires, died Friday. He was 88.

I’ve had a crazy love affair with Gumby for as long as I can remember. The fascination never ceased. This tall man has held my heart in his firm green hands for decades. I’ve got Gumby clothes, and Rug Barn Gumby throw (thanks Bev), a Gumby collection right by my kitchen sink, and a Gumby cookie jar.

 

You would expect someone with a gingerbread man body and a perpetual yellow smile  to have a signature fragrance, but it never happened. Maybe now would be the time to introduce a slightly spicy scent in a commemorative decanter for those who are just starting to appreciate Gumby.

I understand that the death of Art Clokey is going to cause a flood of Gumby interest. A new generation will learn the history of that is “Gumbasia.”  I want to go on the record now stating I’ve been doing my part to keep Gumby’s image fresh and crisp.

Don’t even get me started on Pokey. Damn Pokey is what held Gumby back all these years. Gumby coulda been a contender, he could have been someone.  Pokey’s drug addiction is what kept Gumby from accepting roles which may have included these famous lines:

• “Gumby, we have a problem.”  –Apollo Thirteen
• “If you build it, Gumby will come.” –Field of Dreams
• “Beam me up, Mr. Scott.” –Star Trek IV
• “Frankly Gumby, I don’t give a damn.” –Gone with the Wind
• “I love the smell of Gumby in the morning.” — Apocolypse Now
• Gumby, you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you? –The Graduate
• Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a Gumby night. –All About Eve
• “Soylent Green is Gumby!” –Soylent Green
• “Nobody puts Gumby in a corner.” –Dirty Dancing
• “Dear eight  pounds sux ounces… new born infant Gumby, don’t even know a word yet. –Talladaga Nights.
• “They call me Mister Gumby!”  –Heat of the Night.
• “I’m as mad as Gumby, and I’m not going to take this anymore!” –Network.
• “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Gumby? You just put your yellow lips together and blow.” –To Have and Have Not

Yeah, don’t even get me started on Pokey.

Rest in peace, Art Clokey.

 

Baby Clothes So Cool, I’m Thinking About Reproducing

Baby needs a new pair of shoes. No seriously, baby needs a new pair of shoes. Check these out.

Not interested in shoe shopping? No problem.

Here’s what I want you to remember … I love sillysouls.com, I like the unexpected slogans that state the facts. Calling your baby a boob man is as old as time, putting those words on baby clothes is fresh and fun.

How long did it take you to realize that your adorable little baby was a fart factory? Tell the world!

Your kids aren’t going to stay baby-sized forever. Have some fun picking out their clothes because before you know it you’ll be forced to look at your teens wearing their own brand of inappropriate slogans.

With categories like urban cool, breast feeding spoof, potty humor, and more you can have fun dressing your child and collecting an entire scrapbook of amazing photographs you will want to share with your baby’s friends at a later point in time.

 

Here’s what Silly Souls would like you to remember: SILLY SOULS TO OPEN FIRST BRICK & MORTAR LOCATION AT LIMELIGHT MARKETPLACE IN MANHATTAN. New York, NY (January 4, 2010) – Silly Souls, maker of sassy and fun baby apparel and accessories, is set to host their first store front location in New York City’s Limelight Marketplace – a premier shopping destination in the heart of Manhattan’s Flatiron district, opening in March 2010.
 
Silly Souls by babygags inc. features captivating catchphrases on its apparel, silly enough to conjure a smile and make shopping for baby apparel and shoes fun for everyone.  The Silly Souls product line includes cotton layette gift sets for kids 0-6 years old, big brother and sister gifts, hats, bibs, bottles, dish sets, birth announcements, socks, an organic selection of bibs and bodysuits, and funny fabulous baby shoes.
 
“At Silly Souls, we believe the little things in life, like a silly joke on the cutest gift, can bring out a smile and youthful side to any soul,” said Shelley Foster, founder of Silly Souls.  “The Limelight Marketplace is a hip, new and modern endeavor, which is a great reflection of our company. We look forward to expanding Silly Souls in such a unique and fun atmosphere.”
 
Silly Souls will be among 60 retailers opening brick-and-mortar locations at Limelight Marketplace, the brainchild of fashion retailer Jack Menashe, who is transforming an historic 163-year-old venue into a three-story “festival of shops,” with elaborate facades and varied designs that invoke the feeling of a stroll down a marvelous European street. Limelight Marketplace welcomes innovative retailers and entrepreneurs, providing a unique “turn-key” solution for start-ups and established brands looking for a presence in the New York City retail market.
 
“We are thrilled to welcome Silly Souls to our growing list of retailers, and are so pleased that our business plan has allowed them to open their first brick and mortar store.” said President Jack Menashe. “With the inclusion of Silly Souls, New York City parents will soon discover an amazing resource for the whole family at Limelight Marketplace.”

 Click link for more information on Limelight Marketplace.

 

 

 

the view from my office, 2010.01.08

A long time ago I earned a paycheck. I put on nice clothes and had my own office. The office had a door that closed and my name was on that door. And if the door was closed no one came in because they all knew that I had more or less an open door policy going on unless the door was closed.
I never had a cup of coffee in my life until I had that job. The woman who trained me said, “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee,” and I didn’t say no. It was Hills Bros. coffee made from a drip coffee pot in the bathroom of the office. The bathroom also held a toaster oven. We couldn’t have a microwave because it would blow out the old fuses.
I was youngish and had tremendous responsibility. I wore a tight skirt and heels every day and at five o’clock when the front door of the office was locked and everyone went home I took off the heels and the panty hose and went barefoot.
There were men that worked in the office, too. I was not their boss; they just rented rooms in the old sad house that was now a place of business. A once grand three story home on the east side of the city had become a run-down office. My room had been a dining room at one point. My boss had the room that was the living room. He had a fireplace. There was real dust on the fake plastic logs.
My boss never learned how to use the new black telephones with the fancy intercoms built right in to the base. The walls were plaster but the quality of the building was low-end and I could hear him trying to use the intercom to call me. I could hear him repeat, “Carrie? Carrie?” and then I could hear the new black telephone slam down on the base as he shouted, “Carrie!”
I dreaded being in my boss’s office. He was a large man that smoked a pipe for too many years. The pipe smoke had significantly stained the wall. One winter my boss put a vaporizer in his office which gave the illusion his walls were bleeding. He never commented on the streaked walls. Neither did I.
When I had a job there weren’t fax machines. We drove paperwork from place to place within our city. Successful offices had couriers, our office had me. I was in my car “couriering” when I learned of the space shuttle crashing. Real people didn’t have cell phones and businesses didn’t have television sets playing headline news.
I was afraid to be alone in the office with my boss. He was in extremely poor health and I knew it would be my dumb luck for him to have a heart attack or something that required mouth to mouth resuscitation. I would be faced with his future resting somewhere near my mouth and the thought of it was terrifying. I had enough respect for him to use his knowledge but not quite enough respect that I would have wanted to be in a life or death situation with my lips dictating his future.
Two men rented office space. One was an amazing, generous, talented young man that has gone on to an equally amazing future. He went to eight years of college to be what he was, I saw him lose his dad and then his mother. I watched him bail his brother out of jail, twice. I met him before his wife did and I know how much he loved her because I saw the entire thing unfold. He’s got a head full of gray hair, lived wisely, and has successful children.
The other rental man has aged terribly. Even though I was young, I could see what drinking too much every day did to your skin and your eyes and your energy. He had two ex-wives and no children. Every day after lunch he would grab a newspaper and spend exactly thirty minutes in the bathroom, 1:30 until 2:00 p.m. And he would never stay in the bathroom to see if his flushing was successful. I think the worst part of being in management was being the one to check if a re-flush was required.
I think another really bad part of management was the first time the company did not have a successful year. I had three women that worked for me. My boss told me I was doing great and I could have a quarter raise as part of my annual review, but when I gave my girls their review I was to give them nothing.
I couldn’t do it. I took my quarter raise and told the bookkeeper to divide my quarter between the three women.

Young Pope Busts A Move

 All Saints Day, 1964.

The rules were simple, come to school dressed as the Patron Saint associated with your name. For example, if your name was Rochelle you could easily come to school dressed as Saint Roch, the patron saint of the Bubonic Plague.

Simply give your self a long white gown made out of a sheet, add a cape, a staff, and a gaping wound. Your all set. Easy stuff when your name is Peter, Paul, Ann, and Mary. Even Ruth could pull someone out of the bible and put together a religious costume.

What happens when your name is Carrie? There is no saint with that name, probably never will be.If you are truly blessed, you have Sister Mary Fina grant you the opportunity to select the religious icon of your choice.

Aiming high and dreaming big, I chose Pope John XXIII … everybody’s favorite Pope.

Here I am, looking all pius-ish.

Once again, here I am after laughing at my own joke during my homily.

And, here I am bustin’ a papal move.

Today I challenge you to find your Inner Pope and party like it’s a Holy Day,

 because there’s a good chance it is.

Amen.

Everybody Needs A Place To Rest

Fourteen years ago my daughter Madeleine died. The past few years I’ve shared the same writings with you, over and over. I’ve actually altered, edited, and tweaked those words until they have become nothing more to me then the script of her life and ultimately her death.

Today, I looked for and found fresh words to share.  I’m not trying to convince anyone that I’m a better person because I had her in my life. Today I’m just sad. Sad and tired.

I’ll confess I’ve been in a writing slump since November 7 because on that day Travis turned 21 and his twin sister Madeleine didn’t.  And as much as I’d love to pretend that I don’t cry about it any more I can’t stop crying today and that has never happened to me before. I’m crying way too early. I never cry until January 6.

I decided I want to move past this self-induced mourning. So rather than wait until Wednesday, which is the actual anniversary of Madeleine’s death, I am publishing my raw thoughts today, two days early.  I’m feeling them now, so I’m showing them now and I’ll be ready to move on again.

This is my first picture of her.

And this is the last.

And you already know she has a twin brother, Travis.

What you don’t know is that all Travis asked for on his 21st birthday was to receive something that was special from Madeleine that he could have as a keepsake. I gave him the bear she was holding in the first picture.  I meant to keep it forever, but I was surprised how ready I was to let it go.

And what I didn’t know is that on his 21st birthday his drink request was two shots of Jameson. He drank one and left the other sit on the bar that night in her honor.

I’ve got tears again, but these are tears of pride. I’ve spent years studying my daughter’s tiny hand casually draped over the teddy bear.  Now I stare at the  strong adult hand of her brother holding the very same toy. I remember the day I found out I was having twins. I stopped at the hospital gift shop and made my first “twin” purchase. Two teddy bears at $6.99 each made the pair of babies a reality. Reality hit hard when I buried one of the teddy bears with Madeleine, reality came full circle when I was able to hand the remaining bear to Travis.

I’m starting to forget some of the details of the Saturday she died. I’m not sure what kind of weather we had, I know we had glistening, swirling snow on the day she was buried … it was almost magical. But on the day she died, I really don’t remember.

Surprisingly, I do remember slivers from songs I heard on the radio to and from the funeral home while I finalized  arrangements.

Tell me why are we
So blind to see.
That the ones we hurt
Are you and me?

She said I have to go home
‘Cause I’m real tired you see

I ain’t got many friends left to talk to
No one’s around when I’m in trouble

I saw you first
Don’t that give me the right
To move around in your heart
Everyone was looking
But I saw you first

Everybody needs a place to rest
Everybody wants to have a home
Don’t make no difference what nobody says
Aint nobody like to be alone

Let her cry, if the tears fall down like rain
Let her sing, if it eases all her pain
Let her go, let her walk right out on me
And if the sun comes up tomorrow
Let her be, let her be.

Don’t go chasing waterfalls
Please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to
I know that you’re gonna have it your way or nothing at all
But I think you’re moving too fast

And I’ve got the predictability of  “this” because it happens every year. Without fail I begin the slide downhill on November 7th and without realizing it, this year I have become abundantly anxious to propel myself as far into the new year as humanly possible, or at least well past January 6.

As a non-fiction author I avoid using poetic license. As a humorist, I seldom embellish to stress the obvious. Writers are allowed to use poetic license to heighten the effect of their work. It wasn’t until this afternoon that I realized I could also use my poetic license to intentionally deviate from all normally applicable rules or practices by bumping ahead the pages of time. Therefore, I am officially moving on with my life two days earlier than usual.

I’m done writing for today. I’m publishing this because I’m ready and through my tears I am smiling.

Madeleine did amazing things in seven years but even more amazing than that, she’s been gone twice as long as she was ever here and I’m still reveling in the ripple effect from her pond. I’m standing strong and tall and I’m ready to grow forward two days early.

Sleep in heavenly peace, Madeleine. Sleep in heavenly peace.

You Spilled Something

Six year old daughter: Mom you spilled something on Monday.

Fifty-one year old me: What? How do you know?

Six year old daughter: Actually, it was Monday afternoon.

She was right.

I did spill chocolate pudding.

On Monday afternoon.

The Mother Flocker Of All Christmas Trees

As tradition has it, the weekend after Thanksgiving means we need to get our Christmas tree. I kissed my husband good-bye, gave him a huge hug and told him I would see him soon. As I watched him disappear, I let out a heavy sigh. It seems like we just did this, could a year have gone by this quickly?

About two hours later my husband returned to me. He was cold, out of breath and empty handed. “I can’t find anything in that attic.”

We have a decent sized attic, there is a chimney running up the middle and stuff piled in what I thought was a logical order. You’ve got your basics:

* Standard Holiday Region (including but not limited to Easter, Independence/Memorial Day, Halloween, Christmas)

* American Girl Molly and Bitty Baby Region

* The Barbie and Ken Bonanza (featuring full frontal nudity, male and female)

* The My Favorite Clothes That Are Too Small Region

* The My Favorite Clothes That Are Way Too Small Region

* The My Favorite Clothes From When I Was Blond and Sinfully Thin

* The My Favorite Clothes From High School Region

* Dishes That I Really Like But Will Never Use Because They Are Not A Complete Set

I think you get the general idea. I like my clutter, I like my stuff. I like things around me and I can’t get enough!

So, here’s the deal. I no longer do lights because, although I am old, I have been on this earth long enough to make the grown up decision that life it too short to NOT have a pre-lit tree. Therefore, my trees are pre-lit (as I should have been before I started this project) since the year after pre-lit trees were available to the general public. The first year they were too outrageously priced.

The coveted pre-lit tree makes its way through our attic, down the staircase, living room and finally plugged in the socket. Our forever-lit tree was not responding to the forever-running electrical current we had just generously provided.

Apparently, it is not a FOREVER-lit tree because that would be like making a promise to the consumer. It is just an EVER-lit tree because it will last until WHENEVER it decides to stop being lit. This was the year my tree quit being lit.

That’s alright, we’ll get another pre-lit tree and we can deal with this tree later. I have issues about throwing things away. I would rather save them until I find the perfect recipient.

Off to K-Mart we go, Martha’s calling and I can hear her loud and clear. David and I enter the tree area and I am somewhat disappointed by the choices provided by Ms. Stewart. I finally decide upon the Martha Stewart Everyday Holiday 4.5′ Berry Mountain pre-lit Tree.

As we gazed at this tree I realized what a freakin’ grandmother I have become. I am actually looking at a tabletop tree. How pathetic is that? What’s even worse, is that I don’t want a tall tree because the cats will go up into it! So now I am a freakin’ grandmother worrying about my cats climbing my tree. Wait, it gets worse.

It is a flocked tree, the signature tree of all grandmothers! It is the Mother Flocker of All Christmas Trees.

“Grab it, let’s go,” I whisper to my husband who hoists the mighty tree over his left shoulder and proceeds to the checkout. Wow, give the man an ax and a red-plaid shirt and he could be my personal lumberjack and for less than fifty bucks we are back in business.

And as for the cats? I take apart every single one of the gazillion red ornaments and reassembled them back on the tip of the branches without using any hooks. This way my cats wouldn’t be tempted to bat around the little glass bulbs and our tree will not be their playhouse.

Humorous yet necessary disclaimer: Although I wrote this post in a few years ago, I need to stress that I never received a tree from Martha Stewart. When I was doing a quick search for a picture to go with this article I found the actual tree that I had purchased a few years ago. Being the generous soul that I am and since it is the holidays, I threw Martha a bone by included the link within my recycled post.

Christmas Mourning

Part One, A Regular Madeleine Monday

I knew Christmas would always be a rough time. Holidays are tough when you lose someone you love. Even if the your great uncle twice removed was reincarnation of Scrooge himself, you could still raise a glass in toast “To Great Uncle Bif, may you rest in peace knowing that you don’t have to spend money where your sitting right now!”

When you lose a child, life must go on for the rest of the family for the rest of eternity. It isn’t easy. It just is what it is. Christmas of 1996 was different than any of us expected.

Now here’s the deal.  I am a “piler” which is much different than a “hoarder.”  I make little piles through the house of stuff that I need to put away. I know what is in each pile at any given time. I don’t put anything away until I can put it away until I can put it away the right way.

I’ve got piles in my office and piles on my kitchen counter.Maybe there is one in the dining room, too.  However you can open my file cabinets and you will find color-coordinated machine generated labels with every product manual you could want in perfect, logical alphabetical order. Sure, my desk top looks like a cluttered mess but to me it is just stuff I haven’t put away properly.

Towels are folded a certain way and it must be while they are still warm from the dryer so they crease easier. Dishclothes have the same story. Someday I’ll snap a picture of my rag drawer for you. Oooh, envy.

I’m not any different with the Christmas decorations. Hallmark ornaments go in tiny baggies along with the original box. I don’t put them back in the box because (heaven forbid!) I may cause that box to wrinkle and depreciate in value (eBay alert! eBay alert!). Breakable ornaments are wrapped in tissue paper and then put in a plastic baggie. Bigger items are wrapped repeatedly in platsic grocery bags and put in labeled totes. The amount of effort the elves put forth to help Santa’s magic happen … well, that’s the way I pack away Christmas. What can I say, those quirks are my quirks and they aren’t going to go away.

The Friday after Thanksgiving of 1996 had me hauling my Christmas boxes down from the attic and organizing them in the proper order as I got ready to decorate the tree.  I cannot remember anything unusual about my presence of mind up until that point. Another year, another tree. Same old, same old.

I opened the RubberMaid tote that contained the lights. Hold it, the lights weren’t in their individual ziploc bags. Alright, I was mildly pissed. I decided I was going to skip the lights. After all, it was a lot of work to put them up. It wouldn’t be the first time I skipped lights.

I grabbed my Tupperware container of ornament hooks and reached for the first bin of ornaments. I popped open the lid and it the contents of the container just blew my mind and every emotion I had stuffed inside of me for the past three hundred and thirty some days came flooding back to me. All the ornaments were jumbled together in this one bin. They still had the hooks attached! This was, in my mind, a catastrophe. I was blinded by my emotions. Literally, blinded. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t stop crying. I wasn’t crying about the fate of the ornaments. This was the shove I needed so I could finally cry, sob, even tantrum.

Until I opened that tote I accepted Madeleine’s fate, her undiagnosed degenerative neuro-muscular disorder. I accepted our loss, I knew it was coming.Me. Pro-active and not re-active. That’s me.

And now I was reacting to this newly opened RubberMaid tote by crying? I never cry.

I remember the gut wrenching feelings that came over me. Gut wrenching. We’ve all used the term, who hasn’t? But I felt it, I literally felt my gut wrench. Never in my life had I experienced this sadness or woe. This type of grief doesn’t come in waves, it is a tsunami of emotions and I was drowning fast.

That was the first Christmas that we had a naked tree. No lights, no ornaments, just a naked tree.

The cardboard holiday storage boxes and green and red plastic totes sat in the hall untouched until the kids went back to school the first week in January. I carried the boxes up to the attic and locked the door, I didn’t return to the attic until the following year.

Each Christmas I grew a little bit stronger and did a little bit more, but I still dreaded every moment of it. We did the same stuff every year, traditions must be upheld because after all life goes on. Oh, and did I mention each year I got a little bit bitchier? I dreaded anything and everything that had to do with that damn tree. I was fine with the cooking, the baking, the shopping, the wrapping. In fact, the shopping helped more than I could have ever imagined.

With two boys remaining, I missed the “pinkness” that goes with a daughter. Although Madeleine was disabled beyond the point of playing with dolls I didn’t realized I had been “ripped off” by her not needing the toys and trinkets that go along with little girls until she was no longer here. So I bought. And I bought. And I bought.

And I sat at home and studied everything in great detail. The painted on eyes of The Little Mermaid, the plastic smell of baby dolls, and the jeweled crowns. After scrutinizing these girlie girl items, I returned most of the stuff I had bought and the rest I donated to Safe Harbor, a shelter for domestically abused families in our area.

I was healing. If I could just move past this sticky situation with the damn tree.

By this point I had become a foster parent and our Christmases were no longer traditional. In fact, our holidays became downright unconventional. I preferred to foster children that were going to be long term placements. For three consecutive years, our Christmas pictures each featured a new infant or toddler that stayed with us on their journey to their forever home.

Our families size changed constantly and our traditions changed just as fast, too. Some of the children we had with us didn’t use stockings at Christmas, they used shoes because, well … that was their families tradition. When I went upstairs to bed that night, our upstairs hallway was full of shoes, easily twenty-five pairs and maye even more. My children and the children living with us at the time thought if one pair of shoes brought treats, why not put out ALL of your shoes and see what kind of loot will be produced.

Incidentally, the year of the “shoe incident” was also the year I made some of my greatest strides in my life. I abandoned the tradition of a real tree. If I really wanted to live in the here and now I had to let go of pieces of my past. For me, that big ol’ tree decorated with oodles of ornaments from years gone by was more than I could handle.

I’ve never re-opened the totes. I have them, I’ve moved them twice. Someday I’ll open them. Or then again, maybe not. We still have a tree, but it is artificial and I decorate it alone. The lights are white and sparse. The ornaments are red and there are a ton of them. I spend a full day on the tree, shaping the branches.

I tried to compromise, I tried to put other ornaments on the tree but I couldn’t handle it. Sometimes I feel selfish that theornaments my kids made in school end up taped to their bedroom doors and not out in the living room. I still struggle with my emotions I am proud that I can look forward to putting up a tree.

To be continued tomorrow.

The year was 1980 …

The year was 1980.

Everyone was getting high. Why should I be any different?

The year was 1980 …

The year was 1980.

There were about ten of us. Co-workers, friends, rafting, camping. You know, back to nature. Apparently I was the last to know there would be crack.

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