First Haircut for a Budding Glamour-puss

Okay. I'm going to admit that I used to assume that all those 5 Star reviews on Yelp for Rick's and Dick's Barber Shops and Financial District types shelling out a whole 13 bucks for a cut and a shave was yet another way for the yups to overly-romanticize a working class institution. I mean, yes, we all rooted for Ice Cube in Barbershop. (And who wouldn't root for Ice Cube...with his therefore beauty mark? It's like his face just made a sound argument....for being good-looking!) It's the little twinkle these Ivy Leaguers get in their eyes when they wax on and wax off a little too poetically about the swearing and Playboys and domino games and baseball...it just smacks of safari to me. I've learned, however, that while it is true that rich people do, in fact, enjoy slumming it, barbershops, like tidy whities and The Three Stooges, is a Dude Thing that I will never understand.

The only barbershop I can get behind.

I also realized that beauty salons, and all the primping, curling and shimmery opalescence that goes with them is a Girl Thing. And Girl Things begin at an early age.

Even less happy than she looks.

See, my haircutting skills aren't stellar, or even decent. So when Snappy turned 3, I gave in and brought my long-haired stranger-hater to Kids Kuts. She sat in an Elmo-sticker covered car and squirmed and cried most of the way through the ordeal. Then, at the end, the stylist offered glitter and clips. Snappy picked out red glitter and white clips and sat, primly, expectantly, like a little princess while these implements of glamour were applied. I saw, in that moment, many trips to the mani-pedi place in our future...I hope we'll still go to Mitchell's for gummi bear sundaes after.

How about the Funky Funky Freak-outs?

I'll admit when I first saw the now ubiquitous commercial for The Jump-a-Rounds on Nickelodeon, I had many questions, "What fresh hell is this? Has our culture not advanced one millimeter since Kids Incorporated? And why the hell is the WHITE GUY rapping?"

Check it. Kiki is playing a barre chord! I'll bet Miley can't do that.

As Nick began its Orwellian bombardment of the mid-day airwaves over the last 3 months or so, I noticed that Snappy was paying attention. This kid who just a few weeks ago was obsessed with all things Baby Jaguar and Max and Ruby, suddenly knew all the names of this mystery band. She continued to call them The Jump-Arounds even after Nick clunkily and, clearly under legal obligation, changed the name to the Fresh Beat Band. She excitedly announced that "Aw, Kiki looks just like me!" and then decided Marina looked just like her bff, an adorable 3 year-old who looks nothing like Marina. I was...hmm...I think "joyous" is the word. Here was my kid, steeped in youthful optimism, identifying with a singing/dancing/guitar-playing pop princess. The whole thing just screamed Fun with a capitol F.

That's when I began to soften on this whole Jump-Arounds/Fresh Beat Band. Yeah, yeah. I know, I should be railing at this whole Tweenization of America thing, and I do, every time I see Billy Ray smiling with parental pride while his 16 year-old grinds her under-aged goods on a stripper pole on national television. Maybe I've been brainwashed, but I think The Fresh Beats are really kind of funky and not bad and, come on, those songs are beyond ridiculously catchy. Right? And really, Twist isn't a horrible rapper, no worse than Vanilla Ice. Besides, Shout has a kind of Ben Vareen, Broadway style that doesn't lend itself to rapping. Additionally, although Snappy thinks I'm a genius guitar player, I'm not and I can't play the violin, making Kiki a much better musical role model for my little budding rock star.

Okay, so definitely I have been brainwashed, but if I can possibly use Snap's love of the dance breaks in this show to get her to agree to attend the Little Twirlers dance class at the Y (while I zone out to my Ipod on the eliptical in the next room), then I hope the brainwashing never ends. Or gets canceled. But come on...The Fresh Beats? Could we come up with something less lame? How about Tweenation? Or The Sugar Pops? You know...something that might be bad for you, but who cares because it tastes so damn good?

The Business of Baby Naming

I really do think I missed my calling. I should've been a professional baby namer. I'd show up at the expectant couple's home, light some candles, burn some incense, spread maple syrup on the prego belly, while chanting some nonsense words I got from a Steve Martin movie. All that voodoo uhuhmulmahey crap would just be for show, of course, because I've got this whole baby-naming business down to a science.

When I was pregnant, my husband and I made a list of possible baby names that adhered to a strict set of rules:

1. No cross-gender names.
That meant names like Chris, Bobby and Billy Jo were right out.

2. No hard to spell or pronounce names.
I didn't want my daughter correcting people for the rest of her life, I'm sure she will have better things to do on her way to becoming the first Olympic-medal-winning doctor turned rock-star to be elected President.

3. No names in the Top 50 Baby Names.
My kid was not going to be Emma #6 or Izzy #12 in her kindergarten class.

When it came time to actually give birth to this politically-blessed medical and musical genius, we brought the list to the hospital. We looked at our gorgeous girl. She had big cheeks, a small chin and a perfect bow of a mouth. "She looks like a 1920's beauty queen!" I exclaimed. Sadly, none of the names on our list fit that description. I quickly added Betty, Daisy and Alma to the list. But...did they fit my rules? I wasn't sure. I was still in an epidural haze, and a bit shell shocked from the whole perfectly-healthy-baby with a cleft palate thing.

There was pressure. The people down at City Hall were calling. What was her name? We still didn't know. I told my sister, "I need a 1920's name." She blurted out, "Like Zelda." Yes, just like that...only that was a name that had been left off the list because it was too close to the name of a popular video game that her father and I liked to play. Namely, Nintendo's The Legend of Zelda. Still, it fit. It fit the rules and my brand new little flapper's amazingly beautiful face. (Beautiful, but not perfect...she was born with little red stork bites, one of them right above her lip that looked oddly like a little red Hitler mustache.)

So, on the day we were leaving, breast-pumps were being brought in. The scare of jaundice, and our week long NICU stay and subsequent Pierre Robin diagnosis (the small Betty-Boop chin would be part of THAT) was hanging there...just in the distance, like a cloud of dust kicked up by a rival motorcycle gang. So, there we were, in the cramped, cluttered hospital room...hoping to go home...not sure if we could...and City Hall called. Had we come up with a name? I glanced at my husband, who was on his cell phone with my mother. "Yes," I said. "We're naming her Zelda."

"What?!" My husband said. (I don't know what he was complaining about. He's lucky she wasn't a boy. I might have said, Adolf.)

And the rest is history. So. Maybe it isn't a science. And maybe my rules aren't all that. How did you come up with your favorite baby name?

Pinhead is Hilarious

Many of you who know me, know that one of my comedic obsessions is Pinhead. Specifically, how funny it would be if he wasn't immortal, and we could see him age because I think Pinhead with a comb-over could possibly be the best visual gag based on a horror movie ever! I almost did it when I was writing animated shorts for comedy world (dot com), but they went under before it could see the light of day (or light of over-produced Flash animation is more like it). Well, I finally used this obsession for good, with this comment I left on SFGate's parenting blog, The Poop:

Whoa! Hold on. I'm sorry, but there are no drinks that are better than Jack Daniels on the rocks, it is a cold, golden splash of heaven bourboning with bourbony goodness. If you really feel that way you should stop ordering it just to look cool in front of your namby-pamby writer friends. My god man, save some for those of us who appreciate it! (I assume there is a great shortage of Jack Daniels because of all the San Francisco bars that pour Jim into empty Jack bottles...Hockey Haven, I'm looking at you!)

Also, Motley Crue did not just drink Jack Daniels, they shot it up, mostly because they were so drunk, they didn't realize how stupid it is to shoot up Jack Daniels when you could just drink it.

Thirdly, although Cocktail has a seriously ridiculous tagline, is it really more ridiculous than Hellraiser 2: He will tear your soul apart...again! (It's the "dot dot dot again" that gets me.)

Additionally, might I just restate how evil it is to serve Jim to someone who has ordered a Jack? If I ask for Jack, I not only know the difference between Jack and Jim, but I also do not like Jim. Yeesh.

I need a drink.

Oh and PS: my mother's drink of choice is way cooler than a Jack on the rocks: She always orders a boilermaker usually a shot of Jack with a beer back. I can't really keep up with her.
Posted By: snappyssidekick December 16 2008 at 11:53 PM

Seems that my innocent assertion about the hilarity of the Hellraiser tagline inspired this hilarious article by Peter Hartlaub about sublime, stupid and ridiculous taglines as well as this equally funny Poop post. You'll not that Hartlaub graciously, facetiously admits to "stealing" my idea. Not true...unless he decides to write an expose on bars that pour Jim into Jack bottles or a slice of life vignette detailing the life of a grandma with taste boilermakers, but as a semi-retired writer, I always appreciate a credit, no matter how obviously undeserved.

Watch this blog for the adventures of Super Snappy (someone got a cape for xmas), and watch the next Bitter Show for a shame-faced Dave or Spiegs shoved into a badly-made old man Pinhead costume. Hee hee.

Snappy Math

I debated telling this rather embarrassing (em-BARE-ASS-ing!) story, but then I figured...what the heck! It's Christmas. The other morning, I opened up my bathroom cabinet, and, it being crammed tighter that a N Judah at the Powell Stop at 5:30, a bunch of crap fell out, spilling onto the floor. It was as I bent over to pick it up that felt I felt two little hands: one on each cheek. "That's Mommy's bum!" I exclaimed.

Snappy was overjoyed. "Mommy's bum! Mommy's bum!" She squealed as she paddled my butt with the same fervor that I often do to her cute little tushie. Too be fair, I'm not often naked...even in front of myself, so this might have been the first time she realized Mommy even had a bum. I glanced over at her as I was returning to my naturally clothed state. The look on her face confirmed my suspicions...she working out a very complicated mathmatical equation in her head. Mommy + Bum =... She almost had it. Suddenly, eyes gleeful in her Eureeka moment, she blurted out, "Mommy poops!"

Merry Christmas. Don't say I never gave you anything.

Mini Phases

Everyone always says, "It's just a phase", but Snappy has many adorable phases that I hope never go away. Like her complete obsession with her 13 month old cousin, her 2 year old BFF and her fat cat. (I admit I took advantage of her stalkerish love for that silly cat this morning, yelling "Ralphie, come watch. Snappy is going to poopie in the big girl potty!" It nearly worked.)

I feel I must start chronicling these phases because it occurs to me that they aren't going to last forever. For example, the "animal" phase where she had to sleep with, be with and carry an armload of stuffed animals at all times, is petering out. I can't say that I'll really miss that phase all that much because it was hard to get her out of the house since she couldn't hold all her treasures and walk down the stairs at the same time. Still, it made me laugh and I got some cute pictures.

Sigh. Oh well. Thankfully, she still sleeps with them:




Not pictured, but all, somehow also crammed in the crib with her: Peacock, baseball teddy bear, Janice, Big Dora, Little Dora, Sonic, Ming Ming, Other Ming Ming, sheep who wears a jacket, hula Spongebob, Mister Crabs, Gary, Hello Kitty, The Pigeon Book and the trio of multi-culti baby dolls that sleep at the foot of the crib.

Christmas Miracles...Bah Humbug! (Warning: Shmaltz)

I've been thinking about Christmas Miracles lately. Glide ran out of food bags for the first time ever yesterday. Innocent children are getting sick...and staying sick. An old lady died in an apartment fire on Nob Hill the other morning. It seems that if you really, really need a miracle, tough shit, you won't get one. (Unless by "miracle" you mean "dead ticket", then you can get all you need...in 1990.)I don't dare hope for miracles anymore. I've developed a painful, paranoid faux-Buddhist need to live in the moment lest I spend every moment worrying about the possibility of not outliving Snappy. The upside is that I've developed a faux-Buddhist appreciation for "The Moment".

Okay, this is going to sound like something I made up for shmaltz sake, but I didn't. I swear. My favorite Christmas present ever was a hairdryer. I was 12 or 13, and I was just getting into stuff like that. I really wanted a hairdryer, but I didn't say anything. I'm not sure why, but we didn't ask for gifts, but just hoped for the best. When it came to clothes, my mom was sure to by the ugliest thing to ever hang on a sale rack, but with everything else she was spot on...buying lots of fun toys when we were little and make-up for my sister and I and rock magazines for my brother when we were teens. I didn't ask for a hair dryer, but all my friends had them, they made lots of noise and provided big, fluffy hair that was the style at the time. After I had opened my presents, I eyed the beautiful Con-air 3 speed and said, "we got a lot of stuff this year." I don't remember, maybe we did, maybe we didn't, but I got a hairdryer, so, in my mind, I made out. My mother said, "no, I only spent about 25 bucks on each of you." I was floored. I was sure hairdryer alone must be worth at least 50 bucks. I didn't believe her.

Now, of course, I realize that it was our poorest Christmas ever. My mom was single and waiting tables at a Chinese restaurant. She had no money, no husband, a mortgaged house with a failing furnace, 3 kids, a bunch of cats and dogs and then, one 9.99 hairdryer bought at CVS had hit a homerun and became the best Christmas present ever. If that isn't a Christmas miracle, I don't know what is.