Sunny Day

Do you know Big Bird's alias? I do. He's Sunny Day. At least, that's what Graham calls him. He must have recently learned this information because he used to say Bi Buh for Big Bird, but now he emphatically insists that Big Bird is Sunny Day. Actually, his version is a sort of mix between "any day" and "honey day" and always follows the cadence from the beginning of the theme song.

I think that it's the creepy Elmo Knows Your Name doll that told him about Sunny Day. I mean it. That doll TALKS whenever it wants to. I have walked into the playroom on multiple occasions to find Elmo telling Graham that it's time for bed or a nap, or just singing, "Good Night, friend." It's frightening. I urge you to go to the link and listen to Elmo say your name.

Truly, this robo-Elmo has blown Big Bird's cover. Big Bird, formerly known as the fluffy, happy, over-grown five-year old, is really Sunny Day, the drug dealer of Sesame Street. That's why he's omnipresent on the show. You can't take a break with a job like that. Now, I know that this is sort of sacrilege, and I'm a fan of the show, but follow this along with me and you too will be scared at how far-reaching this alias-theory can go. Who is Sunny Day's source? Where do the drugs come from? SNUFALUFAGUS, the creature with the uncanny ability to see but not be seen, provides him with "the stuff." Big Bird is always out on "the Street" and helping people to find "the Street" of Sesame. Every day Sunny Day (Big Bird) palys Journey to Ernie, or is it Journey to Bernie? And who is the biggest addict? Elmo. You know it. It explains everything from the voice to the bizarro "house" in his "world." (Greta once said while watching the Elmo's World song, "Oh, I guess HIS mommy lets him draw on the walls.) It explains his moon walking on the real moon and the various animals and inanimate objects that talk to Elmo. And, it explains why Graham is on to Mr. Sunny Day; Elmo told him.

Not convinced? Either way, Graham repeats "sunny day," endlessly. It's a convenient answer to a question:
Graham, do you want Mommy to sing a song? Sunny Day.
Should we read a book? Yeah, Sunny Day.
Do you want Mommy to pick you up? Sunny Day.
Are you hungry? Sunny Day.

It's also a great conversation starter:
Daddy, sunny day.

Today, at Graham's behest, I tapped into an previously unknown resevoir of Sesame Street Lyrics. I found myself singing the theme song:

Sunny Day
Sweepin' the clouds away
On my way to where the air is sweet

Can you tell me how to get,
How to get to Sesame Street

Come and play
Everything's A-OK
Friendly neighbors there
That's where we meet

Can you tell me how to get
How to get to Sesame Street

It's a magic carpet ride
Every door will open wide To Happy people like you--
Happy people like
What a beautiful

Well, this "magic carpet ride" (case in point -- MAGIC? Ride? DRUGS) is not part of the beginning of the show this year. I must have dragged is up from foggy memories of previous street days, and Graham was having none of it. He lifted his head from my shoulder and said, "No Mommy. Sunny Day." He just wanted to sing the first line over and over and over again.

Do you think Sunny Day could hook me up with anything?

make a wish foundation

Greta would like a sister. She has started calling Graham by Alexandra when she wants to pretend that she has a sister. But, she has also begun the campaign to get a "new baby." Many of her friends' mothers are pregnant, and she is fascinated by the idea of a baby being in a mother's belly. Who isn't, really. That's totally whacked-out stuff.

You know where this is going. She asked me how the babies get in the mother's bellies. Now, I had always wondered what I would say when this question would arise. Mainly, I wondered if I would follow in the footseps of my mother, Momologue Sr. (Pause to laugh at this moniker. Resume.) When my youngest sister, Betsy, asked my mother how the next door neighbor's baby got into her belly, my mother did not hold anything back. She told the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help all of us, God. She said, "Well, Mr. Sadler put his penis into Mrs. Sadler and his sperm fertilized her egg and the baby started to grow." (Pause to vomit and laugh. Resume.) Betsy's brilliant response this truth-assault was, "Oh mom, you're making that up." So, I have wondered if I would follow in my mother's truth-telling footsteps or embark in some fantastic lie when asked a similar question.

The answer? I used metaphor. I told her that a baby came into a mommy's belly when she and the daddy made a "wish" for a baby. Then, sometimes the wish comes true, and sometimes it doesn't. First though, you need a wish. Greta immediately put her hands over my belly and closed her eyes. She said, "I wish for a baby sister." See, this is why you just tell the truth. The truth expelled the demon for my mother in less than a minute. And, my sister never talked to her about sex again. I had to continue and explain to Greta that this wish of hers was indeed not going to produce a tiny baby sister. I told her that Daddy had to make the wish. Luckily, she bought it. Unluckily, Marc learned of this conversation and now likes to tease me with talk of the make-a-wish foundation. Stop it, all of you.

Blogging, a way of life

Despite its suffering from a painfully bad name, blogging is really serious business. But first, come on, blogging? Do I really have to tell people that I have a blog? It sounds like a form of herpes. Or, a term, ala dingleberry, for, oh let's say, bits of spit that fly from one's mouth. I can hear a person exclaiming, "Oh my God, I just totally blogged." Or, "Did you notice the way that Mr. Jones is blogging while he talks? He's so obnoxious. Tell him to wipe his mouth after he eats."

Because I have a little free time on my hands, and because I abhor doing things that are truly productive, I've given some thought to what is wrong with this term. It's quite simple. The bl combination doesn't work well as a beginning for any word. I present a few others from www.morewords.com (and I urge you to go to this website, if you, too, abhor productivity and/ or exercising your own brain's ability to think of bl words): blabber, blackball, bladder, blame, blanched, blather, bleach, bleary, bleep, blemish, blellum . . . http://www.morewords.com/word/blellum/. (Yes, blellum. Not a word? The website says it is. Indeed, the website, which I did not check for reliability, has something of a complex.)

Ah yes, with Greta in school and Graham napping well, I have some new found free time. And you, gentle reader, have just witnessed the fruits of my free time. I blog a silly little blog. There are, however, others out there who take this bloggery very seriously. They are making MONEY from blogs every bit as stupid as my rant.

I get the blogs like gofugyourself (to which I always want to say, no you go fug YOURself). I would expect the star-studded stories and mockery to bring in the dough.

But, someone has to explain icanhascheeseburger. This fine piece of (what is it, writing? journalism? work???) brings is an estimated $5,600 a month? What? Call me jaded in the animal department perhaps, but it's just not funy or cute. It's just not. I'm sure that any self-respecting animal would balk at its depiction if they got a good look at the blog too. If animals are that innocent and dumb, then how did my cat know that waking up my daughter would get me out of bed, thus allowing him access to my warm bed? Not cute, not funny, not innocent, not stupid. (And also, as a side note, not a foreign accent. That's reserved for fictional animals.)